“It was the Captain who caused Mademoiselle LeFevre's accident?”

“No, no — it was he who rescued her. Hence his affectionate name of le Chevatier.” My confidante reached for an exquisite porcelain box that sat upon a Pembroke table near her seat, and to my amazement, drew forth a pinch of powder on the tip of her forefinger, which she inhaled as elegantly as it was possible to do. At my inability to conceal my surprise, she smiled devilishly. “Would you care for some snuff, Miss Austen? Or is the daughter of a clergyman a stranger to this, as to so many other vices?”

“I do not believe I should find it agreeable.” My voice sounded priggish, even to my own ears. “How can you find it so?”

“It clears the mind wonderfully,” she said, and sneezed.

“Indeed?” I confess the practise is new to my experience. Though my brothers James and Edward are both fond of their clay pipes, they take care never to smoke them within doors, and as it is my fathers view that tobacco is a dangerous addiction, I was hardly exposed to the fumes in my infancy. Even Henry, however — charming, foolish, light-hearted Henry — has avoided the fashion for snuff. Though there are some who have partaken of the substance for years, I may fairly state that only recently has it become the rage to carry the little boxes about, and change them according to whether one is at home or in society, or abroad of a morning or an evening. I had never witnessed a woman consuming snuff — even my flamboyant sister Eliza.[70]

“I failed to discover the meaning behind le Chevalier” I said, with an effort to appear rueful. “I fear I have not your penetration, Mrs. Barnewall, and the Captain did appear indisposed to discuss the matter.”

“That is like his natural reticence,” she replied softly, and sighed, her snapping dark eyes momentarily clouded. I had not considered that the lady might consider herself in mourning. Such obtuseness should be unforgivable, had I not believed her too light in her attachments to regard the poor Captain with anything like tenderness. But T am too prone to a hasty judgment of the characters and impulses of others; it may be fairly declared my chief failing.

“The tale does him no dishonour, 1 trust?”

“Hardly.” She adjusted a cushion at her elbow, and settled in for a long chat. “It was a few weeks before your arrival, Miss Austen, about the middle part of August, I should say. We had ail been in attendance at the Thursday night Assembly, though the crowd was rather thin, the summer people in general having departed for country estates to the north. There was nothing like a moon that night, as I recall, and so for those of us who travelled into town by carriage, the drive home was a slow business. Captain Fielding had not been in the rooms — indeed, I had thought him away from Lyme on some business — and his absence deprived the ball of a good part of its gaiety.

“Mr. Barnewall and I had agreed to follow Mr. Crawford to Darby, for a late supper and some cards, being little inclined to retire early, despite the ball's having closed a full hour before its usual two o'clock. And so our carriages travelled in train, up the Charmouth road towards Mr. Crawford's estate — until with a ‘Whoa!’ the equipage in front was pulled up, and in a moment Mr. Crawford had descended, and then my husband must be impatient to know what was toward, and we were all out in the road in the middle of the night, with only the light of a Ian thorn to show the scene.

“And what a scene!”

“Mademoiselle LeFevre?”

She shook her head. “Captain Fielding, unhorsed and with the lady quite insensible in his arms. What a picture they made! Her long red cloak, trailing from unconscious limbs, and the fall of her extraordinary hair across his arm; his face bruised and weary, and himself standing upon a wooden leg, and endeavouring to bear her homeward, without benefit of assistance or even his horse! Had we not arrived at the very moment, I cannot think how things should have gone; but we did, and commended him for his gallantry, and managed them both to their respective houses.”

“But what had occurred?” I cried, in some exasperation.

“We had it from the Captain — whom we chose to convey homeward, while the Crawfords took the mademoiselle — that the lady had been abroad on horseback, well after midnight, about some errand of her cousin, Mr. Sidmouth — only fancy! — and that her horse had startled, and bolted, and thrown her to the ground; at which point she was fortunate in the Captain's happening upon her on the road, at his return very late from business in Dorchester. Only think! Our carriages might have run over her body in the dark, as she lay insensible, had he not appeared to act as saviour!”

“Perish the thought!” I said, with suitable fervour. “But why, then, had the Captain's horse also run off?”

Mrs. Barnewall leaned closer, her eyes once more brilliant with animation. “I understood from Fielding that he was unhorsed in the animal's act of leaping over the mademoiselle's still form, as the beast came upon her in its way. It was thus he made the discovery of her.”

“I suppose Mr. Sidmouth was very grateful,” I observed, with conscious stupidity, “to have his cousin so safely restored.”

“Mr. Sidmouth seemed rather to despair of his errand's having gone awry,” Mrs. Barnewall replied, “but that is ever his way. He should rather have all the world trampled underfoot, than have his own business interrupted; and the poor little Frenchwoman is but a cog in his larger affairs. She is capable, I suppose, and dutiful in her bidding, and there her utility ends. But we knew of this only later, when it became apparent that there was a grudge between Sidmouth and the Captain — the result of which we have all unfortunately seen.”

“And what do you believe is Sidmouth's business?” I enquired of her tentatively. “He is much abroad, in France, I hear — though perhaps not so much of late.”

“Because of the war, you would mean?” She sat back against the cushions, one delicate forefinger to her reddened nostrils. “Aye, that is very bad for business, I have no doubt. I myself intended to purchase a lovely length of silk, promised me by one of the Free Traders hereabouts, and I find it is not to be had. The controls at the ports are much stronger, I hear, and the Royal Navy less amenable to turning a blind eye, no matter how much brandy is waved beneath their noses.”

“Whatever would you speak of, Mrs. Barnewall?” My brow was furrowed, my countenance the very picture of confusion.

“Why, the Gentlemen of the Night, of course! The Reverend's men, who keep us all in silk and snuff, and playing cards and sealing wax. You will have heard of the Reverend — as I recall, we discussed his exploits at your very first Assembly.”

I studied my acquaintance's expression — the slanting eyes, sparkling with fun — or was it calculation? — the determined smile, which might hide a mind curious to know how much I had guessed of her affairs — the impenetrable facade of a carefully composed woman, betraying nothing of her true mind. She had allowed me to know that she was familiar with the smugglers’ habits, that she patronised them for their wares; and had even referred obliquely to Maggie Tibbit's silk. One might almost think that she knew of my visit to the woman, and my own purchase of the stuff — as perhaps she did. For the first time I was afraid in her presence, from knowing myself to be in waters too deep for steady footing.

“I did not know that people in my acquaintance were aware of the clandestine trade,” I said slowly.

“Aware of it? But, my dear, they run it,” she replied, in some amusement. “Whatever do you think Sidmouth's business is? His errands for the little LeFevre? His grudge against the Captain, whom we all know to have been opposed to the Trade? Depend upon it, Miss Austen, the Captain's death — however conveniently it might be ascribed to an affaire de coeur over the petite mademoiselle — was a matter of business. And if I adjudge Sidmouth righdy, he will dispose of the coroner's charge in similar terms. He will disappear, of a sudden, from his Lyme gaol, and take a swift ship for France, where he shall be given up for dead; but in a little while, in a different town, on another part of the coast, the Reverend will reappear.”