Jane and the Barque of Frailty

by Stephanie Barron

  Lord Moira raised his glass in approval, but a heated argument immediately broke out, as to the merits of Tory governance, which should stand firm against France to the dying breath, versus the Whig desire to conciliate the Monster and withdraw Lord Wellington from the Peninsula before the rout of French troops should entirely be achieved. There was mention of our ally, Russia, and the clauses of treaties published and secret; and while I lingered near Fanny Tilson, who talked of her children, my ear trained to the more interesting conversation of the gentlemen—the trend of remark circled back to the strange death of Princess Tscholikova.

  “The poor lady could not have done away with herself in a better fashion, nor at a better hour,” Lord Moira observed. “I am no ghoul, and must feel for the unfortunate creature in her misery—but if the woman must slit her throat, thank God she chose to do so at the present moment, and at Castlereagh’s door! It has been a close-run thing; we might almost have had Canning and Castlereagh returned to the Cabinet, and a host of Tories beside, and no end to the war in sight. The Regent, for all his Whig friends, has been considering of an approach to Canning and Castlereagh—His Highness regards them as likely to inspire publick confidence, and he is desperate to marshal the same in support of his Regency. Earls Grey and Grenville cannot offer him that.”

  “I cannot believe George Canning would ever consent to serve again with his greatest enemy,” my brother Henry observed quietly. “Recollect, my lord, the duel.”

  “George Canning would serve with Satan himself, if the Prince of Darkness offered him power,” Mr. Hampson returned scathingly.

  “But now that the breath of scandal has touched Castlereagh,” Lord Moira said, “all hope of a Tory Cabinet is fled. There are even those who speak of a Publick Enquiry in the House of Lords! I say it in confidence—but some would suggest—with the utmost delicacy, I assure you—that the Princess may not have died by her own hand. It is even suggested that the one who struck her down was Lord Castlereagh himself … ”

  “Good God!” Captain Simpson exclaimed. “That we should come to this! The governance of the land and the conduct of war determined by paramours!”

  “It has always been thus,” Lord Moira told him kindly, “but I will admit the present case to be positively Providential.”

  Providential, I thought, to the enemies of Lord Castlereagh—and scented in the phrase the iron smell of blood.

  Chapter 5

  The Warmest Man in England

  Wednesday, 24 April 1811

  ∼

  … The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to Norland half its charms, were engaged in again with far greater enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their father.

  I confess that I sighed as I read through those first few lines of Chapter Nine—that peculiarly interesting chapter in which my Willoughby must first emerge, like a questing knight of old from his dripping wood, and Marianne his Holy Grail. I sighed …. because the words seemed to me to be stilted past all bearing as I sat in Henry’s book room this morning, lapped in the quiet of a house not yet recovered from the previous evening’s exertions; sighed at the perversity of the printed word, which must appear as distinctly less lovely in its shape and significance than that same word set in flowing script. There is a clumsiness to typeface, I find, that strips from my prose its elusive mystery; I am revealed as a cobbler of letters as rigid and austere as the lead from which they are stamped.

  —Or so I felt this morning. I may have experienced some lingering fatigue from Eliza’s party, so great was my concern last evening to delight all those with whom I met, and to ensure their comfort lacked nothing. Or perhaps my attention was drawn from the story on the page—so innocent and familiar—to the story taking shape in my thoughts: a collection of vague suspicions given an alarming trend by Lord Moira’s conversation. Whatever the cause, I could spare but half my mind to Willoughby, as he strode towards the hapless Marianne and her twisted ankle; the better part of my wit was sorting furiously through rumour, fact, and innuendo.

  … His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne, received particular spirit from his exterior attractions.——

  Which is to say: Had Willoughby been short, fat, and ill-favoured, Marianne would rather have limped home.

  I twitched the typeset proofs together with impatient fingers.

  “Mademoiselle,” Manon said from the doorway. “Do I intrude on your peace?”

  “Not at all. I was just considering of my toast.”

  “Monsieur is already in the breakfast parlour. Madame Henri takes her tea in bed today.”

  “Thank you, Manon.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, then shut the book room door very quietly behind her so that we should not be disturbed. “While the house was yet asleep, I walked in Cadogan Square for nearly half an hour. The maid Druschka was there.”

  “Indeed?”

  “She would not at first discuss the Princess or her death. But after a little—a period of quiet sympathy— she chose to confide.”

  I waited for what would come.

  “Druschka would have it that the Princess Tscholikova would never se suicider,” Manon said firmly. “She insists that her mistress was killed by another.”

  “Deliberate murder?”

  “The most deliberate, but yes. Druschka vows she will not rest until justice is done.”

  I thrust aside the small table on which I had been writing and rose from my chair. “This might be the loyalty of a devoted servant, Manon—one who cannot bear the Princess to be dragged through the mud.”

  “A servant so devoted, mademoiselle, that she was admitted to her mistress’s confidence.”

  “We cannot know that! The woman might claim anything in her grief!”

  “One truth Druschka holds as absolute, look you: that Princess Tscholikova knew milord Castlereagh not at all.”

  I stared. “But the Princess’s intimate correspondence with that gentleman was published in the Post!”

  Manon shrugged. “Simply because a thing is printed, it must be true? In France we know better than to believe this. The principals were never named, in any case. A matter of initials only.”

  I revolved the maid’s words in my mind. All lies. Not just the manner of her lady’s death, but the scandal that led up to it: a fabrication entire. Impossible to say whether the scandal was invented to pave the way for murder—or whether murder was the inadvertent result of a botched attempt at scandal. Certainly the notion of the lady’s suicide— and the plausibility of its occurring on Castlereagh’s doorstep—were accepted solely because of those damning letters. But if Evgenia Tscholikova had never known the minister … ?

  Why was it necessary for a Russian princess to die in so sordid a way? And whose hand had held the knife that cut her throat?

  “What you say interests me greatly,” I told Manon.

  “Like a vignette from a novel, is it not?” she said.

  I WAS COLLECTED FROM THE BREAKFAST PARLOUR BY a sister so divinely habited as to appear every inch the Countess, from her spencer of willow green embroidered with cream knots, to her upturned poke bonnet. Gloves were on her hands, half-boots on her feet, and a reticule dangled from one arm. Eliza held a square package wrapped in brown paper; she did not quite meet Henry’s gaze as she said, “I cannot waste another moment, my love, before returning this wretched soup tureen to Mr. Wedgwood’s establishment; I declare I was miserable last evening, for being unable to place it in a position of honour on the supper table. It must and shall be repaired.”

  “Eh?” Henry replied, glancing up from his morning newspaper. “Ah, yes—the tureen. Very proper you should attend to it yourself, Eliza; I daresay Madame Bigeon has much to do this mornin
g, in clearing the household of last evening’s effects. But is your cold improved enough to permit of going out? Are you wise to expose yourself to the ill-effects of this spring wind? I had expected you to keep to your room this morning, and had quite resolved to dine at my club, rather than incommode the weary household.”

  “Dine at your club by all means,” Eliza said hurriedly. “Jane and I shall step round to Ludgate Hill, and feel no compunction as to the hour of our return. We may content ourselves with the remains of last evening’s supper, and perhaps some cold chicken.”

  “But does Mr. Wedgwood’s shop lie in Ludgate Hill?” Henry enquired, rather puzzled. “I had thought it to be in St. James’s.”

  “To be sure,” Eliza amended, her gaze fixed on the Turkey carpet. “I am forever confusing the two. Come along, Jane.”

  My brother opened his mouth in bewilderment, but I silenced him with a look. Eliza’s eyes were feverish and her nose quite red, but I knew her determination of old. Had the heavy box not already apprised me of the nature of our errand, her slip of the tongue confirmed it: We were bound for the elegant premises of Rundell & Bridge, jewellers to His Majesty the Regent and other sordid characters—to haggle over an opera singer’s baubles.

  LUDGATE HILL WAS USED TO BE THE SITE OF ONE of the City’s ancient gates, before these were demolished to ease the passage between the tradesmen’s square mile of London and the gentry’s fashionable quarter. Here the ways are narrower than in the neighbourhood of Hyde Park, and the hired hack that served as our conveyance was jostled by carters and draught horses. The City, as it is known, is not a part of Town the Comtesse de Feuillide is accustomed to frequent; but the pollution necessarily derived from such quarters is as nothing to the privilege of entering Mr. Rundell’s select establishment.

  “He is a spare little man,” Eliza said as we jostled over the cobbles in our coach, “much ridiculed as a miser, who rose from the merest silversmith’s apprentice to the foremost goldsmith of our day. Do not expect a gentleman’s manners, Jane—but pray treat him with absolute courtesy. He has the Regent’s ear. I have it on excellent authority that Rundell provides His Majesty with the diamond settings for the Royal portraits—which you must know Prinny bestows upon each of his mistresses, at the outset of an affaire.”

  “Does His Majesty consider his image a form of payment?” I enquired drily.

  Eliza’s nose wrinkled. “His flirts are always gently-born, Jane, and possessed of husbands capable of franking their households. I should not call it payment. The Regent himself refers to Rundell’s confections as trinkets—and is forever showering his female acquaintance with jewels, even those among them who are entirely respectable. It is his way, you see. He is rather like an overgrown child, delighting in the distribution of presents.”

  Overgrown is a kindness in Eliza; for the Regent is immensely fat, so gross indeed that he may no longer mount his horses. But something in her tone—half-awed, half-indulgent—brought to mind James Tilson’s confidences of last evening, and his anxiety at Henry’s reckless loans.

  “Are you intimate with the Regent, Eliza? I cannot like the connexion. His way of life—indeed, that of the circle he supports—is utterly dissolute.”

  My sister gave a shrill little laugh. “Now you are the country cousin, Jane! To be sure the Prince is wont to gamble, as are all the members of the Carlton House Set, and their morals are not too nice; but where the hand is lavish and the taste of the very best, there will always be a need for funds. Funds are precisely what a banker provides, my dear. Old Thomas Coutts made a fortune in backing the highest names in the land—and I have advised Henry to take Coutts for his model.”

  “But Henry cannot command a particle of Coutts’s resources,” I exclaimed. “To urge him to lend to Coutts’s extent is to goad Henry to ruin!”

  “One must start somewhere,” Eliza observed reasonably. “Coutts was not born to an easy competence, of that you may be sure—and no more was Henry. Indeed, none of you Austens have a farthing between you—else you would not be making such a push for independence, Jane, in the publication of your novel! Are we all of us to settle for uneasy penury, when with a bit of speculation we might be comfortable?”

  “My brother Edward does not live in penury,” I objected, “nor does he speculate.”

  “No. Edward lives on a fortune he could never have looked to claim,” she retorted sharply. “I do not speak of your Kentish Knights, and their bequests; we cannot all be so fortunate. 1 Moreover, Edward has been very willing to place several thousands of his own funds in Henry’s bank—and I hope I am not an ungrateful creature. But we must make a push, Jane, to secure a nobler patronage—or Austen, Maunde & Tilson will never be more than a paymaster to an assortment of militia. That was Henry’s introduction to the banking business, and very fine it was—but it must not be his end also.”

  I could not agree with Eliza—my heart misgave me when I thought of James Tilson’s warning, and his numerous cares; but knowing less than nothing of my brother’s affairs, or finance in general, I hesitated to voice too decided an opinion. I resolved to sound Henry on the subject when the next opportunity for privacy offered.

  “I think, Jane, that you had better take charge of this parcel,” Eliza suggested. “It would look well for us if you entered upon the scene as the owner of the jewels from the outset. I suppose your literary talent extends to the concoction of fibs?”

  What else, in short, is literature?

  “I shall present these pieces as the spoils of Stoneleigh,” I told her. “You will recollect that my cousin, Mr. Thomas Leigh, inherited Stoneleigh Abbey from Lady Mary Leigh when she died some years ago; and being a widower, and quite childless, it should not be wonderful if he were to give Lady Mary’s jewels to his nearest relations. Having no occasion to wear such showy finery, the Austen ladies— being of a practical turn—determined to find what price the jewels might fetch; and you, our worldly friend, were good enough to consider of Rundell & Bridge.”

  Eliza weighed this confection of lies with a pretty air of judiciousness. “Your Leighs are all descended, are they not, from a sister of the first Duke of Chandos? I think it should serve. But recollect, Jane, that in the telling of falsehoods, simplicity is all.”

  “I cannot claim your degree of experience,” I returned in Cassandra’s most prudish manner; and we achieved Ludgate Hill in silence.

  IT WAS TOO EARLY AS YET FOR MOST LADIES TO BE abroad, and we were fortunate to find the shop barren of custom when we descended from the hack. One cannot be too careful, when bartering valuables, to go unobserved by one’s acquaintance—lest rumours spread as swift as contagion. The jeweller’s door was opened by a liveried footman, and Eliza swept into the room with all the éclat of a grande dame, glancing imperiously about as tho’ an Unknown had offended her. I followed with the large box in my hands, more in the role of paid companion than sister of the bosom; my mouth was dry and my heart pounding.

  The room was narrow and long, lit by oil lamps suspended from the ceiling; display tables lined with velvet were set against the walls. A few gilt chairs were arranged near these, to accommodate selection; and a neat clerk in a dark blue coat and buff breeches stood alertly at the far end of the shop. When we failed to glance to either side, ignoring the settings of miniatures, the eye portraits cunningly lapped in draperies, the parures of emeralds and diamonds, or the amethyst bracelets that are everywhere the mode—this person came forward immediately and bowed.

  “May I be of service, ma’am?”

  “Pray present my card to Mr. Rundell,” Eliza replied briskly. “We wish to speak with him privately.”

  She had barely concluded the words when a door at the rear of the shop opened, and a white head was thrust out. A pair of bold blue eyes, aloof and calculating, swept over us, missing nothing of the significance of the parcel I held.

  “Comtesse,” the apparition said, “good day to ye. Will ye be so good as to step back?”

  Eliza incl
ined her head, motioned for me to go before, and the quiet elegance of the premises was exchanged for a spare room graced only by a desk and a strong oil lamp, a ledger and a quill to one side.

  “I have brought my sister Miss Austen to you, Mr. Rundell,” Eliza said without ceremony as the jeweller held out a chair. “She requires an opinion as to the value of certain heirlooms come down through the Austen family, and being upon a visit to my husband in London, could do no better than to consult the foremost jeweller of the day—or so I urged her. ‘Mr.

  Rundell will never toy with you, my dear, for he knows his reputation to be founded on honesty and discretion.’ ”

  “Did you say so, indeed?” He glanced from my countenance to Eliza’s, his own impassive. “Obliged to ye, Countess. Let us see what you’ve brought then, madam.”

  I opened the parcel, lifted out the velvet roll the Comtesse d’Entraigues had left us, and unfurled it before Mr. Rundell’s eyes. The myriad stones flared and danced under the light of the oil lamp, wickedly alive.

  There was the briefest silence.

  Mr. Rundell raised a quizzing-glass and bent low over the jewels, staring deep into their depths, passing with decision from one to another, lifting now this brooch and that ring, intent as a hound on the scent. An eternity might have passed thus, the room filled with the laboured sound of the old man’s breathing and the sick feeling of deceit growing in my stomach; but that Eliza said, with the barest suggestion of doubt, “I believe these came to you through your mother’s family, Jane? Some relation of … the first Duke of Chandos, was it not?”

  The spell was broken; Mr. Rundell sighed, dropped his glass, and looked me accusingly in the face. “These were never made in England.”

  “No.” I glanced swiftly at Eliza. “My knowledge of their origin is imperfect, but I believe many to have been acquired from certain jewellers in France … before the Revolution.”

  “Oh, aye,” Mr. Rundell agreed drily; “you’ll not be finding the like o’ these among the Corsican set what rule France now. All for swans and bees, they are, and twaddle out of Egypt. No, these are the true gems of my old master’s day, long before either of you ladies was thought of.”