13 Carlton House was the Prince of Wales’s London residence. It now forms part of the British Museum.—Editor’s note.
14 Astley’s Amphitheatre, which Jane visited on several occasions in the company of her brother Edward and his children, was a London riding arena that specialized in mounted shows, rather like a circus.—Editor’s note.
15 George Engleheart (1750-1829) made a virtual profession of eye portrait painting, and broadened the fashion from the nobility of England down to the gentry and eventually, to the middle class.—Editor’s note.
Chapter 4
The Eye in Question
12 December 1804, cont.
~
THE EARL OF SWITHIN, IN CONVERSE WITH MR. HUGH Conyngham! Were they, then, acquainted? And was it the actor alone who had drawn Lord Swithin in such haste to the Pump Room?
I stood as though rooted to the broad plank floor, transfixed by a shaft of wintry light. It fell directly upon the Earl’s fair head, as though in benediction, and revealed him as a gentleman not above the middle height, but powerful in his frame and general air of address—a commanding figure, much hardened by sport and exercise, and tailored to within an inch of its life. Lord Swithin’s countenance might be said to be handsome, for there was not an ill-made feature in it, but for the coldness that lurked in his bright blue gaze and the suggestion of bitterness about the mouth. This was not a man to be lightly crossed—and I could not wonder that Lady Desdemona had fled to Bath, rather than brook the tide of rage occasioned by her refusal.
“Jane!” Eliza hissed. “Pray turn your eyes away from his lordship, or we shall both be detected in the grossest vulgarity!”
But I was insensible of Eliza’s anxious looks, so compelling were the Earl and his interlocutor. With heads drawn close together and a flow of speech that suggested some urgency of matter, the two men must be canvassing the murder in Laura Place.
“Eliza,” I murmured, “is the Earl likely to recollect your acquaintance, so many years since in Bengal?”
“I should think not,” she replied stoutly. “It was his mother, you know, who called upon mine. I do not think he was even born before we quitted India entirely.”
“That is very well. Let us stroll about the room with as unconscious an air as possible.”
“We may attempt the stroll, Jane, but should abandon the unconscious air at the outset. You are not equal to it, darling girl. You have not the necessary schooling in deception.”
“Fiddlesticks,” I whispered viciously. “Speak to me of something diverting.”
“I have heard” Eliza attempted immediately, “that though the Earl of Swithin’s title is of ancient pedigree, his considerable fortune has been amassed through trade.”
“You shall not horrify me, my dear. I am no respecter of snobbish distinction. He retains the claims of a gentleman.”
“But perhaps the nature of his trading may surprise you. The Earl is given to running opium, no less, out of Bengal to China, and using private ships to do it. He learned the habit of his father, and since that gentleman’s demise has greatly increased the activity. Henry heard the tale only last week, while lunching at Boodle’s.”1
“The Earl? An opium trader? I may hardly credit it!”
Eliza’s dark eyes glinted deliciously. “Do not sound so astonished, my dearest Jane. You must know that the Honourable Company has long employed opium as an antidote to tea.2 We import so very much of that leaf, and can sell little to advantage in China; our debt in trade—or its imbalance, as Henry might put it—for many years bid fair to sink us; the kingdom bled bullion as from an open wound; but matters of late have righted themselves, and all on account of the Chinese taste for opium. Such men as the Earl must receive our thanks, however much the Government officially abhors their activity. And so the world turns round—we import tea from China; China imports opium from India; and India imports woolens from Manchester! Admirable, is it not, how the yearnings and vices of the multitude provide Lord Swithin with a dashing carriage and four?”
“Admirable or otherwise, it cannot be very agreeable to claim the opium trade as occupation,” I observed. “I wonder whether His Grace the Duke of Wilborough is cognizant of the Earl’s activity?”
We had progressed very nearly to a position opposite the Visitors’ Book, where the Earl and the actor were as yet engrossed. I halted in our promenade, and turned my back upon the pair. Their voices drifted very faintly to my ears—a word or two only. “Continue conversing, Eliza, I beg—but speak of lace, or the price of muslin, in as audible a tone as you may manage.”
Of all things required, my sister was equal to this; and she prated on happily about the number of flounces so necessary to a fashionable gown for evening, and the appearance of epaulettes, in deference to the heightened military style inevitable in such a climate, while I endeavoured to overlisten our neighbours’ conversation. It was the Earl’s voice, acute and low, I first discerned.
“… must have the letters.”
“I tell you they are not …” (indistinguishable words) “… and … is most disagreeable at present. I cannot assure your lordship … influence with her.”
“Then I must see her myself.”
“That would … unwise. I cannot answer …”
“… is due to me! I have wasted … a handsbreadth to the gallows!”
“… time.”
“I have had enough of your time! Time has brought me only grief and vexation, sir!” This last was very nearly shouted, so that the enraged Earl was rewarded with the shocked glance of several in the Pump Room; and after an exasperated sigh, he lowered his voice once more. The next words were almost inaudible.
“… expect you to … method of securing my …”
Had I truly heard it aright? Securing what—the Earl’s freedom? His reputation? His interest?
His letters?
“… well. Good day, my lord.”
“Good day.” All private business concluded, the Earl achieved a more civil tone. “And remember me to your sister, Conyngham. I shall be in attendance at Orchard Street tomorrow.”
The actor bowed; the Earl received his deference with a faint air of irritation; and so they parted. Lord Swithin quitted the Pump Room by the door immediately opposite the Visitors’ Book, apparently intent upon returning to the White Hart. Hugh Conyngham plunged towards the opposite end of the vast hall. There was an expression of anxiety and despair upon his countenance I could not like.
“I must leave you, Eliza,” I said. “Forgive me. My compliments and best love to Henry—we hope to see you this evening in Green Park Buildings to drink tea, if you are not otherwise engaged.”
“What have you heard, Jane?” Eliza enquired with penetration.
“I hardly know. Everything—or nothing. Who can say?”
“Jane—” My sister reached a hand to my arm, restraining me when I would depart. “Had you not better leave such things to the magistrate, Mr. Elliot?”
“I do not understand you, Eliza,” I retorted.
“And as for tea—”
The Henry Austens were to attend the concert that evening in the Upper Rooms—a recitation of love songs in the Italian by Mrs. Billington3—and Eliza was pressing in her invitation that Cassandra and I should make an addition to the party. Though I may accomplish a Scotch air on the pianoforte with pleasure, I am in the general way no friend to music. Singing, I own, induces a tedium that may be relieved only by a thorough review of one’s neighbour’s attire and conversation. And for the present, all thought of love songs, Italian or otherwise, must be banished by the interesting notion of the Earl and the actor united in intrigue.
But I promised Eliza most faithfully to propose the scheme to my sister—and with a kiss to her cheek, ran thankfully away.
IN COMPARATIVE SOLITUDE I PASSED THROUGH QUEEN Square, where the first golden glow of an unfashionably early dinner hour now shone through the modest windows. My mother will persist in hankering after the square�
��it was the most select address that Bath afforded, in her girlhood—but the narrowness of the rooms will never do for so large a party as ours. She must be content with a weekly visit to the Queen’s chapel, where we hear divine service of a Sunday, and a passage through its park when business draws her to that part of town. We are treated, however, to a daily recitation of Queen Square’s advantages, and must allow it to be superior to every other location in Bath if we are to achieve any domestic peace.
I thrust my mother from my mind in the present instance, however, and saw again in memory the Earl of Swithin. What could such a man—of so lofty an establishment, and so recently descended upon the town—have to say to Hugh Conyngham? Who, however admirable his skill as a thespian, is as yet a provincial player, without birth or connexions to recommend him? I had expected to hear Richard Portal’s name, or at the very least Lord Kinsfell’s—and yet the two had spoken only of letters. Whose? And who was the mysterious she?
Maria Conyngham?
The actress’s magnificent form limned itself on the paving-stones at my feet, like an enchantress materialising out of the common snow and dirt; and I knew her immediately for a woman any man might die to possess. Maria Conyngham had fire, beauty, and all the spirit to be expected in one untrammelled by society’s conventions. I should not find it remarkable if her charms had ensnared a legion heretofore unknown to me—not least amongst them, the redoubtable Earl.
And then I sighed. Upon reflection, I should never be privileged to learn the truth—for my part in the drama must surely be at an end. With the Earl come in haste to Bath, and Lord Harold not far behind, any office I might have fulfilled, as silent duenna to Lady Desdemona, should be for naught. The unfortunate girl would be sent away to London, as soon as attention could be spared her, while the efforts of her relations should be turned to the vindication of the heir. The charge of murder brought against Simon, Lord Kinsfell, must throw his sister’s private troubles entirely into the shade.
And so it was in no very great humour that I pulled the bell of No. 27, in Green Park Buildings, and awaited the advent of Mary, the housemaid. She opened to my summons before the last peals had entirely died away.
“Ooh, miss,” she said, with a look of mingled terror and awe, “there’s a gentleman here as is that grand. He’s been waiting on you above a half-hour.”
“In the sitting-room, Mary?”
“Yes, miss. In the Reverend’s chair.”
I hastened upstairs to my visitor’s relief, and found none other than Lord Harold Trowbridge, standing erect and silent before the window, his back turned to the room. My poor father gazed at him helplessly, while my mother—in full flood upon the subject of actors and their pugilism—ran on unabated.
“Sir!” I burst out. “This is indeed an honour!”
He turned, one eyebrow raised, and bowed. “Miss Austen. The honour is entirely mine.”
The gravity of his tone might have impressed me less, had it not been wed to an equal command of countenance. Lord Harold was in no mood for civilities or folly—and I determined upon the removal of my mother from the room as swiftly as convention might allow.
“Jane, my dear,” my father said, “your mother and I have been expecting you this half-hour, as we assured Lord Harold. What can have occasioned so protracted an absence?”
“Only a Pump Room acquaintance of Eliza’s, Father,” I replied, my eyes on the Gentleman Rogue. “And a general buzz of gossip concerning a new arrival. The Earl of Swithin has come to Bath. Only fancy!”
“The Earl of Swithin? And what is the Earl of Swithin to us, pray? Come, come, Mrs. Austen.” My father rose slowly from a stiff-backed chair at some remove from the fire—not his usual seat. “If we are to have a whiff of air before Cook sets the dinner bell to ringing, we must away!”
“I am certain we have not time enough,” my mother objected, “and that I shall catch a chill. Moreover, the gloom is not prepossessing. We shall stumble over ourselves, in attempting the pavement.”
“That is always the way with December, my dear, but I must have my exercise. Mr. Bowen is most insistent.”
At this, my mother submitted, for my father’s health has been indifferent of late, to our great anxiety, and the surgeon—Mr. Bowen—is punctilious on the matter of a daily airing.
Lord Harold bowed to them both, and I heard the sitting-room door click behind them with palpable relief.
“These are comfortable lodgings,” he said, with a glance about the room.
“Indeed. Although a trifle damp—in the kitchen and offices particularly.”4
“You have been here how long?”
“A few months only—since our return from Lyme.”
“Ah, yes. Lyme.” The barest suggestion of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “It is in my power to inform you, Miss Austen, that our friends reached America in safety. They have taken up residence in the state of New York.”
A rush of feeling welled suddenly within me, and as swiftly died away. Geoffrey Sidmouth and his cousins might as well be on the moon, for any likelihood I should ever have of seeing them again.5
“That is excellent news, indeed,” I managed, and felt my cheeks to burn.
“But you cannot rejoice in it as you might,” Lord Harold said gently, “having occasion to regret the acquaintance—or perhaps, the gentleman. I comprehend.”
I averted my eyes in some embarrassment. “Will you not sit down, sir?”
“No—I thank you. I have been sitting already too long today.”
“You journeyed from London.”
“As swiftly as a coach-and-four might carry me. I am arrived but a few hours.” He clasped his hands behind his back and turned from the window to the fire. Lord Harold might always have been called a well-made man—he is tall enough, with the leanness born of exercise, and a shrewdness of countenance that becomes the more engaging the longer one is acquainted with it. His silver locks are worn as negligently as the scar from a sabre cut that travels across one cheek, and though he commands fully five-and-forty years of age, the youthfulness of his demeanour has always cast the sum into doubt. But as I studied his lordship’s form, dark against the blazing hearth, I perceived a subtle transformation. If it were possible for a man to age a twelvemonth in but a quarter of that time, then Lord Harold had assuredly done so.
Since our last meeting—on the rainswept Charmouth shingle of a September dawn—the Gentleman Rogue had acquired a weary set to his shoulders, and his aquiline features were drawn with something akin to pain. His lordship’s hooded grey eyes, though cold and unblinking when in contemplation of evil, were wont to brim with amusement as well; but now they seemed quite devoid of emotion altogether. These subtle changes might be ascribed, I supposed, to the distress occasioned by his nephew Kinsfell’s misadventures. There was a severity in Lord Harold’s looks, however, that called to mind the ascetic—or the penitent. It was as though his lordship nursed a private grief, or suffered from infinite regret. As I surveyed him thus, he reached for the irons and prodded viciously at the fire—a betrayal of the unease within. A restless distraction held him in its grip; the evident desire to be doing something. I must not presume upon his patience with trifling pleasantries; the greatest despatch was in order. I seated myself upon the settee.
“If you have spared an hour to pay this call, sir,” I began, “I can only assume it is with a view to learning what I might tell you of events in Laura Place last evening. But let me first offer my heartfelt expression of concern for your family, and the terrible misfortunes they have endured.”
A smile flickered briefly over the narrow face. “My thanks, Miss Austen. I have indeed come to your door in the hopes of learning something to my nephew’s advantage. I know you too well to fear that any part of this unfortunate affair is likely to have escaped your attention. But first—you must tell me. Is it true? Is Swithin indeed come to Bath?”
“I regret to say that I have not the pleasure of acquaintance with
his lordship. But if he travels in style, with the device of a snarling tiger upon his ebony coach—”
“He does. You have seen him yourself?”
“I have seen a tall, well-made man with fair hair and a haughty expression on his noble brow, a gentleman of taste and a decided air of refinement, to whom every eye in the room is turned as a matter of course. He is accustomed, I should judge, to the power of doing as he likes; and employs it frequently.”
“That is the man,” Lord Harold said with satisfaction. “But how has Swithin learned so swiftly of our misfortune? And what does he mean by coming here? He abhors Bath. There is nothing to interest him in this quarter. Except—” The silver head bent slightly in thought, and after an instant, Lord Harold wheeled around. “He means to bring my niece to a stand.”
“Does he? And will he achieve it?”
“I cannot undertake to say. But there is no man like Swithin for forcing a point. My niece, Lady Desdemona, has gone so far as to reject him; she has thwarted his ambition; she has spit in his eye, and all the world has seen it. He is not the sort of man to take such behaviour lightly. He means to break her.”
The casual grimness of his tone caused my heart to sink.
“But you will not allow it!” I rejoined stoutly. “You must be seen to object.”
“I object to everything that appears as undue influence over those I hold most dear. Rest assured, Miss Austen—I would not have Mona thrown away.” He settled himself in my father’s chair and gazed broodingly into the flames. “Now let us have the entire history. Tell me all you know.”
And so I launched into the neatest summary of the Duchess’s rout that I could manage, a summary entirely free of conjecture or surmise. And when I had done, Lord Harold was silent for several moments together.
“You have no notion as to the cause of the dispute between my nephew and Mr. Portal?” he enquired at last.
Jane and the Wandering Eye: Being the Third Jane Austen Mystery Page 7