Jane and the Man of the Cloth

Chapter 10 Mr. Cavendish Pays a Call

17 September 1804, cont.

WHEN LUCY ARMSTRONG HAD BEEN MADE CALM, AND SENT UPSTAIRS to rest upon my bed with a cool compress on her eyes, we were able to satisfy our outraged curiosity in plying Miss Crawford with questions. It required but a few to determine the nature of the evil so recently befallen Captain Fielding; and not above four sentences sufficed for her relation of what little was known of his untimely end.

The Darby household was only just preparing to depart for town and some shopping this morning, when the sudden arrival of a boy on a lathered horse claimed their attention. A man had been found upon the Charmouth road not far from the house, it seemed, quite dead; the marks of hoofprints round about showed him to have been thrown from his horse, and the animal fled. It but remained for Mr. Crawford to send the ladies on to Lyme in the coach, and for himself to accompany the boy to the scene of the disaster, and discover there the person of Captain Fielding, to the routing of the unfortunate Mr. Crawford's senses. The surgeon Mr. Carpenter, who served as Lyme's coroner, his assistant Dagliesh, and a local justice by the name of Mr. Dobbin, were immediately summoned; the mortal wound to Captain Fielding's heart duly noted; and the conclusion reached that highwaymen had precipitated the gentleman's misadventure, since his purse was observed to be missing.

“And so we returned from Lyme to such a tumult!” Miss Crawford exclaimed. “My poor niece received the news with a pathetic sensibility; her mother fainted dead away; and my brother is even now shut up in his library with a bottle of claret for company. And since we knew you to be likely to discover the Captain's death before very long,” she added, “we deemed it best to inform you as soon as possible, so that you might not hear it first upon the street, and receive a decided shock.”

A shock it should have been; and I would be cold-hearted, indeed, not to feel towards Miss Crawford some depth of gratitude for her present consideration, did I not believe her to find a despicable enjoyment in the spreading of her intelligence. I thrust such uncharitable thoughts from my mind, however, and saw in memory once more the weathered face of Captain Percival Fielding; his bright blue eyes, that could hold such warmth, or shine with steely command; his grace and forbearance in the face of a debilitating injury; his determination to prevail over Lyme's Gentlemen of the Night. Too young for such a miserable end, and taken too soon from the world; better, perhaps, that he had died while gallantly fighting the French off Malta, a few years past, than to have offered his life in defence of his purse. I felt all the tender emotion proper in the face of such a tragedy; but discovered, to my quiet relief, that I felt nothing more. My heart had been warmed by his gallantry, but my deeper emotions had remained relatively untouched.

“A highwayman!” my mother exclaimed, her colour draining away. “I had not an idea of it. That Lyme should be so beset with lawlessness is in every way incredible. I thank God that my dear Cassandra is safe in London. Do not you think, Mr. Austen, that we should quit this place as soon as ever may be?” She turned in some anxiety to my father, who for once appeared to give her fears some consideration.

Miss Crawford glanced around our cottage's small sitting-room with a calculating eye. “You are rather exposed to the street, my dear Mrs. Austen, in the placement of your windows. I should not feel safe, indeed, of an evening by the fire, without some stout barring of that door leading to the entry — perhaps you might have your young man thrust that heavy piece across the way?” She was intent upon a handsome, if somewhat scarred, secretary, that stood in a corner of the sitting-room, and which my father was in the habit of employing for his correspondence. “The windows might be effectively blocked, with the application of wood slatting.”

“Come, come, Miss Crawford,” my father interposed jovially. “If a highwayman were to prospect for riches in Lyme, he should hardly look to Wings cottage. We lack the sort of style to invite a concerted assault. I should imagine myself safer here,” he continued, with a wicked gleam in his eye, “than were I an intimate of Darby — so lonely as you find yourselves, out on the Charmouth road, which we must assume the highwaymen frequent.”

A highwayman indeed, I thought. I should rather believe it a smuggler's man, dispatched to foil the Captain's officiousness, and stealing his purse out of simple efficiency — for Fielding should assuredly have no use for it where his spirit had gone.

Or perhaps the monies were seized in an endeavour to effect the appearance of misadventure, the better to preserve the murderer's security.

At this last thought, which so smacked of calculation, I could not prevent Mr. Sidmouth's face from rising in my mind. With an involuntary sinking of the heart, I forced the image aside, the better to attend to Miss Crawford's intelligence.

“I fear, Mrs. Austen,” the good lady said, with admirable self-command in the face of my father's teasing, “that the dear Captain was too good for us. He was just such a noble character — such a feeling and excellent fellow — as is taken too soon from this earth. It is ever the way. Once a man is prized, he is lost.”

She leaned towards me with a rustle of black bombazine, the better to confide. “I feel for Lucy very much, you know, from detecting in her case something of my own poor history — though Mr. Filch had already proposed, and Captain Fielding had not. And my carriage was ordered some months at Mr. Filch's sudden death, and was to have been very fine indeed, with the intertwined devices of the houses of Filch and Crawford upon the doors.[61] But no matter.” Feeling, perhaps, that I showed too much indifference to the vanished chaise, she returned her attention to my mother, whose aspect was all sympathy. “I comfort myself with the certainty that the Captain's loss shall blight dear Lucy's life, and that she shall die of a broken heart; and then they will be sorry.”

‘Of whom can you possibly be speaking, madam?” my father enquired, all bewilderment.

“Why, the men who took the Captain's life, of course!” Miss Crawford rose and shook out her dusky skirts. “I shall attend the hanging, and send news by way of Bath, that Lucy may find some comfort in it — however brief. Mr. Carpenter is to hold an inquest, you know, in three days’ time at the Golden Lion; and I have every confidence that by then, Mr. Dobbin the justice will have found his men. And now I must fetch my niece, and be on my way, for there is Lucy's packing to be thought of; she departs with Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong upon the morrow — though if she survives the journey home to Bath, I shall be very much surprised.”

And so the Darby ladies departed; and we were left to ail the disturbance of disbelief, and conjecture, and sympathetic pity; though of my own dark thoughts regarding Geoffrey Sidmouth, I said nothing to my dear mother or father. The former was engaged in dispatching James about the secretary's removal, and considering how best to place it to advantage across the sitting-room doorway, while the latter devoted himself to humourous asides on the nature of highwaymen, and the likelihood that they should rob my mother of her virtue before her purse. I took refuge, for my part, in writing of all that had occurred to Cassandra, in the belief that it should effect some order in the sad tumult of my mind.[62]

18 September 1804

THE DAY BROKE QUITE STORMY, AS THOUGH ALL THE SEACOAST mourned the Captain's passing; and the inmates of Wings cottage lay late abed, hugging their dreams close against the rawness of the day.

From my bedroom window now, I may gaze upon the waves as they lash and turn against the Cobb, and know a little of what it must be to spend a winter in Lyme. The air, the sky, the sea are all one, in a turbulent greyness; a mournful picture, and rendered sadder still by the ceaseless crying of seabirds. Strange, that on a day of sunlight and wind, the calls of the gulls can lift the spirit; while on a day of lowering clouds, they seem the very souls of the departed, returned of a purpose to haunt those who live where the earth ends, and the sea meets the limitless sky. But I would sink into morbidity, did I allow my thoughts to wander further; and I must shake myself loose, and venture into town, and find in idle activity some diversion for the perplexity of my mind.

For I cannot believe that Captain Fielding died by misadventure. There is a purpose in his death, as there was in the gruesome hanging of poor Bill Tibbit. That I find a motive for Mr. Sidmouth in the effecting of both murders, must be persuasive; and that I am alone in doing so, must astonish. For I am but a stranger to Lyme and its relations, while others, more intimate with the passions that animate their neighbours, should labour under a suspicion equally portentous. And yet no hint of such suspicions have I heard.

Further consideration in the solitude of my chamber, however, has given rise to the idea of Mr. Sidmouth, overcome with rage upon his arrival at Darby Saturday e'en. It must be acknowledged, however imperfectly it is understood, that Geoffrey Sidmouth bore Fielding a decided hatred — and his nature, I suspected from everything I had yet seen, was prone to violence. Seraphine was the first cause of the discord between the two men, for reasons that remained obscure to me; and though Sidmouth had mastered his rage for the length of a dinner, what might not have occurred on another night of waning moonlight, at a lonely turning of the road?

The master of High Down behaved in Fielding's presence as a man whose honour is offended; and from the Captain's contemptuous disgust of Sidmouth's treatment of Mademoiselle LeFevre, I could imagine him as likely to defend the lady at pistol point as any other military fellow with a lively regard for reputation. Though it be murder in England, duelling remains the gentleman's choice for the settlement of disputes; and where better to throw down a glove, than on a quiet stretch of road? But in any contest between the two, I should favour Geoffrey Sidmouth to prevail; and the Captain's ruined form would seem to prove the truth of my conjectures.

When confronted with such thoughts as these, I could wish my understanding less able, and my fancies of less persuasive merit. But having once parsed the riddle, what alternative may I choose? Do I thrust away the weight of my fears, as reflecting a woman's foolish misapprehension? Or do I consider with care the path of any further investigation, so decidedly necessary if guilt or innocence is to be proved? For the possibility of Sidmouth's innocence cannot be discounted; and indeed, though reason might construct a case for his culpability, I find my heart cries out within me that it is impossible. What, then, is to be done? For I cannot long survive the suspense of such conflicting emotion; nor the thought that I harbour a strange sensibility for a man who might very well prove a murderer.

(Here the writing breaks off, and is then resumed.)

I was disturbed in the very act of considering my future course, by the arrival of a visitor whose appearance and intentions may only be deemed fortuitous. Providence, assuredly, is a mysterious mover, and who is Jane to ignore its direction?

The sound of a carriage halting before the door, and the bustle in the entry that presaged a visitor, gave pause to my pen; and it required but a moment for the conveyance of a card, bearing a name strange to me — and yet familiar.

“Miss Austen, miss,” Jenny broke in, as she peered around the door, “there's a gentleman below as wishes to speak with you. He's sent up his card, and very fine it is, too.”

Mr. Roy Cavendish, the scrap of paper read. His Majesty's Customs House, Lyme.

I looked to Jenny swiftly. “The gentleman is even now below?”

Her white cap bobbed above widened blue eyes. “He's a King's man, in't he? Whatever can he want with you, miss?”

“And my parents?”

“The Reverend's showing him his chess set. The missus is darning a sock.”

It seemed best to relieve the poor man directly. “Please convey my sentiments to Mr. Cavendish, and say that I shall attend him presently,” I told Jenny, and gathered up my little book.

“IT IS A PLEASURE, Miss AUSTEN.” ROY CAVENDISH BENT LOW OVER my hand as I halted in the sitting-room doorway. He retained, still, the unfortunate appearance of a frog that I had remarked while observing him from the Cobb, the very morning he had come to oversee the seizure of a smuggler's cargo — which seizure Mr. Sidmouth had effectively routed. But I noted that his dress was respectable, his figure neat, and his hand steady; though a repulsive moisture overlaid his palm, and his grip was reminiscent of something noisome cast up upon the shingle.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Cavendish,” I said doubtfully, and sought my habitual seat. Despite the poor condition of the day, my father had deemed it wisest to seek the out of doors, and had prevailed upon my mother to accompany him, with the promise of tea and muffin on the high street. Mr. Cavendish took advantage of my ease to find a chair himself, and, flipping the tails of his coat over his legs, sat down with something of a flourish— quite at odds with his staid appearance.

“You will wonder why I am come,” he began, “being a stranger to yourself, and indeed, to most concerns that should preoccupy a lady.”

“Indeed, I know not how to explain this visit — though I should not like you to believe it an unwelcome one, sir.”

“You are all kindness.”

I waited, believing the burden of conversation to be on his side; and Mr. Cavendish did not disappoint me.

“I shall turn directly to the point, Miss Austen. You will have heard,” he said, tapping a black band high upon his arm, “of the death of the gallant Captain Fielding.” At this, the Customs agent's countenance assumed a remarkable expression of mournful gravity, as though he had swallowed something inimitable to a frog's digestion. “His loss is a heavy one — for his King and country, no less than for his intimate circle.”

“Indeed,” I said, with circumspection. I et us try what Mr. Cavendish would reveal; let us observe how closely he guards his purpose. A gentle trap, delicately baited, should tell me much. “It is some time since I have been able to think of it with anything but indignation, sir. For such a gentleman, blessed with the noblest qualities, to be cut down by a common footpad! Are decent people no longer to move at liberty? Are we all to be victims of the rabble, as though we called ourselves anything but Englishmen?”

Mr. Cavendish's eyes protruded, and he leaned closer to study my countenance. “So they would have it in Lyme, Miss Austen, but in Lyme it naturally suits the purpose. I do not credit this tale of a footpad; I do not credit it at all.”

“But the Captain was relieved of his purse!”

Mr. Cavendish offered an eloquent shrug. “A trifling matter. Any man intent upon taking the Captain's life should seize his valuables, the better to suggest a death by misadventure.”

I had already determined as much in my own mind; if Geoffrey Sidmouth (or anyone else) meant to disguise the nature of the Captain's end — since affairs of honour inevitably ended in the victor's flight to the Continent, if not his hanging — how better, than to turn out his pockets, like a common thief?

“Whatever do you mean to say, Mr. Cavendish?” 1 enquired mildly, with a view to encouraging his confidence. That Captain Fielding had an enemy?”

An instant's silence, as the Customs man weighed his thoughts; but an instant only, and he had formed a resolution. “Have you heard, Miss Austen, of the Reverend?”

“I have. Captain Fielding himself related the chief of what I know about the man.”

“I understood as much. That is why I am here.”

“I confess I do not take your meaning, Mr. Cavendish.”

“Do not trifle with me, Miss Austen. I know as much of your business regarding Captain Fielding as he might allow himself, as a gentleman, to reveal.” The slight frown I adopted at this intelligence availed me nothing; Mr. Cavendish swept on with all the certainty of his purpose full upon his face.

“On the occasion of my final meeting with Captain Fielding, he informed me that he had admitted you to his confidence — a necessity precipitated by your own penetration. How much he may have betrayed himself, I cannot be certain; but he laid the credit entirely on your side, Miss Austen, in declaring that you had divined his business entirely from appearances, and had confronted him with your knowledge.”

“I was aware that the Captain was engaged in affairs of a very serious nature, regarding the smuggling trade — that much is certain. He was not as he professed himself to be, a simple Naval officer living in retirement, and consumed with a passion for the cultivation of roses.”

“You will have guessed, then, that the Reverend was his object; and that in his pursuit of the Reverend, the Captain invited considerable peril.”

“You would suggest, then, that Captain Fielding died at the Reverend's hand?”

The Customs man sat back in his chair somewhat abruptly. “I am certain of it. But 1 have no proof.”

“And it is my understanding, Mr. Cavendish, that the Reverend's identity is all but unknown.”

“Come, come, Miss Austen,” he cried, with marked irritation, “you know what Mr. Sidmouth's display has been. Consider his abominable behaviour only last week, and before all of Lyme. His actions then declared him the smugglers’ lord. He has been cleverness itself to date — his shipments follow no set schedule, being dependent upon the onset of foul weather, and the cover it provides; and there are others he employs, to captain the vessels and arrange the conveyance of goods, so that he is always far from the scene of a successful landing — but he must have the ordering of such agents at one time or another; and what is required is that we seize him in the very act. Once, then, in the clutches of the law, we might force him to an admission of Fielding's murder.”

“And why do you tell me of all your plans, Mr. Cavendish?” I enquired, my heart sinking.

“Because, Miss Austen,” he replied, rising and crossing to my side, “Fielding gave me to understand that you were an intimate of High Down Grange. It was his belief — and his anxiety, if I may speak frankly — that Sid-mouth meant to seduce you as he has seduced his unfortunate cousin. The Captain's benevolence on your behalf was very great, young woman, and you should be cold-hearted indeed, did you turn from the memory of his goodness!”

This last was delivered in so abrupt a tone, as to make me jump where I sat; but I quelled my indignation, though my flushed cheeks surely betrayed my perturbation.

“You overreach the bounds of propriety, sir,” I said, in a lowered tone. “1 beg you will desist/’

“Not until I have won your consent, Miss Austen, in a scheme of some importance to His Majesty.”

“What can such schemes have to do with me?”

“Nothing — or everything, did you bear the Captain's memory some gratitude.”

“Speak less of gratitude, and more of sense!” I cried.

“Very well.” Roy Cavendish turned to pace before my chair, his head bent and his hands clasped behind him. “You are acquainted with High Down Grange. You have met, I think, Mademoiselle LeFevre.”

“I have.”

“It is in your power, then, to visit the household — to press your advantage — to discern the movements of its inmates, and discover, perhaps, the night of an expected meeting between Sidmouth and his henchmen.”

I could make no reply.

Cavendish wheeled and gazed at me with penetration.“You, Miss Austen, might fill Captain Fielding's place — and with less danger to yourself, in that your gentler sex, and the inevitable presumption of good on your part, would render suspicion unlikely. You might venture where a man could not. And in so doing, you should perform a service very dear to the Crown, and to the memory of the excellent fellow who died in its service.”

“You wish me to turn informer,” I said clearly; but my hands clutched at the arms of my chair.

“No such despicable term as that,” Mr. Cavendish rejoined, his thick lips curving in an unfortunate attempt at a smile. “You should serve rather as handmaiden to justice.”

“A handmaiden,” I said. “You are so convinced of Mr. Sidmouth's guilt?”

“I am. As surely as I stand before you now, Miss Austen, I may state that Sidmouth's mind alone has directed the foulest of deeds. The cleverness of the smugglers’ work; the killing of Bill Tibbit upon the Cobb, so publicly and yet so secretly done; and now, the felling of the Free Traders’ chief adversary, Captain Fielding — it cannot be coincidence only. Surely your heart cries out in a similar vein, Miss Austen. The Captain had moved close to his prey; and his prey turned predator in an instant. You cannot witness his death and be unmoved by a desire to avenge it.”

I sat as though turned to stone, my eyes upon the sitting-room fire; and gave a few moments to contemplation. My despairing wish for Sidmouth's innocence met at every turn conviction of his guilt. Only a few nights previous, at the Lyme Assembly, Captain Fielding had declared him to be the very Reverend, and declared that the man was nearly in his grasp. He had believed himself assured of Sidmouth's taking; but his assurance was as dust. The master of High Down was a formidable foe indeed. Could I muster the courage to contest his mastery? Was the prize worth the risk — to my heart as well as my person?

And with this last thought, a wave of revulsion overcame me. It was impossible that I should harbour any sort of tenderness towards a man so recognised as lost to all morality — a man whose every energy was given over to the pursuit of wealth and unrestrained passion, regardless of law, regardless of cost. But I did harbour such an emotion; and I detected within it the refusal to credit Mr. Sidmouth's guilt. Much had been laid at his door — but still I could not find it in me to abandon him entirely. Was Mr. Crawford likely to exhibit such affection for a man whose reputation was entirely ruthless? And what of Seraphine? That she regarded her cousin as the source of all goodness was decidedly evident, regardless of the calumnies that surrounded them both.

If I were to settle the contest within my soul, however — if doubt and disapprobation were to be banished — I must have the truth. And Roy Cavendish's plan was as good an one for procuring it as any. The proof of my own eyes should serve to silence the warring voices within my heart. A delicate balance must be achieved, however, if my own pursuit of knowledge were not to run afoul of the Crown's.

I raised my head and gazed at the Customs agent evenly. “I shall do as you wish, Mr. Cavendish, on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That I direct my own efforts. Your scheme depends upon my discretion; and a too-public converse between ourselves should ignite the suspicions of those we least wish to rouse.”

He bowed his head.

And what if I discovered that Mr. Sidmouth was indeed capable of anything? Having gained the knowledge, how was I to act? I thrust aside that dilemma as trouble enough for another day.

“And one thing more, Mr. Cavendish.” I rose to convey to him that our meeting was at an end.

“Miss Austen?”

“If you honour my reputation as a lady, you must never reveal the source of your information, do I succeed in obtaining it” I knew myself in that moment, and called myself a coward. For if I embarked upon a program of spying at High Down, and determined Mr. Sidmouth's guilt, I should be the means of bringing him to the scaffold, for the sake of all that I valued in society. But I could never bear to confront him, at his final day, with his knowledge of my betrayal full upon his face.