In June, my sister Cassandra and I shook off the dust of Bath and descended upon Kent, and all the splendour of Godmersham, my brother Edward's principal estate.[1] The change in circumstance has been material, I assure you. My excellent father having passed from this life in the last days of January, the subsequent months were overshadowed by all the gloom of bereavement; and the black hours were hardly improved by my mother's heartfelt wish of quitting Green Park Buildings, in the hope of an establishment more suited to her purse and widowed estate. February, and then March, and even April were allowed to pass away in pursuit of cheaper pastures; but the sensibilities of three women being so far divided on the question of what was vital to our comfort, we could none of us agree. And so we resigned the abominable duty at the first opportunity — my mother embarking upon a visit to Hampshire, and her daughters stepping thankfully into their brother's chaise, sent expressly from Kent for the purpose.

In the great house at Godmersham, no expense is too dear for the achievement of my comfort. All is effected with ease and style, for an elegant mode of living is the primary object of Elizabeth, my brother's wife. There are not many uses for a baronet's daughter, but the steady management of a gentleman's household may safely be described as one of them; and in this, and in the rearing of a numerous progeny, Lizzy gives daily proof of her goodness. At Godmersham I may revel in the solitary possession of the Yellow Room (the bedchamber at the head of the stairs, set aside for my use whenever I am come into Kent), and while away a rainy afternoon with a good book and a better fire in the library's shadowed peace. Here I may be above vulgar economy, and drink only claret with my dinner, despising the orange wine that usually falls to my lot. When Edward's excellent equipages await my every whim, I need not rely upon the hack chaise for the conduct of my business; and if seized by the fever of composition, I have no cause to hide myself away, in constant apprehension of discovery. The grounds at Godmersham are very fine, and include in their compass at least one summerhouse and a cunning little temple set on a hill, ideally suited to the visitation of the Muse.

I find my condition in general so enviable, and so entirely suited to my taste, as to make me think with wonder on a certain event of nearly three years ago. Can I have been in full possession of my senses, indeed, to have refused Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither — a man of wealth and easy circumstances, despite his numerous imperfections — simply because I could not esteem him? Utter folly! The indulgence of a fanciful mind! And its bitter reward is orange wine and hired lodgings for the rest of my days.

“Jane. “My brother Henry, two steps ahead of Edward in their assault upon our barouche, shattered my reverie at a word. “I fear we must desert you this very instant, or we shall never secure a position at the rail. It is the Commodore's final heat, you know, and he is to meet a very telling litde filly, Josephine by name, who won her last quite handily. He is to carry four stone six.”[2]

Edward — handsome, carefree, and debonair despite the fine beads of sweat starting out on his brow — leaned into the open carriage and kissed his wife. “You look a picture, my dear. Shall our defection make you desolate?”

Picture was the very word for Lizzy, with her delicate parasol of Valenciennes lace inclined just so, above her dark head, and the famous Knight pearls shining dully on her bosom. “Not at all,” she murmured, with a languid look from her slanting green eyes, “for positioned as you are, Neddie, you quite destroy all our hopes of flirtation. Jane and I can manage quite well by ourselves — until dinnertime, at least, when we shall grow cross and hot and prove quite ready to declare ourselves of your party. Until then, sir, be off! For we want none of your careful ways.”

My brother burst out laughing at this sally of his wife's, and kissed her again, to the astonishment of the raven-haired little governess, Anne Sharpe; but all of Kent might observe the pair without contempt, for the Austens' was always acknowledged a love-match. Indeed, Neddie is so amiable, so honestly good — and Lizzy so perpetually elegant, without the least pretension to snobbery — that there can be few who must observe their happiness, without wishing them the heartiest good fortune in the world.

“May not I accompany you, Papa?” My niece Fanny bounced impatiently on the barouche seat opposite. She is Edward's eldest child, and very nearly his favourite — a pretty little thing of twelve, with all the advantage of birth, fortune, and connexion to recommend her. “I long to see the Commodore's action!”

“His action, is it? Lord, Fanny, how you do go on. I suppose we have you to thank, Miss Sharpe, for this cunning miss's tongue!”

A look of horror suffused Miss Sharpe's flushed cheeks, and she searched in vain for a word. Fanny's governess cannot be more than two-and-twenty, and however proficient in French and instruction on the pianoforte, is possessed of a delicate constitution. She holds my amiable brother in something very like terror.

“I should not have thought you equal to the mortification of the governess, Neddie,” Lizzy interposed quietly. “You are usually possessed of better taste.”

“I believe Henry deserves the credit of schooling Fanny's tongue,” I quickly supplied, while Miss Sharpe sank back into her seat in confusion. “The children have acquired all manner of cant expressions in the short time he has been with us. I was treated to a sermon on the art of boxing this morning, from little George — who offered to show young Edward his fives, and threatened to draw his cork, if he did not come up to scratch, and I know not what else. Miss Sharpe is hardly equal to Henry's influence. She shall merely be forced to remedy it, when he has at last returned to Town.”

“But, Papa — may not I accompany you to the rail?” Fanny persisted, having heard not above a word of the abuse visited upon her favourite uncle.

“The Commodore's action shall hardly be worth viewing, my dear,” Neddie said easily, “after the three heats he has already survived. We shall be in luck, does he finish the race at all.”

“Nonsense!” Henry cried. “The horse was never fitter!”

“But, Papa—”

“Now, do not teaze, Fanny. You know it would never do. We shall return directly the race is run, for there is sure to be a crush in leaving the field, and the oppression of the weather is fearsome. I will not have your mother tired.” And with a forage into the picnic hamper for some bread and cheese, the two men set off for the rail.

Fanny burst into tears and buried her head in Lizzy's lap.

“I suppose,” Lizzy observed distantly, while one hand smoothed her eldest's bedraggled curls, “that a finer lady would lament the ruin of her best muslin at such a moment, and shriek for Miss Sharpe to come to her aid. But I have never been very fine in my ways, Jane.”

“No,” I fondly replied, “only born to an elegance that is as natural as breathing, and that must serve as a lesson to all who meet you. The muslin shall survive, Lizzy, without the intervention of Miss Sharpe.”

The governess was in no danger of hastening to her mistress's aid, however, for her interest was entirely claimed by a scene unfolding well beyond the limits of the barouche. As I watched, Miss Sharpe drew a sudden breath, and clasped her gloved hands together as tho' desperate for control. I glanced over my shoulder to discover what had so excited her anxiety — and found myself arrested in my turn.

The lady in scarlet, whom I had remarked some time earlier, now stood upright in her elegant perch phaeton. Her countenance — which in easier moments might well have been judged lovely — was contorted with rage, and she held a whip poised in her right hand. A gentleman stood calmly at her carriage mount, as tho' braced for the issue of her fury; and as I watched, the whip lashed down with a stinging sigh upon his very neck. Beside me, Anne Sharpe cried aloud, and then stifled the sound with her hand.