It seemed unlikely that Lady Imogen should have hired Old Philmore or his nephew to steal the chest; she was too little known in the country, and too high in the instep to condescend in Normandy Street or at Thatch Cottages. But necessity might work the cruellest alteration in a person’s habits, and necessity was Lady Imogen’s goad. She was distressed in her circumstances, and on the brink of losing her fortune. In such a case, might she avail herself of those same bonds of obligation and custom I had remarked in our servant Sally Mitchell? Lady Imogen’s maid might be familiar with every soul in Alton, and be despatched with certainty to the very man required to do the job.
In the case of Mr. Thrace, the matter was entirely easy. He came and went from Chawton and Alton as tho’ Hampshire born and bred. He was in the habit of dining at the Middletons’, and might have encountered Old Philmore any time these past several weeks; for a gentleman to engage the discreet services of a labourer was a simple matter of pounds and pence. And there was this that must arouse the deepest suspicion in my breast: Thrace had regaled our entire dinner party with the history of the Rubies of Chandernagar — a story which must be apocryphal, and employed for only one purpose: to explain the sudden appearance of strangers at Chawton Cottage, searching by stealth for a hidden treasure — or entering the house by force when its owners were absent.
“Pray come through to the terrace,” Lady Imogen commanded. She did not rebuke the upstart Beau for his pretensions, or throw down her gauntlet in public; indeed, she looked blithely unconscious. “It is in a dubious state of repair, but will serve charmingly for a nuncheon. See, Charles, how I have ordered Rangle to scatter the little tables about, and arrange the pyramids of fruit so delightfully? This is the only sort of picnic I will bear: with firm stone underfoot, and ample accommodation for every guest, and no fears of dirt or damp to tarnish one’s clothing.”
“An excellent arrangement,” he replied with playful courtesy, “but hardly so like a picnic.”
“Bah! You cavalry officers are never content unless you may bivouac on the hard ground, with a fire at your feet and a Spanish maiden to boil your coffee. I know how it is! Don’t attempt to beguile me, Charles — I know you for a blackguard of old!”
When the raspberry cordial and the Madeira wine had been drunk, and a quantity of cold meat and peaches eaten, there was nothing to do but watch the Middleton girls chase one another through the grass. Mr. Prowting, with all the beauty of the lake spread before him, expressed a regret that he had not thought to bring rods and tackle; and this began an exhaustive discussion of coarse fishing among the gentlemen, Mr. Thrace in particular being addicted to the sport. He and Mr. Prowting determined to walk down to the water itself, but could not tempt the ladies to join them. Mr. Middleton and Miss Beckford elected to rest in the shade before the arduous journey back to Alton; Cassandra was observing the little girls at play; Henry amused Lady Imogen with an anecdote regarding their mutual acquaintance in Town; Major Spence listened courteously to some effusion of Miss Benn’s. I guarded my privacy jealously, and cast about for the most effective means of searching the vast property.
It seemed a ridiculous hope, this idea that I might discover a single chest amidst all the objects of a noble household amassed over more than a century, and that house presently under repair. Even to attempt such a search was folly, and dangerously offensive to my hosts. I suspected Mr. Thrace and Lady Imogen equally, but I could not bring myself to steal away from the company, and lose my way in the passages of Stonings, where I might encounter any number of servants duly engaged in their proper affairs. How was I to discern which bedroom belonged to the principal parties, and how to justify my presence in either of them?
“Do you hunt with your brother, Miss Austen?”
Lady Imogen stood before me, her arm through Henry’s.
“As my brother will expose me to derision without remorse — I must confess I am a sad horsewoman.”
“But how is this!” she exclaimed. “Your brothers all mad for sport — intimates of Mr. Chute at the Vyne — and you will not undertake to ride? I have just such a little hunter in my stables even now as should tempt you, Miss Austen. You must walk down with me to visit Nutmeg.”
“With pleasure,” I assented, “provided you do not compel me to mount. I will stand outside the box and admire your Nutmeg all you wish.”
“That will do for a start. Take some of the sugar from the table — we must not arrive empty-handed.”
The scheme of a walk being generally broached, and the Prowting girls — no riders themselves — being eager to admire the cunning little hunter, a rather larger party set out for the stables than originally planned. Lady Imogen monopolised Henry with her desire to be made known to the Master of the Vyne, and admitted to all the revels of the local hunt; from her playful words it seemed she intended to be established at Stonings by autumn.
“I have long been allowed to hunt with the Quorn,” she informed Henry, “and must own that I prefer the Melton country; but what is that to the delights of one’s neighbours, and the intimacy of a local pack? I shall not disdain it. Perhaps my father may go so far as to look in once or twice. He is a punishing rider to hounds!”
Mr. Thrace placed himself beside Catherine Prowting, and talked to her of the Prince Regent. “It is a fearful crush at Carlton House, but nothing compared to the present scene in Brighton, where the Prince is established for the summer months. And the Pavilion itself is so exquisitely curious — it is a treat akin to Astley’s Amphitheatre, to be bidden in attendance!”
“I have never visited Astley’s Amphitheatre,” Catherine returned hesitantly, “and Papa is most adamant in his opposition to Brighton. Watering places he regards as insipid, and dens of vice.”
“As a man of the world, he must fear the effect of your beauty on the town,” Thrace observed with gallantry. “You should be carried off within a day of descending upon Brighton, Miss Prowting!”
There were half a dozen horses turned out in the loose boxes; among them I recognised the powerful grey Mr. Thrace had ridden in Chawton. Lady Imogen called for her groom — a spare figure with a weathered face and sharp eyes rather like a monkey’s — and said, “Lead out Nutmeg, Robley; I will have my girl admired.”
The groom entered the box, and led the mare into the stable yard, so that all the gentlemen might examine her lines and comment upon her excellence as a hunter.
“You paid all of six hundred guineas for her, Lady Imogen?”
Mr. Thrace enquired with an air of surprise. “Very showy, I grant you — and yet she is too long in the back. You will gladly take five pence for her from anybody who will offer it, after your first hard outing, I’ll be bound.”
“Say that again if you dare!” the Earl’s daughter flashed.
“Say that again, Thrace — and I’ll whip you myself! I was riding with the Quorn when you were still a raw schoolboy. She is as neat a filly to go as any you’ve seen! Admit it!”
“She is too long in the back, ” the gentleman repeated, and turned away.
Lady Imogen was white with fury. The insult to her horse — the insult to her own powers of judgement and her experience in the field — piqued her as Thrace’s milder pretensions to mastery could not. Her hands clenched convulsively, her breast heaved with a powerful emotion — and I feared she might hurl herself on her putative half-brother if Major Spence’s firm hand had not restrained her.
“Too long, perhaps, for a rider like yourself, Thrace,” the steward said mildly, “and I should not like to test her either — but in Lady Imogen’s hands, she will be the sweetest of goers.”
Thrace smiled. His suggestion of contempt only enflamed Lady Imogen further.
“Fetch your grey!” she cried. “Fetch your grey, and let us see who is the better judge of horseflesh!”
“But you are not dressed to ride, my lady,” the groom Robley protested.
“What is that to me? I am among friends, not parading in Hyde Park. Pray saddle N
utmeg.”
“Hold the horse, Robley,” Thrace said with sudden choler.
“I will fetch the saddle.”
He disappeared into the tack room, while the rest of us looked on in suspense. Henry sidled over to me.
“Her ladyship is in a rare temper,” he said, “and for my part, I should say the right is all Thrace’s. The mare is assuredly too long in the back.”
“But he need not have thrown the fact in her face,” I returned softly. “It is almost as tho’ he would incite her to betray herself. He wished her to appear unbecoming before her guests.”
“Even so — this will be a spectacle worth recounting at my club! The Earl of Holbrook’s heirs disputing their rights over open ground!”
At that moment, Mr. Thrace reappeared with a small leather saddle in his hands. “Here, Robley — saddle the mare while I fetch Rob Roy.”
He led out the grey, who looked fresh and handsome as ever; tossed his own saddle over the hunter’s back with a practised hand, and placed his boot in the stirrup.
“Have a care, Julian,” Spence muttered. “She will work herself into a passion.”
“Let the course be set,” Mr. Thrace declared, “as the span of sweep between the stable yard and the main gate, a distance of nearly a mile. Are we agreed?”
“Agreed,” Lady Imogen declared. “But what will you wager, Thrace? What is the price of your honour? — The sum of your losses at faro? For I know you cannot settle that debt.”
Her seat was graceful and easy, her gloved hands light on the reins. The dreadful pallor of anger had fled, to be replaced by the high colour of excitement.
“Are you so dubious of victory, Lady Imogen? Why not wager something we both hold dear? Let us say—” Thrace hesitated, as tho’ measuring his odds. “Let us compete for Stonings.”
The look of elation drained from her ladyship’s face. “That is not mine to stake, Thrace, as you very well know. Nor yours to demand.”
“If you would already concede defeat—”
“Very well!” she cried. “Stonings it is! And may the best judge of horseflesh win!”
Chapter 18
Neck or Nothing
8 July 1809, cont.
“Lady Imogen—” Charles Spence raised his hand to her bridle. “I beg of you—”
“Let me go, Charles,” she retorted cuttingly. “I am not a green girl to be led by your rein. Will you call the start?”
Nutmeg wheeled before he could answer. As Lady Imogen leaned forward and cantered towards the entrance to the yard in considerable style, I thought the little mare looked skittish — as tho’ she might prove difficult to manage. The natural result, I must suppose, of a mount offered too little exercise in such a season.
Mr. Thrace was already waiting, his grey prancing beside the mare. Major Spence limped towards the mounted pair.
“Race if you must, but call off this foolish wager,” he begged.
“I am determined, Charles,” Lady Imogen replied.
His hand moved abruptly as tho’ he might have forbidden all gallops this morning; but at Lady Imogen’s impatient twitch of her mount’s head, Spence stepped back from the contenders without another word. He raised his right arm, then let it fall. The two horses sprang forward in a cloud of dust.
“It’s always neck or nothing with her ladyship,” Robley observed cryptically to anyone who might listen. “It don’t do to put a fence in her way — she’ll throw her heart over, every time.”
The Major was still standing at the entry to the yard, his attention fixed on the careening pair. I moved to join him, the others only a little behind me.
“Who is winning, Henry?” I demanded. My eyes have never been strong, and the horses had achieved such a distance that I could no longer discern which was forwarder.
“I believe it is Thrace. No — Lady Imogen has pulled to the fore!”
“We ought to have placed a man at the gate,” Spence said tensely. “—To observe the outcome.”
“But Thrace is a man of honour,” my brother objected. “He shall certainly own the truth, once he knows it!”
“With such a prize as Stonings in view?” Spence demanded bitterly; and then he stepped forward, as tho’ torn from his position.
“Good God!” he cried. “She is thrown!”
He began to run down the sweep with painful ineptitude on his injured leg, but Henry was the faster. He passed Major Spence while the rest of us were still collecting our faculties and exclaiming over the fate of Lady Imogen — and in a matter of moments, could be seen halfway down the sweep. He came to a halt by the crumpled figure; I discerned him to lift her in his arms.
Mr. Thrace had wheeled his tearing mount and galloped back towards the little mare. Nutmeg had skittered away from the sweep as tho’ shying from the burden she left behind. As Henry staggered towards us, I was dimly aware of Mr. Thrace coursing alongside Lady Imogen’s mount, and leaning forward to grasp the mare’s bridle.
“Spence!” Henry shouted. “You must send for a doctor!”
“Is she gravely hurt?” the steward cried, and lurched forward to meet my brother. I was only seconds behind him, Catherine Prowting at my back.
Charles Spence bent over the face of his beloved, his own white with shock. His fingers fumbled at her pulse, felt for sense in her neck — and then abruptly he stepped backwards.
“The doctor,” he said numbly. “What can a doctor hope to do here? She is already dead.”
I do not think, in those first moments of tragedy, that Charles Spence could trust himself to speak. He merely reached for the limp form of the Earl’s daughter, and my brother placed her gently in the steward’s arms. Ann Prowting took one look at Lady Imogen’s insensible features — the brutal angle of the head where it rested on the Major, so suggestive of a broken neck — and gave way to a fit of strong hysterics. Thin, high-pitched screaming akin to the hiss of steam escaping a teakettle — until Catherine firmly slapped her sister’s cheeks, and led the sobbing figure back towards the house.
“My lady!” cried the groom, Robley, his monkey eyes staring. “My lady Imogen! Enough of your pranks! Don’t be giving an old man what’s served you faithful a heart attack!”
“We must carry her into the house,” Henry said, “and send for a doctor. She must be seen, Spence — tho’ all hope is gone.”
The steward nodded vaguely, as if unsure of his ground; and at that moment Mr. Thrace pulled up on his lathered grey, Nutmeg’s rein in his left hand.
“Charles! What the Devil— Here, Robley, take this horse back to her stable.” He dismounted, a look of wild dismay on his countenance. “She’s not badly hurt, I hope?”
Spence turned on the Beau his same expression of vague uncertainty.
“She’s dead!” Robley groaned. “The sweetest, most madcap minx what ever slipped her foot into a stirrup! Oh, my lady — I allus said as how your temper would plant you a facer one day, and now look! Dead, and how I am to meet the Earl —Look after her, Robley, he said afore we so much as left London—”
“Stable the horse,” Thrace muttered viciously to the groom; and with tears streaming down his crabbed cheeks, Robley complied. Charles Spence began to walk towards the terrace we had only lately quitted in such a spirit of enjoyment, but Lady Imogen was no feather weight in death, and his game leg was decidedly unsteady.
“Let me take her,” Thrace said, “lest you fall.”
“No!” Spence retorted savagely. “But for you—” Whatever reproach he might have uttered was allowed to die in silence. He trained his gaze on the house’s distant portal, and staggered forward; and so fixed was his purpose that it achieved a kind of sacred beauty. We all of us fell back from respect, and followed in the soldier’s train across the unmown lawns. He laid her in the saloon, on a gold and white sopha only lately refurbished; and knelt at its head with her limp hand in his, a courtier at the bier of a sleeping princess. Thrace stood like a stone near one of the long windows, his face turned to
the lake’s prospect. The casement had been thrown open, and birdsong drifted on the air, impossibly sweet. Of all those assembled with heavy hearts in the silent room, Thrace must be the most severely tried by guilt and regret.
“Oh, God,” Spence muttered brokenly from his bowed position on the floor—“when I think of her father!”
Henry stepped forward — alone among the gentlemen still cool and collected. “I shall ride into Sherborne St. John and summon the surgeon.”
“His name is Althorp,” Thrace said over his shoulder. “I will accompany you, Austen.”
“Would that I could offer any assistance in such distress,”
John Middleton said heavily, “but I fear you have long been desiring our absence, Spence. We shall wait only for the doctor, and then depart for Chawton.”
The steward raised his head, as tho’ the words recalled him from a far country, and glanced towards the door. It had opened almost soundlessly on new-oiled hinges, and I saw that the groom, Robley, stood there. Beyond him in the main passage were assembled a hesitant group of domestics, their faces o’erspread with the most potent expressions of shock.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.” Robley’s voice rang with a power quite alien to his earlier tone of sorrow. “I reckoned you ought to see this. ”
He held his right hand aloft.
Spence scowled and rose to his full height. “What is it, Robley?”
“A thorn,” the groom said, “near two inches long, and sharp as the dickens. I found it beneath the saddle when I put Nutmeg in her box. Cut the flesh so deep the mare was bleeding, she was.”
“What is that to me, at such a moment?” the steward cried.
“It ought to be everything, sir,” the groom retorted. “This here thorn’s the reason yon mare tossed her rider, and it was put there a-purpose. This thorn killed my lady Imogen.”
Chapter 19
A Bolt into the Blue
8 July 1809, cont.
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