I awoke in a shuddering torment, to find the dawn creeping at my window.
I took my father’s excellent advice, and when at breakfast my mother condescended to enquire about my final hour in the Lower Rooms, I talked only of indifferent tea. She was satisfied with this, and soon abandoned us for the writing desk in her bedchamber, and a long-neglected correspondence. My father, however, lingered over his coffee and rolls, and seemed in no hurry to seek acquaintance in the Pump Room.
“‘Arrivals: Lord Harold Trowbridge, lately of St. James, resident in Bath at the home of Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Wilborough, Laura Place, since Wednesday last.’” He twitched aside the sheaf of the Bath Chronicle from which he had been reading aloud, and gazed at me speculatively. “It has taken the editors of our noble broadsheet a good three days to record the gentleman’s descent upon the city; but we may suppose them to have withheld this interesting intelligence until this morning, in order to supplement it with supposition and hearsay. For I observe, my dear Jane, in an adjacent column, the following delicious item. What can have drawn a certain Lord _______, known for his fashionable intrigues, to so sedate a locale as Bath? The taking up of his nephew for murder? Or a clergyman’s daughter resident in Green Park Buildings? The lady has recently been much remarked in Lord_______’s company, at the Theatre Royal and the Lower Rooms. We must suppose her possessed of startling naïveté—or a taste for dangerous gentlemen.’”
I flushed, and set down my teacup. “How despicable!”
“You do not find it diverting, Jane?” my father cried with false astonishment. “We may then suppose naïveté, rather than a dangerous taste, to be foremost in your character—and I shall convey the news to the editors of the Chronicle without delay. All of Bath is sure to be impatient for our reply.”
I hastened to my father’s side and snatched the paper from his unprotesting hands. “But this is abominable!”
“It is no more than you should have expected, I am sure,” said Cassandra from her place by the fire. But her eyes, when they met mine, held no triumph. “One cannot engage in public display without drawing the notice of the most impertinent and voluble of gossips.”
“Am I to be denied, then, the common right of privacy with regard to my personal affairs?” I retorted hotly.
“I believe you forfeited it wwhen you undertook to receive Lord Harold,” my sister replied.
“Cannot you put an end to the acquaintance, my dear?” my father protested. “The present publicity alone must convince your friend that he may only do you harm with his attentions; and no honourable man would require further explanation. You cannot desire so much notoriety, I am certain.”
I hesitated, for the warmest sensibility has always warred with reason in my character, and the impulse was strong to champion Lord Harold at the expense of my reputation. But in deference to my father, I said nothing of the outrage bubbling in my breast, or of the regard I felt for the gentleman’s character. I took refuge, instead, in prevarication.
“For my part, I have always believed Lord Harold merely hoped I might strengthen my friendship with his niece, Lady Desdemona—who lacks a broad acquaintance in Bath, and must feel her brother’s present misfortunes most acutely. I believe, moreover, that Lord Harold is much attached to another, and henceforth is likely to further his interest with the lady.”
“Indeed, Jane? But what is this? Jilted by the Gentleman Rogue?” my father cried. “Pray to fetch my paper and pen. The Chronicle must know of it immediately!”
I attempted a smile at his unfortunate raillery; but an oppression of spirits must defeat the effort.
“My poor Jane,” Cassandra murmured. She set aside her napkin and gazed at me with pity. “I feel for the disappointment of your hopes. But considering Lord Harold’s character, we could not have hoped for better. For is it not to be preferred, that his falseness and levity be revealed in the present hour, than discovered far later, when a greater damage had been done?”
A comforting thought, indeed.
“I am sure I shall learn to see the matter as you do, Cassandra,” I replied; but the words came only with effort.
I COULD NOT REFLECT UPON THE PREVIOUS EVENING’S MISADVENTURE without the greatest trepidation; there was no one to whom I might confide my distress, other than Lord Harold; and yet the sly calculation of the Bath Chronicle had rendered comfort in that quarter suspect. I stood some moments before the looking-glass, to study my throat with the most acute eye, and imagine the descent of a blade—and all attempt at composure remained well beyond my reach. And so, a few hours after the Chronicle had been burnt in the sitting-room grate for the deception of my mother, I set out on foot to Dash’s Riding School. Lord Harold had said that Lady Desdemona would ride there; and perhaps he might make one of the party. I could think of nothing so calculated for the relief of my mind, than the relation of the whole to that gentleman.
My heart was heavy, however, and I moved as though under the scrutiny of all Bath. An absurd emotion, of course—did even half the citizens I encountered along my route peruse the morning papers, only a handful were likely to have read the speculative column, and none of them were familiar with my face—but a blow had been struck, all the same, and I laboured under the wound.
Cassandra had barely uttered a word, when I had declared my intention of walking into Montpellier Row, where the riding school is situated; but the diffidence of my speech, regarding my intention to remain on terms of intimacy with Lady Desdemona despite her uncle’s probable defection, could not disguise my true misery. In my father’s eyes I read the reflection of my sister’s doubts; and the disapproval of the entire household must weigh heavily upon me. It is the Austens’ considered opinion that I am entirely lost to Lord Harold Trowbridge, and that my character now hangs in the balance; at the advanced age of nearly nine-and-twenty, I have consented to play the fool, and serve as pawn in the designs of the great. In vain have I pled the cause of friendship, and the lamentable misfortune of Simon, Lord Kinsfell. These are weighed as nothing in the scales of feminine virtue, which have clearly tipped in the direction of impropriety, subterfuge, and deceit.
And so to Dash’s I have gone, with lowered spirits and a fading courage; for we are never so confident in our activity, as when we move with the certainty of the world’s approbation—nor so dragging of feet, as when the contempt of the beloved is foremost in our minds.
“MISS AUSTEN!” THE DOWAGER DUCHESS EXTENDED A gloved hand and smiled up at me from her chair. “How delightful to see you again! I see we may claim one friend at least!”
“The honour is mine, Your Grace,” I replied, and pressed the offered hand. “Miss Wren. You are well, I trust?”
“As you find me, Miss Austen.” She bobbed a curtsey, but did not trouble to smile. “I do fear the onset of an inflammation of the lungs—it is ever a danger at this time of year, is it not?—though I should never complain, when dearest Mona is bent upon her little pleasures.”
I turned to gaze at the riders circling within the ring, and presently located a fresh-faced lady in a dark blue habit. “How well she looks!” I exclaimed involuntarily.
“Like a general advancing upon the field,” the Duchess agreed. “The soutache and braid are cunning, are they not? I had the design of her habit myself. And the hat is a perfection!”
The article thus described was a shako with feathers, and completed Lady Desdemona’s air of having emerged triumphant from the battlefield; her cheeks were bright, and her eyes sparkled, as she gazed up into the face of the officer riding beside her. I recognised her partner from the Lower Rooms.
“Is that Colonel Easton I see, Your Grace?”
“The Earl of Northcote’s second son. A well-bred, gentleman-like fellow enough, and quite martyred to my Mona.”
“He is very handsome.”
“—and possesses not a farthing to his name,” Miss Wren sniffed.
“You exaggerate, my dear Wren,” the Duchess countered. “He has an excellent commissi
on, and the pay of a colonel’s rank—a thousand pounds a year, at least. He lives in very easy circumstances.”
“Or would, did he learn to abhor the gaming tables,” Miss Wren retorted acidly. “But he is nothing compared to Lord Swithin. Mona’s fortune should be entirely thrown away on such a fellow—and he cannot even offer her a title!”
The topic, I judged, had been canvassed before; but it was allowed to dwindle away, at the advance of two very fine ladies, habited to ride. Their hair was golden, their smiles complacent; and they might as readily have been a pair of china dolls, for all the animation I observed.
“The Lady Louisa Fortescue! And Lady Augusta, too! I am happy to see you.” The Dowager spoke with an amiable nod. “You do not yet brave the ring, I see.”
“We merely await the appearance of our brother, Your Grace; but could not delay another moment in offering our deepest sympathies regarding the misfortunes that have plagued your household.” The elder Fortescue arranged her features in a poor display of sincerity. “Our brother has told us of the stupidity of the local magistrate. We were excessively miserable! For what is the kingdom coming to, if an heir to a dukedom may be summarily thrown into gaol? When, I beg, may we expect Lord Kinsfell to be restored to the bosom of his family?”
“Presently, we have reason to hope. And is the Earl of Swithin to ride today as well?”
“We should not consider it without him,” the younger girl cried, with a look for her sister. “I cannot think it would be proper.”
“Your delicacy does you credit, I am sure,” Miss Wren interjected. “I could wish that all young ladies might conduct themselves so becomingly.”
The Earl’s sisters bestowed upon Wren their condescending smiles, and sank with a languid air into some chairs at the Duchess’s side.
“You are not, I think, acquainted with Miss Austen.” Her Grace turned her affectionate looks my way. “Lady Louisa and Lady Augusta Fortescue—Miss Jane Austen, Lady Desdemona’s particular friend.”
“Indeed?” the elder said, with an appearance of interest. “And are you visiting, then, in Laura Place, Miss Austen?”
“I am so fortunate as to call Bath my home, Lady Louisa.”
“Ah. And what part of Bath?”
“My family resides in Green Park Buildings.”
“Green Park—” She turned and glanced significantly at her sister. “And are you, perchance, a clergyman’s daughter?”
My traitorous cheeks grew hot. So the Chronicle was read in the Earl’s household, at least. But the Dowager Duchess’s smooth intercession saved me the trouble of replying.
“How long do you intend to remain in Bath, Lady Louisa?” Her Grace enquired.
The Earl’s sister shrugged, with all the indolent charm of a lady educated privately and at great expense. “As long as it pleases Charles. We come and go entirely at his command, Your Grace, for he must have the society of ladies to lend his establishments elegance.”
“But of course,” the Duchess replied. “You were lately, I believe, in London?”
“We came down on Thursday, at our brother’s request. Charles sent for us from Bristol, you know, having business there earlier in the week—and when the intelligence of Lord Kinsfell’s misfortunes reached his ears, nothing would suit but that he should journey to Bath immediately. And so we were required to join him, at great trouble to ourselves, and very little notice.”
My senses were all alerted at this intelligence. The Earl of Swithin, so near to Bath as Bristol, at the time of Mr. Portal’s murder?
“The Earl’s attention and concern for the Wilborough family does him credit,” Miss Wren observed, beaming. “So thoughtful of every particular!”
“I am sure that consideration had little to do with it,” Lady Augusta supplied, “for Charles is a very heedless fellow, and never acts without consulting his own wishes first. Poor Mona will suffer from it, by and by—but I own I shall be glad to give up my place to Charles’s wife! It is quite tedious to be always dancing attendance upon a brother. Only think! I might have gone to any number of balls in such a season, had I been allowed to remain in London; but here I am, forced to rusticate in Bath, and all because some actor must get himself killed! It is quite provoking.”
“It is too bad of you, Augusta!” her elder sister cried, “for you were complaining only last week that London was dreadfully thin, and pining for a change.”
The clatter of a horse’s hoofs drew all our attention to the ring, and the interesting revelations of the Fortescue ladies were at an end.
“Good morning, Miss Austen!” Lady Desdemona cried, drawing up before the rail. “Louisa—Augusta—how droll to find you here! May I have the honour of presenting Colonel Easton?”
He was a ruddy-faced young man of perhaps thirty, with bright red hair and an expression of cheerful good temper in his brown eyes that was immediately pleasing. An air of capability and strength surrounded his person; but I shuddered to consider him at twenty paces from the Earl of Swithin’s duelling pistol. The ruthlessness of the one must make short work of the other.
“Lady Louisa Fortescue, Lady Augusta Fortescue, Miss Jane Austen—Colonel George Easton.”
That he knew to whom the Fortescues were related, was entirely evident from the subtle transformation of the Colonel’s expression; but he was nothing if not a gentleman, and merely inclined his head in salutation. His right arm was as yet in a sling, while his left managed the reins of his mount. “Forgive me, ladies, for my rudeness in retaining my headgear, but a trifling injury—”
“Say nothing of it, Colonel, I beg,” I replied for my part, and curtseyed.
Lady Louisa inclined her golden head. “We have known Colonel Easton this age,” she said, “though he pretended not to notice us in Bath Street the other day. Thursday morning, was it not, Augusta? We were only just arrived.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am—had I perceived the honour of your presence in Bath Street, I should surely have attended you; but it was impossible. I arrived in Bath only yesterday.”
“And had not even stopped to secure a room, before paying your respects in Laura Place,” observed the Dowager. “Such gallantry!”
“Why, I declare, Colonel Easton,” Augusta Fortescue cried. She had been surveying his visage most intently. “You have quite shaved off your whiskers—and they were so very handsome, too! I might never have known you! But you will remark, Louisa, that it cannot have been Colonel Easton Thursday in Bath Street. For that gentleman possessed whiskers—and the Colonel’s are quite gone.”
The Colonel coloured, and made some slight remark of deprecation—the fashion being now for clean-shaven faces—himself a slave to ladies’ good opinion.
“You are on leave for the Christmas holiday, Colonel?” I enquired.
“A few days only, to my despair.” This, with a glance for Lady Desdemona. “But every minute is as gold stored up against the poverty of winter.”
She blushed, and covered her emotion in leaning down to caress her horse’s mane. “Colonel Easton has expressed a desire to visit Simon, Grandmère—and I believe I shall attend him to the gaol.”
“My lady!” Miss Wren cried out in horror, and looked all her agony at the Fortescue sisters. “It is not to be thought of!”
“Is there any small item for Kinny’s comfort you should wish me to convey, Your Grace?” Lady Desdemona continued hurriedly.
The Dowager did not answer her for the space of a heartbeat. Then she smiled. “Send Simon my dearest love, of course—and my belief in his courage. He shall not remain there long.”
“No,” Lady Desdemona said thoughtfully, “for Uncle says he is to be conveyed to Ilchester on Monday.”
“You cannot condone such a foolish notion, Your Grace,” Miss Wren protested. “I am sure you cannot! For the daughter of the Duke of Wilborough, to be seen in such a place!”
“If the heir to the Duke of Wilborough is already in residence, I cannot believe it makes one whit of difference
,” Lady Desdemona retorted, flaring. “Besides, I shall have Miss Austen as chaperone. Shan’t I, Miss Austen?”
“But of course,” I stammered.
“And with Easton to attend us, there cannot be the slightest objection. We shall travel in his phaeton, and go entirely unremarked. I am quite determined, Wren.” She wheeled her horse with grace and dexterity. “I tarry only to stable my mount, Miss Austen!”
With a smile and a bow, the Colonel cantered off at her heels.
“Only fancy, Louisa,” Augusta Fortescue remarked. “Dash Easton dancing attendance on Mona again. And without his whiskers, too! What will Charles say?”
It was unfortunate, I thought, that the Earl arrived too late for such a display; but his sisters had lost not a syllable of the conversation.
1 A man or boy holding aloft a lamp—or “link”—ran before the sedan chair at night, to warn pedestrians and to illuminate the route.—Editor’s note.
2 From their familiarity with the streets and their presence at all hours, chairmen served as almost a police force in Bath, although an unregulated one; they were known to occasionally hold their fares captive, for the extortion of money.—Editor’s note.
Chapter 12
Accusation of a Dead Man
15 December 1804, cont.
~
THE BATH GAOL—A SMALL AFFAIR HARDLY INTENDED FOR the imprisonment of a criminal legion, since such were summarily dispatched to Ilchester to await the quarterly Assizes—sits within the old town walls, hard by the Pump Room and the Abbey. I am no stranger to the stricter forms of incarceration, having braved so stern an institution as Newgate itself, on behalf of my beloved Isobel; but the Bath gaol recalls more nearly the prison of Lyme, in being a white-washed hovel of a building, more fitted to the shelter of beasts than men. Colonel Easton’s chaise drew up before the gates, and we descended to a spare courtyard from which the bustle of Bath’s streets had thankfully been banished. It but remained to make ourselves known, and enquire of the constable where Simon, Lord Kinsfell, might be found.
Jane and the Wandering Eye: Being the Third Jane Austen Mystery Page 19