"Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barron Stephanie)

Chapter 15 The Enchanting Eliza

31 December 1802

Scargrave House, Portman Square

NEW YEAR'S EVE, AND THE REVELS IN THE STREET BELOW have raised such a tumult that sleep is banished. I am sitting up by the light of my taper in the rich room I have been given at Scargrave House. A greater contrast to the Manor's genteel shabbiness cannot be imagined — here, all is done up in the latest fashion, with vines and vases plastered on pale blue walls. It is clear that the late Earl was a man whose spirits took flight in London rather than in the country, and that this was to be his principal residence; everything possible has been done to make it a comfortable home for his new bride, whose apartments tonight — never before visited by her — are shuttered and dark, with drop cloths against the dust. The special session of the Assizes having remanded their case to the House of Lords, Isobel and Fitzroy Payne are banished to the horrors of Newgate prison, there to live as best they might until their arraignment; though their stay shall be short — the trial is to be scheduled early in the next session, some ten days hence — it cannot hope to be marked by comfort or cheer. Sir William shall be special prosecutor for the Crown, Mr. Perceval being indisposed[34]; and a Mr. Cranley, a barrister of good repute and rising in his profession, shall serve for the defence, though the duties of such are so circumscribed[35], I wonder he bothers to take the case at all. Mr. Cranley must see an advantage in notoriety — for it is rare that a peer is brought to trial in the House of Lords — and hopes it shall improve his prospects—

(Here the handwriting trails off.)

— a great boom, as though a cannon had gone off near the house — I rush into the hallway in my shift, taper held aloft and pulse quickened, like Banquo ready to cry, Murder! murder! And find that all is quiet in a moonlit slumber, and I am alone with the fancies of midnight and a sharp sense of my own silliness.

Not quite alone, however; as I turn back to my room, I see the quiet form of Lieutenant Hearst, leaning against his doorway, but two removed from mine. He should have sought his own lodgings at St. James, but was pressed by his brother and Fanny Delahoussaye to stay to dinner; and so here he is, bedded down too near me, and watching in the dark.

“You are shivering, Miss Austen,” he said, and thrust himself away from the door frame. He walked towards me, his blue eyes glittering in my candle flame, the swathe of moonlight dappling the shoulder of his silken dressing gown; altogether an apparition torn from one of my dreams, scented with a whiff of danger.

“I heard an explosion, and feared for the house,” I replied, lowering the candle; and I should have turned to go, but something about him fascinated me — the gliding movement of his form, completely graceful in die darkened hall, and with the trick of moonlight, as weightless as an apparition. I thought of the ghostly First Earl, and felt as though turned to stone.

“It is the gunpowder; set off in Southwark at midnight to welcome the New Year,” the Lieutenant said. “Pay it no mind.” He stopped a bare foot from me, and held my eyes steadily with a sort of wonder, as though he, too, felt himself in a dream.

“What extraordinary hair;” he murmured, “all tumbled like that about your face; it's a sight I could not have imagined, and so beautiful in the moonlight. Do you realise what a crime it is, that a woman's husband is the only man ever to see her hair like this? To deny the world such beauty is pure folly. And you have no husband, Jane.”

At his use of my Christian name, I became too aware of the impropriety of my position — of how it should appear, should anyone encounter us; and, indeed, of how intimate a scene I had allowed myself to play. My colour rose, my breath quickened, and I made a small movement as if to go. But die Lieutenant raised a finger and laid it against my lips. “Don't,” he whispered, “I've caught you in the witching hour, and I must exact my price.”

And with that, he bent swiftly and kissed me full upon the mouth, until I tore from his grasp in mortification, rushed headlong into my room, and slammed the door in his face. An echo of derisive laughter was my reward, and the sound of his retreat; and a little later, sharp in the regained quiet, a small click, as of a door being closed. That it came from the room to my right — Fanny Delahoussaye's room — and not from the Lieutenant's, I had not the smallest doubt. I shall have her wrath to contend with, on the morrow, for it is certain she overheard us — a scene so little to my advantage, either in its initial passivity or ultimate flight.

My cheeks are burning with shame and remembered mortification; never have I been subjected to such a liberty at the hands of a man. Yet worse is the feeling of sweet elixir that courses through my veins. I am dizzy with wonder and a want I cannot admit, even to myself; and so I admit it here, on the pages of my journal. That he should kiss me is beyond belief — and entirely without sense or purpose. Tom Hearst cannot be in love with me; for I have never possessed a fortune and am beginning to lose my beauty, and both are what a man of his straitened means and handsome looks would think his due. It is in every way incredible; and so I must ascribe his kiss to the power of moonlight, and the effect of wanton hair.

I touch a stray lock now, and must declare it nothing out of the ordinary way, however transformed by moonlight. But I feel a small thrill of gratification nonetheless, rare for a woman whose wits have always been celebrated before her person. We all of us have our failings; and mine is vanity. It shall be my last flag flying on the Day of Judgment.

How to face Tom Hearst, on the morrow? I shall die of consciousness.

And so the old year is done to death.

I January 1803

I WAS SPARED THE NECESSITY OF FACING THE LIEUTENANT at breakfast; he and his batman, Jack Lewis, had arisen early and returned to the Horse Guards at St. James. Not a word has been let fall regarding the affair of the duel, or its outcome; I begin to believe it a figment of Miss Delahoussaye's overheated imagination. The breakfast room being quite deserted, I was afforded the leisure of weighing the heavy charge Isobel had placed upon my shoulders, and determining my course of action.

If Isobel and Fitzroy Payne were innocent of the murders, as I certainly believed Isobel to be, then someone had gone to great pains to convince us of their guilt. Firstly, the Earl had died as a result of sweetmeats eaten in the presence of his wife and her maid. Marguerite's dreadful death suggested to Sir William that she had been silenced for having observed Isobel place the Barbadoes nuts in the Earl's dish; but I considered it equally plausible that the maid had been convinced by another to put the poisonous seeds there herself. She had then been deployed in accusing her mistress through plaintive letters, and, her purpose fulfilled, was chiefly of use in being murdered — in order to incriminate Fitzroy Payne.

That Marguerite had formed a relationship of some trust with the murderer was implied by her readiness to await her killer in the isolated hay-shed at dawn. But which of the intimates of Scargrave might that be? If my theory were correct, the maid's partner must be one who gained material advantage by the removal of both the Earl's wife and his heir. George Hearst, who won a living under his uncle's will and stood to inherit the estate if Fitzroy were to die, should gain the most; and he had argued with the Earl the evening of his death, stating aloud that UI know how it is that I must act.” Mr. Hearst's character was morose and brooding enough to suggest him capable of violence; and he had fled the house by horseback in some haste and perturbation the very morning of the maid's murder. But was money alone the cause of such anger as I had overheard?

I must needs find Rosie Ketch.

Another who gained from Isobel's misfortune was Lord Harold Trowbridge. But he had vacated Scargrave a week before the maid's death. That he might have done this expressly to distance himself from that event, seemed entirely of a piece with his cunning. Having wooed the maid — perhaps in London, when he first attempted to purchase Crosswinds, prior to Isobel's marriage — had Trowbridge convinced her to dispatch the Earl with the poison native to her country, then left once his object — Crosswinds — was secured? It was as nothing for such a man to send the maid a few words torn from a business letter written to him by Fitzroy Payne, then return by cover of darkness to Scargrave Close, walk to the field at dawn, drop Isobel's handkerchief, slit the maid's throat, and hie back to London with no one the wiser.

—Unless he were avowedly elsewhere, in the company of others, at the self-same moment. I must discover his movements on the day of Marguerite's death. And that meant a visit to his brother the Duke of Wilborough's London residence. How to effect it? For that august family was unknown to this one, a fact Madame Delahoussaye underlined to me more than once when it appeared Lord Harold would remain at Scargrave through Christmas. She found it passing strange that he had deserted his brother the Duke for Isobel Payne in such a season, but knowing little of either Trowbridge or Wilborough, had assumed their relations were not close. But Lord Harold clearly acted from expediency, in forcing the acquaintance; and in more extreme circumstances, I should not be encumbered with greater delicacy. To Wilborough House on any pretext, therefore, I must go, the better to discover his whereabouts on the day of Marguerite's murder.

And what of the others? Madame Delahoussaye I ruled out, as unlikely to benefit in any way from the murder of the Earl, the hanging of her niece, or the similar execution of the peer she had hoped would marry her daughter. But of Fanny — could such silliness as possessed the girl hide a malevolent purpose? I could not forget her early morning walk to the paddock, she who did not ride; nor her furtive entry into the shed, nor the bag of coins she had left there. Anonymous philanthropy, I felt, was not in Fanny's nature; if she parted with her pence, it was only under duress. Someone had blackmailed Miss Delahoussaye, for reasons I could not divine; and that it might as well be the maid, was urged by the choice of the shed for her deposit-box. Had Fanny grown tired of demands for money, and ended the affair with Marguerite's life?

Why, then, go to such lengths to throw guilt upon her cousin and the newly-titled Earl? Avarice and ambition might counsel it. Someone should be guilty of the murder; and that it should not be herself or someone she loved — Lieutenant Hearst — but rather the man she did not want to marry, made perfect sense. With Fitzroy out of the way, George Hearst might inherit, and with the proper persuasion, could turn his brother into a titled man of wealth. Fanny intimated as much, only a few days ago; such calculation is natural in one so ruled by self-interest.

But why drop Isobel's handkerchief at the spot? For the satisfaction of having no rival at Scargrave? I should leave that question for later.

Two people yet remained to me — Lieutenant Tom Hearst and his batman, Jack Lewis. That I thought the Lieutenant's lighter character the least likely to be bent to darker purpose, I will not deny; and that a sensibility on my part influenced my views, I may as well admit. But I forced myself to construct an unflattering portrait of the Lieutenant, with all the force of possibility and motive.

In seducing the maid to kill the Earl, and casting suspicion upon Fitzroy once Marguerite was forever silenced, Tom Hearst might hope to win the former Viscount's title and fortune, at the hand of his brother George. This seemed an elaborate sort of plot for a man more likely to act upon impulse, or in the heat of temper; but I could imagine how it was done. The Lieutenant had declared himself resident in London during the period of Isobel's brief courtship by his uncle, for it was then he had met Fanny Delahoussaye. He might have formed a liaison with Marguerite at the same time.

I considered how Tom Hearst's gliding step in the moonlit hall the previous midnight had reminded me of the spectral First Earl. Had the Lieutenant donned fancy dress and tip-toed past my door, all those nights ago at Scargrave Manor, the better to hide the Barbadoes nuts in Fitzroy Payne's gun case? Were he observed entering his cousin's room at that unlikely hour, the fact should be remembered when the nuts’ presence was discovered; but no one was likely to suggest that a ghost had incriminated the eighth Earl. And Tom Hearst had been at pains the next morning to reinforce my midnight impressions, by declaring that he had witnessed a similar visitation prior to his mother's death.

I reflected uneasily upon the Lieutenant's character. He was playful enough — and so unprincipled, I feared — as to regard the effect of fancy dress as a devilish good joke. I had no proof that he was the spectral impostor; however, and determined to halt the progress of my thoughts, in turning from the Lieutenant to his batman. Certainly one of the two had removed the maid's locket from her things, possibly because it contained his likeness. But which?

The batman, Jack Lewis, was of a station far closer to the maid's own. I considered that smart Cockney fellow, of the glad eye and shameless insolence, and decided he was the most likely to take a Creole girl strolling in Covent Garden. He was more likely than the Lieutenant, as well, to buy her a locket — and commit the indiscretion of placing his miniature inside.

And then a thought occurred to me. Jack Lewis need not have been the murderer of the Earl (who can hardly have been known to him), to be the thief of the pendant. Sorrowing at her death, the batman might readily have retrieved the girl's things from Lizzy Scratch, and then grown fearful at the sight of the bauble containing his likeness. Were it discovered, he was as good as hanged — or so he might have feared. And thus he secreted it somewhere about his person, and said nothing of its existence.

I must endeavour to find out whether I am right or no, at the nearest opportunity.

Which task to undertake first? Lord Harold Trowbridge, Rosie Ketch, or the batman, Jack Lewis? Since I should prefer the murderer to be Isobel's despicable foe before all others, it seemed best to assault his defences first; but I should need a greater weapon than our slight acquaintance if I were to breast the ramparts of Wilborough House. I bethought myself of Eliza, rose of a sudden from the brealcfast table, and sought my bonnet and cloak.

ELIZA, COMTESSE DE FEUILLIDE, IS MY BROTHER HENRY'S wife. She is also my cousin, being my father's sister's child, although reputedly not the daughter of my aunt's husband.[36] All that is to say that Eliza was conceived in adulterous love, and my cousin has made it her metier from the day of her birth — being an accomplished flirt, a charming adventuress, one of the chief ornaments of Versailles before the fall of Marie Antoinette, and a cheat of the guillotine where her first husband, the Comte de Feuillide, was not. That sad gentleman's demise before the public executioner in 1794 left my bright Eliza returned to England and free to marry Henry some three years later. Though she is nearly ten years older than my favourite brother, and his union with her has been the subject of much unease in the family, I think them not unsuited. I rejoice, in fact, that my cousin is sobered somewhat by her Austen ties; and that Henry possesses in his wife so lively a wit to challenge his own.

And she is undoubtedly useful, in knowing everyone, and being welcome everywhere.

I arrived at No. 24 Upper Berkeley Street — but a few steps from Scargrave House's door — with a spirit for adventure and a desire to encompass Eliza in my schemes. Fortune was with me — my brother was out and Eliza at liberty. Her maid Manon showed me to the sitting-room, where the petite comtesse was tucked up before a brisk fire, her writing things at hand, and her little dog, Pug, established in her lap.

“My dearest Jane!” my cousin cried, thrusting the dog to the floor and standing in haste. “I had not an idea you were in London! Have you eloped with some dashing young man, and come to me for protection?”

“Having heard of the affair of Harris Bigg-Wither, you cannot believe it possible,” I said, smiling. “I am sworn off men for a twelvemonth at least, having failed to attract the men I like, and behaved infamously to the ones I abhor.”

“You should have been wasted upon such a poor pup,” Eliza rejoined dismissively; “and had you asked my advice, I should certainly have counseled you the same. But I suppose your family is mortified? They always are,” she finished cheerfully, “when women think for themselves. Well! How are we to celebrate such a meeting?”

“I was hoping to prevail upon you, Eliza,” I said, “to accompany me on a matter of some delicacy.”

“Delicate affairs being my chief occupation,” she observed, her eyes sparkling with interest.

“It concerns the Duke of Wilborough,” I continued, “or rather, his brother.”

“Trowbridge? Good Lord, you haven't set your cap at that fellow, my dear? I'm as fond as the next of dangerous rogues; I was quite susceptible to them, at one time. But Lord Harold is too much of the real thing.”

“I think him quite the most evil man I have ever met.”

“And with reason.” Eliza fluttered her many-ringed fingers in my direction. “There are those who say he was the financial ruin of Sir Hugh Carmichael, and that he seduced his wife; in any case, she was sent away to family in Wales until the child was born, and poor Sir Hugh shot himself in the middle of Pall Mall not two months ago. A scandalous business. But how do you come to know Lord Harold Trowbridge?”

“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!”