The Duke's Agent

by Rebecca Jenkins

  ‘Mr Jarrett, will you escort me?’ Jarrett started at Henrietta Lonsdale’s brisk voice. She linked arms with him in a determined fashion and steered him towards Will and his wife.

  The young man greeted the pair with a shy smile.

  ‘I wish to thank you, Mr Jarrett, sir.’ He bent in an awkward bow. ‘Miss Henrietta told me you spoke for me before the magistrates.’

  ‘It was only justice, Will. I believe you would have prevented Sally Grundy’s death if you could,’ Jarrett responded.

  ‘That I would, sir.’ Will slid a shamefaced look at his silent wife. ‘She was never a bad lass, just wild,’ he mumbled.

  It seemed as if her release from the sergeant’s tyranny had begun to allow a personality to form in Mary Roberts’s anonymous face. Jarrett discerned a genuine flicker of annoyance at her husband’s mention of Sal.

  ‘What news of your father, Mrs Roberts?’ the agent asked gently.

  The child-woman looked to Will.

  ‘Should have known even fire couldn’t take the sergeant,’ Will commented.

  ‘Devil didn’t want company,’ muttered little Mrs Roberts.

  Will clasped her hand more firmly over his arm. ‘He’ll not rise from his bed again, Mr Jarrett.’ Will spoke with a new found assurance. ‘But we’ll see he’s looked after, Miss Lonsdale. I still know how to behave like a man, even after what he made of me.’

  ‘Are you to stay in Woolbridge, Will?’ Miss Lonsdale asked. The Swan Inn was hardly more than a shell after the fire. In Henrietta’s opinion neither Will nor his wife had the character for an alehouse life.

  ‘Smithy up Barningham way says he’s getting old. Ours is a good corner for business,’ the youth replied. ‘We’ll build a shop, he and I, and a decent dwelling. He’s a single man – he’ll come live with Mary and me and teach me the trade. He says I’ve the shoulders for it.’

  ‘You were right, Miss Lonsdale,’ Mr Jarrett remarked as they walked off together in search of Captain Adams. ‘Will Roberts is a good man. He has a sensible head on his shoulders. I wish him and his little wife well.’

  ‘As do I, Mr Jarrett. At least something good comes out of this sad business. I do not wish to sound devoid of human feeling,’ she reflected, ‘but I cannot help wishing that they had waited a little longer to pull the sergeant from the fire.’

  ‘Miss Lonsdale!’ Mr Jarrett exclaimed in mock reproof.

  ‘Mr Jarrett, I dislike hypocrites,’ the lady stated firmly. ‘I will say it plain. To my mind such sinful men as the sergeant, who prey on good men such as Will, are much better left to their Maker.’

  *

  More than two weeks had passed since the riot in the river quarter. Jarrett knelt before his campaigning trunk while Charles sat in the window seat watching him as he folded his blue regimental jacket.

  ‘Could Tiplady not do that?’

  ‘I sent him off on an errand. I had a fancy to do it myself,’ Raif replied.

  He had just returned from a journey to London to see the army’s medical men. They had pronounced him fit for service. He spread the coat in the trunk. The high collar stood up, its scarlet facings set off within silver lace. The 16th was not a swaggering regiment but he and his fellow officers wore the uniform with pride. Their service in the Peninsula could match that of any of the units fighting with Lord Wellington. He arranged the few books around the edges of the space, spines upmost. Dulles’s Mathematics, Percy’s Ancient Ballads, The Spanish Duty – Cocks had given him that volume the time they travelled together into southern Spain in the winter of 1810, a pleasure tour that had ended abruptly with Victor’s advance across the Sierra Morena. They had been caught out by that one. Sight-seeing had turned into scouting along the lines of the enemy’s march. Lying concealed to count troop movements in the distant dust and moving by night to avoid straggling parties of French dragoons.

  Charles handed him his telescope. ‘Fine instrument,’ he commented.

  ‘It is the one you procured from Dolland for me a couple of years ago – you always have had an eye for quality.’

  ‘Thought I recognised it.’

  ‘You sent it out at the same time as this old friend.’ Jarrett drew his sabre from its scabbard.

  ‘That I remember! Roomy in the handle and not too heavy at the point.’

  Jarrett chimed in and they spoke together. ‘And take care that the handle is not roughened with fish skin!’

  ‘You were most specific.’

  ‘And you procured me a very fine sword.’ It balanced sweetly in his hand, a deadly extension to the arm. Its very grip transmitted an echo of the sensation of battle; that flow of spirits when the mind is animated, the body exercised and all faculties fully employed in the simple, vital contest of staying alive or being conquered.

  There was a pair of sketch books on the floor, bound in Russian leather and each fastened with a metal clasp. Jarrett had no need to turn the pages to see their contents. He remembered every line and daub. His insufficient attempts to record colour and atmosphere and place wherever the army had taken him. The West Indies, the Walcheren swamps, the elegant cities of Spain and the stark mountains of Portugal. He placed the books in the trunk. The battered little travelling case containing his water colours and dwarf brushes he slipped into a pocket.

  He looked about the room.

  ‘What else? Ah, the map.’ Jarrett rested the canvas folding map of Spain and Portugal on top of the trunk. ‘All stowed away.’

  Charles leant forward and pointed to the bracelet of hair about Jarrett’s wrist.

  ‘And what about that?’

  ‘This?’ Raif traced the golden strands with a gentle finger, a half-smile warming his features. ‘No. Her I shall keep. That tie can never be severed. But she can go.’ He picked up his sketch of Black-Eyed Sal and threw it into the trunk, closing the lid smartly after it. He pulled the straps tight over the gold-leaf lettering: Capt. Jarrett 16th LD. He paused, resting a hand upon the trunk.

  ‘Have I done right, I wonder?’

  ‘I believe so.’ Charles was emphatic. ‘I know it is no simple path, but, as I have said before, your family supports you.’

  ‘A man cannot live solely within the ramparts of his family, Charles. To live a life one must face the world alone.’

  ‘Better face the world, then, than stand aside, measuring out your years in exile. Besides, who asks you to pay this price?’

  ‘It is the way of the world, as you well know. “The sins of the fathers …” and the mothers too.’ Jarrett fell silent, turning the bracelet of hair about his wrist, recalling the revelations that had made a bastard of him that year he turned twenty. ‘Knowledge changes us, Charles,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘Not materially.’ His cousin’s conviction broke into his isolation. ‘Knowledge cannot alter the quality of an honest man.’

  Jarrett’s eyes were affectionate as he searched his cousin’s face. ‘A man asked me the other day if I had the courage to live in this world.’

  ‘Courage? You? You are the soul of courage! Whoever this man was he was a knave and a fool!’ Charles was indignant.

  ‘A knave he is assuredly, but no fool. And he was wise in this. It takes one kind of courage to ride to face death in the enemy’s fire but another sort entirely to take on the world.’

  ‘And you have sufficient courage of both sorts.’

  ‘Do you think? Well, I have done the deed now. I have sold out. It is farewell to the uniform and farewell to fighting King George’s battles!’ Raif Jarrett gave his bound trunk a smart tap and rose to face his cousin with a wry smile. ‘Time to come home and fight some of my own.’

  ‘About time, indeed!’ Charles responded. ‘I have missed you these last years.’

  EPILOGUE

  It was one of those grand days when the light seems to keep the observer at a distance, displaying the landscape as some exquisite masterpiece to be wondered at and admired. In between the rich, golden sweep of the harvested fields the decad
ent green of the late summer trees was powdered with russet – that first precursor of autumn. A collection of carriages and somnolent horses clustered under an oak in view of the old manor house, their coachmen and attendants sitting about them in the burnished grass. The manor, crouching within the rosy circle of its brick wall, was under siege. The century had come to strip away the clutter of the past. The five yew trees were felled and their roots grubbed up. The new light poured in on carpenters, plasterers and masons, busy banishing the house James Crotter had left.

  ‘I designed the staircase myself – drawing inspiration from some notions I came upon in Rome.’

  The Marquess spread his plans on a trestle table between the fluted columns of the new entrance hall, Mr Jarrett’s guests gathering around him. There was Colonel Ison, supporting Lady Catherine who lurked under a frivolous bonnet. Sir Thomas waved a lorgnette above a finely penned detail of an arch, while Mrs Lonsdale fixed her mournful eyes on the young Marquess with dog-like devotion. Jarrett caught Miss Lonsdale surreptitiously dabbing a handkerchief to her eye beside him.

  ‘It is just the dust, Mr Jarrett,’ she whispered, blinking at him.

  ‘May I escort you outside?’ he murmured back. ‘Perhaps you find this rather dull work – I do myself.’

  ‘I should like that, Mr Jarrett.’

  They slipped away without advertising their departure, like guilty children. As they stepped outside Miss Lonsdale paused to despatch her groom on an errand. Jarrett took her arm, and they strolled about the carriage circle while they waited for the man to return.

  The house was seething with works. There were men on their knees tearing up weeds, men in aprons wheeling barrows and others up scaffolding wielding hammers and chisels, all filling the air with bustle and noise. Henrietta contemplated the confusion.

  ‘Lord Earewith has enthusiasm,’ she remarked.

  ‘Indeed.’

  She slid her companion a quizzical side glance and he grinned.

  ‘I have to confess I feel the charm of my little cottage.’ Jarrett held himself up in gentle parody. ‘As Charles would have it, I will ever stick to my simple folly. But,’ he expelled an exaggerated sigh, ‘now that I have exchanged my regimentals for the garb of a man of affairs – a Duke’s agent must live like a gentleman; one owes it to the neighbourhood.’

  Her calm face grew serious. ‘You do not find your folly a melancholy place, Mr Jarrett?’

  He glanced down at her with a half-smile. ‘I have no fear of ghosts, Miss Lonsdale.’ He looked out across the bow of land leading down towards the river and the trees that hid the bridge. ‘Even ghosts can have their charm.’

  She wondered at his wistful tone. Her grey eyes watched him with a tinge of sadness. ‘She was a vividly beautiful girl.’

  ‘Vivid!’ He was startled. ‘Yes, vivid.’ He confirmed his words with a thoughtful nod. ‘Sally Grundy was a vivid sort of creature.’

  ‘Whenever I laid eyes on her,’ Henrietta began, ‘I found myself thinking – there is a girl who loves life. It is painful to think of her end.’

  The groom approached and handed his mistress a book bound in red morocco.

  ‘I have brought something for you, Mr Jarrett.’ She laid the book in his hand. ‘Your Volpone. Do you recall, you promised to explain?’

  ‘So I did, Miss Lonsdale – and I shall.’

  He turned the volume over in his hands. She watched a private look close over his face like a shutter. She felt as if she were present at an intimate moment and wondered if she was trespassing.

  ‘This is to do with Sally Grundy’s end,’ he said. His keen eyes met hers almost shyly. The recognition made her heart jump. Suddenly he resumed their walk so she had to give a little skip to catch up.

  ‘It seemed so incomprehensible.’ He was utterly focused on his thoughts. ‘The tale Miss Walton and Will Roberts told – I do not mean to suggest they lied. I simply could not believe in the notion of Sally Grundy out of her mind with misery and passion on the rock that night.’

  He opened the book and began to search out a passage. ‘Something bothered me when listening to their testimony and then I recalled a passage Lady Yarbrook rehearsed in my hearing. Listen to this.

  Oh God, and his good angels! Whither, whither,

  Is shame fled human breasts? That with such ease

  Men dare put off your honours, and their own?

  Is that, which ever was a cause of life,

  Now placed beneath the basest circumstance,

  And modesty an exile made, for money?’

  ‘“Oh God, and his good angels!”’ she repeated. In her eagerness she grasped his arm. ‘Maggie heard her speak those very words!’

  Delighted with her quick understanding he laid his own hand over hers.

  ‘And Will said she cried about shame and men putting off their honours. They were both so sure she was possessed. Do you recall – Will even said she was not speaking her own words.’

  Miss Lonsdale glanced down at her hand. The fresh air became her. There was a pretty flush to her cheeks. Jarrett took a brief step back and continued as if there had been no pause.

  ‘Then there was an odd thing the actor Mulrohney said. He told me that the last he saw of Sal that Wednesday, before the night of the storm, she called to him that she was off to give a performance.’ For a brief moment he saw again those dark eyes full of mischief under the brim of her gypsy hat. ‘His words were: she was swinging away down the lane, as light as a bird. How could that be a picture of a woman sent mad by grief and shame? I believe Sally Grundy was playing a scene that night. A piece of mischief, if you like. She wanted to frighten her old suitor a little – a good-humoured game in revenge for Robert’s jilting her.’

  He stole a glance at his companion’s elegant face. It puzzled him that he should be able to talk so freely to her. Could a man become friends with a woman? Miss Lonsdale was watching him with a studying look.

  ‘It is just a notion, of course. I barely encountered the wench but she seemed to have – how can I put it – a theatrical quality about her.’

  Henrietta hesitated. ‘I suppose … Indeed I have wondered more than once whether Sal was sincere or play-acting! Although there was not a particle of malice in the girl that I could see,’ she added hurriedly, not wishing to be misunderstood. A little frown pleated her forehead as she turned the idea over in her mind. ‘It seems absurd that the girl should go to such lengths – and yet … mischief …’ She paused.

  ‘What are you thinking of, Miss Lonsdale?’

  ‘Something I overheard Mrs Grundy say while she was grieving by Sal’s body. I fancied I heard her ask: What has your mischief brought you to?’

  They stopped side by side, contemplating the view towards the river gorge where the white rock lay screened by trees.

  ‘Sal’s last performance in Woolbridge before she left for a new life.’

  ‘And she just slipped and fell to her death.’ Henrietta was indignant. ‘What an absurd waste, Mr Jarrett! To die playacting. What a tragic little fool!’

  ‘No. No, Miss Lonsdale,’ he protested. ‘I cannot think of Sally Grundy as tragic. Her death was, certainly; but she – to me she remains a vivid girl. Her death cannot rob her of that.’

  The living woman at his side drew a deep breath.

  ‘You should paint her, Mr Jarrett. Work up that sketch you did. I thought it very fine.’

  He wondered what had caused her change of tone. Perhaps she did not approve of artists.

  ‘We should go back,’ she said almost briskly. ‘I believe Lord Earewith’s tour has finished.’

  They turned away from the river.

  Across the bowl of the valley pink puffs of cloud decorated the margins of a limpid blue sky. The soft sweep of land was green and old gold: everything as it should be under a perfect English heaven. It made the heart ache with the impossibility of ever achieving anything half so glorious. Jarrett saw his guests scattered before the house, diminutive figures in a toy
theatre. There was Lady Catherine, her eccentric shape peeping up at Charles, who bowed over her with one hand behind him, flirting as if she were sweet and twenty. And in the doorway, Sir Thomas in his white straw hat and spectacles, the very parody of an antiquarian, clutching a dusty plan and soliloquising about knot gardens to the Colonel and Mrs Lonsdale.

  ‘We are all actors in one way or another, Miss Lonsdale, are we not? Save perhaps for Mr Raistrick.’ The last was an afterthought he had not meant to speak aloud. The energy of his companion’s response made him start.

  ‘Mr Raistrick,’ Miss Lonsdale stated firmly, ‘is a blackguard, full of deceit. You of all people must know that, Mr Jarrett.’

  Caught off-guard by the force of her disgust he tried to explain himself.

  ‘Yes, indeed, of course Mr Raistrick is a deceiver. But I mean – in one respect he is so to others and not to himself.’ He was sounding absurd. He smiled meekly, mocking his own confusion. ‘Forgive me. I hardly know what I mean.’

  ‘I beg pardon, but I do not find deceit a quality to admire in a man,’ she replied severely.

  He suppressed a smile at the sight of her prim expression. He doubted Miss Henrietta Lonsdale could ever be brought to appreciate the qualities of a man of Raistrick’s stamp. He bowed with a conciliating face. ‘Indeed not, ma’am.’

  In a honey-coloured field of mown grass Tiplady, his repentant valet, fussed and ordered his little company of slaves around a table set under a silk canopy, hung with flowers and vines. Tiplady had always had the gift of fashioning civilisation in the midst of nature. A pretty picnic was laid out with cool wine, rich coloured fruit and crystal glasses that threw out diamond sparkles in the afternoon sun.

  Charles walked up to meet them. ‘So, Raif, have you been showing off your new domain to Miss Lonsdale?’ The Marquess picked up the lady’s free hand and linked her arm in his with easy familiarity. A gentleman on either side, the three crossed the brazen field toward the others who sat under the billowing silk awning.