Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

by Stephanie Barron

  Journal entry, that same day

  ˜

  SIR WILLIAM REYNOLDS HAS BEEN AND GONE—A BRIEF VISIT, with the sole purpose of informing me that I am to be called before the Bar as a witness for the prosecution. The magistrate intends me to testify to the finding of the maid’s body and all that ensued thereafter however little I may relish the office. That my old friend suffers for me, and my divided loyalties, I read in his eyes; but Sir William is a man of iron where he believes himself to be right, and my feeble efforts at prevarication availed me nothing.

  “I shall be struck dumb by the grandeur of the room, and the assemblage,” I protested. “Can not you present my experiences on my behalf?”

  Sir William’s kind brown eyes could not meet my own. “It is impossible, my dear. You alone discovered the handkerchief and Marguerite, and the scrap of paper within her bodice.” A brief smile played over his grave countenance. “Had you been less curious, my dear, or sent your active wits to sleep, we might not have you in this pickle.”

  And so I shall enter the House of Lords, and seat myself in the ranks reserved for witnesses, below those marked out for peeresses in the gallery—and I must speak before all assembled, without disgrace. Though it is no more than I expected, I am sick at heart; to face Isobel and Lord Scargrave in the box, and pronounce what must be damning to their cause, is a hideous fate. And yet, what choice have I? I shall be sworn, and must speak the truth as I recall it, though friendship—nay, human decency—would argue otherwise.

  Sir William departed not long after, having business of a pressing nature. As I waved him down the marble steps to his carriage, he shook his head over the Payne family seal, swathed in black and mounted on the facade of the house over each of the long windows. Thus Scargrave House proclaims Tom Hearst’s death—but another in an increasing cause for mourning.

  No further ceremony shall mark the Lieutenant’s passing, however; as a suicide, he is to be buried tomorrow at a crossroads some distance west of the city, with a stake driven through his heart. I shudder to think it; for such a man—riven with faults as he may have been—to end in the most indifferent of earth, without benefit of clergy or memorial marker, is in every way horrible. His brother is to accompany the body. The poor batman Jack Lewis—quite downcast and morose—goes along as well, and the good Mr. Cranley; a singular mark of that barrister’s devotion to the family’s concerns that I must believe is intended to comfort silly Fanny Delahoussaye.

  Mr. Cranley looks increasingly worried whenever he calls; and from his few words, I have learned that his defence is to rely solely on the notion that Fitzroy Payne’s letter was stolen and Isobel’s handkerchief purloined. For; in truth, he has no other suspects— and though I would dearly love Lord Harold Trowbridge to be arraigned, I cannot say upon what charge. There is no evidence to tie any but the Earl and the Countess to these murders; and so I toss and turn in bed of nights, and wonder greatly at what may be the purpose in collusion between Madame Delahoussaye and that man. But today, I bethought myself of Frank.

  My brother Francis is a post captain in the Royal Navy these two years past, and is presently stationed at Ramsgate, about the coastal defences. I cannot think with Frank to prevent it, that the French under Buonaparte are likely to invade our little island; and in the meanwhile, as he assembles his Sea Fencibles2 about Pegwell Bay, my dear brother might just as readily occupy himself in determining the use of a private deep-water port in the Barbadoes. That Lord Harold has recently visited France, and is bent upon acquiring such a port in the Indies, must give one pause; there is intrigue here, and Frank is sure to parse out the meaning. I wrote to him this morning, and am impatient for his reply.

  And now I must see to my wardrobe, for assuredly I possess nothing grand enough for the witness-bar of the Royal Gallery. And what am I to say? Only the truth, Sir William told me this morning, as he stepped into his carriage—but what he believes to be true, and what I know to be false, are one and the same.

  1. Henry Austen refers here to the London Stock Exchange, founded in Change Alley in 1698. Before the mid-nineteenth-century dismantling of restrictive legislation on joint-stock companies (the result of the South Sea Bubble crisis and its resultant 1720 Act forbidding the formation of companies except by royal charter, or Act of Parliament), the Exchange was concerned primarily with public funds: government stock, East India bonds, canal-company shares, and later utilities and dock-company stocks.

  2. This was a corps of fishermen and coastal villagers equipped with boats—a sort of seaside militia—placed on alert in the event of invasion. —Editor’s note.

  9 January 1803

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  HOWEVER UNFORTUNATE THE CIRCUMSTANCES, I MAY justly say that the display of British might that is the House of Lords, fully assembled for trial—a thing that happens not above once in a generation—has not its equal for solemnity and grandeur. The youngest barons proceeded first, and the august file closed with the most ancient of dukes, all shepherded by heralds and the Garter at Arms—two hundred-odd men, arrayed in robes that signified their ranks in the peerage, filing two by two into benches ranged on either side of the Royal Gallery’s Bar. On the high dais sat a chair meant for the Lord High Steward.

  Below it were the seats reserved for peeresses; here should Isobel have sat, had fortune been kinder. These gave way to Mr. Cranley and Sir William’s place, and then to the witnesses’ seats, in one of which I found myself. Lizzy Scratch was to my right, looking well-scrubbed and defiantly in her element, despite the incongruity of her position; I feared her spirits should take a theatrical turn, once called before the Bar. Dr. Philip Pettigrew sat to my left, and beside him the cherubic scholar of Cambridge, Dr. Percival Grant.

  Madame Delahoussaye and her daughter were lodged above, in the spectators’ gallery; the briefest of glances revealed their seats to my indifferent eye. Miss Fanny had adopted the dubious mystery of a quantity of black silk veiling about her blond curls; it was sheer enough to disclose a flash of blue eyes and white teeth, while enshrouding her in all the discretion her interesting circumstances demanded. I knew her to be wishing for a greater part in the drama—or a wider stage, at least, for the parading of her costume; and would gladly have exchanged my place for hers.

  A solemn bell tolled the hour; all rose; and a Proclamation of Silence was issued by the Serjeant at Arms. The Clerk of the Crown then knelt to present the Commission under the Great Seal to the Lord High Steward, who returned it to him; at which point the Clerk read its substance aloud, at interminable length, and we were treated to a declaration of “God Save the King!”

  We must then endure the Certiorari and Return, a summary of the House of Lords’ authority to preside over the case, with each and every peer a judge of fact and of law; much precedent was stated for their office, and many mouldy precepts of common law dredged before the assembly; but at last, when I had almost despaired of my sanity, we were informed of the decision of the Assizes to try Fitzroy Payne and the Countess for murder.

  “The Jurors for our Lord the King upon their oaths present that the most noble lady Isobel Amelie Collins Payne, Countess of Scargrave, a peeress of the realm, on the twelfth day of December in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and two, in the Parish of Scargrave, did kill and murder Frederick William Payne, seventh Earl of Scargrave. We further find that the most noble Fitzroy Gerald Payne, Viscount Payne, Earl of Scargrave, a peer of the realm, on the twenty-fourth day of December in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and two, in the Parish of Scargrave, did kill and murder one Marguerite Dumas, maidservant, native of the Barbadoes.”

  At that point, following the proclamation by the Serjeant at Arms, the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod brought in first the Countess, and then the Earl, and escorted them severally to the Bar, where they knelt until the Lord High Steward allowed them to rise.

  Isobel’s face was pale, and her once-lovely eyes had lost their lustre; some of the dirt and stench of Newgate h
ad been washed from her person, but the freshness of her twenty-two years was yet overlaid with a haggard-ness that bespoke great turmoil of mind. The marks of her ordeal could not disguise her beauty, though they added something of romantic interest to her aspect. I had learned, upon my arrival that day, that her conveyance from Newgate was stoned by a mob, and that she was jeered as murderess and whore; the public had passed swift sentence upon my friend, without benefit of a hearing.

  Lord Scargrave retained his accustomed command of countenance, evidencing only a deeper gravity in the tightness of his jaw and the unwavering aspect of his gaze. He was led with Isobel to stools placed within the Bar; where the pair should be confined for the duration of the proceedings, and the charges against them were read. The Clerk of the Parliaments then arraigned them, and asked whether they were Guilty or Not Guilty, to which they severally replied, Not Guilty—Isobel in the merest whisper, her hand to her throat, while Fitzroy Payne’s voice rang through the chamber. His glance was haughty, his silver head held high; and though, from knowing him a little, I judged this the result of a struggle for composure, I well knew how it should be judged. Proud and cold, he would be proclaimed; and his very effort at self-control play against him.

  Sir William Reynolds now rose, and the weight of my duty fell full upon me at the sight of his benign old face. He was a friend, and she was a friend; and between them they had made a mockery of my better feeling.

  The magistrate looked very fine, indeed, in a dark grey tail coat of excellent wool, arrayed with a double row of gold buttons; and at his neck, the highest of white cravats I had ever seen—the collar tips reaching nearly to his ears. Thrown over all was a black silk robe; the awful weight of the Law he bore upon his aged countenance; and his bewigged head might almost be that of Jehovah, come to divide the guilty from the innocent. I quailed when his hard brown eyes fell upon myself, though I fancied they softened at the sight of my pale face; and understood of a sudden why the name Sir William Reynolds was everywhere greeted with trepidation and respect, among his adversaries at the Bar.

  Sir William was prohibited from calling Isobel as a witness; and the only other persons capable of asserting that she had been alone with her husband on the evening of his death were themselves dead. On this point, the magistrate could merely expostulate to the assembled lords, having permission to read the relevant testimony from the written record of the inquest. That only the Countess had survived the night, he said, should make his case. He then called Dr. Pettigrew.

  The poor young man was sworn; stated his true name and place of birth, and was duly noted to be a physician who had attended the seventh Earl some three years, and at his death bed. Dr. Pettigrew gave his evidence much as he had at the inquest, and was allowed to stand down; at which point he was followed by Dr. Percival Grant, who testified that the seeds shown to the assembled peers by Sir William were indeed Barbadoes nuts, a toxic poison commonly used as a physick and purgative by the natives of Isobel’s birthplace. It was then that I was called.

  My legs were as water, and the trembling of my hands so severe, that I fear I appeared to wave to the assembly as I held my left palm high and swore to tell the truth, so help me God. Whenever I am forced to speak or perform in public—at the pianoforte, in particular—my cheeks and throat are overcome with a brilliant rash; I had worn my high-necked gown of deep brown wool on purpose, but must declare it to have failed in its office. Sir William, when he spoke, meant to be kind; I could hear it in the tone of his voice, and cursed him mentally. From his careful speech, the lords who should pass judgement upon Isobel and Fitzroy Payne would surely think me a ninny—and dismiss the worth of any evidence I might give to Mr. Cranley on the morrow.

  I stated my name and that I was a spinster of Bath.

  “You are a great friend to the Countess, are you not?”

  “As I am to you, sir,” I replied.

  “And you arrived at Scargrave Manor on the very eve of the Earl’s death.”

  “I did.”

  “For what purpose, pray?” Sir William’s eyebrows were drawn down to his nose, as though all such visits to Scargrave must be suspect.

  “I was to attend a ball in honour of the Countess’s marriage, and stay some weeks,” I said, with an effort to throw my voice the length of the chamber. From the number of white hairs and befuddled looks among the assembled peerage, however, I doubted that even the clangour of the Final Judgment should disturb their peace.

  “And how did her ladyship’s spirits appear on the evening in question?”

  I hesitated, and looked to Isobel. Her hands gripped the railing of the accused’s box painfully, and her face was studiously averted from Fitzroy Payne’s. A greater picture of dignity I could not find in the room, nor one to so tear at the heart. But my friend was deathly pale; and I feared she might faint.

  “The Countess was very animated,” I told Sir William, “as any young bride might be—opening the dance with her husband, partaking of the food he brought for her, and circulating among her guests to receive their best wishes. I had never seen her ladyship in better health, nor more beautiful”—I hesitated an instant, summoning my courage, and stared Sir William full in the face—”until, that is, Lord Harold Trowbridge appeared, and cast a cloud over her enjoyment.”

  Sir William started, and narrowed his eyes. “Please keep to the question, Miss Austen,” he said.

  “So I have done, sir,” I protested. “You enquired as to her ladyship’s spirits; and one cannot properly mark the decline in them upon meeting Lord Harold—so severe a decline, indeed, that she was forced to quit the room a few moments—unless one comprehends how elevated they were at the evening’s commencement.”

  A short, ruby-faced gentleman sporting a silk robe with four bars of ermine on his shoulder—the robe of a Duke—shot up from the peers’ bench with a choleric splutter. “Damme, Reynolds, find out what the woman would say! I’ll not have Harry maligned before the entire Gallery!”

  The very Duke of Wilborough, poor Bertie by name. My words at least had affected Trowbridge’s brother. I shifted my eyes along the ranks of the spectators’ gallery and found the one I sought; Trowbridge himself, his dark, narrow face utterly composed, and his unreadable eyes intent upon mine. I quailed, and looked away, appalled at what I might have done. But Isobel’s life was in the balance; and if I must cause a riot in the House of Lords to free her, I should do so with equanimity.

  The Lord High Steward called for order, with a look of dudgeon and a scowl in my direction; he then ordered Sir William to question me further regarding Lord Harold Trowbridge.

  A brief smile twitched at the corners of Sir William’s mouth; for an instant, it seemed, he applauded my bravery.

  “Miss Austen, were you present at the encounter between Lord Harold and Lady Scargrave?”

  “I was.”

  “And what did you observe?”

  “Lord Harold pressed the Countess closely regarding a matter of business, and ignored her request that he should better wait until the morrow. He then being called to the Earl’s library, she was freed of him; but the episode cost her dearly in composure.”

  “And after Lord Harold’s departure, did her ladyship remark upon the scene?”

  “She did. She said that Lord Harold had hounded her to the ends of the earth, and that she should never be free of him.” Another splutter from the peers’ bench, which I ignored. “Following the Earl’s death, in great despondency, the Countess laid the entire matter before me—for without the Earl, she should be ever more prey to Lord Harold, and her husband’s loss was accordingly a severe blow.”

  “Miss Austen,” Sir William said warningly, “pray confine yourself to facts, and leave judgment for the assembly.”

  “Yes, Sir William.”

  My old friend turned towards the Lord High Steward. “I would request a recess, my lord, in order to call Lord Harold Trowbridge, and present him as a witness at the Bar. It is best to have his story regarding mat
ters between himself and the Countess, rather than Miss Austen’s.”

  “So it shall be,” the Lord High Steward pronounced, letting fall his gavel; and I was allowed to step down—Sir William having failed to reach any of the matters for which my testimony was required—that of the finding of Isobel’s handkerchief, or the maid’s body, or indeed the scrap of foolscap overwritten by Fitzroy Payne’s hand.

  “YOU HAVE TAKEN A GREAT RISK, MISS AUSTEN,” MR. Cranley said gravely, as he handed me a cup of tea in the witnesses’ anteroom; “for we cannot know what Lord Harold Trowbridge shall say at the Bar, and we are powerless to counter it. Nor can we show that any collusion existed between him and the maid—as we must, if we are to suggest he is responsible for the Earl’s death.”

  “I offer my apologies, Mr. Cranley,” I said humbly, sipping at the restorative liquid; “I confess I did not think that far beyond the moment. I merely wished to divert the assembly from consideration of Isobel’s guilt. You know that Sir William is not obliged to present evidence that does not support his case; and I was determined to make it known that Isobel depended upon her husband’s fortune, and was thus unlikely to have killed him, when at his death it must pass to his heir. But I was unable to say that much.”

  “Sir William may as readily suggest that the heir’s fortune should be Isobel’s,” the barrister pointed out, “can he but introduce the notion that they were lovers.”

  “And how should he do that? The maid alone knew; and the maid is dead.”

  “AH of London suspects it; I have heard it myself, in three separate places, during the course of the past week. But all that is hearsay. Our greatest danger lies with yourself.”