The consequences, as even I was aware, ran to several children — members of what were unkindly called the “Harleian Miscellany,” in a nod to their uncertain parentage. Desdemona lost me here; only friendship could excuse her support of Lady Oxford, and I had no such tender feelings to persuade me from what was right. Mona’s frankness, however, absolved my conscience of any pang; I might be as inquisitive as I chose.
“Her ladyship is a great admirer of Lord Byron, I collect?”
Desdemona smiled. “That young man has been practically living in her pocket all winter, if you will credit it! And he is barely of age, Miss Austen! And she is old enough to be his mother — or very nearly! It is one of the on-dits of Town; and we are forced to treat the liaison as the merest commonplace, tho’ he has been staying at Eywood — the Earl’s estate in Herefordshire, you know — since before Christmas, and has only exchanged it for London once the Countess quitted the place. He has settled in lodgings in St. James’s, but hardly dares show himself out-of-doors, for fear of meeting Caro Lamb.”
“I had hoped that lady might have learnt resignation,” I said. “But still she pursues Lord Byron?”
“For a wonder! I should not be capable of enduring such ridicule as she wins — for all the world is talking of it, you know. Lady Melbourne, Caro’s mother-in-law, is no friend to her; she has taken up with Byron herself, and serves as the poet’s maternal counselor — all from vanity, of course, at succeeding where her daughter-in-law has failed! I wonder that William Lamb can bear it — to have both wife and mother enthralled by the same swaggering boy, nearly ten years his junior, and admitted on terms of cordiality in his own home!”
“Lady Melbourne, the intimate friend of her son’s rival,” I gasped. “How does Lady Caroline bear it?”
“Seethingly,” Desdemona said. “She communicates with her mother-in-law solely by writing. They inhabit separate floors of Melbourne House; and such scenes as must occur upon the stairs I do not like to think! But I feel some pity for Caro Lamb, tho’ she has brought her ruin upon herself; she is become the most tragic sort of spectacle — hardly anyone receives her now. One cannot predict what she is capable of — one cannot know what she may do. Violence, perhaps, to herself or others. Emotion has carried her beyond the bourne of reason.”
“And yet,” I observed, reverting to our earlier subject of conversation, “Lady Oxford is Byron’s current inamorata — and Lady Oxford is welcome everywhere.”
Desdemona smiled. “Not quite everywhere. The Regent will not receive her, on account of her support for the Princess; and so Byron, too, is given the cut direct when he descends upon Brighton.”
“I am glad to know that man has suffered some rejection, at least!”
But the Countess was no longer attending. Her eyes had narrowed, in gazing at a particular boat just then thrusting out to sea. It was a sailing vessel, not at all large as such things go: but a single mast and sail, and what my Naval brothers should have called a jib — I might almost have ventured abroad in it myself. It had been some years since I had rowed my nephews in a little boat about Southampton Water. But Desdemona was not lost in contemplation of the boat, pretty tho’ it was, with its gay sails and dark red paint.
“And so the Devil is come to Brighton,” she murmured softly. “And I do mean Devil, Miss Austen. That is Byron himself — just there, springing into the boat with a quickness surprising in one who is lame — George, Lord Byron, about to set sail. Is there not something poetic about the scene?”
She spoke a simple truth. There was the boat: bright-hulled, bucking on the waves like a horse impatient for a gallop; and the broad-shouldered, lithe young man with the windswept black locks, his deft fingers working at the ropes. A timeless image; beautiful in its clean lines and brilliant colours, its implicit promise of freedom —
“My dear,” called the Earl of Swithin, from where he stood a little advanced from us in company with Henry, “I believe we should beg our friends’ pardon for detaining them so long, and enquire whether they might dine with us, before the Assembly tomorrow?”
But Desdemona was deaf to her lord.
I was scarcely more attentive myself. For a young boy had raced, barefoot, across the sand directly for Lord Byron’s boat. His blond hair was cropped short, in curling waves over nape and forehead; his nankeen breeches were so loose on his wiry frame that they were lashed to his waist with a stout leather belt; and his shirt — a rough linen one with flowing ruffles and sleeves, that put me strongly in mind of a Gypsy’s — was so blowsy as to suggest it might better have fitted Byron himself. A local urchin, I thought, whose intent was to earn a copper or two by helping his lordship heave his vessel into the sea.
But the lad was too late — his lordship was already afloat — and in desperation, the boy surged out into the waves, hailing the vessel in a high, excited accent, the linen shirt ripping free of his breeches in the brisk wind.
Byron turned and fixed his gaze upon his pursuer’s countenance — and his own visibly darkened. As Desdemona and I observed the scene, his lordship’s beautiful mouth curled in contempt and hatred. “Little Mania!” he shouted. “You may go to the bottom and welcome, for all I care!”
And he let out his sail with an impatient twitch of line, willing the little boat to surge forward, away from the boy.
“How cold the water must be,” I murmured. “I have only assayed it once, in Charmouth — and that, from a bathing machine — I am sure it is far colder in the midst of the ocean, against one’s sodden clothing. Poor lad — what can be his purpose?”
Desdemona’s gloved hand gripped my wrist with painful urgency. “Turn away, Miss Austen. Turn away this instant! We must not look, or I shall not be answerable for the consequences — Oh, Lord, that I had not seen what I have! That I should not feel myself compelled to inform Lady Oxford — ”
I stared at her in wonderment. “Whatever are you speaking of? It is only a boy. Observe! His lordship is waving him off! He is letting out more sail, and the wind has taken it! The water is too deep for the lad — he cannot reach the boat, and indeed, indeed, Lady Swithin, I believe the poor fellow is drowning!”
The Countess whirled on the instant, her eyes seeking the fair head as it bobbed, sank, and disappeared beneath the waves. Byron was staring resolutely in the opposite direction, out to sea; at least fifty yards now separated him from the desperate boy.
“Good God!” Mona cried. “Swithin — Swithin, do something, for all our sakes! Do you not see? There, in the wake of that vessel? It is Lady Caroline Lamb who is perishing in the sea!”
Chapter 9 A Remedy for Drowning
9 MAY 1813
BRIGHTON, CONT.
MY BROTHER HENRY, I KNEW, COULD NOT SWIM.
The Earl of Swithin’s fingers were already working at the buttons of his dark blue coat, however, and his hat was tossed on the paving at his feet. “Hullo the boat!” he cried towards Lord Byron’s diminishing vessel. “Byron! Lord Byron!”
I saw what he was about in an instant; Byron should be more likely to reach the drowning woman, did he abandon his vessel in an attempt to save her; but the wind carried Swithin’s words back into his throat.
Henry leapt from the Parade to the shingle below, and began to halloo in company with Swithin; but it was of little use. The only notice he secured was that of the fishwives who gutted the local catch on trestles set up near the sea, their skirts kirtled high about their waists and their heads wrapped in bright scarves. Several stilled their knives and stared up at us in wonderment, as tho’ we were drunken or mad.
“She surfaces!” Desdemona cried.
Her husband, boots discarded and clad only in pantaloons and linen shirt, pelted over the stony sand with the speed of a schoolboy; and as he plunged into the sea, fighting against the waves that dragged at his thighs, I saw the dark gold head of Lady Caroline Lamb — was it truly she? — rise like a seal’s and then disappear, almost instantly overwhelmed. Beside me, Desdemona was dancing
with anxiety and fear, muttering imprecations and encouragement, her eyes narrowed in a desperate attempt to locate Lady Caroline once more. I, too, was searching the serrated water frantically with my gaze; but the sodden curls did not reappear.
Lord Byron’s yacht, taken by the wind, had moved far from our party; he had tacked, I thought, and was visible as a gull-winged shape against the bright horizon. Had he known Caro Lamb could not swim? Had he wished her to die while he sailed onwards, indifferent? Could any man — however tormented by a discarded lover — be so callous as this?
But of course he could, I recollected. This was the same Lord Byron — the poet — who had abducted Catherine Twining in his carriage.
Desdemona had quitted the Parade to hasten after the gentlemen; she was straining towards her husband, just shy of the tide’s reach. I hastened to join Henry, who said, “I believe Lady Caroline has been submerged some minutes. Swithin will have to dive. Let us pray he has sufficient strength — I should never be equal to it. The force of the waves! I am all admiration for such a man.”
It was as Henry said: Swithin was drawing great breaths, then plunging fully under the sea. I had an idea of his eyes, blinded by salt water, searching the murky depths in frantic haste for the slim figure of the boy-girl. I found I was clutching at Henry’s arm with my gloved fingers in a manner that he might generally have regarded as painful, but appeared not to notice at this present; I heaved a shuddering sigh of dread, as tho’ my breath might supply the swimmers’.
Desdemona had begun to pace the sand, tossing anxious half looks towards the sea, and I sensed her mounting anxiety — where was Swithin? He had not resurfaced from his last dive. Had his strength flagged? His senses been suddenly overpowered?
“Henry,” I attempted —
But at that moment, Swithin’s head surged out of the waves and he shook it, like a dog. Under his left arm there was a white and limp shape — a neck, a dark blot of head; with his right arm he began the painful crawl back towards us.
“Pray God he is not too tired,” I breathed.
“Pray God that is not a corpse,” Henry returned. His lips were set in a thin line. “Damned foolish, Jane. Damned foolish. What can she have been thinking?”
I did not answer, but hurried towards Desdemona, who was now urging her husband on with every call of encouragement she could think of, entirely oblivious to the crowd of Fashionables that had gathered, slowly but inevitably, on the Marine Parade behind us. They could have no notion whose drama was played in the waves below them; they were drawn, rather, by the spectacle — and by the clear interest of our own anxiety, the fact that Henry and I were dressed in mourning, as tho’ the outcome of events were already certain. Some few of them would certainly recognise the Countess of Swithin.
“My lady,” I said, “we are the object of all Brighton. No one must be allowed to penetrate Lady Caroline’s disguise. Are we not agreed?”
She gave me a swift glance, then drew her fine Paisley shawl from her shoulders. “We shall wrap her in this. And carry her to our house — it is but a few steps off the Marine Parade. Only how are we to convey her?”
Swithin was standing in the shallows, now, his burden lifted in his arms; his lungs gasped for air and his stumbling legs sought a secure foothold. Soon, he would deposit Lady Caroline on the sand — and the moment of danger would be arrived.
“Henry!” I cried. “Fetch a chair! Surely there will be one standing before the Castle! A chair, and make haste!”
He dashed off on the instant, heedless of explanation. A stout pair of chairmen must suffice; hackney chaises were difficult to secure in Brighton. Time enough to fetch a doctor once we knew whether Caroline Lamb still breathed.
Desdemona went to her husband; he set down the frail figure and fell to his knees beside it. “Rub her limbs,” he urged. “Your vinaigrette, Mona — do you have it?”
She shook her head, mutely chafing Caro’s wrists; Desdemona had never been one for die-away airs, nor the remedies employed to defeat them. Hartshorn would be absent from her reticule as well. Burnt feathers might serve to bring Lady Caroline round — but where to procure them? I glanced about. The fishwives burnt charcoal near their trestles; perhaps the smoke from this would do? I hastened to beg a bit of coals, and as my half-boots trod the shingle, I caught sight of a veritable gull’s feather among the rocks. I snatched at it, lit the tip in the fishwives’ fire, and hurried back to my friends, my palm cupping the flame against the sea wind.
Swithin had turned Caro Lamb on her side, and was supporting her insensible form as she retched; he had been careful, I saw, to face his charge away from the curious who were massed on the Marine Parade. A few of these — gentlemen all — had ventured down onto the shingle; and one, in catching my eye, loudly enquired, “May one do anything? May one be of service?”
“It is only a local lad,” I returned as I handed my burnt feather to Desdemona, who waved it vigourously beneath Caro’s nose. “A cabin boy, off a fishing vessel. He ventured out too deep.”
The gentleman nodded, indifferent now, and turned back. I saw him convey the quelling news to others in his party, who swiftly related it to the rest; and of a sudden, the crowd began to disperse in as leisurely a fashion as it had gathered. There was nothing in the life or death of a cabin boy to excite the interest of the Great.
“She breathes,” Desdemona whispered.
And indeed, the small chest rose slightly and fell; some life remained unextinguished.
My brother’s figure appeared on the low wall that separated Parade from sand; he lifted his arm in salute.
“The chair is come,” I murmured in a low voice.
“Excellent,” Swithin said. “Your shawl, now, Mona, if you please. I shall carry her; the weight is no more than our son’s.”
The frail face — like a faerie’s or a sleeping child’s — was still insensible as the Earl conveyed Lady Caroline across the sand. I had read of her looks in every newspaper in the land — how she was called the Sprite, in respect of her ethereal grace and a certain fey quality to her character. But in her looks I saw desolation, rather — as tho’ some great flame had passed through her being and burnt away all substance, leaving but a husk.
The chair stood waiting between its stout fellows, under Henry’s anxious eye. The Earl shifted Lady Caroline gently within, and stepped back, that Desdemona might have the arranging of the Paisley shawl. As the Countess’s hands secured the folds, Lady Caroline’s eyelids fluttered.
“Am I drowned?” she muttered.
“No, my dear. You are saved. Hush, now.”
“He saved me?” The eyes, clear as agates, searched Desdemona’s face. “Mona Swithin — what are you doing here?”
“It was my husband who brought you out of the sea.”
The eyes closed; a tear seeped from one. Caro Lamb shuddered the length of her body as tho’ suffering an intolerable pain. “And so he sailed on! I should rather have died, Mona, than have it so.”
“Hush,” the Countess said again, and closed the chair door. “Number 21, Marine Parade,” she told the chairmen.
“My pantaloons are ruined,” Swithin said conversationally as the Irish carriers moved off. “And it is the first time I have worn them. I shall have Byron’s neck for this.”
WE PARTED FROM THE EARL AND HIS LADY BEFORE THEIR door, having secured from them a promise of swift news of Lady Caroline’s health — and our assurances, in return, that we should be delighted to dine with them on the morrow. We should not be attending the Assembly at the Castle, of course — for two such figures as ourselves, deep in the throes of mourning, it could not be seemly to dance. But a private dinner among friends, and an early evening of retirement while the music drifted up from the floors below — there could be nothing objectionable in this.
“Besides, Jane,” Henry said as we achieved our inn, ravenous for our well-earned nuncheon, “I shall not be deprived of every detail the Swithins learn of Lady Caroline’s exploits
— whether she comes down to dinner, or keeps to her room as solitary as a nun! I feel I have won such intelligence by my exertions today. I was in a quake the whole time, in the belief that if Swithin failed, I must be hurled into the breach next — and you know how many victims the fishwives should have had to rescue then!”
“Only think how dull our days would be, Henry, had we chosen Lyme over Brighton,” I said thoughtfully. “There is a deceptive mildness about this place — and yet so much passion beneath the surface!”
I meant the words in jest; but they bore a prophetic quality I learnt to regret.
Chapter 10 Friends in High Places
MONDAY, 10 MAY 1813
BRIGHTON
MONDAY DAWNED IN LOWERING CLOUDS AND RAIN.
The bed in this chamber is hung with heavy curtains — very grand, to be sure, but nothing I am accustomed to at home; I do not draw them when I sleep, and thus was afforded a glimpse of heaving grey seas beyond my window from the moment I awoke. It was a desolate sight, and made plain the truth that few enjoyed the pleasures of Brighton in winter; it should prove a dreary clime. I was happier when my gaze fell on Betsy, kneeling at the hearth with her kindling and tinder-box in full employ; there was a damp chill to the room that a cheerful fire should soon dispel. I raised myself up on my pillows, and at this slight sound the chambermaid turned, dusted off her hands, and rose with a hesitant smile.
“Would you be wanting your tea, then, ma’am?”
“That would be delightful,” I said.
I recall a time when I was perennially addressed as Miss; but those days are sadly fled.
She rubbed her hands on her apron and disappeared into the passage, returning seconds later with the silver tray; I humped up my knees under the bedclothes, held the delicate porcelain cup to my lips, and allowed the scent of China Black to drift gratefully to my nostrils. There is such a luxury in being waited upon of a morning, that I shall hardly know how to endure the return to Chawton, where Cassandra is abroad at the first cock-crow, tending to her poultry and her little dogs, and it is my office to walk down the village lane to procure the day’s bread. I am content with such a life, of course — the gentle habits of the country entirely suit my need for quiet reflection, and provide endless studies of character, in the subtle turns of Fate that are visited upon the village’s inhabitants — but an interval of harmless dissipation, of gazing upon the rain without the slightest need of going out, safe in the knowledge that no one should make a claim upon my attention until the dinner hour at least — was bliss to savour.
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