Lord Moira’s countenance was red and his lips were clamped tight on all the oaths he must have suppressed; but at length, the severity of expression relaxed, and he said, “Never tell me you’re the young woman to whom Harry left that extraordinary bequest?”
“If you would mean the collection of his papers— then yes, my lord, I am she.”
“Good God! And to think that Wilborough— Harry’s brother, the Duke—put up such a stink and fuss! He must never have set eyes upon you, my dear, for how he could think a slip of a female—”
Whatever he might have said, the Earl abruptly forestalled, his face growing if possible more crimson.
“—should be called a doxy? A jade? An unscrupulous vixen? I can well imagine the epithets His Grace might summon. And indeed, my lord, I cannot account for Lord Harold’s decision to place his most vital records in my keeping—other than that which he disclosed in a posthumous communication: He wished me to compose his memoirs.”
To my surprise, Lord Moira threw back his head and gave a bark of laughter. “His memoirs! In the hands of a delicately-nurtured lady! How rich! Only Harry could fob off such a bit of cajolery on the Great World! My dear Miss Austen—I long to read your account of all our dreadful pasts, indeed I do!”
I placed my gloved hand on the Earl’s coat sleeve. “It was my sincere hope,” I said earnestly, “that you would assist me in drafting the volume, through the explication of certain political matters I cannot comprehend at all. Tell me, sir—are you at all familiar with the bombardment of Copenhagen? Or the particulars of the Walcheren campaign?”
Lord Moira frowned. “What has any of that to do with Harry? He was in the Peninsula, surely, when the fool’s errand was mounted?”
“—By which, I collect, you would refer to Lord Castlereagh’s expedition.”
“Each of Castlereagh’s missteps is very like another,” the Earl returned brusquely. “A waste of time, men, and opportunity in the pursuit of a chimera! But I repeat: What had this to do with Harry?”
“It afforded him a good deal of anxiety at the time,” I said. “His journal entries for 1808 are replete with references to confusion at the highest levels— the need for arms and policy in Spain, and the diversion of both to the Baltic—disagreement between the intelligence he received of personal agents in Oporto, and that which was read by others in London—in short, an uneasiness and an apprehension of duplicity.”
“Harry had always a nose for the treacherous,” the Earl observed, “which is what makes his death such a confounded shame. But I misdoubt that anyone could divine the truth of Portland’s government, my dear—it was notable for its confusion.”
If his lordship expected me to be content with such pap, he was the more mistaken.
“Lord Harold refers directly to yourself in his private musings. Moira tells me of disputes between Canning and Castlereagh, and fears it will end badly, he wrote. From this I understood you were in some communication with Lord Harold … ?”
The Earl shot the Park gate with admirable precision, all his attention claimed. I did not press him for the moment, anxious lest we should be overturned— but when the curricle had achieved the relative order of the street, he said: “Do you know what it is to have two horses vying for pride of place in a team, Miss Austen? —Each one wishing to be leader?”
“I am no driver—but I think I may form an idea of the outcome.”
“A runaway gallop—broken traces—the lynchpin smashed and everyone in the carriage thrown into a ditch! That is what we very nearly had in government, while Harry was in Oporto.”
“Mr. Canning and Lord Castlereagh being the cattle in question?”
“Naturally. George Canning—who held the Foreign Office—was devilish jealous of the conduct of war in Spain, which ought to have been Castlereagh’s province as Minister of War. The two were forever despatching conflicting orders. They had each their own sources of intelligence, and would not admit the other’s to be worthy of consideration. They favoured different generals, and sent them on private errands all over the globe. At last Canning encouraged Portland and his fellow Cabinet members to support
Castlereagh’s misguided campaign in the Baltic—in the hope it would occupy the War Minister, if not explode in his face. As, indeed, it did. There is a good deal of petty cunning in Cabinet intrigue, Miss Austen—and a good deal of personal vengeance exacted in the name of national cause.”
“I thought, from Lord Harold’s words, that something more lay behind the jealousy and disputes,” I said. “A deliberate intent to confuse events and destroy the nation’s chances—from an ardent desire to see Buonaparte win … ”
Lord Moira’s hands clenched on the reins, and his chestnuts jibbed at the cut of the bit.
“But what you would suggest, Miss Austen … is that someone in government is guilty of treason!”
“Exactly,” I replied.
WE WERE ARRIVED IN SLOANE STREET WELL BEFORE I succeeded in convincing my gallant Earl that such perfidy as deliberate sabotage was possible among honourable men. Indeed, I do not think I convinced him of it. Lord Moira was inclined to regret his confidences—his freedom with both speech and memory—and to regard me as an interfering woman. It was only as he helped me to step down from the curricle—and I declared my ankle already mended as a result of his solicitude—that he said, with a visible air of trouble, “I should not regard our conversation, Miss Austen, as of the slightest consequence—the merest exchange of trifling incident between mutual acquaintances of a very singular gentleman. How I wish we still had Harry among us! But alas—”
“Indeed,” I returned equably. “But allow me to confess, Lord Moira, that his lordship knew me for a close-mouthed creature of no mean understanding; else he should never have entrusted me with such a legacy, on the very point of death. I spoke to you, my lord, in the same spirit of trust I should have adopted in speaking to Lord Harold. The treason I intimated—”
I broke off, as the Earl glanced about us apprehensively, lest the child-strewn streets of Hans Town inform against him—“the treason I intimated, has in all probability continued unabated. Reflect that it has, in large measure, proved successful.”
“What? Tush! The case is entirely altered with the Regent come into power—”
“Lord Castlereagh’s desperate campaign in the north was foiled by lack of confidence,” I continued implacably, “yet it drew off men and arms that might better have combated the French in the Peninsula— thereby achieving a double blow against England’s hopes. But a few months later, two great minds— Castlereagh’s and Canning’s—were forced from governance and allowed to prey upon each other as the objects of frustrated ambition and policy. The Kingdom was the true victim of that duelling ground, when the two ministers met to defend their honour in the autumn of 1809. Neither has been returned to high office since, and policy has floundered. And now, as the Regent would take up his chance, and consider of appointing these two gentlemen once more—Lord Castlereagh’s reputation is besmirched by rumour and murder.”
“Princess Tscholikova.” Moira said it heavily, as tho’ the name were a curse. “But the coroner has declared that she killed herself!”
“Pish! I no more credit the notion than you do. It was here in Sloane Street, I think, that you remarked upon the singularity of her death—and how it must delight Lord Castlereagh’s enemies. You are a Whig, sir—one of the most highly-placed in the land—and can have no love for Lord Castlereagh’s politics. But you have served in government, and comprehend the intrigues of those who place power above all else—even country. Surely you might compose a list of Lord Castlereagh’s enemies?”
The Earl hesitated, his gaze focused on something beyond my visage; I believe he saw in memory a pantomime of the past, replete with images whose significance he only now apprehended. Then he bowed low, and said hurriedly, “You have given me to think, my dear. May I call upon you—send round a missive— hope to converse again of all we have discuss
ed?”
“Certainly,” I answered, and curtseyed. “I should be honoured.”
It was enough to hope the Earl did not file my existence away, among his notes of hand and tradesmen’s duns.
Chapter 17
The Long Arm of the Tsar
Saturday, 27 April 1811
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I WAS AWAKENED FROM MY SLUMBERS THIS MORNING by a gentle scratching at the bedchamber door, and having donned my dressing gown and hurried my feet into slippers, discovered Manon in the upper hall. She was neatly arrayed in her customary charcoal gown, but she wore a cloak of blue wool and a straw bonnet trimmed with a bunch of cherries. When I would have spoken, she held a gloved finger to her lips and glanced down the hall towards my brother’s room.
I motioned her within the bedchamber and closed the door.
“Druschka,” she whispered. “She walks in Cadogan Place. I observed her from the scullery window, all hunched and miserable, and saw that she glanced continually at this house. She wishes to share a confidence—I feel it! Will you accompany me?”
“Allow me five minutes,” I returned, “and I shall join you on the flagway.”
The maid nodded, and slipped like a shadow back into the hall. I splashed water from the ewer onto my face, donned a simple walking gown of sarcenet, brushed my chestnut hair into a knot, and chose a pair of stout half-boots of bottle-green jean. I lost precious time in the fastening of these, and was forced to snatch at the serviceable but sober bonnet that served my country walks in Chawton. I hastened below with a minimum of noise, and found Manon awaiting me in the front hall.
“I did not like to tarry on the flagway, lest Druschka espy me and wonder at my failure to join her,” she explained. “It is best, I think, if I approach her first; do you wait a few moments, mademoiselle, and then happen upon me as tho’ the meeting were a matter of chance.”
“Very well,” I said, and wished I had time enough for the brewing of tea in the interval.
Manon quitted the house, as was proper, by the servants’ entrance at the rear; and in a few moments I glimpsed her striding confidently towards the green. The clock on Eliza’s mantel chimed seven; the Russian woman had escaped from her quarters on Hans Place at an early hour. For an instant I considered of her present existence: surrounded by powerful men—Prince Pirov and his followers—who kept their own servants and undoubtedly regarded
Druschka as a pitiful old retainer, not worth the slightest consideration. Even her grief should be read as an offence—the Druschkas of the world were not allowed to feel. It was hardly wonderful that she sought comfort in solitary rambles.
Manon’s mother, Madame Bigeon, was audibly moving about the kitchen; I ventured towards that region of the house and saw to my relief that tea was already in the pot. Madame Bigeon poured me out a cup, and offered me bread and jam, which I gratefully accepted.
“I am going out for a walk,” I said brightly. “The weather is so very fine!” The old woman gave a brief nod of the head, and returned to preparing Eliza’s breakfast tray. Several fowls lay upon a scrubbed oak table, ready for the plucking, and the sight of their limp necks instantly recalled to mind the Princess Tscholikova. I averted my gaze, the bread and jam lodging uncomfortably in my throat, and made my way to the servants’ door.
THERE WERE TRADESMEN ENOUGH THE LENGTH OF Sloane Street, but Cadogan Place was empty of life. The children of Hans Town preferred eggs and toast in the nursery to the early chill of an April morning. I did not immediately discover Manon and her Russian acquaintance; but a brisk stroll the length of the square’s north and east sides revealed them to be established on a stone bench, all but hidden by greenery, their heads together in close conversation.
I pursued my solitary way as tho’ I had not observed them; but in drawing abreast of the pair, exclaimed, “What is this, Manon! Have you leave to desert your mistress at such an hour? You had better be building up the fires, and attending Madame Henri in her dressing room!”
Manon sprang to her feet as if conscious of her error, then bobbed a curtsey. “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle—indeed I beg it most earnestly—but I could not ignore such misery in one who may claim my friendship. You who are so wise—who possess the friends in high places—you cannot fail to pity poor Druschka, when you have heard all.”
“Druschka?” I repeated as I studied the Russian woman, whose eyes met mine unflinchingly. She rose from her seat, and stood humbly clutching a leather-bound book to her bosom as tho’ it were her dearest child. “You are the Princess Tscholikova’s maid, I think?”
The words required no translator.
“I was,” she said in her guttural way, then muttered a few hurried French words of farewell to Manon.
“Restez,” Manon commanded, and grasped the Russian’s arm. “If it is justice you seek, you must talk to Mademoiselle Austen. She, too, does not credit the tale of suicide; and for reasons of her own she has sought the advice of a lawyer, look you. A powerful man who might discover the truth. Mademoiselle will help you. But you must trust her. I will speak the words you cannot. It is understood?”
Druschka stiffened, and for an instant I feared she might bolt as swift as a hare across the open stretch of green, her precious book hurled to the winds. Then resolve seemed to break in her, and she sank down once more on the stone bench.
“Pray ask her, Manon, why her mistress was embarrassed for funds in the last days before her death.”
The question was put, and the answer came in a shrug. The Princess had never wanted for money before; her income was disbursed each quarter by her bankers, and in London this was the firm of Coutts. The sum was made over by her brother; the Princess’s husband did not utter her name aloud, tho’ he had certainly kept all the wealth she had brought to her marriage.
“Was the Princess a gamester?”
Druschka shook her head emphatically: No.
I glanced at Manon, perplexed; perhaps the rumour of indebtedness was unfounded. Yet the Princess had certainly sought my brother’s aid, and not her own banker’s. That surely bespoke a measure of desperation, or deceit. I attempted another approach.
“Was the Princess’s behaviour all that it should be, in the days leading up to her death?”
Manon translated the reply. “My lady was beside herself; she was nearly out of her mind. I have never seen her so. And when I asked her the reason, she would not confide in me. I knew, then, that the trouble was very bad. Hours and hours she spent at her desk, writing her letters—a madness in the paper and ink—and then I would find the ashes of what she had burned. None of them sent.”
I could not help but think of Lord Castlereagh, and the salacious correspondence published in the Morning Post. Was this the proof of all his lordship would deny?
“Letters to whom?” I demanded.
Druschka lifted up her hands.
“She cannot read,” Manon explained.
I glanced down at the leather-bound volume the maid still clutched close to her heart. “Why, then, is this book so precious?”
“It is her mistress’s journal,” Manon replied. “This, alone, Tscholikova failed to burn. Druschka has been guarding it against the brother—Prince Pirov—for fear he will destroy it. She brought it to me in the hope I might decipher the words—tell her why her mistress died. The Princess wrote in French, voyez-vous. Druschka speaks that tongue, but the letters are foreign to her … ”
I held Manon’s gaze. “And this the Princess did not burn. Good God! What we might find there … ”
Manon crouched near the Russian maid, and spoke softly to her in French. Druschka cradled her head in her hands, the book sliding unheeded to the ground. A broken phrase fell from her lips.
“What can women hope,” Manon translated, “against all the power of the Tsar?”
“The Tsar!” I cried.
Druschka stared at me in horror, as tho’ I had uttered an oath aloud.
“But what has he to do, pray, with the death of Princess
Tscholikova?” I pressed. And so she began her tale.
IT WAS A MEANDERING STORY, FULL OF INCIDENT and memory: the Princess as a child, consigned to her English governess from the age of seven and ignored by her bitter father; the Princess’s mother, dead in childbirth of a stillborn son; the elder brother, Prince Pirov, attached to the St. Petersburg Court, a glittering and distant figure, close to the young Tsar. Evgenia buried in the country, lonely but for her dolls. The wolfhounds by the fire of an evening; the sound of hunting horns in the freezing early dusk. Druschka was her nursemaid, banished by the young woman who journeyed all the way from London to instruct the Princess in French and Italian, watercolours and the use of the globes; but the Englishwoman was unhappy—she was a cold creature, colder than the steppes—and it was to Druschka the Princess came for stories at bedtime, Druschka who tended Evgenia when she was ill.
I watched as a few tears slid from the aged eyes, Manon’s voice a quiet whisper above Druschka’s own; the brisk wind of spring toyed with my bonnet strings and I shuddered, as tho’ I, too, felt the cold of the steppes in my blood.
When the old Prince died, Evgenia was summoned to St. Petersburg and the English governess was sent packing back home, no companion being necessary for a girl of fifteen on the point of her debut; Evgenia would live with her brother now, in the grand palace on the Neva, and her brother’s wife—a haughty woman with vast estates in her dowry, for all she was only a countess—would introduce the child to Society, and find her a husband. Druschka expected her young mistress to leap with joy at the prospect—she did not think the girl could pack her trunks fast enough—but to her dismay, Evgenia was afraid. She bore her brother no love and his wife even less; she feared that she might fail them—too stupid, too ugly, too maladroit.
This last word Manon handed me in its French form, with a sort of flourish; the maid was warming to her tale, I knew, and enjoying the fairy nature of it. But I read the future in the young girl’s palpitating bosom—for indeed, she had failed them all, she who married well but without love, then slipped into the reckless affairs of youth when once the cage was opened …
Jane and the Barque of Frailty Page 14