Jane and the Barque of Frailty jam-9

by Stephanie Barron

  “You were known to one another, however?”

  “By name only. I had never spoken to Tscholikova before in my life, tho’ I had often noticed her at the opera, and similar places. Tell me, Miss Austen — why are you come?”

  “Because the threat of the gallows hangs over me.”

  “And what have I to do with that?”

  The coldness of the remark gave me pause. “Much, I must imagine. I have been told the jewels were in your keeping, before they passed into … mine.”

  “Have you, indeed?” A look of incredulity lit her perfect features. “Then I have been betrayed by one whose discretion I believed to be infallible.”

  “The Comtesse d’Entraigues?”

  The expression of shock drained from her countenance; composure was once more regained. “Ah. The Comtesse … and what did she tell you?”

  “Surely you may surmise!”

  “I hardly know of what that creature is capable. I should like to have the recital whole, from your lips.”

  I shrugged, aware that in giving way to her request, I accorded her the ascendancy in our battle. “You must forgive me if I offend your sensibilities— if I tread too closely on matters of an intensely private nature — but the pressure of events, and Mr.

  Skroggs’s attention, are very great, and must urge me to be explicit.”

  “I prefer plain dealing.”

  “Very well. Anne de St.-Huberti informed me that she had come to Russell Square to beg you to renounce her husband; that she feared the loss of her household and security, under the threat of divorce; and that by way of recompense for your conquest of the Comte, you pressed upon her Tscholikova’s jewels.”

  “ I pressed them upon her?” Julia Radcliffe’s delicate brows rose. “I see. Then there is very little point in my denying it.”

  The swiftness of the admission convinced me, as outcry or argument would not have done, that she lied. Julia Radcliffe had accepted the Comtesse’s claims as a matter of policy — a tactical choice, rather than an admission of guilt.

  “Miss Radcliffe,” I demanded, “did Princess Tscholikova place her jewels in your keeping when she called here, several days before her death?”

  “She must have done so. The Comtesse d’Entraigues would have it I gave the jewels to her— and for that to be true, I must have received them from the Princess … ”

  Her tone was almost one of amusement. I studied her visage searchingly.

  “If I am to escape the threat of hanging,” I said slowly, “it will be chiefly through the implication of guilt in others — Bill Skroggs will have his prey. I should not like to think it is you, Miss Radcliffe, I am coursing into his jaws.”

  A silence fell between us.

  “I must consider all you have said.” She rose gracefully, her countenance betraying nothing. “I cannot possibly know what may be told — what I may… in short, I must consult with another. If you would be so good as to give me your direction—”

  “I am staying with my brother, Mr. Henry Austen, of No. 64 Sloane Street, Hans Town.”

  “Very well. I shall call upon you at the earliest possible moment, Miss Austen. At present, however, I am sadly neglecting my guests.”

  She bobbed a curtsey; I returned it; and then Julia Radcliffe was gone.

  I HAD THE LENGTH OF MY JOURNEY HOME TO REFLECT upon all that had passed. I was not, in the event, entirely downcast: I had learned that Miss Radcliffe had indeed seen the Princess before her death; that she was aware of the existence of the jewels — for she had betrayed no surprise or curiosity when they were mentioned — and that there was some other she would shield, consult, and protect. For all that she had revealed so little, I felt I must be nearer my object. I had played my trump card: the threat of pursuit from Bill Skroggs — a man whom at Grafton House she had owned she hated. I had merely to wait for Miss Radcliffe to return my call — and such a well-behaved, gently-reared girl was unlikely to neglect the exertion.

  Chapter 26

  Tales to Frighten Children

  Tuesday, 30 April 1811

  SHE CAME TO ME TODAY, FAR SOONER THAN I HAD expected, and such a show of breeding must be imputed to her Radcliffe rearing.

  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 side-lamps — 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.”
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  “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 went 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 sho
uld 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?