And then the return to Aix, and the intelligence that Hélène was not to be found—the party lost in the Pyrénées having emerged from the snows of the pass at last, and without her. Freddy Vansittart, his noble reputation forgot, tearing at my sleeve in frantic supplication. Promising me money, promising me support, promising me a lifetime of servitude if only I will undertake this journey— Too afraid to venture himself, but too overwrought to sit in idleness, never knowing—and so I am gone again on horseback, working my way north by slow degrees and worse roads, the people everywhere about in the most wretched condition, and blood running in the streets.
I fear she has remained in Paris when all counsel would have had her flee to the south. Perhaps it was the child—a sudden chill or fever, and the desire to remain where food and shelter were at least certain. But for how long? How long before the tumbrel arrives for the Comte’s fair daughter? I must find out where she is hidden. I must see Hélène safe, and the boy with her. Not for Freddy or the Comte or the discomfiture of St. Eustace—but for Horatia, my poor lost girl lying cold in the Viscount’s tomb. I must save Hélène and her boy for the sake of those whom long ago I sent to their ruin.
Chapter 14
Catherine’s Confession
7 July 1809, cont.
~
NEDDIE THOUGHT IT ONLY PROPER TO CONTINUE ON TO THE Great House, and pay his respects to his tenant Mr. Middleton, and listen with becoming gravity to all the discussion of roof-slates, stable accommodation, and patches of damp, while I made my thanks to Miss Beckford for the previous evening’s entertainment.
“My brother tells me that you have suffered a loss, Miss Austen, as well as a second violation of your privacy,” she said soberly. “A very valuable chest, I believe, that had only lately come into your possession.”
“That is true. And the man Mr. Prowting has detained cannot tell us what has happened to it.”
“Bertie Philmore,” she said succinctly. “The Philmores are an odious lot. Bertie’s uncle, Old Philmore, is the owner of that group of hovels known as Thatch Cottages, where poor Miss Benn resides. Old Philmore drives a very hard bargain in rents, I believe, and does absolutely nothing towards the maintenance of his property. We really must endeavour to find Miss Benn more adequate accommodation before the winter; for the place is barely fit for stabling cattle, when the storms of January set in.”
“Miss Benn is awkwardly left, I take it?”
“Very sadly so. Her father was once rector of Chawton, before old Mr. Hinton’s time; and her brother, while possessing a fair living in Farringdon, is so beset with children himself that he cannot provide much towards his sister’s support. For a gentlewoman of good breeding and nice habits to be reduced to Miss Benn’s present degree of poverty is lowering in the extreme. We do what we can for her, of course, by including her in some of our amusements; and she is very grateful, poor soul, for any attention.”
But for the generosity of my brother Neddie, and the steady contributions of my other brothers towards the maintenance of our household, Cassandra and I might have been left in similar poverty at the demise of our clergyman father. I had viewed Miss Benn with easy contempt for her silly manners and vague understanding, for the spinster effusions to which she was too much given; but my conscience smote me at Miss Beckford’s communication. My contempt for Miss Benn was too much like self-hatred at the aging woman I was myself become.
Miss Beckford led me to the wilderness that comprised the back garden, and here, for the first time in my acquaintance with the household, I observed no less than five children—four well-grown girls and a little boy of perhaps six—at play in the grass under the watchful eye of a maidservant.
“What fine, stout creatures they are,” I observed with a smile. “And how lovely to think of this house populated with young people! My brother, I am sure, is happy to find it so!”
“The eldest, John, has been at sea from the age of ten,” Miss Beckford told me, “and at fifteen, is now become a Midshipman. I wish that my sister could have known of his success; she died the year before he went away, in 1803—after little Frederick was born.”
The small boy was laughing as he tumbled down the gentle slope behind the Great House, and I thought of dear Elizabeth, and the babe she had left behind, with a pang. Someday her eleventh child would play even so with his sisters, forever ignorant of the lovely woman who had given him birth and marred his father’s life with her passing. The impermanence of existence—the cruel lot of women in childbed—impressed me with a weight of sadness that was become too familiar. As the years advance, we find more cause for sorrow, and less occasion for laughing in the grass.
“Mr. Middleton has had much to do with so many children to rear,” I observed. “He is indeed fortunate in possessing an aide as admirable as yourself, Miss Beckford.”
“I am happy to do it,” she answered simply. “In truth, having no penchant for matrimony, I might otherwise have ended my days a governess. Here I may instruct and educate in the guise of a beloved aunt, without the discomfort of being forced to earn my living; and in the two eldest girls, I might imagine my sister revived again. To live in their presence, and watch them grow, is to fight a little against the awfulness of Death.”
“And you have been travelling en famille, I understand, some months on the Continent.”
“Yes—we spent the better part of last summer in Italy and the mountains of Switzerland.”
“What courage! But I must suppose that Buonaparte’s attention was happily fixed elsewhere.”
“On Spain—that is very true. I should have regarded the adventure with trepidation, I confess, but for the steady influence of my brother, Mr. Middleton; and of course, we were accompanied from Rome to Spa by Mr. Thrace.”
She had reverted in all tranquillity to a subject I was longing to introduce, but had known not how to do, without arousing a suspicion of inquisitiveness.
“He seems a very gentleman-like man,” I said cautiously. “Was he, too, a traveller like yourselves?”
“Mr. Thrace is an orphan—raised in the household of an English couple resident some years in Rome, I believe; the gentleman who oversaw his early education is Mr. Henry Fox, nephew to the late Whig leader, and now elevated to the title of Lord Holland. His lordship has spent much of his life abroad—owing to the extraordinary circumstances surrounding his marriage. His wife, Lady Holland, was once married to another, and eloped with his lordship.”
“I see.” The perfect household for the bastard son of a peer.
“John—Mr. Middleton, I should say—was acquainted with Henry Fox at school, and naturally called upon him during our travels. He suggested that Mr. Thrace might serve as tutor to young Frederick for the remainder of our trip, and then return to England in our train—Mr. Thrace having intended to visit London in any case. We were most happy in the arrangement, and must look upon Mr. Thrace as quite an intimate friend. But tell me, Miss Austen,” she said decisively, “before I bore you too much with our family histories—is the damage to your house very great?”
“One window only; but we are less than fortunate in having the local joiner locked in Alton gaol. The likelihood of repairing the casement is thus put off.”
“I am glad to see you retain your sense of humour,” she retorted drily. “Another woman would have quitted the house entirely under such provocations, and sought lodgings elsewhere.”
“But then we should be satisfying the dearest wish of our enemies, Miss Beckford,” I replied tranquilly, “and that I mean never to do.”
She studied me with her sharp, intelligent eyes. “I have often thought that the evils of a Town existence—the constant dangers and ill-health to which one is exposed—are as nothing compared to the quiet malice of a country village. The people look too much inward, and nurse their grievances in solitude.”
“We have received nothing but kindness from the Prowtings and yourselves.”
“But the Baigents would have it your hous
e is cursed; Libby Cuttle refuses to sell you bread; and that impudent scamp, James Baverstock of Alton, offers you insolence in his own house. I know it all, Miss Austen. I have heard from Mrs. Prowting what the Hintons are saying—and it is my opinion they should both be horsewhipped through the village. Such conduct, before the dear Squire and his family! Had I known of their behaviour before, I should never have asked them to dine with us last evening, I assure you.”
“We have no wish to make of Chawton a divided camp,” I protested.
“And no more you shall. By the serenity of your response to every adversity, Miss Austen, you show the Hintons their proper place. I am not the sort of woman to indulge in idle gossip—but I cannot like Jack Hinton. For all his fine manners, he has a taste for low company—for idleness and the kinds of vulgar pursuits that cannot become a gentleman—and I fear his morals are very bad.”
Here was a source from whom I might profit. “You mentioned his fondness for mills, as I believe they are called—but with every Corinthian in the country an enthusiast, it is not to be wondered that Mr. Hinton is no less immune.”
“A prizefight or two should be nothing,” she returned dismissively. “Even dear Mr. Middleton has been known to indulge the taste. But I cannot disguise, Miss Austen, that there have been other habits which every person of sense and feeling must deplore. I will not offend you with particulars; I will say only that two housemaids at least have quit Mr. Hinton’s employ, and complained of ill-usage—of improprieties—at his hands. Neither girl was friendless, and Mr. Hinton has inspired a degree of dislike in the surrounding countryside that is not to be wondered at.”
“I see. Miss Beckford—I wonder—”
She stared at me enquiringly.
“Was either housemaid any relation at all to Shafto French?”
Her expression altered. “I cannot undertake to say. I am not in possession of the girls’ names—my intelligence derives from local gossip only, not personal experience. Tho’ Mr. Middleton leased the Great House once before, my sister was alive then, and my place was elsewhere. He has only been returned to Chawton under the present lease for a twelvemonth.”
“I understand. My thought was a passing one only. I did not mean to suggest—”
“Naturally not.” She drew her light shawl about her shoulders as tho’ suddenly chilled. “I hope that you will join us for the picnic at Stonings on the morrow, Miss Austen. The Hintons are not to be of that party.”
“I look forward to the day with every possible hope of enjoyment,” I told her; and after a quiet interval of examining the flower beds, and discussing my intentions for the cottage garden, I bid Miss Beckford adieu.
THE MORNING WAS A FINE ONE, AS ALL HAMPSHIRE mornings in July must be; and as I exited the gates and made my way along the Street past the Rectory, I observed Mr. Papillon hard at work among the herbaceous beds, with a straw hat on his head and his shirtsleeves encased in paper cuffs against the dirt. John-Rawston Papillon is a diminutive, apple-cheeked man with luxuriant silver hair and the correct, if fussy, conversation of a determined bachelor. His sister Elizabeth, whom I had glimpsed the previous evening, keeps his household, and both appear so comfortably situated in life—so decidedly happy with the lot they have chosen—as to never wish for amendment. Having attained the age of six-and-forty without encumbering himself with a wife, Mr. Papillon might have been supposed safe from the speculation and notice of the impertinent; but my mother is no respecter of single men’s peace. My brother Edward’s patroness, elderly Mrs. Knight of Kent, having once voiced the thought that Mr. Papillon should be the very husband for her own dear Jane, my mother has been insufferable in her impatience to meet with the gentleman. Despite the dazzling alternative offered by Julian Thrace last evening, Mamma had not been disappointed. She had no notion I was as little likely to win the heart of an aging clergyman as an Earl’s putative son nearly ten years my junior.
“So very amiable!” she had exclaimed in a barely contained whisper when first Mr. Papillon was introduced to our notice. “So clearly the gentleman in looks and address! I declare I am quite overpowered, Jane! You could do far worse than to set your cap at him!”
The rector of St. Nicholas’s straightened as I neared his garden, his hands full of lilies, and smiled at me benignly. “Ah, Miss Austen, is it not? I must offer my sympathy this morning. Your cottage was violated, I understand, and a valuable article stolen.”
“Thank you, Mr. Papillon,” I replied with a curtsey. “I am sure my mother would join me in thanks, did she know of your concern.”
“—And stolen, it seems, by poor Bertie Philmore! It is a dreadful business, when one of our fellow creatures falls in the way of temptation. We must certainly pray for him.”
“Are you at all acquainted with the Philmores? I had understood them to be Alton people.”
“And so they are, in the main—but Old Philmore, Bertie’s uncle, is quite the Chawton institution. He is landlord to Miss Benn, you know, and a rare old character. I wonder that he did not appear in front of your home last evening, to intercede for his nephew. It is not like Old Philmore to preserve a respectful silence, when one of his own is in danger of hanging for murder!”
“Perhaps he is from home at present.”
“Then it will be the first time he has shaken off our dust in the eight years I have lived here,” Mr. Papillon observed. “I must send Elizabeth to Old Philmore’s cottage, and make certain he is not unwell. It would be a dreadful thing, if he were lying alone on his cot, suffering from some disorder, while Bertie is in want of a steady hand and counsel!”
“Are the two men very attached?”
“Old Philmore has served Bertie in place of a father these many years. Indeed, they are most devoted—in the rough, unschooled fashion of their kind. I could wish for the younger man a kinder example, perhaps—Old Philmore is very close with his money, quite the miser of Chawton, as Miss Benn has found!—but in truth, there is no real harm in either of them.”
“I see.” It was possible I saw a great deal more, in fact, than the rector. Old Philmore had been absent from the scene of Bertie’s arrest. What better confederate for the younger man than the trusted figure of the uncle? Complicity within the family would surely ensure Bertie’s silence in the hands of the Law; and if Mr. Papillon’s opinion of their bond was to be believed, Bertie was unlikely to incriminate Old Philmore.
“It is decidedly odd,” Mr. Papillon mused, “that we have heard nothing of Old Philmore this morning. I should have expected him to have paid me a visit, with the earnest desire that I should bring the air of Christian charity to his nephew’s gaol cell, as indeed I shall before the day is out.”
The old scoundrel, I thought with sudden heat, was probably miles from Chawton even now, and my chest with him.
I left the rector pulling off his paper cuffs, and finished my walk in pensive silence. I could not reconcile myself to the loss of Lord Harold’s papers; it was too much like losing the man himself, all over again.
AT MY RETURN TO THE COTTAGE I WAS SURPRISED TO discover Catherine Prowting waiting upon the doorstep with a cheerful, plain-faced young woman of perhaps twenty by her side.
“Good morning, Miss Austen,” Catherine said. “My father has charged me with bringing Sally Mitchell to you, and offering you her services as maid of all work. She is a good girl, reared in the village; her mother is our cook.”
Sally Mitchell bobbed a curtsey. Tho’ young, her hands were roughened and red from hard labour, and her general appearance was of tidy cleanliness—positive signs in a domestic servant. Her dress had been neatly mended, and her half-boots were in good repair.
“I should have first consulted Mrs. Austen,” Catherine said apologetically, “but that I knew her to be steadily at work in the garden, and did not wish to intrude.”
I stood on tiptoe to overlook the hornbeam hedge, and observed my mother busily digging in the field beyond the privy. She wore an old green sack gown and a battered str
aw hat, and tho’ all of seventy, was turning the earth with a vigour that belied her years. She might have been taken, in fact, for one of her son’s tenants. Could the prospect of planting potatoes have excited such ardent activity? Of Cassandra there was no sign; she was probably lying down in the bedroom with the shades drawn, after the exhausting journey by post-chaise from Kent. I must therefore interview the girl alone.
“Good day to you, Sally,” I said. “Have you heard that this house is cursed?”
A startled look passed over her features, and then she opened her mouth wide and laughed. “Many’s the time I’ve sat in Widow Seward’s kitchen, and had a biscuit of her Nancy, begging your pardon, ma’am,” she said. “This here house is no more cursed nor what I am. I daresay it could do with a good scrubbing, however.”
“Do you wish to live in, or out, Sally?”
“In,” she said succinctly, “if it’s all the same to you, ma’am.”
“Better and better! We have two bedrooms over the kitchen reserved for the purpose. You have heard, I suppose, that our parlour window was broken and some articles taken from the house last night?”
“Bertie Philmore,” she returned acidly, “what has a great lump for a brain. But he’s got what’s coming to ’im, so I’ve heard.”
“It would greatly relieve our minds to have you living above the kitchen, all the same. I shall consult my mother as to your wages; you shall receive your board as well—and probably be cooking it. We expect another lady to join us next month, a Miss Lloyd; and as she is a great one for meddling with pots and fires, I hope you shall not mind another pair of hands in your domain.”
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