“Is this for the Comtesse?” Jane asked.
“Yes,” Prudence said. “And it should be her ladyship’s maid who fetches it, but that French girl is nowhere to be found!”
“I’ll bring it up,” Jane offered and took it from the table up the backstairs. She tapped at Eliza’s door. There was a brief silence, then Eliza’s voice warily asked, “Yes?”
“Tea, ma’am.” Jane deliberately roughened her voice to sound like Prudence’s.
“Oh, come in.”
When Jane entered, Eliza was standing at the window. As Jane had half-expected, Eliza was wide awake and fully dressed.
“Good morning!” Jane said cheerfully.
Eliza jerked round to face her. Jane was distressed to see how pale and pinched her cousin’s face was. “Jane!” she exclaimed. “Why are you bringing me breakfast? The Austens aren’t economizing on the servants again, are they?” Her attempt at levity didn’t disguise her dismay.
“We’re always economizing, but that is not why I’m here. I need to talk to you,” Jane said simply. “And since you refuse to come downstairs . . .”
“That’s absurd. I had a sleepless night, and I am not yet fit for company.” She glanced at the door, her unspoken wish for Jane to leave very clear.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Jane accused. “But we have to talk.”
“Later, Jane.”
“No. You must tell me everything now. I can’t keep your secrets if you refuse to confide in me.”
“Isn’t a secret best kept by telling no one?” Eliza asked. A few days earlier, the question would have been spirited, but now Eliza seemed merely desperate.
“You need my help,” Jane insisted. “Whatever your husband said to you last night—whatever he asked you to do—is worrying you to death. Let me help you.”
“I cannot,” Eliza said, twisting her wedding ring over and over again on her finger.
Jane thought it might be a good tactic to come at Eliza from a different angle. “I saw Marie outside earlier.”
Eliza did not seem interested. “She doesn’t like snow. How unaccountable.”
“She spoke with Jacques. They seem to be close. Are they friends? Is there a romance in the offing?”
“Brother and sister,” Eliza said.
“I don’t see any resemblance,” Jane said, trying to reconcile this new information with her impressions of Jacques and Marie.
Eliza shook her head. “They are brother and sister-in-law. Marie’s husband, René, the one who died, was Jacques’ brother.”
“So René did die?”
“Of course he did.”
“Eliza, there is no ‘of course’ about it! Your husband was supposed to be dead, too.”
Eliza pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t want to discuss it.”
“You must.” Jane was implacable. “Unless you want me to tell Edward, who will surely tell the War Office . . .”
“You mustn’t,” Eliza cried.
“Then tell me.”
Eliza pulled a shawl around her shoulder and perched on a chair next to the small fire. She stared into the flames for several moments. Finally she turned to Jane with a pale echo of her usual cheerfulness. “We had such a romantic tale, you see.”
“I was a child; I don’t really recall the details,” Jane said. “Why don’t you tell me the whole story?”
“My mother brought me to Paris instead of doing my season here,” Eliza began. “Everything was so wonderful—the parties, the salons, the clothes! It was magical. And the Comte was always there. He had a title, which impressed Mama. And he was so handsome and so urbane. He began courting me almost immediately. It was so easy to think I was in love.”
“You weren’t?” Jane asked. Eliza’s mystique had always been intertwined with her romantic past.
“Infatuated. Swept up in the moment. Before I knew it we were married—but he was so much older than I.”
“That doesn’t preclude affection, does it?”
“No—but we had little in common. And I never saw him. He was always at his estate in the Landes. His obsession was a water project to drain the swamps and reclaim the land for farming. I never understood it. But I think he came to Paris to find a rich bride to finance the work.”
“Oh, Eliza!” The words wafted out on a wave of sympathy. Jane had never suspected.
“Don’t pity me,” Eliza said, suddenly fierce. “I was no worse off than many an English matron. Possibly I was even lucky. My husband hardly bothered with me. And then I had my son for solace. I made my life here while he was in France. Until . . .”
“Until he was imprisoned and guillotined,” Jane finished. “Or so we thought.”
“And now he is back,” Eliza said.
“Did you know he was alive?”
“No!” Eliza cried. “The French papers reported his death. The English government confirmed it. Why would I doubt that?”
“So you did not know that it was he who would meet you at the ball?”
Eliza shook her head.
“Then who did you expect to see?” Jane asked. “What did that note say?”
“It said I was to come to the courtyard after the first dance. A friend would be there and he would have news of my husband. It was signed ‘J’, but I never dreamed . . .”
Jane had to force herself not to sound suspicious. “Didn’t you recognize Jean’s handwriting?”
Eliza shrugged. “He wrote to me so rarely. I hoped he had arranged to deliver a last message to me. To his son. Instructions perhaps.” She went to the window and stared at the snow falling. The room was silent except for the crackle of the fire.
“And when you saw it was Jean himself?” Jane prompted.
“I was . . . overcome,” Eliza said faintly. “I’ve been a widow for more than a year.”
“And a merry one at that,” Jane murmured. Eliza pursed her lips.
“I’m sorry,” Jane said contritely. “You did not know. But what does he want now?”
Instead of answering, Eliza went to the fire and shifted the embers with a poker.
“Eliza?”
“I don’t know.”
Jane paced about the room. Had Jean de Feuillide delayed returning to his wife because he did not trust her? No, that was absurd. For all her French affections, Eliza was English to the bone. If anyone was a French spy it was Jean. But why? A French nobleman had all his fortune and estates to regain if the English won the war.
“He must have said something,” Jane pressed.
Eliza faced Jane, and there was a determination in the upward tilt of her chin. Her expression was no longer the frivolous one that Jane was accustomed to. By a trick of the winter light, her blue eyes had turned slate gray. Jane could see that Eliza was resolved to keep her secrets.
CHAPTER 14
“The whole of his behavior,” replied Elinor,
“from the beginning to the end of the affair,
has been grounded on selfishness . . .”
“It is very true. My happiness never was his object.”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
The afternoon spun out tediously. The snow fell more thickly, blanketing the garden, the fields, and the road. The parlor’s fire—stoked periodically by Jacques, who had a knack for making himself useful indoors and out—kept the room close and warm. Henry and James had vied for Eliza’s attention for a while but they eventually fell into a doze. Mrs. Austen napped, and little ladylike snuffles emanated from the couch, competing with James’s masculine snoring. Eliza read her novel, while Jane wrote hers. A typical winter afternoon, except for Eliza’s tendency to watch the clock on the mantel. A most un-Eliza-like habit, Jane thought. Unless Eliza was late for a party, she never had the faintest idea of the time.
Eliza’s agitation worsened as the hour of four o’clock drew near. Jane could hardly contain her curiosity. Did the Comte intend to come calling? Surely he had not hidden himself so carefully to then just walk up to the Auste
ns’ front door? Perhaps he was waiting in the garden. Jane dared not go to the window and look, lest she reveal her suspicions to Eliza. But how could Eliza sneak out to see him without alerting Jane?
Jane decided to give Eliza the opportunity she was sure her cousin was looking for. She yawned and put her pen down. After blotting the paper, she slipped it inside her writing desk. “I cannot keep my eyes open,” she said. “I followed last night’s exertions with a long walk to Deane this morning.”
“Why don’t you lie down for a little while?” Eliza suggested. Her casual tone was belied by the sudden tension in her body.
“I wouldn’t want to leave you alone. The rest of the Austens are poor company this afternoon.”
“Jane, family need make no apologies. I’ll finish my book and then come upstairs for a sleep, too.” She smiled at Jane. “I insist!”
“Very well,” Jane said, marveling at Eliza’s duplicity.
Once in her room, Jane hurriedly put on an old pair of boots and bundled up in her warmest layers, as well as an old white shawl of Cassandra’s she hoped would disguise her in the snow. She slipped out of her room and tiptoed down the servants’ stairs. Shushing the cook and Prudence, she peeked out the kitchen door to see Eliza in the hall, justifying all of Jane’s worst suspicions. Eliza pulled on her dark fur-lined pelisse and slipped out the garden door into the wintry whiteness.
Jane followed Eliza up the deserted lane that led from the parsonage to Reverend Austen’s church. Jane wasn’t surprised. The church was a quarter mile beyond the village and stood empty for six days of the week; it was a perfect place for a clandestine meeting.
Jane’s footsteps were muffled by snow underfoot. An unexpected noise made her jerk her head to see whether she was herself being followed, but she could make out no one in the falling snow.
Jane continued forward, staying to one side of the line of poplars that bordered the path. The bare branches were heavy with snow. She told herself that a pile of snow falling to the ground must have been the cause of the alarming thud.
Jane stopped only when she spied Eliza at the church door. Eliza paused and turned to look backward. Jane kept herself perfectly still, trusting her cousin’s weak eyes could not distinguish the white shawl from the snow.
After a moment, Eliza turned and reached for the door-knob. To Jane’s surprise, the church door was unlocked even though Eliza hadn’t stopped to get the key from its not-so-secret hiding place in an ancient yew tree nearby. Jane drew in her breath sharply as she realized the significance. Eliza must have told the Comte where to find the key. He was already inside.
Suddenly filled with foreboding, Jane raced to the church door. The last time Eliza had seen her husband, she had fainted. Luckily, Eliza had not shut the door completely and Jane was able to slip into the square entryway beneath the bell tower. The church had not changed since medieval times, and on either side of the entry hung the bell ropes; Jane was careful not to brush against them in passing.
“How could you not tell me you were alive?” Eliza’s voice was angry. “Did you not think of me even once?”
Jane let out a relieved sigh. Eliza wasn’t overcome; she was angry. Much safer.
Jane could make out their silhouettes near the light of the fireplace in the middle of the north wall. She crept down the nave, crouching by the end of the pews to avoid being seen.
“Don’t be angry, ma chérie. I was trying to protect you.” The Comte’s wheedling voice was a far cry from the confident highwayman Jane had first met. “On my honor, it was the only way.”
“Honor!” Eliza spat the word at him like a bullet. “Was it honorable to abandon us? And what about your creditors? Once your death was reported, they descended upon me. I paid hundreds of pounds to rid myself of them.”
“If you had only paid them while I was alive, then I would not have been in debt,” the Comte said bitterly. “I was humiliated when you advertised that you would not be responsible for my obligations.”
Jane listened, both aghast and enthralled. Eliza’s perfect life had apparently been a lie from beginning to end. She moved closer to hear better, but she stumbled against the end of a pew. She caught the carved armrest to steady herself.
“Who’s there?” the Comte said sharply.
Straightening up, Jane moved forward. “It is I,” she said.
“Jane?” Eliza asked. “You followed me.” She moved forward to meet Jane in the center of the nave. “How could you?” Jane winced at the hurt in Eliza’s voice.
“I was worried for you,” Jane whispered urgently.
“Very well. Now you know I am safe—just meeting my suddenly resurrected husband. Go home.”
“I cannot leave you here, Eliza. I . . .”
Eliza’s face was gray and drawn; she looked a decade older than she was. “Jane, our conversation is a personal and private one. You should go.”
“She should stay,” the Comte said loudly. “We may need her help.”
Eliza frowned and whispered, “Cousin, we’ll discuss your gross discourtesy later.”
“Cousin Jane,” the Comte said with a return of his old manner. “It seems to be our fate that you are intertwined in our affairs.”
Jane eyed him warily. A blanket spread out on a pew was apparently his bed, and she spied a shaving kit and basin. It was rather remarkable that the Comte could maintain his bravado in such circumstances!
“I care deeply for Eliza,” Jane said in her most pointed manner. “And your reappearance, miraculous as it seems, worries me greatly. For Eliza’s sake.”
“Bien sûr,” he said. “Your devotion is admirable.”
Jane opened her mouth but was forestalled by Eliza, who said, surprisingly, “Jane and I need no compliments. We want answers. What happened to you a year ago?”
“And where have you been all this time?” Jane added. “And why have you returned?”
“Very well,” he said. “It began eighteen months ago. The new regime was making my position impossible. I could not stay with my beloved Eliza here in England if I wanted to keep my estate, so I returned to France.”
“You hated it here,” Eliza said. “You always wanted to return to your precious building project. You cared more for your dams and canals than me.”
“But I did it for you,” he insisted. “If I can drain the swamps, I’ll be able to cultivate ten thousand hectares. I’ll be the richest man in the Landes.”
Jane noticed that despite the Comte’s changed circumstances, he still appeared to believe his estates were intact. Eliza soon disabused him. “My dear husband, your beloved estate is gone, confiscated by the government. Your project will never come to pass. You’ve wasted your fortune and years of work on a fruitless quest!” The Comte shot his wife a look so vicious that Jane moved closer to Eliza.
“What happened a year ago?” Jane asked to lessen the tension.
“I was summoned to Paris to account for my management of the peasants on the estate. Someone had informed against me.” Jane had heard such incidents were all too common these days in France. The peasants were taking their revenge for centuries of servitude. The fear of the same thing happening in England was what drove the actions of men like her brother and Major Smythe.
“I was warned that I might be arrested, so I devised a stratagem to trick the authorities. I had René wear my clothes and take my place at the hotel. When the police came, he was arrested instead of me.”
“You offered up your servant in your place?” Jane asked slowly, unable to hide her contempt.
“I never expected him to be executed!” the Comte insisted. “I thought he would be detained for a few days. Just long enough for me to return safely to England.”
“You killed him as surely as if you manned the guillotine yourself,” Eliza said.
“That was not my intention,” the Comte blustered. “I underestimated how dangerous the new regime was. And after his death . . . well, I had a family to think of.”
�
�And what about poor Marie and her son?” Eliza cried. “You sacrificed her family without a thought.”
“Marie and the boy were safe here,” he said, averting his eyes from Eliza. Jane wondered that he seemed embarrassed by the only thing he had done that did not reflect badly upon him.
“So, you preserved your own life, no matter the mortal cost,” Jane said flatly. “Then why not return to England and your family?”
“I was afraid the danger would follow me here,” he said. “I was protecting Eliza.”
“That makes no sense,” Jane snapped. “The arm of the French government does not stretch across the Channel.”
To Jane’s surprise, Eliza spoke in her husband’s defense. “No, Jane, the French have agents here. He might have been in danger, even in London.” She turned back to her husband. “But I have powerful relatives. We could have asked for help.”
He shook his head. “If I asked the English government for help, they would want to use me against my countrymen.”
Grudgingly, Jane had to agree.
“I am a gentleman,” the Comte declared. “I could not debase myself so.”
“I hardly think you could sink any lower,” Eliza said.
The Comte was silent. After a long moment, Eliza asked, “But why not send me word? It would have been kinder. And you know I can be relied upon.”
“I tried,” he insisted. “I sent you a letter, signing René’s name, asking you to meet me. You never came.”
Eliza caught her breath and glanced at Jane. She nodded. That was the letter that Edward had shown Jane.
“Then I became afraid your mail was being intercepted,” he said. “I could trust no one. Not even my old servants.”
Jane recalled how Jacques had kept a letter from her that morning. Had Eliza been nurturing a spy within her own household?
“Our servants?” Eliza asked.
“In France the peasants were killing their lords.” He lowered his gaze. “What if Jacques decided to revenge his brother’s death?”
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