Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

by Stephanie Barron

  He raised his glass to me in mocking salute and tossed back its contents. “Was there ever a doubt?” he said.

  “Lucifer was possessed of just such certainty, my lord, and his prospects in the end were hardly sanguine.”

  “I would disagree, Miss Austen. Lucifer inherited a kingdom, assuredly, and one of his own design. Many men would wish to claim as much.”

  I waved a hand dismissively. “You talk but to hear yourself speak, my lord, and I have no time for the cultivation of vanity. I am come to bid you goodbye, but not farewell and hardly adieu. I should rather wish you to fare poorly and go straight to the Devil.”

  Such language, I admit, is shocking in any woman, and particularly in a clergyman’s daughter; but the blood was upon me, as my dear brother Henry would say, and I was careless of effect. The one I produced, however was the last I should have anticipated. Rather than smiling in scorn, or throwing back his head in outright laughter, Harold Trowbridge took his cigar from his lips, and studied me speculatively.

  “Your aspect gains something in the liveliness of anger, Miss Austen. Had I anticipated such, I should have provoked you to it sooner, simply for the enjoyment of the effect.” His dark eyes actually danced, with all the impudence of a man who has never known scruple.

  “How can you speak so, my lord, when you have been the ruin of one of the gentlest, the best, and certainly now the most suffering of women?”

  “You would have it that I find pleasure in my achievements, particularly when they are won at the expense of such.”

  “You are in every way despicable,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” he rejoined, “but I am nonetheless successful, and the Countess is merely noble and poor.”

  “How,” I began, my voice unpleasantly strident to my own ears, “did you prevail upon her? She was in every way opposed to your purpose. It can only be that the weight of her recent afflictions has enervated her, and that she gave up the struggle rather than contest with one such as you.”

  “I merely pointed out that she is penniless,” Trowbridge said calmly, “and that her creditors have called in their debts. While her husband was alive, I chose to bide my time, and learn what the cost of clearing the estates’ encumbrance was worth to him; but with Scargrave gone, there is no point in delaying further.”

  “Scargrave is gone, but Scargrave is yet with us,” I pointed out. “The Earl has an heir, possessed of all the potency of his estates.”

  “And a healthy debt of his own,” the rogue said mildly. “Even if the Countess were to rush in unseemly haste, and marry her lover”—at this demonstration of his knowledge, I gasped, but he took no notice—”Fitzroy Payne must look to his own accounts first. Half of London are his creditors; his own holdings in the Indies are beset with difficulties, and should his uncle not have died, Payne should soon have been hauled into court, or killed in a duel by one of the many men to whom he owes debts of honour.”

  “Debts of honour?” I was aghast.

  “Miss Austen,” Lord Harold said with a condescension that made my blood run hot, “I understand you are more accustomed to the ways of the country than of Town. Doubt cannot be in your nature, nor suspicion in your character. But let me assure you that Fitzroy Payne keeps up with a very fast set. Indeed, he forms its chief ornament. The cost of his establishment—his clothes, the maintenance of his Derbyshire estate, the gambling to which he is all too partial—exact a heavy toll on a fortune that is not above three thousand pounds a year. He has wagered heavily on the expectation of his inheritance, and his creditors, recognising his prospects, have been content to give him more line with which to hang himself. But he has reached the end of his rope, and I fear there is no slack for your friend the Countess to grasp.”

  I was struck by all the power of Trowbridge’s words, so carelessly bestowed, and clearly without a suspicion that the Earl might have died by other than natural causes. That Fitzroy Payne had a motive to murder—and well before the Earl should get himself a son, and thus disinherit his nephew—was patently obvious. The image of Fitzroy Payne’s noble face rose in my mind; could such a man be capable of killing? But certainly his appearance gave no hint of the pressure of his circumstances; he had never betrayed the desperation that must haunt his every thought. I understood better now, why he had not pressed Isobel to break off her engagement to the Earl, and marry him instead; the wrath of his uncle should have blasted his future prospects entirely. Better to win the Countess’s heart from her husband—and so guard against the possibility of an heir and the loss of an immense estate.

  What had seemed noble, in retrospect was revealed as vilely mercenary. But my thoughts were interrupted by Lord Harold’s implacable voice.

  “… and then there is the matter of Mrs. Hammond.”

  “Mrs. Hammond?”

  “A woman he keeps in a flat in Cheapside. It pains me to wound the sensitivities of a lady, but there it is. Her tastes are somewhat extravagant, according to my sources.”

  A mistress, when Payne had professed love for Isobel. By any account, it was too much. “Your information has been complete, indeed, Lord Harold,” I said contemptuously. “I would that the gathering of it did you more honour.”

  “I make it a point to learn all that I can of my adversaries,” Trowbridge replied easily. “Finance is war; Miss Austen, and one cannot wage war without knowledge. The force of mine was readily apparent to the Countess.”

  “You told her of this?” I exclaimed, with horror. “Of Mrs. Hammond as well?”

  “It was essential for little Isobel to understand that any hope of succour from the new Earl must be impossible. I could not defer my offer for Crosswinds until such time as she might marry the rogue. I could not depend upon his funds being directed my way.”

  I comprehended now the utter defeat of my friend’s aspect as she sought the stairs; the air of bewildered pain. Where she assumed strength and love to be hers, she was met with treachery and deceit. And had urged her only this morning to put aside regret and turn to the living. had pled Fitzroy Payne’s case, when all such pleading must be injury.

  “I believe the Countess felt the truth of my arguments,” Lord Harold continued, reaching for the decanter of Port to refill his glass. “She agreed to accept a sum—quite generous, under the circumstances—in return for her properties and the discharge of her debt. She shall have something to live on, at least, which she certainly could not say before.”

  And so he feels himself to have been magnanimous. Vile man.

  I wheeled for the door, intent upon taking no leave of Harold Trowbridge, but a thought stopped me where I stood. An adventurer like his lordship never wagers without great purpose; and so there must be a value to Crosswinds of which dear Isobel knew nothing.

  “What can have been so important, Lord Harold,” I said, turning again to face him, “that you should struggle so long against the Countess?”

  “Winning alone has made it worthwhile,” he answered carelessly, drawing on his cigar and releasing the smoke in a foul-scented cloud. “But then there is the matter of the property itself. The lands run down to a deep-water harbour perfect for the mooring of heavy ships; it is unique to the Barbadoes in being held in private hands. Such a port is essential.”

  “Essential for what purpose?”

  “One you should hardly understand, my dear. And now,” he said, drawing forth a pocket watch, “I fear I must depart. It has been a delightful encounter^ Miss Austen. We make a compelling pair. My initiative, and your wits—had you a greater fortune, I should almost think myself in danger. But alas, you are quite portionless; and hardly possessed of enough beauty to make lack of means a trifle.”

  “That is just as well, Lord Harold,” I said clearly, “for your lack of finer feeling, of scruple and honour—of everything, in truth, that turns a man a gentleman—makes you the very last person I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”

  1. White’s was perhaps the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in London
during Austen’s time. It is a sign of Fitzroy Payne’s social status and his place among a fashionable set that he is a member there.—Editor’s note.

  24 December 1802

  ˜

  A CONSTRAINT HAS FALLEN OVER OUR PARTY WITH LORD Harold’s departure—an event so fervently desired, and yet in its achievement, offering little in the way of ease or peace. That his disclosures to Isobel have poisoned her feelings for Fitzroy Payne, I do not doubt; she encounters the new Earl with a determined coldness, and spends much of her days alone in her rooms, while he—cast down and grown even more unhappy—keeps to his library, his walks through the Park, and the comfort of his books.

  Fitzroy Payne has often during these long hours, by a look or a word, seemed on the verge of requesting my counsel, but is prevented by his strong reserve. I may confess myself relieved at his hesitancy, for it is an interview I would at all costs avoid. He undoubtedly knows of Isobel’s decision to turn over her estates to Lord Harold; but it is certain he did nothing to impede that gentleman’s departure. And so I must judge him to have failed her when she most required aid.

  With the Countess distracted and the new Earl little better, Scargrave Manor’s habits of order might be expected to run awry; but Madame Delahoussaye has assumed her niece’s role of chatelaine with admirable relish. She now vies with Mrs. Hodges for authority over the principal rooms, and sets about directing the housemaids at their work. When Fitzroy Payne happens to leave his refuge for his customary ramble, Madame descends upon the library and will suffer no one to assist her. Danson, the Earl’s man, is banished thin-lipped and grim to the servants’ quarters, and a fearsome racket emanates from behind the library’s closed doors. When Madame emerges, however, the Earl’s papers have been tidied, his cigar ash disposed, and his letters neatly grouped in a pile for Danson to file away. A veritable war has ensued between the Earl’s valet and his beloved’s aunt; and I must declare Madame to be the winner in the majority of their engagements.

  Fanny Delahoussaye continues to suffer from a poor stomach, though most afternoons she rallies enough to play at lottery tickets with Tom Hearst, when he is so inclined—and that is often, for it seems the atmosphere in the cottage down the lane is less than congenial. Mr. George Hearst looks decidedly morose, being lost in a brown study that lifts only when he is repeatedly addressed; hardly the sort of society the boisterous Lieutenant should choose. We are blest in that the moody ecclesiastic rarely darkens the Manor door; and his stupidity often sends his brother in desperation from the cottage.

  Isobel’s persistent sorrow makes me feel a useless friend, and I have wondered more than once whether I did right by staying on; but when I voiced my intention of returning to Bath in Fitzroy Payne’s hearing, he started in dismay, and pressed me so urgently to remain—that I might endeavour to lift the Countess’s spirits—that I could not in good conscience depart. Whatever Lord Scargrave’s faults and vices may be, I can know nothing of them. He remains all that is honourable in my presence.

  And since I must await the offer of the Scargrave carriage to convey me home, I am, more to the point, utterly without the means to leave.

  With little of a cheering nature to excite my interest, and nothing further from the poisonous pen, I determined to profit by Lieutenant Hearst’s knowledge and patience, and had three lessons on horseback during the course of last week. And so, the weather holding fine and steady this morning after several days of snow, I decided to seek some exercise, and betook myself to the stables in search of Lady Bess. I considered awaiting Lieutenant Hearst’s company—but as I could not predict his plans with any certainty, and was loath to appear to seek his attention by sending to Scargrave Cottage, I settled it that I should make my way to the stables alone. I felt myself impatient to be away; and did a groom prove unable to accompany me, I had no little confidence in assaying to ride unattended.

  I crossed the gravel of the stableyard, swept clean of snow, and encountered James, the chief boy.

  “Miss Austen!” he exclaimed. “You be wantin’ Bess, I warrant?”

  “I am,” I said, smiling, “unless she is otherwise engaged.”

  “She’s been turned into the near paddock,” James said, knitting his brows; “on account of the day being so fine. If you’ve but a moment, I’ll fetch ‘er.”

  And he was about to do so, when Mr. George Hearst appeared, looking as black as the memory of bad weather and with hardly a nod to me or a word of kindness for the groom.

  “Fetch Balthasar as quick as you can, boy,” he said, and when James hesitated, gestured emphatically towards the stable door. “Be off with you.”

  The groom cast me an apologetic look.

  “And mind you bring him round to the main entrance,” George Hearst added, turning abruptly and walking in the direction of the great house.

  What had inspired such haste and truculence, I could not think, and had half a mind to catch him up and enquire of his trouble. But there was something in Mr. Hearst’s aspect that warned me off—a suggestion of an increase in his usual taciturnity, perhaps—and I remained where I stood. Few words enough had passed between us since our conversation in the lane the previous week; I half-surmised that the gentleman regretted of his frankness, and had resolved to avoid my company. So I deemed it best to seek the fields while he retained the Manor. After an instant, I followed James to the interior of the lofty-ceilinged stable, searching out his form in the dim light. The groom stood framed against a stall far down the row, where a great black head reared over the door of its box like a military statue of old. The very Balthasar.

  “Do you wait another minute, Miss Austen, and I shall have Bess stamping to bear you,” the boy assured me.

  “There is no need, James,” I said. “If you but give me her bridle and lead, I shall fetch her myself.”

  “I don’t know as it’s a job for a lady”—he looked all his doubt—”nor as you’ll meet with much success, begging your pardon, miss.”

  “As I must wait by the paddock, or wait by the stables, I would fain be of use; and it cannot hurt me to try. Do you take Balthasar to Mr. Hearst, James, and follow me to the fields. Then if the horse outwits me, your conscience may be salved by effecting my salvation.”

  BESS WAS AMONG A SMALL GROUP OF HER FELLOW CREATURES clustered by the paddock’s far rail. That the horses were intent upon remaining in their corner I readily observed; and wondered at so close a converse in so wide a space. Perhaps they missed the comfortable warmth of their boxes, and sought instead to make walls of one another. Whatever their purpose, it caused me to walk the length of the field in my boots, the snow coming up nearly to their tops. Gathering my courage, I clucked to Bess as Tom Hearst had taught me to do. To my delight, she came towards me obediently enough, and thrust her nose into the bridle, a perfect lady; I had but to snap on the halter and lead her to the paddock gate.

  It was here that I encountered difficulty, and of so decided a turn that I was completely routed. For Bess would not approach the inoffensive gate, and, indeed, rolled her eyes and whinnied in such a violent fashion, backing onto her hind legs, that I lost my grip on the halter and was forced to watch in despair as she hurried herself back to the field’s far corner. It was, by all accounts, inexplicable. That the mare had entered by the gate but a few hours earlier was evident, there being none other in the enclosure; but to approach it now was to her of all things the most distasteful.

  There are those who will assert that Providence robbed animals of sense, and thus consigned them to serve at man’s pleasure. But it was my lot to have a country childhood, and though I was denied a mount of my own, was often to observe my dear Madam Lefroy1 in command of hers. That she worked with the animal’s intelligence, rather than doubting the existence of such, was apparent. And so I determined to discover what had so terrified Lady Bess about the gate.

  Upon approaching it, I found nothing amiss—it seemed a gate much like any other. A scrap of fabric, grey against the whiteness of the sno
w, caught my eye, and I bent to retrieve it; a fine handkerchief of lawn, with Isobel’s looping monogram. She left them behind her wherever she went; I had myself observed her drop them countless times, and surmised she must keep a running account with a purveyor in Town. But how had one come to be here? I secured it in my pocket, and turned to study the paddock.

  As if for the first time, I saw what had filled my sight unnoticed before: several sets of footprints, crossed and trampled one upon the other; led to the small hay shed at one side of the paddock, and the door was slightly ajar. Fanny Delahoussaye again?

  There was no sound from within at my approach, unless it was drowned to silence by the excited nickers that rang out from the horses’ end of the field. I touched the wooden door with gloved fingertips, and it slowly swung back on creaking hinges. There could be nothing inside, I determined once my eyes had adjusted to the light, but hay—great mounds of it piled from floor to ceiling, with a slight dusting of snow where cracks in the roof had given way to the weather. The grooms, perhaps, had visited the place upon turning out the horses, and left a sprinkling of fodder fresh upon the snow. I made as if to turn away, when my sharper senses stopped me. The scent of dried summer grass—sweet and musty enough to send one sneezing—had been overlaid with something animal. My heartbeat quickened as I put a name to the odour: it was blood, still warm and wet, and soaked into the hay at my feet.

  I bent down and studied the floor, discerning in the dimness a blacker stain. The wetness led to the dark corner of the shed, and though my heart misgave me, I felt that I must know what lay there in the fodder. Lifting my skirts and treading carefully, I crept towards the farthest bale.

  The fingers of a hand, reaching in endless supplication from a covering shroud of hay, stopped me still; and for an instant, my courage failed me. That it was a woman’s hand I readily discerned, and something very like terror held me in its grip for the space of several heartbeats. But I recoiled at the knowledge of my faint head, and determined to go on rather than back. I reached a gloved hand to the hay and pulled it aside.