I woke early to the muffled hallooing that invariably connotes a London fog, and the magnified clatter of horses’ hooves, carriage wheels, carters’ drays and peddlers’ screeching; the chill of yesterday had brought with it rain, which gurgled in the gutters. So dim was the light—or so great my exhaustion from the previous night’s broken rest—that I had overslept myself, and discovered by the bells that it was full nine o’clock. Manon had crept in on cat’s paws and made up the fire; but I should have to ring for my morning tea. I rose, and reached for my dressing gown—when the sound of a horse’s terrified neigh brought me to the window.
In the swirling wisps of fog and rain below, a black carriage had misjudged its pace and run full-tilt into a cart; the team of horses—also black as pitch— had broken the traces, and the leader was plunging wildly in the shafts; the driver was struggling to rein in the beast, while a groom reached for its tossing head; and the carter abused all within hearing for the quantity of sacks that had spilled into the carriageway, several of which had split open, and strewn grain onto the rain-wet paving.
This might have been enough to engage my interest and arrest my sight, had such incidents not proved wearisomely familiar after six weeks’ habitation in the Metropolis; but my quickened senses detected another reason to linger by the casement: the jet-black coach and its midnight horses were clearly agents of mourning. I glanced the length of Sloane Street, and understood from the procession of sombre carriages and dusky teams that what I witnessed, on this day of fog and rain, was a funeral procession. It must—it could only be—Princess Evgenia Tscholikova’s.
The weather alone—the sulphurous glow of sidelamps—the plunging leader snorting with terror—rendered the aspect positively spectral, as tho’ the equipages and all their occupants should be swallowed up in a cloud of hellish vapour. I shuddered, and drew the drapes against the scene—and wondered into what ground the poor creature’s body should be laid. The wretched woman had been adjudged a suicide, and might rightly have been refused consecrated ground—buried instead at a crossroads without even a marker, so that her blasted soul might wander the earth in endless lamentation—but I hoped that Prince Pirov had found the proper palms to cross with silver. I did not like to think of a woman I believed to have been cruelly murdered, left in a pauper’s grave. To be scorned even in death—!
I dressed hurriedly and went in search of Manon.
“Druschka tells me the Duke of Norfolk—who is a Papist, vous savez—has offered to take the Princess’s remains in his family’s burial ground.” The maid glanced over her shoulder, and despite years of habitation in England, crossed herself hurriedly against the Evil Eye. “Not the ancestral vault, of course, but a plot near the home chapel. Prince Pirov was most grateful.”
“The Prince is capable of amiable feelings, then?”
“Towards men of standing, who show him favour—but of course! To Druschka he is a monster. He has ordered her to be ready to quit London on the morrow; they are all to be off for Paris, and then by degrees to Moscow, and I think she will break her heart with crying, me. She does not believe she will survive the journey.”
“Could she not secure a suitable position here, in London?” I enquired.
Manon shook her head. “The Prince will not allow it. That woman is almost a slave, mademoiselle— it is the nature of things in Russia. She does not command her own life, she has no power to determine her future; she must wait upon the will of her master. The Prince finds it imperative that Druschka leave the country.”
“I wonder,” I mused as Manon set a tea cup by my place, “what exactly is he afraid of?”
“The Tsar, no doubt.”
“Manon—I wish you will put a question to Druschka before she is whisked away.”
“Certainly. I shall walk in Cadogan Place at three o’clock. What would you know?”
“—Which gentleman Princess Tscholikova was in the habit of visiting, at the Albany,” I said.
I FILLED THE NEXT HOUR IN ANSWERING A LETTER from Cassandra I had received that morning—two pages of sun and spring air and Kentish nonsense, for she is in the midst of a visit to my brother Edward at Godmersham. She is full of enthusiasm for our musical evening, and requires further particulars of my dress: How had I done my hair? Did I mean to trim my old pelisse fresh? ‘The cleric, Mr. Wyndham Knatchbull, had sent a report of the evening round his Kentish relations, and thus by degrees his judgement arrived at Godmersham: Miss Jane Austen is “a pleasing looking young woman.” I must be satisfied with such tepid praise—at five-and-thirty, one cannot pretend to anything better. I have not yet sunk, it seems, to looking ill; and in truth, the notice of a man who may talk only theosophy at one of Eliza’s evenings should never be necessary to my happiness.
“There is a lady who wishes to see you, mademoiselle,” Manon said from the book room doorway.
I set aside my correspondence—it was rather tedious in any case, as so many topics of interest are embargoed, being too perilous to communicate. “It will be Mrs. Tilson, I suppose. We are to dine with her this evening.”
“No, mademoiselle—a Miss Radcliffe. She has sent in her card.”
I rose hastily from the writing table and smoothed my gown. “Pray, Manon—show her directly into this room. We may be assured of privacy here.”
The careful control of expression Miss Radcliffe had maintained, while I fenced with her in the anteroom in Russell Square, was less perfect this morning. Her face, framed by a dashing bonnet with a short and upswept poke, was paler than ever; the delicate bloom of peach and rose had fled her cheek. I imputed the cause to an unhappy night, and guessed that a period of uneasiness had been capped with a failure to eat during the interval. “Miss Austen,” she said as she curtseyed, “I am thankful to find you at home.”
“The pleasure must be entirely mine. Won’t you sit down? Manon—be so good as to bring some refreshment for Miss Radcliffe.”
The Barque of Frailty glided towards one of Eliza’s French chairs, and sank onto it—ramrod straight, as I remembered. Did the child never allow herself to unbend? The picture of perfection she presented was surely purchased at the cost of rigid self-control—and I found a phrase of my acquaintance, Miss East’s, lingering in the mind. Not self-control, she had said, but self-reliance ought to be the theme of Mrs. Brunton’s novel. Self-reliance. Julia Radcliffe could presume upon no one’s disinterested support—and thus had made of her slender frame a column of steel.
Manon appeared with wine and cakes upon a silver tray. Miss Radcliffe refused a macaroon, but accepted a glass of ratafia, and sipped a little before she spoke.
“I have been thinking almost continuously of what you said,” she began after an interval, “and I believe I ought to help you ward off that terrible man, Bill Skroggs, to the utmost extent of my power. As you so rightly observed, Skroggs will be satisfied only with a victim—and if you are determined it shall not be yourself I am equally determined he shall not settle upon me.”
“So far, our interests are allied.”
“I cannot answer all the questions you might pose—indeed, for many of them I have no answer— and in some cases, I freely state that I will not supply the solution to your puzzle, for not only I am encompassed in it. Others there may be whose well-being must be injured by any communication of mine. But one matter at least I might illuminate—Princess Tscholikova’s visit to me, on the Sunday morning prior to her unfortunate death.” Miss Radcliffe’s blue eyes rose to meet mine. “I am right, I think, in apprehending that she did not die by her own hand—as has been reported in the newspapers?”
“The coroner’s panel returned a verdict of self-murder, but I cannot credit it.”
“Why not? She was certainly miserable.”
“You felt as much, on your sole meeting?”
“I did.” Miss Radcliffe swayed a little in her seat, as tho’ she would dearly love to lean against the back of the chair, and let down her guard a little; then she recovered, and we
nt on.
“She appeared in Russell Square at half-past two o’clock that Sunday, in a state bordering on strong hystericks, and would have it that she came on an errand of mercy. She had heard somewhere, I must suppose, that I am so fortunate as to have any number of gentlemen dancing attendance upon me, Miss Austen—you will apprehend, no doubt, that I am in no position to discourage any one of them … ”
“I have heard, Miss Radcliffe, that neither have you succumbed to the charms of a particular suitor— but prefer to maintain an interesting independence.”
She flushed. “If, by that remark, you would suggest that I deliberately play off one man against another, in order to enflame the ardour of each, it is a gross misrepresentation of my life and circumstances.”
“I did not mean to imply a calculation I am persuaded you should never employ,” I returned gently. “I would merely point out that rather than seeking the protection of one, you have found a kind of safety in the numbers that flock to your door.”
Miss Radcliffe studied her gloved hands. “The Princess believed me on the point of contracting just such a tie of obligation with a man whom she had reason to fear herself, and whom she believed should certainly be the ruin of me. His name is Emmanuel, Comte d’Entraigues.”
“I am a little acquainted with the Comte.”
“She related a part of her private history, as pertained to the Count, that must convince any woman of sense that he is not a man to be trusted. Her motivation, as she claimed, was to prevent my life from being blasted as hers had been.”
“The episode in Vienna, I collect?”
Miss Radcliffe inclined her head. “I apprehend that a liaison of passion, on the Princess’s side, was perverted on the Comte’s to one of political utility.”
“I see. Pray go on.”
“I assured La Tscholikova that others had succeeded in determining the sordid nature of my fate before ever I knew the Comte d’Entraigues, and that her energy—as well as her presumption—were wasted.”
The blandness of this statement must send a chill through my soul. “In short, the rumour of divorce— which so acted upon the Comtesse d’Entraigues— had come to Princess Tscholikova’s ears as well?”
“I must suppose it to be so. I have never intended to marry the Comte d’Entraigues—the respectability of the institution and the position such a tie might convey, being insufficient recompense for the gentleman’s age, manners, and vicious habits. But the Princess felt it necessary to urge me from the prospect, and despite my assurances, would not be satisfied. She said she had endeavoured to borrow a remarkable sum—several thousands of pounds— from a banker of her acquaintance, so that she might secure my safety and her own departure from London at a single stroke; but in the event, her banker had failed her. Therefore, she proposed to press upon me a considerable treasure, in the form of her jewels, to preserve me against want—as she said—and thus against the Comte’s appeal. When I consider how little fortune d’Entraigues may command, I own I find her earnestness risible. I refused the contents of her velvet roll—”
“It was the roll she would have given you—not a porcelain box?” I interrupted.
A veil of incomprehension moved across Miss Radcliffe’s brow. “I saw no porcelain box.”
“Very well. Pray continue.”
“I refused the gift, and assured her I had no need of such charity.” Miss Radcliffe’s chin rose. “Tho’ my family chuses to cut all connexion, Miss Austen, and does not deign to recognise that I share the name of Radcliffe, you will know that I possess a little competence—a small but adequate income—through my mother’s family. It came to me upon her death. My father and brothers cannot strip me of that sum, however much they should wish to do so; indeed, it represents the foundation of that independence you profess to admire.”
“Then why—?”
“Why do I pursue a career as reckless as it is reprehensible?” The perfect composure broke a little. “Perhaps I possess a vaulting ambition. Perhaps I am a creature of greed. Perhaps I merely wish to throw that craving for respectability, which my family sets beyond all other feelings, in the face of those who wish me to submit to it. But in any case—I did not accept the Princess’s jewels. When she had left me, however, I discovered the velvet roll thrust down among the seat cushions of my drawing-room sopha.”
“Ah.” I sighed. “I begin to understand.”
“I was promised at Harriette Wilson’s that evening—she collects a certain party of gentlemen and ladies around her most Sundays—and so I caught up the roll as I quitted the house, intending to return it to Hans Place at the first opportunity. But while at Miss Wilson’s, I encountered the Comte d’Entraigues—and a spirit of mischief provoked me to entrust my errand to him.” The blue eyes began to dance. “I thought that if the Princess were to receive her jewels from the hand of the very man she had intended to thwart, she might be discouraged in that spirit of interference which sent her headlong to my door—”
I studied the youthful face poised before me, and wondered at the truths its serenity of expression concealed. “And so you would have me believe it was the
Comte who miscarried his charge—and gave the jewels to his wife?”
Julia Radcliffe shrugged. “I cannot say how it was. I may only tell you how the velvet roll entered my hands—and how it left them again. What occurred after, others must supply. The jewels certainly were never returned to Hans Place.”
“No. They came instead, by degrees, to me.”
Miss Radcliffe had owned there were others she refused to expose; others whose well-being must be injured by any communication of hers. The memory of a certain calling card, engraved with the name of Julien d’Entraigues, rose in my mind. What if she preferred the beautiful young man to his father? There was but two years’ difference in the young people’s ages; how natural that the dazzling Bird of Paradise, well-bred but forever fallen in reputation, should be drawn to the impoverished young Count— with his passion for music, his ruined estates, his air of suppressed desperation? What if the Princess Tscholikova’s jewels had meant freedom from want forever, for Julien d’Entraigues? And the possibility of a different life, for Miss Radcliffe? The two might have made their futures anywhere. I could imagine the Barque meeting Julien at Harriette Wilson’s, and pressing upon him the key to his fortune—but how, then, had the Comtesse brought them to Eliza’s door, with her raddled tale of divorce and recompense?
“I have trespassed on your goodness too long,” Miss Radcliffe said, rising.
“Not at all.”
There was a frailty to her figure that must burn the sight of any who regarded her; I wished that she had partaken of the macaroons. Impulsively, I said, “Before you go—I have no right to enquire of you— save the interested concern of one who must sincerely wish you well—can you not endeavour, with time, to heal the breach between yourself and your family? Surely, if you possess independence of means, there can be no loss of face in extending an olive branch. Is not a quiet retreat in solitude, preferable to the risks you undoubtedly invite, in your present mode of life?”
She stared at me, her impassive countenance a shade of remotest marble.
“When I was but fourteen years old, Miss Austen,” she said in a voice low with passion, “I was forced to intimacy with a cousin some eight years my senior. I resisted, for I had always regarded him with terror and revulsion; but I was as a fly beneath his hand—crushed. When I went to my father in pain and shame—my mother being then dead some years—he regarded me with horror. I do not think he was able to look me in the face from that day forward; some flaw in me had invited my rape. My father and his cousin—whose son my attacker was—agreed that at all costs the affair should be suppressed; I must and should be married to my predator. Can you have an idea of it? To be chained, my whole life long, to one I regarded with loathing? I should rather have died—”
She paused, and pressed her hand to her mouth.
“So great was my
parent’s insistence, that I required only a little time to know my cousin better, that I was powerless to withstand him. I agreed to see my cousin again. He chose to regard my pliancy as invitation to a second rape. I found myself, a few months past my fourteenth birthday, pregnant and unwed—the object of my father’s cordial hatred. My obdurate refusal to accept my cousin in marriage, he called undutiful; and gave my cousin orders to beat me with his hunting whip.”
“Good God,” I whispered.
“I fled at night to the home of my old nurse—who had removed some thirty miles distant from my family—and from thence I refused to be moved, until the child was brought to bear.” Her fingers clenched on her reticule. “My implacable dread of this man, my cousin, led to a breach between our families. He was sent away; and I, too, was denied all further admittance to my childhood home. In short, my name was struck from the Radcliffe rolls. I determined, at the age of fifteen, to fulfill the very worst assumptions of my life—to pursue a course so glittering, so heady, that no man should ever again have the power to disturb my peace or command my heart. I am certain of the evils attached to my situation, Miss Austen—but I am equally sure they will never approach those I suffered in the bosom of my family; and for this, I must be thankful.”
“Forgive me,” I said, and held out my hand.
She took it in her gloved one, and pressed it an instant. “Why? What sin have you committed?”
“—That of vulgar curiosity. I encroached on ground that must forever be private.”
“Not at all,” she returned. “You enquired because you care—and for that, I must always honour you, Miss Austen.”
I SAW JULIA RADCLIFFE INTO HER PHAETON—THE groom had been walking the horses some time—and watched her drive smartly away; and observed, with misgiving, the black-clad figure of Bill Skroggs loitering near the lamps of Cadogan Place.
Chapter 27
The Jarvey’s Tale
Wednesday, 1 May 1811
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Jane and the Barque of Frailty Page 21