“An open carriage? But it snowed!”
“And so the chairmen observed. It must have been, they affirmed, a party caught out late by the weather—a party that had not considered of snow, when they undertook to drive about the countryside in a curricle. But as they were happily in possession of a wealth of blankets, in which one passenger at least, was effectively cocooned, we may congratulate them on having sustained no very great evil.”
“Our murderer!” I exclaimed. “He had only to drop from the Dowager’s window to the open carriage, while the driver was abusing the chairmen—and conceal himself among the lap robes within. Did the chairmen remark the driver’s face?”
“He was heavily muffled against the snow, as should not be extraordinary. But he did approach their stand, and exhort them in the foulest language to clear a passage; which engaged their attention so thoroughly, they could say nothing of the equipage’s passenger.”
“And the curricle itself?”
“Indistinct in every respect. No coat of arms, no device upon its doors—a common black carriage, such as might be offered for hire at one of the inns.”
“And so it might, indeed,” I thoughtfully replied. We walked on some moments in silence, and then I added, “Did the murderer depart the anteroom by the open window, my affection for the cunning passage must be entirely at an end. I think, Lord Harold, that we should examine it thoroughly at the nearest opportunity, the better to dismiss its claims upon our attention.”
“It shall be done directly we have consulted with your Mr. Cosway, my dear. I should have attended to it before, but that I believed the passage already searched by Mr. Wilberforce Elliot.”
“I cannot be easy in my mind, regarding Mr. Elliot’s searches,” I replied firmly; but further speculation was at an end. We had achieved our object.
Mr. Richard Cosway had taken up his abode in no less than the foremost residence of Camden Place—that distinguished by the broad central pediment and coat of arms of the Marquis of Camden. The artist’s taste, as Eliza had assured me, was exquisite in this as in all things.
We mounted the steps, pulled the bell, and were speedily admitted to the foyer, which was dominated by a spiral stair ascending to the drawingroom. A footman in sky-blue livery, and possessed of the chilliest countenance, received Lord Harold’s card together with Eliza’s hasty scrawl, and made his stately progress towards the first floor.
I profited from the interval in surveying my surroundings—and found them unlike anything I had encountered to date. Even so humble a space as this entry was marked by the hand of the collector. What appeared to be excellent Flemish tapestries of considerable age depended from the ceiling, the richness of their hues fired by the light of the clerestory windows. Two chairs, carved and gilded as thrones, offered the weary their damasked laps; and at their feet lay a veritable tide of Turkey carpet, its design at once intricate and bewildering. Surely the house had been hired furnished? Or had Mr. Cosway seen fit to travel with his belongings, like an Oriental potentate?
“Mr. Cosway is at home,” the footman told us with a bow. Lord Harold inclined his head, I took up my reticule, and we followed the man above.
The drawingroom itself was more akin to enchantment than anything in my experience—Mr. Mozart’s seraglio come vividly to life. Everywhere about were scattered small ivory cabinets and mosaic tables inlaid with curious stones, their feet carved in the form of fantastic animals. Groups of ottomans, upholstered in the richest damask, were set off by Japanese screens; a profusion of Persian rugs ran the length of the marble floor; and poised for appreciation and display were choice bronzes, artists’ models in wax and terra-cotta, specimens of antique Sevres, Blue Mandar, Nankin and Dresden china. I blinked, and turned about in wonder—and caught at the last the amused smile of the painter himself, as comfortable as a monkey in a jungle of his own making. Richard Cosway was half-hidden by a suit of armour, but a flash of sunlight revealed a waistcoat of cerise and yellow to my eye, as surely as exotic plumage betrays an elusive bird.
“Lord Harold,” he said, coming forward with a bow, “and the delightful Miss Austen.” He was so diminutive a figure, and possessed of such awkward features, as to seem almost a gargoyle stepped down from the piers of Winchester; but I made him a courtesy, and took the hand he extended in greeting. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine, sir,” I replied. “You are very good to receive us on so little notice, and we are sensible of the charge upon your time.”
“The notice of the Comtesse de Feuillide—forgive me, of Mrs. Henry Austen—is hardly little,” he assured me with becoming grace. “She is one of the few women of fashion who retains both her understanding and her heart—and is thus to be prized as the rarest porcelain.”
“I see you value her as I do.”
He inclined his head, and gestured towards two of the formidable chairs. “My deepest sympathies, Lord Harold, at your nephew’s present misfortunes. Shocking how little the authorities are to be trusted in a matter of this kind! But, however, all earthly authority must give way to a Higher Power in a very little time, as I have presumed to instruct His Royal Highness. All mortal concerns are fleeting, when the world is near its end.”
Lord Harold glanced enquiringly at me, then bowed to the painter and seated himself without a word.
“The Comtesse suggests, Miss Austen, that you are desirous of having your likeness taken in miniature; and knowing that such is my primary avocation, you have sought my talents and advice.”
“Indeed, sir, I fear that she has imposed upon you,” I said hastily. “It is not the matter of my own portrait, but another’s, on which we have come.”
One eyebrow was suffered to rise, and the great man settled himself upon an ottoman, his splendid coattails arranged behind. I observed he had chosen his seat with care, to accommodate his short legs; for they should have dangled from the height of the chair upon which I perched.
“Pray tell me how I may be of service.”
Lord Harold withdrew the small paper parcel from his coat and set it on a table close at hand. “We had hoped, Mr. Cosway, that you might recognise this piece—or perhaps, its subject.”
The slight foolishness of expression instantly fled. It was replaced by an appearance of the most intense interest. Cosway undid the paper, and drawing forth a quizzing glass, examined its contents minutely.
“Yes,” he mused, “a lovely thing, to be sure. Probably a woman’s eye—you will remark the delicacy of the brow, the excessive length of the lashes, and the provocative glance. I should think it is a French piece.”
“French?”
“Observe the hazing around the portrait’s edge—the suggestion of the eye’s suspension in a cloud of mist. It might almost seem to float, like an image in a dream. I devised the style when I painted Mrs. Fitzherbert’s eye for His Royal Highness, of course; but it has long since been abandoned among English painters for a more realistic representation. It is usual, now, to frame the eye in a curl of hair, or to suggest the bridge of the nose.”
“Might not it be an older portrait?” Lord Harold enquired. “Executed in the ‘eighties or ‘nineties, perhaps?”
“Such things were not quite the fashion then,” Mr. Cosway mused, “for I only painted Mrs. Fitzherbert’s eye in 1790. Had the portrait dated from so early a period, I should have recognised it instantly as one of my own. Engleheart adopted the practice, of course, and turned it almost from art to commerce—anyone might have an Engleheart eye for the asking—but he is often given to working in enamel, and this is clearly done in watercolours, and painted on ivory. Besides, Engleheart paints in a far more realistic style, and signs the obverse with the initials G.E.”
“So enquiry in that quarter would avail us nothing,” I said in some disappointment.
The painter shook his head. “May I enquire, my lord, how you came by the item?”
“Upon the death of its owner,” Lord Harold replied, w
ithout a blush; and indeed, his words were not very far from the truth. “I thought it possible that the lady whose eye is here represented would wish to know of the gentleman’s demise; and that in returning it to its subject I might attempt to perform some final service on behalf of my friend. Miss Austen was so kind as to suggest an appeal to yourself, who must be acclaimed the acknowledged expert in such things.”
“And this friend conveyed to you nothing of the portrait’s history before his death?”
“He did not. It came to me, as it were, in all the silence of the tomb.”
“A pity. We may suppose that the gentleman preferred to shroud the circumstances of the portrait’s commission in mystery. That is not uncommon, my lord, I may assure you, with miniatures of this sort. They were devised as tokens for illicit lovers, and many a possessor has gone to his grave with the name of the subject sealed upon his lips. Pray forgive me—I risk a gross impertinence—but why should you struggle to betray the grave’s confidence?”
“My friend died suddenly, in the flower of his youth, and I am certain that he would not have wished his beloved to go unremarked at his passing. A legacy, perhaps, conveyed anonymously—I feel it incumbent upon me to do something.”
“Though your nephew’s affairs are so sadly entangled at present?” Mr. Cosway’s protuberant eyes were fixed steadily upon Lord Harold’s face. “It is singular that so active a benevolence, on behalf of another wholly unconnected to your misfortunes, should possess you at such a time.”
“And now I believe, sir, that you do risk impertinence,” Lord Harold replied evenly.
“It is very probable. But I cannot think you approach me with any degree of frankness, my lord, and every kind of deceit is my abhorrence. Good day to you—and to you, Miss Austen. My compliments to the Comtesse.”
“Mr. Cosway—” I sprang up, a most beseeching expression upon my face. “Do permit me to speak a word, I beg. Lord Harold is perhaps too discreet. But I may inform you that a greater knowledge of the portrait’s particulars, might swifty avert his nephew’s misery.”
“I thought it possible,” Mr. Cosway replied, and smiled faintly. “But I cannot like the want of confidence his lordship betrays.”
“Your pardon, Mr. Cosway,” Lord Harold managed, with a quelling glance for myself; “I spoke perhaps too hastily.”
There was a lengthy pause, in which the painter took up the miniature once more and examined it narrowly. At length, however, he set it aside, and folded his hands upon his knee.
“I should like to propose a method of enquiry, my lord.”
“Pray do so at once.”
“My wife, Maria, of whom you may have heard—”
“And who has not? She is very nearly as celebrated an artist as yourself,” Lord Harold acknowledged.
Mr. Cosway bowed. “My wife, Maria, is presently resident in France—and acquainted with the principal painters of the Emperor’s circle. Though she makes her home in Lyons, I know that she is often in the capital, and might readily make enquiries regarding your portrait. She might first locate the hand that captured the likeness—and from him, the name of the subject.”
“I am afraid it is beyond my power to part with the pendant,” Lord Harold said, frowning. “Affairs are too delicate to risk its seizure, through some misadventure of war.”
“But you need not give it up for longer than the space of an hour,” Mr. Cosway cried. “I shall sketch the piece, front and back; shade the whole in watercolours—and we may have the sending of it by the next packet that serves!”
Lord Harold paused to reflect; but Mr. Cosway’s enthusiasm was at a considerable pitch. He hastened to support his first inspiration with another.
“You are intimate in Government circles, my lord. It is everywhere acknowledged among the fashionable of the ton that none may move heaven and earth so easily as Lord Harold Trowbridge—and the insertion of a letter in the mail pouch of a secret craft, such as plies the Channel in defiance of blockades and shot, should be the matter of a moment, for one of your influence!”7
“Your notion has considerable merit, Cosway,” Lord Harold replied, rising to his feet, “and I believe I shall avail myself of it. I shall call for the portrait in exactly one hour, and receive from your hands the coloured sketch, along with a letter of explanation intended for your wife—and may I ask, my good sir, whether His Majesty’s Government might offer any favour to the lady in return? Papers of safe conduct for a voyage to England, perhaps?”
“I shall extend the offer to her with pleasure and gratitude,” Mr. Cosway said; but a sadness suffused his ugly countenance, and I did not believe that his Maria should find safe conduct necessary. “It is much to think that she shall have news of home with all despatch! I have been sadly vexed by the trials of the foreign post—and so we serve each other a turn, my lord. I shall expect you in an hour!”
He rang for the footman, and bowed us to the door; and I departed Camden Place with a heightened respect for Mr. Richard Cosway. For any man may possess a heart, and the most wounded sensibility, though he parade like a peacock and grin like a monkey.
1 The color sapphire, in Austen’s day, referred to pale rather than dark blue.—Editor’s note.
2 Jane’s description of morning may confuse a modern reader. The word afternoon was not commonly in use in 1804, as the morning was considered to run from the hour of waking until the dinner hour, which might begin anywhere from four to seven o’clock. The evening began well after dinner, with tea, and ran until supper, a light repast sometimes taken as late as eleven o’clock. A morning call, then, generally occurred in what we would consider afternoon.—Editor’s note.
3 This ruin has been demolished since Austen’s time.—Editor’s note.
4 Austen may have recalled this metaphoric quality of Camden Place when she made it the temporary home of Sir Walter Elliot in Persuasion—a man whose emphasis on personal elevation ignored the fact that his fortune had a somewhat shaky foundation.—Editor’s note.
5 Chairmen waited for patrons in Stall Street in much the fashion that taxis presently do—in “stands,” or queues. The last Bath chairman did not retire until 1949.—Editor’s note.
6 The Gravel Walk bisected the Royal Crescent Grounds, a common parading lawn for the fashionable of Bath; in Persuasion, Austen sends Anne Elliot and her beloved Captain Frederick Wentworth to the Gravel Walk to converse privately. The resting booths Lord Harold describes may still be seen on Queen Place Parade—two small huts with fireplaces that served as shelter for the chairmen.—Editor’s note.
7 Not only mail, but passengers frequently passed between France and England despite the state of war. Letters of safe conduct allowed civilians to cross the Channel on packets that were deliberately ignored by the navies on both sides.—Editor’s note.
Chapter 6
Lovers Vows
13 December 1804, cont.
~
THE MORNING WAS WELL ADVANCED WHEN WE QUITTED Camden Place. I had arranged to return to Madame LeBlanc’s for a final fitting before dinner—Lord Harold must wait upon Cosway in an hour’s time—and the theatre beckoned for the evening’s investigation. No visit to Laura Place, with the intention of thoroughly searching the panelled door’s passage, was accordingly possible; and so we parted in the Lansdowne Road with hasty protestations of goodwill and thanks on either side.
Madame LeBlanc had worked wonders on my peach silk in the interval. I observed myself as one transformed by a faery godmother—and in some little exultation, tripped my distance home in time for dinner. I availed myself of an hour at its conclusion, to record these thoughts in my little book; and at six o’clock exactly, when I had commenced to fret, a messenger appeared at Green Park Buildings, with Madame LeBlanc’s glorious box beneath his arm. I tore at the wrappings quite heedless of decorum, and unveiled the gown to the Austens’ wondering eyes.
“It is very bad of you, I declare,” my mother cried, as she saw me pink with pleasure at the lovely
drape of stuff. “You have spent this quarter’s pin money entire, I daresay, Jane, and will be playing the pauper for months on end. And so you are off—and without a thought for the rest of your dear family! You were always a headstrong, selfish girl! I am certain Cassandra would never behave in a like manner. Had you shewn a more becoming consideration, and pressed Lord Harold for the invitation, we might have gone as well. The Wilborough box undoubtedly holds eight. Who is Jane, that the Duchess must so distinguish her? I confess, I should never be easy in the enjoyment of a pleasure denied to others; but my character has always been remarked for its delicacy.”
“Lord Harold, indeed?” my father exclaimed, with a roguish look. “And have you made a conquest, my dear? He is a very fine fellow, I declare—though perhaps a trifle lacking in conversation. I cannot remember that I have ever heard anything of him that does not disconcert—he is a sad reprobate, in the world’s estimation, and fully fifteen years your senior—but I recollect you are an avowed intimate of old Mr. Evelyn, so perhaps there is nothing very shocking in this.”1
“Indeed, Father, I owe Lord Harold no greater gratitude than the preservation of my beloved Isobel, as I think you know,” I replied. “Were it not for his efforts, she should surely have hanged; and a lifetime of recompense, in the attending of plays in the Wilborough box, might not be taken amiss.”
“—if it were in fact your Isobel who danced attendance.” My father’s amusement reigned unabated; but his gaze was searching when it met my own. He knew a little of my Lyme adventures—enough to have feared for my safety, tho’ not so much as to comprehend Lord Harold’s involvement in that scheme as well; and it was possible that he had formed a suspicion of the present intrigue. The murder at Laura Place was so much talked of, on the streets and in the papers, that my sudden intimacy with the family would excite an understanding far less brilliant than my father’s. I hastened to turn the tide of conversation, lest it drown me entirely.
Jane and the Wandering Eye: Being the Third Jane Austen Mystery Page 10