Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor (9 page)

“Did not you see the change?” Isobel burst out. “You, who are my dearest friend in the world—did not you discern that I was in the throes of some great trouble?”

“I did not, Isobel,” I replied, wondering at my own stupidity. “I thought you only a trifle wearied by the duties of your new station. And that is for the best, my dear—for if I did not discern it, you may be assured your husband was equally in the dark.”

“How terrible,” the Countess murmured, “that one should find the ignorance of a husband to be a blessing.”

“And so you had not met again, the Viscount and yourself, until the night of the ball?” I resumed.

She shook her head. “It was for this I begged your presence on the occasion, my dear Jane. I dearly needed the strength of a friend beside me at such an hour. That Fitzroy came at all was necessary to the duty he owed his uncle; to have stayed away would have seemed strange: But he did not meet me with composure. And I believe his feelings are as unabated by the passage of a few months, as I know my own to be.”

“Isobel,” I began, and rose to stand before the fire with the maid's crumpled letter in my hand, “we must consider what we are to do. Marguerite claims she will go to the magistrate; we have determined to lay the business before him ourselves, and so prevent her the element of surprise. To contain the affair, this would seem the only course. But what then? Do you disclose what you must to Sir William regarding your feeling for Fitzroy?”

Isobel started from her chaise, cheeks scarlet and eyes ablaze with indignation. “It is impossible! In every respect, impossible!”

“You will dissimulate, then?”

“I shall regard the suggestion as of a piece with the rest of the maid's nonsense—no more to be believed than her accusation of murder,” she retorted, with spirit.

“To what, then, do we ascribe her motive? That must be our question.” I stopped beneath the Earl's portrait and regarded it thoughtfully. “We must tell Sir William we believe Marguerite capable of blackmail; that she wishes to frighten you into paying for her silence. A paltry art from a paltry maid. He must see the sense of it.”

Isobel moved swiftly to her desk in search of pen and paper. “Of course, Jane. It has merit. I shall ring for the footman directly; he may take my note to Sir William. I think it best we meet after the funeral tomorrow, do not you agree?”

“Propriety would argue the same.”

“So it shall be.”

“Isobel—” I began, and then hesitated. Why disturb further what was already disturbed beyond imagining?

“Jane?”

“You
are
certain in your mind that your husband died of natural causes?”

“Why should I not be?”

“Why, indeed?”

1. It is unclear from the text of which former suitor Jane is thinking. Because these manuscripts were intended as private journals, occasional passages exist where Jane is clearly “talking to herself.”—
Editor's note.

˜

MY DEAREST CASSANDRA
—

You asked that I write you once Lord Scargrave was in the ground, and tell you of the particulars.

The day dawned stormy and soon commenced to snow quite hard, so that we were bundled into closed chariots for the journey to the Reverend Samuels's service in the little church of Scargrave Close. The Reverend is an elderly man, of pinched and nearsighted appearance; he looks to be consumptive and not a little wandering in his wits, as he more than once addressed the deceased by his father's name, and on one occasion by his brother's, both of whom have preceded the Earl from this life. The poor health of the celebrant and his vague demeanour explain why his society is not sought at Scargrave; they bode well for the rapidity with which George Hearst may succeed to the living, if matters are disposed in the Earl's will as Mr. Hearst has reason to hope.

There was, as can be imagined, little remarkable in the good Reverend's eulogy. It was a solemn recitation of the Earl's worldly passage that might have been taken from the account of a London journal, rather than any intimate knowledge of Lord Scargrave's character. I find that there is nothing sadder than such a ceremony, when it is marked by indifference and ignorance of its subject. Better to be celebrated by those whom one has known and loved, than dispatched by a relative stranger, of incongenial habits and temperament, with whom one has passed no more than the trivialities of social necessity. But such was the Earl of Scargrave's fate.

As is the custom, however, only the gentlemen of the family walked behind the carriage bearing his body to the great Scargrave tomb, where his first Countess already lies slumbering; and given the heavy fall of snow, I profess for once having been pleased with the lot accorded my sex. The women repaired to the Manor, there to indulge in that excess of grief considered necessary in any lady of delicacy and breeding; knowing my delicacy, and still more my breeding, you need not be told that few tears fell from my eye. I confess to a period of contemplative silence, however, during which I reflected upon the suddenness of the Earl's passage from this life, and the upcoming interview with Sir William Reynolds—yes, Sir William Reynolds, our dear friend of old, who has traded London for Hertfordshire upon his retirement, and is now turned the local magistrate.

You have from me the particulars of the maid Marguerite's letter in my last,
¹
though if I refrained from conveying with perfect frankness all that Isobel discussed that day, you must forgive me. What I heard, I heard in confidence, and there the matter ends. Suffice it to say that we look forward this afternoon to presenting a blackmailer's mark to a man of the law, and have hopes that our actions may stem unfortunate rumour.

I fear that Christmas at Scargrave will be a grim affair, and could wish myself returned to Bath and my beloved sister, were it not for the comfort Isobel seems to draw from my presence.

I send you my love, and ask that you convey it as well to my father and mother.

Yours very affectionately,

J.A.

Journal entry, later that day

˜

WE WERE ASSEMBLED FOR TEA IN THE GREAT SCARGRAVE
drawing-room when Cobblestone, the stooped and aged Scargrave butler, announced Sir William. Despite Isobel's anxious looks, I was relieved to observe that his visit was taken as nothing out of the ordinary way by the other members of the family.

“He is come, I suppose, to offer condolence,” said Fitzroy Payne.

“And to secure his position with the new Earl, no doubt,” threw in Tom Hearst, as Cobblestone withdrew. The Lieutenant stabbed viciously with a poker at a log burning too slowly for his taste, and sent up a shower of sparks. “These petty local justices are all of a piece. Keep firm hold on their sinecures, eat heartily of mutton and ale at the local
fetes
, and concern themselves little with matters beyond their purses.”

“A failing they hold in common with the petty local gentry,” came a sepulchral voice in reply.

All eyes turned to Mr. George Hearst, sunk in his armchair in the farthest corner of the room, a volume of
Fordyce's Sermons
open upon his knee. “We cannot expect the men we appoint to govern us, to be better than ourselves. Did Sir William not curry favour at the Manor, it should be a miracle; for assuredly, brother, you and I have been attempting it all our lives.”

“I think you mistake, cousin,” cried the new Earl, with becoming energy. “Sir William is late of the King's Bench,
²
a barrister known for his perspicacity; and though Scargrave Close may offer little to challenge his wits after London's broad humanity, he is no less careful of his office, for all that.” Fitzroy Payne turned to Lord Harold Trowbridge, who sat apart in a high-backed wing chair, watching all that occurred with the lidded eyes of a hawk. “I believe you have reason to fear Sir William's wits, Lord Harold. You encountered him more than once when he was in the Exchequer, did you not?”

A slow smile spread across the narrow, dark face. “He has had his moments of good fortune. At my expense. And I have had mine, at his.”

“A barrister in retirement! But this is capital!” the Lieutenant exclaimed. “My fellows at the Cock and Bull had best look to their pints, and find another place to carouse, now a prop of the law is come to Scargrave!”

“If Sir William serves to moderate even
your
dissipation, Tom, we may count his presence a blessing,” George Hearst rejoined. A painful pause threatened to silence us all; but I dare say Mr. Spinoza entertained the notion of Fanny Delahoussaye when he declared that nature abhors a vacuum. She rose to the defence of her favourite with more haste than discretion.

“The Bar, of all professions, must be declared the most vulgar,” she avowed, with a look for Tom Hearst in his blue coat. “In physick we may detect a nobler calling, despite its trappings of trade, in the saving of lives; the Church is redeemed by the sanctity of its purpose; and the military life, of course, is to be preferred above all others for its bravery and fortitude.”

Miss Fanny's pretty speech was interrupted here by a contemptuous snort from her mother, who cast a venomous look at Tom Hearst. The Lieutenant merely grinned at Madame, and bowed in her daughter's direction.

“But how are we to praise the Bar?” Miss Delahoussaye continued, undaunted. “A nasty meddling in the concerns of debtors, cutthroats, and swindlers, the lowest form of society, for a fee one must pretend not to take by sending the bill through one's solicitors!
³
I should not marry a barrister for anything in the world!”

“And he, my dear,” Lord Harold said from his corner, “would certainly be ill-advised to marry
you.’“

Sir William Reynolds was shown in upon the heels of this curt remark. The new Earl he greeted first, as befit the highest peer in the room; then he turned to the Countess with a bow. Lord Harold Trowbridge he offered but a nod, tho’ if he recalled the moments the duke's son had won at his expense, Sir William's face gave no sign. When he had made his courtesies to the Delahoussayes and the Hearsts, I rose to greet him with my hand extended, and said with real pleasure, “Sir William! What good fortune that we should meet again, after so many years!”

“Miss Austen, to be sure!” The smile that suffused his merry old face was like a ray of sun in that mordant atmosphere. “A pleasure for which I could not have hoped! And how is your dear father?”

“Very well, sir, when last we met. I shall be pleased to send him equally good news of yourself.”

“You are acquainted with Sir William, Miss Austen?” the Earl broke in, with wonder.

“Indeed, my lord, since I was a child.”

“I was at Oxford with her father;” the good man said, his face beaming, “and stood godparent to one of her brothers. How is the rascal?”

“Charles is faring well in his naval career, though Frank, his elder, continues to outstrip him.”

“As he should! As he should!” Sir William exclaimed, and smiled all around until, recollecting the reason for his presence in a house of mourning, he assumed a more becoming gravity.

Sir William Reynolds is that mixture of quick parts and good humour, unabashed affection and deceptive shrewdness, that makes for a candid and invigorating acquaintance. He had left his practice at the Bar and his clerks at the King's Bench some five months past, upon receiving his knighthood, and had settled in Scargrave Close to enjoy his remaining years, much as my father had chosen the retreat of Bath. The honour of his elevation had done little to impair his easy manners; Sir William was not the sort to adopt a false pride, but rather a heightened civility, a useful quality in his current duties as justice of the peace. That his good sense might make short work of Isobel's trouble, I was completely assured.

“My very deepest and most sincere condolences, my lady,” Sir William said, with a bow to my friend.

“Thank you, Sir William.” Isobel's hand went to her throat, a gesture that has become familiar. I feared for a moment that she might faint, and would have moved to her aid; but Fitzroy Payne was before me. In an instant he placed a chair at her disposal, with a tender look that betrayed all his concern. For; indeed, Isobel is a changed woman entirely.

The Countess bears the marks of extreme fatigue upon her countenance, the result not merely of this morning's melancholy duties but of broken repose. In Marguerite's absence, she will suffer no one to do up her hair, and so the pretty ringlets that once graced her brow are now severely drawn back. Her mourning dress proclaims itself as last worn in respect of her late father, it being some three years out of fashion; she has neither time nor inclination to consult a mantua-maker for anything new. With her fixed pallor and eyes reddened from weeping, my friend is far from lovely; except that there might be a sort of loveliness in her pitiable desolation.

“You are very good, Sir William, to venture out in the snow on the late Earl's behalf,” Fitzroy Payne said, in an effort, I thought, to fill an awkward pause. I felt all my apprehension at his remark, knowing that Sir William was present by Isobel's invitation, and undoubtedly wondering at its cause.