Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron jam-10

by Stephanie Barron

  But Caro Lamb ignored her. Her queer, light eyes were fixed entirely on Lady Oxford, and as I watched, a smile quirked at her mouth—not with malice, but with the threat of uncontrollable laughter.

  “Poor Aspasia! Did you believe his lies? Did you truly think he never met that wretched girl?”

  “Go away, Caroline,” her ladyship spat. “I have nothing at all to say to you.”

  The smile widened. “What fools we women are! I have an idea of the two of you, in your Herefordshire idyll; your complacent and stupid husband absent for weeks at a time; the fireside in January, the hectic conversation over books—laughing until you died at how easily you had rid yourselves of me, wretched little Caro Lamb, with her broken heart and hysteric looks—How nobly poor William stands by her! And you, believing all his lies, believing when he claimed he had never had a lover quite as rich as you, content to think a callow youth of four-and-twenty fascinated by your worldliness … for he, who is older in his bitterness than recorded time, is too adept at playing the callow youth.… Telling yourself that it was right and just he should worship a woman whose teeth are almost all dropt out!—A woman, moreover, taken in love by so many others that she has long since given up reckoning the countless pokes she’s suffered in the night—”

  “Lady Caroline!” Desdemona cried.

  The severe figure on horseback, as tho’ backed with military steel, tossed her head defiantly. “Pathetic Aspasia. You are quite in the autumn of your reign, are you not? You require the lies. You beg for them, with your tit in his mouth. You wish to think them purest Truth! Whereas I hear the golden words that drip from his blessèd lips and love them for their sheer deceit. I cherish them for their mockery, their trickster’s toils. I am quite otherwise from you, dearest Jane—at whose knee I once sat, to learn the wisdom of the World. You require his lies, the better to hide from yourself—whereas I hear them in order to know exactly how degraded I am become.”

  “Shut up, Caroline,” Lady Oxford muttered; but there was violence in her words.

  Lady Caroline had begun to sob: dry, wracking sobs that lifted her frail breast as tho’ a vast bellows filled it.

  “Make him tell you!” she shrieked. “Make him tell you how he loved the Twining girl to the point of madness! He could not bear to keep away—flying south from your arms to haunt the lanes and rooms she frequented. He could not endure her unsullied innocence—the childlike purity of her tender frame—he wished for nothing more than to ravish her, and break that innocence on a stone!”

  I saw Lady Oxford wince. Then she stiffened, as tho’ some barbed point had found its home in her flesh. “I do not believe it,” she whispered, groping for her friend’s hand like a palsied ancient. “Mona—Tell me she lies.”

  The black colt jibbed, and backed; the little hands must have clenched on the reins.

  “Did you know,” Lady Caroline queried in the mildest amusement, “when you pressed your chaise upon him for the ease of his travels—poor boy, he worked so long into the night, scrawling verses for his Leila, he ought to take refreshment, he ought to steal a day or two in sailing o’er the seas—Did you know that it was to her he coursed, in your golden carriage? Her, he bound by wrist and mouth, to carry off to Gretna, for a Border wedding? She would not have him, Aspasia, by fair means or foul. Innocence is innocence still, that can reckon up the lies and find them short in weight. She threw all his passion in his face—and still she was his Leila! Not you!”

  All around us, a hush had fallen over carriage and horse alike, every fashionable head averted, but nonetheless in thrall to the slight figure who sat her mount as brutally as any Cassandra, crying doom to Agamemnon’s house. There had been nothing to equal the charm of this Season in Brighton for a decade, at least!

  A tall figure thrust its way through the crowd; the Earl of Swithin, come to claim his lady at last. I saw his broad frame, his unbowed head, with profound relief; but even Swithin’s face was white at the scene he had been forced to witness. He paid no heed to Caro Lamb, merely slapping the flank of her colt from his path, his eyes fixed on Desdemona’s phaeton.

  “Have we not a race to run?” he cried. “The gun is about to fire!”

  All heads swung as one towards the far end of the course, past the spectator stand, some fifty yards distant from our position, where a ragged line of seven horses fretted and sidled at the starter’s mark; and then, an indeterminate figure raised its arm and triggered a duelling pistol.

  The thunderous pack shot forward.

  I had no idea which was China Trade. For an instant—or even an hour, perhaps, so thoroughly is one’s sense of time suspended in contemplating a race—the horses seemed barely to move at all as they advanced upon us; we could not easily gauge their speed or distance in staring directly at them. Once they had swept past our position, however, in a surge of pounding flanks and striving forelegs, their jockeys crouched at their necks, whips flying, the sensation of speed was immediate. And suddenly one horse had leapt a stile, and another, and a third—

  “That is China Trade,” Mona murmured for my benefit; “the neat little bay with the small head and long neck. She is not so powerful as a stout hunter, mind, but she is built for speed—and leaps every obstacle like a gazelle, Swithin says.”

  I strained my gaze to distinguish the mare, flying away from us towards the far end of the course; it seemed to my eye that she was gaining. I had quite forgot Lady Caroline Lamb in all the excitement of the turf—but she obtruded suddenly and emphatically on my notice.

  “Hola, Sir!” she cried.

  The black colt surged powerfully forward, past our phaeton and into the mounted crowd before us; I thought with thankfulness that her ladyship had done hounding the Countess of Oxford for a moment.

  “Dear God,” Mona muttered. “What queer start will she next attempt?”

  And it was true: Caro Lamb did not merely seek a better position from which to view the race. With a slackening of her hold on the reins and a kick to her mount’s belly, she shot through the assembled viewers and dashed headlong out onto the course.

  The pack was long since gone, but Caro paid no heed—throwing herself flat along the black colt’s neck, the reins loosed as tho’ she wished to be run away with, she gave the horse its head—and galloped straight at the first stile.

  “She’ll break her neck,” Lady Oxford said grimly; and I was surprized to find no hint of satisfaction in her voice.

  “Not Caro,” Mona replied. “She has hunted her whole life with the Duke of Devonshire—I am sure there is nothing she will not throw her heart over.”

  And indeed, the black colt had carried her safely beyond the first three obstacles in the course; to my amazement, the gap between Caro and the rest of the field was shortening.

  “That’s a devilish fine horse,” I heard Sir John call out from beside Mrs. Alleyn’s curricle; “what do you say, Hodge, to a side bet on the black colt?”

  “Ten pounds on Lady Caroline to place!” Hodge replied.

  And all around us, a feverish spate of betting commenced, with gentlemen hastening towards the little knot of men whose employment it was to record such wagers, and tally the winnings.

  Fragments of intelligence drifted over our heads … one horse was down on the far side of the course, beyond our view; Lord Wyncourt’s had refused a hedge. There was no word of China Trade.

  “How much to see the lady thrown?” a random voice called from the crowd; and a guffaw went up amidst the more vulgar members.

  Three horses were rounding the final curve in the course. A last fence remained, with a broken trunk beyond it—as deadly and as frightening a jump as any I had ever witnessed. One head rose up, shoulders bunched and forelegs dangling—the neat little mare with the long neck. Her mount was clinging like a monkey to her back, a diminutive fellow in the Earl of Swithin’s colours. As I watched, her body seemed to extend—to soar—and both fence and twisted mesh of fallen tree branches were behind her. A cheer went up as the
mare laid back her ears, extended her head, and flew for home.

  And behind her—

  The black colt, with Lady Caroline’s Prussian blue train lying like a flag along its back.

  She was perfectly positioned as her mount took the final fence, her frail figure aligned with the horse’s as it leapt; and there was no doubt of the heedless courage in every fibre of both creatures’ beings. I had no doubt they moved, in that instant, as one; which made the horrendous destruction that followed almost incomprehensible. The colt cleared the fence, but sailed just short of the vicious trunk; his hind legs caught in a tree limb; the horse staggered, fell forward on its knees, and somersaulted—with Caro Lamb going straight over its neck.

  A moan of horror went up from our assembled crowd; and for an instant, all breath and movement was suspended. I saw, as in a dream, China Trade swirl across the finish; saw her jockey pull up his heaving mount in expectation of universal acclaim—and watched, as horror freed its grip, the first of the gentlemen bolt past the victorious mare in the direction of the insensible lady lying prone on the ground.

  “As I observed,” Lady Oxford said drily, “the wretched fool has broken her neck. How in God’s name are we to explain it to William Lamb?”

  Desdemona made as if to descend from her carriage, but her husband’s hand on her wrist stopped her.

  “Stay,” he said. “I shall go. You can do nothing there.”

  The black colt had scrambled to its feet but stood all of a huddle, head hanging, one back leg pulled up as tho’ in agony. Several gentlemen had reached Lady Caroline, and knelt about her; one of them called, in an agitated accent, “She breathes!”

  “Praise God,” Lady Oxford murmured; and again, I was startled at her charity.

  A crack, as of a pistol shot, rang out—and I saw to my horror the beautiful black colt crumple to the ground, with a shudder as profound as thunder—a ruin to Lady Caroline’s whims. It was the starter’s pistol that had done it; and a gentleman stood a moment over the pitiable creature, staring at its noble head, pistol dangling, before turning away.

  “I suppose the hind leg was broken in the tree,” Lady Oxford said with a slight catch in her voice. “I cannot bear to see it—a hunter of mine went in just such a way, some years since, when I rode with the Quorn.[20] God forgive us for the way we use our beasts.”

  “I hope He may find it in His heart to forgive Lady Caroline, at least,” I murmured. “She drove that colt to its destruction.”

  Lady Oxford was silent a moment. “I have often thought it is herself she wishes to destroy. But until that day—Caro will be content to smash everything near her,” she said.

  Chapter 20 The Green-Eyed Monster

  WEDNESDAY, 12 MAY 1813

  BRIGHTON, CONT.

  I MAY BE FORGIVEN IF I CONFESS THAT AFTER SO EXHAUSTING a day, replete with inquests, seductive poets, duelling inamoratas, and suicidal races, I looked for nothing more engaging than an early dinner and an inviting bed. First, however, I was required to witness Lady Caroline Lamb’s retirement from the field—sensible at last, and carried aloft on a hurdle, with her riding habit trailing to the ground like a heroine out of Shakespeare.

  I must observe, as an aside, that I am forever put in mind of the stage when I am treated to one of Caro Lamb’s scenes; and I am hardly alone in this. Her life is lived on so dramatic a plane that the theatre cannot be far from one’s thoughts. This reflection leads me inevitably to another: Does the air of High Tragedy persist, even when the lady is entirely alone, and playing only to her mirror?

  I should like a private interview with Lady Caroline—she betrayed herself as so completely in possession of the history of Catherine Twining, when she chose to spar with Lady Oxford, that I imagine she gained rather more of the child’s confidence than she admitted at the inquest. It is even possible she might say more of her parting from Catherine—the exact hour and circumstance that left the poor girl without escort home to Church Street—if properly managed.

  And what, I wonder, is the significance of the name Leila? We two shall have much to discuss, once Caro’s shattered frame is on the mend.

  I say shattered, but in truth she broke no bones, being but shaken to her core. The ground dealt a shocking blow to the head; she took leave of her senses; and was less than coherent for several hours after, according to general report. Lord Wyncourt—whose horse had come to grief without the necessity of being shot—was kind enough to bear Caro Lamb back to the Pavilion in his laudaulet; and it was from his words the intelligence soon emanated the length and breadth of Brighton, which had seen nothing to equal her ladyship’s display since the Regent had grown too fat to gallop over the Downs.

  I shudder to think what must have been Caro’s reception, once the news of the black colt’s end was received at the Pavilion. The Regent’s love for his horses is everywhere known—and is said to exceed even his love of women. His Royal Highness cannot, in good conscience, despatch an injured lady post-haste back to London, even were the magistrate to allow it; but it is certain that Caro Lamb is in disgrace, and shall be barred from the stables so long as she remains in the town.

  “What a race, eh, Jane?” my brother crowed as Mona backed and turned her phaeton in preparation for quitting the meeting-ground. Henry was standing with deceptive insouciance beside China Trade, as tho’ he had been an intimate of Lord Swithin’s this age, a privileged friend and sporting companion.

  How Eliza should have loved the picturesque! I thought with a pang. And almost forgave her betrayal.

  The sprightly mare’s bay coat was darkened with sweat, but she appeared to regard the exertion so little, as to be ready to try a second round of the course. The Earl’s countenance had regained its colour, and he met a hail of felicitations from the gentlemen whose wagers he had justified, with becoming relish.

  The ladies of the party, I may disclose, accomplished the return to Brighton in subdued spirits. Desdemona was disposed to exclaim about Caro Lamb and her mad behaviour, and I might have seconded her observations with praise of the Earl’s game little jumper, had not Lady Oxford’s demeanour silenced us both. Her ladyship was lost in distraction, and that the tendency of her thoughts ran to Lord Byron, and all that Lady Caroline had disclosed, was revealed by her asking abruptly, “Does George truly mean to dine with you tonight, Mona, or is that but a falsehood as well?”

  Desdemona shot me a sidelong look—I was wedged between the two Countesses—and said diffidently, “I depend upon his appearance, as he accepted the invitation with alacrity only this afternoon. He was most solicitous for your welfare, Jane, I assure you—being well aware that the Regent is no great favourite of yours, and that it is His Royal Highness who sets the tone of Society in Brighton. Byron had no wish to see you come to hammer-and-tongs with Prinny over Princess Caroline.”

  “—He did not wish to see me snubbed, you mean,” Lady Oxford returned. “It would never do for the acknowledged maîtresse of so celebrated a poet, to receive the cut direct from all Brighton. Pray speak plainly, Mona. Does he dread my coming?”

  “What?” her ladyship exclaimed, as tho’ outraged. “George, dread to see the lady nearest his heart? Do not be a goosecap, my dear! You cut your Wisdoms too long ago!”

  It was perhaps unfortunate that Mona should have invoked Lady Oxford’s age, at such a moment, when her friend required only reassurance; it was done entirely without malice, however, as the unfortunate adoption of cant expressions usually is—with frequent disastrous effect.

  “Yes, I’m rather more than seven,” her ladyship observed acidly; and to my horror, she began to weep. Mona, on my left hand, was entirely unaware of the distress she had caused. Tears streamed silently down Lady Oxford’s cheeks, trailing through the powder and rouge her ladyship employed—which can only have served as salt in her wounds. I drew a clean handkerchief from my reticule and wordlessly offered it. Lady Oxford mopped delicately at her face.

  “I have known Caroline Lamb long enough
to declare that while she is an accomplished little liar, she rarely tries it on in publick,” she told us. “Every word she uttered today, whether in a whisper or a screech, was potently true, was it not, Mona?”

  “I could not undertake to say,” stammered the Countess of Swithin. “Certainly as regards the more intimate of her barbs, I cannot be allowed to have an opinion.”

  Lady Oxford made a dismissive gesture with her hand; my black-hemmed square of lawn fluttered away behind the dashing phaeton. “But the gist of it, Mona: Byron was in love with the girl?—This Twining chit? And has been deceiving me liberally the whole spring long? When I believed him besotted—”

  The Countess of Swithin was silent an instant, as tho’ marshalling her arguments. I may say that despite the necessity of preserving her wits and temper in the face of her friend’s turbulent spirits, she continued to drive her demanding team to the very inch, for which I was no end grateful.

  “Who can tell what George Gordon truly feels in that place he claims for a heart?” she declared at last. “Never having penetrated it, my dear, I should not attempt to say. Certainly he conceived a passion for Catherine Twining—but whether as a man, or a poet inspired by a particular muse, who knows? The girl was the merest child! And he has always been enslaved by ladies of more … experience … and … and maturity … as you know. Such innocence as Catherine displayed could not have captivated him long.”

  Lady Oxford drew a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. She ought to have been reassured by her friend’s words, but her face was become a mask, distracted and anxious; Desdemona had only increased her misery.

  “With those of Byron’s stamp,” her ladyship persisted, “it must be enough to figure in his imagination; one can never hope to possess it solely, as one might with a lesser Genius. You have been Aspasia, your little daughter has been Ianthe—must you strive to be his Leila too?”

  There it was, again: that haunting name, so evocative of climes far from England’s shores. Caro Lamb had caught it; from Byron himself—or Catherine Twining?