Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

by Stephanie Barron

  “I fear I am the agent of Miss Delahoussaye’s distress,” he told us, “but there was no one else to bring the news, and hear it they must.”

  “What news?” I enquired, with no little foreboding.

  “Of Lieutenant Hearst,” the barrister said, and hesitated. “I have only just told his brother. There has been—a tragedy.”

  “He is not—injured?” I said.

  “I am afraid that he is dead.”

  Eliza’s horrified looks mirrored my own. “But how?” I cried.

  “He shot himself,” Mr. Cranley said, “this morning, in the middle of Hyde Park.”

  MR. CRANLEY, IT APPEARED, HAD BEEN SUMMONED TO A meeting with Lieutenant Hearst by messenger that very morning, and had arrived at the appointed hour and spot to find the gentleman asprawl in a park chair, blood streaming from a great wound in his temple.

  “And there is no possibility that he was murdered? You are certain that he ended his own life?” I asked.

  “Quite certain,” the barrister replied.”A pauper living in the Park had taken shelter under a neighbouring bush, and saw him do the deed.”

  “And so you were summoned with the sole purpose of making the discovery.”

  “And of retrieving this,” Mr. Cranley said, producing a plain piece of paper sealed with red wax. “It bears your name, Miss Austen.”

  I took the letter from him, my fingers trembling slightly at the sight of the firm, careless hand that had written my name, and now should write no more. “But whatever can he have to say to me?”

  “Perhaps it is a confession,” Eliza suggested.

  I loosened the wax and unfolded the stiff paper.

  St. James, London,

  4 January 1803

  My dear Miss Austen—

  Or rather, my dear Jane—for so I shall always think of you, remembering moments too precious to let slip even in this last midnight of my mortal life. Were I granted one final hour of happiness, I should wish myself back at Scargrave House—leaning in the doorway of my room, waiting for some sight of you in the moonlight, with your hair tumbled about your face. It was so little time ago, and yet a life apart, for all that. I shall never, now, have the opportunity to pursue an acquaintance that might have been profitable to us both—but I forget. You were denied me long before, and by my own cursed conduct.

  The men who hold sway over my future are to publish their determination on the morrow. I have learned already from one of their company that the terms are unfavourable to my continued prosperity, the maintenance of my reputation, and, perhaps most important, my claims to honour. With no fortune, and no consideration likely to be granted in future to one with a tarnished name—and furthermore, with Fanny Delahoussaye to consider—I have determined to tread the only honourable path remaining to a gentleman. Were I a rogue, I should book passage on a sure ship, and adventure my fate in a distant land; but I am only a soldier, after all, for whom duty is as a god.

  I impose upon you only in this, Miss Austen: to ask that you look after Fanny. She has told me of your knowledge of our sad circumstance. She has her fortune, which, should it escape the clutches of her despicable mother, should preserve her against too great a calumny; but it must be preserved from Madame at all cost. I trust in your goodness.

  Farewell, my dear Jane; in your hands, had we met sooner, I might yet have salvaged honour. But we are neither of us to blame for the vagaries of Fate.

  I remain, etc.,

  Lt. Thomas Hearst

  “Damnable coward!” I exclaimed, forgetting myself in my anger, and employing such terms as my sailor brothers might, when similarly pressed; “he has killed himself rather than learn that he is cashiered. A ridiculous waste of a young life—and for what? Honour. The concerns of men are past all understanding!” In great perturbation of spirit, I crumpled the letter in my palm and turned away from Eliza and Mr. Cranley, my boots ringing upon the marble of Scargrave’s entryway.

  “But does he admit to murdering the Earl and the maid?” Eliza persisted.

  “The suicide smacks strongly of the presumption,” Mr. Cranley said.

  I hastened to disabuse him. “The Lieutenant never mentions the murders, or any part he might have played on behalf of another; and with his death, all hope of further elucidation in that quarter must be finished.” Of Tom Hearst’s tender words for myself, I said nothing; I had not yet learned to comprehend them. “Though we may feel as strongly persuaded as ever of his motives, his opportunity, and his guilt, we shall never have proof.”

  “We might yet present his end as a part of our defence,” Mr. Cranley said, with evident hope.

  “It is a pity.” Eliza’s cherry mouth was pursed, and she tapped her lips with an elegant finger. “Since he planned to end his life, the poor man might readily have taken the blame, and allowed the others to go free. There is a certain selfishness about the act, would not you agree, Jane?”

  “AH suicide is selfish,” I said, distractedly, “it is only a question of degree. I fear poor Fanny will feel it most strongly.”

  “Miss Delahoussaye—was she—” Mr. Cranley began, and then faltered, blushing crimson.

  “She was not formally engaged,” I said carefully, “but I believe she had reached a certain understanding with the young man.”

  “From her grief, I had assumed as much,” the barrister said, his face crestfallen; “there is no answer to such anguish.”

  “You may find, Mr. Cranley,” I said, not unkindly, “that where Miss Delahoussaye is concerned, time is your friend.”

  5 January 1803, coat.

  ˜

  When Eliza had made her adieux, I BADE MR. CRANLEY wait for me in the study, and returned with some hesitation to the Delahoussayes. Fanny and Madame were the centre of a hovering group, encompassed of Simmons, the butler, and two of the upper housemaids, who held steaming basins and compresses at the ready. But at my entrance, poor Fanny raised a streaming face, and breaking from her mother’s embrace, extended her hand. “Oh, Miss Austen!” she cried, as she gripped my fingers in hers, “is not this dreadful news? No one but you can know how dreadful!”

  “I am sure you excite yourself unnecessarily, Fanny,” Madame said, with ringing disapproval. “Tom Hearst is hardly worth such a display, as he has shown in his manner of departing this life. Did I not fear to upset you further, I should rejoice at this news.”

  Fanny’s only answer was a redoubled expression of grief, and Madame raised her hands in consternation.

  “And from this, Miss Austen, we may learn the value of novels,” she said, to my mystification, “for only from the produce of such cheap pens as the novel-publishers employ, could my daughter have learned to indulge such an unfortunate sensibility. She is all romantic airs, and no sense; but perhaps, now that the Lieutenant’s unwholesome influence is removed, we might hope for an improvement in time.”

  “And did the Lieutenant read novels, Madame?” I enquired in exasperation, and bent to bestow my interest on a more worthy subject. Poor Fanny clung pitifully to me, and quite stained my grey wool gown with the force of her tears; her mother snorted in contempt, and rose without another word.

  “I can do nothing with her, Miss Austen,” she said, forcing a passage through the maids; “perhaps you shall have better luck. I shall be in my room, if Fanny returns to her senses.”

  I patted the poor creature’s back, and spoke such soothing nonsense as succeeds in quieting a child, and instructed the servants and their basins to depart. Presently Fanny’s lamentations subsided, with a hiccup and a sniff, and she wiped her plump fingers across her eyes.

  “Whatever shall I do?” she said, in a breaking whisper. “I fear; Miss Austen, that with Tom dead, I am truly lost!”

  Seeing in her blue eyes that a fresh cloud threatened to burst, I determined to speak briskly, and offer the only help I knew. “We shall make the best of events, Fanny my dear; and hope in Isobel’s speedy release. With the Countess restored to freedom, you shall have a support
before your mother, and can divulge to her the entirety of your wrongs. Do not scruple to lay them at Tom Hearst’s door; he has imposed upon you most disturbingly, and must bear the guilt for his deeds, however dead he might be. But say nothing to Madame at present, and trust in Isobel’s excellent understanding, whenever she is returned to us. Something shall be devised for your comfort, and the preservation of your reputation.” I assessed the fullness about her stomach. “The interlude at the mantua-maker’s you survived without discovery?”

  Fanny nodded disconsolately. “I am to have some lovely things, Miss Austen, though they are in black.” Her eyes welled anew. “And though Tom shall never admire me the more!”

  I SAW FANNY SAFELY TO HER ROOM, AND BADE HER TO REST if she might; and then in some distraction, I sought the patient Mr. Cranley below.

  “Mr. Cranley!” I cried, as he started from a brown study at my entrance, “was there ever a truer gentleman? And was he ever treated to a house in greater disarray? But share with me your news.”

  He drew forward a chair without preamble. “I have obtained from Danson the Earl’s correspondence. With it should be a list of letters sent on certain dates, with the names of their recipients—for Lord Scargrave is most meticulous in accounting for his postage debts,” the barrister added, as an afterthought.1 “Do I ask too much, Miss Austen, or may I beg your assistance in the task? I should like to have a witness to whatever I may find.”

  “I shall bend myself to your will, Mr. Cranley,” I assured him.

  “The Earl’s letters are kept locked in this portable desk.” Mr. Cranley crossed the room to a small wooden cabinet, whose lid folded back to reveal a writing surface suitable for one’s lap. “Danson allowed me to carry it hither.”

  There were nineteen letters in all, written carefully in a strong, even hand, and dating from the day of the ball at Scargrave—a day that might have occurred in a different lifetime. That they were solely letters of business, we readily perceived; and from a hasty comparison of the Earl’s list and his extant drafts, we learned immediately that one more letter had been sent than the little desk now contained.

  “Capital!” Mr. Cranley cried; “it is as you thought, Miss Austen. A draft was written during one of those difficult days following the late Earl’s demise; it was copied, and mailed; and before Lord Scargrave’s man had time to file it with the other papers that evening, it was seized and used to form the note found on the maid Marguerite.”

  “Or the draft may simply have been discarded,” I warned, feeling some restraint was necessary; “one may not always conform to habit or rule.”

  We set to comparing the drafts to the Earl’s list, and saw that the missing letter was one of several sent to his solicitors, in Bond Street; it but required a glance from Mr. Cranley to his watch, and a call for a hackney carriage, and we were on our way to their door.

  MAYHEW, MAYHEW & CRABB WAS A RESPECTABLE ESTABLISHMENT, as befit men of business who cater to the peerage; the plate secured to the deep green door was of brass, and the marble stoop was well scrubbed. Upon seeing the firm’s name so declared, I remembered with a start Isobel’s last injunction before leaving the Manor—that I deliver her testament to one Hezekiah Mayhew. I had tarried in doing so, in the hope that all such matters might be deferred some decades, once Isobel’s freedom was secured; but now that we stood before the solicitors’ door, I bethought me of the document, which I kept safe in my reticule, and placed beneath my pillow at night. I should deliver the deed to Mr. Mayhew immediately, should he be within.

  We were ushered to a snug parlour, where a bright fire cast its glow on several easy chairs; and Mr. Cranley’s card had barely been delivered, than Mr. Hezekiah Mayhew appeared to place himself at our service. He was a portly gentleman of some seventy years, quite stooped, with a shining pate that had long since lost its hair, and two bushy white eyebrows that attempted to supply the difference.

  “Mr. Cranley,” the solicitor said, with a deep bow in the barrister’s direction; “it is a pleasure to welcome you to my humble office.”

  “The honour must be mine,” Mr. Cranley rejoined, “as well as my thanks, for having placed the Countess’s trouble in my hands.”

  “This firm has had the management of the Scargrave family’s business for eighty years, at least,” Mr. Mayhew observed, with an eyebrow cocked for Cranley, “but never have we witnessed so terrible a passage as this. I merely chose the best and most reliable barrister I knew.” The grave brown eyes turned upon my face. “And you, Madam, would be—?”

  “Miss Jane Austen. I am a friend of the Countess’s.”

  “Miss Austen is ungenerous in her own behalf,” Mr. Cranley interrupted smoothly. “She is the greatest friend the Countess could hope to have, and no less energetic in the new Earl’s defence.”

  “That is very well—very well, indeed.” Mr. Mayhew’s glance was penetrating. “Friends, in my experience, are like ladies’ fashions, Miss Austen. They come and go with the seasons, and are rarely of such stout stuff as bears repeated wearing. I am glad to find you formed of better material.” With that, he led us to his inner rooms.

  Mr. Cranley offered me a chair, and took one of his own before the solicitor’s great desk.

  “You are here on the Countess’s behalf?” Mr. Mayhew enquired, with a glance that encompassed us both.

  “Not directly,” I replied, “though I am charged with placing this in your safekeeping, Mr. Mayhew.” I handed him the sealed parchment that contained Isobel’s final directions, and felt the lighter for having passed the burden to another. “I would ask that you address the matters it contains when we have presumed upon your time no longer.”

  “Having other, more pressing matters, to discuss?” the solicitor surmised, his bushy eyebrows lifting.

  “We come to you on the Earl’s behalf today,” Mr. Cranley said.”

  “Though, indeed, the two can hardly be separated,” I broke in. “What may serve to prove the innocence of one, cannot help but assist the other.”

  “Indeed. Indeed. Pray enlighten me as to your purpose. “Mr. Mayhew drew forth a pen and a sheet of paper and set a pair of ancient spectacles upon his nose.

  We explained the business of Fitzroy Payne’s correspondence, and were gratified to discover that old Mayhew’s wits were swift. He seized the importance of our questions directly; a correspondence file was ordered, and the final copies of several letters, whose rougher selves we had previously perused in Danson’s desk, were produced for our examination.

  And to our great joy, we found that one of them was utterly strange to us. No draft of it had we seen.

  Scargrave Manor,

  Hertfordshire,

  22 December 1802

  My dear Mayhew—

  I should wish to consult you on a matter pertaining to the Countess’s Barbadoes estate, Crosswinds. You will remember that my uncle, the late Earl, was at his death engaged in combating Lord Harold Trowbridge’s financial assault upon his wife’s plantations. His demise, and the Countess’s concern for her material welfare, has caused her to abandon hope of staving off Lord Harold—and she lately signed a document presented by that gentleman which ceded him the property in exchange for a discharge of considerable debt.

  I have recently learned from perusing my uncle’s papers—which included the Countess’s marriage settlement—that there exists a probable legal incumbrance upon her actions. That she was unaware of this when she submitted to Trowbridge’s demands, you may fully comprehend, knowing how little women understand of legal matters. In sum, the plantations in question passed to the Countess through her mother’s line, though managed and overseen by her father, and are to revert to her surviving maternal relatives—in all probability Miss Fanny Delahoussaye—in the event of her death. In fact, the property was placed in the condition of separate estate2 under the terms of the marriage settlement, with trustees to oversee its security in marriage as they had in the Countess’s minority. All such transfer to Lord Harold m
ust, accordingly, be null and void; but he may have bent the law to his purpose in ways that overcome even this obstacle. I should dearly love to hear your sense of the matter.

  I intend to be in London the day after Christmas; let us meet in our accustomed place—the library of the Forbearance Club. We shall have luncheon, and talk over these and other matters, and hope to put paid to Lord Harold’s schemes.

  I remain respectfully yours,

  Fitzroy, Earl of Scargrave

  I glanced up at Mr. Cranley as I finished the letter; let us meet in our accustomed place was there, certainly, and crying out for comparison to the fragment found in the maid’s bodice. But it was the content of the letter itself that struck me forcibly—Lord Harold had imposed upon Isobel so entirely, that he had outwitted even himself.

  “Are you of the Earl’s opinion, Mr. Mayhew?” I asked the solicitor. “Is it so impossible for the Countess to make over her West Indies property?”

  The rheumy brown eyes blinked at me shrewdly, and Hezekiah Mayhew cleared his throat. “I have examined the problem narrowly, Miss Austen, and I may say it is indeed a pretty one. A very pretty problem for the Countess and the Earl.” He paused, and looked from Mr. Cranley to myself.

  “My good sir,” Mr. Cranley said urgently, “all these matters may bear upon his lordship’s survival; we cannot know until all the information is ours. Pray continue.”

  “Separate property is, of necessity, comprised of assets,” Mr. Mayhew replied. “And as we know, assets may suddenly lose their value, against all expectation. Securities may plummet, banks and their holdings fail; and property—particularly property valued for the crops it produces—lose much of its value. Under the terms of the trust established at the death of the Countess’s mother, Amelie Delahoussaye Collins, once Crosswinds is so reduced in value as to bring bankruptcy upon the trust, the trustees may consider the sale of the property itself to satisfy creditors.”