Jane and the Barque of Frailty

by Stephanie Barron

  I waited until the Russian maid had explained how she came to accompany her mistress, the sole comfort the girl could claim from a past swiftly stripped from her; how Evgenia had been courted for her wealth by the most powerful men in Russia; how she had fallen in love with an hussar, and seen him killed. When at length Druschka arrived at Prince Tscholikov and his appointment to Vienna— I held up my hand, and said to Manon, “Ask her for whom the Princess abandoned her husband. An

  Austrian? Another Russian? Who was the cause of her mistress’s downfall?”

  But Druschka surprised me again.

  “The Tsar,” she spat. “C’est lui.”

  “The Tsar was her lover?” I blinked in astonishment at Manon. “I have certainly heard that he is a very fine figure of a man—and full young for the lofty estate he claims—but surely… was he not in St. Petersburg?”

  “Non et non et non,” the Russian woman protested in a frenzy of frustration. She then broke into such a torrent of French that I was forced to be patient, and await Manon’s translation.

  “It would seem,” she said at length, “that the Princess was ordered to meet with a foreigner attached to the Viennese Court. The world assumed this man to be her lover—but she met with him only at the behest of her brother, Prince Pirov, who said it was the wish of the Tsar. Druschka does not know why the two met, or what they did together; her mistress would never speak of it. But her husband grew jealous; in the end he accused the Princess of adultery, and banished her from his house. She went first to Paris, and then to London. Now she is dead, and Prince Pirov—the brother—will hear nothing of murder. The Prince does not wish for justice. He wishes for obscurity, and silence, and shame. Druschka believes that this, too, is at the order of the Tsar. And she cannot rest.”

  My mind was in a whirl; the intelligence was too incredible to apprehend all at once. If Druschka could be believed—if she had not merely formed a tissue of sense from a smattering of facts, interpreted as she chose—then what she described was a woman who had sacrificed her reputation, her honour, her place in society, and eventually her life—for reasons of state, and policy.

  “Who was this foreigner, Druschka?” I asked. “The one the Princess knew in Vienna?”

  “Le frangais,” the maid replied. “D’Entraigues.”

  Chapter 18

  The Earl ’s Seal

  Saturday, 27 April 1811, cont.

  ∼

  AS PRINCESS TSCHOLIKOVA’S JOURNAL WAS WRITTEN in French, we agreed that Manon would be charged with reading it—my command of the tongue being hardly equal to a native’s. I urged the maid to pay particular attention to the last few weeks of the Princess’s existence, and to report what she gleaned from the entries with as much despatch as possible. Then Manon and I parted from Druschka with firm promises of support, and adjurations to say nothing of all she had disclosed. Druschka appeared to live in such terror of the long arm of the Tsar, that I felt assured of her silence.

  Once returned to Sloane Street, I went in search of Eliza.

  She was pirouetting before the mirrors in her dressing room, all thought of the gallows banished. Her cold had very nearly gone off, and her plump countenance was pink with satisfaction at a new gown—a bronze-green silk with a high ruffed collar— which showed off her dark eyes to perfection.

  “I might wear topazes with this,” she mused, “or perhaps my garnet earrings. What do you think, Jane?”

  “Eliza, have you written to your friend the Comtesse?”

  My sister pouted at me in disappointment. “I fully apprehend that we are a day closer to the horrors threatened by those Bow Street men—but can we not spend the morning in pleasure rather than the pursuit of villains? This is dear Henry’s last day for a se’n-night! And if you are gloomy, Jane, he will fear the worst—and believe me in ill-health. He will be such a prey to anxiety that he will never leave for Oxford on the morrow, and we will be forced to go about this havey-cavey business in the most underhanded fashion. It is vital, my dear, that we appear gay to the point of dissipation! Fashion must be our subject— millinery and shopping our sole pursuits—so that Henry may trot off to Oxford on his hired mare without a backward look!”

  “Are you aware, Eliza, that it was the Comte d’Entraigues who ruined Princess Tscholikova in Vienna—who disgraced her name and caused her husband to break with her forever?”

  “No! Was it indeed? Were they lovers, then?”

  “Or worse.”

  Eliza blinked. “What could be worse?”

  “Never mind that! You will agree that the association must place your friend’s possession of the Princess’s jewels in the most sinister light! Recollect the degree of hatred Anne de St.-Huberti exhibited towards the Princess at the theatre, on the very night of Tscholikova’s murder—”

  Eliza sank onto the silken pouf drawn up near her dressing table. “That is unfortunate. I had cherished the hope that the entire business was the result of a misunderstanding … and how I shall have the courage to look Anne in the face now, I know not.”

  “You have written to her, then?”

  “She comes to me today. Four o’clock is the appointed hour—for you know Henry will certainly walk round to his club if Anne is to bear me company, and nothing could be better! I think, Jane, that you should absent yourself as well—for the poor creature is unlikely to admit her sins before the entire world!”

  “Impossible, Eliza. I should return to find you lying in a pool of blood!”

  “Nonsense,” she said briskly, as Manon entered the dressing room with a hot iron, intent upon curling her mistress’s hair. “If the Comtesse is not above doing violence to an old friend, who has only ever wished her well—I shall scream for Manon, and she shall send for those odious Runners immediately!”

  However unremarkable her degree of sense, Eliza certainly did not lack for courage.

  “I shall sit in the housekeeper’s room with Madame Bigeon,” I relented, “but do not ask me to remove myself further. With so much you must be content.”

  “Very well, very well,” Eliza returned pettishly. “Now take yourself off to Henry! I am determined he shall suspect nothing of our trouble on this day—and if you betray me, Jane, I shall never forgive you!”

  I FOUND MY BROTHER IN THE BREAKFAST PARLOUR, chair pushed back from the ruins of bacon, pert head buried in his newspapers.

  “There is a letter for you,” he offered as I entered the room.

  “Cassandra? She will be charging me again with the purchase of green crewels, no doubt, and enquiring after the success of Eliza’s party—my letter will have crossed hers in the post.”

  “Green crewels?” Henry repeated, diverted from his reading.

  “She has set her heart on seven yards of the stuff, to make up for a summer gown, and I spent all her money on coloured muslin instead! It will fall to pieces in the first wash, and I shall be forced to endure her reproaches for the remainder of the Season. I must drag you to Grafton House this morning, Henry, to buy what Cassandra prefers. 1 You may carry the parcels for me.”

  I turned over the post as I spoke, and discovered no letter from my sister—but a heavy packet of hot-pressed paper, addressed to Miss Austen, and bearing a crest in black wax on the obverse.

  “From whom can this be?” I wondered aloud.

  “Moira,” Henry said flatly. “You’ve made a conquest, Jane. Does the Earl wish to take you driving again in the Park, under the guise of spreading Whig rumours?”

  I had said nothing to my brother of the substance of my conversation with his lordship. He was as likely to scoff at the idea of treason, as he was to dismiss the value of Lord Harold’s papers. With deliberate lightness, therefore, I rejoined, “I must snatch at any chance of an alliance, my dear—even if the swain be dottering, and nearly in his grave! Indeed, I should prefer him to be so, that I might have all the dignity of widowhood, and none of the longueurs of marriage.”

  “As his lordship’s heir is but three years of
age,” Henry retorted with satisfaction, “I believe it is you who should find your grave first. Do not be telling Cassandra of this clandestine correspondence! She will be thinking you quite as abandoned to propriety as poor little Marianne—despatching letter after letter to Willoughby’s lodgings!”

  And with this fond reference to my novel—which in all the suspense of murder I had very nearly forgot—Henry went to collect his wife.

  I broke the Earl’s seal without delay.

  Brooks’s Club

  26 April 1811

  My dear Miss Austen—

  Your interesting communication of several hours past has given me to think, not only of Harry and the blessed days of fellowship that are long gone, but of certain events in His Majesty’s government during the years 1808–1809, viz., the conduct of the Peninsular Campaign and certain intrigues of governance surrounding it.

  I am, and have always been, devoted to the philosophy and cause of the Whig party, particularly as led and espoused by that great figure of the recent age, Charles James Fox. The brief fifteen months in which Mr. Fox held the position of First Minister, during which period I was also honoured to serve— I speak of what is commonly known as the Ministry of All Talents—I may frankly state that he demonstrated to an admiring kingdom that perspicacity, restraint, and honour that must always distinguish both the statesman and the gentleman. I say nothing of his regrettable indiscretions among the female set, nor of his addiction to gaming. The fact that Mr. Fox was able to conduct himself with the acuteness and daring of a born leader, tho’ his cabinet united Whigs with men not of his own chusing but of the Opposition—a union indeed of the first minds of England—is a credit to his ability to set aside personal ambition, in the interest of King and Country, to the very day of his death in harness.

  But I digress. In speaking of Mr. Fox, I would merely illustrate my own degree of experience with those men who lead the Tory faction. I have not only observed them from the vantage of my long years in Opposition; I have known several from the cradle, and others from the ministry in which we both served. You enquired of me whom I might adjudge to be enemies of Lord C. In this, I believe you had my fellow Whigs in view; I believe you expected a recital of such names as Lords Grenville and Grey, Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Brougham, Mr. Ponsonby and his ilk—all of them reasonably opposed to Lord C.’s aims, and certainly to his conduct of war during the period in which he governed that ministry. Of Mr. Fox’s nephew Lord Holland, whose dedication to his late uncle’s principles has always been frank and warm, and whose opposition to the endless campaigns in which we find ourselves has been vociferously expressed in the House of Lords, I need say little—other than that his contempt for Lord C. is invariably confined to the political realm, and never results in a social breach among their mutual acquaintance.

  Your acute understanding, Miss Austen, and the various points you raise in support of your conjectures, have occupied my mind the better part of several hours. The cause at issue—the unfortunate death of that lady to which you referred, and the possibility of her end having been not of her own chusing—is sufficiently grave as to warrant my attention; but the possible consequences of too frank an avowal, and too broad an application of suspicion, must urge me to demand your discretion. Men may be ruined for a whisper; I have seen it done. Therefore, let the intelligence I now offer you be held in the strictest confidence, until such time as you feel you possess sufficient proofs, as to make the employment of your knowledge both necessary and inevitable.

  Lord C.’s most determined enemy is undoubtedly not a Whig, but a fellow Tory—Mr. G.C., who suffered at his lordship’s hands on the duelling ground. I am sure I need not be more explicit. That gentleman, as he stiles himself, is without scruple or feeling; and tho’ his merits are justly regarded as brilliant, and the scope of his ambition no higher than his probable ascent, I cannot regard him as anything but a ruthless and grasping adversary. The claims of party and unity should be as nothing to such a man; and the threat of a rival everything. If you would look for your enemy, find him there.

  The two men’s names have been much linked of late in the popular press, as objects of the Regent’s affection, and as possible candidates for a return to high office in a ministry of the Regent’s appointing. I will say nothing of the indignation every Whig must feel, at the defection of the Prince of Wales from that party which has ever been his chief support, and among whom he finds the better part of his friends; that is matter for another day. Suffice it to say, Miss Austen, that popular report fails in this one instance: Lord C. is certainly in the Regent’s eye, as a lynchpin of His Majesty’s desired ministry; but it is Lord Sidmouth with whom he shall serve, and the Marquess of Wellesley—not G.C. That gentleman is in bad odour with the Regent, by dint of his affection for and ties to the Regent’s despised wife— the Princess of Wales.2 Moreover, the celebrated duel between himself and Lord C. has only diminished his standing among his fellows, as having been justified by the underhanded fashion in which G C. attempted to oust Lord C. from the cabinet behind his fellow minister’s back. In defending his honour, Lord C. has only heightened the respect in which he is held, and has gone a long way towards regaining the admiration and affection of a populace long inclined to regard him with disfavour. G.C. knows this; he is aware that his star, already sinking, may be completely extinguished at the formation of the next cabinet; and I should not be at all surprised if so ruthless and ambitious a man should not stop even at violence to obtain his ends—by throwing scandal on the object of his jealous hatred.

  You would do well to determine, if you may, whether he was acquainted with Princess T——, and what were his movements on the night in question.

  I have perhaps assumed and said too much. Acquit me of having a cock in this particular fight; I stand only as observer. In relating so much of a private nature—and indeed, of speculation regarding appointments that remain solely in the Regent’s preserve—I have perhaps committed an unpardonable offence; but my esteem for Lord Harold causes me to accept the considerable trust he placed in yourself as being of unquestioned foundation.

  Allow me to express my respect and admiration, and accept my sincere good wishes for your continued health. I remain—

  Francis Rawdon Hastings, Earl Moira

  1 Grafton House sat on the corner of Grafton and New Bond streets, and was known to provide excellent millinery goods for bargain prices. As a result, hordes of respectable women thronged its counters, and the premises were so crowded that one might wait full half an hour to be served. Jane recounts one such expedition in company with Manon, during which she purchased bugle trimming, and silk stockings at twelve shillings the pair, in a letter to her sister, Cassandra, dated April 18, 1811.—Editor’s note.

  2 The Prince Regent married his German cousin, Caroline of Brunswick, in 1796, but cordially hated her and maintained a separate household from his consort for all but three weeks of his married life. Princess Caroline was tried and acquitted of treason (the basis being adultery) in Parliament in 1820; she died abroad in 1821.—Editor’s note.

  Chapter 19

  The Shadow of the Law

  Saturday, 27 April 1811, cont.

  ∼

  THE PREMISES OF GRAFTON HOUSE ARE SO LARGE AS to permit of an army of occupation’s being encamped there—which is indeed the effect of a quantity of Town-bred women, from duchesses to scullery maids, in determined hold of the premises of a Saturday morning. The hour being well advanced when Eliza, Henry, and I made our entrance, we went unacknowledged and disregarded amidst the cackling throng—and Henry had but to eye the several large rooms, letting one into another, with their lofty ceilings and interior casements of paned glass, their bolts of holland and sarcenet draped cunningly over Attic figures, their lengths of trimming depending from brass knobs at every side— to announce, with commendable meekness, that he believed he should much better wait outside.

  The few male persons brave enough to confront the crush of bargain-mad w
omen were most of them clerks, arrayed behind the broad counters, heads politely inclined to whichever of their patrons had obtained a place well enough to the fore to command attention. I detected a wall of matrons seven deep before those counters, and resigned myself to an interval of full half an hour before Eliza and I should be attended to; Henry would avail himself of the opportunity to indulge in an interval of cheerful smoking.

  Eliza was already in transports over a quantity of satin ball gloves offered at a shockingly cheap price, and I left her to the business of turning over the fingers, and exclaiming at the fineness of seams, and went in search of my sister’s green crewel. I had an idea of her heart’s desire: a length of Irish linen, worked with embroidered knots or flowers in a deep, mossy green, that should feel like the breath of spring when she wore it—or perhaps a bolt of muslin cloth lately shipped from Madras, with figures of exotic birds or flowers in a similar hue. Cassandra is in general so little inclined to the pursuit of fashion, that I must credit my unexpected fortune in having secured a publisher for my book, and being treated to six weeks in London at the height of the Season, to having inspired her with a vaulting ambition. In her mind she envisioned the sort of delights that had been denied us for the better part of our girlhood—the frivolity of women of means. She had an idea of the Canterbury

  Races in August, in the company of our elegant brother Edward—Cassandra arrayed in a dashing gown that everyone should admire, and know instantly for the work of a London modiste. I was to be the agent of fulfilling her dream. She asked so little of me in the general way that I felt I could not do otherwise than execute this small commission. My sister and I have reached the age when the pleasures of dress must compensate for the lack of other blessings—such as deep, abiding love—that will not fall in our way again.