“I think you mistake, cousin,” cried the new Earl, with becoming energy. “Sir William is late of the King’s Bench,2 a barrister known for his perspicacity; and though Scargrave Close may offer little to challenge his wits after London’s broad humanity, he is no less careful of his office, for all that.” Fitzroy Payne turned to Lord Harold Trowbridge, who sat apart in a high-backed wing chair, watching all that occurred with the lidded eyes of a hawk. “I believe you have reason to fear Sir William’s wits, Lord Harold. You encountered him more than once when he was in the Exchequer, did you not?”
A slow smile spread across the narrow, dark face. “He has had his moments of good fortune. At my expense. And I have had mine, at his.”
“A barrister in retirement! But this is capital!” the Lieutenant exclaimed. “My fellows at the Cock and Bull had best look to their pints, and find another place to carouse, now a prop of the law is come to Scargrave!”
“If Sir William serves to moderate even your dissipation, Tom, we may count his presence a blessing,” George Hearst rejoined. A painful pause threatened to silence us all; but I dare say Mr. Spinoza entertained the notion of Fanny Delahoussaye when he declared that nature abhors a vacuum. She rose to the defence of her favourite with more haste than discretion.
“The Bar, of all professions, must be declared the most vulgar,” she avowed, with a look for Tom Hearst in his blue coat. “In physick we may detect a nobler calling, despite its trappings of trade, in the saving of lives; the Church is redeemed by the sanctity of its purpose; and the military life, of course, is to be preferred above all others for its bravery and fortitude.”
Miss Fanny’s pretty speech was interrupted here by a contemptuous snort from her mother, who cast a venomous look at Tom Hearst. The Lieutenant merely grinned at Madame, and bowed in her daughter’s direction.
“But how are we to praise the Bar?” Miss Delahoussaye continued, undaunted. “A nasty meddling in the concerns of debtors, cutthroats, and swindlers, the lowest form of society, for a fee one must pretend not to take by sending the bill through one’s solicitors!3 I should not marry a barrister for anything in the world!”
“And he, my dear,” Lord Harold said from his corner, “would certainly be ill-advised to marry you.’“
Sir William Reynolds was shown in upon the heels of this curt remark. The new Earl he greeted first, as befit the highest peer in the room; then he turned to the Countess with a bow. Lord Harold Trowbridge he offered but a nod, tho’ if he recalled the moments the duke’s son had won at his expense, Sir William’s face gave no sign. When he had made his courtesies to the Delahoussayes and the Hearsts, I rose to greet him with my hand extended, and said with real pleasure, “Sir William! What good fortune that we should meet again, after so many years!”
“Miss Austen, to be sure!” The smile that suffused his merry old face was like a ray of sun in that mordant atmosphere. “A pleasure for which I could not have hoped! And how is your dear father?”
“Very well, sir, when last we met. I shall be pleased to send him equally good news of yourself.”
“You are acquainted with Sir William, Miss Austen?” the Earl broke in, with wonder.
“Indeed, my lord, since I was a child.”
“I was at Oxford with her father;” the good man said, his face beaming, “and stood godparent to one of her brothers. How is the rascal?”
“Charles is faring well in his naval career, though Frank, his elder, continues to outstrip him.”
“As he should! As he should!” Sir William exclaimed, and smiled all around until, recollecting the reason for his presence in a house of mourning, he assumed a more becoming gravity.
Sir William Reynolds is that mixture of quick parts and good humour, unabashed affection and deceptive shrewdness, that makes for a candid and invigorating acquaintance. He had left his practice at the Bar and his clerks at the King’s Bench some five months past, upon receiving his knighthood, and had settled in Scargrave Close to enjoy his remaining years, much as my father had chosen the retreat of Bath. The honour of his elevation had done little to impair his easy manners; Sir William was not the sort to adopt a false pride, but rather a heightened civility, a useful quality in his current duties as justice of the peace. That his good sense might make short work of Isobel’s trouble, I was completely assured.
“My very deepest and most sincere condolences, my lady,” Sir William said, with a bow to my friend.
“Thank you, Sir William.” Isobel’s hand went to her throat, a gesture that has become familiar. I feared for a moment that she might faint, and would have moved to her aid; but Fitzroy Payne was before me. In an instant he placed a chair at her disposal, with a tender look that betrayed all his concern. For; indeed, Isobel is a changed woman entirely.
The Countess bears the marks of extreme fatigue upon her countenance, the result not merely of this morning’s melancholy duties but of broken repose. In Marguerite’s absence, she will suffer no one to do up her hair, and so the pretty ringlets that once graced her brow are now severely drawn back. Her mourning dress proclaims itself as last worn in respect of her late father, it being some three years out of fashion; she has neither time nor inclination to consult a mantua-maker for anything new. With her fixed pallor and eyes reddened from weeping, my friend is far from lovely; except that there might be a sort of loveliness in her pitiable desolation.
“You are very good, Sir William, to venture out in the snow on the late Earl’s behalf,” Fitzroy Payne said, in an effort, I thought, to fill an awkward pause. I felt all my apprehension at his remark, knowing that Sir William was present by Isobel’s invitation, and undoubtedly wondering at its cause.
“Do you find Scargrave Close a congenial place, Sir William?” I broke in, somewhat desperately.
A hint of amusement suffused the old barrister’s face as he inclined his head in my direction. “Most congenial, Miss Austen, most congenial. The late Earl was a man of probity and discipline, and the surrounding country reveals his hand. You face a difficult task, Lord Scargrave, in assuming your uncle’s duties.”
“Well do I know it, sir,” Fitzroy Payne replied feelingly, his dark gaze turned inward, “and I had thought to enjoy long years of study before assuming the role. Not the least of my regrets at my uncle’s death is the knowledge that all chance for learning is past, however imperfect my present abilities.”
“Man is ever overtaken by Death like a child by sleep—too soon, and with much lamenting,” George Hearst broke in. His spectral voice, emanating from a chair by the fire, fell upon my ears with all the heaviness of the grave. “We are formed from regret, and with regret we ever leave this earthly life.”
Fanny Delahoussaye rolled her eyes, for Tom Hearst’s benefit, and at that gentleman’s answering grin, she abruptly put aside her needlework and abandoned her chair. “I feel a trifle indisposed, Mamma,” she announced, with the most angelic of smiles and a curtsey for Isobel; “I believe I shall go to my room.”
“Fanny,” Madame Delahoussaye said, with a touch of warning in her tone, “Sir William has only just arrived. You forget yourself, my dear.”
“Indeed, I do not. Did I forget myself, I might remain in Sir William’s company for hours, Mamma,” Fanny said plaintively. “It is because I cannot forget myself that I must bid Sir William adieu.”
“I should think a walk in the Park might improve your spirits,” Lieutenant Hearst observed.
“I am certain that it should.” Fanny turned without further ado and hastened from the drawing-room.
“Fanny—” Madame set down her needlework, her eyes on Tom Hearst, who had thrust himself away from the hearth.
“Do not disturb yourself, dear Madame,*’ the Lieutenant said, bending gallantly over her hand. “I shall make certain your daughter comes to no harm.”
“But it snows!” Madame Delahoussaye cried, Sir William forgotten. She snatched her hand from Tom Hearst’s with a baleful look and hastened after Fanny.
The Lieutenant threw back his head and laughed aloud, much to Fitzroy Payne’s dismay and, to judge by his countenance, Lord Harold Trowbridge’s amusement. That gentleman had set aside his London journal, the better to observe Tom Hearst’s tricks. But he rose now in Madame Delahoussaye’s wake, and clapped the Lieutenant on the shoulder.
“You had much better play at cards with me, my good fellow,” Trowbridge told him. “Leave the chit to her mamma.”
“I must offer my apologies, Sir William,” Fitzroy Payne said, with a heightened gravity, as Trowbridge and the Lieutenant bowed and turned towards the hall. “I fear our household is in some disarray. The Earl’s passing has made us all unlike ourselves.”
“Or perhaps,” George Hearst observed from his corner, “more truly like ourselves?” He closed his book and rose, of a mind to follow his brother. “I fear; Sir William, that Death has forced us all to reckon with mortality. And so you find us as we shall probably face our graves—with determined frivolity, indifferent tempers, and general regret.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Sir William replied. “I had always aspired to meet my Maker armed with a comfortably full stomach and a good night’s rest.”
My old friend’s good humour was lost upon Mr. Hearst.
“Then you would indeed be fortunate,” he gravely observed, “and in a measure but rarely accorded your fellows. I am sure my uncle wished for the same—with the added thought that Death, however inevitable, was better met on a more distant day. You see how little his hopes availed him. Not all the power and wealth the Earl of Scargrave might summon, could command him another hour of life.”
“Assuredly,” Sir William said, with an uneasy glance for the Countess. Isobel’s brown eyes looked overly-large in her white face, and they were fixed dreadfully upon Mr. Hearst. “You have undoubtedly profited by your uncle’s example.”
“The Earl loved to instruct, Sir William, however little his pupils warranted the lesson.” This last was spoken with an edge of bitterness, and George Hearst’s mouth set into a hard line. I thought, as I gazed at him, how little he resembled his brother; where the Lieutenant’s eyes were wont to dance, Mr. Hearst’s were hollow; and the excellent moulding of the cavalryman’s features was turned harsh and angular in the ecclesiastic’s. An expression of abstraction swept over his face as I studied it, and with the briefest of nods for us all, Mr. Hearst left the drawing-room. Sir William expelled a heavy sigh, as though shifting a burdensome weight, and turned to Lord Scargrave with a smile.
“Well, my lord, if the spectre of Death has shown us your truest self, we may rest easy in the stewardship of the earldom. For in your own case, Lord Payne—or should I say, Lord Scargrave—only an increase in your usual sense, estimable self-restraint, and good breeding is evident. Rarely has a gentleman conducted himself with such dignity, in the midst of so much—distraction.”
Fitzroy Payne merely inclined his head, but I silently applauded my old friend; he had perfectly described the newly-titled Earl. The more I observe of Isobel’s lover, the more I must commend him. Fitzroy Payne chose to suffer in silence rather than dishonour his uncle; and the strength of character required cannot fail to move me. I set aside all questions as to the propriety of his caring for Isobel in the first place; it is enough to know that he mastered the feeling when it proved most necessary, to the preservation of her honour as well as his own.
With the Earl departed this life, however and Isobel free—but all such thoughts must await Sir William’s better understanding. A blackmailer is still at large, and the faintest air of scandal can blight a thousand tender hopes.
“Ah, a pot of tea,” Sir William said, as the footman, Fetters, appeared, bearing a tray before him; “exactly what an old man requires to throw off the chill.” He bent himself to his saucer, and all conversation ceased.
“Lord—Scargrave,” Fetters said to Fitzroy Payne, “I am asked by Mr. Cobblestone to tell you as the solicitors are come.”
“Again? And on the very day of my uncle’s service? It is not to be borne.”
“I have put them in the libr’y, milord. “
“Very well, Fetters. I shall attend them presently.” Fitzroy Payne looked to Isobel for comfort, but my friend’s eyes were on the fire, and if she had registered aught of the previous conversation, I should judge it a miracle.
The new Earl bowed to Sir William and silently withdrew; and at the closing of the door, Isobel started and looked about her.
“I fear I have presumed upon your attention, my lady,” Sir William said, and rose from his chair. “It is unjust to tax the patience of so much sorrow. Please accept my apologies and my adieux”
“Indeed, Sir William, you do not presume. It is I who must be faulted for calling you here so precipitately, and then lacking the courage to speak.”
“Is there some trouble in train, my lady?”
Isobel’s beautiful eyes fixed upon the magistrate’s shrewd ones, and she studied his countenance thoughtfully. Then she turned to me without a word in reply. “Jane,” she said, “I would speak with you.”
I followed her into the hall, where lately her husband’s body had lain; the scent of dying flowers and beeswax hung heavy in the air.
“Since you are so well acquainted with the magistrate,” Isobel began, in a nervous accent, “could not you impart to him some sense of what has occurred? I should feel easier in my mind if one who knew his character were to speak with him; for I confess he is a stranger to me, Jane.”
“But of course, Isobel,” I said, reaching for her hand. I was shocked to find it remarkably chill. “I shall make a show of returning with him to Scargrave Close in his carriage, the better to pay my respects to Lady Reynolds.”
“Oh, Jane!” Isobel cried, her eyes filling with tears, “and in such weather!” She cast her gaze upon the window’s bleak prospect of snow. “You are very good to me.”
“How is it possible to be otherwise?” I replied, and squeezed her cold fingers affectionately. “Do not trouble about a little wind and wet, Isobel. You may consider the matter as settled.”
EVENTS FELL OUT AS I HAD DESIGNED, AND WE WERE NOT three minutes under way in Sir William’s comfortable chariot, the snow still falling softly about the lanterns that had been lit against the gathering dark, when he cleared his throat and embarked upon a subject of pressing concern to us both.
“Now, my Jane, perhaps you may tell me why the Countess summoned an old man out in such weather, and then escaped to her room with barely a word? I should almost believe her note of yesterday a subterfuge of your own, for renewing old acquaintance!”
“Indeed, sir, there was a darker purpose, and though I intend no dishonour to Lady Reynolds in avowing it, I should not be calling at your home this evening were I not charged with revealing it.”
“Ah! The matter gains in interest,” the magistrate said, his satisfaction in his voice. “Speak!”
I handed him the maid Marguerite’s piece of foolscap, and let the ill-written words speak in my stead.
Sir William rummaged among the pockets of his greatcoat for some spectacles, and took a moment to settle them on his nose. In the darkness of the chariot’s interior, his eyes strained to make sense of the handwriting. “Very curious,” he said, after several moments’ silent perusal. “When was this received?”
“Yesterday.”
“Have you an idea of the author?”
“We believe it to be Isobel’s maid, a Creole girl by the name of Marguerite. She has decamped, and cannot be found, though Isobel sent some trusty fellows in pursuit when her absence was discovered last night.”
“And so the Countess is become afraid,” Sir William said slowly, “that the evil tongue of rumour is unleashed upon the land. A nasty business for one so shortly married.”
“Or so recently widowed. She feels it most acutely,” I said, “and would have a stop to such vicious talk.”
“There are two accusations contained herein,” Sir William said bemuse
dly, “that she has taken a lover among the peerage, and that she has done away with her husband, with or without her lover’s help. One would think there could hardly have been time for all that—she’s not many days returned from her wedding trip, I believe?”
“But a fortnight.”
“And so the gentleman must have been in her acquaintance before the wedding, and thrown in her way once again upon her return. There cannot be many such fellows in Scargrave, beyond the family itself.” And with this last, Sir William appeared to have heard the sense of his words for the first time, and was lost in painful speculation. There was but one lord among the Scargrave family now that the Seventh Earl was dead, and so the magistrate took Marguerite’s meaning.
“Dear, dear,” Sir William said, turning his gaze once more upon the note, “this does put a rather nasty complexion upon it.”
“Marguerite would have us look to a lord, but does not tell us which,” I said. “She might as well intend Lord Harold as Lord Payne.”
“Lord Scargrave, you mean; for so we must call him, from this day forward. But tell me of Trowbridge—is he a near acquaintance of the late Earl?”
“A very recent acquaintance, I believe.”
“And yet he remains in the household, when all but those with a special claim on the affections of the family, such as yourself, should long since have left. It is like a man of his cheek.”
“It is very singular,” I said, with feeling; I could see no reason for Trowbridge’s continued presence at Scargrave, and found him a burden on the entire household.
“Indeed,” said Sir William. “But Trowbridge is a singular fellow. More than once he has pulled the wool over the Crown’s eyes in the matter of some sugar duties on his West Indies imports. When last I heard, he was backing opium runners trading for tea in the South China Sea. I should not have thought to find him in Scargrave, and at such a time; I have long thought death to be the only thing the man fears. And what do you surmise is his motive for such indelicacy?”
“I had understood him to be awaiting the Countess’s disposition of some business matters.”
Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor Page 7