Jane and the Genius of the Place

Chapter 17 Warring Theories

24 August 1805, cont'd.

I WAS SEVERAL HOURS IN LEARNING THE NATURE OF THE interview among the three men, for the tour of the gardens so transported Lizzy and me, that we quite forgot the ugly scene. We traversed the wood, and descended into the valley, and allowed the ferryman to ply his boat for our amusement. Then we sent the gardener's lad away, and perched in some chairs arranged amidst the columns of the Temple of Philosophy.

“I cannot believe that Mr. Grey is very well-acquainted with Aristotle,” Lizzy observed, wrinkling her nose, “nor yet with Heracleitus. And yet he installed those massive figures of them here as one might pose a favourite grandfather above the drawing-room mantel. It is quite an extraordinary taste. One has an idea of them come alive at midnight, and discoursing on the nature of eternity.”

“Perhaps Mr. Grey possesses talents of which we know nothing.”

“I quite pity the little Francoise,” Lizzy said idly. “There is no end of steel beneath his reserved exterior; he should be a formidable adversary. Hardly congenial for one bent on having her own way, and wild for amusement. I wonder she did not desert him long since.”

“For the Comte?”

“Ah, the Comte.” My sister smiled. “He is thoroughly reprehensible, is he not? Too clever for his own good; too careless of his morals for safety; and too intrigued by the effect of his meddling in the peace of others.”

“Whether he cared a jot for Francoise or no,” I agreed, “he should attempt to destroy Grey's happiness for the sheer satisfaction of it. The contest, I suspect, has always been between the two gentlemen; the lady was merely a token. Grey first won a critical round, in securing Franchise's hand, and the Comte thought to rout him entirely by eloping with her at the last.”

“Penfleur is not a man who endures his losses, Jane. He will have his satisfaction in everything — including the matter of the horses.”

“I tremble for Henry, does he attempt to offer for Josephine.”

“What ridiculous creatures men are.” She sighed. “As tho' honour were a stuff one could fashion and discard, like the latest modes! Poor Neddie will be dozing in Mr. Grey's sweep for most of the night, in terror of a dawn meeting.”

I was only half-attending to her, for a lone figure traversing the iron bridge had caught my eye. “Is that Henry come in search of us? Or — yes, it is Mr. Grey!”

“You are far too intrigued by the man for safety, Jane,” she observed. “He is possessed of a deep and impenetrable character; and such an one will always prove of fascination to yourself. Take care.”

“Perhaps he shall presently strike into another path,” I suggested.

But the gentleman did not; he strode through his pleasure grounds as tho' intent upon a single object— the retrieval of ourselves. “I believe our time in Paradise is at an end.”

“Then do you go to meet him, my dear,” Lizzy said, “and turn back for me at the ferry landing. I am far too fatigued to walk back to the bridge, and you know these slippers should never support it. Detestable Mr. Grey — he is far too correct about everything; and for that, I shall not forgive him.” She turned her sunshade towards the offending apparition, and gazed out over the lake.

And thus was I thrown to the wolf.

“THE LARCHES IS A REMARKABLE ACHIEVEMENT, Mr. Grey. I must congratulate you most sincerely.”

If my faltering words were inadequate to the beauty everywhere around us, my companion did not choose to quarrel. Indeed, all trace of his former belligerence had fled; his countenance was as easy as a child's released from illness. Whatever the nature of his interview with Neddie, the result had proved of benefit. Or perhaps he derived such solace from his grounds, that more melancholy considerations were banished.

“I can never be unhappy while the park remains,” he replied, as tho' reading my thoughts. “It is a peace unparalleled, a balm for wounded spirits, a little paradise on earth, Miss Austen — and when I am away, I long always to return.”

“How unfortunate, then, that your business calls you so frequently to Town,” I rejoined. “For when we leave what is precious to the care of others, we endure a peculiar pain.”

He frowned at that, and studied my countenance for some falseness — a desire to prick his vanity, perhaps, by alluding to the dalliances of his wife, of which all of Kent must be aware. But my aspect did not betray me; I had uttered the sentiment as a simple truth; and Mr. Grey at last accepted it as such.

He offered me his arm, and we continued along the path towards the ferry.

“Mrs. Austen was overcome by the heat, you say?”

“Nothing so grave. Elizabeth is a stout walker, but her slippers are less equal to these paths than my more sensible boots. I came prepared to admire The Larches, from the praise I had heard everywhere of these grounds; and to admire, one must first be able to see.”

A faint smile was my reward. “I have known any number of fools to praise from utter blindness, Miss Austen.”

“That will always be the general case,” I said calmly, “but with very great luck, Mr. Grey, you may occasionally encounter a taste as brilliant as mine. I blush to admit it — it is most unwomanly, I own — but I have never been called a fool. I have long suspected it is the chief reason that no sensible man will marry me.”

To my gratification, Mr. Grey laughed aloud. “Men of sense, whatever you may say, do not wish for silly wives.”

“How mortifying,” I replied. “And I had doted on the notion! You force me to the conclusion, sir, that some other charm is lacking.”

“Then I should be horsewhipped, Miss Austen. How may I make amends?”

“By conveying me to that little temple on the hill. I failed to achieve it with my sister.”

“—who even now awaits us anxiously.”

“It must be her deprivation, then, for adopting fragile shoes.”

“Very well. The prospect of the house from that vantage is magnificent.”

He led me swiftly to the portico of the domed Temple of the Arts, and we stood in silent amity, with all of The Larches falling away before us. Here was no oppression of August heat, no desiccated air of a season wearied beyond imagining; all was verdant and singing with the voices of a thousand birds.

“How glorious!” I cried. “I wonder you can bear to live within four walls, Mr. Grey, when all this beauty lies without them.”

He did not reply, and his expression was remote.

“And all this you have done, in the space of a few years,” I continued.

“I cannot claim so much,” he returned abruptly. “The Larches was my father's passion before me. The construction of this valley — the lake you observe — are entirely his own. Such growth of trees could never be accomplished in a few years, as you must know. What I have done is small, indeed, compared to my father's accomplishments — I have pruned where his hand was excessive, and added what his sensibility could not envision.”

“Mr. Sothey, I believe, was your consultant?”

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You are acquainted with Sothey?”

“A little. We dined with him last evening, at Eastwell Park. The Finch-Hattons are old friends.”

“And what did you think of him?”

I hesitated. His tone imparted nothing of his own opinion. “I thought him a man of understanding and wide knowledge of the world, possessed of considerable taste. But I can judge no further; his character wants openness, and of deeper qualities I could form no opinion.”

“Reserve must be natural in a fellow whose every expectation was blasted by an unworthy father,” Mr. Grey observed. “I must assure you that Julian Sothey is the very best of men, Miss Austen. I esteem him as a friend, naturally; but as a man of education and honour, I can place none other before him. If there is anything of real beauty to be found at present in The Larches, I am sure it is due entirely to Mr. So they.”

“Then you are fortunate, indeed, sir.” That I managed a reply at all was remarkable; my thoughts were in a state of discomposure. I had suspected that Mr. Grey should despise Julian So they as his wife's paramour; but this heartfelt testimonial must blast my assumptions. “You have been acquainted with Mr. Sothey for some time, I collect?”

“No, indeed. His family and mine moved in very different circles. I might have had the purchase of his father's notes at one time or another, but any ties of a social nature were not to be thought of.”[51]

“Was Mr. Sothey's father so very depraved?”

Grey smiled grimly. “I am too familiar with the more common forms of depravity, Miss Austen, to be a sober judge of it in others. Let us simply say that the Earl had offended deeply, among those whom it is not wise to offend, and placed himself outside the pale of good ton.”

“I see. His son, however, is not so abandoned.”

“His son possesses such an amiable temper, as must endear him to everyone.” This was said without the slightest hint of irony, as might be natural in a cuckold; and again, I found cause for wonder.

“Lady Elizabeth Finch-Hatton certainly makes Mr. Sothey her protege,” I said. “I suppose you formed an acquaintance with the gentleman in just such an household.”

Mr. Grey hesitated, as tho' debating how much might be said. “I first met Sothey through a mutual friend, Miss Austen — Mr. George Canning, a present member of Government. No doubt you will have heard of him.”

Quite recently in fact, I thought in silence; and blessed my brother Henry. “Mr. Canning! He is a great enthusiast for exotic plants, I believe?”

Grey's careworn features lightened. “And something of an authority on landscape design. We share a love of the obscure and the exotic, Miss Austen — and Canning has directed me in the trial of many specimens rare in this northern clime. When I expressed a wish of cultivating the American azalea, it was he who commended Sothey as my greatest friend. I have never found occasion to regret the acquaintance.”

“I should have liked to have seen the azaleas in their season,” I said.

“You, too, are an admirer of the exotic?” my companion enquired seriously.

I coloured, and passed off the question with a laugh. “Not at all, I assure you. I merely find pleasure in the English landscape, sir, and all its myriad beauties.”

“Then perhaps you may be so fortunate as to return to Kent in April, when my azaleas are at their finest flowering.” He secured my hand within his arm, and led me firmly from the temple's steps. “But now, I fear, we must relieve Mrs. Austen's anxiety; the hour grows late, and her husband will be every moment expecting her.”

We descended once more by the hillside path, and found that Lizzy was already come in search of us. I was glad of her company on the return to the house; her elegant remarks were a foil for silence. Reflection, however, availed me nothing. I was plagued with questions on every side, for which experience could provide no answer.

“SO GREY CAN BE CHARMING WHEN HE CHOOSES,” Neddie said thoughtfully, when the dinner things had been cleared away and we had assembled in the library. Henry had taken up the London Times; Lizzy was established over the teapot; and I had begun to pick desultorily at my work. Neddie, however, was restless; he paced before the empty hearth like a man who badly wanted occupation. Had he been of a reading turn, I should have instantly recommended Werther. It is remarkable how much service even a dissatisfying book might render— tho' not, perhaps, in the manner its author intended.

“How did you like him, Jane?” he enquired, coming to a halt by my chair.

“Very much. He is not a man to recommend himself on first meeting, perhaps — but one whose character rewards with more persistent application. He was gracious in conversation and frank in his remarks; there was neither haughtiness nor vulgarity to despise in his manners. I cannot believe him capable of a conscious deceit; but even had I witnessed nothing of the scene in the saloon, I should suspect him to be familiar with violence. He is ruthless in matters of principle, I should think, and in the safeguarding of his own concerns.”

“This is a formidable picture, indeed!” Neddie cried. “How, then, Jane, do you account for his ingenuous belief in Sothey's character?”

During the course of our return to Godmersham, I had conveyed the substance of my conversation with Grey. “Either Mr. Grey is more adept at dissimulation than I should give him credit for being, or he knew nothing of Mr. Sothey's dalliance with his wife.”

“We have only Mr. Brett's malicious tongue to credit for the idea, after all,” Neddie mused.

“Then why the whip against the neck, in the middle of the Canterbury Races?” Lizzy protested.

I shrugged. “Perhaps the lady was surfeited with the American azalea. But I admit, Neddie, that I cannot make the matter out at all. I must learn more of Mr. Sothey, before I may judge rightly.”

“And you, Lizzy?” my brother enquired, turning to his wife. “How did you find Mr. Grey?”

“I liked him well enough,” she said languidly, “for another woman's husband. He is too lacking in drollery and wit for my taste; but his coat was very well made, and the gloss on his Hessians unexceptionable.”

“Henry?”

My brother glanced up from his newspaper and frowned at us all. “To the praise of unexceptionable Hessians, what may I possibly add?”

“Very little, of course,” Lizzy rejoined smoothly, “your own being incapable of comparison. No man who persists in valeting himself, can expect to rival Mr. Grey. Henry must take as his example my brother, Mr. Bridges— who has driven himself to the brink of ruin, in pursuit of a well-polished boot. I have quite lost count of the number of men Edward has engaged to dress him, or the various formulas of blacking and champagne, assured to bring his leathers to a mirror-brightness. It is not the most noble of callings, perhaps; but as a means of passing time, it may serve as well as any other.”

“Enough of Henry's boots,” I cried. “You delight in teasing us, Neddie. You know very well that we are all agog to learn how Mr. Grey received the news of Collingforth's murder. Did he betray any prior consciousness? Is it likely he was privy to the deed?”

“As to that—” My brother's eyebrow lifted satirically. “Mr. Grey had the poor taste to congratulate me on the unfortunate fellow's death, and said that he was very well pleased with the swiftness of English justice. He then offered me a brandy, despite the heat of the afternoon — as tho' we had accomplished nothing more dreadful than the blooding of a fox.”

“And how did you answer him?”

“I refused the brandy, of course.” Neddie threw himself into his favourite chair, not far from the open French windows, and raked one hand through his hair. “But truth to tell, Jane, I felt deuced uncomfortable. Grey's complaisance surpassed everything; he was as easy as tho' the wretched business were entirely resolved, despite the questions that must arise to torment one. I pointed out that Collingforth's guilt was in no wise proved — that the complications of the chaise and the timing of his wife's death could not be gainsaid, and urged Grey to be less sanguine. But he replied that he had no doubt that Collingforth was responsible, and had found his just deserts at the end of a knife.”

“And the Comte de Penfleur?”

“He served himself the brandy without recourse to Grey.”

“Neddie!”

“I observed his hand to tremble as he unstoppered the decanter. I should say that the Comte was greatly put out. He surmised that the matter would be concluded with Collingforth's murder, and the truth of Mrs. Grey's end remain forever uncertain.”

“He is determined in his belief that Grey was responsible,” I said, “tho' he is loath to accuse him directly.”

“Ah! Not so loath as you assume,” Neddie cried with satisfaction. “Now we come to the intriguing part — the scenes enacted with the gentlemen in private.”

We gazed at him expectantly. Even Henry set aside his paper.

“I was treated first to an interview with Valentine Grey. He was most uncomfortable, when it came to the point; and told me that he believed his information to be entirely de trop, now that Collingforth was dead; but in the interest of justice, he could do no more than his duty. What he would tell me must grossly expose his wife; indeed, the discoveries he had recendy made had quite astonished even himself, who must be thoroughly acquainted with her character—”

“Hah!” Lizzy snorted. “As tho' any man might comprehend the nature of his wife.”

“—but he had found occasion, in recent days, for a thorough review of her possessions and correspondence.”

“Naturally,” I murmured. “A man of greater courage (or less), should have burned the whole without the briefest glimpse. Mr. Grey is at last revealed as pitiably human! He has probed the wound, and rubbed salt in its depths.”

“Well?” Lizzy enquired impatiently. “And what did he find?”

Like a conjurer, Neddie produced a sheaf of folded rag from within his coat, and presented it with a flourish. His wife visibly recoiled.

“That is her private correspondence? Her husband actually displayed it to you? But how despicable!”

“It is entirely in French,” Neddie replied without a pause, “and, I am assured, entirely from the Comte de Penfleur. It was to prevent the letters from falling into that gentleman's hands that Mr. Grey undertook to read them at all. And what he discovered distressed and confounded him.”

“Then they were lovers,” I said.

“Not in the least,” Neddie replied. “Or if they bore one another any affection, the letters betray little sign. They were partners, Jane, in a very grave collusion — the securing of information regarding the movement of troops along the Kentish coast, for the edification of His Imperial Majesty, Napoleon Buonaparte.”

Henry slapped one hand excitedly against his thigh.

“—Or so Mr. Grey was forced to conclude, after reading these letters,” Neddie added. “He tells me that they are filled with Penfleur's instructions regarding the management of Mrs. Grey's friends — Captain Woodford and Lady Forbes being at the head of the list, and your brother, Mr. Bridges, Lizzy, trailing doubtfully at the end.”

“Edward?” she cried incredulously. “What might Edward possibly have known, that should be of interest to Buonaparte?”

“A very great deal. His friend Woodford, you know, was in the habit of confiding snippets of intelligence to his most intimate friends, that should never have left he officers' mess; and Mr. Bridges must naturally have been the recipient of these. What Woodford might, in a moment of caution, hesitate to impart to Mrs. Grey, his friend had no compunction in relating. I imagine his being privy to the Army's secrets must have greatly increased Mr. Bridges's sense of importance.”

Lizzy drew breath sharply, and looked the most indignant I had ever seen her. “Fool,” she muttered, “he will be the undoing of us all.”

“Lady Forbes, for her part, is a silly little gossip who should have delighted in communicating her husband's schemes,” Henry observed quickly, as tho' to divert Lizzy's attention.

“—Such as the intended troop movement next week between Chatham and Deal,” I added, as comprehension dawned. “All of Kent is in an uproar regarding the disruption of the pheasant-shooting; and Major-General Lord Forbes was quite put out at the report's circulation. Captain Woodford himself cautioned me against speaking too freely.”

“I suppose Mrs. Grey's fascinating card-parties were a means of securing information?” Henry said.

“At first,” Neddie conceded. “But I have an idea that over time, the gaming debts were themselves a useful tool. They secured Mrs. Grey's hold on her unwilling friends. As the possessor of any number of vowels, she might choose to extend her debtors' credit, or even forgive a sum entirely — for a small consideration.”

“How brilliant!” I muttered. “And yet, how dangerous in the extreme. She ran a severe risk, did any of her victims determine to be free of her.”

“It is possible that the lady was subtle enough, that few among them comprehended what she was about. But perhaps one at least perceived her object.”

“Denys Collingforth,” I said.

“Exactly.”

I rose, and commenced to turn the length of the room in considerable perturbation of spirit. “But if Collingforth resisted the lady's power, and threatened to expose her, should not Mrs. Grey have done the murder, rather than end a victim?”

Neddie observed me in silence, his own expression guarded. I puzzled it out still further, and then wheeled to face him. “Do you credit Grey's suggestion that he knew nothing of his wife's activity? Or are the letters all a subterfuge, to place his enemy the Comte in the gravest peril of his life, and clear his own concerns from every stain of treason?”

“That is exactly what I cannot determine,” my brother replied grimly. From the cast of his countenance I knew that I had spoken aloud his governing obsession. “It was to that end — the illumination of Grey's character — that I solicited the opinion of each of you, regarding the man. I cannot make him out at all. Another fellow, upon learning that Collingforth was dead, should have left the matter of his wife's espionage for the grave to swallow — should have burned the evidence at midnight, and rejoiced in the vagaries of Fortune.”

“Unless he feared the Comte's power, in ways we have yet to discover, and thought to place his head in a noose,” Lizzy observed. “Did Grey urge you to arrest the Frenchman?”

“He did not. I told him forthrightly that I could not, in all conscience, place charges on the force of accusation alone; I must peruse the correspondence myself, and form a judgement independent of Grey's. He accepted as much.”

“Mr. Grey is a careful man.”

“I did promise, however, to have the Comte watched.”

“Penfleur had departed already for Dover?” I enquired.

“His carriage was at the door, when at length I emerged from Grey's study; and it was then that the Comte drew me aside, to urge me most passionately to pursue justice in Mrs. Grey's cause. He had reason to believe that Mr. Grey was involved in a very deep game, regarding a delicate situation of international finance; that his arrangements — which reached from the Americas to Spain and Amsterdam — might reasonably be construed as treasonous; and that it was not inconceivable his beloved Francoise had discovered the whole. Mr. Grey had never borne his wife the slightest affection, and when forced to the point, had secured his empire and his reputation through the murder of his wife.”

Henry whistled. “That's playing the matter very close, indeed. The Comte de Penfleur is a cool fellow.”

“Or a very desperate one,” Lizzy retorted calmly. “It is possible, Neddie, to form a simple idea of how the murders were effected. Let us suppose that matters fell out as Mr. Grey has suggested. Denys Collingforth was pressed for what he knew, and pressed by his creditors; he grew tired of living in thrall to Mrs. Grey, and formed a pact with his friend Everett — a shady character, by all accounts — to support him in a dangerous act. He lured the lady to his chaise at the race-meeting with the letter discovered in her riding habit, and informed her of his intention to expose her; when she defied him, he drove out along the Wingham road after the race and killed her. He neglected, however, to discover his letter on her person, and simply disposed of the riding habit entirely as a safeguard against discovery. The Comte de Penfleur arrived the following day, thwarted in his hopes of an elopement and insecure in his liberty. He would have known, from Mrs. Grey's letters, that Collingforth — in whose carriage her murdered body was discovered — was the least docile of her charges. The Comte undertook to buy intelligence of Collingforth's movements, while diverting attention from his own nefarious doings, by suggesting to the Justice that Mr. Grey was the murderer. The cardsharper, Pembroke, reported Collingforth's presence in Deal to the Comte; the Comte despatched his minions (or killed Collingforth himself; the point is immaterial); and poor Collingforth's silence was purchased at the cost of his life.”

We regarded her with some wonder. As a theory, it was not entirely without merit.

“But why return Mrs. Grey's body to the race-meeting grounds, and risk the gravest complications?” I protested. “Why not leave her in her phaeton on the Wingham road?”

“Because he had secured his friend Everett's word as to his absence from the chaise throughout the racing,” Lizzy said calmly, “and could not be secure if her body were discovered elsewhere. Collingforth hoped, perhaps, that the incongruity should linger in our minds, and prove his best security of innocence.”

“Admirable!” Neddie cried. “Upon my word, I am ready to accede to it myself!”

“Excepting,” Henry broke in, “for the considerable weight that may lie behind the Comte's words.”

Neddie and I both frowned in perplexity.

“He may have spoken no more than the truth,” Henry persisted.

“Regarding what or whom?” Neddie cried.

“Speak plainly, Henry, for the love of God,” I added, in exasperation.

“In perusing the Times, Jane — which you admirers of country life only rarely look into — I have been powerfully reminded that we have entirely ignored the fact of Mrs. Grey's courier.”

Neddie threw up his hands in disgust.

“Her courier?” I prompted.

“—The elusive fellow from France, in green and gold livery, who was charged with the most pressing intelligence. The courier who arrived on the very morning of her death, and may unwittingly have precipitated it.”

“I like your theory not half so well as my own,” Lizzy murmured, and stretched as comfortably as a cat. “It lacks simplicity.”

“We believed it possible that the courier came to warn of a French invasion.” Henry waved his furled newspaper like a martial baton. “But no invasion has occurred. The watchtowers stand unfired. Evacuation is put off. Has it not occurred to you, Neddie, that the news for Mrs. Grey must have been entirely otherwise?”

“Grey himself has said that her family often chose to communicate with her in such a fashion. Perhaps the man was charged with delivering the Comte's final letter — the proposal of elopement we discovered in La Nouvelle Heloise.”

“Or perhaps it was in your friend Mr. Grey's interest to suggest as much.”

“I do not understand you, Henry. Why should Grey conceal the nature of his wife's intelligence?”

“Because it threatened the security of his banking concern, his reputation, and, indeed, his very life.”

“What do you know?” Neddie reached unconsciously for his clay pipe, and felt in his pockets for a pouch of tobacco. Lizzy took the pipe from his hand without a word and set it aside.

“I know nothing at all, I assure you,” Henry protested, “—but I might suggest a good deal. Grey is certainly involved in a very deep game, as the Comte has observed. Did you learn nothing from the state of his household?”

“The Larches? I thought it charming.”

Henry snorted. “Charming. Perhaps it was. But I should very much like to know, brother, what sort of difficulties the man has incurred, and how he hopes to extricate himself without the most public scandal!”

“Scandal?” Lizzy echoed. “I should have thought the murder of his wife scandal enough for the present.”

“I refer to the conduct of Mr. Grey's business,” Henry retorted. “I had not spent above an hour at The Larches, before I knew that his firm is extended to the breaking point.”

“How can you say so?” I enquired. “Certainly Mr. Grey maintains a considerable estate. The maintenance of the grounds at least must exact a fortune. But his circumstances appeared quite easy.”

“And yet he employs no housemaids,” Henry observed. “Mrs. Bastable is required to perform the slightest office. The condition of the stables, moreover, is appalling — the boxes have not been mucked out since Mrs. Grey's death. When I enquired as to the cause, I was told that the master had refused an order for bedding, and turned away the better part of the stable lads. As a result, it was impossible to discover anything of Julian Sothey's assignation with an unknown lady in the stable-yard. No one with the slightest pretension to knowledge had been retained in service.”

“Such a dismissal of staff might be very much to Mr. Grey's purpose, did he intend the sale of Mrs. Grey's string,” I argued, “but I cannot see how it reveals his circumstances to be hopeless.”

“Have you any idea of the quality of the blood in Grey's stables? It will be the sale of the decade. He stands to make thousands of pounds. And from the look of things, I should say that he is desperate for funds.”

“Perhaps he cannot bear to be reminded of his wife's passion for horseflesh,” Lizzy observed, “and merely hopes to dispose of her stock in the most efficacious manner possible. I see nothing of scandal in this.”

“Then perhaps the London papers shall convince you.” Henry tossed the Times onto the sofa beside us. “Examine the notice at the bottom of page three, I beg. It concerns Mr. Grey closely.”

Neddie, Lizzy, and I bent our heads over the sheet, and endeavoured to make it out.

” 'Dutch banks fail to back French securities' “I read slowly.” 'Government loans feared in default.”

“Read on,” Henry said.

” 'The Secretary of the Treasury, Mr. Pitt, is gravely concerned by yesterday's decision on the part of the House of Hope, Scots bankers resident in Amsterdam, to refuse the French government further security.[52] While the confusion of our enemies is devoutly to be wished, in the halls of commerce as well as on the battlefield, the delicate state of the Imperial treasury must threaten relations of finance throughout Europe, and devolve to this kingdom's ultimate disadvantage. In light of this consideration, Mr. Pitt has sent an envoy to Amsterdam for consultation.' “

I raised my head from the broadsheet. “And how might Mr. Pitt's conduct of business concern Mr. Grey, Henry?”

He rolled his eyes in impatience. “Grey is allied to a French banking family, Jane, and his resources must in part be theirs. If Buonaparte has gone to Amsterdam for credit, and been denied by so great a house as Hope, then we must assume that the French banking establishment has exhausted its capital. Furthermore, the government itself can offer nothing as security for its desired loan— or nothing that Hope will accept. The Comte de Penfleur must be aware of that much. As to what else he knows or suspects, I cannot say.”

“You believe Grey to have invested heavily in the French government, at the behest of his wife — funds that Buonaparte has presently exhausted?” Neddie demanded.

Henry shrugged helplessly. “Who can say? But if Grey's stables appear so neglected, only consider the state of the Emperor's!”

“But Buonaparte has a stranglehold on much of Europe,” I cried, in disbelief. “Surely he might plunder any number of coffers.”

Henry hesitated, then shrugged. “I cannot undertake to say. I have heard rumours in the City that the French government is bankrupt, but I dismissed such talk as a mixture of bluster and hope. I can dismiss it no more.”[53]

“The French, bankrupt?” Lizzy's voice was a study in disbelief. “But I have seen the plates of the Empress's coronation gown, Henry. She did not appear in rags, I assure you.”

“The cost of the coronation, and the building of some two thousand ships, might well beggar a greater nation than France. Add to all this, the maintenance of an army left standing nearly two years along the coast, in readiness for a Channel crossing; the necessity of defending a far-flung border; and the spirit of excess that has animated the French court now these many months — and I think you may look for a bankrupt quite easily.”

“It is something,” I mused, “that the Monster should ruin himself with England as his object. All of Europe must thank us for the issue; and I for one shall wish Buonaparte thrown into a debtor's gaol. But, Henry— if Buonaparte is bankrupt, the war must be very soon at an end! Only think what that might mean for our brothers!”

“An end to all advancement up the Navy list,” Henry said brutally.[54] “But do not be so hasty, Jane, to dismiss His Imperial Majesty. Buonaparte has saved himself a thousand times before, and in far worse circumstances.”

“Perhaps he looks to improve his fortunes through an assault on the Bank of England,” Neddie said idly.

“Perhaps.” Something of heat had died out of Henry's countenance, and been replaced by an expression of care. “I dearly wish that we knew how it was. I fear I shall have to desert you tomorrow, and return to Town.”

“Sunday travel, Henry?” I teazed. “You have lived too long with the Comtesse Eliza, and her careless regard for propriety.”

“Go to Town, in August?” Neddie cried. “Surely nothing can be so serious as that!”

“Mr. Pitt certainly believes so. This news will already have affected the 'Change; securities will be all a-hoo by Monday morning, and every man of finance intent upon reading the world's tea-leaves. I dare not linger another day.”

I rose and extended my hand to my favourite brother. “It seems that Mr. Pitt knows what he is about. I expect you shall be off before dawn — but pray send us word, Henry, if any whisper of Mr. Grey's perilous affairs should reach your ears.”

“I should never fail you in a matter of gossip, Jane,” he returned, with something like his usual charm; and so we parted.