can in the business. I shalI not plunge whole-heartedly into a matter that might offer only harm, without judicious thought beforehand.”
“That is as I should expect of you, my dear,” my father replied, with a pat to the hand he held close in the crook of his arm. “You were ever a girl whose heart was ruled by her head.”
Was I? I thought fleetingly; and is that to be preferred to a head ruled by the heart” I cannot be entirely certain,
“Father—” I said, with a purposeful effort at changing the subject, “—what should, then, my next step be? For so much cries out for elucidation, that I am in a confusion as to my proper path.”
We had reached the end of the Cobb, and lingered to feel the freshness of the spray; and I knew with a sinking of the heart that autumn was advancing, and winter coming on. The sea air was sharper than it had been only a few weeks before, and I shivered as I drew my shawl closer about my thin muslin gown. We had but a little of our Lyme sojourn remaining to us; but Geoffrey Sidmouth had fewer days still. I must not be a spendthrift with time.
“You have declared the horseshoes to be the crux of the business,” my father said thoughtfully. “And since you are unlikely to have success where Mr. Dobbin did not, I should counsel against a useless review of the Lyme blacksmiths. Your appearance in their midst, and in pursuit of such information, should only arouse suspicion against you, and excite the attention of the local tradesfolk.”
“Very true.”
“Let us consider, my dear Jane, whether any of the people hereabouts might spurn the Lyme trade, and engage a private smithy for the maintenance of their beasts.”
“No one in our acquaintance is likely to require such a service,” I objected. “Even Mr. Crawford has a modest stable, as we observed only a few days ago.”
“But the Honourable Barnewalls have gone in for horses on a larger scale, have they not?”
“In Ireland, perhaps,” I said doubtfully, but my father waved away such temporisations with surprising vigour.
“Forgive me, Jane, if I beg to speak from greater knowledge,” he said. “I have known a few of your race-mad fellows in my time. They are never far from horseflesh if they can manage it; and from BarnewalFs conversation the other evening at Darby, I should adjudge him to be perpetually in a fever of acquisition over some mount or another. You will recall he wished to purchase Sidmouth's Satan; and undoubtedly he has snatched up a horse or two—or ten—in the course of his visit to Lyme. Have you paid a call on Mrs. Barnewall, Jane?”
“I have not,” I replied, with new respect for my father's turn of mind.
“It is very remiss of you, when one considers the attentions she has shown. I should not have thought you capable of such rudeness.”
“Indeed. And I might solicit her excellent taste, in the matter of my new silk—for Mrs. Barnewall is the very soul of fashion, and would appear well-acquainted with Maggie Tibbit's wares.”
“And perhaps even with the woman's manner of obtaining them,” my father finished smoothly. “I should think a visit to the Honourable Barnewalls highly profitable.”
We turned with some reluctance from the vivid view of the bay, and had the wind at our backs for the remainder of the way home. It was a slow walk, and marked only by desultory conversation, for my father was much fatigued; and I was far too preoccupied with his perspective on the matter, to spare a thought for much else. The Honourable Barnewalls had their fingers in every piece of this pie; and I wondered I had not troubled to notice it before. It was stewho had first introduced le Chevalier to my acquaintance, and he who elicited the valuable intelligence that Geoffrey Sidmouth marked his horses’ shoes. It should take less than a few hours for a private smithy to render a Barnewall horse similarly shod; and the Honourable Mathew had enjoyed the span of a day, between learning of the Grange's brand and the murder of Captain Fielding. Could he have so wished to obtain the stallion Satan, that he resorted to theft and murder to do it? It seemed incredible. But might there exist some other motive in the matter, that should make the death of Captain Fielding, and the guilt of Geoffrey Sidmouth, in every way delightful to the peer-in-waiting?