“MISS AUSTEN! JANE!”
The voice was Harriot Bridges's — so very like Lizzy's, and yet lacking her languid elegance. Harriot, tho' four-and-twenty, retained all the claims of youth, and might betray the breathlessness of sixteen in her accent. She hastened down the length of the draper's shop, still clutching a card of lace, and embraced me as an old friend.
“Harriot! You are blooming. And does my sister accompany you?” I enquired, with real pleasure. All resemblance to Lizzy ended in her sister's voice; for Harriot's hair was a light brown, and her eyes were blue — where Lizzy was a graceful column, Harriot was a cheerful rolling-pin.
“She does not, I am sorry to say. You find me quite alone — excepting my brother, Mr. Bridges, who consented to drive me into town. But how delightful to find you here! Have you completed your purchases? And what do you think of this lace? I confess it is rather dear — but quite bewitching, when I consider of my drab old gown. I might sew it along the flounce in a quarter-hour, and feel myself the queen of the Assembly!”
I had learned long ago that Harriot rarely required an answer, or valued an opinion; she was content to swim in an easy flow of conversation that was as unconsidered as it was constant; and so I merely smiled, and nodded, and hovered at her elbow, while she flitted among the shop's fine stuffs like a bee in a full-blown border. It was part of her enchantment to be as wanting in guile as a child; men found her rosy plumpness and inveterate good humour utterly bewitching; she was constantly in request among the wide acquaintance she cultivated in Kent. It was merely a wonder, I thought as I found her laughing over a length of sprigged muslin, that she had not been snatched up by Captain Woodford long ago.
“And how does Mr. Bridges?”
Harriot pulled a face. “Very ill, indeed. He is fretful and tiresome and hovers about the house until I think I shall run mad! It would be one thing if my brother managed some pleasant conversation — if he endeavoured, at least, to be charming — but he mutters barely a word, and only then when he is spoken to. I thought Cassandra might have the taming of him — he was prodigiously civil to her last week, and seemed to exert himself a little, as he rarely does when we are just a family at home — but he has fallen mumpish of late, and can barely be stirred to exercise his horse. Did I not know Edward, indeed, I should think him to be suffering from a Dreadful Presentiment.”
“A Dreadful Presentiment?”
Harriot looked over her shoulder, and attempted an air of gravity. “He seems a man goaded past endurance, Jane. He can neither submit to the confinement of the Farm, nor find courage to venture beyond it. He has not been farther than the lane into the Park, in fully two days!”
“How extraordinary.” Mr. Bridges was the sort of gentleman who was never to be found at home. Fishing, playing at cricket, cocking, or riding were his usual pursuits; but Harriot's description suggested he was ill. “He consented to drive you into town today, however?”
“On account of Mrs. Grey's inquest. My brother was most insistent that he should attend — the duty of a clergyman, he said, tho' I believe that is so much stuff. When has Edward ever considered the duties of a clergyman before his own comfort?”
There would be no proper answer to such a comment; and the speaker being Harriot, happily none was expected. But her words must give me cause to wonder. Edward Bridges was behaving like a man in fear for his life — and his behaviour might be marked from the very day of Mrs. Grey's death. He bore watching.
“Does Mr. Bridges intend the Assembly this evening?”
“Oh, yes — as does Captain Woodford!” Harriot cried, her countenance reddening.
“Captain Woodford? You astonish me, Harriot. From his aspect yesterday, I was certain he should be mounted in a beacon post somewhere along the coast, searching the horizon with his one good eye, and single-handedly in defence of the French.”
“How can you speak of him so?” she said reproachfully. “I am sure I can offer him nothing but respect. Such wounds as he has suffered—”
“Yes, yes,” I rejoined, “but only consider how ludicrous, Harriot! At one moment the Guards would have us dismantle entire estates, and in the next, they are dashing about the floor of Delmar's Rooms, as tho' Buonaparte might be bested in a quadrille!”
“Captain Woodford assured me that it was a question of honour,” Harriot told me stiffly. “General Lord Forbes would not have the populace alarmed, by an appearance of anxiety on the part of his men.”
“How like a man of the General's talents,” I muttered, thinking of Neddie's sainfoin harvest put to burn; but the irony must be lost on Harriot.
I PARTED FROM LLZZY'S SISTER IN THE HIGH, AND TOOK my separate way to the circulating library. I selected one of Maria Edgeworth's novels—Castle Rackrent—then turned my steps towards Mrs. Knight at White Friars, a quarter-hour before my brothers were expected. I might sit for a decent interval with the older woman, and regale her with Fanny's exploits and the progress of my nephew Edward's cold, without prolonging the visit beyond what was comfortable.
To my surprise, however, the housemaid informed me that Mrs. Knight was not at home. I was enough an intimate of White Friars, however, that I was invited very civilly within, and offered a glass of wine and a slice of lemon cake. When Neddie and Henry called to claim me, I was thus established in all the splendour of an empty apartment, with an aspect giving out on a late-August garden, quite engrossed in my book.
“This is living fine, indeed,” Neddie cried. “Poor Collingforth is charged with murder, and you can do nothing but consume a quantity of cake!”
I closed my book and surveyed him narrowly. “Lizzy has informed me that you are invariably peevish when suffering the pangs of hunger. Call for some more cake, I beg, and tell me of the inquest. Was Mr. Grey in evidence?”
“He arrived in haste, some moments after the jury had viewed the remains of his wife. Mr. Wing, our coroner, actually called Grey to the stand — but he could offer littie concerning his wife's death, beyond attesting that he was absent from the country at the time.”
“And did Mr. Wing enquire as to his movements?”
“He did not. A gentleman's word, after all, is his bond.” Neddie could affect the ironical nearly as well as myself. His own man in London, it seemed, had not yet returned with the desired intelligence.
“You presented the note?”
“And had the pleasure of witnessing Mrs. Colling-forth called. The coroner thought it necessary she should attest to her husband's hand — which she did, albeit in an inaudible tone. She looked very ill.”
“She fainted,” Henry supplied.
“Of course she did,” I returned impatiently. “It was expected by everyone in attendance. But I am astonished that she should admit to recognising the hand. Even the most truthful of wives might be forgiven a prevarication, in such a cause.”
“Perhaps Laetitia Collingforth has other feelings, somewhat less expected in a wife,” Neddie suggested delicately.
“Such as — a desire for revenge against her husband?”
“She has been made to look a fool before her neighbours.”
“True,” I said. “But what of the letter in French, discovered within the scandalous novel, Neddie? Did Mr. Grey still maintain that it was sent by a courier?”
“Of course. Any other admission — such as the existence of yet another lover — should serve to cloud the waters. For whatever reason, Mr. Grey desired a swift conclusion to the day's events. He was not inspired to confuse the coroner's judgement. And as we know, Jane, Mrs. Grey did receive a courier.”
“—Tho' not on the shores of Pegwell Bay,” I mused.
“You have neglected to mention the lad,” Henry prodded.