Jane and the Barque of Frailty

by Stephanie Barron

  A murmur of interest rippled through the publick room. Mr. Whitpeace’s eyes narrowed.

  “And did your partner satisfy the Princess’s needs?”

  “He was loath to do so. Mr. Tilson is a most circumspect man. He lends money only when he is certain of securing its repayment.”

  “—He regarded the Princess as uncertain, then?”

  “You may say so, if you like,” my brother cautiously replied. “He placed the matter in my hands for determination.”

  “And what did you then, Mr. Austen?”

  “I sent round my card to Hans Place, and was summoned to wait upon the Princess on the morning of Friday, the nineteenth of April.—I did not like to ask a lady to condescend to my place of business in Henrietta Street.”

  “Quite. How did the Princess seem to you?”

  “Having no knowledge of her person or character prior to our meeting,” my brother said, “I may only speak to the lady’s manner that particular hour. She was greatly agitated, naturally—and seemed a prey to the worst kind of anxiety. She confessed to a considerable embarrassment of circumstances. I collect that the lady has—had—a taste for deep play. She disclosed that her debts were most pressing—and that she required a loan, of some seven thousand pounds, to satisfy her creditors.”

  “Seven thousand pounds!” exclaimed Mr. Whitpeace. “And did you make over such a sum?”

  “I did not,” Henry answered. “I could not immediately command so much, and was obliged to disappoint the lady. I offered her half the amount, but she told me flatly that nothing less than the full sum would do. I may say that my refusal appeared to appall her.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Her countenance lost all colour, but she stopped me when I would have summoned her maid. I clearly recall her words as I took my leave: Then all hope is ended. I shall have to steel myself to it.”

  “Have you an idea of what she meant, Mr. Austen?”

  “When I heard of her death … ” Henry paused. “I will say that I have carried a most terrible weight of responsibility. I feel myself to be culpable.”

  “—Believing that your failure to relieve her debts drove her to self-murder?”

  Henry offered no reply but an inclination of the head.

  Eliza’s own dear apothecary and surgeon, Mr. Haden, was then called to say that the Princess had sought his help on several occasions, owing to sleeplessness and general agitation of nerves; that he had given laudanum in the case, and advised rest; and that upon viewing the body once it was returned to Hans Place Tuesday morning, he had found the arteries of the neck raggedly severed—as befit a halfhearted attempt to cut oneself with a broken bit of porcelain. He judged this consistent with self-murder. A determined killer should have employed a more potent weapon, and succeeded at the first blow, he avowed.

  This final testimony all but sealed the panel’s conclusion. The foreman, Samuel Hays, looked the sort of man to consider any woman—particularly a Russian princess—subject to fits of dejection and hystericks; I did not doubt he should persuade his men to a swift judgement of self-murder.

  And so it proved: the panel quitted the publick room for an interval of perhaps twenty minutes, during which time they were happily supplied with ale; and returned forthwith to state what was expected. The foreign woman had killed herself. The question only remained of where and how she should be interred.

  Lord Castlereagh did not stay to receive the well-wishes of the exquisites who had assembled to observe his martyrdom; neither did he offer George Canning the slightest notice. He strode from the room with an expression of injured fury on his countenance, and I had an idea of the targets at Manton’s being riddled with balls at a later hour in the day.

  “There is old d’Entraigues,” Henry observed as we submitted to the crush surging about the door. “What interest can bring him here?”

  “A secret he refuses to tell, no doubt.” I glanced at my brother. “You are very sly, Henry. You have been labouring under strong emotion ever since Tuesday morning, and have sought no one’s comfort. I shall never call your soul transparent again!”

  “I am relieved to be done with the business,” he admitted. “Guilt is an ugly master, Jane.”

  “But who now suffers under its whip, Henry?”

  He frowned at me, the turbulent room suddenly receding. “What do you mean?”

  “The business is hardly concluded—no matter what Mr. Whitpeace says. Where was Castlereagh that night, and why does he refuse to be explicit?”

  “Because he is a gentleman,” Henry said reasonably, “and can have no cause to satisfy the curiosity of the vulgar.”

  “The same compunction may be said to seal the lips of Mr. Charles Malverley—whom I cannot credit with answering correspondence at the dead of night, in evening dress! There is a want of openness there that must perplex the interested observer.”

  “Only when the observer believes the very worst of all mankind,” my brother retorted. “Malverley seemed a frank and pleasant enough young fellow to me.”

  “Who owned the carriage pulled up in the mews of No. 43, Berkeley Square—and did the pair within, or their coachman, observe any violence in the street beyond?”

  “You shall never learn the answer to that, my dear. From the description of the watchman, that pair were in no case to observe anything—and should never admit to their presence in such a circumstance, at any hour!”

  “Where was Princess Tscholikova between the hours of midnight—when she left her card with Castlereagh’s porter—and five o’clock in the morning, when her body was discovered at his door?”

  “Wandering the streets of London alone, steeling herself to it.” Henry’s tone bordered on contempt.

  “Did she then dismiss her equipage at quitting Castlereagh’s house, and proceed on foot? She certainly did not return to Hans Place—or Druschka would have informed the panel.”

  “That is singular,” Henry agreed, his brows knit, “for she was discovered in evening dress. It seems a most unusual costume for a lady to employ in walking.”

  “And most singular of all: Why did the Princess carry the lid of a porcelain box about for some five hours prior to her death?”

  “So that she might cut her throat with the fragments, Jane!” my brother retorted impatiently.

  “Good God! She might as well have employed a knife! Are you so blind, Henry?”

  “I simply chuse to be satisfied with what all the world accepts,” he said. “You cannot seriously mean to question Bow Street—magistrate, coroner, and all.”

  The faces of Bill Skroggs and Clem Black leered at me in memory. It was possible that a verdict of self-murder should satisfy Lord Castlereagh—and that he would call off his hired dogs; but a something in his lordship’s aspect taught me otherwise. He would regard himself as slandered, and Castlereagh was not the sort of man to rest under such an indignity.

  But I said nothing of all this to Henry. I, too, may play the dark horse when I chuse.

  Chapter 14

  A Drawing-Room Cabal

  Friday, 26 April 1811, cont.

  ∼

  THO’ ALL THE WORLD HAD BEEN PRESENT AT THE Princess’s inquest, Lord Moira was not—and the gentleman’s failure to appear was felt to be a vexation.

  “I cannot be certain the Earl has breakfasted,” Henry said diffidently as we quitted the Bear, “and should hesitate to call in Brook Street at such an hour.”

  “But it is nearly noon!”

  Henry glanced at me pityingly. “You do not know the habits of the Carlton House Set. Besides, Jane—I am the man’s banker, not his intimate. I am in the habit of meeting him here in Henrietta Street—not in his drawing-room, of a spring morning.”

  “It is essential I should speak with him, Henry.”

  “Indeed?” There was mockery in his tone; he thought me a vulgar dabbler in Princess Tscholikova’s misery.

  “And not only under the impulse of curiosity,” I persisted. “Recollect that
Lord Harold’s bequest charged me with drawing up his memoirs! Lord Moira was his lordship’s friend—admitted to his confidence—cognizant of the intrigues of Whiggish life. It must be expected that I should wish to canvass the past with one who apprehended so much of Lord Harold’s world.”

  “I suppose we might send the Earl a line.” Henry’s very stride suggested doubt. “But I cannot entirely depend upon him answering such a note—or indeed, failing to mislay it! It is Moira’s custom to forget much of what he ought to remember, I dare swear.”

  “—Such as his obligations, in the matter of debt?”

  “He should never fail to pay a debt of honour— one contracted in deep play. Such sums are the first to be satisfied among men of the Earl’s cut. It is their tailors and tradesmen who are obliged to wait.”

  “And their bankers? I will not require you to disclose the exact figure, Henry—but how deeply is his lordship beholden to Austen, Maunde and Tilson?”

  My brother attempted an air of amusement. “A very trifling amount, I assure you. But this is unbecoming, Jane, to nose so deep into a gentleman’s pocket! Or do you hope to gain the upper hand by such knowledge, and have the Earl entirely in your power?”

  “The Earl may ride deep into Dun Territory for all

  I care—but you may not,” I returned. 1 “James Tilson is anxious, Henry. He has many burdens to consider— and less affection for the Great than you or Eliza.”

  “I should never fail Tilson—tho’ his circumspection does grow tiresome. You must believe me, Jane, when I say that all such anxiety is misplaced! To speak only of Lord Moira—his credit is unimpeachable. His lordship has the ear of the Prince Regent. He was a member of the Ministry of All Talents, and has twice since refused posts in Cabinet. 2 If His Royal Highness holds the Earl in trust, why should not I? What greater surety can a banker demand, than the friendship and esteem of the highest Influence in the Kingdom?”

  If I considered privately of the staggering nature of the Regent’s debts—how he had been pressed to appeal to Parliament for the satisfaction of them, upon the occasion of his marriage—how the publick cost of so expensive an Influence had surpassed some six hundred thousand pounds to date, over and above an annuity of sixty thousand pounds he had been granted as Prince of Wales, and the still larger income for which he hinted continuously, now that he was made Regent—I said nothing of my doubts to Henry. It is not for Jane, who must scrape

  and contrive on a mere fifty pounds per annum, to question a banker’s calculation of the odds. 3

  “I must believe that the best and simplest manner of forming an acquaintance with Lord Moira would be to throw myself in his way,” I mused. “What a pity I did not force the introduction at Eliza’s party! But he was surrounded by gentlemen—appeared generally to be holding court—and I did not like to put myself forward. What are his lordship’s habits, pray?”

  Henry grimaced. “He prefers cards above everything—pound points at whist, naturally—tho’ his luck has been devilish out of late. And he may always be found tooling his curricle in the Park—likes to be seen to exercise his blood chestnuts, and thinks himself an excellent whip. He is nothing, mind, to your late lamented Lord Harold. Now there was a horseman!”

  We had come to a halt before the door of Henry’s banking establishment, in Henrietta Street; here our ways must part. My brother, however, was in no hurry to be rid of me. “Such a string of hunters as were sold at Tatt’s, Jane, when his lordship stuck his spoon in the wall! His matched greys went to his nephew the marquis, I believe.”

  This sudden glimpse of Town Life as the Rogue had led it—drives in the Park, no doubt with a string of females to equal his taste in horses, hunting parties in Leicestershire, mornings in a Belcher handkerchief among the members of the Four-in-Hand Club—was so vivid and painful as to bring a lump to my throat. I could not speak for a moment, then managed with tolerable composure: “At what hour would a fashionable gentleman of a certain age be likely to tool his chestnuts through the Park?”

  “Let us say—four o’clock.”

  “It will do very well. Are you at leisure to stroll with me at that hour, Henry? Or shall affairs of business claim you?”

  “I am always at leisure,” he retorted as he hailed me a passing hackney, “to watch you embroil yourself in trouble, Jane.”

  AS MY HIRED CONVEYANCE PULLED UP BEFORE NO. 64 Sloane Street a quarter-hour later, I was gratified to observe a gentleman in the act of descending the few steps to the flagway: Sylvester Chizzlewit, neat and elegant as a pin. He helped me alight—insisted upon paying off the jarvey—and offered his arm as tho’ the distance from street to threshold were too precarious for a lady to suffer unaided. The solicitor could not be more than seven-and-twenty, but his well-bred ease suggested a man long schooled in service to the ton. I felt an hundred years old.

  “How fortunate that I was not a moment previous,” he murmured. “I should then have missed you, Miss Austen, and left only my card.”

  I disposed of my pelisse and hat while Manon took Mr. Chizzlewit’s walking-stick, her eyes decorously cast down.

  “Is Madame Henri at home to visitors?” I asked.

  “I shall enquire.” Manon bobbed a curtsey; she was rarely so schooled in the rôle of servant, preferring to regard herself as a trusted lady’s companion. Perhaps some odour of the Law clung to the solicitor’s person, and urged her to appear the pattern-card of respectability.

  I led Sylvester Chizzlewit into the front drawing-room, where the looking-glass Eliza had borrowed for her party still winked above the mantel. A fire burned in the grate, in defiance of spring. As Messrs. Skroggs and Black had left a palpable chill on the household, the crackling glow was comforting.

  “Your haste in answering my plea is a mark of generosity I must regard with gratitude, Mr. Chizzlewit.”

  “The tone of your missive, which I read but an hour ago in chambers, suggested that haste was vital,” he observed.

  “Won’t you sit down?”

  He waited for me to take one of Eliza’s Louis XV chairs, then disposed himself on a settee. “I collect you wish to discuss a matter of some delicacy.”

  “As the affair concerns not only myself, but my nearest relations—”

  I broke off as the drawing-room door opened to admit Eliza, unwontedly correct in a sober gown of grey Frenched twill. A square of lawn was clutched in her right hand, and her countenance bore all the marks of a sleepless night; but she was, as ever, remarkably handsome. At the sight of Mr. Chizzlewit’s elegant figure, her mouth formed a breathless O.

  “I hope I do not intrude,” she said with melting solicitude.

  “Impossible, my dear Eliza. Pray allow me to introduce my acquaintance, Mr. Sylvester Chizzlewit, to your notice. Mr. Chizzlewit, my sister—Mrs. Henry Austen.”

  “My friends are permitted to call me Comtesse,” she said kindly, extending her hand. “You cannot be Barty Chizzlewit’s son? I was used to know him very well, but we have not met this age.”

  “He is my grandfather, ma’am.”

  “Then we are in excellent hands,” Eliza said. “I am excessively diverted! Barty Chizzlewit’s grandson! He once served me nobly in a mortifying little affair—the attempted sale of a packet of my letters—but it does not do to be talking of my salad days. I was a sad romp, I fear. And has Jane told you about those horrid men from Bow Street that would have us taken up for murder?”

  Sylvester Chizzlewit’s eyebrows soared. “She has not, Comtesse—but I stand ready to receive your confidences! I have been bored beyond reason for the past twelvemonth at least—but I might have known that bosom friends of Lord Harold Trowbridge could never disappoint. I am at your service, ladies. Whom have you killed?”

  “No one at all!” Eliza cried.

  “Mr. Chizzlewit is merely playing off his humours,” I said firmly. “Sit down, Eliza, and give him a round tale, if you please.”

  And so, between us, we imparted the whole: How a Frenchwoman
of dubious morals had deposited a treasure in gems in Eliza’s lap; how we had sought the opinion of Mr. Rundell; how he had betrayed us to Bow Street; and how astonished we were to find that the jewels belonged to none other than the late Princess Evgenia Tscholikova.

  “I did not credit the tale of self-murder from the very moment I learned of the Princess’s death,” I confided to the solicitor, “but I regarded Lord Castlereagh as the object of scandal—that it was he who should be suspected of the lady’s murder. I bent my thoughts to considering of Lord Castlereagh’s enemies—”

  “Did you, indeed?” Sylvester Chizzlewit’s looks were satiric. “Yours is an unusual character, Miss Austen. Few ladies should have bent their thoughts to anything but repugnance. But I am forgetting: You were an intimate of Lord Harold’s. Naturally you are unlike the common run of females.”

  I coloured. “Princess Tscholikova’s killer ought to be hidden among the coils of politics—if, indeed, Lord Castlereagh is the scandal’s intended victim— and it was under this spur that I consulted Lord Harold’s papers in your chambers yesterday. I hoped he might have recorded a rogues’ gallery of the Whig Party—those most likely to oppose Lord Castlereagh. But to discover, upon my return to this house, that it is I who am to be blamed for a stranger’s violent death—!”

  “We are granted a week—but six more days—to clear ourselves of suspicion,” Eliza said mournfully. “And that man Skroggs was so bold as to suggest that my excellent husband might have cut the Princess’s throat—when Henry was wholly unacquainted with her! It was I who met her some once or twice at Emily Cowper’s, and chanced to nod when our paths crossed in Hans Place.”

  “I fear you are mistaken, Eliza.” I clasped her hand. “Henry informed the coroner’s panel that the Princess required of him a loan a few days before her death—and that he refused her. He blames himself for the lady’s despair.”

  “No!” She looked all her consternation. “But he has said nothing to me of this.”

  “We have not been overly frank with Henry ourselves. You must know, Mr. Chizzlewit, that my brother is as yet in ignorance that Bow Street has come upon the house.”