Jane and the Barque of Frailty

by Stephanie Barron

  He is acquitted one of the rakes of the age, and I shall always regard his anonymous, and quite unconscious, gallantry towards myself with affection; but at his attempting to steer me into the passage, in an effort to run his hands the length of my overlaced body, I told him tartly that I required a better sort of introduction before I should permit such freedoms. He then produced a fifty-pound note from his breast pocket—fifty pounds! Which is no less than I contrive to live on, for the space of a year!—and I was so overpowered I could do nothing but stutter out my apologies, and back away in shame from his laughing good looks. The experience forced me to contemplate seriously the attractions that must have weighed with one such as Julia Radcliffe—disgraced, unwed, cut off from her family, and entirely dependent upon the good offices of rakes.

  Julia herself was in high bloom. She appeared at Limmer’s at half-past eleven o’clock, unmasked and queenly, her white dress deliberately innocent—and the last word in daring exposure. I am sure she had dampened her undergown, for it clung to her limbs as she moved in a shocking degree, outlining the curves of her body, which emerged like the torso of Venus from her tightly-laced bodice; and the jewels that she wore were hardly paste. This was the ideal that such dashing, tho’ respectable, ladies as Caroline Lamb meant to emulate, in snubbing their noses at the ton; but Julia was the embodiment of the raffish dream. At her appearance, she was instantly surrounded by the highest names in the land; I could not have approached her, had I dared. Even Harriette Wilson, the dark foil to Miss Radcliffe’s white and gold beauty, was left to command a lesser court—those who discovered Miss Radcliffe’s card to be already filled, her dances already bespoke.

  Eliza, who had sustained full three dances with Earl Moira, was cooling her overheated cheeks on a balcony, well supplied with champagne and dexterously employed in foiling her old friend’s unwitting sallies. I left her to her amusements—saw Freddy Ponsonby exerting himself to charm a girl scarcely escaped from the schoolroom—and observed instead those whom Miss Radcliffe favoured.

  One was the heir to a dukedom; the other, a marquis. A third lucky fellow was George Canning, who was permitted to stand up with the Barque; and included among them all, as tho’ by special favour or afterthought, was an impoverished French count … young Julien, Comte d’Entraigues.

  I had observed the father long before, purring French obscenities into the ear of a tittering child; but Julien must have come in Radcliffe’s train, for I had not encountered him yet this evening. He looked, as a Pink of the Ton must, exquisite: His linen snowy, his satin breeches unimpeachable, his dark coating cut within a hairsbreadth of his shoulders. He had adopted Mr. Brummell’s maxim, which dictated that if a common man of the street turned to stare after one, one was certainly overdressed. Julien’s rule was to render himself inconspicuous by the sheer exactitude of his raiment; and allow his dark good looks—his refined countenance—his complete mastery of self—-to speak for themselves. Such qualities must always distinguish the gentleman of breeding, no matter how impoverished.

  Any number of illustrious men might be everywhere seen, but I had eyes only for two of them: George Canning, who danced with an energy and enjoyment that must testify to his love of the fair sex—for the most part with Harriette Wilson, once Radcliffe released him; and Robert, Lord Castlereagh. The latter held himself aloof, his hands clasped behind his back, and a faint expression of distaste upon his lips. He had dressed with his usual style and care; he looked every inch the distinguished gentleman; but was equally so far above his company, as to support the long wall of the principal room to the exclusion of every other amiable activity. On one occasion when Lord Sidmouth chanced to speak to him, Lord Castlereagh deigned to answer; but in general, the Great Man preserved the air of an Eton schoolmaster, forced to administer an exam. I believe he presently entered the card room, and sat down to whist, from which he did not emerge until well near dawn.

  Of Sylvester Chizzlewit there was no sign, until a few minutes before twelve o’clock. I was engaged in going down a country dance—having been solicited by a portly fellow whose wet mouth must give me a disgust of him, but whose awkward embarrassment at the whole situation in which he found himself, suggested the country cousin being shown the delights of the Metropolis—when I observed my solicitor standing a little apart from the general throng, with his friend Malverley by his side.

  I still went masked, and must thank Heaven for my obscurity. Despite all his regard for my pluck and daring, Chizzlewit should be shocked to discover my presence in this place—I had suppressed the full intelligence of my plan, from a fear that he should hasten to discourage me from attempting it. In the note I had sent round to his chambers, I had urged him only to bring Charles Malverley up to scratch: At all costs, the Earl’s son must put in an appearance at the Cyprians Ball. But my plans must not miscarry—Malverley could not be allowed to take fright, and leave Limmer’s Hotel before my object was achieved—

  I stumbled on my modish sandals, and let out a faint cry of pain.

  The country cousin was immediately all solicitude; nothing could exceed his concern and anxiety; I was escorted, limping, from the crowded floor and established in a vacant chair, not far from where Chizzlewit stood. I sent my puffing swain in search of a claret cup, saw him disappear into the frenzy of the refreshment tables—and moved immediately towards my solicitor.

  He had separated a little from Malverley, who was encircled—much as Julia Radcliffe had been—by a host of admiring acquaintance.

  “Mr. Chizzlewit,” I hissed.

  He turned, and bowed. “Fair lady. May I be of service? No improper pun intended, I assure you—”

  “Good God,” I said, nonplussed. “Can it be you do not know me?”

  I lifted the mask a fraction from my face, and had the satisfaction of hearing his sudden indrawn breath. I grasped his arm, and led him from the floor.

  “Miss Austen—I beg your pardon—I should never have expected—I should not have presumed—”

  “Yes, indeed, but there is no time for that now. Has Malverley seen her?”

  “Miss Radcliffe? I do not think she has yet fallen in his way.”

  “Then bring him to the little anteroom at the end of the passage,” I said, “in ten minutes’ time.”

  I left Chizzlewit, and recruited Eliza—who parted from Lord Moira with what seemed like regret.

  “My dear,” I consoled her, “only reflect how you shall be in whoops, when next you encounter the Earl in the Park! Nothing else may possibly have come of it, you know.”

  “I do realise the truth of what you say, Jane, but only conceive how delicious it is to be engaged in flirtation again! I felt myself quite twenty years younger! I do believe he was on the point of offering me carte blanche! And not the slightest chance that I should be discovered by dear Henry!”

  “Eliza, only succeed in bringing your old friend the Comte d’Entraigues to the little anteroom at the end of the hall—in twenty minutes’ time—and you may return to the Earl with my blessing,” I promised.

  I FOUND JULIA RADCLIFFE ESTABLISHED ON A STIFF-backed chair in the supper room, surrounded by her acquaintance. She was nearly impossible to approach. Julien d’Entraigues stood behind her chair, and at a motion of her finger, bent low; something she said, sent him immediately from her side. I saw my chance, and contrived to put myself in the young Count’s way.

  “Pardon,” he murmured, and would have stepped around me, but that I returned his word with a hurried phrase.

  “Julien! Are you not to play this evening? Have I only to call the tune?”

  He stopped short, and stared at me, frowning.

  “I do not apprehend … ” he said; then, “Miss Austen?”

  “The same. Do not ask what I cannot answer, I implore you—but bring Miss Radcliffe to the anteroom at the end of the passage as swiftly as may be contrived. My life—and hers—depend upon it, monsieur le comte!”

  1 Gunter’s was the foremost confectioner
of Regency London and was frequently hired to cater the refreshments at private debutante balls.—Editor’s note.

  Chapter 30

  Crimes of the Heart

  Wednesday, 1 May 1811, cont.

  ∼

  THE DIM FIGURE OF A COUPLE, ENTWINED ON THE settee against the wall of the anteroom, brought me up short when I would have entered—but I perceived at a glance the pair were unknown to me. It was essential that they should be forced from the room, and so, on the spur of imagination, I reeled a little as tho’ drunk, and muttered, “Lord! My head! If I do not get a little air soon, I am sure I shall be sick!”

  I had only to press my hand against my mouth, and choke a little, for the two to beat a hasty retreat— at which point I swiftly closed the double doors.

  The room was such as any respectable inn might offer, as private accommodation for a member of the Quality: the sort of parlour that should be hired for dining, by a gentleman in Town on a matter of business. It offered a round deal table and the aforementioned settee by way of furnishing; but there was also a hearth in which a fire was burning, and a window, draped in tarnished silk. I went to this window, and lifted the drapery from its place, to reveal—as I had expected—one William Skroggs, Bow Street Runner.

  “Miss Austen.” He saluted me with a leer.

  “You encountered no difficulty in entering the premises?” I enquired.

  “None.” The contempt of his tone must suggest that no Runner should be barred from as respectable an amusement as the Cyprians Ball. “But if you mean for me to stand all hours behind a smoky curtain, while light o’ loves plies their trades under my very nose—”

  “Do be quiet,” I said crossly. “I have done the better part of your work for you. Someone is coming.”

  I hid myself behind the opposite drapery, the far edge drawn sufficiently back for me to observe the centre of the room, and waited for the door to open.

  As I had suspected, Charles Malverley was first to enter the room, followed by Sylvester Chizzlewit, who took up a position by the doors.

  “—for the same reason, I collect, that you would bring me here,” Malverley was saying carelessly as he entered. He held a wine glass in his hand, and the beauty of his countenance was flushed. “I must thank you for your solicitude—my tortured heart is warmed by your amiable concerns—and there is at least this to applaud: You have thrown women my way, rather than the boys old Castlereagh is partial to. The man studied too much of the Greeks, during his time at Eton.”

  “Some of these girls are devilish pretty,” Chizzlewit observed mildly, “and High Flyers too. I wonder you aren’t susceptible. Has no lady ever touched your heart?”

  “Lady?” Malverley returned contemptuously. “There is not a lady among the lot, thank Heaven! I have had my fill of your ladies. Give me a Barque any day, and I’ll sail her straight into harbour! The Muslin Company! Long may they prosper, and empty men’s purses!” He raised his glass in a mocking toast.

  I wondered whether Chizzlewit had divined what he must do—whether my terse missive of the morning had been explicit enough. But I should not have doubted him; he was ever his grandfather’s heir. “Not all of these women are lowborn,” he said reasonably. “Miss Radcliffe, for example. Family’s devilish high in the instep. Some sort of relation of yours, is she not?”

  For an instant, I feared Malverley might strike his friend. He stood rigid, his hands clenching about his wine glass so that the frail crystal stem snapped.

  “I ought to draw your cork,” he said evenly as he tossed the shards of glass into the fire, “or demand satisfaction for such an insult, Sylvester—but we’ll agree that you’re foxed, and have no idea what you’re saying. Don’t ever mention that jade’s name in my presence, damn you.”

  Chizzlewit reached behind him, and thrust open the door into the passage. Julia Radcliffe was outlined in candlelight, divinely fair and effortlessly tempting.

  “Why should he not mention my name, Charles?” she enquired, her voice low. “Why should it be my name that distresses you so, when it was you who sullied it?”

  “I!” he retorted, his countenance flaming. “Look at yourself, Julia! Always desperate to excite admiration—tormenting decent men with your looks, your bearing, your refusal to submit—but now the whole world knows you for what you are—what you always were: a whore. You may cut me direct in the middle of Hyde Park—you may refuse me admittance to Russell Square—you may flaunt your wares before every rogue in London—but the world should never reproach me for serving you a lesson. The world knows me to be right—for disciplining you, for teaching you conduct—for breaking you to bridle—”

  The nastiness of the words was like a lash. I found that I had closed my eyes tight, so as to avoid the spectre of Malverley’s face, unmanned by passion, violent with hatred. But a sound brought my eyes flying open again. Julien, Comte d’Entraigues, stood between Julia Radcliffe and Charles Malverley with his hereditary sword unsheathed—and the point was at Malverley’s throat.

  “Put it away, my son,” said a lazy voice behind him.

  Chizzlewit moved to one side of the door, and Emmanuel d’Entraigues entered the room. Eliza was with him, her mask discarded.

  “Mon dieu, ”Julien whispered. “These Austens!”

  “I have nothing more to say to you,” Julia Radcliffe told Malverley. “You have insulted me in every possible way, from the first moment of our acquaintance. I say nothing of the outrage you visited upon my person; of the deplorable want of feeling and all decency you then exhibited, and forever after. In my infancy I knew you for a man to be feared— one whose honour is as hollow as his title. The world shall soon know you for a blackguard.”

  “Fine words, Julia,” Malverley said, “but my world does not regard the calumnies of a doxy! You can do nothing to me!”

  “I might accuse you of murder,” she returned quietly.

  Malverley threw back his head and laughed.

  “When that poor creature came to me last Monday night, and begged me to listen to her, I could not turn her away,” the Barque continued. “I knew your violence of old. She told me how you had made love to her—charming her in Paris, squiring and cajoling her—from a belief that her husband might be persuaded to pay you off. When you returned to England and discovered your mistake, you cut her utterly from your life.”

  “A moving story,” Malverley said. “Would that I knew to whom you referred!”

  “Princess Tscholikova. She showed me your letters.” Julia moved towards her cousin, her eyes fixed unflinchingly on his face, and Julien d’Entraigues let his sword fall to his side.

  “She begged me to have nothing to do with you. She claimed that I was first in your heart—that you had abandoned her love for pursuit of me—and I laughed in her face. I knew, as Tscholikova could not, why you were in Paris—where no proper Englishman should be in these days, paying court to Buonaparte. I knew why you were banished from Oxford in your final year—why your father the Earl nearly cut you off without a cent. Because you had tampered with me. Because you had got me with child.”

  “I was sent off in disgrace, my cunning jade, because you refused to marry as your father bid,” Malverley shot back through bitten lips.

  “I should sooner have died—and very nearly did die, rather than accept Tanborough charity. Thank God I may still command my own fortune; it is a preservative against torture.”

  Malverley moved, swift as an adder, and struck her a vicious blow across the cheek. Her head snapped sideways with such violence I thought her neck must have been broken, but she did not utter a sound.

  “Is that how you served your mistress?” she asked steadily, her palm nursing her cheek. “Is that how you killed Tscholikova?”

  “Julia,” said the old Comte d’Entraigues warningly.

  “I will not be silenced—and never by you,” she exclaimed, rounding on the Frenchman. “You promised to escort her, drunk with sorrow and self-pity as she was, back to Hans Town�
��and you carried her instead to Berkeley Square!”

  D’Entraigues smiled faintly. “That was a matter of politics,” he said. “I have never loved Lord Castlereagh—he would see me ruined if he could— and my loyalties are wholly Mr. Canning’s. Somewhere between Russell Square and Hans Town I saw my way clear to rendering George Canning a service—a way to ensure Castlereagh should never enter the Regent’s Cabinet. And so, yes, I gave way to politics. I left her on his doorstep, with her precious box of letters by her side. I thought it might amuse the oh-so-respectable Viscount to learn that he was betrayed to the Post by his own secretary—by that godlike young man for whom Lord Castlereagh has conceived, shall we say, a less than decent passion—”

  “That is a lie,” Malverley choked. “By God, sir, if I could get near you—”

  “But my son has a sword, voyez-vous,” d’Entraigues observed, “and this is not yet the night when my throat shall be slit. As no doubt you slit the poor Princess’s.”

  Malverley’s eyes widened. “Upon my honour, I did not!”

  D’Entraigues shrugged. “Your honour is not worth a sou in this room, monsieur. The Princess yet breathed when I left her at your door. She was found, perhaps a quarter-hour later, her ragged throat wet with blood. You alone were awake, of all the household. What is one to think, mon vieux? That she killed herself?”