Page 6 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)

CHAPTER SIX

Unlike Godmersham, Rowling Manor wears its long history with pride. The next evening, when Jane comes down for dinner, she enters the dining room through an archway carved with Tudor roses. Dust motes shimmy before the complex arrangement of lead lights, which make up the windows looking out onto the garden. The encaustic tiles are cool and smooth beneath her slippers. Oak panels cover the walls, and ivory roses stand upright in a crystal vase, perfuming the air with the scent of summer.

So far, Jane has spent her day cutting out paper dolls for the children while puzzling over the identity of the odious Captain Fairbairn. If she were in Steventon, she would start by searching for his name in The Navy List. But Neddy does not subscribe and, as he has already pointed out, the vast majority of naval officers on active service have been despatched to fight the French. Which means Fairbairn is more likely to be a captain in the army, unless he is retired altogether. In which case, he may be a neighbour, or perhaps a tenant, given he has access to the park. The contents of the note may have been upsetting but Jane is hopeful that, once she and Neddy have located its sender, they can determine what he knows and use it to extract Mrs. Knight from Eleanor’s pernicious scheme.

However, Jane has not seen her brother since he escorted her to Godmersham Park. Neddy is either occupied with estate matters or avoiding Jane after the humiliation of being refused admittance. As requested, Mrs. Knight’s coachman, Armand, ferried Jane home. Not the genial fellow who retrieved Neddy from Steventon all those years ago, but a surly Swiss man who barely said two words and rode with a blunderbuss on the seat beside him. No doubt his pride was grievously wounded at being asked to retrieve the magnificent coach and his team of six horses for the sake of his mistress’s poor relation. He was so abrupt, Jane feared he might bear her some malicious intent. All the way, she kept looking out for landmarks to reassure herself they were following the correct route. But, really, with the endless fields of hops it was impossible to know whether to bother panicking that she had been abducted until after he had deposited her safely at Rowling.

A door on the far side of the room opens and Elizabeth wafts through, her statuesque frame wrapped in a pale blue and white cloud. Jane’s sister-in-law was so incensed by her account of Eleanor’s freakish behaviour and Mrs. Knight’s coldness towards her son that Jane could not bring herself to alarm her further by telling her about the note. Jane should not have been snooping, and it seemed inappropriate to mention something so obscene to a woman in Elizabeth’s condition. The shock of it might somehow harm the baby or bring on labour. Now, Elizabeth pauses to admire her reflection in the gilt-edged mirror above the fireplace before she notices Jane. “Oh, you’re here already. I’ve only just sent Susan to see to you.”

“There’s no need for that. I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.” It did take quite a lot of wriggling for Jane to lace herself inside Elizabeth’s striped gown, now elongated by the addition of a clever flounce. Not to mention risk of personal injury, as she pinned the bodice in place. But Kitty and Alice are already overstretched, both girls complaining the other is negligent in her duties leaving themselves to carry out the majority of Elizabeth’s commands. Jane does not want to add to their workload or their list of grievances.

“Hmm …” Elizabeth frowns, as she adjusts Jane’s neckline to reveal more of her bosom. Roger, Neddy’s obliging manservant, enters clasping a green glass bottle and heads for the crystal decanter on the sideboard. “I said two bottles. And of the Bordeaux, not the Rioja.”

Roger frowns at the Rioja, as if it has deliberately attempted to catch him out. “But my master said—”

“Never mind what your master said. He’ll thank me for making sure we’re well provisioned later.”

Jane bites her lip. Despite his affluence, Neddy must have inherited their father’s approach to husbandry. Two bottles of wine seems rather excessive for a quiet family dinner. Mr. Austen would likely settle for half, diluted with plenty of water. But when Jane lowers her gaze to the table, she realizes it is set for four. “Are we expecting company?”

“Only the Reverend Mr. Blackall. Edward’s giving him a tour of the garden.”

“Would this be the same Mr. Blackall who calls at Godmersham Park?” Jane asks, remembering the visitor who had so upset Eleanor that she had persuaded Mrs. Knight to banish her son.

“That’s right. Mr. Blackall has the living of Godmersham and the smaller parish of Crundale, which brings him an income of around two hundred and fifty pounds a year. He employs a curate, but that can’t cost more than fifty, and his mother left him a good two thousand invested in the four per cents. Crundale is a very pretty village. The parsonage is fit only for a bachelor at present, but he intends to refurbish. He doesn’t keep a carriage as he prefers to ride on horseback, but I see no reason why he couldn’t in future.” Elizabeth smiles brightly. “Say, for instance, if he were to take a wife.”

“Is that so?” Jane’s skin prickles. The eligible Mr. Blackall explains why Elizabeth was so eager to send her maid to dress her, and for Mrs. Green to adjust her cast-off evening gown in readiness for tonight. While Jane is grateful for the unexpected opportunity to quiz Mr. Blackall, she must disabuse Elizabeth of the notion she is prepared to entertain a suitor. “Really, Beth, it’s very kind of you to invite this young gentleman here on my behalf. But as I said previously—”

“Who said anything about young? I’m not a miracle worker, Jane. Do I need to remind you that entire legions of our young men have been called off to fight General Bonaparte, and you have not a penny to your name?” Elizabeth picks up one of the tall-stemmed wine glasses, inspecting it against the late-afternoon sunlight. Roger, having returned, tries so hard to pretend indifference to their conversation that his hand trembles as he pours Bordeaux into the decanter.

Determined not to betray her mortification, Jane focuses on inhaling the wine’s comforting aroma. It is not true that she is completely without money of her own. The ever-generous Thomas Knight II bequeathed her a modest legacy of fifty pounds. It is all she can expect to take with her into her marriage and she will not provoke her sister-in-law’s scorn by reminding her of this when Elizabeth brought two thousand and the leasehold of Rowling to her union with Neddy. “Is Mrs. Knight usually on good terms with the clergyman?”

“Of course. He’s most respectable.” Elizabeth continues listing Mr. Blackall’s attractions on her fingertips. “He enjoys fishing and professes to have an ear for music, but his voice is a little flat. He collects earthenware tankards in the shape of little men, and visits family in East Anglia every couple of years. Oh, and he detests women who wear too much rouge.” She takes out a pocket handkerchief to wipe Jane’s cheeks, but Jane’s offensive colouring is all her own.

“You seem to know rather a lot about him.” Jane squirms out of Elizabeth’s reach, checking her appearance in the looking glass. Her complexion is a touch more flushed than usual. Her countenance has not yet recovered from riding about in the phaeton. Aside from that, the subtle gold stripes of Elizabeth’s former gown suit her rather well.

Undeterred, Elizabeth licks a finger and twists one of the natural curls that Jane left loose around her face, encouraging it to form a smarter ringlet. “With an unmarried sister advancing thirty, and two more penniless sisters-in-law, I make it my business to know every eligible bachelor in the county and beyond.”

Jane’s spirit deflates at Elizabeth’s inclusion of Cassandra in this threesome of desperate spinsters. Despite Jane despatching a letter to Hampshire every day, Cassandra is yet to reply. It is the longest the pair have ever gone without any direct correspondence. Each morning, when Roger retrieves the post, Jane’s hopes of hearing from Cassandra ever again are diminished. With her parents still travelling, Jane is forced to rely on Mary for news. Never one to avoid harsh truths, Mary warns that Cassandra will not dress and barely eats. Instead, she lies in bed all day with the curtains drawn, white-faced and tearful as she nourishes her grief.

Elizabeth turns to fiddle with the arrangement of roses so that the fresh buds take centre stage; the open flowers, their petals already turning brown and falling loose, are hidden at the back. “Mr. Blackall has never been married, so there are no dependents to worry about and there will likely be no division of assets when he passes away.”

Jane mirrors Elizabeth’s over-bright smile. “Unless he keeps a brood of by-blows up in East Anglia.”

“Jane, that’s not amusing.” Elizabeth scowls. “Don’t you dare say anything like that in company, or you’ll destroy your chance completely.”

“I’m sorry.” Jane is quite sure Cassandra would have found it hilarious. The old Cassandra would, anyway. She’s not sure the new broken version of her sister will ever laugh again. Everyone dishes out the platitudes, reassuring Cassandra that time will prove the best healer. In Jane’s experience, distance may remove the sting of lost love, but the dull ache only grows heavier. Immediately, she suffers a twinge for comparing Cassandra’s devastating loss with her sentiments for Tom Lefroy. Next to Cassandra’s devotion to Mr. Fowle, Jane’s affair with Tom was nothing—a trifling flirtation, over almost as soon as it began.

“Ah, there they are …” Elizabeth peers through the window, where two figures are wandering up the brick path through the shrubbery. “I saved his most attractive feature until last—he’s a published author.”

“He is?” Perhaps Jane is being too hasty in dismissing any potential suitors out of hand. There would be no harm in her considering other options, just in case Tom never reappears. She presses her nose to the glass to get a better look. Outside, Neddy throws his head back laughing. Beside him, a thickset man remains dour. He is dressed in a clerical black frock coat and breeches, with a Geneva band and a wide-brimmed hat, just like Jane’s father.

“Yes. What a coincidence. I’m sure you’ll have so much in common.”

As the two men draw closer, sunlight illuminates the grey threaded through Mr. Blackall’s side-whiskers, signifying he must be closer in age to Mrs. Knight than to Jane—not quite the romantic young poet she might have hoped for. “What exactly did he publish?”

“Oh, let me think.” Elizabeth returns to her roses, refusing to meet Jane’s eye. “Sermons, I believe.”

Jane straightens. “That’s not an author, that’s a priest with access to the printing press.”

“But he’s working on something new. A treatise of some kind. That’s bound to be more exciting.”

Jane catches another glimpse of herself in the mirror. How Tom would laugh if he could see her now, all dressed up to impress a dour-faced man of the cloth. She represses the urge to snatch away Elizabeth’s vase and hurl it at the silvered glass. It’s not Jane’s fault she hasn’t managed to extinguish the hope Tom will one day rekindle their brief affair. If she could go out into the world, forge a path for herself, like her brothers, it might be different. Stuck at home, with only her writing to occupy her, she’s forced to dwell on past feelings. Oh, God, if it’s this painful for Jane to move on from her short dalliance, how can Cassandra be expected to bear her genuine heartbreak? It’s enough to make Jane want to lie down and weep with grief for her beloved sister.

Over a dinner of succulent roast lamb (formerly a member of Neddy’s flock), the gentlemen converse at great length about which members of the local gentry have it within their power to grant access to the best fishing. Jane learns more about the preferences of the aristocratic and aquatic inhabitants of Kent than she ever cared to. Whenever there is a lull, Elizabeth looks at her expectantly. While Jane is tempted to use these pauses to dive headlong into an interrogation of Mr. Blackall’s interaction with Eleanor, she suspects it would be politic to wait for Neddy to introduce the subject.

In the interim, she does her best to walk the fine line between being civil and restraining herself from giving Mr. Blackall any false encouragement. It is a delicate dance and only possible if one’s partner is willing to follow one’s lead. “Do you visit Canterbury often, Mr. Blackall? Perhaps, for such entertainments as the theatre?” she asks, hoping to divert him from any further consideration of country pursuits, and that the mention of players might lead towards the strange creature masquerading as a princess at Godmersham Park.

“Not often, Miss Austen. It is my opinion that very few plays are fit to be staged in public. Even the most moral work can be degenerated when performed in front of a bawdy crowd.”

“Oh …” Unfortunately, Jane’s polite enquiries are no match for Mr. Blackall’s pomposity. Ever since her parents took her to watch a pantomime as a child, she has longed to see more of the theatre. Real theatre—not the amateur efforts her brothers put on in Mr. Austen’s barn in their youth. Although she must respect the earnestness with which James undertook his management of these family productions, rounding up his younger siblings to paint the scenery and forcing their cousins, Jane Cooper and Eliza, and even a young Mr. Fowle, to audition for their parts. “But I understood Canterbury was home to a very respectable establishment.”

“The Orange Street? I haven’t attended a performance there since I had the misfortune of watching Doctor Faustus under a shower of missiles thrown by a troupe of redcoats. I will not return until Sir Edward Hale has completed his new facility and only the most high-ranking officers are granted leave to remain within the city’s walls. I only wish Sir Edward had chosen a plot even further out of the way to house the cavalry.”

Jane straightens at the mention of army officers. Canterbury is less than ten miles from Godmersham, close enough to make it a possible location for the mysterious Captain Fairbairn to reside. “The militia is billeted there?”

“Far too many of them, yes. And up to two thousand more just outside, at the new barracks on Northgate Street. This particular regiment was the most undisciplined group of ruffians I ever saw. They all but ruined the play.”

Jane cannot blame Mr. Blackall for his hostility towards the militia: they have hardly been careful to guard their reputation. When soldiers have been ordered to disperse crowds voicing their displeasure at the rising cost of bread, they have joined in to protest at their own meagre rations. Only last April four hundred men of Henry’s regiment, seized by hunger and the devil, laid waste to the town of Newhaven on the Sussex coast. For two days, the gang ran riot, helping themselves to meat and liquor while attacking local farms and mills. By some merciful act of Providence, Henry was on leave at the time. He returned to watch the ringleaders kneel in their coffins and be shot by ten of their former comrades.

“I wonder, do you know if there is a Captain Fairbairn among their number?” Jane watches Neddy to see if the name means anything to him, but there is not the slightest flicker of recognition in his features.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, looks horrified. “Let me assure you, Mr. Blackall, Jane is not the type of young lady to associate with young men from the barracks.”

“Of course not.” Jane rushes to defend herself against her own imaginary impropriety. “He served with our brother, Captain Henry Austen of the Oxfordshires. Henry mentioned Fairbairn was stationed nearby and asked me to enquire of anyone who might have news of his friend.” Neddy gives her a quizzical glance, knowing that, even if one of Henry’s acquaintances was stationed in Canterbury, he would hardly task his unmarried sister with retrieving word of him.

“I do not, Miss Austen. I avoid fraternizing with the armed forces, and I would counsel you to do likewise. A soldier, or even a sailor, may be welcomed readily into society but that doesn’t make him a gentleman. As for the theatre, I am of the opinion that great works of literature are best enjoyed in private. Even then, I restrict myself to the histories and tragedies. I do not think the comedies suitable for a clergyman.”

“Jane will agree with you there. She’s an avid reader, hardly ever without a book in her hand.” Elizabeth tops up Mr. Blackall’s glass of Bordeaux almost to the brim before Neddy gently wrestles away the decanter.

“Are you, Miss Austen?” Mr. Blackall smiles, placing his knife and fork on his plate and looking ready to listen for the first time that evening. “And what, in particular, do you care to read?”

Jane enjoys Marlowe and Shakespeare—Mr. Blackall’s comment about histories and tragedies perhaps referred to their works—but she doesn’t want to risk elevating herself in his esteem. “Novels, usually.”

“Novels?” he splutters, as if Jane has revealed she reads runes.

“Exclusively novels,” she replies, delighted he has taken the bait. “Histories, romances, any kind of novel I can acquire through the circulating library. I devour them. All our family are great novel readers, aren’t they, Neddy?”

“Um …” Neddy pauses, glass halfway to his mouth.

“Apart from our eldest brother, James, but he’s always had far too great a sense of his own self-consequence.” Jane can tell Neddy and Elizabeth are on tenterhooks lest she embarrasses them further by revealing she not only reads novels but writes them. They need not be so alarmed. Jane is conscious enough of the precariousness of her reputation to know she must keep her literary ambitions within the family. Plus, she doesn’t care to invite any disapprobation or, worse, pity from Mr. Blackall by admitting she dreams of doing what he has so effortlessly achieved.

Mr. Blackall wipes his mouth with a napkin and throws it onto his plate. “I would be failing in my duty as a clergyman if I did not censure you in that regard. Novels are hardly suitable reading matter for young ladies.”

“Oh, really? What makes you say so?” Jane picks up her glass, swilling her drink and hoping its heavenly scent will quell her temper as she’s forced to endure more of Mr. Blackall’s drivel. Beneath the initial taste of berries, the wine has an earthy undertone, like the smell of wet gravel, or a freshly licked pencil. Bordeaux must be very expensive, not to mention difficult to obtain, since all trade with France has been proscribed.

“They are effusions of fancy designed to provoke pleasure, which can only distract a woman from her religious and familial duties.” Mr. Blackall frowns. “Such compositions risk exposing the impressionable female mind to ungodly thoughts and leaving her ripe for seduction.”

If anything, the novels Jane has read have served to strengthen her resolve against temptation by a handsome rogue. It is a rare breed of heroine who can resist the traps laid out for her by her creator, and Jane has no desire to share the fate of Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa. She will not exert her energies explaining this to Mr. Blackall, however, lest he flatters himself as a rational creature. “I suppose you would rather I read conduct books? Or sermons?”

“Sermons are much more suitable, I agree.” Elizabeth uses all her might to push the conversation towards the safer arena of all her guest’s literary accomplishments. “Did I mention Mr. Blackall has published his own collection? It has been very well received, so I believe.”

“Indeed. After such a favourable account by Mr. Croker of the Critical Review, my publisher informs me we are obliged to print a second edition.”

“That is good news.” Neddy picks up his wine. “Isn’t it, Jane?”

“Capital.” Jane is forced to raise her glass as her spirit sinks through the floorboards. How can Mr. Blackall’s sermons be selling so well? Who is buying them? Unless it is interfering relatives, foisting them upon unsuspecting young ladies who would much rather lose themselves within the pages of a well-drawn and thoughtfully written novel.

As dinner is cleared away, Jane ruminates on how best to raise the topic of Mrs. Knight and her strange house guest. While she longs to be released from Mr. Blackall’s company, she is loath to let him depart without deepening her understanding of what passed between him and Eleanor. The incident must have been serious for Mrs. Knight to take the precaution of barring all male persons, including Neddy, from Eleanor’s presence.

Roger returns, with a heavy platter of cheese, nuts, gooseberry pudding and a jug of egg custard. It is a far cry from Steventon, where even on feast days the family fight over one dessert. Mr. Austen maintains a rule that whoever slices is last to select their portion, ensuring all his children have an eagle eye and a head for fractions. “Did Beth mention Mrs. Knight requested you accompany her to Canterbury on Thursday, Ned?”

Neddy unwraps the cheese. It is kept in a round container with French writing on the top and would be excellent for storing ribbons. Jane plans to purloin it, but when Neddy lifts the lid, the acrid stench of ammonia pervades. The smell will have permeated the wood, rendering it useless. It must have been in the pantry since before the French declared war. “This Thursday? That’s unfortunate. I have a prior commitment on behalf of Sir William. I’m to meet his gamekeeper and assess the stock.”

Given their strained relations, Neddy should be taking every opportunity he can to spend time with his mother. “Can’t that wait?” asks Jane.

“Not really.Grouse season will be on us before we know it. And I must do everything I can to oblige the baronet, especially with Midsummer approaching.”

“What’s so pressing about Midsummer?” Elizabeth serves Mr. Blackall a dainty slice of pudding, which he promptly smothers in custard. “We must oblige my brother at all times.”

“Indeed we must.” Neddy pulls at his cravat. “Forget I mentioned it.”

Jane recalls their conversation on the way to Rowling. Tenant farmers pay their rent on quarter days. Neddy took his additional acreage on Lady Day, meaning the next instalment of his increased rent will be due at Midsummer. She doubts it would be conducive to her brother’s domestic harmony if she were to explain this arrangement. If Neddy is concerned he will not be able to meet the repayments, it is up to him to inform his wife. “Someone should certainly accompany Mrs. Knight. We must do all we can to encourage her in her participation in society.”

Neddy turns to Elizabeth. “Can you go, darling? I’m already committed to helping your brother.”

Elizabeth pauses with a sliver of pudding halfway between the platter and her bowl. “Well, I could …”

“Don’t be silly. Beth can’t go.” Escorting Mrs. Knight to Canterbury will involve hours of being bounced around the country lanes. Even if Elizabeth is hiding the full extent of her suffering, Neddy should know the exertion is too much to ask of a woman in her condition. “She’s weeks away from lying in.” How can he be so inconsiderate? Mary has only recently announced she’s expecting, yet James is treating her as delicately as one would handle a Dresden shepherdess.

At the reference to Elizabeth’s pregnancy, Mr. Blackall grimaces into his overflowing custard. Neddy, however, continues to stare at Jane, impassive. “I’ll put some cushions in the phaeton.”

“It’s no matter. I’ll go.” Elizabeth places her pudding back on the platter, rather than into her bowl.

“No, you absolutely must not.” The air turns thick with silence as Jane senses she’s broken some unwritten rule in challenging Neddy’s authority. But surely if he knew how much Elizabeth was already suffering he wouldn’t want to cause her any more discomfort, or risk bringing on the baby before its time by forcing her out in the carriage. “Really, Neddy. It would be most taxing for her.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks flush. “I said it’s no matter.”

Jane glances between her brother and an increasingly agitated Elizabeth. Mrs. Knight’s errands may involve calling on the Wilmots, in which case Jane would very much like to solicit the doctor’s opinion of his former charge. The visit may even afford her the opportunity to make some discreet enquiries as to the whereabouts of Captain Fairbairn. “Why don’t I go? I may not be familiar with Canterbury but I’m very willing to act as a companion, if it will save your mother from travelling alone.”

“Thank you, Jane. That’s very kind of you.” Neddy smiles, but there is no real warmth in his features. “Mother will hardly be alone. Whenever she is minded to leave the park, she takes Armand with her. And this time I’d hazard a guess her foreign princess will cleave to her too.”

Jane places her napkin on the table, relieved that Neddy has finally raised the thorny topic. “Actually, Ned, I’m quite sure I have evidence she’s not foreign, never mind a princess. She certainly doesn’t speak Spanish. Did you converse with her when you visited, Mr. Blackall?”

“I did, and I concur with you, Miss Austen.”

“You do?” Jane is gratified that Mr. Blackall can appreciate her skill in detecting the inconsistencies in Eleanor’s speech. Perhaps he will prove himself a useful ally in uncovering the girl’s true history. “Tell me, did you recognise any scraps of French or Italian amid her babble?”

Having just placed a spoonful of custard into his mouth, Mr. Blackall presses his corpulent lips together and swallows slowly. He is either thinking very carefully about his answer or savouring the exquisite hint of vanilla. “Neither. She speaks with the devil’s tongue.”

Jane stares hard at Mr. Blackall, trying to work out if he is joking. From the deadpan expression on his face, he is clearly not. “What?”

“The devil’s tongue?” Elizabeth repeats, as if this is a fashionable European language she should have been introduced to at school.

“Indeed.” Mr. Blackall nods gravely. “It is my learned opinion that the girl has made a compact with Satan. Mrs. Knight would not permit me to examine her fully for a mark but, from her behaviour, it’s evident to me she’s been invaded by a demon and is in urgent need of exorcism.”

Elizabeth and Neddy continue to stare at Mr. Blackall, faces frozen. Excitement bubbles up in Jane. This dinner has the potential to be far more entertaining than she had hitherto thought. “Possessed by a demon? How frightful. Pray tell us, Mr. Blackall, is this a condition you are familiar with? In all the time my father has been a clergyman, I’ve never heard him speak of any of his parishioners succumbing in this way. I implore you to share with us everything you know of the matter.”

Neddy splutters. He tears his napkin from his collar and balls it in his hand as he makes coughing sounds into it. Jane is satisfied by the knowledge that he too is trying to contain his horror. The Austens are a pragmatic breed. Their father would dismiss any supernatural leanings as preposterous.

“Not in person, but I have read numerous accounts. It is obvious that the girl has entered into an unholy conspiracy with Lucifer himself. That’s what my collection of sermons is foremost concerned with—how to spot the devil in his many earthly guises.”

“Goodness me,” says Jane. “I didn’t realise I was in the presence of such an authority. But Mrs. Knight refused to let you examine her house guest, you say?”

Mr. Blackall sets his dumpy features in a frown. “I’m afraid so. Otherwise I’m certain I would have found proof.”

Jane arches her brow. “Proof ?” During England’s witch trials, hundreds of women were put to death for no greater evil than a blemish in some intimate part. Whatever Eleanor’s intentions, Jane can hardly fault her for becoming distressed if Mr. Blackall attempted to examine her naked.

“If I’d carried out a thorough interrogation of her person, I’m confident I would have found the spot where the demon entered her.” Mr. Blackall turns to Neddy, placing his meaty hand on his host’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to alarm you, but the possession will only get worse. I’ve already witnessed lapses in the girl’s ability to control the demon festering inside her. Very shortly, she’ll descend into uninterrupted fits of raving. Then your mother will be forced to admit the necessity of driving it out.”

At the mentions of “fits,” Neddy’s features grow stern. Several members of the Austen family, including Jane’s brother Georgy, are prone to convulsions. The insinuation that such difficulties are anything other than unfortunate physical ailments is no laughing matter.

“Well, thank goodness you’re here to preserve us.” Jane smiles sweetly. How dare Mr. Blackall accuse novelists of peddling fantasies when he is no more than a purveyor of superstitious nonsense? “Do you happen to have a copy of your collection of sermons with you? I’d be most eager to read—”

Elizabeth leaps up from her seat. “Actually, Jane, I think it’s high time we left the gentlemen to it.”

Jane looks down at her half-eaten pudding. “Oh, but I’ve not finished yet.”

“Well, never mind, you don’t want to get fat.” She places a hand under Jane’s armpit and practically drags her from the table.

In the tapestry-lined drawing room, Jane tries her best not to snigger as Elizabeth makes her swear on pain of death not to encourage Mr. Blackall to converse any further on his macabre interest in the occult. “I agree it’s rather quaint, but men with ample incomes who remain single until later life will develop strange habits. Once you’re married, you’ll be able to steer him towards a more palatable area of theology,” she says, then launches into a full-blown lecture on the fragility of a man’s pride. “And you must promise me never to disagree with your brother in company again. What were you thinking, so brazenly questioning his command I accompany Mrs. Knight to Canterbury? Didn’t your mother teach you anything? A woman must be seen to submit.”

“I was only trying to save you from the discomfort of making an unnecessary journey. You told me yourself of your reluctance to wander far from home,” Jane replies, as she takes a seat on the carved oak bench beside the hearth. Now the heat of the day is past, the antique house is chilly, and a log fire burns in the steel grate.

“Yes, but disputes between married couples should be handled with discretion. If you’d left it to me, I’d have dealt with it in a far more feminine manner. A wife must prevail upon her husband, until the very thing she wishes seems to him to be his own design,” Elizabeth continues, seemingly unaware she has done nothing but chide Neddy on his inability to deal with his mother since Jane’s arrival. “Only think of the anarchy that would ensue if every female in the country took it upon herself so violently to usurp her master? The system would collapse, and chaos would reign supreme. Look at what’s happened in France, where the entire social order has been upturned by the will of the mob, and the blood of the Royal Family runs like a river through the streets of Paris!”

Fortunately for Elizabeth’s equilibrium, Neddy and Mr. Blackall soon join them in the snug chamber. With the one topic that can afford Jane amusement prohibited, she sits quietly while Mr. Blackall eulogizes on the comfortable situation of Rowling Manor and how it puts him in mind of the repairs he intends to make to Crundale Parsonage. Jane’s only contribution to the conversation is occasionally to bend forward and stroke Conker’s elongated tummy. Like Jane, the dog is on his best behaviour, stretched out in front of the fire with his paws in the air.

“That beast should be kept in the coach house,” Elizabeth mutters, already disregarding her resolve that a husband’s way of managing things ought never to be called into question.

“I know, darling, but he complains so much when he’s out there it distresses the horses.”

“It distresses me when he remains in here.”

To Jane’s surprise, Neddy turns to Mr. Blackall. “Shall we take a walk out to the coach house? I don’t believe I’ve shown you my new team yet and I expect you’ll want Roger to prepare your mount. It’s a long ride back to Crundale.” Neddy is so practised at being genial, it can be difficult to read his true sentiments, but the cleric’s offhand remarks must have annoyed him if he is so eager to see him gone. It is not yet eight o’clock. There are another couple of hours before darkness will descend over Kent, making travel on horseback undesirable.

When Neddy returns, having disposed of Mr. Blackall but retaining his dog, Elizabeth stands to greet him. “Well? Did he express any preference for Jane?”

“I didn’t think there was much point in asking, not unless Jane was partial to him.” He slumps into an armchair before the fire. “So, Jane, how would you like to be Mrs. Blackall?”

“I’d rather be ducked in the river Medway with my thumb tied to my big toe.”

Neddy roars with laughter, causing Conker to raise his ears in consternation. “I knew you were going to say something amusing.”

Elizabeth sighs, wilting into the bench beside Jane. “Never mind. You didn’t do too badly, Jane. And you’ll have the chance to revise your opinion of Mr. Blackall at the ball. I’m told he’s a very elegant dancer.”

“We’re to attend a ball?” Jane perks up. It is clear Mr. Blackall and his irrational notions are going to be of little assistance in unmasking Eleanor. If Jane is to discover where she came from and her dastardly intentions towards Mrs. Knight, she must speak to a wider pool of witnesses. That means finding the opportunity to converse with the Wilmots in Canterbury, and anyone else who might have visited Eleanor during her brief stay with them.

“Have I not mentioned it?” Elizabeth places a hand to her cheek. “I’ve been so preoccupied helping William with the arrangements, I assumed you already knew. The Goodnestone Midsummer Ball, my family host it every year on the summer solstice. On this occasion we will use it to mark your entrance into society.”

“Really?” As a country girl, Jane had not been granted the pomp and ceremony of coming out. She had slipped from a child to a young lady unheeded in much the same way that Mrs. Austen warns she’s in danger of sliding into an old maid. It does not bother Jane. She’s always preferred to be the observer rather than the observed. “That’s tremendously kind of Sir William, but there’s no need to fuss over me.”

“We may as well. All of my sisters are out and we’re committed to holding the event. It’s only a week away, so remember to choose some silk when you go into Canterbury and have it sent straight to Mrs. Green.”

Neddy pokes his head out from his chair. “I thought you were going to have one of your old gowns adjusted?”

“That won’t do.” Elizabeth frowns. “Fashions have changed far too much since we married. Besides which, Jane is too tall.”

“Nonsense. She can’t be more than an inch taller, and your gowns are not outmoded.”

“Has Sir William invited any of the cavalry?” asks Jane, wondering if this foray into Kent society might bring her into contact with Captain Fairbairn. Even if he is not present, one of his brothers in arms might recognise his name and be able to throw light on his whereabouts.

“Goodness, no,” replies Elizabeth. “You heard Mr. Blackall, they’re a most uncivilized bunch.”

“Don’t you think he should? It would maintain morale. I agree with Sir Edward Hale—it’s our duty to accommodate the men who stand between us and the French.”

Elizabeth peers at her. “What are you about? Imagining yourself flirting with a smart young colonel, I expect.”

“I am not!” Jane exclaims. How can she explain her interest in the officers without revealing to Elizabeth Captain Fairbairn’s unsavoury accusations?

“You cannot afford a soldier. Tell her, Edward.”

“She’s right, Jane. You don’t want to attract the attentions of a penniless rake with more charm than fortune to recommend him. You know how mercenary some of these army fellows can be. Just look at Henry.”

“Honestly, it’s not that. And don’t be so uncharitable towards our dear brother. Henry assures me he’s very much in love with Miss Pearson.” While it’s true that Henry once had the temerity to propose to Eliza, despite her superiority in fortune and station, not to mention that she is his first cousin and ten years his senior, he has since found a far more suitable match in the seventeen-year-old daughter of a naval captain. And as Jane sees it, all her brothers, including Neddy, are ambitious in their affections.

“Look, Jane, don’t think me immune to the charms of a redcoat.” Elizabeth sighs. “But you’re bound to choose some gallant who’ll go off and be killed on a foreign battlefield. And then where will you be? Back where you started, but with his children to support, and you having surrendered your bloom. Believe me, a clergyman is a much safer bet. And do promise not to do that thing with your wine.”

Jane stares into the empty glass in her hand. “What thing?”

“Closing your eyes and sniffing it. You almost put your whole nose in it at one point.”

“Did I?” Jane hiccups. “I do apologize, I couldn’t help myself. It’s very good. Was it terribly expensive?”

“Yes, it was.” Neddy huffs. “I thought I told Roger to open the Rioja. And we hardly needed two bottles.”

“You told me you had a very reasonable supplier,” says Elizabeth.

“I did, but I haven’t heard from him in a while and I’m growing quite anxious.”

“Anxious?” Jane echoes. It seems an excessive reaction to a lack of correspondence from one’s wine merchant.

“Concerned as to where else I’d be able to source such excellent wine. As you said, it’s very good—and my cellar is running low.”

Elizabeth stands, pressing into the arch of her back with both hands. “Well, I’m going to bed. I know it’s early, but I’m exhausted after all that entertaining.”

Neddy drains his glass. “I’ll join you, darling.”

“But there’s still plenty of sunlight,” says Jane, considering how best to persuade Neddy to remain so she can tell him about Captain Fairbairn’s note. She spots her manuscript, still tied up with ribbon and abandoned on the sideboard. “I could read First Impressions to you. Even James couldn’t help loitering outside the parlour door to listen to it.”

“Another night.” Neddy dismisses her with a flick of his hand, following his wife out of the room.

As the house creaks and footsteps sound from the landing above, Jane takes Elizabeth’s glass and sips the remainder of her wine. Conker lifts his head in mild rebuke but he is soon settled with a firm rub to his snout. Perhaps it is for the best Jane did not have the chance to tell Neddy about Fairbairn. Now that she has the opportunity of meeting the Wilmots and enquiring after the captain in Canterbury, it may prove more prudent to keep this knowledge to herself. Her brother is so protective, he may well forbid her to insert herself into any investigation. And while it may be a woman’s duty to obey her master, Neddy cannot order Jane to desist in searching for Captain Fairbairn unless he is aware she is doing so. 2. Letter to Cassandra Austen

Rowling Farm, Tuesday, 13 June 1797 My dearest Cassandra, How am I to understand how things go on in Hampshire if you will not tell me? Kent continues to grow fresh and verdant, but for all I know you could be plagued with black frost and hailstorms. Can you give any credence to the elder Susan’s claim that it is breeding which makes a woman ill-tempered? As difficult as it is to discern between each of Mary’s dark moods, compared to Beth she is a continual procession of warm, sunny days. Fanny requires me to tell you that I am not as proficient with a cup and ball as she remembers you being. Do you have any message for me to pass on in return? Perhaps something that will help elevate me in her estimation and keep me there, since that is your forte. I am now acquainted with Mrs. Knight’s infanta but I do not consider myself familiar with her motives or her nature. I have a plan, however, to seek out one who professes to know her better. Your affectionate sister, J.A. P.S. You may assume Mary is keeping me sufficiently abreast as it is certainly her custom to pass on everything she hears, regardless of its veracity. And while I am grateful for Mary’s letters, I consider it most ungracious of you for making me so. Father always preaches against incurring a debt one has no intention of paying, and I have long since fixed on giving little pleasure to either of my sisters-in-law. Please compose yourself so that I may be released from this obligation. Miss Austen Rev. Mr. Austen’s Deane Hants