“I am happy to do it,” she answered simply. “In truth, having no penchant for matrimony, I might otherwise have ended my days a governess. Here I may instruct and educate in the guise of a beloved aunt, without the discomfort of being forced to earn my living; and in the two eldest girls, I might imagine my sister revived again. To live in their presence, and watch them grow, is to fight a little against the awfulness of Death.”
“And you have been travelling en famille, I understand, some months on the Continent.”
“Yes — we spent the better part of last summer in Italy and the mountains of Switzerland.”
“What courage! But I must suppose that Buonaparte’s attention was happily fixed elsewhere.”
“On Spain — that is very true. I should have regarded the adventure with trepidation, I confess, but for the steady influence of my brother, Mr. Middleton; and of course, we were accompanied from Rome to Spa by Mr. Thrace.”
She had reverted in all tranquillity to a subject I was longing to introduce, but had known not how to do, without arousing a suspicion of inquisitiveness.
“He seems a very gentleman-like man,” I said cautiously.
“Was he, too, a traveller like yourselves?”
“Mr. Thrace is an orphan — raised in the household of an English couple resident some years in Rome, I believe; the gentleman who oversaw his early education is Mr. Henry Fox, nephew to the late Whig leader, and now elevated to the title of Lord Holland. His lordship has spent much of his life abroad — owing to the extraordinary circumstances surrounding his marriage. His wife, Lady Holland, was once married to another, and eloped with his lordship.”
“I see.” The perfect household for the bastard son of a peer.
“John — Mr. Middleton, I should say — was acquainted with Henry Fox at school, and naturally called upon him during our travels. He suggested that Mr. Thrace might serve as tutor to young Frederick for the remainder of our trip, and then return to England in our train — Mr. Thrace having intended to visit London in any case. We were most happy in the arrangement, and must look upon Mr. Thrace as quite an intimate friend. But tell me, Miss Austen,” she said decisively, “before I bore you too much with our family histories — is the damage to your house very great?”
“One window only; but we are less than fortunate in having the local joiner locked in Alton gaol. The likelihood of repairing the casement is thus put off.”
“I am glad to see you retain your sense of humour,” she retorted drily. “Another woman would have quitted the house entirely under such provocations, and sought lodgings elsewhere.”
“But then we should be satisfying the dearest wish of our enemies, Miss Beckford,” I replied tranquilly, “and that I mean never to do.”
She studied me with her sharp, intelligent eyes. “I have often thought that the evils of a Town existence — the constant dangers and ill-health to which one is exposed — are as nothing compared to the quiet malice of a country village. The people look too much inward, and nurse their grievances in solitude.”
“We have received nothing but kindness from the Prowtings and yourselves.”
“But the Baigents would have it your house is cursed; Libby Cuttle refuses to sell you bread; and that impudent scamp, James Baverstock of Alton, offers you insolence in his own house. I know it all, Miss Austen. I have heard from Mrs. Prowting what the Hintons are saying — and it is my opinion they should both be horsewhipped through the village. Such conduct, before the dear Squire and his family! Had I known of their behaviour before, I should never have asked them to dine with us last evening, I assure you.”
“We have no wish to make of Chawton a divided camp,” I protested.
“And no more you shall. By the serenity of your response to every adversity, Miss Austen, you show the Hintons their proper place. I am not the sort of woman to indulge in idle gossip — but I cannot like Jack Hinton. For all his fine manners, he has a taste for low company — for idleness and the kinds of vulgar pursuits that cannot become a gentleman — and I fear his morals are very bad.”
Here was a source from whom I might profit. “You mentioned his fondness for mills, as I believe they are called — but with every Corinthian in the country an enthusiast, it is not to be wondered that Mr. Hinton is no less immune.”
“A prize-fight or two should be nothing,” she returned dismissively. “Even dear Mr. Middleton has been known to indulge the taste. But I cannot disguise, Miss Austen, that there have been other habits which every person of sense and feeling must deplore. I will not offend you with particulars; I will say only that two housemaids at least have quit Mr. Hinton’s employ, and complained of ill-usage — of improprieties— at his hands. Neither girl was friendless, and Mr. Hinton has inspired a degree of dislike in the surrounding countryside that is not to be wondered at.”
“I see. Miss Beckford — I wonder—”
She stared at me enquiringly.
“Was either housemaid any relation at all to Shafto French?”
Her expression altered. “I cannot undertake to say. I am not in possession of the girls’ names — my intelligence derives from local gossip only, not personal experience. Tho’ Mr. Middleton leased the Great House once before, my sister was alive then, and my place was elsewhere. He has only been returned to Chawton under the present lease for a twelvemonth.”
“I understand. My thought was a passing one only. I did not mean to suggest—”
“Naturally not.” She drew her light shawl about her shoulders as tho’ suddenly chilled. “I hope that you will join us for the picnic at Stonings on the morrow, Miss Austen. The Hintons are not to be of that party.”
“I look forward to the day with every possible hope of enjoyment,” I told her; and after a quiet interval of examining the flower beds, and discussing my intentions for the cottage garden, I bid Miss Beckford adieu.
• • •
The morning was a fine one, as all Hampshire mornings in July must be; and as I exited the gates and made my way along the Street past the Rectory, I observed Mr. Papillon hard at work among the herbaceous beds, with a straw hat on his head and his shirtsleeves encased in paper cuffs against the dirt. JohnRawston Papillon is a diminutive, apple-cheeked man with luxuriant silver hair and the correct, if fussy, conversation of a determined bachelor. His sister Elizabeth, whom I had glimpsed the previous evening, keeps his household, and both appear so comfortably situated in life — so decidedly happy with the lot they have chosen — as to never wish for amendment. Having attained the age of six-and-forty without encumbering himself with a wife, Mr. Papillon might have been supposed safe from the speculation and notice of the impertinent; but my mother is no respecter of single men’s peace. My brother Edward’s patroness, elderly Mrs. Knight of Kent, having once voiced the thought that Mr. Papillon should be the very husband for her own dear Jane, my mother has been insufferable in her impatience to meet with the gentleman. Despite the dazzling alternative offered by Julian Thrace last evening, Mamma had not been disappointed. She had no notion I was as little likely to win the heart of an aging clergyman as an Earl’s putative son nearly ten years my junior.
“So very amiable!” she had exclaimed in a barely contained whisper when first Mr. Papillon was introduced to our notice.
“So clearly the gentleman in looks and address! I declare I am quite overpowered, Jane! You could do far worse than to set your cap at him!”
The rector of St. Nicholas’s straightened as I neared his garden, his hands full of lilies, and smiled at me benignly. “Ah, Miss Austen, is it not? I must offer my sympathy this morning. Your cottage was violated, I understand, and a valuable article stolen.”