Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

by Stephanie Barron

  “You met with the Lieutenant while still in London,” I mused. “After Isobel’s marriage—while she travelled abroad.”

  “It was better that she be ignorant of our concerns,” Fanny replied, her eyes downcast. “She did not approve of my meeting Tom.”

  And with good reason, I thought, remembering the click of Fanny’s door several nights past; had the Lieutenant entered her room, even as he parted from me? His conduct was in every way infamous. And here, assuredly, was a powerful motive for murdering the maid and dropping Isobel’s kerchief; by these vile actions, Fanny’s blackmailer should be dispatched, and her guardian silenced. But what of the damning note in Fitzroy Payne’s hand?

  Poor Fanny was in no state to be further interrogated; I patted her shoulder, said a few words, and helped her to her feet. We parted at the Orangerie door, she to trip deceitfully to her Mamma, and I to seek my chamber and my pen with a heavy heart.

  I CANNOT CONSIDER THE MATCH WITHOUT SOME LITTLE dismay. It has been long, indeed—despite my capricious words to Fanny Delahoussaye—since I encountered a man of Lieutenant Hearst’s easy manners and amiability, however false his intentions; and it seems I am forever to witness such men apportioned to an other. I confess to indulging in a review of my affairs of the heart, and wondering for the thousandth time if I did wrong in refusing Harris Bigg-Wither; to avoid the continued painful recognition of all I have been denied, in finally accepting some one, would be relief enough from a lifetime of bitter disappointments.

  And I am all wonder at Lieutenant Hearst’s behaviour! He has snubbed Fanny, and sought my company over hers, whenever opportunity afforded. Were I his professed love, I should find his conduct reprehensible. Was this merely a shadow play as she described, intended to deceive others and fend off the suspicious in his family circle? If so, I can declare Tom Hearst to have engaged in it too heartily, and feel myself to be a laughing-stock. It would have been enough to speak of Miss Delahoussaye with neutral praise, such as any man might bestow; whereas he never missed an opportunity for raillery. Her infatuation with himself, her false pride, her preoccupation with clothes and self-importance—all have been the subject of his disparagement in the course of our riding lessons together. I cannot comprehend it. I might almost believe him regretting his choice; and if he feels so little respect for a woman whose charms alone may have quickened his interest, I cannot feel sanguine about his prospects for happiness in marriage.

  And did the Lieutenant obtain his interview with Isobel that e’en? And an opportunity, perhaps, to place the Barbadoes nuts in the Earl’s dish?

  Isobel is past all consent, Miss Delahoussaye had said; and indeed, my friend is now conveniently incapable of opposing the match, and the bestowing of Miss Delahoussaye’s thirty thousand pounds. I wonder she could not be persuaded that the marriage would keep Fanny’s fortune in the Scargrave family, and thus be made to look with favour on the union; but perhaps that did not serve Lieutenant Hearst’s purpose. Isobel—and Fitzroy Payne—would undoubtedly have tied the money in such legal binds as made it virtually useless to him; and it may be that it is cash for which Tom Hearst seeks. And if it be that the gentleman is in desperate need of money, I must consider his appearance of guilt as black, indeed.

  Or am I merely comforting myself with the thought that he chooses Miss Delahoussaye for her fortune, rather than any preference over myself? Stupid, stupid Jane! Your vanity rises again, even in the hour of its most thorough defeat.

  Can such a man, whose fine appearance and good humour suggest all that is pleasing, be so infinitely dissembling? I declare his charm, and think him a murderer; I encourage his attentions, and find him promised to another. Were I acquainted with his person a twelvemonth, and had ample scope for observation, I should believe myself still as likely to be deceived. No, I shall not begin to understand it, be Miss Fanny Delahoussaye turned Mrs. Tom Hearst, and her third child on the way.

  1. Clergyable offenses were those that might be sentenced “with benefit of clergy,” meaning, with a dispensation against the death penalty. Manslaughter, for example, was a clergyable offense, with transportation rather than death the usual sentence. This legal provision arose from the tradition of trying ordained clergy in ecclesiastical courts, but spread to the population at large. —Editor’s note.

  2. Jane Austen fell in love with the nephew of her good friend Anne Lefroy at the age of twenty, while the young Irishman was visiting the Hampshire town of Steventon, where Jane grew up. Anne Lefroy was opposed to the match because of Jane’s lack of fortune, and sent Tom away before any engagement was formed. —Editor’s note.

  3 January 1803

  ˜

  I SENT FOR MR. CRANLEY EARLY THIS MORNING, AND WAS gratified to see that gentleman arrive with alacrity not an hour later. To stem his apparent disappointment at Fanny Delahoussaye’s absence—she was even then standing before Madame Henri, the Bond Street modiste—I bent myself briskly to business.

  “Let us talk, Mr. Cranley, of evidence,” I began, closing the study door behind us, the better to guard against a servant’s ears. “The presence near the paddock gate of Isobel’s handkerchief, we may count as nothing. Any person desiring to throw blame upon the Countess, might readily have obtained her linen, monogrammed as it is, for the purpose; access to her apartments is not even necessary. I myself have observed Isobel leave her kerchiefs behind her wherever she goes.”

  Mr. Cranley nodded. “I had assumed as much.”

  “And what of Fitzroy Payne? Have you intelligence of his writing habits?” I perched on the edge of a chair, and Mr. Cranley did the same, leaning towards me in his eagerness.

  “Your excellent understanding, Miss Austen, is cause for rejoicing,” he began.

  “Capital!” I cried, clasping my hands together. “You have learned something to their advantage!”

  The barrister nodded. “As you are no doubt aware, Fitzroy Payne was engrossed in resolving the business affairs of his uncle at the time of the maid’s murder. He remained closeted in the library for days on end, over a quantity of papers, and much correspondence passed between Lord Scargrave and his London solicitors,”

  “Well I remember it. The solicitors appeared at Scargrave immediately upon the Earl’s death, but stayed only a few hours; thereafter all matters were conducted by post. And what a quantity of post! Madame Delahoussaye undertook several times to tidy the Earl’s library, and was all agog at the mess.”

  “According to Lord Scargrave, he never varies from routine in matters of business. In writing a letter, he painstakingly draws up a draft, and then copies it for clarity’s sake onto another sheet of paper. It is the final copy which he sends to the recipient.”

  “He has copies of all his correspondence?”

  “He does. I think it possible that the phrase in question was torn from just such a draft—left lying about the Earl’s library desk, to which everyone might have access—and the rest of the sheet destroyed.” The barrister slapped his knees in excitement, and sat back in his chair.

  “But how to find the very letter?”

  “I am directed to Fitzroy Payne’s valet,” Mr. Cranley said, looking about him as though the man were hiding in one of the corners, “who retains a list of the Earl’s correspondence, as well as his personal papers. If the draft of a letter is missing, we may discover to whom the final copy was sent, and search for the incriminating phrase in its text.”

  I wished to partake of the barrister’s evident satisfaction, but a doubt assailed me. “Do we look among the Manor household as you suggest, Mr. Cranley—where any might have access to the Earl’s library and his drafts—or must we consider that the letter’s recipient might also be the murderer?”

  The barrister looked thoughtful at this, and rose restlessly from his chair. “If the maid’s murderer received a letter from the Earl containing the incriminating language, he should have no need of a draft; it required only to tear the phrase from the letter itself and send it to the maid. If t
hat is the case, we cannot hope to locate the damaged letter itself.” “But we may learn the murderer’s identity, from finding the phrase of the maid’s note in a draft of the letter in Danson’s possession,” I observed.

  Mr. Cranley beamed at me in approval. “If, however, the murderer is a member of the household—who searched among the Earl’s drafts, and tore the incriminating phrase from the page—then the draft itself should be absent from Danson’s collection.”

  “This cannot show the Earl’s innocence,” I mused, “but it may demonstrate that anyone familiar with the household—and Fitzroy Payne’s habits of correspondence—might readily have secured a sample of his handwriting, and without his knowledge.”

  “We are of one mind, Miss Austen,” the barrister said. “Our best hope of securing the Countess’s freedom, as well as that of Fitzroy Payne, is to show the guilt of another. There is no avoiding that. But until we may locate our murderer, I shall send for Danson.”

  I rose as Mr. Cranley made for the door. “And do you know where he is to be found?”

  “Fitzroy Payne sent him on to his London establishment near his clubs in Pall Mall. Danson awaits his master’s trial there in solitude—and, one assumes, some measure of despondency. For if the Earl is condemned, his valet’s chances of obtaining a suitable new position must be very slim.”

  “Danson should be active, then, in assisting us,” I replied. “For his future, too, hangs upon it.”

  MR. CRANLEY BELIEVED THAT HIS ONLY DEFENCE LAY IN attacking Sir William on narrow points of law; but it seemed to me a wiser course to present an equally plausible case for the guilt of another—and though I felt myself to be taking on the crushing role of the Divine Creator, in assaying to mete out punishment or pardon, I felt it incumbent upon me to exert myself to that end. While the barrister was about locating Danson, I determined that I should visit Jenny Barlow’s sister—and discover why her name had been the cause for such passionate vituperation between the incipient curate, Mr. George Hearst, and his uncle. I suspected it was due to righteous outrage on that gentleman’s part at the late Earl’s seduction of one of his own servants; but proof was nonetheless necessary.

  Did I arrive in the Scargrave carriage, with its arms emblazoned on the doors, I should probably turn Rosie’s humble establishment all aflutter; and so I deemed it best to secure a hackney carriage, the better to progress unknown, and thus made my way across Westminster Bridge to South London.

  THE ADDRESS JENNY BARLOW HAD GIVEN ME WAS SUCH AS did not disgrace her sister. From the appearance of their exteriors, the homes of many estimable families sit in Gracechurch Street—modest tradesmen, no doubt, and men of profession, whose means have not yet ascended to the West End. I observed many a marble stoop scrubbed clean, and doors pulled wide to the milkman by fresh-faced young maids in starched aprons and mob caps; and felt assured that Rosie Ketch’s fortune had been less melancholy than it might.

  The hackney pulled up to a well-kept lodging house, with a doorman ready to hand me down; and to him I conveyed my card, and directed that it should be sent to Number 33, in search of Miss Rosie Ketch, and waited for what I might learn. The vestibule of the establishment revealed it to be of modest pretensions and circumstances, as befit the neighbourhood and its inhabitants’ means; and I confess myself as ever more puzzled as to how the girl came to be placed there.

  Presently a kindly-faced woman of advanced years descended, and made herself known to me as a Mrs. Hammond—a name which must make me start, as having been attached to the woman identified by Harold Trowbridge as Fitzroy Payne’s mistress. Observing that she might rather have been his mother, I decided it to be the merest coincidence; and forebore from impertinent questions. She bade me follow her up several flights of stairs, to an apartment of a few rooms and some comfort, though little style.

  “And how, Miss Austen, may I be of service?” Mrs. Hammond said, in the manner of a genteel servant, having seated me on a worn settee by the fire and taken her place opposite. “Your card and your name are unknown to me.”

  “But the name of Rosie Ketch is not?” I enquired.

  “I have known a Rosie Ketch,” she replied, her kindly eyes nonetheless steely.

  “I am come at the behest of Rosie Ketch’s sister, Mrs. Barlow, whom I met while a visitor at Scargrave Manor. Mrs. Barlow is in some distress from the fact that she cannot hear from Rosie, and would have news of her by any means; and thus she prevailed upon me to call on her behalf, knowing that I was to be in Town.”

  “Dear Jenny!” Mrs. Hammond exclaimed, her features softening. “As kind a girl as ever lived. How those two were born of that father, I’ll never understand; but Susan Ketch was a lovely woman, and her children take after her, though she died so young in their rearing.”

  “The girl is within, then?” I said.

  “Aye, and she is. Jenny will have told you of her trouble?”

  I replied in the affirmative.

  “I’ll have her out for you in a moment, then, and you can be the judge of her yourself,” said Mrs. Hammond; and rising with an energy commendable in one of her advanced years, she disappeared in pursuit of her young charge.

  She had no sooner returned, with a slight girl of angelic appearance behind, than there was a knock upon the outer door; and with a curtsey, Mrs. Hammond left me with Rosie Ketch.

  That she was far along in her condition was immediately evident; although how frail a girl, and of such apparent youth, could be expected to bear a child, was indeed to be wondered at. She had Jenny Barlow’s fair hair and blue eyes, but where her sister’s face showed that awareness of the world’s harsher cares that maturity brings, Rosie’s countenance was altogether innocent. I might readily believe her to have come by her condition, without any understanding of how she had been got that way; and pitied her deeply for the vagary of her fate. That any man could so impose upon such a child, was incredible; but that it should have been the late Earl—as I doubted not from Jenny Barlow’s dark looks at his name and George Hearst’s accusatory words in his study—must detract from his reputation for goodness.

  “You are Rosie Ketch,” I said gently.

  The girl nodded shyly, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor, and her hands clasped before her.

  “I am Miss Austen, Rosie,” I told her. “I am come to bring you the love of your sister, who placed it in my charge when last I was at Scargrave. She is all benevolence on your behalf, and her concern has grown with the distance between you, and what I understand to be her husband’s injunction of silence. May I assure her of your good health and steady spirits?”

  “Tell Jenny as I am well,” she said carefully, in a clear, high voice, “though I fear for myself when my time comes, and would have her by me, if Ted can spare her.”

  “I shall tell her so,” I said. “Are there yet many months to wait?”

  “I can’t say as I know rightly,” she said.

  “And you have been here how long?”

  At that, her eyes glanced to the door, which was even then opening to reveal Mrs. Hammond, ushering her latest visitor within. Imagine my shock upon discovering it to be a gentleman of my acquaintance—none other than Mr. George Hearst!

  My surprise must have shown upon my face, or perhaps his own sensibility taught him to expect it; for he looked as confused as I. His intelligence quickly overcame his discomfiture, however, and he impeded my questions with a determined swiftness.

  “My dear Miss Austen,” he cried, “what can have brought you here?”

  “Mr. Hearst!” I exclaimed. “I might ask you as much!”

  He coloured at that, but said nothing; and recovering himself swiftly, bent over my hand in greeting.

  “You are acquainted with Mr. Hearst?” Mrs. Hammond said, looking from himself to me with a shrewd eye, as well she might; for I discerned that she had given him no knowledge of my presence, though knowing me only lately arrived from Scargrave, and more than likely to have encountered him there.

  �
��Indeed,” Mr. Hearst said; “it has been my privilege.”

  “Rosie,” Mrs. Hammond said briskly, “you must attend to the washing now; get along, girl. I’ll be with you directly.”

  At her charge’s exit, she turned once more to me, and said, not without kindness, “You’ll be wanting tea, miss, I expect. I’ll fetch it and leave you to yourselves.”

  As George Hearst clearly awaited my adoption of a seat, I chose the settee once more, and he assumed Mrs. Hammond’s position opposite. He regarded me for the space of several seconds, and I, him. I may say that his countenance lacked his customary expression of melancholy; he appeared rather to be freed of some great weight, and at peace with what troubles he may have had.

  “I know the confusion my presence in this house must cause you,” he began. “I will not pretend to mislead you, Miss Austen. Having found me out, you can expect nothing less than a full recital.”

  “My own appearance must have similarly astonished you,” I rejoined. “/ am come at the behest of Jenny Barlow, but that she sent you on a similar errand, I must believe unlikely.”

  “You would be correct,” the curate said, nodding. “I am here because of the letter I received of Mrs. Hammond Christmas Eve.”

  “The day of the maid’s murder—the day you made in haste for London.”

  “I was called hither by Mrs. Hammond, who had only lately heard of the Earl’s death,” he explained. “She felt certain that Rosie’s circumstances should change as a result, and desired me to attend her with any news it might be in my power to convey.”

  “But why should the lady enquire this of you? Had she not better have asked it of the present Earl?”