Jane and the Wandering Eye: Being the Third Jane Austen Mystery

by Stephanie Barron

  We learned the news of my brother James, by express—in all the clatter of a horse’s hoofs too hastily reined-in before the door of Green Park Buildings, and the apprehension of ill-tidings devoutly wished upon others. But it could not be put off; the letter was for ourselves; and the express desired to wait for an answer. Some injury to James we feared, or to Mary and the children, our remembrance of sudden death in that household being as yet too present.1

  But it was of Ashe he wrote to us—and of my own dear Anne.

  James had met with her on the Saturday, in the neighbouring village of Overton, intent upon her shopping with a servant in tow. Madam remarked in passing that her horse was so stupid and lazy, she could barely make him stir; and so they had parted, with kind wishes on both sides. With what horror, then, did brother James learn later that the horse in question had bolted at the top of Overton Hill! The servant missing his grip upon the bridle, Anne Lefroy careened away in utter chaos; and perhaps from fear, or from an unsteadiness in riding side-saddle, she fell to the ground with bruising force. A concussion was sustained; she remained insensible throughout Saturday evening, and slipped away quietly at three o’clock Sunday morning.2

  Why did not the presentiment of her passing strike me hard in that dreadful hour? Why were the clocks not suffered to stop, and the rain to cease to fall, and the world entire fall hideously rapt, in acknowledgement of its loss’ Anne, Anne!—Such goodness and worth as yours, ‘. shall not meet with again.

  I have laboured and laboured to comprehend—to reconcile with her death; but still I cannot. Far beyond the usual repugnance and denial with which the human heart must meet such events, there is the outrage of my reason. For Anne Lefroy was an accomplished horsewoman—from the tenderest years she had mastered her mounts. It was a point of pride that she sat so neatly, and jumped so well, and feared neither hedgerow nor fence paling. She is the very last woman I should expect to be completely run away with; and my heart will whisper that all is not as it seems. For a horse may be frighted any number of ways, by malice or intent.

  Is it too absurd? It must, it cannot be other, than the fevered conjectures of my brain, quite overpowered by the sudden loss. And so I will put down my pen, and make an end to activity, in the hope that silence may be as balm, and isolation relieve despair.

  Tuesday,

  18 December 1804

  A SLEEPLESS NIGHT, AND A TEDIOUS MORNING HAVE FAILED to bring relief; and tho’ I thrust myself out-of-doors to trudge the Gravel Walk with Cassandra as silent companion, in brooding contemplation of mortality, no comfort could I find in exercise. I engaged in the melancholy review of my entire history with Madam Lefroy—the pleasant hours of companionship, in reading silently together in the library at Ashe; her delight in forming a sort of schoolroom, for the improvement of the poorer children in the parish, that they might with time learn their sums and letters; her ecstasy in conversation, and news of the world.

  One episode only in our mutual acquaintance has still the power to cause me pain—and that is the part that Madam played in my ruined hopes of her nephew. Though at twenty Tom Lefroy was full young to fall in love, having neither profession nor fortune to recommend him, at nearly twenty-nine he now possesses both, and a wife into the bargain. Had Madam not interfered where interference was not wanted, I might have been happy these nine years at least; and I have never been disposed to consider her actions as anything but officious. Prudence, in matters of love, is all very well where character is lacking; but when two young people of sense and ability are truly attached, I cannot think it wise to speak only of fortune in the disposition of their hopes.

  But Tom was sent away, and I was left to the derision of the neighbourhood, for having shewn too clearly my preference for his regard, and for having encouraged it on so little means as the twenty pounds per annum I may consider my own.

  I have wondered, often, what the present Mrs. Tom Lefroy is like—how she looks, and behaves, and cares for her husband. But it does not do to dwell upon such things. There cannot have been too much affection on Tom Lefroy’s side, or he should not have forgot me so soon—for he married Miss Mary Paul barely three years after he might have married me. That is ever the difference of sex, however—men have their professions and pursuits, to divert their minds from sorrows of the heart; but we sit at home, quiet and confined, and our feelings prey upon us.3

  My appetite is quite gone, and I find the enforced society of the household insupportable. I do not pretend to suffer these emotions alone—Anne Lefroy was as dear as family to all the Austens—but I may claim a particular intimacy with the lady, a commonality of spirit, that makes her loss decidedly cruel. I suspect my father to suffer from a similar sensibility. His turn of humour, and his love of wit, found always a ready ear in Madam Lefroy; and so he is grown too silent, and looks the burden of his age. Does his indifferent health permit, my father has very nearly determined to journey into Hampshire for the funeral, which James is to perform this Friday; but such activity being beyond the female members of the household, little of a cheerful nature may be derived from the event.4

  We returned from our walk, and Cassandra retired to her room for a period of silent reflection. I commenced to pace before the sitting-room fire like a caged beast, but at length my mother’s exclamations, and my father’s look of distress, urged me to adopt a chair, and open once more my journal for the recording of these thoughts.

  THE CLOCK HAD STRUCK TWO, AND CASSANDRA HAD emerged from her solitary melancholy, when my mother bethought herself of her brother, Mr. Leigh-Perrot, and his formidable wife. The Leigh-Perrots have been acquainted with Madam Lefroy these twenty years at least, and should certainly wish the earliest intelligence of her untimely end; my mother was horrified at the notion of their learning it from anyone but herself; and between reproaches at having formed no thought of them, in the earliest hours of her misery, and the acutest anxiety to be with them directly, she would not be satisfied until we were bundled out-of-doors, and intent upon the Perrots’ lodgings in Paragon Buildings.

  The brilliance of the sun stunned my eyes, while my ears were battered by the shouts of chairmen and the clatter of horses’ hoofs, as yet greater parties of gay young men and ladies rolled into town for the celebration of Christmastide. I was as open as a fresh wound to this assault upon my senses—the wound being in my heart, and of Anne Lefroy’s making. I could not free my thoughts of her; like an angel or a ghost, she shimmered just beyond the range of sight.

  “How mad they all are for enjoyment, I declare,” my mother cried, as two open carriages dashed by, each driven by a handsome young gentleman, and sporting ladies of perhaps sixteen, their bright faces huddled in fur tippets. “They shall be overturned in an instant, I daresay, and there shall be an end to romance.”

  I drew my mother’s gloved hand within my arm. “Do not distress yourself, madam. Romance at that age is akin to health—it thrives on every stroke of abuse. An overturning can do no less than advance the engagement of the respective parties, where it should quite drive off affection in ladies of more mature sentiment.”

  “I wonder you can be so cheerful, Jane,” Cassandra remarked. “It quite pains me to laugh.”

  My sister had yet to forgive or approve me, it seemed; and the knowledge of my disgrace pressed hard upon my spirits. Cassandra has ever been my dearest confidante, my most beloved companion, a second self; and her disapprobation was not to be dismissed, however much I might attempt it.

  And so we walked on in silence.

  My Aunt and Uncle Leigh-Perrot have maintained for some time a creditable establishment at No. 1 Paragon Buildings, in which they reside fully half the year, being childless and given over to the fancies of old-age and ill-health. No benefit can they derive from their imbibing of the waters, if one is to judge from the weight of complaints with which they daily unburden themselves; Bath is as useless to them in this quarter, as the moon; but in Bath they must remain for the duration of the winter, or suffer the
most dreadful of reverses. Even my unfortunate aunt’s being taken up for theft, and imprisoned some seven months before her trial and acquittal, has not dispelled the charms of the Leigh-Perrots’ adopted city; and their society is one of the more tedious burdens of our residence here these three years and more.5 For though possessed of considerable means, a small household, and no very great inclination to dress herself finely or entertain upon a lavish scale—my aunt is convinced she is on the point of penury, and makes a great to-do about every trifling expense. This parsimony in her nature, when taken with her cultivation of ill-health, makes her a difficult companion in the easiest of times.

  “Well, girls!” my aunt cried, upon perceiving us at the door, “and so you have put on black gloves for Madam Lefroy! Aye, I heard it all from John Butcher, who is to marry the daughter of your Cook; and I wonder that you did not trouble to visit us before! It is very bad, to have the news of a person of that kind; they are all for puffing themselves up with importance, in a most unbecoming and insolent fashion! That veil is very fine, Cassandra—but I am sure you gave too much for it. You always do.”

  My aunt was established today on the sitting-room sofa, a lap rug tucked well about her, quite splendid in dressing-gown and cap. Jane Leigh-Perrot is possessed of the most manly features I have ever observed in a woman—a square chin, long nose, and frankly assessing eyes. Her countenance must convey an impression of vigour and health entirely at variance with her languorous airs; and I shall probably be guilty of abusing her on her deathbed, so little confidence do I place in her claims to ill-health.

  “Good morning, Aunt.” Cassandra advanced to offer her cheek. “You look very well.”

  “I do not feel myself to be so, I assure you. Such palpitations of the heart! Such faintings and flutterings in my head and my bowels! Do you fetch my vinaigrette, Cassandra, and then tell me all the news.”

  “Indeed we have none, Aunt—being quite sunk in mourning, and little disposed to society,” I interposed.

  The good lady snorted, and subjected my figure to the very coldest appraisal. “Do not be affecting modesty in my eyes, Miss Jane! I have heard it all from your mother these two days at least! I know that you are quite abandoned to pleasure and dissipation, and go about with a most disreputable set! No amount of black ribbon can deceive me!”

  “That is very well, Aunt, for deception is hardly my inclination.”

  She snorted again, like a well-exercised horse, and rounded upon my mother. The poor lady had perched anxiously on the edge of a chair, in an effort to avoid my gaze. “Is she buried, then, Mrs. Austen?”

  “The service is to be on Friday,” my mother supplied, “and James is to have the performing of it.”

  “That is very singular—for she died in the early hours of Sunday, did she not? I fear the decomposition of the corpse will be highly advanced. There will be a stench. Most distressing to the unfortunate relicts.”

  We were saved the necessity of an answer by the appearance of my uncle, a spare, lithe, twinkling personage with a high forehead and ruddy complexion. He was today all smiles and affability. “Ah, there you are, sister!” he exclaimed, and advanced upon us with that mingled expression of pain and forbearance that generally marks the gout sufferer. “This is happily met, indeed! For I was just upon the point of seeking you in Seymour Street, and you have saved me the job of it! What do you think? I have taken a subscription to the concert tomorrow evening, and there are places for us all—if you will do me the honour of accepting!”

  “It should be quite beyond our power, brother,” my mother replied with an anxious look, “for you see we are in mourning, on account of Madam Lefroy.”

  “Well—and what is the point of mourning, hey, if not to be observed by all the world? We do not go about in black merely to sit at home quietly by the fire, and admire one another! I doubt Cassandra would wish to keep so fine a veil from the sight of the wondering public.”

  At this brilliant sally, he doubled over with laughter, and poked my sister in the ribs. Cassandra looked discomfited, and shifted uneasily in her chair. “Indeed, Uncle, I have no desire to parade my distress before anyone, I assure you.”

  “And Jane has never very much enjoyment in a concert,” my aunt observed with conscious malice.

  “No, indeed—she has the most wretched ear imaginable when it comes to Rauzzini and Mrs. Billington,” my mother agreed. “The music should quite be wasted upon Jane.”

  “So I fear you must give up your tickets, Perrot,” my aunt pronounced with decision. “They are not wanted at all; and do you be certain to retrieve your money from the ticket-sellers—they are all for what they can get, and will be pressing in their claim that you must exchange one concert for another! We shall stay at home tomorrow, and invite the Austens to make an additional table at whist. There is no harm in cards, surely, when one is in mourning?”

  My unfortunate uncle looked crestfallen. “But this is too bad!” he cried. “I was as fond of Madam Lefroy as anyone, to be sure—but I do not think she would wish for us to endure the season with long faces. What is Christmas, without music or amusement? I had thought perhaps we might return here after the concert, Jane, for a game of charades. We cannot observe the holiday, without we have charades!”

  My Uncle Leigh-Perrot is a rare hand at the composition of these gentle conundrums, they having formed the chief part of the Leigh family’s revels in his childhood; and he takes such obvious delight in the confusion of all his relations, that we none of us are at pains to guess his riddles too soon.6 In nine-and-twenty years of observing Christmas, I have survived only a few without charades; I learned the art of their construction at my mother’s knee, and all the Austens may profess a certain ingenuity in their devising. In considering of my uncle’s disappointment, and my own dread of martyrdom to my aunt’s affection for cards, I at last determined to speak.

  “If I might venture an opinion, Uncle—”

  “By all means, Jane.”

  “I must believe that a soul oppressed by misery and grief should far sooner find consolation in the strains of the violincello, or the airs of an Italian love song, than in betting and trumps. I shall be happy to accompany you, sir, should you wish to pursue the concert scheme; and stand ready to brave your most inveterate wit, upon our return.”

  “Capital! Capital! And perhaps we shall persuade your brother Henry and his little wife to make another couple!” He beamed all around, and reached for his fine black hat. “I shall invite them myself—for I am bent upon the Pump Room this very moment, Jane, in pursuit of my glass of water, you know—and am sure to meet them there! There is nothing like Mrs. Henry for the Pump Room of a morning!”

  But his energy was not required; the door was hurriedly opened, and the housemaid announced the Henry Austens, in a breathless accent that suggested they were hard upon her heels. And indeed, it required only an instant for Eliza to enter, beaming, in a ravishing blue silk gown and fur tippet, with Henry hurrying behind.

  “My dear Mrs. Perrot!” she exclaimed, “and Uncle James! How delighted I am to see you all! But surely you are not on the point of leaving, Uncle—for we have had the saddest struggle in the world in adventuring the streets, and it would be too bad of you to run away now that we are come.”

  “It is the Christmas holiday,” my aunt opined sagely. “Bath is ever a hurly-burly at such a time; and in a week it will be worse—what with mummers, and Waits, and singing bands, and children begging coins for the slightest service.7 Good-for-nothings, all of them, intent on profiting by a sacred observance!”

  “It was not the crowd, Aunt, but the chairmen! Only fancy! Our chairs were very nearly overturned! I was reminded of poor Mr. Lawrence, Jane, and thought of you extremely.”

  “Mr. Lawrence?” I said with a frown.

  “Why, yes! Did you not hear of his misfortune? It was all about the Pump Room yesterday—though I had the news myself of Isabella Wolff, while attending service at the Laura Chapel.”

&n
bsp; “What news?”

  “Mr. Lawrence was waylaid Saturday evening, upon his return to the Bear from the Theatre Royal, and not a stone’s throw from our own lodgings. A band of ruffians set upon him, and very nearly exacted his life! The poor man was most shockingly beat about the head, and was several hours insensible, until the ministrations of Dr. Gibbs succeeded in reviving him.”

  “I am astonished!” I cried, my colour rising. I was devoutly happy, at that moment, that my father had elected to remain at home in Green Park Buildings, for his sensibility should have betrayed the truth of my own misadventure. “And did not the chairmen come to his aid?”

  “They were all run off; and I believe the Mayor of Bath is to make a representation to the principals among them, protesting Mr. Lawrence’s shocking treatment, for he is a figure of some note, and his misfortune cannot show the town to advantage.”

  “Assuredly not. Mr. Lawrence is recovered, I hope?”

  “He is; but keeps to his rooms, and sees no one but my dear Isabella. She was much distressed, and attempted the Laura Chapel a-purpose to beseech Divine Providence for intercession.”

  “I wonder she did not find in his misfortune a visitation of Divine Judgement,” Cassandra mused, “upon her reprehensible behaviour in encouraging the gentleman’s attentions. She might more profitably have sought to mend her erring ways, and returned to London and her husband.”

  “Oh, pshaw!” Eliza cried. “You are become a sad stick, indeed, Cassandra, since your unfortunate overturning in Lyme!”

  My brother Henry had been speaking in a low voice all the while to my mother; and at this, he made his way to my side, and folded me to his bosom. “My dearest Jane,” he said, with a speaking glance, “I am made most unhappy by this dreadful news from Ashe.”

  “What is it, Henry?” his wife broke in. “Of what are you speaking?”

  “Did you but observe my sisters, Eliza, even so headlong a wit as yours must endeavour to form a notion.”