When another little Portal should be safely established in the nursery.
“Eliza Chute will be chasing with the men this morning,” Mary observed. “Never having occasion for an indisposition in her life.”
It is possible Mary intended merely to refer to Eliza Chute’s excellent health; but the suggestion that Eliza had declined to bear children because she preferred to gallop, could not be ignored. I observed Lucy Portal’s eyes to widen.
“Do not be waspish, Mary,” my mother suggested serenely. “It cannot recommend you to your friends, and must provide fodder for your enemies.”
“I should be glad, indeed, to know that Mrs. Chute is recovered from the shocks of this past week,” Lucy hurried to say, “and that all your party was no worse for having been treated to such unpleasantness.”
The good manners that had prevented her from broaching the subject of murder at her own dinner table, were no impediment to canvassing the subject in the intimacy of a coach. And that swiftly, perfect accord was achieved between Lucy Portal and Mary. All that could be heard on the subject by one, and all that could be told on the part of the other, swiftly ensued; and the three of us who shared the facing seat, uttered not a word. It is possible that our thoughts on The Vyne were less easy to convey than Mary’s—for our concerns must always be for others, and not solely ourselves. I was treated once more to a novelist’s valuable lesson, however—in apprehending that one’s perception of plot and character are influenced entirely by one’s own experience. To hear Mary tell the story of our Christmas at The Vyne, one would have thought that she was hounded by violence from first to last—perceived more than anybody of the nature of the probable murderer—and barely escaped with her life. It was a lesson in writerly humility. We are each the heroines of our own lives.
SHERBORNE ST. JOHN IS pretty enough, with its venerable church, St. Andrew’s; its neat village green, surrounded by cottages; and its single publick house, the Swan. This is nearly two hundred years old, and has witnessed the gathering of The Vyne Hunt for a number of decades. This morning the scene was all animation—with any number of our acquaintance mounted upon horses of varying strengths and mettle. Most were gentlemen, in leather breeches and top boots, with frequently a pink coat to be seen; but a few of the dashing riders were female, their long skirts fanned charmingly over their mounts’ backs. I espied Eliza—her habit was garnet-coloured wool, with black frogs, and a curly-brimmed beaver. She must have espied me at exactly the same moment, for she raised her whip in her gloved hand.
“There is Sir William Heathcote,” my mother exclaimed, as she gazed out of the carriage window. We had pulled up near the lower end of the green, due to the press of horsemen before us. “All the way from Hursley Park—and at his age too!”
I saw Cassandra suppress a smile; Sir William was nearly ten years younger than Mamma.
“He looks very well,” I observed, “and has an excellent seat. For an elderly fellow.”
“I believe that the baronet is a guest at Beaurepaire,” Lucy Portal said. This was a very ancient manor near Sherborne St. John owned by the Brocas family, who fought with the Black Prince at Poitiers and Crécy. “I invited them to dine with us last evening, but they very properly declined a journey of ten miles, on an evening without a moon. See, there is Sir Bernard Brocas, on the black gelding, beside his friend.”
I ignored the Brocas baronet, but eyed Sir William with interest; it was his son of the same name who had married—and widowed far too young—my dear friend Elizabeth Bigg. She had returned to her girlhood home of Manydown some five years ago—and there she must remain, now that dear John Harwood is too ruined to marry her.11
We quitted the coach and stepped down onto the sparkling grass of the village green—where the snow had fallen yesterday, was this morning the remains of a black frost, and the air was decidedly chill at our noses. The gentlemen of our party dismounted and walked their hunters slowly into the throng, hailing their acquaintance; I saw James throw his arm round his son and present him with pride to numerous fellows. This was something like a schoolboy’s holiday from Winchester!
“Tally-ho, Austens!”
Eliza’s animated voice, carrying across the green. She was on foot, her long train looped over her arm, and slightly breathless from negotiating the crowd. “Mrs. Austen, I have not time to do the pretty as I ought—but allow me to beg you most earnestly to join us, along with all your party at Steventon, on Twelfth Night for our Children’s Ball.”
“You mean to go forward?” my mother cried, clapping her hands. “I am so glad I did not undertake to quit the parsonage this morning. I should have missed all the fun!”
“Nonsense! Your beautiful cards of invitation had all gone out already; and we are owed a little enjoyment, I think, after all our trials,” Eliza retorted robustly. “I depend upon you coming to us tomorrow and staying the next two nights—for we have all our arrangements to consider, and will require considerable preparation. Jane must advise me on Characters—and Cassandra will be wanted about the costumes. Mary, of course, may offer her suggestions as to our menu.”
This last trailed away on an uncertain note, as tho’ Eliza had only just recollected Mary’s presence.
We offered our eager thanks and promised our assistance.
“Do not forget to bring James-Edward and Caroline,” Eliza called over her shoulder. “I should not have Jemima miss our revels for worlds!”
And then, through a parting in the mill of hunters and horseflesh, I saw him. Mr. Raphael West.
He was holding the bridle of a pretty little mare with an Arab head, who stood docilely enough by his side. Not far away was William Chute in his Master’s garb, and a few paces behind, holding the reins of two more horses—Mr. Benedict L’Anglois. I supposed one could not be a truly first-rate secretary, unless one could ride to hounds.
A lady on horseback passed between us then, veiling the grouping from my sight. Mr. West, returned so soon from his business! And ready, apparently, to gallop through coverts in search of a fox! It did not appear that intrigues of French spies claimed too much of his time; and had there not been the memory of the bodies in the Chapel, I might have believed he invented the whole, to pass a tedious interval among spinsters in the country.
Another instant, and I found that he was bowing in front of our party, his horse left in charge of L’Anglois.
“Mrs. Austen,” he said cheerfully. “Mrs. James Austen, and Miss Austen, Miss Jane Austen—I do not have the honour of knowing your friend.”
Mary smoothly intervened here, and made Mr. West her gift to bestow upon Lucy Portal; and our acquaintance from The Vyne as well as the celebrated painter Mr. Benjamin West’s son, were offered for her delectation. Mrs. Portal dimpled at West and curtseyed. “The honour is mine,” she said gracefully. “I have long admired your father’s genius.”
How tedious it must be, to be welcomed always for one’s father’s sake.
“You ladies do not ride?” His gaze and his politeness were general; those probing eyes barely grazed my countenance.
“Only the gentlemen, sir,” Lucy replied.
“Then I shall hope to find you later, established in the Swan,” he said gallantly, “when we have galloped back, shivering and hopeless. No fox worth his pelt will poke his nose out-of-doors, on such a freezing day! Mrs. James Austen, I must beg you to hurry inside, or you shall certainly catch your death!”
Sensible of the compliment he paid her, Mary walked immediately in the direction of the publick house; a servant stood in front of the entrance with a steaming cauldron of stirrup cup.
“Jane,” he muttered low when I would have passed with the others.
I saw Cassandra glance over her shoulder, and then walk on.
“Mr. West.”
“Do you think it wise to quit the protection of your brother? Anyone might strike at you in this crowd. It should be as nothing to run you down with a horse, and claim an accident. Promise me you will not
stir out of the Swan alone until the gentlemen of your party are returned.”
I lifted my brows at him coolly. “You persist in believing me an object of violence, sir? I wonder, then, that you chose to quit the county these past several days.”
“I thought you safe in Steventon—and went in pursuit of certain information I would gladly share, when once this fox is run to ground. Look for me at the Swan.”
He touched the brim of his hat and wheeled away; William Chute was already mounted, and the hounds had been let slip from the carts in which they had been carried the three miles to Sherborne. They set off in a tightly coursing pack through the main street of the village, William Chute following behind. In a beautiful stream of colour and motion, the rest of the riders urged their horses after the Master of The Vyne, towards the open country and coverts beyond.
I flinched suddenly as a horse shied too near my head, and jumped back from the verge of the green. Anyone might strike at you in this crowd. Raphael West’s words echoed in my ears like a prediction.
I glanced up—Benedict L’Anglois, an expression of consternation on his handsome countenance as he struggled to control one of Chute’s high-spirited hunters. Perhaps he did not hunt so very much, after all. “Your pardon, Miss Austen!”
I waved my acknowledgement, and hurried to join the other ladies at their stirrup cup.
11 The Bigg-Wither family of Manydown House, six miles from Steventon, had some of Jane’s oldest friends. She briefly accepted the hand of Harris Bigg-Wither, Elizabeth’s younger brother, in marriage in 1802, before regretting her decision and breaking off the engagement. Jane was five years older than Harris, who was described as ungainly and prone to stuttering.—Editor’s note.
24
CUT DEAD
Monday, 2nd January 1815
Steventon Parsonage, cont’d.
We were a merry party in the Swan’s snug side parlour that wintry January morning. Any number of ladies had driven out to see their gentlemen trot off in negligent stile behind William Chute, and tho’ some might turn round directly and seek the comfort of their homes, those who lived too far distant were resigned to stay until the Hunt should return. The Swan’s affable proprietor, Mr. Gigeon, supplied us with milk punch, rashers of bacon, custard tarts and apple pastries, cheese from Cheddar and Frome, and slices of his own smoked ham. Those of us who had endured a lengthy carriage ride to reach Sherborne St. John were only too happy to sample Mr. Gigeon’s fare; and when his lady appeared with venison pie, hot from the oven, our happiness was complete.
“I do not intend to ask after brawn,” my mother confided as she sampled a custard tart. “I am sure the Swan’s must be superior; but I shall be treated to it upon another occasion, perhaps.”
A fire roared in the hearth; our situation was entirely private from the general run of the publick house’s patrons; and a dull sunshine picked out the lead in the old inn’s windowpanes. I seated myself on a settee near Cassandra whilst my mother renewed acquaintance with some friends from Deane, where the Harwoods lived. John Harwood, it seemed, had sold his father’s string of hunters—he could no longer support a stable, and was not to be found among the handsome company that had ridden out this morning. It must be gall and wormwood, to continue in a neighbourhood where one had been accustomed to figure as squire—and to have the entire world talking over your misfortunes.
“Were you happy to see Mr. Raphael West, Jane?” Cassandra enquired, breaking in upon my reflections.
I toyed with a slice of bacon. “No more than yourself, my dear. He is an engaging acquaintance, to be sure—with so much knowledge of the world, and of the people in it.”
“I wonder at his remaining in Hampshire so long,” she said slowly. “Surely it cannot require much more of his time, to capture William Chute’s likeness? His talents are so great—his hand so swift. I should labour a fortnight to express on paper what he achieves in a quarter-hour.”
I turned my head aside, so as not to appear to scrutinise my sister too closely. Cassandra has mourned her long-lost love, Tom Fowle, nearly twenty years—since his needless death of yellow fever in Santo Domingo. To my knowledge, she has never seriously entertained an attachment since. To her, Tom’s memory is sacred; her heart went into a tropick grave. Was it possible that her connexion with Raphael West—a man whose first love was also gone, and who shared her love of Art—had awakened a flame in the embers of Cass’s heart?
I could not follow the thought too nearly; it suggested the possibility of pain. I said only, “Mrs. Bramston informs me that Mr. West has lately been in London. He is only just returned to The Vyne from business there. I confess I am surprized he should chuse to reenter a house and a situation from which he was lately freed—but there is no accounting for the tastes of gentlemen, to be sure.”
“If he lost several days in his journey, perhaps he does require further poses of William Chute. There can be nothing else of importance to call him back here,” Cassandra said evasively.
Did she look to me for reassurance? Did she wish me to declare as boldly as my character might, that Mr. West had formed an attachment to shy, principled, retiring Cassandra and her tentative sketchbook—or to declare, rather, that he had returned to Hampshire for me?
I could neither support nor crush her hopes so entirely. I did not believe either conjecture to be true. I sensed in Raphael West a single-minded purpose, beyond the petty interests of those around him. He reminded me more strongly than any I had encountered since Lord Harold’s death, of that steely gentleman. Like the Gentleman Rogue, West’s intellect was engaged in a higher and more deadly game than mere courtship. He treated with the fate of Nations, and the men who would rule them. What were affairs of the heart, but indulgent distractions?
I would never set myself up as rival to Cassandra. It was a fond saying of my mother’s, when both of us were young, that if Cass were to be taken to have her head cut off, I would be clamouring for the treat, too. —So much did I always adore my elder sister. I will never have her goodness—I am cursed with a sharper mind, a more restless spirit, an unendurable dissatisfaction with the inequities of life. Cassandra is one of the Blessed. I should leave her in her little fever of happiness over Raphael West, and let time work the necessary correction.
AFTER AN HOUR OR so of lingering within doors, our group of ladies—some eleven in number, counting the folk from Deane—began to surfeit of food and indolence. My sister took out her sketchbook to capture the scene in charcoal. My mother unearthed her netting—she had embarked upon another reticule, a diminutive one intended for Jemima. I strolled to the window and gazed out upon the monochrome of January. A churned stableyard; the dark etching of elm and oak against a livid sky. I wondered whether I might hear a hunting horn or the baying of distant hounds, if I ventured out-of-doors—but no doubt the pack was miles distant by now.
“Should you like to take a turn along the lane, Miss Austen? The ground is rather dirty, but after so long an interval in the carriage, I confess I am wild to be in the air.”
Lucy Portal. Wild appeared to be a favoured word; and it captured the impulsive nature that shone from her open countenance. “I should be happy to. But are you well enough?”
“Perfectly—else I should not have suggested the scheme.”
If her indisposition was pregnancy, she was not very far along. I reached for my spencer, gloves, and bonnet, and told my mother I should return presently. I half-expected Mary to force herself upon us, but discovered that she was dozing in a chair by the fire. Cassandra lifted her finger to her lips in an appeal for silence. Lucy and I crept out of the side parlour.
She sighed with relief once we had gained the road in front of the village green. “There appear to be a few shops over there,” she said, gesturing vaguely, “but I confess that to be shopping is not at all what I intended. I want a brisk interval of exercise, which no amount of dawdling in front of milliners’ windows may supply.”
I declared myself of her
opinion, and so we set off in the direction the Hunt had taken that morning, towards the open country beyond the village.
“I am glad you were so good as to accompany me, Miss Austen, for I intend to interrogate you.”
“Indeed?” I returned politely.
“Ever since Mrs. James Austen let slip this morning that poor Miss Gambier is believed to have been murdered, I have been on the fidgets! You must know that we passed much of our girlhood together.”
“I did not. I am very sorry for your loss.” Of course Mary must be saying what she should not, in canvassing the sensation at The Vyne. I had barely overlistened her conversation in the carriage this morning, but her indiscretion could not surprize me.
“Miss Gambier was forever visiting Freefolk Priors, while old General Sir Mathew leased the manor from my husband’s father, Harry Portal. Miss Gambier’s mother was the General’s niece, you know.”
“I had forgot Mr. Portal’s father owned the General’s house!” I exclaimed. “And so your husband grew up there, before it was let?”
“In the old place. The manor at Freefolk Priors has since been pulled down. When the General died, John’s father built Laverstoke House new upon the site. John’s elder brother, William, lives there now. But I persist in thinking of the place as it was in the Mathews and Gambiers’ day. Which, of course, is my own!”
“You grew up in the same neighbourhood, I collect?”
“In Whitchurch, but a mile distant. I met my husband at the Basingstoke assemblies.”
They had much to answer for, those balls—James had fallen in love with Anne Mathew, the General’s daughter, at one of them.
“I fell out of my acquaintance with Mary Gambier,” Lucy Portal continued, “once I married. Our paths lay apart. But I was fortunate enough to discover her living in Bath about a year ago—we took a house in Laura Place, you know, while Ashe Park was being refurbished—and should have been happy to renew our friendship.”
“She was not?” I asked.
Lucy hesitated. “I should say rather that she was changed. The open character I recalled from our youth had become guarded and opaque. To call her aloof must suggest a conscious revulsion from my overtures; say rather that she barely noticed them. She appeared to me as one who had, in some measure, renounced Society and all its pleasures.”
Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas: Being a Jane Austen Mystery Page 21