I observed the approach of a carriage, that bore a familiar coat of arms upon the door, and within its depths, a lady much veiled, as I observed upon her leaning out the window in converse with her tyger. Mrs. Barnewall, if I was not utterly mistaken, and her carriage pulled up before Maggie Tibbit's very door.
1 Austen here describes a feature of the River Buddie district that was apparently not wiuiout design. Geofftey Morley notes in his book, Smuggling in Hampshire and Dorset, ijoo-1850 (Newbury, Berkshire: Countryside Books, revised edition, 1994), that this was die traditional smugglers’ quarter of Lyme, and that the proximity of the housing served as a useful means of escape. When a smuggler's home was to be searched, its occupants often fled out die back windows to the houses on the Buddie's opposite bank, taking their contraband with them. —Editor's note.
2 Maggie Tibbit is presumably referring to the two-story structure set upon a knoll between West Bexington and Puncknowle. It was built as a signal tower for the Sea Fencibles, the local militia arrayed against a seaborne invasion by Napoleon; it commanded a view beyond Portland and Weymouth to the east, and over Bridport to Lyme Regis and Lyme Bay some seven miles distant Signal fires would have been lit to warn of enemy ships approaching the coast, which ran straight and clear at this point, making for easy landing. —Editor's note.
Friday, 21 September 1804
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“MY DEAR,” MY MOTHER SAID INTO MY EAR, AS WE SAT TOGETHER amidst the better part of Lyme's residents in the main room of the Golden Lion, awaiting the commencement of the inquest into Percival Fielding's death, “Miss Crawford looks very fine indeed, in her black silk and illusion veil. 1 do not think she could have had either of Mr. Mil-sop—though he styles himself so very high, there is that about his shop that defies real elegance. I wish our Cassandra were here to see it. Miss Crawford's veil, I mean. But then, site is free to wander about the shops of London—Cassandra, 1 would speak of now—Dr. Farquhar having pronounced her quite recovered; and I do wish she might write to us of sleeves, and whether they are to be long or short this season; but she will not, being much preoccupied with Eliza's circulating-library. I do not understand her indifference upon such a point—”
“Mother,” I interceded, as the good lady paused to draw breath, “I wonder if Miss Crawford is not to be called up by the coroner? For the care her attire has demanded, would suggest some benefit in display.”
“Indeed,” my mother replied, laying a hand over my own in agitation. “And yet, we were as well acquainted with Captain Fielding—though Miss Crawford would have it he was to beg for Miss Armstrong's hand, and not yours, as I had thought. Why are not we to be called?”
“I imagine we can have nothing of particular intelligence to offer the coroner,” I replied firmly, and patted my mother's cold fingers. My father harrumphed, censorious of our chatter, and at that very moment Mr. Carpenter appeared—coroner and surgeon of Lyme, and the superior of our friend Mr. Dagliesh—and strode importandy down the aisle. All rose to offer him the respect that was his due.
Joshua Carpenter was a portly gentleman of jovial countenance and a ponderous wig, of somewhat outdated fashion. He was dressed in rusty black—rusty, from its apparent long use and sad neglect—his collar was wilted, his shirt-sleeves frayed, and his coat collar bore the signs of a nuncheon recentiy consumed. When he turned and surveyed the uplifted faces of the crowd, however, I detected a gleam of amused intelligence in his eyes, and a contemptuous curl of the lip, as though he understood well that gossip, rather than justice, was the hope of nearly everyone assembled. He glanced at the twelve men of the jury—all strangers to my eyes, and drawn, it seemed, from local folk—who sat composed and cowed upon two of the inn's long benches, and nodded to the one appointed foreman.
How similar was this scene to the one I witnessed two winters past, at an inn in Hertfordshire, when another man had died all untimely! Painful memories could not but intrude as 1 contemplated my surroundings. And yet—how different, in the figure of Mr. Carpenter, and the mood of the crowd, and the degree of interest I felt in the outcome. For though my anxiety was roused on Geoffrey Sidmouth's behalf, and my heart