The Cobb is a massive rampart that effects to create a harbour, where none should otherwise exist, the seas surrounding this stretch of the Dorset coast being quite prone to sudden storms that eat away at the land. There are some who profess to remember land-falls about the town — sudden shiftings in the cliff, that cause earth and houses and all to slide into the sea, a most fearsome manifestation of Providence. But whatever its purpose, the Cobb is chiefly of use in being walked upon — by all manner of people, at all times of day. There are stairs ascending to the breakwater's upper edge, that only a foolish child or a brave fisherman should attempt[13]; but the lower, broader way is recently improved, and a walk along its stones is ideally suited to the exercise of a lady. Here Eliza and I braced ourselves against the blow, which tugged and swept at her feathered turban, and brought an exhilaration to both our strides. What glory, in facing once more the sea! What life, in its billowing waves — ever-changing, ever-roving, to lands and climes of which I know nothing! When I gaze out at the endless horizon, I know a little of my brother Frank's days, in the blockade off the coast of France, or Charles's as he dreams of the East Indies[14]; what freedom such men possess, who call the world their home!

But at the thought of France, I was seized by a memory and a notion at once.

“Eliza,” I said, as we ploughed ahead against the wind, “how great still is your command of the French language?”

“As great as my enjoyment of it, Jane — which is to say, excessively good.”

I had observed it to find its way into your conversation.”

“Oh, that, my dear — when one has a reputation for liveliness, one is forever ejaculating bits of French and Italian. It passes for breeding, in some parts of town. But you cannot mean betise,” she said, as if suddenly struck. “Even you must know it to mean a stupidity.’

“I thought it a faux pas,” I rejoined, with a hint of dryness, at which Eliza laughed aloud.

“How I have missed you,” she cried, patting my arm. “You must come to London this winter, my dear, and throw yourself in the way of some dashingly handsome murderer, so that I may have the enjoyment of following in your train as you go about exposing the man's vileness. In fact, a propos of vile men, I have several we might pretend are murderers, and expose for the fun of it. Nothing has been so delicious, I assure you, since you ended the Scargrave business so tidily.[15] I have been quite overcome with ennui; but then, I always am in the summer. One so wants a little scandal, now and then, that one is almost tempted to make it oneself!”

“Now, Eliza—” I cautioned.

“Oh, never mind, cherie. Unmixed felicity is rarely found in life, but your Henry knew when he married me that I was unaccustomed to control, and should probably behave very awkwardly, did he attempt it; and so, like the wise man he is, he makes my will his own.[16] And thus we get along quite happily.”

“I am relieved to hear it.”

“Of course you are. You mistrust the married state so well, you have never ventured near it yourself — and may be forgiven for assuming it to be the ruin of all those around you.”

“I deserve neither such praise, nor such censure,Eliza!” I cried. “I should gladly have assayed the estate, had it been offered by a gentleman for whom I could feel sincere affection. But in cases where such affection was possible, the gentleman did not offer; and when it was the reverse, I could not accept.”

“I am very sorry for it, Jane,” Eliza replied soberly, “and for the unconscious cruelty of my words. I meant but to make a sport of men, in holding them up to your supposed derision; but I ended by wounding you.’

“I, et us think no more about it,” I replied, mortified at my own susceptibility; were my feelings regarding my single state, at the advanced age of eight-and-twenty, so exceedingly raw? But I shook off such thoughts and returned to my first subject. “Regarding your mastery of French,” I said. “Can you give me the sense of a particular word, did T attempt to repeat it?”

“I can but try.”

“Very well. I believe it was lascargon.” A French word spoken in the drawing-room at High Down Grange.

Eliza's brows lowered over her eyes with a pretty air of penetration. “But that means nothing, my dear Jane. You cannot have got it right.”

“Think, Eliza. What might I have heard?”

“Lascargon. Lascargon. I suppose it might have been les garsons—the boys — or La Gascogney a woman from Gascony, a province of France.”

“That could very well be!” 1 cried, considering Seraphine. “But why did he not simply call her by name?”

We had achieved the end of the Cobb, and were thrust quite far out into the sea; a drenching plume of spray burst and churned against the rocks at our feet, and in the distance, a cutter sped by under full sail, its stem harried by seabirds. The breeze off the waves was decidedly stiff; and after a summer of Bath's closeness and poor drains, the smells of a city given over to medicinal waters, I revelled in Lyme's freshness, and breathed deep.

Eliza was not so sanguine. “Jane, my dear, I am all to pieces in this wind,” she declared, turning about with a hand to her turban, “and your confusion of pronouns has quite worn out my patience. Let us turn round, and find our way to the Golden Lion, while you explain yourself.”

And so, as the shadows of afternoon grew longer on the Cobb, and the gulls wheeled and dipped above our heads, I told Eliza of High Down Grange, and the mysteries of a lanthorn on the cliff edge at night.

“And you cannot place the girl Seraphine's purpose in the household,” Eliza mused, her eyes upon the stones. “She seems neither a domestic nor a lady. Well! There is only one possibility remaining! She is his little French lovebird — though why he dresses her in sacks, and sends her about the shingle at night, I cannot undertake to say. You have once again found yourself the company of a rogue, my dear Jane, and we must know more of his character before such questions may be resolved.”

“I do not think you have the right of it, Eliza,” I protested. “Seraphine had not the look of a mistress.”

“And what is that, in your understanding? An open vulgarity, a blowsy aspect, a decided want of taste? I assure you, the chere amies I have known — including my late husband's — were hardly as the novels have painted them.” At my expression of horror, Eliza threw back her head and laughed. “I shock you, Jane; I am sure that I shock you; but, after all, that is my purpose in life. I continue to exist merely for the upsetting of Austen conventions. And when are we likely to encounter this most intriguing gentleman? At the Lyme Assembly?”

“I should not think Mr. Sidmouth prone to dancing. He wants the sort of easy temper that finds diversion in frivolity.”

“Perhaps,” Eliza replied. “Perhaps. But I would charge you to take care with your appearance on the morrow, in the event Mr. Sidmouth comes.”

“You cannot believe me to wish for the attentions of such a man!” I protested.

“I can, and I do. Your air, when you speak of him, is hardly easy, and you were ever a girl to find the eccentric character more engaging than the open. You delight hi mystery, my dear Jane; and Mr. Sidmouth has piqued your interest. Admit it! Your reddened cheeks even now bespeak your susceptibilities/’

Indeed they do not” My voice was sharp — but then, I was rather mortified. “They are merely brightened by the wind.”