By way of answer, I drew breath and recited the words I had read only a half-hour before, in the comfort of my Castle bedroom:
Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
But one that for thy crime must fall,
The youngest, most beloved of all,
Shall bless thee with a father’s name—
That word shall wrap thy heart in Flame!
“Ah,” Byron said acidly. “The Giaour. It is an excellent tale, is it not? So replete with exotic detail—so vivid with Attic life! All of London shall read it, and exclaim at the barbarous customs that obtain in the East!”
“And in Brighton,” I supplied.
“Exactly so, Miss Austen. And now—if you will forgive me—I stand in need of whiskey.” He made as if to limp past us, but Henry seized him by the arm.
“You cannot quit this place, Byron,” he said wonderingly. “Are you out of your senses? The entire town is raised against you!”
“If the entire town wishes to speak with me, I shall be at Davies’s house,” the poet said wearily. “In the meanwhile, you might offer the entire town the General’s last letter.”
He shook off my brother’s hand, and pushed his way through the open door.
We let him go.
Then we glanced at each other and walked side by side towards the faint light spilling from the back room.
General Twining was in dress uniform, seated at his writing desk as tho’ sleeping, his head resting on his arms; but a pool of dark blood flowing from one temple shattered the illusion of dreaming peace. His eyes were open, and dreadfully fixed; their last sight, I must suppose, had been the portrait of a young officer of the 10th Hussars that hung over the mantelpiece—his son and heir, Richard, killed in the Peninsula.
“Observe, Jane.” Henry reached for a folded sheet of hot-pressed paper, which had been sealed with wax and the General’s ring. “It is inscribed to Sir Harding Cross.”
“His confession, no doubt.” Another sheet had lain beneath it—and this hand I recognised. It was Byron’s.
Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave,
But his shall be a redder grave;
Her spirit pointed well the steel
Which taught that felon heart to feel.
I watched my time, I leagued with
these, The traitor in his turn to seize;
My wrath is wreaked, the deed is done,
And now I go,—but go alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Corsair
SATURDAY, 15 MAY 1813
BRIGHTON, CONT.
HENRY INSISTED UPON REMAINING WITH GENERAL TWINING’S body, the letter replaced in its position on the desk, while I walked swiftly back in the direction of Marine Parade in order to rouse the Earl of Swithin’s household. It was for Charles Swithin, we thought, to inform Sir Harding Cross that his case of murder was done—so that the magistrate might have the reading of Twining’s sealed letter before anyone else should find it. That it had been dictated to the General by Lord Byron, and probably at gun point, I never doubted; whether his lordship or the General’s hand eventually despatched the pistol’s ball into the General’s brain, I do not care to consider over-long. The duelling pistol was the General’s own—and antique enough to have accounted for the death of his wife’s lover, nearly fifteen years since. It was found on the floor near the General’s chair; and coupled with the confessional letter, was enough for Old HardCross to proclaim the death self-murder, and to acquit Lord Byron of any charges in the drowning of Catherine Twining. As for Byron’s part in the General’s scandalous end—so far as Sir Harding knew, his lordship had never been more than near the place, having repaired to his friend Mr. Davies’s lodgings the very instant his amorous page effected his release from Brighton Camp.
When the contents of the General’s letter were related to me the following morning, over a late breakfast at No. 21, Marine Parade, they were much as I had suspected: The General confessed to having drowned his daughter in a fit of drunken rage. After Captain the Viscount Morley knocked him senseless outside the Pavilion’s doors, the General had regained his wits in time to observe Lord Byron entering the Pavilion. When Catherine exited a few moments later, in evident agitation, her father had followed her out of the courtyard. He had confronted her on the Steyne with his suspicions—that she had disgraced herself like a common trollop with Lord Byron. He then informed her, with evident glee, that her indiscretions should never dishonour her father again—that he had agreed that very night to give her hand in marriage to Mr. Hendred Smalls. In return, Catherine declared that her heart already belonged to Captain Morley—and that she should rather be dead than marry anyone else.
It was this honest expression of feeling that inflamed the General against his own flesh and blood. In his right mind, of course, he might only have struck the girl, and carried her home to live out a miserable existence confined to her rooms. In his drunken state, however, he was deaf to all reason. He had declared that she should have her dearest wish—and dragged her towards the shingle, where he thrust her head beneath the waves.
It was a dreadful history; and I suspect that the General’s old friend, Colonel Hanger—in having plied his former comrade with Port that night—bears much of the responsibility for Catherine’s death. I am certain it was indeed Hanger, discovering the corpse in one of his solitary midnight strolls, who hit upon the excellent joke of sewing Catherine Twining into a shroud formed of the Giaour’s hammock—and deposited Catherine in what he assumed to be Byron’s bed.
The Colonel, of course, cannot be accused, approached, or touched—he remains the Regent’s friend, and enjoys a Royal protection. But I confess I hate the very sight of him.
What might have been the General’s sentiments the following morning, when he awoke to a brain restored from drink, a full sense of the horror of his crime, and the intelligence that his daughter’s remains had been discovered in such circumstances, can only be guessed at; his confessional letter is silent upon all points. His cowardice, however, in allowing another man to bear the brunt of suspicion and guilt, to the very threshold of the gibbet, must acquit the world of the slightest impulse towards sympathy.
“I must say, Jane, that you are very poorly repaid for all your efforts on Lady Oxford’s behalf,” Mona observed as she crumbled a roll and sipped at her tea, “for she left Brighton last night before Byron’s escape was even heard of; and never thought to thank you. I am ashamed of Jane Harley, I confess; tho’ in truth I cannot blame her. Lord Byron would try a saint.”
“Then let us hope Lady Oxford exerts her considerable energies in sailing past Gibraltar,” I replied, “and that Lord Byron is left to enslave another lady with his verse and his caprice.” If I felt a slight wistfulness at failing to bid the poet adieu, I ruthlessly suppressed it. I did not approve Lord Byron, I should never judge his character as worthy of respect—but it is something, indeed, to have won the esteem of such a writer. I shall not judge myself too harshly for exulting in his privileged knowledge—or his flattering regard.
“If Lady Oxford does not know how to repay Jane’s exertions,” my brother interjected, “I certainly do. You came here for the restorative powers of Brighton; and thus far, have enjoyed none of them. Tomorrow you shall bathe in the sea, with the aid of a dipper and a machine—”
I confess I squeaked at this, from both pleasure and dread.
“—but today, you will spend the whole morning at Madame La Fanchette’s, in purchasing a modish gown in any colour but black. There remains a quantity of winnings that must be spent.”
Lady Swithin clapped her hands, and I jumped up to hug my brother; he truly is such an excellent Henry.
SILK THE COLOUR OF WINE, LORD HAROLD’S GHOST HAD urged; an opinion seconded by Mr. Forth, the redoubtable Master of Brighton, who had gone so far as to na
me the wine claret. Madame La Fanchette possessed no less than three bolts of a suitable shade—one a sarcenet, one a French twill, and the last a silk so gloriously rich I might fancy myself a figure in the Regent’s Chinese gallery, as precious an objet d’art as the porcelains he collected. My practical soul counseled the selection of French twill—as serviceable as it was fashionable; I reluctantly weighed the claims of stout sarcenet; but another voice—neither Lord Harold’s nor Mr. Forth’s—whispered me nay.
Let it be the taffeta, my dearest Jane.
And I caught a snatch of laughter tinkling as bells, remote and beguiling as birdsong.
Eliza. She was with me still, and I was returned on the instant to Sloane Street, her soul flying away from me without a backwards look. My eyes pricked at unexpected tears, despite the blandishments of Madame La Fanchette, the furls of cloth sliding between my gloved fingers, the dulcet chatter of Lady Swithin as she turned the plates of a fashion magazine. My breath drew in on a sob, quickly stifled.
Forgive, the butterfly shade murmured. You know what Byron is. You felt it, I am sure. The response, so involuntary, of every nerve. A woman might sell her soul for such an instant of glory.
Of course I had felt it.
Regret. Regret.
Forgive.
Of course you are forgiven, Eliza—and never forgotten. Never.
“Jane?” Mona said gently. “Are you unwell?”
I blinked back my tears, and fumbled in my reticule for one of Manon’s black-edged kerchiefs. It was Mona, however, who handed me her own—embroidered with the flourishing script of entwined initials, Wilborough and Swithin.
“In all this bustle of murder and accusation,” she said softly, “I had almost forgot you were mourning.”
I smiled at her. How extraordinary it was that I should find again this acquaintance of long ago, this connexion unlooked for to my roguish lord; how extraordinary that in Eliza’s passing, I should discover a friend.
“I believe,” I said firmly, “that I shall take the claret-coloured silk. A ball-gown with demi-train, in the very latest mode, Madame—and a headdress to match.”
Eliza should have countenanced no less.
It was as we were leaving Madame La Fanchette’s some three hours later—I, smug in the knowledge of having ordered a becoming gown for evening wear, Mona in possession of a very fetching carriage dress that should become her dashing perch phaeton to perfection—that we espied Lady Caroline Lamb, bound for the New Road.
She held the reins of a showy pair whose coats exactly matched the tint of her own cropped curls; her landaulet was piled high with baggage. A diminutive tyger was mounted behind—no more than a child—in the chocolate and maroon livery the Lambs favoured. Her ladyship pulled up at the sight of us, and inclined her head; and Mona—when put to the test of acknowledging the reprobate, or offering the cut direct—deeply curtseyed.
“Bound for London, Lady Caroline?”
“Naturally—for Byron has already gone, you know.” The Sprite’s mobile countenance—so often captured in dreaming or fury—was woebegone today. Byron had escaped her toils again; her pallor was extreme, her glance feverish, her eyes encircled with darkness. She had not slept from the moment the wild plan of impersonating the Regent’s page had overtaken her, I judged; and now that her god was freed, her costume thrown off, her drama run—she was cast off, by Regent and poet both. Poor Sprite! So like a child in her passions and tantrums, and a lost child now in her misery, lips trembling and fingers clutching at the reins. The smouldering fire of life was doused—Byron, in all his intensity and chaos, had fled. “There is nothing else in Brighton I should stay for,” she said petulantly. “I quite despise the sea, and this town is grown impossibly stuffy—all quizzes and dowds! Besides, my poor William will be wondering where I have got to.”
Poor William, I thought, should more likely be enjoying the first peaceful interlude he had known in nearly ten years of tempestuous marriage; but it should not do to say so aloud.
“I almost forgot!” Caro cried. “I have thought of the most cunning thing—only look at the buttons of my tyger’s livery! I mean to have all my servants sport the same!”
We approached the carriage at her ladyship’s behest, and leaned closer to study the boy’s buttons. Engraved on their face was the Latin inscription Ne crede Byron.
Do not believe Byron.
“The Regent’s silversmith engraved them for me,” Caro confided, “and is not the phrase apt?—For you cannot believe a word his lordship says. It is all poetry. George assured me, when I rescued him from that horrid gaol, that he meant to remain in England all the summer; and now I find he intends to sail to Sardinia, in pursuit of that tiresome Jane Harley. Byron, of course, insists it is to gather impressions for his verses—having done with The Giaour, he means now to embark upon a long narrative entitled The Corsair, and must therefore put to sea at once. I am sure it will be vastly exciting, but I dread the effort of persuading poor William to embark. I may be forced to abandon my home. Do you think,” she enquired dreamily, “that I should look well in the garb of a pirate? Or perhaps a pirate’s jade?”
Mona and I exchanged glances, then stepped back from the landaulet.
“Walk on,” Caro commanded her pair; and with a flick of her whip and a nod of her head, moved briskly up the New Road.
“Jane,” Mona said faintly, “I stand in need of a good, stout nuncheon; and then I must look into Donaldson’s. I have had enough of poetry. I require a dose of prose. I shall spend my remaining hours in Brighton established on the sopha, with a volume of Pride and Prejudice in my hands. Do you think it at all likely the authoress has commenced a third novel?”
“I had heard,” I answered cautiously, “from sources I should judge unimpeachable, that such a work is undertaken—but is not yet launched upon the unsuspecting publick.”
“It does not, I trust, deal with piracy?”
“I believe the subject is Ordination.” I glanced at her with considerable apprehension, to learn how so fashionable a member of the ton should receive such a tedious topic.
Mona closed her eyes in relief. “Thank Heaven. My dear Jane, should you care to join me at Donaldson’s? We might enquire the title of Miss Jennings. She is certain to know it.”
“With pleasure,” I said; and linking arms, we strolled off in the direction of Marine Parade.
A FEW QUESTIONS FOR STEPHANIE BARRON
Q: Your ten-book series about Jane Austen as detective has carried readers through more than a decade of the novelist’s life, from December 1802 to what is now the spring of 1813 in Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron. How closely do you follow the historical record of Austen’s life, and how much of the series is pure fiction?
A: Some of the books are so faithful to Jane’s letters that I’ve used the actual calendar of her week as the structure of the novel—and included everyone she mentions as a character. But others, like Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron, are complete invention. Although Jane chose Brighton as the site of Lydia Bennet’s infamous elopement in Pride and Prejudice, there’s no record of her ever having visited the town, for example, and certainly none of her having met Lord Byron. And to be fair, the man was never taken up for murder in 1813. But I knew Jane had seen almost every major town on the Channel Coast over the years; I knew she read Byron’s poetry—she refers to several of the poems in her letters, and in her novel Persuasion—and they had acquaintances in common. It was just within the realm of possibility for them to meet. I like the realm of possibility; it’s the bedrock of all my writing, and far more interesting than the known world. When I saw that Byron was writing that spring about a doomed love affair and a drowned girl—and that he made a habit of sailing in Brighton—I knew I had to place Jane in the town. And remarkably, at Byron’s death in 1824 he was laid in state not at Westminster Abbey, which refused to have him—but at the London home of Fanny Knatchbull, Jane Austen’s niece. No one has ever explained why.
; Q: Brighton seems like the last place Jane would be comfortable. In fact, she derides it in Pride and Prejudice.
A: True. But she was always happy to go anywhere a friend was willing to take her, which is why her brother Henry is so vital to the story. Henry was fashionable and ambitious and well connected to people in the Prince Regent’s set, who would have descended on Brighton by April for the Royal birthday. Henry would absolutely love the frivolity and display, the pretty and available women, the horse races and the crowd of gamblers at Raggett’s Club. Given that he was in mourning—and that we know Jane spent both late April and late May in London with him—it seemed logical to send them off to the seaside during the intervening weeks, to recover from the death of the incomparable Eliza.
Q: Was Byron as promiscuous as you suggest?
A: He was far more promiscuous than I suggest! He seemed to require constant sexual stimulation, from a variety of women—usually twenty years his senior—and young boys. There’s a suggestion he forced himself on Lady Oxford’s eleven-year-old daughter while staying at her estate, Eywood; and he certainly had an incestuous relationship with his half sister Arabella, and fathered one of her children. When he eventually married Annabella Millbanke—a cousin of Caro Lamb’s—the relationship lasted barely a year. Although she would never disclose what Byron had done to her, Annabella was probably physically and sexually abused. Byron was not a mentally healthy man.
Q: Byron is called a mad poet in this novel, but frankly Lady Caroline Lamb seems a bit more unhinged. How faithful to the actual woman is your portrait?
A: Oh, my goodness—I was probably far kinder to poor Caro than she deserves! I think today she’d be diagnosed as manic-depressive. Or possibly a narcissist. Or both. She was certainly volatile in her moods, violent in her rages, compulsive in her attachments, and extreme in her self-destruction. A few months after Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron ends, in July 1813, Caro put herself completely beyond the pale of good society by attending a waltz party at the home of one Lady Heathcote. She encountered Byron in the dining room, and when he avoided her, she smashed a wine goblet and tried to slash her wrists with the shards of glass. She had to be carried screaming from the party, and from that moment forward, she was rarely invited anywhere again. William Lamb, her husband, nearly divorced her that time—but he found it impossible to abandon Caro. He sent her into exile at his family’s country estate instead, which for Caroline Lamb was probably a kind of death-in-life.
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