underlying consternation, as having betrayed perhaps too much. “Never fear,” I assured him. “Your secret is safe with me—though from your words, I must declare it a rather open one, since most of Lyme seems admitted to it.”
“Just the folk o’ the Buddie district,” Matty said grudgingly, “and only them as are trusty.”
“So it was Mr, Sidmouth s ship that ran aground,” I said thoughtfully, “as a result of Bill Tibbit's carelessness, or design. And Bill Tibbit died for it, as did Captain Fielding. That does alter the complexion of Sidmouth's case. For his motives and his natural reticence about the matter, become all too clear.”
“I thought she come here on a matter o’ Maggie Tib-bit's,” Matty protested, with a glare for James.
“She did!” the poor man rejoined, in natural dismay. “Miss Austen?”
“No matter,” I replied. “There is another of whom I had better enquire, and leave Mr. Hurley in the clear.” I turned and looked towards the horizon, in an effort to judge of the time—for of a sudden I had a notion to conduct a further piece of business in the hours remaining before dinner. It could not be far from half-past three; and we generally dined at five. It should just do.
“You have been very helpful, Mr. Hurley, and I thank you—for what you would not, as well as what you might, impart.” The wretched fellow shifted from one foot to the other, and looked desperate to be gone, his native confidence fled. I reached into my reticule and retrieved several coins, which I pressed upon the two men, who bobbed their thanks, however doubtfully. For my part, I affected a desire to return to the church, that they might be freed of my presence, and go about their business, as unmolested as I preferred to go about mine—for I had no desire to be observed, in making my way, as I must, towards the grim stone keep that served as Lyme's gaol.
1 This was less a turban than a length of material—often lace—tied around the crown and knotted at one side of the head, in a somewhat Turkish fashion. —Editor's note.
2 The Preventy Men was a common name for the officers of the Board of Customs. —Editor's note.
3 Austen's brothers James and Henry, while students at Oxford, established the literary journal The Loiterer, to which Austen herself may have contributed the occasional letter. —Editor's note.
4 Broad Ledge was originally a part of Lyme proper—medieval maps of the area suggest it once was crowded with houses—but was later inundated by the sea, and is now visible only at low tide. It serves as a reminder of the shifting nature of the Dorset coastline. —Editor's note.
24 September 1804, cont.
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RATHER THAN HUGGING A LONELY STRETCH OF COASTLINE HIGH above the turbulent seas, bereft of civilisation and the comforts of humanity, as should befit a prison in Lyme, the gaol where Mr. Sidmouth was held sat in the very midst of the town, with a stock in front and a cubby for the watchman; I should move under the keenest observation as I approached the place, but could not find it in me to care, as my errand seemed too urgent to admit of delicacy. I knew not whether the gentleman was permitted visitors—but deemed it likely that what persuasion might not produce, the application of coin should speedily acquire.
The watchman—a smallish fellow clothed in nankeen, with a sharp nose, watery eyes, and a perpetual habit of sneezing—rose from his stool as swift as a street tumbler, and danced a bow before me.
“Gordy Trimble at yer service, ma'am, though what service ye might be seekhV here, ‘tis beyond me to say,” he offered by way of introduction.
“I am Miss Jane Austen,” I said with dignity, “and have come with a basket of victuals from St. Michael's Church—a gesture of charity towards the poor man detained within those walls.” I had retrieved my mother's basket from Miss Crawford after parting from James and Mr. Hurley, in the thought that the ladies’ auxiliary should hardly require it as mightily as /should. In making my way towards the gaol, I had tarried only long enough to purchase bread and cheese, and a few apples, to put in its depths.
“Poor man? Never thought as I'd hear His Worship called poor, ma'am, and that's a fact. And him been stylin’ hissel’ so fine. Ah, well—the world's gone topsyturvy, it has, and Gordy Trimble's not the one to make the right of it.” He reached a