Page 35 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Jane is packing, haphazardly winding items of clothing into tight balls and shoving them into her trunk. The volume of her luggage has expanded since she arrived in Kent, so that she must make use of every available square inch. She would happily abandon new gowns as she doesn’t anticipate many opportunities to parade around looking fashionable once she has returned to Steventon. Perhaps Neddy could pawn them to help maintain the carriage horses. But she wouldn’t want Elizabeth to think her ungrateful, so she continues to wrinkle the fabric, hoping this will enable the lid to shut.

Henry and Eliza have removed to Margate. They very generously offered to take Jane with them, probably so she could mind Hastings while they remained tête-à-tête. But Jane is determined to get back to the rectory and has begged Mrs. Knight’s assistance to convey her thither. It will never be easy for someone as proud as Jane to ask for help but, she has discovered, if she is brave enough to do so occasionally the reward is worth the risk of refusal. And Jane really must get home because Cassandra has finally written. Forget Mary’s cold souse, the one thing her beloved sister has declared might ease her grief is Jane’s company, and there is nothing on God’s green earth that will prevent Jane from reaching her. Least of all her own pride.

As she busies herself with pairing stockings and tossing them into her trunk, the door of her bedroom opens, just a crack, and a piece of paper, wrapped around a small object and tied with string, bounces across the carpet. Her first thought is that Fanny and Ted are playing a trick on their departing aunt. But when Jane unties the string, she finds an oddly familiar pebble and a note written in the exquisite hand of a gentleman with an artist’s touch. Meet me at the arbour. BEB

Jane complies immediately, grateful for the opportunity to thank Mr. Bridges for his part in Agnes’s salvation. She could never have retrieved the girl without his assistance, and she shudders to imagine what the consequences would have been if Spooner had spotted Derdriu alone at the abbey. From the reckless manner in which he sacrificed Infanta to pursue her across the waves, Jane is certain he would have risked capture to inflict on her one last lethal punishment.

A few moments later, Jane finds Mr. Bridges pacing up and down beside the clematis, handsomer than ever in his travelling clothes. His gig rests in the lane behind the house. “Have you been to call on your sister?” she asks. Elizabeth is recovering well from her lying-in and has expressed a warm desire to receive all her relations. She is so good-tempered, Jane wonders if Kitty was right in her assertion that her sister-in-law’s ill nature was brought about by anxiety over the impending birth of her child. Now that baby Henry has been safely delivered, Jane has every hope that Elizabeth’s health will be fully restored and that she will retain her more cheerful disposition. Until the next time she conceives, that is.

“I did wait on Beth, yes,” Mr. Bridges replies, eyes shining at the sight of Jane.

“Is Hen with you?”

“Oh, no, I came alone.” He removes his tall-crowned hat, running his fingers through his dark hair. “Hen is avoiding our dear sister. She and Blackall are officially engaged. They’re hoping to have the whole thing sewn up before Beth is churched, so she can’t object.”

Clever Henrietta, waiting for her sister to be indisposed before securing her future. “And Sir William has given them his blessing?”

“Well, he took a bit of convincing—but apparently Mr. Blackall’s collection of sermons is most profitable. And he received a capital advance for the new treatise he’s writing.”

“That’s wonderful news.” Jane forces out the words, schooling herself that Mr. Blackall’s literary success does not make hers any less likely. “Tell me, what did you make of Little Henry?”

“He’s an angel.”

“Isn’t he? Were you hoping for a Little Brook?”

“Goodness, no. There are more than enough Brooks in the world already.”

“There are?”

“Yes, we’re all called Brook,” he says, as if Jane should know this. “It’s a family name. My father was Brook, William is Brook-William, then there’s Brook-Henry and I’m Brook-Edward. On it goes. None of us goes by ‘Brook,’ it would be too confusing. Don’t you have a family name?”

“Yes, it’s Austen.” Jane frowns. “But I don’t understand, why did you tell me to call you Brook if nobody else does?”

“Because Edward is your brother’s name, and the last thing I wanted was for you to think of me as a brother.” He steps closer, towering over her while looking like a nervous schoolboy. “I wanted to speak to you alone as Beth said you were leaving.”

“That’s right. This afternoon, in fact.” Something strange is happening inside Jane’s abdomen. It’s as if his nerves are contagious.

He twists his hat in hands. “Me too.”

She waits, but he says no more. Instead he just looks at her with an intensity that makes her want to run and hide. “Well, then, Godspeed.” She moves to leave.

He steps into her path, impeding her progress. “It’s as I predicted. William has had his fill of my antics and finds he can suddenly afford whatever sum it might take to send me on my way. Thank you kindly for your assistance in hastening his generosity.”

“Me?” She lays a hand on her breast. “I’m so sorry. Was it the window?”

“Goodness, he doesn’t even know about that yet. I colluded with the housekeeper to replace the pane before he noticed. No, no. As discreet as we were, he somehow discovered our midnight jaunt and is convinced we came across Agnes while trying to elope.” Mr. Bridges laughs softly while familiar flames of mortification lick Jane’s cheeks. “He thought it would be prudent to separate us before we had another chance.”

“Did he now?”

“Come, it is amusing. As if we’d be fool enough to set off for Gretna Green on just the one horse.”

“I’m so glad I was able to provide such sport for you and your relations. I came into Kent for no other purpose.”

“Don’t be offended. It’s not that William has any objection to you. It’s me. He doesn’t think I’m mature enough to make such an important decision. He says if I can’t settle on a profession I’m not ready for a wife.”

Jane raises a palm, in hopes it will put an end to this torment. “Mr. Bridges, I assure you, there is no need to explain. I’m quite familiar with the steps of this dance.”

“And we’re so young. I am anyway. You’re what?”

“One-and-twenty,” she answers, through gritted teeth,

“Exactly. Not that young for a lady of your rank, is it? I expect you’ll be looking to make your choice sooner rather than later?”

“Do you ever know when to desist in speaking?” Unfortunately, it seems Jane and Mr. Bridges really do have a lot in common.

“If I opt for the Church, it will take me several years to achieve ordination. And even then I wouldn’t be fully independent. I’d have to wait for the present incumbent to die before I take over the living of Goodnestone,” he continues, and Jane is struck with the notion they are having two separate conversations—like a pair of actors, treading the same boards but reading from two different plays. Again, she tries to leave, but Mr. Bridges grabs her hand. “But, Jane …” he peers at her with an earnestness she is not at all used to from him “… it won’t be this way forever. As you said, I’m a young man of good family. I’m bound to fall on my feet eventually. And then …” He steps closer, leaning his tall frame down to hers.

And then? She will not ask. He leaves the remainder of the sentence hanging in the lavender-scented air between them.

Rather than saying anything further at all, he snakes an arm around her waist. Their eyes meet. Jane tips her head backwards, a mere fraction, in invitation—and his lips, when they meet hers, are irresistible. She lets her lids sink closed and abandons herself to the blissful sensation of his kiss. For once, he does not smell of snuff. In fact, he tastes suspiciously of peppermint. When they eventually break apart, noses bumping, Mr. Bridges offers her a bashful smile and from somewhere deep, in what Jane believed to be the empty chrysalis of her heart, the faintest fluttering stirs.

“I apologize if this is untoward,” he colours, “but may I write to you?”

“Yes. Yes, you may,” she replies, shocked at the breathy rasp of her own voice. “But make it worth the postage, won’t you? Remember, if I want to read a travelogue, I can borrow one from the circulating library.”

He leans in to give her one last kiss before letting her go. Dazed, she follows him into the lane. He mounts his gig and doffs his hat before taking the reins.

“Brook!” Jane calls after him.

He glances over his shoulder, beaming at the sound of his Christian name on her lips.

“You’re not a coward.” Jane meets his brilliant smile with her own.

“No, I really don’t think I am!” He laughs and, with a final salute, departs. The horse’s hoofs and the gig’s wheels stir up a great cloud of dust. Jane lingers until he is completely out of sight, with the thrill of a gambler who, in the instant before they are about to fold, discovers they have everything to play for.

Later that afternoon, Jane and Mrs. Knight travel to Briar Farm with Agnes on the first stage of Jane’s journey back to Hampshire. The lady abbess is leaning on her stick among the hollyhocks going to seed in the drive as the coach draws near. At the sight of her, Agnes’s posture relaxes as if she recognises the old woman. After the coach rolls to a halt, she alights and skips up the path, towards the makeshift nunnery where she has been accepted as a lay sister. “Wait, Agnes. I have a parting gift for you.” Jane climbs out, brandishing the pretty pocketbook she bought in Canterbury. She is so glad she resisted the urge to write in it. With the help of Alice, she has pressed the pages smooth and it is as good as new. “I thought it might help if you kept a journal. It might prevent you from becoming so confused.”

Agnes’s eyes cloud at the offering. “I can read a little, but I never learnt to make my letters.”

Jane frowns, confused at how Agnes could have written to her and Mrs. Knight in the guise of another when she claims to be illiterate. “But Biddy did?”

“Yes, Biddy did.” Agnes smiles proudly. “She went to Sunday school.”

“Oh.” Yet again Jane is forced to reappraise Agnes. She assumed she was the original girl, trapped beneath the terror of her ordeal. But maybe that is Biddy. Or, perhaps, Eleanor, Agnes, Biddy, Nessa, Derdriu, and even the terrible Captain Fairbairn, are all as vital as each other. “In that case, do you think you could pass this on to Biddy for me?”

“Certainly.” Agnes retrieves the book from Jane’s hands, clutching it to her chest. “I expect she’ll like it here.”

“I hope you all will.” If Agnes cannot be cured of her affliction, Jane prays that living in this quiet community of women will afford her the solace she deserves.

“I’m so sorry again, for anything the captain may have done or said.” Agnes’s forehead crumples. For the first time that day, she looks afraid.

“Agnes, really, there’s no need.”

“He never meant any harm to you or to my mistress. It was always me he wanted to silence. Those nasty notes were all aimed at driving out the others so that he could smother me. And even then, he was only trying to—”

“Protect you, I know. But you won’t need that kind of protection ever again. There’s no way Mr. Spooner can hurt you now.” Miraculously, Spooner had survived his initial amputation, but infection soon set into the wound and Dr. Storer admits his patient’s chances of recuperation are nil. Even the maggots do not seem to be aiding his recovery. Agnes’s abuser is destined to die in excruciating agony. “Just promise me you’ll stay here, where the lady abbess can take care of you.”

“I’ll try, I swear to it. Thank you, Miss Jane. Thank you, Miss Dashwood. Thank you, Miss Marianne.” Agnes throws an arm around Jane, kissing her cheek.

Jane does not correct her to say that she is “merely Jane.” There are no impermeable divisions in Jane’s mind. She can slip in and out of her characters as easily as changing into a new gown. Jane is distinctly not her heroines yet none would exist without her, and Jane would not be Jane if it wasn’t for Catherine, Lizzy, Miss Dashwood, and even the diabolical Lady Susan. Agnes has taught her this.

“Thank you, mistress,” Agnes calls, over Jane’s shoulder, before running off, towards the heavenly sound of the female choir drifting from inside the farmhouse. The lady abbess nods to Mrs. Knight in a gesture that Jane knows is designed to reassure her that her former charge will be safe in her care. Still, Mrs. Knight looks forlorn at the way Agnes abandoned her so readily.

Jane hastens her step to join the widow, threading her arm through Mrs. Knight’s as they make their way back towards the coach. “It was very kind of you to accommodate Agnes at Godmersham Park for so long. But she’ll flourish here, I’m sure of it.”

“I know, but I shall miss her. If there’s one thing the last few weeks have confirmed, it’s that I’ve shut myself away from society for far too long.” Mrs. Knight fingers the mourning brooch pinned to her breast. The sunlight warms the pearls surrounding it and Jane sees that Mrs. Knight’s black silk pelisse is shot through with regal purple. Perhaps there was a point in her visit to her dressmaker, after all. “I’ll never cease to grieve for my dear husband, but I’ve come to a resolution. It’s time for me to start living in the world once again.”

“That sounds commendable.” Jane pats her hand. As they saunter down the path towards the coach, she eyes the gallant Armand. He cannot be more than a decade younger than his mistress. Now that Jane is no longer so afraid of him, she can see—with his aquiline nose and proud features—he is actually very handsome. “You intend to remarry!” she gasps. This really could be a disaster for Neddy. Even if Mrs. Knight is too old to bear children, her new husband will surely have a claim to her wealth.

“Remarry?” Mrs. Knight stops short, wrinkling her nose. “Miss Austen! Where do you get these ridiculous notions from?”

“I’m sorry, I just thought …”

“Why would a woman in my enviable position do that?”

“For love?” Jane asks, bracing herself for the scolding she’s bound to receive in return.

“Pah, as if I’d be so foolish! No, I’ve made arrangements to sign my estate over to Neddy. He’s ready to be of full use to the neighbourhood. And, really, what’s the point in waiting until my death? The mansion is far too big for me, and it would bring me great pleasure to see my grandchildren enjoying it. You needn’t pretend surprise. We both know you were listening at the door when I broached the matter with my solicitor.”

“I … I was.” Belatedly, Jane realises this was the subject of the private conversation she overheard in Canterbury. Mrs. Knight never once considered transferring her estate to Agnes. It was always intended for Neddy—but she is going against her husband’s wishes in handing it to him before she dies.

“Indeed you were. As you will have noted, Mr. Furley took some persuading to draw up the papers. But he’s finally agreed on the condition I maintain one of my smaller properties, a little house called White Friars in Canterbury, and withdraw a modest sum from the income annually. Barring that, my entire estate shall be transferred to Neddy in a manner that cannot be reversed.”

“How modest a sum?” Jane cannot resist enquiring.

“Two thousand pounds. Mr. Furley was most anxious I did not impoverish myself, but I’m confident I can live according to my means.”

“I’m sure you are,” says Jane, thinking that only someone as accustomed to great wealth as Mrs. Knight could describe an annual income of two thousand pounds as “modest.”

“I’d like to inform Neddy and vacate immediately. You don’t think it will be too much for him and Elizabeth to absorb so soon after the arrival of baby Henry, do you?”

“No, they’ll be delighted.” And more than a little relieved, Jane imagines. “Is that why you were waiting to discuss the matter with Neddy?”

“That, and tying things up with Briar Farm. The freehold remains part of Godmersham, but I’ve given the lease of the farmhouse and the surrounding acreage to the order for the next thousand years. It’s what my ancestor Dame Lucy would have wanted.”

“That really is so very generous of you.” Neddy was right about his mother. Despite her grandiose demeanour, she is the most tenderhearted woman Jane has ever met.

“It’s my privilege. And, in return, the sisters will care for Agnes. They know all about her affliction and have promised to treat her with the utmost compassion. She will no longer require any special patronage from me.” Mrs. Knight fixes her steely eyes on Jane. “But it strikes me, dear, that perhaps you do.”

Jane halts her step. “Me?”

“Yes. If it’s acceptable to you, I’d like to award you a regular allowance. It won’t be enough to make you independent.” She flicks her wrist loftily. “But it would mean you won’t have to go cap in hand to your father or one of your brothers every time you want to furnish yourself with a pocketbook or a new gown.”

“I couldn’t possibly accept your charity, not when you’ve done so much for my family already.”

“It’s not charity, Miss Austen. I expect you to labour for it.”

“Labour for it?” Jane asks, picturing herself in the distinctive purple and black livery of Godmersham Park. She is not sanguine it will flatter her complexion.

“Yes, through your compositions.”

Jane’s step falters, her heart beating faster. “You’re offering to give me an allowance so that I may pursue my writing ? I thought you were not listening when I read my work aloud.”

“Not listening? How could I not listen? Dear girl, your words have a way of piercing one’s soul.”

“They do?”

“They really do.” Mrs. Knight reaches out to take Jane’s arm. “But I could tell you were making progress with Agnes, and I didn’t want to interfere.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.” Jane swallows, trying to dislodge the awkward lump in her throat. Her eyes sting and her vision is blurred. To think that she might receive something even more valuable than praise according to the merit of her work.

“Don’t say anything. Just write. You’re far better at that.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Knight.” Jane wipes a tear from her cheek. “Sincerely, thank you.”

Mrs. Knight walks on, not caring to witness Jane’s uncharacteristic show of sentimentality. “I demand the first reading of all new manuscripts before they’re circulated any wider than your Steventon family. You must send me the one your father was so enamoured of. What’s it called again?”

“ First Impressions. ”

“Well, that’s no good.”

“Is it not?” Jane is disappointed to discover having a patron will necessarily involve exposing herself to all manner of helpful hints.

“No, I must have read two novels by that title already.” Mrs. Knight frowns. “I command you to come up with something more original. Tell me, have you read any Frances Burney?”

“Why, she’s my particular favourite.”

“Mine, too. What a coincidence. Oh, are you sure I can’t persuade you to remain in Kent a few days longer? We could visit my little pied-à-terre in Canterbury.”

“No. I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’ve absented myself for far too long already. Cassandra is not adjusting to the death of her fiancé. I need to get back to her as soon as I can.” Jane’s spirit rises at the thought of home. Even if, as Mary writes, Cassandra is so altered she must prepare herself for the worst. “It pains me to hear that she is so distressed. I must put aside my selfishness and help her endure. She requested my presence herself.”

“Poor child, the agony of grief is something I know all too well.” Mrs. Knight offers Jane a sad smile. Armand steps forward to hand his mistress into the carriage. Jane follows her inside, taking a seat on the bench beside her. “You know the plan. I’ll travel with you as far as Sittingbourne. We’ll stay with some old friends, whom I have long since neglected. Then I shall return with my footman, but Armand will hire a post-chaise and escort you to the Pearsons’ address in Town. You’ll spend the night with them and, in the morning, Captain Pearson will put you in the mail coach to Deane. Don’t be daunted. It will do you good to exercise some independence.”

Jane nods, committing to mind each leg of her intended journey for the hundredth time. Despite the misunderstanding between her and Neddy, she is glad they have had this opportunity to renew their familial bond, and she flatters herself that her niece and nephews will remember her at least until she has journeyed so far as Sittingbourne. While she may not have found her sister-in-law any more amiable, she does have a greater degree of sympathy for Elizabeth’s predicament, and spending time with Agnes has shown Jane that embracing one’s most abominable qualities can sometimes prove necessary to one’s very survival. Jane is not looking forward to visiting the jilted Miss Pearson, or returning her letters to Henry, but the family’s generous offer of accommodation means there will be only a few days until Jane and her beloved sister are reunited. Her heart aches at the bittersweet prospect. Cassandra may be diminished forever by this blow, but her happiness remains vital to Jane’s own. Between them, the sisters must find a way to preserve each other.

To be continued …