Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor (29 page)

“I shall tell you in the carriage,” I said, “for time is of the essence.”

“But, my dear Jane—I must think what to wear. For this old thing cannot do for the Duke of Wilborough's residence. No, indeed.” Dismayed, she surveyed her short-sleeved gown, of pumpkin-coloured silk overlaid with bronze braid, and cut as always in the latest fashion. At forty-one, cousin Eliza has not cast off her youth, and to judge from her effect on most gentlemen, her care is well rewarded. She cast a swift glance in the mirror and hurried towards the door; Pug at her heels. “I shall not be a moment, Jane. Manon!”

1. Spencer Perceval (later Prime Minister of England, assassinated in the House of Commons, 1812) was Attorney-General in 1803, and thus should have argued the case for the Crown. His “indisposition” may, in fact, have been overwork—he was engrossed at this time in preparing the prosecution of a Colonel Despard, who had recently plotted the assassination of George IE and the overthrow of the government.—
Editor's note.

2. As noted elsewhere, a defense lawyer in 1802 could do very little for his client—being barred from questioning or cross-examining the prosecution's witnesses or allowing the defendant to testify on his or her own behalf. His role was limited to arguing points of law as presented in the prosecution's case.—
Editor's note.

3. Austen scholars believe that Eliza de Feuillide is the probable model for Jane Austen's most outrageous heroine, Lady Susan, of the eponymous novel. Eliza was probably the natural child of Warren Hastings (Governor-General of Bengal from the 1760s to the mid-1780s), and Jane Austen's aunt, Philadelphia Austen Hancock. Hastings stood god-father to the infant Eliza, and provided a £10,000 trust fund for her support; she later named her only son, who was to die in his youth, Hastings de Feuillide. Warren Hastings is most famous for a spectacular impeachment trial in the House of Commons from 1787-1795, where he was eventually cleared of charges of murder, bribery, and mismanagement.—
Editor's note.

1 January 1803, cont.

˜

WILBOROUGH HOUSE SITS IN ST. JAMES SQUARE, IN ALL
the glory of grey stone and the lustre of its ancient name.
¹
That Eliza was acquainted with the Duchess of Wilborough, I had long known—it was my chief purpose in her recruitment, for her card, which bore still her French title of Comtesse de Feuillide, should readily gain acceptance where my own poor Miss Austen should languish in the entry-hall bowl. It was as I predicted—the austere fellows guarding either side of the door in livery and white wigs surveyed the grandeur of Eliza's emerald-green gown, tasselled turban, and ermine stole; bowed with a certain contained respect, and returned promptly to inform us that the Duchess was at home.

No one could resist Eliza. She was possessed, always, of the latest intelligence regarding one's acquaintance.

We were ushered up a broad stair and through lofty rooms done up in the fashion of Europe. Painted murals of fat cupids and slender nymphs adorned the ceilings, the walls were sheathed in boiserie, and precious Sevres vases filled every corner.

“Frightfully stuffy, my dear, like the Duchess's mind,” Eliza confided, and I expelled my breath in relief. She, at least, was not overawed.

Through enfiladed drawing-rooms, past set after set of tall doors that opened noiselessly at our approach—a score of footmen alone must be required for the delivery of the Duchess's callers; what she demands for a small dinner party, I cannot imagine. At last we were shown into an intimate lady's parlour, all gilt and white and silk-strewn chairs of the uncomfortable sort deemed necessary for the preservation of one's posture, and faced the Duchess of Wilborough herself. A little woman, of pinched and imperious countenance, who smiled creak-lly at the sight of Eliza.

“My dear,” the Duchess said, extending a limp hand, “so good of you to cheer a friend in her solitude.”

“Are you quite alone, then, Duchess?” Eliza enquired, her voice all concern, and bent to clasp the beringed fingers she was offered. “I have brought you my favourite sister,
²
Miss Austen of Bath, only recently arrived in Town. She has been intimate these past weeks at Scargrave Manor; where I believe your dear brother recently visited as well.”

“Harry?” the Duchess said with some asperity; “I cannot pretend to know whose houses or whose beds Harry has visited last. But I am obliged to make your acquaintance, Miss Austen, and to see you none the worse for your recent encounter with my brother.”

All amazement at her vulgarity, I murmured something in reply, and took the seat the Duchess offered.

“Now,” she said, settling her hands comfortably, “you must tell me all you know of the scandal.”

“The scandal?” I said, affecting ignorance.”

“Regarding Scargrave's death,” she returned impatiently. “Is it true the young rogue who was his heir has been enjoying the favours of the Countess?”

It was plain that the Duchess felt complete frankness to be her reward for admitting me to the elevated circle of her acquaintance; and my discomfort must have shown on my face. I knew not what to say. Matters of such a delicate nature should not be tossed about for amusement; and yet, I had come for just this sort of information myself. Eliza rescued me.

“My dear cousin is an intimate friend of the lady,” she murmured, leaning forward to offer the full force of her charm; “and Your Grace cannot expect her to betray a confidence of so serious a nature. But
I
am under no such compunction; and I may relate that the Countess and the present Earl are even now locked away in Newgate prison. They were brought before the Assizes soon after Christmas, and remanded to the House of Lords for trial.”

“No!” the Duchess said, slapping her hands on her lap; “and Bertie” (by this I took her to mean her husband, the Duke) “will have to hear it in the Lords. How extraordinary! We must send for Bertie at once. For I am certain the trial shall not be long postponed.”

“Indeed, it is to be scheduled among the first items of the new session's business,” I ventured. “His Grace is not in residence?”

“Lord, no,” she replied. “He and Trowbridge have been over in Paris nearly a fortnight, about some wretched business with the West Indies trade. I begged off at the last moment—can't abide Buonaparte, you know, nor that slattern he calls his wife. Intelligence is
not
her strong suit, and her taste in clothes—”

“How adventurous of His Grace,” Eliza broke in. “Very few of his countrymen should risk a trip to France, when hostilities have been suspended so little
time.”
³

“I am of your opinion, and told the Duke the same. ‘If that upstart invades while you are away, my dear,’ I said to Bertie, ‘you shall be thrown in prison, and I shall retire to the country.’ Of what worth is a concession to trade with the French Indies, when the word of the dictator cannot be trusted? They should content themselves with trading among good English subjects alone. Buonaparte has tried to strangle the flow of British goods, but he shall not prevail while we hold our colonies in the Caribbean.”

“How refreshing to hear politics discussed by a lady,” Eliza murmured, with an ecstatic look; “and how I envy your husband's chance to visit once more that unhappy country! It will live forever in my memory as the most poignant, and beloved, epoch of my past.” She looked down at her gloves, and managed a tear; the Duchess was instantly all sympathy.

“How could I be so cruel as to remind you of such horrors! Forgive me, my dear—and you, too, Miss Austen.”

“And so Lord Harold went directly from Scargrave to Paris,” I said. “He cannot, then, have learned of the Countess's recent misfortune.”

“Indeed, not,” the Duchess said, “but I shall write to Bertie directly. Neither he nor Trowbridge would wish to miss the event, of such importance to the peerage.”

“I fear; Duchess, that we must leave you now,” Eliza said tearfully, as though overcome by bitter memories of the past; “but we have
so
enjoyed our little visit.” She rose in a manner that suffered no protest, extended her exquisitely gloved hand, and turned for the door, myself in her wake.

Behind us, the Duchess rang a bell, and at the door's silent opening, we were pleased to find a footman waiting to conduct us to the street. Without a guide, I am sure that even Eliza should have wandered lost about the corridors, surveyed by Wilborough ancestors scowling from their frames.

Once freed of the oppressive rooms, with their weight of conscious elegance, my cousin breathed a sigh of relief. “Poor Honoria
is
an unfortunate old frump,” Eliza said, mounting the carriage step in a swirl of green silk, “but she told us what we desired to learn.”

“And in exchange, we may expect her to trample Isobel's name in all the best houses,” I rejoined. “I must suppose it impossible that Lord Harold murdered the maid, however, as he was clearly abroad at the time; and so must look to others for the Countess's relief.”

“It is not beyond belief, you know, that Trowbridge dispatched a cutthroat in his employ,” Eliza mused, smoothing her shawl as the coachman shut the carriage door behind us. “A man of his power and means could do so from anywhere in the realm, at any moment.”

“Possible, but unlikely,” I said thoughtfully. “He should then have to trust to the man's secrecy until his own return from Paris, and trust is a quality quite foreign to Lord Harold's nature. I think 1 must consider others as more likely.” I turned to her with renewed concern. “Eliza, does the memory of France pain you so much?”

“I shall never cease thanking Fate for throwing France my way,” she said, as the carriage wheels began to roll. “By going to the guillotine, the Comte did more for my future than he can possibly have appreciated. He has saved me from many a bore in recent years, and so his death was not
entirely
without purpose.”

I
RETURNED TO SCARGRAVE HOUSE TO FIND FANNY DELA
-houssaye and her mother entertaining a young gentleman by the name of Cranley—a barrister, no less, but suffered to pollute Fanny's presence in deference to his new duties, they being the defence of Isobel and Fitzroy Payne. He rose with alacrity at my appearance, and bowed low over my hand; a fellow possessed of a cheerful and open countenance, and the aspect of a gentleman.

“I understand you are intimate these many years with my honoured opponent,” he said to me.

“Sir William Reynolds? He has long been a friend to the Austen family.”

“And an enemy to every hapless criminal before the Bar,” Cranley rejoined with spirit. “Though Miss Delahoussaye offers it as her opinion that he is, perhaps, now past his best efforts.”

I saw with impatience the sheep-like look of admiration he cast Fanny's way; she had wasted no time in enslaving the poor man to her charms. She was dressed this afternoon in a gown I confess I coveted—black and white striped silk, with braided frogs. When I had expressed my admiration, however, she had declared it to be hopelessly out of fashion and suitable only for wearing before the family. I did not dare
think
what her opinion of my own attire might be, and forbore to praise her finery the more.

“I should never underestimate Sir William,” I told the barrister, as Fanny coloured and looked conscious; “even at less than his best, he is decidedly very good. But that is not what you would hear, Mr. Cranley, and I should speak more to the purpose. Tell me what you would know.”

“Does Sir William believe himself secure in her ladyship's guilt?”

I settled myself in a chair by the hearth—the carriage ride from Wilborough House had been quite cold—and removed my gloves and bonnet, handing them to the maid who waited by my side. “As secure as he need be,” I told the barrister. “You know that he must only prove a case in the minds of the assembled peerage, to see the Countess hang.”

“Indeed,” he replied, commencing to pace before the fire; a well-made young man, with the quickness of his wits readily upon his face. “Her ladyship is damned by the evidence. Only the maid might have saved her—by admitting guilt, or throwing it upon another—and the maid is dead.”

“This would seem to be Sir William's happiest point,” I observed. “For he would have it that the Countess dispatched Fitzroy Payne to slit Marguerite's throat, precisely
because
she could incriminate her mistress.”

“I have been to see the Countess in her cell,” Cranley told me.

Fanny shuddered audibly, and her mother cast her an anxious look.

“Mr Cranley,” Madame said reprovingly, “should not you conduct your business with a
gentleman
of the family? Such words are not for the ears of young ladies gently bred.”

The barrister immediately looked his remorse, and allowed as it was true; but I intervened with decided purpose.

“Being both less gently bred, and less youthful, than Miss Delahoussaye,” I said, “I should dearly love to discuss the Countess's case.” Madame looked her outrage, and summoned her daughter with a gesture; and so the ladies departed, and left me in command of the room.