I studied her narrowly. The beautiful face was serene and unruffled as always — but graced with a palpable gleam of humour. “You enjoy this too much, Lizzy.”
“I suggest that you do the same,” she countered, “for my sister Harriot and the long-suffering Cassandra are even now entering upon Mr. Bridges's arm. Forewarned is forearmed, is it not? Allow me to introduce you, Jane, to Mr. George Farquar, a gentleman of my acquaintance.”
And so I took a splendid turn with the engaging Mr. Farquar, the second son of a baronet who, like most of the Fashionable World, had once loved Lizzy Austen, nee Bridges, to distraction. In honour of that vanished passion, he was kind enough to engage me for the next two dances — and in return I submitted to a maddening discourse on the finer points of racing. Mr. Farquar was mad for horseflesh in any form — kept a string of hunters and coursers himself — would be gratified to learn my opinion of Doncaster versus Newmarket, et cetera, et cetera. He had come up from London especially for Race Week, and would be gone again in a few days' time for the next round of meetings at Epsom — and thus spared me the trouble of caring for him at all. With Mr. Farquar I might flirt with impunity, and little danger to either of our hearts. He was so obliging as to commend my style of dress and the manner of my dancing; and so we parted a half-hour later, with approbation on either side.
The interval between the final strains of one dance, and the commencement of another, was marked by a little excitement — a ripple of conversation that went round the room, and died away into nothing, at the entrance of a gentleman and a stranger, dressed all in black. If I thought immediately of the elusive Mr. Everett, the comparison must be odious — for the stranger was possessed of considerable countenance, where Everett was not, and carried himself with an air of easy self-assurance that argued superiority of rank and fortune. Within moments of his appearance, a report was in general circulation about the room — he was Monsieur le Comte de Penfleur, the heir to a considerable French banking fortune, and raised as a brother to the late Francoise Grey. He had arrived only lately at The Larches, in readiness for Friday's funeral rites; and despite the deepest mourning, had insisted upon seeing something of Canterbury society.
Mr. Grey had not elected to accompany his guest.
I watched him move across the room — a slim, elegant figure with a knife-thin nose, ash-blond curls falling across his brow, and disconcertingly pale eyes. There he stood near a potted plant, and bent low over the hand of a bashful young lady — there, by the table of ices, he clicked his heels at a puffed-up worthy — but correct and elegant as his appearance must be, I could not ignore the arrogance of his manner. Monsieur le Comte might move freely among the enemy, but he loved us not at all. Whatever his purpose in coming to the ball, he was under no illusion as to his reception; politesse from the English was all very well, but he had known Francoise Grey, and must be aware of her treatment at the hands of Kentish society. We should not be too easily forgiven.
A quarter-hour of idling among the throng that lined the walls must bring the Comte at length to my brother, Neddie — and there, I espied a subtle change in the Frenchman's manner and countenance. Gone was the supercilious air; a certain rigidity, as of discomfort, now marked his movements; he was become guarded and circumspect. I surmised an eagerness to speak that must be at war with a natural reticence; and knew him to be taking Neddie's measure, even as my brother took his in turn. At length the two gentlemen moved off towards one of Delmar's anterooms, where the self-absorption of the card-players might serve as foil for conversation.
Only one woman at the Assembly, I observed, had worn black in respect of the departed — young Lady Forbes, the bride of the Guards' commanding general. She was a pretty litde thing, not much above nineteen, with the golden hair and sweet blue eyes of a china doll. But the innocence of her features was quite at variance with her dress — which was a daring costume more suited to a woman of the world. A circlet of black satin wound becomingly across her brow, and her dusky silk gown — as sheer as a mourning veil — fell in dramatic folds to the floor. She might have been Electra, or some other queen of tragedy, and a certain consciousness of effect was evident in the way she clung about Captain Woodford. In one hand she held a square of lawn, the better to dab at her eyes; in the other, a vinaigrette, in event of sudden swoons. Of her husband Major-General Lord Forbes there was not a sign. Perhaps he was a slave to the card-room.
Captain Woodford's single-eyed gaze, now bent upon his fair companion, now roving the room in search of some means of escape, came to rest at last upon myself. He smiled in acknowledgement, and nodded; I returned the courtesy. Just then I espied Lizzy, with her sister Harriot in tow, idling along the edge of the dance floor near the Captain — and his attention was immediately seized. Woodford abandoned Lady Forbes with a bow, hastened to Lizzy's side, and begged Harriot's hand for the dance just then commencing. With a blush and an averted gaze — but no apparent disinclination — she followed him to the floor.
“Miss Austen?”
I tore my eyes from the interesting pair, and was presented with one of Captain Woodford's fellow officers.
“Might I have the pleasure of this dance?”
To my delight and surprise, I discovered that I was much in request, and that full two hours went by before I had a moment to consider of the rest of my party, or indeed of my sister Cassandra. That she was less happy in her experience of the ball was evident from the pained expression with which she greeted Mr. Edward Bridges's attentions. He had elected to station himself by her side, her constant and insidious acolyte; he would fetch her a fresh glass of punch, or see her well-supplied with muffin, and she was utterly martyred to his cause.
The reason for my constant solicitation on the dance floor was soon made plain, however, by the repeated suppositions, cunning asides, and barefaced questions about Mrs. Grey's murder to which I found myself subjected. Neddie's role as Justice had rendered the entire Godmersham party the object of general fascination and enquiry. We were all to be besieged; no one was immune; and so, with an inward bubble of amusement, I set out to learn at least as much as I divulged.
Mr. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing more to do but die; but when she stoops to be an object of scandal, murder is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Much of Kent was at pains to find Mrs. Grey more amiable in death, than they had ever acknowledged her in life; and I must wonder if the elegance of the Comte de Penfleur's address, and the loftiness of his title, must do away entirely with his adoptive sister's reputation. Collingforth, on the other hand, was everywhere declared the worst of fellows — his wife too foolish even to be pitied; and by the end of my third dance, it was evident that he had been judged already and despatched to the gallows by the neighbourhood at large.
Mr. Valentine Grey, however, was decidedly the object of general pity — the sort of pity that is as much knowing contempt, and that must render all condolence an outrage. As to Mr. Grey himself, the reports of his character I was afforded this evening were so at variance with one another, I could not make him out at all. Some would have it he was a shrewd and cunning fellow, too deep to have his measure taken; others that he was a naif who cared for nothing but his remarkable grounds at The Larches. As to his banking concern and its practises, the neighbourhood opinion was even more divided; and I was forced to conclude that the Greys, however fascinating, were very little known in Kent.