"Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barron Stephanie)Chapter 16 The Barrister Seeks CounselWILBOROUGH HOUSE SITS IN ST. JAMES SQUARE, IN ALL the glory of grey stone and the lustre of its ancient name.[37] 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[38], 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 “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 “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 “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 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 “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 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 “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 “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 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. “How was she?” I asked Cranley, when the doors had closed upon them. “As might be expected,” he replied, with becoming solicitude. “Her ladyship is in the lowest of spirits and possessed of little hope; and nearly driven mad by the disreputable conditions in which she is lodged. The Earl bears it somewhat better; but he is a gentleman in any case, and would face any misfortune with as much equanimity as he might the greatest blessing.” “A more accurate description of Fitzroy Payne I should not have managed myself. You have captured his essence.” The young barrister regarded me sombrely. “You are convinced of his good faith in denying these charges?” “I am. “I would that the Countess were equally sanguine.” “I know that she doubts the Earl,” I began, in a faltering accent. “Doubt’ is hardly the word to describe her feelings. I should say the Countess is convinced of his lordship's guilt.” “That is Trowbridge's doing,” I replied, with discomposure. “He has worked to divide them at the moment they most require support, for the mere pleasure of seeing their ruin.” “Trowbridge? “Wherever evil is done, he appears like a sort of mascot.” “But how has he worked upon the Countess?” I began to tick off the scoundrel's methods upon my fingers for Cranley's edification. “He has informed the Countess of the new Earl's insolvency, and of his dissipation — in ways that to her have been convincing. Fitzroy Payne is in want of money, and she Cranley's countenance was puzzled. “And why should such a woman concern the Countess?” I hesitated. “My dear sir,” I said, “as an intimate to all our affairs, you cannot be kept in the dark. And you shall hear it soon enough in London's drawing-rooms, I fear. The Countess believed herself the beloved of Fitzroy Payne, while still her husband's wife; and though she assures me that no impropriety of action occurred between them, the impropriety of such “This is a bad business,” Cranley groaned, his hands on the mantel and his head hung towards the fire; “as bad as ever it could be. Neither of them has a witness to their actions at the time of the maid's death; the Countess was alone in her rooms, while the Earl was walking about the Park, as he freely said. Neither can explain how the handkerchief came to be near the body or the scrap of paper on it. And now Lady Scargrave is so mistrustful as to cast suspicion on every one of the present Earl's actions.” “My poor Isobel,” I said slowly; “all her faith is blasted.” “Certainly not her faith in you,” the barrister replied, brightening somewhat. “She charged me to share my counsel with Miss Austen, in the belief that I should benefit from the same.” “I wonder at her confidence,” I replied. “But for me — had I destroyed the note and secreted the handkerchief — the Countess and Fitzroy Payne might yet be at liberty. She has every reason to hate me.” “I doubt she should have escaped suspicion in any case,” he rejoined, “when Sir William is so fiercely opposed to her cause.” Indeed, Isobel's life seemed destined for misery. “What do you intend to do?” I asked Mr. Cranley. “I hope to find the murderer before the day of the trial,” he answered with determination, “and present the case for his guilt as my charges’ best defence. For you know I shall have no opportunity to attack the edifice Sir William shall build. He shall do his best to make the walls of guilt seem thick and high.” “I shall bend my best efforts in a similar vein,” I assured him, “and share with you any discoveries I might make. But if I might offer a word—” “Anything, Miss Austen.” He drew a chair forward, the better to attend to my words. “Sir William is sure to urge the notion that Fitzroy Payne was desperate for funds, and that his circumstances left no recourse but the murder of his uncle. Can not you find some facts to the contrary? Others in the family must have had equally pressing motivation; and yet they did not fall under suspicion. And then there is the matter of Lord Harold Trowbridge.” I told him briefly how that man had benefited by Isobel's misfortune. At that, the dinner bell rang; time had flown, and I had not even dressed. “God bless you, Mr. Cranley,” I said, rising and extending my hand. “I shall do everything in my power to aid you. But I would ask of you a favour.” “You have but to name it, Miss Austen.” “Convey me tomorrow to the Countess's cell. I would know better, by my own eyes, how she fares; and Fitzroy Payne as well.” “Newgate is no place for a lady,” the barrister said, his doubt in his voice. “Fiddlesticks!” I cried. “You know very well, Mr. Cranley, that visiting the condemned has become a sport for the best society. If Newgate is fit enough to lodge a Countess, it is fit enough for me to call. I shall expect you after breakfast.” |
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