Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor (20 page)

“Is the very privacy of our home to suffer from the calumnies of this woman?” he burst out.

“This woman, as you call her, has been silenced; and I cannot believe so brutal a consequence to be unconnected to the activities of her pen,” Sir William rejoined. “To the public eye, her end does but give credence to her assertions; and as such, we must do our best to answer them, and all rumour into the bargain.”

The Earl's hand went to his brow, and he paced rapidly several times before the hearth, a muscle in his jaw working. After a moment, however, and a look for Sir William, he bowed his assent. “My man, Danson, will lay the contents of my apartments at your disposal. “

“My late husband's things remain as yet in his rooms,” Isobel said, her voice barely a whisper. “I shall escort you to them.”

“There is no need to disturb yourself, Countess,” Sir William told her. “The butler shall serve as my guide. And you, Lord Scargrave—do you be so good as to remain here as well. It is best that all parties be within reach while the work is toward.”

“And barred from meddling with our rooms, if I undertake your meaning correctly,” Fitzroy Payne said with a bitter smile; “very well.”

WAITING IS ALWAYS A TEDIOUS BUSINESS, BUT NEVER MORE
so than when coupled with apprehension. At Isobel's request, I moved to the pianoforte, and attempted to play for her amusement; but my fingers stumbled more often than is their wont, and despite the holiday season, my selection of airs tended almost exclusively towards the melancholy. It was as I was thus employed that Lieutenant Hearst appeared in the sitting-room, having wearied, one supposes, of striking at balls without an adversary to lend the game spice. He stood at my shoulder, his brows knit, and an unaccustomed gravity in possession of his countenance.

“Sir William has been here?” he enquired, with an effort at diffidence.

“And is not yet departed,” I replied. “He is about his work above, while we await his pleasure below.”

The Lieutenant hesitated, as if debating what to say, and then looked about the room. I ended the minuet of Mr. Mozart's I had struggled to perform, and gave up the piano altogether. As I rose from my place, too restless to seek another seat, Tom Hearst reached a hand as if to stop me.

“The magistrate has found nothing untoward, Miss Austen?”

I stared my amazement.
“Untoward?
Besides a blackmailing maid with a gruesomely ravaged throat, abandoned in a shed? I do not pretend to understand you, Lieutenant. Are such things in the common way, for an officer of the Horse Guards?”

He looked abashed, and cast about for an answer, but I turned swiftly from him and moved to the sitting-room window in an effort to overcome a sudden trembling in the limbs. I confess to feeling more disturbed by the memory of Marguerite's poor face than I should like. I may expect to have nightmares—or another visitation from the ghostly First Earl—by morning.

My companions in tragedy were no less cast down. Fitzroy Payne laboured under the pretence of absorption in his book, but his eyes strayed to Isobel's face as often as they were fixed on the page. I noted the expression, both sad and wistful, that played over his features in gazing upon the Countess; and pitied him for the silence that divided them. Marguerite's death and the revelation of the letters had not unmastered the newly-titled Earl, however; if anything, Fitzroy Payne seemed burdened with a greater dignity, as befit his station, and the uncertainty of events surrounding it.

Dear Isobel's gaze was fixed on emptiness, her hands lying idle in her lap; from the frequent waves of emotion that swept o'er her countenance, I judged her to be reviewing the length of December's sad history, and falling ever more into despair at the terrible reversal in her fortunes. I ached to go to her; but the presence of the others—and the weight of Sir William's impending return—froze me in my place. So in search of calm, I turned my eyes from the room to the snowy view beyond the window, marvelling that a day marked by such terrible events, should still appear so fine.

In the flurry over the maid, all notions of Christmas Eve dinner had been lost to us, but not to Mrs. Hodges, the dependable Scargrave housekeeper; and it was with a start that I heard the bell summoning us to table. Tom Hearst was first to the door, and held it open for the ladies. Fitzroy Payne closed his book with a slap, his eyes upon Isobel, who rose from her chair as if waking from a dream. I inclined my head to the Earl and followed the Countess down the hall, feeling a trifle sick. But none of the party paused in its progression to the table, however little appetite we might possess; the activity of lifting a fork should at least prove a welcome alternative to restless silence.

Once in the dining parlour, however, I felt my efforts at equanimity completely routed. Mrs. Hodges had endeavoured to impart a seasonal aspect to the meal, by the addition of red bows and holly to the great Scargrave candelabra—and at the sight of such cheerful nonsense, my mind
would
turn to my family circle in Bath. What did my dear Cassandra, my father and mother say of me tonight? Did my absence cause in their breasts as much loneliness as in my own? But I looked to Isobel, who failed even to notice the table's ornaments, so desolate and bereft was she; and felt my resolve stiffen. The maid's death meant little of a happy nature lay before the Countess; she had need of stalwart friends.

Madame Delahoussaye was already seated, though her countenance bode poorly for the meal's prospects. Her black eyes were sharp and her lips compressed. “Isobel, my dear; your cousin remains indisposed,” she said.

“I regret to hear it, Aunt.” The Countess sank into the chair the footman held ready, her face as pale as death. “Perhaps you should take dear Fanny to London once the holiday is passed—for certainly Scargrave can offer little to cheer her.”

“It is decidedly unhealthy,” Madame declared, her eyes upon Tom Hearst, “and I believe we shall depart the day after tomorrow. The society of Town, Isobel, must effect an elevation in poor Fanny's spirits.”

“The society of Town being so much superior to Scargrave's, Madame?” the Lieutenant broke in. His distracted air was banished, and he shook out his serviette like a man possessed of good appetite. “I must confess that we are of one mind. In truth, I may congratulate myself that a better understanding has rarely existed between two such people, divided though we are by temperament, years, and experience. I shall seek my regiment in St. James at the first opportunity, the better to escort Miss Fanny to the gaieties of the Season.”

“Insolent rogue!” Madame burst out, her face turning white with anger. “You shall do no such thing.”

“I fear that I must, dear lady. I received a summons from my regiment this very day.”

And what of the affair of the duel? I thought. Did his regiment welcome the Lieutenant with open arms, all his sins forgotten?

Madame clenched the handle of her fork as though she would drive it through the Lieutenant's heart. “There is nothing I desire
less
than that Fanny's prospects should be poisoned by your acquaintance.”

“Dear Aunt!” Isobel cried, starting in her chair. “You forget yourself. Lieutenant Hearst is a member of the Scargrave family!”

“He is
all too much
a member of the family. He
presumes
upon his relation, Isobel. He thinks to have Fanny's beauty and her fortune for a song. And what is he? Nothing but an adventurer in a blue coat. The second son of a wastrel.” Madame threw down her serviette and thrust back her chair. “I have no appetite for dining in such company. Inform Mrs. Hodges, Isobel, that I shall take a tray in my room.”

Lieutenant Hearst raised his glass to the lady. “Your health, Madame,” he cried, as she swept by him, her eyes snapping. Then he tipped his wine towards me. “It shall make quite a picture, shall it not, Miss Austen? Miss Fanny and the Lieutenant. So little sense, allied with so much sensibility.”

“Good Lord, Tom,” Fitzroy Payne chided, “must you plague Madame so? Her daughter's care is as the world to hen We who know you, know that you delight in provoking; but
she
feels only insult in your raillery.”

“Reproaches, Fitzroy?” The Lieutenant affected dismay. “And I had looked for thanks! For by my offices the good woman is returned to her room, and we may take Christmas Eve dinner in peace.”

Tom Hearst may have meant his words in jest, but his tone was cutting; and I wondered, as I listened, at the edge of bitterness in his voice. The truth of it all escapes me. Does he admire Fanny? His barbs would suggest the opposite. But he continues to tease Madame unmercifully with his attentions, as though her daughter remains his object. And yet, and yet—when I spend an hour in his company, and feel his warmth, my heart whispers that Fanny hopes in vain.

IT WAS WHILE WE TOYED WITH MRS. HODGES'S EXCELLENT
oyster soup that Sir William returned. Not two hours had passed since he had left us, I judged; but from the transformation of his countenance during that time, it might well have been a year.

He stood in the doorway, clearing his throat, his eyes on the Countess's pale face. “I am distressed to disturb you at your dinner, my lady,” he said, “but I am forced to ask of those present a few questions.”

“But of course, Sir William.” Isobel set down her spoon, her features more composed than I could have believed, despite the air of strain that governed the room. “How may we be of service?”

The magistrate glanced at the two footmen ranged against the dining parlour's walls, and then gave the Countess an expressive look. “I should prefer to speak to the family alone. Excepting, that is, Miss Austen.”

Isobel lifted her hand in a gesture of dismissal, and the footmen departed. Their removal only heightened the tensions around the table. But Sir William did not prolong the suspense.

“I believe this is yours, my lady,” he said, advancing upon Isobel's chair with hand extended.

“Why, so it is!” she exclaimed, taking the proffered handkerchief. “I am forever leaving my linen about like a forgetful schoolgirl. Where did you encounter it?”

“Miss Austen was so good as to retrieve it from the paddock this morning,” the magistrate replied.

“The paddock …” Isobel's face drained of its last vestiges of colour. “But I have not been to the paddock these several days. Jane—” Her eyes sought mine in confusion.

“It was lying by the gate, Isobel,” I told her quietly “From its appearance in the snow, it was quite recently let fall.”

Sir William interposed smoothly. “Have you any recognition of the hand that penned these words, Countess?” He took from his waistcoat the bloody slip of paper I had retrieved from Marguerite's bodice.

Isobel bent to study it with indrawn breath. She looked at me and then at the magistrate. “But what does it mean?” she said.

“The hand, my lady?”

With her eyes fixed upon the Earl's face, she replied slowly, “I should swear it to be Fitzroy's.”

Tom Hearst cleared his throat and pushed back his chair. As I watched, he folded his arms across his chest— the better, perhaps, to contain himself. Our eyes met, and his eyebrow lifted—a mute plea for some sense from all this muddle.

Sir William turned to the Earl, and withdrew his hand from his pocket. In his open palm sat a clutch of small brown objects. “My lord,” he said, “is it in your power to name these?”

Fitzroy Payne frowned and replied in the negative.

“And you, my lady?”

Isobel peered at the fruit, each one as small as a seed, in the magistrate's hand. “Why, they are the nuts of the Barbadoes tree!” she exclaimed. “The humble folk of my native island swear by them as a physick. But where did you find them?”

“Wrapped in velvet—in the present Lord Scargrave's gun case, my lady,* Sir William replied, and his face was very grave. “I had thought it possible, but could not be certain, that they were the very seed you have named.” He placed the nuts carefully on a serviette that lay upon the sideboard, and folded it into a neat package.

“And have you journeyed to the Indies unbeknownst to me, Fitzroy?” Isobel looked at the Earl, her brown eyes troubled. She retained admirable command of her voice, but I saw the pulse throbbing at her throat, and knew her heart was racing.

“You know it to be impossible,” Fitzroy Payne replied. “Sir William, are the nuts wholesome?”

“The taste is so delightful, that to eat one is to eat them all,” Sir William said, “which is what we may judge the late Earl to have done. For the Barbadoes nut is poison, Lord Scargrave; so deadly a purgative, in fact, that illness commences but a quarter-hour after ingestion, and death is achieved in a very few hours.”

Tom Hearst leapt to his feet, his hand upon his sabre hilt. “Good God, man, what do you mean to say?”

There was a small sound, almost a whimper, from Isobel, whose face had gone a deadly white. Her hands were clenched on the table edge, as though without its support, she should crumple to the floor.

“Sit down, Tom.” Fitzroy Payne's voice was weary.”Sir William intends us to believe the nuts caused my uncle's last illness.”

“But, Fitzroy, are you mad? The fellow is suggesting—”

“I know what the Justice is suggesting.” At his cousin's look, Tom Hearst stiffened, but regained his seat. Fitzroy Payne inclined his head to Sir William. “Pray continue.”

“It is my duty, Lord Scargrave,” Sir William said slowly, his eyes upon the floor; “to ask that the body of Frederick, Lord Scargrave, be exhumed from its resting place in the Scargrave vault.”

“To what purpose, sir, would you so disturb my uncle's rest?”

“I should like Dr. Philip Pettigrew, of Sloane Street, who attended his lordship at his death, to reexamine the body.” Sir William's eyes came up from the floor at that, and the coldness in them startled me.

“And what end may that serve?” The Earl's voice had lost its accustomed courtesy. “Pettigrew has already declared the man to be dead.”

Sir William glanced at Isobel, and following his gaze, I saw my friend's hand had gone to her throat. “It is possible, my lord,” the magistrate said, “for a physician to divine the contents of the stomach, even days after death; and from those, the cause of a man's demise.”