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Authors: Syrie James
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again all in a flutter. What would happen when we reached Goodnestone? I wondered. Would Mr. Taylor and his cousin immediately take their leave? It seemed likely, for what business could they have at the Bridgeses’ house? Yet I hoped it would
not
be so—for I wished very much for our acquaintance to continue.
We travelled through fine and level open country, and reached our destination with no further mishap. The property was set in a beautiful situation adjoining the small but charming village of Goodnestone. We passed the church, the farm, and what appeared to be the dower house, then turned onto a narrow lane curving upwards towards the manor house, which sat majestically on a high rise of ground. A handsome, rectangular, brick Palladian mansion standing three stories high, Goodnestone was very grand. I gazed up in awe at the roof, where a massive, central stone pediment was situated between two chimneys. Beneath it were arranged three symmetrical rows of innumerable windows and a handsome front doorway flanked by apertures topped by elegant half-moons. On the other side of the gravel sweep, a flight of stone steps led down to a circular parterre with an imposing central column; beyond that lay an immense, open park bordered by distant, verdant woods.
Our noisy and deliberate approach brought us to the attention of the household, and by the time we halted in front of the door, a large and impressive assemblage of servants, dogs, and family members (including our brother Edward) had produced and arranged themselves for a formal greeting. As we disembarked, I observed that the Bridgeses were as numerous as promised, the six daughters and three young sons all richly attired. I did not yet perceive a woman who might fit with Lady Bridges’s description, but the young ladies bore a great family resemblance: all were pretty, possessing the same long, angular noses, rose-bud mouths, and smooth, pale complexions; and their heads were each a mass of long, embellished curls.
The man who could only be the formidable Sir Brook William Bridges came forward. A fat, amiable gentleman of fifty-seven years of age with a florid, jowled face, he walked slowly, his breathing was laboured, and his speech was accompanied by a deep, periodic cough; but rising above these infirmities, he met us with a smile as he shook our hands.
“Hello, young Austens! I am Sir Brook; how lovely to meet you all. You must be Cassandra—Jane—and Charles. Welcome; you are very welcome here.” As we bowed and curtseyed, he turned to our companions, and cried, “What ho, cousin Edward. Good day, Mr. Payler. What brings you hither, did you meet up with the Austens on the road?”
This remark was interesting indeed, for it elucidated a relationship I had not anticipated: just as Edward Taylor was a cousin of Mr. Payler’s, it seemed he was a cousin of the Bridges family as well!
“We did, sir,” replied Edward Taylor. “Their carriage half toppled over just passing Bifrons, from an unfortunate encounter with a quagmire. We pulled them out and shepherded them here to avoid any further calamities.”
“A quagmire, eh? Well, that explains why this poor vehicle, the animals, and your boots are all over in mud!” Before he could comment further, a pale, graceful, extravagantly attired woman strolled through the front door, remarking elegantly:
“Ah! Here you are at last. I was beginning to worry.”
Sir Brook sighed. “Please forgive my wife’s belated appearance. Lady Bridges is too fashionable—or fancies herself to be so—to be punctual.”
Lady Bridges was, I recalled, forty-four years of age; she still retained the handsome features which had made her a beauty in her youth. “Punctuality, I find, is a highly overrated quality in an individual,” said she, as she patted the fashionable white cap which adorned her long, dark curls. “I had much rather be calm and tardy, Sir Brook, than rush about madly as you do, to please a clock. Our
not
be so—for I wished very much for our acquaintance to continue.
We travelled through fine and level open country, and reached our destination with no further mishap. The property was set in a beautiful situation adjoining the small but charming village of Goodnestone. We passed the church, the farm, and what appeared to be the dower house, then turned onto a narrow lane curving upwards towards the manor house, which sat majestically on a high rise of ground. A handsome, rectangular, brick Palladian mansion standing three stories high, Goodnestone was very grand. I gazed up in awe at the roof, where a massive, central stone pediment was situated between two chimneys. Beneath it were arranged three symmetrical rows of innumerable windows and a handsome front doorway flanked by apertures topped by elegant half-moons. On the other side of the gravel sweep, a flight of stone steps led down to a circular parterre with an imposing central column; beyond that lay an immense, open park bordered by distant, verdant woods.
Our noisy and deliberate approach brought us to the attention of the household, and by the time we halted in front of the door, a large and impressive assemblage of servants, dogs, and family members (including our brother Edward) had produced and arranged themselves for a formal greeting. As we disembarked, I observed that the Bridgeses were as numerous as promised, the six daughters and three young sons all richly attired. I did not yet perceive a woman who might fit with Lady Bridges’s description, but the young ladies bore a great family resemblance: all were pretty, possessing the same long, angular noses, rose-bud mouths, and smooth, pale complexions; and their heads were each a mass of long, embellished curls.
The man who could only be the formidable Sir Brook William Bridges came forward. A fat, amiable gentleman of fifty-seven years of age with a florid, jowled face, he walked slowly, his breathing was laboured, and his speech was accompanied by a deep, periodic cough; but rising above these infirmities, he met us with a smile as he shook our hands.
“Hello, young Austens! I am Sir Brook; how lovely to meet you all. You must be Cassandra—Jane—and Charles. Welcome; you are very welcome here.” As we bowed and curtseyed, he turned to our companions, and cried, “What ho, cousin Edward. Good day, Mr. Payler. What brings you hither, did you meet up with the Austens on the road?”
This remark was interesting indeed, for it elucidated a relationship I had not anticipated: just as Edward Taylor was a cousin of Mr. Payler’s, it seemed he was a cousin of the Bridges family as well!
“We did, sir,” replied Edward Taylor. “Their carriage half toppled over just passing Bifrons, from an unfortunate encounter with a quagmire. We pulled them out and shepherded them here to avoid any further calamities.”
“A quagmire, eh? Well, that explains why this poor vehicle, the animals, and your boots are all over in mud!” Before he could comment further, a pale, graceful, extravagantly attired woman strolled through the front door, remarking elegantly:
“Ah! Here you are at last. I was beginning to worry.”
Sir Brook sighed. “Please forgive my wife’s belated appearance. Lady Bridges is too fashionable—or fancies herself to be so—to be punctual.”
Lady Bridges was, I recalled, forty-four years of age; she still retained the handsome features which had made her a beauty in her youth. “Punctuality, I find, is a highly overrated quality in an individual,” said she, as she patted the fashionable white cap which adorned her long, dark curls. “I had much rather be calm and tardy, Sir Brook, than rush about madly as you do, to please a clock. Our