I have it on so good an authority as my dear mother’s dubious memory, that Eugenie de la Falaise began her ascent as a pert young chorus girl in the Paris comic opera; from thence, with a comely ankle and a smattering of English, she rose to Covent Garden; and it was there the Duke of Wilborough—the fifth, rather than the present, Duke—fell headlong in love with the lady. Wilborough was already past his first youth; he had seen one Duchess into her grave, and her stillborn son with her; and thus it should not be remarkable that he might establish the beautiful Eugenie privately, or offer unlimited credit in the most fashionable shops, and a smart pair to drive her about Town, in return for the enjoyment of her favours, as Lord Derby once did with Miss Farren.6 But Eugenie had a greater object in view. She wished to play at tragedy.
That she was unsuited for Isabella, or Lady Macbeth, or even the role of Portia in The Merchant of Venice, need not be underlined. Twelfth Night, perhaps, or She Stoops to Conquer, may have shewn her talents to advantage; but at the Duke of Wilborough’s intercession with the Drury Lane director, Lady Macbeth she played—and opposite no less a personage than the redoubtable Mr. Garrick.
The performance—there was, alas, only one—was declared to have been lamentable. The outraged patrons hissed and shouted, threw all manner of refuse from theatre pit to stage, and forced the curtain down in the very midst of Lady Macbeth’s celebrated walk. Eugenie de la Falaise was mortified, and disappeared abruptly from public view, never to return to the London theatre.
We cannot in justice fault the fifth Duke for having married her. He may be forgiven the indulgence of his folly. The pity, the generosity, the rashness her ruined career may have excited—we can have only the merest idea of how they worked upon his sensibilities. Eugenie was, it is said, a beautiful woman at twenty-four; and though she is now a grandmother these many years, and Wilborough long since gone to his reward, she is no less formidable a presence.
I say this, having found my eyes directed to the Dowager Duchess upon first gaining entrance to her drawingroom. Tho’ possessed of fully seventy years, and requiring the support of a stout cane she clutches tightly in one hand, Her Grace commands immediate attention. Her narrow features and shuttered aspect recall the face of her son, Lord Harold; but where the effect is often forbidding in the latter, it may be declared devastating in the former. A lesser man than the Duke of Wilborough—accustomed as he was to the power of doing as he liked—would have braved greater scandal in pursuit of such a woman.
And scandal there was. His Majesty George II is said to have interceded in the match, which condescension was stoically declined. The Duke’s political fortunes may subsequently have suffered. Certain of his acquaintance may have cut him dead. But others, made more valuable through the passage of time, accepted his bride; and accepted no less the heirs she pragmatically produced.
Bertie, who succeeded his father, bears the greatest fidelity to the Wilborough line, in character as well as countenance; Lady Caroline Mulvern, née Trowbridge, is the unfortunate picture of her Trowbridge aunts; but in the face of Lord Harold, the impertinent among society’s loquacious have gone so far as to question paternity. Lord Harold is so clearly Eugenie’s son, that the late Duke might have had nothing to do with his fashioning.
The Dowager stood in the midst of her fashionable rout last e’en arrayed in the form of Cleopatra—an Egyptian robe and a circlet on her brow, with a velvet mask held before—and beside her stood a girl so very much of Eugenie’s stamp, albeit some fifty years younger, that I knew her immediately for the Lady Desdemona, Lord Harold’s errant niece. She was robed to perfection as none other than herself having ignored the general command of fancy dress; and her quite ordinary appearance amidst the general excess of baubles and plumage rendered her as exotic as a sparrow in Paradise. I could trace no hint of her mother, Honoria, or her apoplectic father, Bertie, in her narrow and elegant face, and wondered whether her character was as French as her countenance.
“Jane,” Eliza cried, her visage incongruously marred by the mask that covered fully half of it, “Henry will have me to dance; and though I confess the heat and crush make the prospect an indifferent one, I cannot find that sitting down should be so very agreeable either. Can you forgive us our desertion?”
“Go, my dear, and make as frivolous a figure as your murdered Queen may support. I shall do very well in idleness here. I find I have an excellent prospect of Lady Desdemona.”
“Where?”
“She stands beside the Duchess.”
“Ah,” Eliza said, with the driest satisfaction, “in the figure of an ingénue. She might readily be Cecilia herself, and prepared to thwart a cavalcade of admirers, whose costumed obscurity can only encourage impertinence. Let us call her Virtue, and have done.”
“Indeed? I had thought her merely to disdain all pretence or disguise. And burdened as I am with so hot and ungainly an outfit”—I surveyed my multitude of muslin underskirts with a shake of my bonneted head—“I cannot in justice criticise. I fairly long for an exchange.”
“Perhaps. But does her abhorrence—or wisdom—reveal a niceness of temperament and taste? Or may we judge her merely to spoil sport?”
“I cannot undertake to say, without a greater knowledge of the lady.”
“Then find her out, my dear Jane, and I shall be content to think as you do. It saves me a vast deal of trouble in thinking for myself.” And with a smile and a care for her overpowering headdress, Eliza left me to Lord Harold’s business.
I began by surveying the company—a torrid blend of the comely and the grotesque, their colours garish and their accents brazen, relieved somewhat by the solitary interval of an elegant figure, composed against a doorframe or supporting a distant wall—engaged, it seemed, in an activity similar to my own. A Harlequin I espied, resplendent in a suit of black and red, in the closest conversation with a stately Queen Elizabeth; and a fearsome Moor, all flowing capes and harshly graven features—though not in attendance upon my particular Desdemona. More than one visage I detected, that when deprived of its domino might daily grace the pages of the Gentleman’s Magazine, or one of Gillray’s satiric drawings.7
A full quarter-hour of observation, however, could not betray to my sight the predatory horde whose idea had so excited Lord Harold’s anxiety. Two men only approached the Lady Desdemona—yet another Harlequin, suited this time in diamonds of alternating black and white; and a fellow who might well have been Henry VIII, tho’ of a corpulence supplied by tailor’s padding. These two seemed as intent upon conversation with the Dowager Duchess, as with her lovely charge.
“And are you, too, of the Theatre Royal?” came a voice at my shoulder; and looking up, I beheld a Knight in the semblance of armour, complete with visored head, his identity secure in mystery.
“Of its occasional box alone,” I replied, “but I may confess to admiration for good, hardened, professional acting. Are some part of the company present, then?”
“The masquerade is in their honour.”
“So I had understood. But with so many figures in fancy dress, how is one to divine the true player from the false?”
My companion bowed. “You merely posit, madam, the oldest question of mankind.”
I studied the visored face, which revealed nothing of the gentleman within. Could it, in fact, be Lord Harold, making sport of circumstance? The voice betrayed an echo of the Gentleman Rogue’s tone. But no. He should hardly engage my offices on the Lady Desdemona’s behalf, had he intended to form one of the party.
“I wonder, sir,” I began again, “that you can think me a member of such exalted company.”
“I merely tossed at hazard. You might be exalted in any number of ways—as I might myself. We appear as utter strangers the one to the other; but indeed we might claim the deepest intimacy, and yet pass in ignorance, so impenetrable is our garb.”
“And the most accomplished actress herself must go unremarked.”
“There, madam, you betray a charm
ing innocence of accomplished actresses. It is the first rule of the stage that to go unremarked, is to go presently into the wings. Observe the Medusa in scarlet.”
I looked about, though the compass of both bonnet and mask rendered all vision partial.
“By the fireplace, in converse with the bearded Pierrot.”
I observed then an extraordinary woman, all vibrance and fire, her flowing black hair and tattered raiment the very soul of madness. Her beauty was such as to astonish. Her costume, however, barely merited the word, in leaving more of her person exposed than it disguised. The effect must draw even the most jaded attention. She had flaunted custom, and wore no mask. Whether her conversation was as engaging as her person, I could not discern; but as I watched, the bearded Pierrot threw back his head in hearty laughter.
“That is Miss Conyngham,” my companion remarked.
“Maria Conyngham? I had not an idea of it.”
“Her brother is beside the Duchess.”
I turned to look for Her Grace.
“The Harlequin?”
“Henry the Eighth.”
“So that is the famous Hugh Conyngham! I wonder I did not observe it before! Who can see his present self, and fail to trace his tragic Hamlet? His murderous Macbeth? His pathetic Gamester? The nobility of suffering is writ in every line of his countenance!”
“With charcoal, if not by nature,” the gentleman observed.
“And are you then a player, sir? Claim you some acquaintance with the pair?” It was absurd in me, I own, to cry such admiration at Conyngham’s discovery; but so much of my meagre purse has gone to furnish his, in supplying the coveted seat in a box for the actor’s performance, that I may be excused my excesses of enthusiasm. I have invested as much in Conyngham as Henry in all his four percents.8
“I have not that distinction,” the Knight replied with an inclination of the head. “I may claim the accomplishment of dancing only, and that with indifferent skill. But I must beg for the indulgence of your hand, fair Shepherdess, or suffer the charge of impertinence, in having monopolised your attention too long.”
I hesitated, with thoughts of Lord Harold, and the necessities of duty; but a glance at the floor revealed the Lady Desdemona, all smiles and animation, going down the dance with her partner opposite. The White Harlequin, it seemed, had prevailed in his suit; his appearance of attention to the Dowager had been rewarded with the hand of her granddaughter. Lady Desdemona’s eyes were bright, and her complexion brilliant; but how, I thought with vexation, was I to report her partner’s name? For a masquerade is ill-suited to espionage; conjecture only might supply the place of the man; and I should be reduced to outright eavesdropping, if I were to learn anything to Lord Harold’s purpose. To the dance floor, then, with the greatest despatch.
I bowed, my own mask held high, and took my suitor’s proffered arm; and found to my relief that armour may be formed of cloth, however shot through with silver, and pose no impediment to a country dance, though it reveal nothing of the Knight within.
A FULL HALF-HOUR OF HEATED EXERCISE PROVED INSUFFICIENT to the fulfilment of my schemes, however; it was impossible to overlisten anything to Lord Harold’s purpose in so great a throng; and so, with a civility on either side, I abandoned my partner for a comfortable seat in the supper-room near Henry and Eliza. I had divined only that the White Harlequin made a shapely leg and was a proficient in the dance, with a vigorous step and a palm decidedly moist, as he handed Lady Desdemona along the line of couples. She seemed happy in her choice of partner, and moved in a fine flow of spirits; he was a spare, neat figure possessed of a hearty laugh and a general conviviality, who comported himself as a gentleman; and what was visible of his hair was brown. There my researches ended.
The delights of cold fowl and buttered prawns, white soup and ratafia cakes, were all but consumed, and Henry had embarked upon the errand of refilling our cups of punch, when I began to consider of Madam Lefroy. Anne Lefroy has long been our neighbour in Steventon, being established in the rectory at Ashe these two decades at least; and though she is full five-and-twenty years my senior, she remains my dearest friend in the world. The claims of friendship had recently drawn her to Bath—her acquaintance with the Dowager being of several decades’ standing—and the previous fortnight spent in her company had been one of the most delightful I could recall. Our tastes are peculiarly suited the one to the other, and there is no one’s society I should more eagerly claim in good times or in bad.
It was Madam who refined my taste in poetry, who improved my ear for music, who taught me that cleverness is far more than mere surface wit. From Madam, too, I learned that even ladies might converse about the nation’s affairs—for as Madam feelingly says, when so great a figure as Mr. Sheridan confuses a parliamentary bench for Drury Lane, how can we be expected to respect the difference?9
Anne Lefroy was to leave us on the morrow—but we had intended a meeting in Laura Place. The crush of bodies and the bewildering array of fancy dress had quite disguised her from my sight. I craned about in search of her glorious hair—when a muffled ejaculation from the direction of the fire demanded my attention.
Two men—the White Harlequin and my unknown Knight—were arranged in an attitude of belligerence, although the effect was rendered somewhat ridiculous by the incongruity of their costumes. The Knight had removed his helmet, revealing a fair head and a sharp-featured face that must be vaguely familiar; and he now glared boldly at his masked opponent.
“You are a blackguard, sir, and a liar!” he cried.
The Harlequin swayed as he stood, as though influenced by unconquerable passion, or an excess of spirits. And at that moment, Lady Desdemona intervened.
“Kinny! You will apologise at once! Mr. Portal meant nothing by his words, I am certain of it. I will not have you come to blows!”
“I’d sooner fall upon my sword than beg pardon of such a rogue,” my Knight exclaimed; and as if in answer, the Harlequin thrust Lady Desdemona roughly aside. She cried out; it was enough. The Knight rushed swiftly at his opponent.
A scuffle, an outburst of oaths—and the two were parted by the actor Hugh Conyngham and the stern-looking Moor.
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Mr. Conyngham exclaimed. “You will look to your conduct, I beg! This is hardly what is due to the Duchess!”
My Knight, his countenance working, drew off a silver glove, and dashed it to the floor. The White Harlequin struggled in the Moor’s arms, determined to pick it up.
But it was Hugh Conyngham who bent to retrieve the glove. He tucked it deftly into his Elizabethan doublet. “No challenge, my lord, I beg,” he muttered, with a look for Lady Desdemona.
Eliza craned on tiptoe for a clearer view of the scene. “But how droll!” she whispered. “An affair of honour! And can the lady be the cause?”
Lord Harold’s niece turned and quitted the supper-room in considerable haste, her eyes overflowing with tears. As if released at a command, the scandalised guests sent up a buzz of conversation; and the Duchess moved to follow her.
“Stay, Grandmère,” called my Knight; “I shall go to Mona. Have Jenkins show this blackguard the door.” And with a look of contempt for the White Harlequin, who sat slumped in a chair, he sped swiftly in Lady Desdemona’s train.
My Knight, the Dowager Duchess’s grandson? Then was he, in fact, Lady Desdemona’s brother, and the heir to the Wilborough dukedom? There was something of Eugenie’s sharpness in his features, and I could imagine him as almost his uncle’s twin in another twenty years.
The Duchess halted in her path, leaning heavily upon her cane, and glanced around the supper-room. “Jenkins!” she called, her voice low and clear. “Send round the wine, if you please. I shall attend to Mr. Portal.” And grasping her cane with one hand and the White Harlequin with the other, she led him unprotestingly away.
“I might almost think it a set-piece of the stage,” said a wry voice at my back, “did not my familiarity with a lady’s tears argue its s
incerity. What think you, Jane? A lovers’ quarrel? Or something deeper?”
“Madam Lefroy!” I turned in delight, and held out my hands. “Do my eyes misgive me? Or is the magnificent Elizabeth reborn in the form of Ashe?”
The masked figure of Queen Elizabeth, whom I had observed earlier in conversation with the Red Harlequin, seized my fingers and laughed.
“As you find me, my dear Miss Austen!—My dear Mrs. Henry! And how do you like the Duchess’s party?”
“I may forgive her the disadvantage of a large acquaintance, however much it ensures I shall be crushed, now that there is a touch of scandal to the evening,” Eliza declared mischievously. “Of what else might I speak in the Pump Room tomorrow?”10
“Eugenie should never forgo a chance to set the town to talking—but I wonder if the Lady Desdemona is quite of her way of thinking? She seemed much distressed.”
All discussion of the interesting episode was forestalled, however, by my brother’s return. Henry carried a chair with effort in one hand, and a glass of punch in the other; and the result of his exertions, in having raised a fine dew along his forehead, did little for his Richard.
“My poor Henry,” I exclaimed. “Your benevolence is for naught. I have secured my dear Madam Lefroy, as you see, and will leave you to your lovely Antoinette, and the comforts of iced custard.”
“WHAT THINK YOU OF THE ROUT, JANE?” MADAM BEGAN, AS she slipped her arm through mine, and commenced a measured step in time to the musicians’ playing. “I confess to some amazement at the company—a more Whiggish group I have rarely seen, and did your father know of it, he should as soon have barred you within doors as hastened you on your way. Is Henry, then, a traitor to the Austen cause?”
“Our sentiments may be Tory, my dear Madam, but our practices are not so discriminating, as to refuse a patron of the Duke’s stature.”
“Or his brother’s?” Madam enquired keenly. “Do not I recall some little acquaintance of yours, and of fully two years’ duration—with the disreputable Lord Harold?”
Jane and the Wandering Eye: Being the Third Jane Austen Mystery Page 2