Jane Austen Mysteries 08 Jane and His Lordship's Legacy (15 page)

Henry replied, "tho' I do not think his lordship has lived there in years--he prefers his London house, or the shooting box in Leicestershire, I believe. Why do you ask?"

"Is the Earl's family name Spence? Is he an officer who nurses a limp recently earned in the Peninsula?"

Henry stared. "Not at all! Holbrook never stirs from Carlton House if he can help it. I told you, Jane--he's the man believed to have sired Julian Thrace. Tho' there are as many who would insist it was not Holbrook at all, but the Viscount St. Eustace."

"Henry--Shafto French was put to work at Stonings with Dyer's men a few weeks ago. And now we find Julian Thrace is descended upon Hampshire. Is it not a strange coincidence?"

"Strange--but no less happenstance," he retorted impa-tiently. "You might mention it to Thrace when we dine at the Great House tonight. I intend to learn as much as may be about our interesting friends the Middletons and their even more cu-rious guest this evening; the engagement forms one of the chief objects of my Hampshire interest."

"You should never have remained in Alton so long, in fact, with only your sister to entertain you."

"Indeed I should not. The country is a dead bore, Jane, without violent death to lend it spice." He bowed me satirically on my way.

As I quitted the town once more in the direction of Chawton, I was surprised to notice my informant of the morn-ing, Bertie Philmore, on the point of entering the Swan Inn. He was probably intending to spend the shillings I had just given him on a draught of ale--but his path was blocked by a most 114 ~ Stephanie Barron

surprising interrogator: slight of figure, elegant of appearance and sharp in his grasp of Philmore's sleeve. The Romantick Poet of yesterday's inquest was unmistakable. But what could Mr. Jack Hinton have to say to Bertie Philmore, that must ani-mate his countenance with distinct anxiety?

Jane and His Lordship's Legacy ~ 115

Excerpt from the diary of Lord Harold Trowbridge, dated
17 April 1785, on board the Indiaman
Punjab
out of Calcutta,
bound for Portsmouth.

Her name is Helene, third and most lovely daughter of the
Comte de Pont-Ravel, of an obscure and little-travelled family
locked in the Jura. Her father fled the boyhood domains at a
tender age, having a lust for adventure not shared by his fellows;
and but for the untimely death of the eldest and heir, might have
remained forever in Madras and made a fortune for the
Compagnie des Indes. Sadly, the Comte was recalled last year to
take up his estates, and show a proper face to the local gentry,
and Helene remained behind. In a convent school run by the nuns
of Sacre-Coeur, who rely upon the good will of the French officers
brought in to defend the French traders from the rapine of the
British--except that the British have slowly and surely become
the masters of the French on the Subcontinent, and the convent
school is closing, and Helene is bound in all irony for England
itself, aboard an English ship.

And how, I asked her lightly, did this betrothal come about?

She lifted her pretty shoulders, and twirled her parasol. Papa
has known the English Viscount's family for many years; there
was a time when they were united by blood; and Papa has found
his circumstances much embarrassed since his return to the Jura.

The estates are not in good repair, the harvests are bad, the wine-
making imbecilic; in short, all Papa's Madras gold is unequal to
the necessities of his domain, and he has sold his youngest
daughter to the highest bidder.

This much I learned from his daughter's piquant mouth as we
strolled about the quarterdeck in the cooling world of the
southern hemisphere autumn, while the passage of the Horn and
its terrors loomed still ahead of us. I have so far advanced the
116 ~ Stephanie Barron

trust of Captain Dundage that he sees no harm in these young
British noblemen entertaining the young lady, as assuredly she
must
improve her English; and it required only the knowledge of
my acquaintance with her espoused husband, tactfully dropped in
Dundage's ear by Freddy Vansittart, to win the right to place the
lady's arm through mine and lead her about the stern.

Freddy makes a third in these jaunterings, and unlike myself is
fairly well lost to the charms of Helene. I observe her parted
lips--how they swell childishly in the sea air--observe her hair,
whipped free of her bonnet by the compelling wind and shining
gold in the sunlight; I hear her melodious voice, like lark song in
the morning; and I am unmoved. She is but a child, and I no
longer find children enchanting. Helene, be she ever so fair, is
doomed like the victim of tubercular fever, like the prisoner of a
castle already under siege. I was foolish enough once to believe
love could change the terms of one's very existence, if only one
loved hard enough; I was ready to kill or be killed for love's sake;
and I have since learned that the murder of the innocent is the
true end of passion. I would not win this chit's heart now, if I
could; I am certain that in working my revenge upon St. Eustace
I should only succeed in destroying Helene's peace--and should
never land a blow upon the Viscount's impassive facade.

If I am weak, so be it. I have the satisfaction of knowing that
I am not yet beyond the reach of all human feeling.

Freddy, having a more carnal object in view, is no such
respecter of the fair Helene's predestination. "Bollocks," he said,
when I would have pled St. Eustace's case. "Don't tell me you
don't hate the man. I know that you do. He's a Viscount; well,
by God, I'm an Earl now, Harry--and I claim my
droit de seigneur.
" I must hope that if Bertie is thrown from his horse one
day, and leaves me in possession of the strawberry leaves and
Wilborough House, that I do not commit the same follies of
Jane and His Lordship's Legacy ~ 117

arrogance that Freddy has come to, since the receipt of that letter
from Hampshire.1
Droit de seigneur.
And so, regardless of whom
she may love, Helene de Pont-Ravel is forever a chattel, the
property of one man or another who proposes to claim her. No
wonder Mamma saw fit to run off to the Parisian stage. Freedom
is worth any amount of scandal.

I should not be a woman for anything in this world.

1 We are to assume from Lord Harold's oblique reference that Frederick Vansittart acceded to his elder brother's earldom sometime in 1785, and that for this reason he returned to England aboard the
Punjab
with the governor-general's party.
--Editor's note.

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Chapter 11

The Steward

6 July 1809, cont.

~

Chawton Great House, constructed of flint in the Tudor style, sits at the southern end of the village on a gentle rise above the church of St. Nicholas. It is a noble and some-what eccentric old gentleman's house, with wings facing awk-wardly to west and north, and any number of curious, ill-considered passages running through its interior. I spent more than a week as an intimate of the place two years ago, while Edward made some repairs to the property prior to Mr.

Middleton's taking up his lease, and was thus prepared for the archaic splendours within.

Tho' the light of a summer's evening was still strong as the Austen party approached the entrance porch for our ap-pointed dinner, Mr. Middleton had caused flaming torches to be set into brackets near the door.

Jane and His Lordship's Legacy ~ 119

"Quite a feudal note, Jane," Henry observed; "I wonder whether we shall be compelled to share our joint with the hounds?"

As a sportsman, Mr. Middleton might be expected to keep a pack of hunting dogs, or at the very least a family of spaniels; and the galleries running off the top of the main staircase
do
possess a Dog Gate, designed to prevent the beasts from invad-ing the upper storeys. There is a Great Hall within, accessible through a gap in an ancient oak screen; a draughty, inhos-pitable space, such as may serve for the reception of tenants on Publick Days, but cannot hope to cheer a family party even in July. Oak panelling rises on every wall, much of it carved, and a massive fireplace struggles in winter to heat the room--notable for its fireback, which is engraved with the name John Knight, and the date 1588--the year of the Hall's completion as well as the Spanish Armada. In addition to all these, the house boasts a dining parlour; a stone-flagged kitchen; a buttery; a drawing-room where the chief treasure of Chawton--the Lewkenor Carpet1--is hung; and a much-neglected garden.

The Knight family line failed in 1679, when Sir Richard Knight--whose imposing effigy is carved in stone on his tomb in St. Nicholas Church--died childless, and all the subsequent owners of Chawton have been obliged under his will to take the name of Knight in order to succeed to his riches. In death Sir Richard exerted a powerful influence over as-yet-unborn kin: the Martins and Broadnaxes, and now the Austens. It was in-evitable, I supposed, that my brother Edward and all his prog-eny would one day exchange their name for Sir Richard's--and I should have done the same to possess even
one
such house.

Mr. Middleton had caused a fire to be lit in the massive Hall 1 The Lewkenor Carpet is a tapestry roughly sixteen feet by seven feet, ex-ecuted in the mid-sixteenth century in France and now in the possession of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
--Editor's note.

120 ~ Stephanie Barron

grate; and around this cheerful if superfluous blaze several per-sons were gathered. I recognised Miss Benn, looking self-consciously fine in a gown of black sarcenet; all the Prowtings; Mr. Julian Thrace, whose attention was claimed by Miss Ann Prowting; and standing a little apart from them, another gen-tleman perhaps five years Thrace's senior, in close conversation with a handsome young woman whose dress and air proclaimed her an established member of the
ton.

Mr. Middleton, who was listening to Miss Benn's effusions regarding his kindness, patted that lady's gloved hand gently and broke away long enough to pay his respects to the Austen party. A sharp-featured and brilliant-eyed lady was before him, however, her hand imperiously extended.

"My brother should have brought me to your door already, Mrs. Austen, but that he is too intent upon showing his guests the country; I hope you will forgive our appalling manners."

"My sister, Miss Maria Beckford," interposed Mr. Middleton hastily. "She is so kind as to do the duties of the Great House."

From the difference in the lady's name, I must assume she was actually the sister of Mr. Middleton's deceased
wife,
and had established herself in the household to oversee the education of his five children. However long ago Mr. Middleton's lady had departed this world, he had not learned to love her sister in-stead; but Miss Maria Beckford appeared entirely in command of the situation, in her richly-trimmed silk gown and her digni-fied posture. I should not have judged her to be much beyond the middle thirties, an age I am myself approaching; her hair, though pulled back severely from her forehead under a lace cap, was still a rich reddish-brown, and an expression of intelli-gence and good humour lit her dark eyes. This was no female dependant or shrinking drudge sacrificed to her family's ser-vice, but a lady who could command all the glories of Mr.

Jane and His Lordship's Legacy ~ 121

Middleton's income and establishment--without the bother of being his wife. I thought her rather to be congratulated than pitied.

"You are Miss Austen?" she demanded.

"Miss
Jane
Austen. My elder sister is as yet on her road from Kent."

Miss Beckford surveyed me from head to foot; lingered an instant in contemplation of my own unwavering gaze; and then nodded slightly as though in approval.

"And are you fond of books and reading?"

"I am, ma'am."

"Do you sketch or paint in watercolours?"

"Unhappily I lack that talent."

"A pity. The beauties of Hampshire afford innumerable subjects for contemplation. But perhaps you play or sing?"

"I am a devotee of the pianoforte--although my own in-strument . . . is not yet arrived."

"That is very well. You may delight us with a performance this evening. We are happy to welcome you to Chawton, Miss Austen. The accomplishments of ladies in these parts are most unfortunately limited. But for Miss Hinton and the Prowtings we should have
no
society worth the name. --But I see that the Hintons are arrived. If you will excuse me--"

She brushed past, intent upon the couple who now stood in the doorway; and as I had no desire to hasten my meeting with the avowed enemies of the Squire, I stepped forward to claim the notice of the rest of the party, to whom my brother Henry was already speaking. He intended, I knew, to make the most of his proximity to such exalted circles, and dine out on the strength of his intelligence regarding Julian Thrace for the next twelvemonth.

"Mr. Thrace and Miss Benn you know," Mr. Middleton was 122 ~ Stephanie Barron