Page 8 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)
CHAPTER EIGHT
As Jane follows Mrs. Knight out into the lane, Armand is already waiting with the coach, enabling them to make a hasty exit from the city. Despite Jane’s protestations of innocence, the widow practically vibrates with fury. Jane cannot look at her without feeling the vehemence of her disapproval crashing off her in waves. Too afraid to meet her fierce gaze, she stares out of the window at the ruin of what, prior to the Dissolution, must have been a magnificent abbey. The stone arches stand devoid of stained glass, and its hallowed foundations are left open to the elements. Jane feels equally exposed as she prays for the strength to withstand this latest disaster.
The one benefit to come from her prying is that she can warn Neddy of his mother’s intentions, and they can work together to bring her to her senses. Jane may have failed to locate Captain Fairbairn or question the Wilmots, but Neddy is a man with resources at his disposal. Given a month, he is sure to track down the captain, and elicit from him whatever it was that turned the Wilmots against Eleanor. Perhaps Jane should persuade him to place a description of the girl in the local newspaper and appeal for witnesses to her character. Someone must know who she really is, and Mrs. Knight is bound to withdraw her generosity once she realizes she has been duped.
Armand takes the main road for a few miles before twisting along an overgrown country lane until they reach a farmstead. Spires of yellow and pink hollyhocks grow along the base of the lime-washed building, softening the scene. “I won’t be long,” Mrs. Knight says, over her shoulder, as the coachman helps her descend. “You may bide here.”
Jane sighs, disappointed with herself for being so indiscreet that Mrs. Knight will not even allow her to accompany her on a visit to a tenant farmer and his family. She wonders if the residents of Briar Farm are also in distress and appealing for Mrs. Knight’s charity. Neddy and Elizabeth should have done more to protect his isolated and vulnerable mother from those who covet her wealth. A woman of fortune remains a target for the unscrupulous, whether she is a youthful heiress or an aged widow.
As the iron-braced front door opens, Jane expects to see a harried farmer’s wife, surrounded by children. Instead an elderly woman with a humped back and a face as finely lined as crackled porcelain, dressed in what can only be described as a religious habit, appears at the threshold. Her austere white veil is tucked tight around her features, but her mud-coloured robe is loose, gathered below the waist with a plain piece of rope attached to a wooden crucifix. Papists are no longer barred from practising their religion, but a Roman Catholic nun making her home in the English countryside is a most unusual sight. Jane has vowed to protect Mrs. Knight. That makes it incumbent upon her to follow the widow inside this makeshift convent. “It’s no bother, really.” She leaps down from the carriage and scurries up the path.
Mrs. Knight’s shoulders rise and fall before she proceeds. “ Bonjour, Madame l’Abbesse. ”
“ Bonjour, Madame Knight. ” The abbess smiles, one side of her face rising in animation while the other remains slack. “ Vous êtes venue pour la menthe poivrée? ”
“ Oui. La menthe poivrée et votre sagesse. Si vous seriez si gentille? ”
You have come for the peppermint?
Yes. The peppermint, and your wisdom. If you would be so kind?
How odd. If Mrs. Knight speaks fluent French, she must know her infanta is a fraud. Jane could tell after just one afternoon with the girl, and Eliza decries her French as merely passable.
“ Bien s?r. ” The abbess hobbles towards them. She takes painfully slow steps around the side of the building, hefting her weight to one side and dragging her other leg behind. She must have suffered an apoplexy that has left part of her body paralysed.
Mrs. Knight shoots Jane a venomous look, keeping her at a respectful distance. Jane uses the opportunity to examine her surroundings. The settlement is unlike any farmstead she has visited previously and there is certainly an air of the divine about it. They round the house and emerge into a neatly swept courtyard, bordered on all sides by brick and timber outbuildings. Half-barrels are filled with soil and planted with cheerful points of mignonette flowers. Heavenly music drifts from somewhere unseen. At first it sounds like strings, but soon Jane recognises a choir of female voices singing the liturgy in Latin.
The abbess creaks open a door to a wooden hut. Mrs. Knight turns to Jane. “This time, do as you are bade, and wait here. ”
Chastened, Jane lowers her gaze to her walking boots. She is genuinely trying to preserve Mrs. Knight’s best interests, as well as being wildly curious. Through the leaded window of the main building, another nun is bent over a slanted desk. Every few moments, she dips a quill into an inkpot before resuming her work. A smile plays at her lips. She is so completely absorbed that she does not notice Jane gawping at her through the window. How many hours a day is she left alone to complete her scholarly tasks? Jane wonders. Could Jane turn her back on society in exchange for such blissful solitude? Giving herself wholly to the Lord would remove any obligation to marry. No, she could not do it. It is not that Jane lacks the faith to give her life to God but, rather, she is too frivolous to maintain such a sombre existence. She would miss Cassandra too much, unless her sister could be persuaded to join her. But any mother superior would insist Jane reproduced lines of Latin as proof of her devotion, rather than allowing her licence to form her own compositions. Jane fears her restless mind would revolt at any such attempts to constrain it.
Laughter erupts behind her. Another woman, in the same cumbersome attire, leads a trio of small children across the courtyard. The boys and girls hold hands as they stumble over the cobbles. Their chin-length hair is cut into pudding-bowl shapes and they wear plain linen smocks. “ Allez, allez, ” the nun calls, as she hastens them inside a back door to the cottage. She is carrying a wicker basket, half filled with strawberries. The children’s mouths and hands are stained red. They must have been “helping” her to gather them.
The door of the hut swings open and Mrs. Knight emerges with several packages. Jane rushes to her side. “Let me carry those for you.”
“Be careful. That one is candles, and this is essence of peppermint,” Mrs. Knight hands over her purchases one by one. Even through the cardboard, the herbals fizz, tingling Jane’s nostrils. “The sisters make the very best lozenges. They’re essential for my digestion.”
“I will. You can trust me.” Jane juggles the packages, trying not to drop any while being afraid of damaging the fragile contents by holding them too tightly.
“Hmm …” Mrs. Knight’s dour expression suggests she doubts Jane’s assertion. She turns to the lady abbess, reaches into her reticule and presses a handful of gleaming gold coins into the nun’s gnarled fingers.
The abbess whispers a blessing, placing both hands over Mrs. Knight’s as she does so.
Jane holds her tongue until they are inside the coach. “Did you really just pay several guineas for some peppermint pastilles?” Poor Mrs. Knight is liable to exploitation from every quarter. If Neddy and Elizabeth had taken more pains to assist in her reintroduction to society, she would not be at the mercy of so many swindlers. “You could have sent word to my mother that you were in need of such a remedy. If I’d known, I would have brought something up from Hampshire. My friend, James’s wife’s sister Martha Lloyd, makes the most wonderful—”
Mrs. Knight lifts her palm, encased in its black glove. “Desist from your racket, Miss Austen. I am not duty-bound to account for my giving of alms to you. Or anyone else, for that matter.”
“Oh, I didn’t consider it in that way.” The Knights have never been overly pious, and they are not Roman Catholic. “Do they run a school?”
Mrs. Knight faces the window. “No.”
“Only I saw children crossing the yard?”
Beneath the rim of her bonnet, Mrs. Knight rubs her temples between thumb and forefinger. “Upon my word, you ask a lot of questions.”
“Forgive me, I warned you I have an enquiring mind.” Jane’s father has always encouraged her inquisitiveness, and even her mother indulges it. Outside the tightly knit family, she is aware her manner may be perceived as precocious, but she is too curious about the world to let other people’s dim-wittedness prevent her from getting at the truth.
Mrs. Knight takes a deep breath, and finally relents, providing an explanation. “The order was originally from nearby. After she retired from court, my ancestor, Dame Lucy, resided there as a lay sister. Before that, she was a great favourite with both Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth.”
“How diplomatic of her.” Jane smiles, as the carriage sets off.
“Indeed.” Mrs. Knight narrows her eyes, seemingly deliberating as to whether Jane is being impertinent or not. “She used her personal wealth to found a religious house in Picardy. My late husband and I were fortunate to make a pilgrimage there while we were in France for my health, many years ago. But now, what with the troubles, the sisters have returned to Kent, and I have granted them refuge on a portion of my estate.”
“Briar Farm is part of Godmersham? That’s very gracious of you …” Jane stalls, wanting to ask if the farm will be included in the list of assets Mrs. Knight intends to transfer to Eleanor. As much as Mrs. Knight might already suspect her of eavesdropping, Jane cannot admit it without incurring the full force of her wrath. “It’s a shame the sisters can’t take back their original abbey. I expect that’s some great lord’s home now. Unless it fell into ruin, like the one we saw as we departed Canterbury. How did they come by the children? Were they orphaned by the fighting?”
Mrs. Knight’s features tighten. “You are a young lady. It is not for me to disabuse you of your notions of the world.”
“What notions? I know all about the massacres,” Jane assures her. “How can I not when our mutual cousin, Eliza, was widowed by the guillotine?” The Comte and Comtesse de Feuillide had initially escaped the insurrection in France, along with their son Hastings. Unfortunately, the Comte was later executed when he made the mistake of returning. Eliza and Hastings have since been staying with friends in England, including the Austens, but after refusing Henry’s secret proposal eighteen months ago, Eliza had fled to Brighton on the excuse of promoting Hastings’s health. Poor Hastings has never been stout and Eliza is determined to spend what remains of her fortune on ensuring his happiness. Sometimes Jane feels her irrepressible cousin approaches widowhood and caring for her sickly child with more vivacity than other women can muster for a country dance.
Mrs. Knight frowns. “Then you’ll know that one of the requirements the new regime imposed on its people was to swear an oath of fealty to the state above all others. An oath that any devout member of a religious order would understand as blasphemous. Those who resisted were either executed or thrown into prison, nuns as well as priests and monks.”
“Yes.” Jane nods blithely, recalling her visit to Winchester County Gaol. Thanks to Neddy’s generosity, Georgy was spared the deprivation of the cells. Instead, the family was able to pay for him to board with the prison governor while he awaited trial.
Mrs. Knight peers at Jane closely. “A small number of the sisters were fortunate to be released, and to find passage to England. But during their time of incarceration, their status as holy women was not recognised. They were not protected, from either the male inmates or the guards.”
Bile rises in Jane’s throat. This is not a story she wants to hear. It’s too gruesome, even for her. What these gentle, quiet women must have been forced to endure is unthinkable. She cranes her neck to stare back at the farmhouse. “Oh … dear Lord. No.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Knight exhales. “They have suffered a great deal. And so, if I choose to give alms in the form of over-generous payments for their produce, I consider it my prerogative. Mine, and nobody else’s. Do you comprehend me, child?”
“I do.” Jane swallows. “I promise. I won’t say a word.”
“Good.” Mrs. Knight reclines in her seat, eyeing Jane carefully. “It’s the same with Eleanor. I’m well aware that my son, along with the rest of the county, thinks me a dupe. But whom I choose to give shelter to, in my own home, is my private business.”
Jane draws breath, readying herself to argue that giving a roof to Eleanor does not necessarily have to entail Mrs. Knight sacrificing her own or Neddy’s future security. “Yes, but—”
“Enough!” Mrs. Knight cries, so loudly that Jane startles. “Your familiarity encroaches on insolence. I do not need to justify myself to you, of all people. Who are you, Miss Austen, but a young lady of little experience and no consequence.”
Jane’s cheek tingles as if she’s been slapped. Against her better judgement, she has unleashed Mrs. Knight’s ire with her tactless inquisition. Neddy’s mother is as stubborn as an ox and has the same tendency to lash out violently when crossed. If Jane is not more cautious, she risks losing what little influence over, or at least access to, Mrs. Knight she has, and failing in her role as Elizabeth’s emissary. Throughout the remainder of the journey, Jane is silent—digging her fingernails into her palms lest she betray how shaken she is. She vowed to use discretion to break the spell Eleanor has cast over Mrs. Knight, but she has proved herself as prone to blunder as Mr. Blackall. Really, for Jane to have any hope of resolving this mystery, she must first become mistress of herself.