“Then he has served your cousin admirably,” so they declared, “and in a better fashion than a fellow with ten times his fortune.”

“You are no disciple of Mr. Repton?”

“I am well-acquainted with his views,” he replied equably, “but have formed my own along a different path.”

“—A higher path, you would imply?”

“It is not for me to praise myself, Miss Austen. You may believe me capable of every absurdity — as you appear inclined to do — but pray allow me to possess common sense. Only a brainless popinjay will proclaim his merit before others have done so.” His lips twitched irrepressibly, and despite my aversion to the entire rage for improvement, I could not help liking Mr. Sothey.

“Then acquaint me with your views,” I urged. “To what does the Picturesque refer, if not to the Romantic Horrors you have yourself described?”

“To the ageless elegance of the art of Europe,” Sothey replied immediately. “To the noble symmetry of Italian landscape, as expressed in the canvases of the Great Masters. If I may achieve an hundredth part of the beauty and taste enshrined in the prospect of a Roman hillside, as painted by a Claude or a Poussin, then I shall declare myself well-satisfied.”[40]

“You have travelled abroad, I perceive.”

“As has your brother, I find. Mr. Austen and I enjoyed a splendid half-hour on the subject of the Grand Tour, and found ourselves much in agreement. I was privileged to study the composition of a landscape, while resident in Paris during the period of the Peace,” So they added, “and now apply the principles of the Picturesque to the grounds of my acquaintance.”

I was immediately intrigued. “And so you would form a prospect — from this saloon's windows, for example— according to the precepts of painting?”

“Is not the prospect a sort of picture? Is not the window a veritable frame?” Sothey cried excitedly. “Consider the view across this garden, Miss Austen. Is it not remarkably flat and unvarying? Does even a single feature suggest its primacy to the eye, and direct the gaze of the viewer to its silent grandeur? I would assert that the back garden at Eastwell is a formless jumble, in which all individual beauties are lost; that the distant prospect, with its barren hills and isolated coverts, must insult the eye with tedium; that trees are required in the foreground, to frame the distance properly, and that a richness of detail in the near-ground is imperative, if the eye is to progress beyond it at all. There is no path, Miss Austen, for the eye to follow — no guide to a remoter beauty — no sense, in fine, of picturesque perspective. Allow me to demonstrate the transformation I would intend.”

He leapt from his chair, and seized a large quarto volume bound in dark blue leather. This was immediately opened and placed upon my lap; and the vigour of Mr. Sothey's action could not but direct the attention of the entire room. I found that I had drawn a circle of attentive admirers, all craning to peer over my shoulder at the pages of the book — which were in fact illustrations, in breathtaking watercolours. All were signed by the painter in a distinctive, sloping script, as tho' the S of Sothey were a sail that might carry its master far upon the sea of fame.

“Have you worked upon Miss Austen already, Sothey, that she must submit to your Blue Book?” Mr. Finch-Hatton cried, in high good humour. “Then we must all be bent to its claims. Pray direct us in the study of your work.”

I had been presented with a catalogue of East-well Park, as it presently existed; and for every picture Mr. Sothey had executed an overlay, which showed the improvements that might be effected.[41] In silence, punctuated by exclamations of delight and wonder, the whole party was treated to an explanation of Mr. Sothey's vision; and I must confess it to have converted even myself. Nowhere did I find evidence of vulgarity, or a slavish devotion to fad; not a Gothic ruin nor a felled avenue could I detect, but rather the subtraction of those elements in the landscape that contributed to its confusion — a clarification of its beauties, that by the removal of excess, contributed to a finer definition of the whole. As I turned the pages in company with the others, I could not help but acknowledge Mr. Sothey's Art — his accomplished skill — his inexpressible taste. It might have served the Finch-Hattons immeasurably, I thought, had they possessed a man of his talents in the editing of their architect. For if even a small part of Sothey's plan were achieved, the ill-framed house would sit like a pebble in a casing intended for a jewel.

“And how do you like my Eastwell, Miss Austen?” Sothey enquired in a lowered tone, when the attentions of the others had been diverted by the entrance of the little children, fresh from their dinners in the nursery, and bent upon an hour with Mamma and Papa before bedtime. “Does it suit your notions of Beauty? Or have I failed where I would most desire to succeed?” “I have never seen a place for which Nature has done more, or where natural beauty has been so little counteracted by an awkward taste,” I acknowledged. “You have seized the landscape's soul, the park as it might be in Paradise.”

“I merely let slip the spirit inherent in these woods and hills,” Sothey said. “One can do nothing, you know, without one pays homage to the genius of the place.”

“Alexander Pope,” I returned. “But I thought he meant only a sort of pagan homage — the construction of a grotto, for instance, in respect of the resident River God. I have been hoping for a glimpse of ours, at Godmersham, these six years at least — for you know we are situated on the Stour.”

Sothey smiled. “The more ardent contemporaries of Mr. Pope might interpret his injunctions too literally. But I assume him to have intended something perhaps more subtle — that the imposition of elements alien to a country can never be graced with success. The untamed crags of Derbyshire, Miss Austen, would look sadly out of place in the peaceful folds of the Kentish downs, however Romantic their wild beauty.”

He sat back against his chair and regarded me with a serious air; and in that moment — when his countenance was swept clean of wit and artifice, and overlaid with an unwonted gravity — I knew at once where I had seen Mr. Sothey before. The revelation must stop my breath, and spur my heart to a rapid pounding.

He was the young man who had drawn my attention at the Canterbury race-meeting — a gentleman of unflinching dignity, who had taken the lash of Mrs. Grey's whip full against his neck.

Chapter 14

A Tale of Assignation

23 August 1805, cont'd.

“ARE YOU QUITE WELL, MISS AUSTEN?”

“It is nothing, sir,” I told Mr. Sothey. “The heat — I felt a trifle overcome — perhaps some air—”

I stood up unsteadily and joined my brother and sister at the French windows. Mr. Sothey bowed, and turned his attention to the pianoforte, where Miss Louisa Finch-Hatton now warbled a beguiling Scotch air.

“Jane, my dear,” Lizzy murmured at my elbow, “if we do not escape this instant and dress for dinner, we shall be made to look the completest fools. It would be like Lady Elizabeth to ring the dinner bell early, on purpose to catch us out.”

“Never fear, Lizzy,” I whispered back with tolerable composure, “your little hint of Thursday — that the intimates of Eastwell dined before the fashionable of Godmersham — was hardly lost on Lady Elizabeth. She will keep us waiting until midnight for her elegant courses, and exult in our famished pangs. You may change your gown ten times over with complete equanimity. But I confess I should be happy to escape. Let us go at once!”