fine indeed, with the intertwined devices of the houses of Filch and Crawford upon the doors.1But 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.2
18 September 1804
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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 limidess 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