“From yourself, Jane. But two years ago.”
This brutal truth must give me pause.
“There was a time, I recall, when you did not scruple to name him as the very worst man in the kingdom,” Cassandra continued. “Are you so blinded by elegance and means? Are you so fearful of ending an old maid, Jane, that you would sacrifice the respect of the people you love, merely to go about on the arm of such a man?”
“My dear—” I laid aside the waistcoat. “In the first instance, I very much doubt that Lord Harold intends to make me the object of dalliance. He merely seeks my society on behalf of his niece—who cannot claim a large acquaintance in Bath, and who is sadly grieved by her brother’s present misfortunes. I may assure you that I feel for Lord Harold no more tender sentiment than friendship. I have grown to esteem him with the passage of time, for reasons I am not at liberty to relate; and if the world continues in benighted ignorance of his honourable character, then fie upon the world!”
“But from such ignorance, Jane, the world will include you in its contempt. The warmth of your nature—its impulsive regard—has misled you in the past, to your regret. Are the delights, now, of an overcrowded rout, or of an indifferent play in the splendour of the Wilborough box, worth the risk of such censure?”
She was not to be persuaded; in Lord Harold’s very name she read an evil; and so I threw up my hands.
“We must persist, Cassandra, in dividing our opinions upon the subject. As long as my father and mother decline to censure Lord Harold’s society, I shall continue to accept it with gratitude; and hope that a greater acquaintance with the gentleman, will increase your regard and esteem.”
“That must be impossible, Jane—for I intend no greater acquaintance with Lord Harold.” And at this, she snapped her thread with a vengeance, thrust aside the cap, and quitted the room.
I PUZZLED OVER MY SISTER’S BEHAVIOUR LATER THIS MORNING, as I walked towards Pulteney Bridge. The weak light of a fitful sun turned the limestone face of Bath to faintest yellow. A weak, a dysenteric face, as though the town had languished too long in an unhealthy clime—but I am no ardent admirer of Bath, it must be said, and can never see its beauties in the proper light. I set my heart against the place from the first moment of settling here, and I have endured its customs and frivolities nearly four years, as others might submit to exile. It is in the country that I am happiest; the habits of a simple life most suit my retiring nature; but while my father lives, in Bath we shall remain. In this city was he wed to my mother, and here they suffered their first days as man and wife—so that in the last ebb of fading strength, George Austen has sought comfort in Bath, as another man’s wits might return to childhood.
I achieved the bridge, and spared not a moment for its shops; looked back over my shoulder at the hills and winding crescents of the town; then turned my face to Laura Place, and the Dowager Duchess’s abode. Cassandra should shudder to see me here, I knew—but from whence arose her decided disapproval? From commendable anxiety for my standing in the world—or from envy and fear of desertion? We had grown up together in the greatest love and friendship—my mother had once observed of us as children, that if Cassandra were to have her head cut off, I should beg to have mine taken, too—and any hint of discord in our opinions and thoughts was unsettling in the extreme. But perhaps the spectre of Lord Harold—of his consequence quite dazzling my senses—had caused Cassandra’s nose to turn?
I had dressed with care for this journey to Laura Place, in a rosy muslin and spencer that were not unbecoming. I thought it only right, that the great civility of Lady Desdemona’s attention last evening—and indeed, the condescension of the entire Trowbridge family—should be met with some equal exertion on my part, in paying a morning call in Laura Place as soon as decency would allow. I must confess as well to some suspense regarding the inquest, and an anxiety for the earliest particulars of Lord Kinsfell’s fate. It being now hard on one o’clock, I felt fairly certain of finding Lady Desdemona at home, and well-disposed towards visitors. And so, with an indrawn breath, I pulled the bell.
Daylight revealed the Dowager’s abode as a magnificent establishment constructed of Cotswold stone, undoubtedly designed by Baldwin, and maintained in all the elegance that easy circumstances will allow.1 The interior, however, was much as I remembered it from Tuesday’s fateful rout—albeit greatly improved by a dearth of heat and company.
I handed the footman my card, and enquired whether the lady was within; he departed to learn the answer; and returned as quickly, followed by Lady Desdemona herself. She was arrayed as though for a ball—in tamboured white muslin, pink slippers, and long silk gloves. A spray of diamonds glittered in her hair. If she had so much as thought of her brother’s inquest this morning, I should be very much surprised.
“Miss Austen! And quite recovered from your injuries of last evening!” she cried with animation. “But how divine! You are just in time to observe Mr. Lawrence!”
“Mr. Lawrence?”
“The painter! He is above, in the drawingroom, about the business of my portrait.”
I blushed in confusion. “I had not an idea that my visit should so incommode the household, Lady Desdemona. Pray, do not tarry below for my sake! Stay only to accept my heartfelt gratitude—for last evening’s amusement, and the pleasure of your company. I shall look for your society another day, at a more favourable hour.”
“Nonsense! You might divert me while he paints! It is the very last word in tedium, I own, to strike a pose for hours together. One’s nose is certain to itch; and to give way to the impulse is quite impossible. Mr. Lawrence is extremely strict on all such matters—I daren’t move an inch!—and he has such a satiric eye. I confess,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “that he makes me quite wild with the penetration of his looks.”
And with that, she turned and hastened up the stairs; and I felt myself compelled to follow.
I had heard, of course, of Mr. Thomas Lawrence. I had even gone so far as to gaze upon his more celebrated subjects, having visited the Royal Academy exhibitions of past years in Henry and Eliza’s company. Who can forget his portrait of the Queen, or of the actress Elizabeth Farren, or of Sarah Siddons herself? These are perhaps his most famous pictures; but many a less notorious head has submitted to Lawrence’s gaze, and appeared again as recognisably itself, upon the humble canvas. Of a sudden I wished for Cassandra—who alone of the Austens may claim a talent for drawing. She would have profited from a meeting with the great man, and studied his manner of wielding the brush.
“Mr. Lawrence,” Lady Desdemona said, as she advanced into the room; and I started at finding the object of her address to be a fairly young gentleman, of a fine figure and noble head—no more than thirty, perhaps.2 I had assumed that celebration in the world of art was predicated upon an advanced age, if not virtual morbidity; and so displayed my astonishment in my countenance. Mr. Lawrence was arrayed in a very fine wool coat, the most fashionable of trousers, a neckcloth assiduously-tied, and a collar of moderate height—which latter suggested, I thought, some soundness of mind. He might rather have been a suitor for Lady Desdemona’s hand, than a painter in oils; and I understood, of a sudden, that a sort of rank in its own right attends a member of the Royal Academy, whom all the world is desperate to secure, that must be denied the fellow accustomed to daubing at innkeepers’ signs, or attempting the likeness of a squire’s prize horse.
“Miss Austen, may I beg the honour of introducing you to Mr. Thomas Lawrence. Mr. Lawrence, my friend Miss Austen.”
“It is a pleasure, madam.” He bowed abruptly and then turned back to his easel. “Lady Desdemona, if you would regain your place I should be deeply grateful. I am never blessed with a surfeit of time, and I have expended today already more than is strictly necessary.”
“But of course, sir,” the lady replied, with stifled amusement, and settled herself in a chair.
“Turn slightly to the left—my left, Lady Desdemona—lift the chin—n
ow gaze at me adoringly, as though I am the only man you could ever esteem—yes, that is capital—” And so saying, Mr. Lawrence reached for a bit of charcoal and swiftly moved his hand across the canvas.
I was prepared to be suitably silent some minutes, but a very little time indeed was required, before I detected the faint suggestion of Lady Desdemona’s form. It was breathtaking to observe the man—so effortless, so certain, was his crayon—and the results were quite extraordinary. While the Duke’s daughter sat with smile fixed and eyes unblinking, save when necessity required, the master painter all but seized her ghost. Twenty minutes, perhaps, and Mr. Lawrence then released her.
“That is sufficient for today, my lady,” he pronounced, with a step backwards to survey his canvas. “I could not improve upon it were I to labour a fortnight.”
“But are we not to work in oils?”
“Lady Desdemona,” Mr. Lawrence said, with an impression of great forbearance, “it is not my custom to take a likeness so immediately as you would wish. I am far too besieged with work. I have come to you from no less a personage than the Princess of Wales, whose portrait is drying even now in her salon at Blackheath; I must wait upon a gentleman of my acquaintance in London tomorrow, among four or five others; and there remains an endless supply of infants whom, I fear, are not likely to grow any younger before their likenesses are taken. The ledger in which I record my commissions is so long, I confess, that I wonder if any person in England is not upon it! You have paid your half-commission; I have taken the underdrawing; and in due course we shall hit upon a suitable occasion for further application.”
“Of course, Mr. Lawrence. I am deeply grateful.”
The painter cast his gaze upon me, and scowled. “Your opinion of the work, Miss Austen? For you certainly stand in judgement of it.”
“No, indeed!” I replied, tearing my eyes from the easel in some confusion. “I am simply all amazement at the rapidity and skill of its execution.”
“But is it like?” Lady Desdemona moved to study her image. “I confess I cannot tell.”
“Be assured, my dear,” I said fondly, “that it is yourself as you look in dreams—and as you will revel in appearing, long years hence, when the bloom of eighteen has quite deserted you.”
A look of grateful surprise, from Lawrence and the lady both, served as my reward.
“HE IS QUITE WICKEDLY HANDSOME, IS HE NOT?” LADY DESDEMONA said in a half-whisper, when Mr. Lawrence’s assistant had folded the easel with care, and followed his master to the street below. “I nearly swoon at the thought of spending hours under his stare.”
“He is very well-looking, indeed, my lady,” I replied, “but who are his parents? His connexions? His station in life?”
“His father kept an inn at Devizes—the Bear, you must know it—”
“Ye-es,” I said doubtfully.
“—but was many years ago declared a bankrupt, and died not long thereafter. Lawrence maintains his mother and sisters, I believe. He lives in some style in Piccadilly, and keeps a studio adjacent.”
“I see. A man of some means, then.”
“I should say! He will charge my father full two hundred guineas for my portrait alone—and he must turn out dozens each year!”
A faintness overcame me. So much money, for a mere likeness in oils! He might be the late Mr. Reynolds himself! “But can you hope to progress upon the project while resident in Bath? Surely Mr. Lawrence cannot mean to attend you here for each of the sittings?”
“No,” she admitted, her brow crinkling. “If I am ever to wrestle the piece from his grasp, I must do so in London. Perhaps after the New Year, when I am spoiling for amusement. Mr. Thomas Lawrence should do nicely for a heartless flirtation.”
I must have registered my dismay, for Lady Desdemona burst out laughing and took my hand between her own. “I have quite excited your anxiety, my dear Miss Austen, and to no very great purpose altogether. Be assured that I have no intention of making a fool of myself over Mr. Lawrence—though I could not blame any young lady who did. He is far too fond of ordering people about, for my taste; and I should not last a fortnight under such management.”
“No, indeed.”
“But even the most cautious sentiment cannot make him any less charming to look upon—nor less respectable in the Dowager’s drawingroom. He was present, you know, at my grandmother’s unfortunate rout.”
“The masquerade?”
“Yes. He came as Harlequin—though in a costume of red and black, unlike poor Mr. Portal. I believe he slipped away before the constables arrived.”
“I did espy Mr. Lawrence,” I said slowly, “now I come to consider of it—he was in conversation with my very dear friend, Madam Lefroy. Are you acquainted with the lady?”
“I have not had the pleasure. She is one of Grandmère’s intimates, no doubt. Is she resident in Bath, like yourself?”
“In Hampshire, to my great misfortune. I can account the loss of Madam Lefroy’s society as one of the chief miseries of having quitted that part of the country.” I said this with feeling.
“And has she sat to Mr. Lawrence, then?”
“I cannot think it likely! She is not a lady of fashion—that is to say, she lacks a considerable estate, such as must be necessary for the meeting of that gentleman’s fees. But she cultivates all manner of artists and literary figures—or did, in the years before her marriage. Her brother is Mr. Egerton Brydges, the novelist.”
“The author of Fitz-Albini?”
“The same—although I cannot think it the wisest piece he has ever done. It was intended as a cleverly-disguised portrait of his early trials and disappointments—though both the cleverness and the disguise were sadly lacking. He managed to abuse several of his dearest acquaintances, and outrage the remainder. I may declare it the only work of which his family is entirely ashamed.”3
“I thought it to offer very little in the way of story,” Lady Desdemona observed, “and that, told in a strange, unconnected way.”
“Then let us not waste upon Mr. Brydges another thought. I mentioned him only as an exemplar of Madam’s connexions. She may, perhaps, be acquainted with Mr. Lawrence through her brother.”
Any reply Lady Desdemona might have made was forestalled by the drawingroom door’s being thrust open with considerable violence. The Earl of Swithin strode into the room, his fair brows knit and his blue eyes snapping.
“Lady Desdemona,” he declared, with a click of his heels. “You are well? No—never mind—do not trouble yourself to answer. I observe you are well enough. In such excellent spirits, in fact—despite the deprivation of your only brother—as to have been entertaining the despicable Mr. Lawrence.”
Lady Desdemona’s curtsey was as chill as her countenance. “Lord Swithin. I am all amazement to find you are thus come upon me unannounced. What possible business could bring you to Laura Place?”
“Convenience,” he retorted. “Had you spared a thought from your own concerns, Mona, you should have observed the carters and waggons opposite.”
She studied him with calculation, then crossed swiftly to a window whose prospect gave out on the square. The curtains twitched wide, and we were treated to a vision of her figure outlined against the glass. Then she wheeled to face the Earl.
“And so you have taken the lodgings opposite, for the express purpose of spying upon me?”
“No other house could be hired, for all the money in the kingdom; and I am not in a temper to suffer the abominable accommodations of the White Hart even a single day longer.”
“I cannot believe you are utterly without acquaintance in Bath, sir, that you must hire a palace for the accommodation of your needs! Surely some lady—Miss Maria Conyngham, perhaps?—should be willing to find you room.”
A smile flickered over the Earl’s set features, but there was little of benevolence in it. “Tit for tat, my dear. Miss Conyngham for Mr. Portal. Or should I say:—Mr. Lawrence? You are exceedingly fine for so early in the mornin
g.”
“I shall dress in any manner I please, and see whomever I choose, in Laura Place, my lord—though you do overlook my drawingroom. You will be gratified to learn that Colonel Easton has also called upon me this morning. He is recovering slowly from the effects of your pistols. I was happy to observe that though served with shocking brutality by yourself, the unfortunate Colonel remains the soul of gallantry.” She eyed Lord Swithin with a gleam of amusement. “Easton has also got rid of his whiskers somewhere, and looks remarkably well.”
The Earl dismissed the unfortunate Colonel with a wave of the hand. “Clean-shaven or no, it matters nothing. I know you too well, my dear Mona, to regard such a pitiful pup as a rival. But I would counsel you to beware of Mr. Thomas Lawrence. He is a charming rogue, I will allow, and not ill-favoured—but he has a taste for married women, and the ruin of young ladies not yet out. You will have heard of Lady Caroline Upton, I presume?”
“If you refer to Mrs. James Singleton—then yes, my lord, I have had the pleasure.”
“‘And when no more thy victim can endure/But raging, supplicates thy soul for cure/Then, act the timid unsuspecting maid/ And wonder at the mischief thou hast play’d,’” Swithin declaimed. “That is from ‘The Cold Coquette.’ A chastening verse, is it not? Particularly for young ladies too fond of flirtation.”
“I am unacquainted with the poet, sir—but I must hope him better suited to his chosen profession, than he appears to be to verse.”
“Unacquainted with Mr. Lawrence? But he was dancing attendance upon you only a few moments ago! That is your painter’s doggerel, my lady, intended as a rebuke to Lady Caroline Upton—who refused his presumption in seeking to elope with her some two years past.”4
“That must be the grossest falsehood!” Lady Desdemona cried, her countenance reddening.
“Forgive me—but it is not. I had it on authority from Templetown himself—the young lady’s brother—while he was decidedly in wine. I see that Lawrence has quite recovered from the affair; and from the daughter of an earl, has progressed to the daughter of a duke.”
Jane and the Wandering Eye: Being the Third Jane Austen Mystery Page 14