"Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barron Stephanie)Chapter 19 A Matter for CashiermentIT WAS NOT MR. CRANLEY I WAS TO SEE IN THE SCARGRAVE House drawing-room the following morning, however, but my dear Eliza — and with her, brother Henry, only recently become a banker after a turn with the Oxfordshire militia. “Jane, Jane!” he cried, embracing me heartily; “I understand you have run away from brother James and his scolding wife these several weeks, and got yourself into worse scandal than before! A broken engagement, and now a murder trial? What “Nonsense, Henry,” Eliza said briskly; “Jane but seizes her chance for amusement when it is offered, as ever you would do; there is very little to choose between you, but your sex and the freedom it apportions to one and not the other. Were you not both possessed of lively spirits and unconventional tastes, I should have spurned the Austens entirely, and be still resident in France, toying tenderly with one of Buonaparte's generals.” “Indeed, I shall not berate you,” Henry said, with a glance for his lively wife from those large grey eyes, so like my own; “I have ever trusted Jane to find her way out of scrapes as readily as she finds her way And so I told my brother of the murders, and the fate of the Countess and the present Earl — all that Eliza had heard on the way to Wilborough House — and something of Mr. Cranley besides. Of George Hearst and Rosie, or Fanny Delahoussaye's secret, I said nothing. Until such time as disclosure were necessary, I saw no kindness in publicity. “But, Henry,” I concluded, “there is much that you might do to aid the Countess, did you have the inclination.” “Unless you wish me to scale the walls of Newgate with my old militia companions, and spirit her out of the country, I fail to see in what manner I might be of service.” “You are a “Almost certainly,” my brother said thoughtfully. “Do you but give me their names, Jane, and I shall make discreet enquiries about the Club.” He rose, still in thought, and went in search of his greatcoat. “And now, my dear,” Eliza said, when the drawing-room door had closed behind my brother, “Henry is off to business, and you and I are at leisure. What scheme have you devised for our amusement today?” Her long-sleeved velvet dress, of a rich red hue and trimmed in matching bugle beads, was equally suited to a visit to Wilborough House or a turn through Hyde Park in an open carriage, where she might nod to all her acquaintance. I surveyed her gown, and longed to seize the opportunity of my time in London to stroll with my sister Eliza among the shops; but I reminded myself that Isobel was all too deprived of similar delights, and that I must be about the business of her salvation. “Eliza,” I replied, “I should be very much surprised if you were not acquainted with “The Blues? But of course.” She fluttered a hand endowed, this morning, with a shockingly great ruby. “Colonel Buchanan is terribly fond of me, you know — and thought he should have had me, did he not already possess a wife.” “We must renew your acquaintance,” I told her; smiling. Eliza returned my good humour, so much at my brother's expense. “It needs no renewing, I assure you,” she confided. “I spoke with the Colonel only last week, at Mrs. Fitzhugh's.” “Then you must call upon him today,” I declared, “and carry me with you. He has a person in his regiment of whom I should dearly love to know more.” “LIEUTENANT THOMAS HEARST? — COLONEL BUCHANAN said, turning with the sherry decanter in one hand and my glass in the other; “what possible interest, my dear Comtesse de Feuillide, could you have in such a scapegrace?” We were established in the cosy sitting-room of the Horse Guards’ commander, in the shadow of Buckingham Palace, and surrounded on every side by leather-bound books, sabres in sheaths upon the wall, and some very good oils of horseflesh the Colonel had ridden in battle. He had swiftly set aside some matters pertaining to his men, in order to receive us without delay; and so my faith in Eliza was as eve rewarded. The cavalryman offered me a glass with a short nod, and turned to fetch Eliza's. Colonel Buchanan was, as his name suggests, a Scot. With his bandy legs and greying red hair, he reminded me for all the world of the old cock at Steventon, who ran crowing about the farmyard with such importance that Cook soon lost patience and put him in the soup kettle. But I feared I should be overcome with mirth, did I pursue the comparison; and so drank my sherry with head demurely bent. “I have heard such conflicting tales about the Lieutenant,” Eliza said, sipping at her glass, her eyes sparkling, “and of late he has been much talked of in connexion with a friend of my dear Miss Austen's. Discretion forbids me from saying more. But when Jane told me of her fears for her friend, I thought immediately of you!” She fluttered her eyelashes in Colonel Buchanan's direction. “For no one should be more forthright — no one be less likely to stand on ceremony in such a delicate matter — than my dear Colonel Buchanan.” The Colonel was not too much of a soldier to dislike a little flattery. He grunted and threw himself into a chair, his booted legs extended before him and one hand thrust into his uniform jacket. With a glance for Eliza, he tossed back the contents of his sherry glass and set it on the table with a decided ring. “So Tom Hearst has learned to prey upon young ladies of society, has he?” the cavalryman said. “That is no more than I should expect of him.” “My dear Colonel — my dear The Colonel met my eyes and hesitated, wondering, I surmised, whether I was myself the lady whose heart Tom Hearst had entangled. Had I been, I should certainly have quailed; for Buchanan's disapproval was written in his hard blue eyes, and his hand rested lightly, out of habit, along the sheathed length of his sabre. A man not to be trifled with — as Eliza was certainly trifling now, did he but know it. I shuddered to consider the duplicity we had employed, here and at Wilborough House, these several days past; but remembered my Isobel, and the judicial proceedings to take place in but four days, and stifled my scruples. “He is not well thought of among his company, that much is certain,” Colonel Buchanan said finally, his eyes still on mine. “And does this arise from envy, or just cause?” Eliza asked, with some spirit. “It arises, my dear Countess, from a tendency to wager his fortune too freely and too often, with the result that he leaves debts behind him wherever he goes.” “Bah!” Eliza dismissed the Colonel's words as though he were a callow schoolboy. “That is the story of officers — and never more so than among the fashionable Horse Guards.” She was goading the Colonel into fuller information, I knew, and in this aim she readily succeeded. “I should hope that we are none of us in the straits of Lieutenant Hearst,” the cavalryman said stiffly, “or His Majesty must look to others for protection.” “The Lieutenant's outward appearance suggests no such trouble,” Eliza said serenely, laying her trap. “That he has survived this long is a credit to his arrogance,” the Colonel burst out, with an eye for me. “But believe, my dear Countess, that Hearst's affairs are in a dreadful state. He had appealed to his cousin — one Viscount Payne, whom I understand is now A chill of dread moved up my backbone. “His uncle is recently deceased,” I said. The Colonel turned to assess my countenance shrewdly. “So I had heard, along with all of London. The Lieutenant is known to you, Miss Austen?” “Some few weeks only. We were lately intimates of Scargrave Manor — where the young lady whom he has entangled, and upon whose behalf we have sought your counsel, was also a guest.” “Scargrave Manor! Another unfortunate mark against the young man. We have all heard what occurred “Lieutenant Hearst can hardly be blamed for the coincidence of family, Colonel Buchanan,” I said. “It “He might, but that coincidence plays too strong a part in that gentleman's fortunes,” the Colonel said harshly. “Did not the Crown already hold captive the parties responsible, I might believe him capable even of murder.” I exchanged a glance with Eliza; these were heavy words, indeed. “My dear Colonel,” Eliza murmured, leaning towards him intimately, “your hints are very dark and very vague. Pray tell us plainly what reason you may know against this marriage, and have done.” Colonel Buchanan rose and paced slowly towards the fire, his brow furrowed in thought. The flames caught the gleam of his blue uniform's gold buttons and braid, and threw in sharp relief a scar that bisected his chin. A sabre cut, undoubtedly, and one that had come too close to his neck for comfort. “It is a highly delicate matter, you understand,” he said, turning to face first Eliza and then myself. “No word of it may reach beyond this room, at least until such time as the matter of his cashierment[42] is resolved.” “Cashierment! This is serious, indeed!” “I would not ruin the character of a man under my command for less,” the Colonel said, with a bitter smile. “Tom Hearst is lately accused of such infamous conduct, as cannot rightly be credited to a soldier of His Majesty's Horse Guards.” “And did this involve a young lady?” I enquired, with a terrible presentiment. “A young lady? Not that I know of,” the Colonel replied, with brows drawn down. “No, Miss Austen — it involved cards.” “He is a gamester!” Eliza cried, clapping her hands. “Was ever there a rogue who was not?” “The Lieutenant is indeed fond of cards, and generally plays for high stakes.” “The only sort of stakes there are,” Eliza murmured, remembering, no doubt, something of her late husband at Versailles, where the Comte de Feuillide had won and lost a succession of fortunes to Marie Antoinette's favourites. Colonel Buchanan commenced to pace about the room, his hands thrust under the tails of his uniform jacket, his black boots gleaming with every step. The direction of our conversation certainly troubled him deeply; and I wondered whether he regretted his frankness. From his next words, however, it appeared otherwise. “Lieutenant Hearst, my dear Countess and Miss Austen, has always played with the very worst sort of luck. He has been losing steadily throughout the year.” The Colonel ceased his pacing abruptly and wheeled about. “Until last month.” “His luck changed?” I said. “Dramatically,” the Colonel rejoined, in a voice heavy with irony. “Some few weeks before his Christmas leave — which was taken at the request of his commanding officer, rather than any desire of his own to seek the bosom of his family — he was all success of a sudden, and won such sums as must astonish.” “Very rash,” said Eliza. “The Countess, as always, has put the matter clearly,” Colonel Buchanan rejoined, with a grim smile. “Success at cards, shall we say, went to his head; and the Lieutenant became greedy. He soon made the mistake, however, of challenging a stranger to his corps — one who could thus feel no obligation of affection, of comradeship, of experiences shared. An officer nonetheless, imbued with a sense of honour — and one who had seen this sort of luck before. More sherry, Miss Austen?” I shook my head, too engrossed in the tale even to sip the wine I already possessed. “This officer so succeeded in tripping up our friend the Lieutenant, that Tom Hearst was accused of having several cards beyond the usual set secreted in his coat-sleeve.” I could not suppress a small gasp, and won a penetrating look from the Colonel before he continued. “Lieutenant Hearst vigourously protested the assertion that he had cheated — an offence no gentleman may ever hope to survive — and charged his opponent with trickery. Why such a man — an officer and a stranger — should attempt to secure the Lieutenant's ruin without serious cause, you may well ask yourself.” The Colonel regained his chair and stroked his chin with a worn, blunt hand, his eyes on the portrait of a stallion arrayed in full battle harness. “It is hardly likely,” Eliza, said. “One surmises that Lieutenant Hearst spoke from guilty rage.” “However it was, others more objective could prove the truth of neither assertion; the Lieutenant and his adversary had been playing long into the night, and had been deserted by their fellows; and no one had seen the cards the other alleged to have been in Lieutenant Hearst's coat-sleeve.” “Was no one prepared to vouch for him before his company?” “I fear that they had all suffered too much at his hands; and some may have shared the stranger's suspicion,” Colonel Buchanan replied shortly. “It ended as all such affairs must and inevitably do end — with Lieutenant Hearst defending his honour in a pistol duel with the gentleman.” With a start, I remembered Fanny Delahoussaye's words at Isobel's ball, an evening that might have been an age ago; the Lieutenant, she said, was arrived from St. James having recently killed a man in a duel. “They met at dawn, not far from the barracks here in St. James, and Lieutenant Hearst succeeded in dispatching his accuser — which may have satisfied There was a brief silence as Eliza and I took all this in; but keenly aware of my purpose I shook myself into awareness and sought once more the Colonel's gaze. “And this debacle has ruined the Lieutenant's standing in the cavalry?” “An affair of honour is a dubious thing,” the Colonel told us, with a sharply exhaled breath and another impatient gesture. “The law would call it murder. But among military men, nothing is prized so much as one's honour — it is beyond fortune, beyond birthright; it is become the essence of the man. A duel to the death has long been the established mode of satisfying outrages against one's reputation. Had this been the only blot on the Lieutenant's career, he might have survived it. But taken with his pressing debts, and the fact that others of his fellows have called him cardsharp in the aftermath of the duel, he is now under consideration for cashierment by his superiors.” “Colonel Buchanan,” I said, summoning my courage, “forgive me for prying further in such a matter. But were the Lieutenant presently to satisfy his creditors, discharge his debts of honour among the company, and conduct himself in a manner more suited to a gentleman and a member of his corps, could his commission yet be saved?” “I fear that little might save Lieutenant Hearst,” the Colonel replied, his eyes stern, “though women ever believe that love alone shall do it. I dearly hope, Miss Austen, that it is I cursed my ready tendency to blush as I replied. “I assure you, sir, that I am come on another's behalf, and must return with the heaviest of burdens — that of advising one in love to look no further for happiness in the Lieutenant's quarter. It is a burden I have gladly shared with the Countess.” “Indeed,” Eliza said quickly, recollecting our supposed purpose for being there, and reaching for her reticule, “I must thank you, dear Colonel, for your readiness to disclose what may only be to the Lieutenant's detriment. Circumstances required that his character be better understood.” “The decision of his superiors should even now have been reached,” the Colonel said, “and so you may be saved of your duty. For no young woman should wish to marry a man without fortune, career, or prospects — may he have twenty uncles recently dead.” |
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