Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

by Stephanie Barron

  A chill of dread moved up my backbone. “His uncle is recently deceased,” I said.

  The Colonel turned to assess my countenance shrewdly. “So I had heard, along with all of London. The Lieutenant is known to you, Miss Austen?”

  “Some few weeks only. We were lately intimates of Scargrave Manor—where the young lady whom he has entangled, and upon whose behalf we have sought your counsel, was also a guest.”

  “Scargrave Manor! Another unfortunate mark against the young man. We have all heard what occurred there.”

  “Lieutenant Hearst can hardly be blamed for the coincidence of family, Colonel Buchanan,” I said. “It is his boyhood home, and he might stay there with impunity, however many of the inmates meet with untimely ends.”

  “He might, but that coincidence plays too strong a part in that gentleman’s fortunes,” the Colonel said harshly. “Did not the Crown already hold captive the parties responsible, I might believe him capable even of murder.”

  I exchanged a glance with Eliza; these were heavy words, indeed.

  “My dear Colonel,” Eliza murmured, leaning towards him intimately, “your hints are very dark and very vague. Pray tell us plainly what reason you may know against this marriage, and have done.”

  Colonel Buchanan rose and paced slowly towards the fire, his brow furrowed in thought. The flames caught the gleam of his blue uniform’s gold buttons and braid, and threw in sharp relief a scar that bisected his chin. A sabre cut, undoubtedly, and one that had come too close to his neck for comfort.

  “It is a highly delicate matter, you understand,” he said, turning to face first Eliza and then myself. “No word of it may reach beyond this room, at least until such time as the matter of his cashierment1 is resolved.”

  “Cashierment! This is serious, indeed!”

  “I would not ruin the character of a man under my command for less,” the Colonel said, with a bitter smile. “Tom Hearst is lately accused of such infamous conduct, as cannot rightly be credited to a soldier of His Majesty’s Horse Guards.”

  “And did this involve a young lady?” I enquired, with a terrible presentiment.

  “A young lady? Not that I know of,” the Colonel replied, with brows drawn down. “No, Miss Austen—it involved cards.”

  “He is a gamester!” Eliza cried, clapping her hands. “Was ever there a rogue who was not?”

  “The Lieutenant is indeed fond of cards, and generally plays for high stakes.”

  “The only sort of stakes there are,” Eliza murmured, remembering, no doubt, something of her late husband at Versailles, where the Comte de Feuillide had won and lost a succession of fortunes to Marie Antoinette’s favourites.

  Colonel Buchanan commenced to pace about the room, his hands thrust under the tails of his uniform jacket, his black boots gleaming with every step. The direction of our conversation certainly troubled him deeply; and I wondered whether he regretted his frankness. From his next words, however, it appeared otherwise.

  “Lieutenant Hearst, my dear Countess and Miss Austen, has always played with the very worst sort of luck. He has been losing steadily throughout the year.” The Colonel ceased his pacing abruptly and wheeled about. “Until last month.”

  “His luck changed?” I said.

  “Dramatically,” the Colonel rejoined, in a voice heavy with irony. “Some few weeks before his Christmas leave—which was taken at the request of his commanding officer, rather than any desire of his own to seek the bosom of his family—he was all success of a sudden, and won such sums as must astonish.”

  “Very rash,” said Eliza.

  “The Countess, as always, has put the matter clearly,” Colonel Buchanan rejoined, with a grim smile. “Success at cards, shall we say, went to his head; and the Lieutenant became greedy. He soon made the mistake, however, of challenging a stranger to his corps—one who could thus feel no obligation of affection, of comradeship, of experiences shared. An officer nonetheless, imbued with a sense of honour—and one who had seen this sort of luck before. More sherry, Miss Austen?”

  I shook my head, too engrossed in the tale even to sip the wine I already possessed.

  “This officer so succeeded in tripping up our friend the Lieutenant, that Tom Hearst was accused of having several cards beyond the usual set secreted in his coat-sleeve.”

  I could not suppress a small gasp, and won a penetrating look from the Colonel before he continued.

  “Lieutenant Hearst vigourously protested the assertion that he had cheated—an offence no gentleman may ever hope to survive—and charged his opponent with trickery. Why such a man—an officer and a stranger—should attempt to secure the Lieutenant’s ruin without serious cause, you may well ask yourself.” The Colonel regained his chair and stroked his chin with a worn, blunt hand, his eyes on the portrait of a stallion arrayed in full battle harness.

  “It is hardly likely,” Eliza, said. “One surmises that Lieutenant Hearst spoke from guilty rage.”

  “However it was, others more objective could prove the truth of neither assertion; the Lieutenant and his adversary had been playing long into the night, and had been deserted by their fellows; and no one had seen the cards the other alleged to have been in Lieutenant Hearst’s coat-sleeve.”

  “Was no one prepared to vouch for him before his company?”

  “I fear that they had all suffered too much at his hands; and some may have shared the stranger’s suspicion,” Colonel Buchanan replied shortly. “It ended as all such affairs must and inevitably do end—with Lieutenant Hearst defending his honour in a pistol duel with the gentleman.”

  With a start, I remembered Fanny Delahoussaye’s words at Isobel’s ball, an evening that might have been an age ago; the Lieutenant, she said, was arrived from St. James having recently killed a man in a duel. The affairs of officers are the most romantic, she had prattled, or some nonsense to that effect.

  “They met at dawn, not far from the barracks here in St. James, and Lieutenant Hearst succeeded in dispatching his accuser—which may have satisfied him, but only added to his unfortunate reputation. The poor fellow he killed was to have been wed at Christmas.”

  There was a brief silence as Eliza and I took all this in; but keenly aware of my purpose I shook myself into awareness and sought once more the Colonel’s gaze. “And this debacle has ruined the Lieutenant’s standing in the cavalry?”

  “An affair of honour is a dubious thing,” the Colonel told us, with a sharply exhaled breath and another impatient gesture. “The law would call it murder. But among military men, nothing is prized so much as one’s honour—it is beyond fortune, beyond birthright; it is become the essence of the man. A duel to the death has long been the established mode of satisfying outrages against one’s reputation. Had this been the only blot on the Lieutenant’s career, he might have survived it. But taken with his pressing debts, and the fact that others of his fellows have called him cardsharp in the aftermath of the duel, he is now under consideration for cashierment by his superiors.”

  “Colonel Buchanan,” I said, summoning my courage, “forgive me for prying further in such a matter. But were the Lieutenant presently to satisfy his creditors, discharge his debts of honour among the company, and conduct himself in a manner more suited to a gentleman and a member of his corps, could his commission yet be saved?”

  “I fear that little might save Lieutenant Hearst,” the Colonel replied, his eyes stern, “though women ever believe that love alone shall do it. I dearly hope, Miss Austen, that it is some other lady than yourself who has proved so susceptible to the rascal’s charms. I should not like to see you lost to all reason.”

  I cursed my ready tendency to blush as I replied. “I assure you, sir, that I am come on another’s behalf, and must return with the heaviest of burdens—that of advising one in love to look no further for happiness in the Lieutenant’s quarter. It is a burden I have gladly shared with the Countess.”

  “Indeed,” Eliza said quickly, recollecting our su
pposed purpose for being there, and reaching for her reticule, “I must thank you, dear Colonel, for your readiness to disclose what may only be to the Lieutenant’s detriment. Circumstances required that his character be better understood.”

  “The decision of his superiors should even now have been reached,” the Colonel said, “and so you may be saved of your duty. For no young woman should wish to marry a man without fortune, career, or prospects—may he have twenty uncles recently dead.”

  1. Cashierment was equivalent to a dishonorable discharge. Since officers’ commissions were purchased at great expense, particularly in a cavalry company connected to the Royal Household, to be cashiered represented a financial loss. A retiring soldier could sell his commission to another, and profit by his professional investment; while one who was cashiered was dismissed without compensation, and could not sell his position in turn.—Editor’s note.

  5 January 1803, cont.

  ˜

  Before bidding adieu to the Horse Guards, I ENQUIRED of Colonel Buchanan where the Lieutenant’s batman, Jack Lewis, might be found, and he had the fellow brought to his rooms—vacating them, in his goodness, when Eliza explained that we were about an errand of my lady’s maid. That I had no lady’s maid, she did not see fit to advise the Colonel; and so he remained in the dark as to our true purpose, as indeed he had been from the moment of our arrival.

  “Miss Austen!” Jack Lewis cried, bouncing in the door with little ceremony; and turning to Eliza, had the grace to bow, though he permitted himself a low whistle. Had I not prepared her for his eccentric behaviour; she should assuredly have been disconcerted; but my cousin only smiled and inclined her head, and the batman looked tome.

  “Jack at your service, miss, and ‘opin’ as you’ve a kind word for my mate Tom. Perishin’ with love, ‘e is,” he confided to Eliza with a wink.

  “I am come to enquire about an errand I believe you did for the Lieutenant,” I told him, “in which I am concerned.”

  “Ask away, miss,” said he merrily.

  “It was you who retrieved the maid Marguerite’s belongings from Lizzy Scratch, was it not?”

  Whatever the batman had expected, it was hardly this. Jack Lewis appeared to have been struck a blow, and stepped back a pace, before recovering.

  “I did,” he said, his jaw suddenly tight.

  “And did you observe among her things a gold pendant locket, such as she might have worn about her neck?”

  There was a silence, and Tom Hearst’s man shuffled his feet.

  “Lizzy Scratch has told me that she gave it to you, Jack, but when I received the maid’s things from the Lieutenant for posting to the Barbadoes, the locket was not among them. Is it possible your master took it?”

  “‘e’d never do such a thing!” the batman spat out, his expression gone from that of a cheerful monkey to a dangerous cat.

  “Then I am left with only one possibility,” I said, “and that is that you took the locket yourself.”

  He threw up his hands in an expression of disgust. “Lizzy Scratch don’t know where ‘er brats are, of an evening, much less a bit of finery. Since when’s ‘er word been worth so much?”

  “Lizzy Scratch was especially careful in this case,” I replied, “because murder had been done. She believed that similar evil might befall her, did she keep any of the maid’s things.”

  He looked in desperation at Eliza, but received only her dazzling smile; and then something in his face changed. “I’ll not have you thinking as it was the Lieutenant,” he said, “and I only took what was mine in the first place.”

  “You’d given the locket to the girl?”

  “When we was courtin’, last summer it was, in London. It was on account of me, and my past with the maid, that the Lieutenant thought to fetch up ‘er things the day she died.” For a moment only, Jack Lewis’s voice broke; and then again he recovered. “Right afraid, old Tom was, that there’d be somethin’ as would lead the magistrate straight to me. My Lieutenant’s a loyal man, I’ll grant ‘im that.” He sat down upon one of Colonel Buchanan’s chairs and put his head in his hands.

  “Had you seen Marguerite since your arrival at Scargrave?” I asked the batman gently.

  Jack Lewis raised a sober face and met my eyes unflinchingly. “I used to send a bit o’ note by ‘er, and we’d visit in the ‘ay-shed. But Lord bless me, I never slit ‘er throat, miss. I’d never a done that. Margie weren’t a bad sort, for all ‘er ferrin’ ways; just lonely, like, and grateful for a bit’uv a cuddle.”

  “So you hastened to Lizzy Scratch on the day of the maid’s death, and made away with the locket.”

  Jack Lewis nodded once and averted his gaze. “Could’a knocked me over with a feather when I sees it still among ‘er things, and my face clear as a candle inside. Thought they’d haul me up for murder, I did—so’s I put it in me pocket, and said no more about it.”

  “i must say, jane, that it looks very bad for your poor Lieutenant,” Eliza declared, as Henry’s carriage rattled towards Portman Square, “very bad, indeed. I know that look of Colonel Buchanan’s too well. He is intent upon making of the man an example, and satisfying his sense of order. The Colonel shall never control gambling, nor yet the duels that often result; but he shall make his officers remember Tom Hearst, and hesitate, perhaps, before they roll the dice.”

  “I care little for all that,” I replied, with some truth. “My mind is sadly tormented with a dangerous possibility. By the time he had arrived at Scargrave, Tom Hearst was surely driven to believe his entire life hung in the balance—his commission, his possible marriage to Fanny, and his honour. That beloved possession of every officer. Would he have poisoned his uncle to preserve it? And implicate the Earl’s heirs, the better to ensure that his brother George succeeded to a fortune? With Fitzroy gone—and remember. Lieutenant Hearst bore his cousin a grudge, according to the Colonel—he might eventually improve his fortunes, and win Madame Delahoussaye’s consent for Fanny and her thirty thousand pounds. With George Hearst the new Earl, Tom should not want for greater means to satisfy his debts. And his corps should hesitate to drum out the brother of a peer, in a manner they should not scruple to cashier the poor relative of a clergyman.”

  I paused, my eyes upon the rain that had commenced to fall beyond the carriage windows; a lady arrayed in plum sarcenet, with a feathered bonnet to match, raced at a hectic pace along the pavement, her sunshade raised in but poor defence of the weather. I feared the splashing of our carriage wheels should make a fearful business of her handsome boots. “It is in every way horrible, Eliza, and only too plausible.”

  “But how should Hearst have effected it?”

  “Through his batman, Jack Lewis,” I replied, turning my gaze to the scenery within the carriage. “He had made the acquaintance of the maid the previous summer, and given her a locket; in visiting Scargrave this winter it was only too likely that the acquaintance should be renewed. The Lieutenant might have persuaded his man to give the girl the nuts, with the express purpose of placing them in the Earl’s tray. He may even have played upon Marguerite—offering her something she valued, in return for betraying her mistress. Certainly she wrote those letters accusing Isobel and Fitzroy Payne with some other aim than blackmail; Sir William could not comprehend why she never asked for money. But her reward was not to come from the Countess, and it was not in the form of silver. Marriage to the batman, perhaps, and safe passage to the Barbadoes?”

  “But he killed her instead.”

  “She knew too much, Eliza. And so he slit her throat while she waited, as she thought, for her lover—Jack Lewis. But it was the Lieutenant who arrived at the hayrick that morning, the Lieutenant who did the deed; and it was Jack who retrieved the maid’s things. Tom Hearst knew he could trust to Lewis’s silence; you saw how terrified the man was of being tied to the maid’s death.”

  “It is surprising he is even yet alive,” Eliza said thoughtfully.

  “Lieutenant Hearst told me onc
e that he owed the man his life; and even he—with his precious sense of honour—may feel an obligation in such a case. It is in every way convincing, do not you agree?”

  “Jane, what shall you do?”

  “I shall send for Mr. Cranley at once. Perhaps he shall be able to force an admission from the fellow; for in truth, Eliza, we have not a shred of proof.”

  We were arrived in Portman Square, and Eliza’s coachman had pulled up before the doors of Scargrave House. “Will you come in, Eliza, and take some refreshment?” I asked her.

  “I confess that I should hate to miss the denouement,” she replied excitedly, “if you can bear my company another hour, Jane.”

  “It shall be my only prop. I move henceforth in enemy territory, my dear.”

  She bade her carriage wait, and we ascended to the door; only to be greeted upon our entrance to the hall with a loud wailing and such a hullabaloo as may hardly be credited. Maids were everywhere dispatched at a run, and so distracted by the weight of their errands, that they could not stop for explanation; but the sounds of lamentation issued from the drawing-room, and it was thence we hastened.

  It was Mr. Cranley I espied first, as I opened the door, standing by the mantel in an attitude of helpless bewilderment; Madame Delahoussaye was seated on the settee before him, her arms around her daughter. Fanny was prostrate with grief. Her blond curls were in disarray about her face, and her eyes were quite ugly with weeping.

  “Whatever can be the matter?” I cried, heedless of my duty to Eliza at such a moment.

  Madame raised her head, and shook it briefly, an injunction against further enquiry; and with evident relief, Mr. Cranley crossed to the door and escorted us back into the hall.