Jane and the Genius of the Place: Being the Fourth Jane Austen Mystery (29 page)

She rose and crossed to the pier-glass, surveying her reflection critically; then with a complete absence of consciousness, plucked at her golden curls and bit some colour into her full lips. Lady Gordon nearly choked on what might have been a giggle, and I observed the Miss Finches to exchange a significant look—but forbore from betraying my amusement. Lizzy, as ever, was a study in cultivated indifference; and so the Austens acquitted themselves more nobly than Miss Louisa's dearest relations.

A turmoil in the entry announced the gendemen arrived; a hubbub of voices, and the tramp of feet—and the door was thrown open by one who was a stranger to me, and yet not entirely a stranger at all. I felt in an instant that this must be Julian Sothey, a gentleman of whom I had known nothing but a week before; and yet his face was hauntingly familiar. I studied his figure in vain for a hint as to the scene, the moment of our meeting, and found memory elusive.

Slight, narrow-shouldered, and lithe in all his movements, he conveyed an immediate impression of grace, like a superlative dancing master; but his coat of superfine wool, in a respectable shade of blue, was too well-made to permit of such an impertinence. His reddish hair fell unbound to his shoulders; his wide grey eyes were keen, and heavily-lashed; and a droll expression, as of inward laughter at some private joke, played about his lips. He seemed entirely easy at Eastwell Park—so very easy with his position and circumstance, as to precede his host into the saloon. This must argue a degree of self-importance that could not but be repugnant; but I am prone to form a hasty view on very little knowledge, and urged myself to reserve judgement in the case. Mr. Sothey, after all, was the son of Lady Elizabeth's oldest friend—and must be claimed almost as one of the family.

He was followed immediately by Mr. Brett, an acquaintance of Neddie's of many years standing, and then by my two brothers. The Finch-Hatton gentlemen brought up the rear.

“Julian!” Louisa Finch-Hatton cried breathlessly. 'You have been an age in the garden, I declare! And I
longed
to finish my portrait today!”

She appeared an ill-bred and disappointed child, with her lower lip protruding dangerously, but Mr. Sothey chose to disregard Miss Louisa's manner, and approached her directly.

“You know, my dear Miss Finch-Hatton,” he said with a bow, “that I move at your father's whim. I exist at Eastwell only to serve him, and true pleasure must await the disposition of his needs. But you have been amply engaged in amusement, I am sure—with such interesting friends about you! Might I beg an introduction?”

This last was directed at Lizzy and myself; and recovering her pretty ways, Miss Louisa performed the office of making Mr. Julian Sothey known to the Austens. The unfortunate Mr. Brett—a tall, gawkish gendeman with sparse fair hair and dull blue eyes—hovered like a shade at Sothey's rear, unable to yield the hope of Louisa Finch-Hatton's favour. I saw in an instant that it was heavy work, and pitied him.

“I had the very great pleasure of engaging Mr. Henry and Mr. Edward Austen in conversation, ma'am,” Sothey told my sister easily, “while we toured the grounds of the park; and I must rejoice at the chance to further my acquaintance with the rest of the family.”

Lizzy inclined her head coolly. “I am to learn in a moment, I suppose, that Mr. Austen has contracted the fever for improvement—and that all of Godmersham is to be thrown in an uproar.”

“I cannot conceive that a place which has served as
your
home for so many years, could require any further embellishment of taste or beauty,” Mr. Sothey replied. “And certainly none that was within
my
power to achieve.”

My sister looked at him archly.

“I am only sorry that we are denied the pleasure of meeting your children,” Mr. Sothey added. “Lady Elizabeth was quite determined upon that point—that at least the eldest should accompany you, along with a lady whom I believe is her governess. The child is not indisposed, I trust?”

“How very kind in you to enquire. Fanny is entirely well, I thank you. She enjoys the most robust constitution. I am afraid Miss Sharpe is hardly equal to her.”

“Miss Sharpe?”

“The governess. A charming young woman. It was at her suggestion that we denied Fanny the expedition; she feared the state of the roads, and the present uncertainty in the weather, might prove too much for her; and I could not disagree.”

“I see. You accord a governess's opinion so much weight, Mrs. Austen?”

“In the matter of my child's well-being? Naturally, Mr. Sothey. It is expressly to attend to such things, that I engage Miss Sharpe. And now if you will excuse me—” Lizzy turned towards her husband, who stood to one side of the open French windows in earnest conversation with Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton. A slight breeze stirred the white muslin of Lizzy's dress as she moved to join them, and fluttered the ribbons of her rose-coloured sash; the fall of her dark curls about the nape of her neck was as exquisite as the slight pulse beating at the base of her throat. She embodied the sort of elegance that only years of study may attain; but for all her art, Lizzy invariably appeared artless. It was impossible to imagine her a girl of five, with blackcurrant jam trailing down her apron; impossible to envision her quarrelling to the point of tears with a despicable younger brother. Impossible, even, to form an idea of her in the throes of childbirth—tho' she had accomplished it some nine times. She is the sort of woman who seems cut from whole cloth—a perfection from infancy—intended for nothing lower than the graceful passage of a well-proportioned room. I saw in my sister the unconscious fulfillment of an ideal, and knew it forever beyond my grasp.

But it was Mr. Sothey who put in words what I had only thought in silence.” 'There is something in a face/” he said,” 'An air, and a peculiar grace/Which boldest painters cannot trace.' ”

I caught my breath. “I am unfamiliar with the author of those lines, sir.”

“William Somerville,” he replied briskly. “A much-neglected poet. Dr. Johnson was pleased to dismiss him as writing very well—
'for a gentleman.'
Being the son of an Earl, Miss Austen, I am often placed in a similar category—accorded merit only in as much as I transcend the general mediocrity of my class. Artists, you know, should never possess the distinction of birth; it ruins them for genius/'
4

The Gentleman Improver undoubtedly possessed what Mr. Valentine Grey had called
address
—that curious mixture of charm and air, without which a man may never be termed brilliant. It is elusive in definition, but unmistakable in consequence; and I may confess myself particularly susceptible to its effect.

“I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sothey— for I should dearly like to comprehend a little of the genius that has so totally overthrown Mr. Finch-Hatton's taste.”

'You make it sound a revolution!” he cried, in mock horror, “and a treacherous one at that!”

“Lady Elizabeth assures us that you are intent upon nothing less than the wholesale destruction of formal pieties—the inversion of the traditional order—and if this is
not
revolution, then what may we call it, sir?”

“I daresay the Whigs have found any number of proxies for such a word,” Mr. Sothey rejoined, with a sharp look of interest in his clear grey eyes, “but do not allow me to be talking politics to a lady. Say rather that at Eastwell I hope to correct what has gone astray, Miss Austen, and to support what might only have been dreamt of before—that I aspire to a higher order of Beauty than yet exists—and perhaps we shall find agreement. ”

“I am sure that even Robespierre once proclaimed a similar faith,” I rejoined, “and yet as many heads fell at the guillotine, as noble old avenues under the axe of the improver.”

“Good Lord! All forms of governance may decline, I assure you, from neglect as well as revolution; and never so particularly as at Eastwell Park.”

“It is well, I suppose, that we have seen the place before your hand has accomplished this transformation,” I observed, “for we may then judge more acutely whether anarchy or order has been imposed.”

Mr. Sothey threw back his head and laughed. “I perceive that you bear no love for the Picturesque, Miss Austen.”

“Julian—” Louisa Finch-Hatton broke in irritably, “pray come and sit by me. I intend to play, and you know that I can do nothing without you to turn the pages.”

“Pray allow me to serve you, Miss Louisa,” Mr. Brett said hurriedly, “for Mr. Sothey is presently engaged.”

He attempted to steer her towards the instrument, but Louisa's countenance assumed a mulish look, and she remained rooted to the floor for the space of several heartbeats. At Mr. Sothey's apparent disinclination to honour the request, however, and his fixed interest in myself, the young lady eventually gave way. From the sound of her strenuous playing, I judged her to be serving out punishment to her excellent pianoforte, that might better have been visited upon her Beloved. The little interval provided an opportunity, however, to seize a chair in one corner of the saloon; and to my delight, Mr. Sothey followed.

“If by Picturesque,” I continued, “you would refer to the work of Mr. Humphrey Rep ton, be assured that I am not wholly ignorant of the style. A cousin of my mother's engaged Mr. Repton to improve his rectory in Adlestrop, and the result, we are assured, is delightful.”
5

“Then I may suppose,” Mr. Sothey remarked with a glint of humour, “that a perfectly respectable stream has been forced from its hallowed bed, and constrained to run over graduated terraces; that hills have been formed where there were none before, and surmounted with rustic cottages in which no one—particularly hermits or gnomes, to whom such cottages are invariably ascribed—has ever lived. There is a grotto, no doubt, or a ruin in the Gothic style, ideally positioned for viewing in the moonlight. May we hope for so much as an abyss, wherein the Fate of Mortal Man might be contemplated in peace, particularly on days of mist and lowering cloud?”

I could not suppress a smile. “I believe that my cousin carries the abyss within, Mr. Sothey—and thus must find an outer manifestation of Fate unnecessary. But ruins were entirely beyond the reach of Reverend Leigh's purse, as was the better part of Mr. Repton's talents. He merely served as consultant on the redirection of the sweep, and the clearing of a prospect from the rectory to the village; attended to some terracing, and the placement of a few trees.”

“Then he has served your cousin admirably,” So they declared, “and in a better fashion than a fellow with ten times his fortune.”

“You are no disciple of Mr. Repton?”

“I am well-acquainted with his views,” he replied equably, “but have formed my own along a different path.”

“—A
higherpath
, you would imply?”

“It is not for me to praise myself, Miss Austen. You may believe me capable of every absurdity—as you appear inclined to do—but pray allow me to possess common sense. Only a brainless popinjay will proclaim his merit before others have done so.” His lips twitched irrepressibly, and despite my aversion to the entire rage for improvement, I could not help liking Mr. Sothey.

“Then acquaint me with your views,” I urged. “To what does the Picturesque refer, if not to the Romantic Horrors you have yourself described?”

“To the ageless elegance of the art of Europe,” Sothey replied immediately. “To the noble symmetry of Italian landscape, as expressed in the canvases of the Great Masters. If I may achieve an hundredth part of the beauty and taste enshrined in the prospect of a Roman hillside, as painted by a Claude or a Poussin, then I shall declare myself well-satisfied.”
6

“You have travelled abroad, I perceive.”

“As has your brother, I find. Mr. Austen and I enjoyed a splendid half-hour on the subject of the Grand Tour, and found ourselves much in agreement. I was privileged to study the composition of a landscape, while resident in Paris during the period of the Peace,” So they added, “and now apply the principles of the Picturesque to the grounds of my acquaintance.”

I was immediately intrigued. “And so you would form a prospect—from this saloon's windows, for example— according to the precepts
of painting
?”

“Is not the prospect a sort of picture? Is not the window a veritable frame?” Sothey cried excitedly. “Consider the view across this garden, Miss Austen. Is it not remarkably flat and unvarying? Does even a single feature suggest its primacy to the eye, and direct the gaze of the viewer to its silent grandeur? I would assert that the back garden at Eastwell is a formless jumble, in which all individual beauties are lost; that the distant prospect, with its barren hills and isolated coverts, must insult the eye with tedium; that trees are required in the foreground, to frame the distance properly, and that a richness of detail in the near-ground is imperative, if the eye is to progress beyond it at all. There is no
path
, Miss Austen, for the eye to follow—no guide to a remoter beauty—no sense, in fine, of picturesque perspective. Allow me to demonstrate the transformation I would intend.”

He leapt from his chair, and seized a large quarto volume bound in dark blue leather. This was immediately opened and placed upon my lap; and the vigour of Mr. Sothey's action could not but direct the attention of the entire room. I found that I had drawn a circle of attentive admirers, all craning to peer over my shoulder at the pages of the book—which were in fact illustrations, in breathtaking watercolours. All were signed by the painter in a distinctive, sloping script, as tho' the Sof Sothey were a sail that might carry its master far upon the sea of fame.

“Have you worked upon Miss Austen already, Sothey, that she must submit to your Blue Book?” Mr. Finch-Hatton cried, in high good humour. “Then we must all be bent to its claims. Pray direct us in the study of your work.”

I had been presented with a catalogue of Eastwell Park, as it presently existed; and for every picture Mr. Sothey had executed an overlay, which showed the improvements that might be effected.
7
In silence, punctuated by exclamations of delight and wonder, the whole party was treated to an explanation of Mr. Sothey's vision; and I must confess it to have converted even myself. Nowhere did I find evidence of vulgarity, or a slavish devotion to fad; not a Gothic ruin nor a felled avenue could I detect, but rather the subtraction of those elements in the landscape that contributed to its confusion—a clarification of its beauties, that by the removal of excess, contributed to a finer definition of the whole. As I turned the pages in company with the others, I could not help but acknowledge Mr. Sothey's Art—his accomplished skill—his inexpressible taste. It might have served the Finch-Hattons immeasurably, I thought, had they possessed a man of his talents in the editing of their
architect.
For if even a small part of Sothey's plan were achieved, the ill-framed house would sit like a pebble in a casing intended for a jewel.