Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor (12 page)

“It is as I thought,” he declared, sitting back coolly and throwing his long legs across the hearth rug. “You secretly despise the insipidity of women's work, and abandon it when the first opportunity serves. Shall I shower you with contempt, Miss Austen, for failing in the accomplishment of your sisters, or admire you the more for exposing it as the tedium it truly is?”

“You may do me neither the honour nor the injustice, Lord Harold, of offending my sex and its pursuits,” I replied. “Say rather I was incommoded by the proximity of so much silent regard, and the invasion of my privacy, and I will find some means to agree with you.”

“You think it so unlikely we should see eye to eye, Miss Austen?”

“I should imagine, Lord Harold, that we two must always be looking in opposite directions—so dissimilar and incongenial are our concerns.”

“Your opinion of me is decidedly formed for so short an acquaintance!”

“Then we need not prolong it for the improvement of my views.” I gathered up my silks and needle, and exchanged the settee for a chair at some remove from Lord Harold—and thus, unfortunately, from the fire. Scargrave is a draughty place, and the expanse of sitting-room but poorly heated.

“Miss Austen! Did I not know you to be a woman of open and easy temper, I should imagine you wished me to be off.” To my dismay, he crossed the room in my wake, and hung over the back of my chair—of a purpose, I suppose, to disturb me further. There was nothing for it—I must either seek my chamber above, or use my purgatory to better purpose. Lord Harold remained at Scargrave for only one reason—to wrest Crosswinds from Isobel's shaken hands—and the rogue deserved no courtesy. A frontal assault, therefore, was in order.

“I do wonder at your being so good as to spend Christmas among the Scargrave family, Lord Harold,” I replied. “A man of your position must have so many obligations and competing claims among your acquaintance, that to devote so lengthy a period to
one
must be felt a singular honour.”

“That it is regarded as singular, I do not doubt,” he said, with a thin-lipped smile. “But in this we are very much of a piece, Miss Austen, for I observe you feel no more compelled to depart for home and family than dol.”

“I should have been gone already,” I replied, searching among my silks for a bit of red, the better to work a robin's breast, “but for the Countess.”

“How charming! And how amusing that I may justly say the same—but for the Countess, I should have been gone days ago. I would that our objectives were equally benign, Miss Austen; but alas, they cannot be. And so we are ranged the one against the other, you and I—you, her light angel, stand firm against all the fury of my dark one.” He moved to the fire and stood looking into its depths. The flickering light sharpened the planes of his face and threw his eyes into further shadow, so that his expression became if possible more remote and inscrutable. Gazing upon it, I felt for the first time truly afraid.

“I do not pretend to understand you, my lord,” I said with effort, and applied myself to my needlework.

“I imagine you understand me very well, Miss Austen,” he rejoined quietly, “and I confess to disappointment at your retreat into convention. It is unworthy of your intelligence and penetration.”

“What can you know of either, my lord?”

“A great deal, when opportunity to observe is afforded me. But too often you run away at my approach, and would deny me the felicity of your wit.”

“Say rather that I choose better company, Lord Harold, and I shall deign it to be possible.”

“Capital, Miss Austen! Parry stroke for stroke. I would that the Countess Scargrave were so deft in her opposition.”

“Lord Harold,” I said, summoning my courage, “I cannot profess to know all the particulars of what is toward between yourself and Lady Scargrave. It is right that I should remain in ignorance of affairs so delicate and so disputed. But I would ask you, my lord, why you persist in your efforts, having professed them to be ranged on the side of the Devil? In saying as much, are not you bound by honour, by better feeling, by all that is in your power as a peer and a gentleman, to desist? *

In reply, he threw back his head and laughed, and at that moment Cobblestone entered upon the scene, my venerable deliverer. Behind the butler stood Sir William Reynolds and Isobel.

“Lord Harold,” Sir William said, bowing towards the fireplace, “Miss Austen. The Countess and I would speak with you alone, my dear Jane, and so I must ask Lord Harold to leave us.”

“I believe I have outworn Miss Austen's patience in any event,” Trowbridge said, with a mocking smile, and bowed low in my direction. “I look forward to trying it again, when opportunity serves.” And with a nod for Sir William, and a courtesy to Isobel, he achieved the hall, to my mingled relief and chagrin.

“A more teasing man I have never encountered!” I exclaimed, when he had gone. “He finds his sole diversion in tormenting and vexing others, as a cat will toss a bird between its paws before the kill.”

“An apt image, my dear Jane,” Isobel murmured, looking towards the door through which her enemy had vanished; “I have reason to know well its meaning. But I would that you had been spared his company.”

I gathered up my silks and canvas, and patted the seat beside me. “If I served to keep him from your door a little while, Countess, I may count the tedium as nothing.”

“Is Trowbridge making a nuisance of himself, my lady?” Sir William enquired, as though our discussion of that gentleman yesterday in the magistrate's chariot had never occurred. Sir William hovered by the door, waiting, as he should, for Isobel to take her seat before seeking one of his own; and his lined face was all innocence.

He wishes to know exactly how far the Countess trusts him, I thought.

Isobel 'smiled faintly and settled herself by my side. “Lord Harold cannot be other than a nuisance, Sir William, but I fear that
that
is gossip for a different day. Your note suggested some urgency. What can have caused you to quit your pleasant abode on such a wintry morning?”

Something fluttered across Sir William's countenance and departed—a hope for Isobel's confidence, perhaps. He crossed the room slowly, his hand in his pocket and his gait marked by what I judged to be the effects of gout. “I have received an anonymous letter, my lady,” he replied, handing a slip of paper to Isobel, “and having no reason to hope that its author would be discovered by
delay
, I hastened to acquaint you with its contents.”

For Isobel's perusal, was required but a moment; she then offered the letter to me, and I bent my head to my purpose.

Greetings to the most Grayshus Sir,

I am late of the Scargrave house and would tell you of the evil there. I do this not for my own gayne, but for
la justice
for the poor man layde in the ground. Milord he was murdered by poyson and it was the grey-hared lord as did so, at the wish of my Ladie. For the love of God I have said it. I trust in your goodness and hand.

As Sir William had informed us, the missive was unsigned; and it asked for no payment in return for silence—an unfortunate circumstance, given my assertions of the previous evening.

“The grey-haired lord,” Isobel murmured, pressing a handkerchief embroidered with her monogram to her lips; against the rusty black of her widow's weeds, her skin was so pale as to appear almost translucent. “She might mean either Fitzroy or Trowbridge.”

“So she might.” Sir William's manner was grave and the humour I had been wont to see in his kindly face, banished from his features. “I confess, my lady, that I am puzzled. How do we explain the persistence of this girl, who appears to seek no personal gain?”

A swift look passed between Isobel and myself. The Countess swallowed and dropped her eyes. “I had not understood how much she hates me. Some great wrong I must have done her, Sir William, tho’ all unwittingly; for nothing less than wounded resentment could move her to such malice.”

There was a silence as Sir William considered my friend's wan countenance. I wished, of a sudden, that I had kept my needlework within reach; a lady's canvas may always prove her friend, when anxiety would render idle hands a burden. I clasped my fingers together in my lap in an effort at composure.

“She has been in your service how long, my lady?” the magistrate enquired.

“Marguerite came to me from my aunt Delahoussaye's establishment in the Barbadoes, when I was seventeen and the maid some three years my junior.” Isobel made a hurried calculation. “I would put it at some five years.”

“And your relations were always cordial?”

“Always—or at the least, always before our arrival in England. That is now eighteen months past.”

Sir William began to pace about the room, the better to order his thoughts; but his attitude had the unfortunate aspect of a lawyer before the bar; interrogating a reluctant witness.

“And so Marguerite travelled with you from the Indies?” he prompted.

“Indeed,” Isobel replied, her eyes following his passage across the rug. “I would not embark on such a journey, Sir William, without my maid. She was the sole person of my household I permitted myself to take, the rest being discharged—but for the few who remained in my overseer's employ.”

“And was the maid grateful to be so retained?”

“I assumed so.” Isobel's fingers worried at the fine Swiss lawn of her handkerchief, crumpling it to a wrinkled ball. “How does one know the true feelings of one's servants? I confess her behaviour is so strange to me, I must believe I have never known her.” My friend paused, as if in thought, and then turned her eyes unwillingly to Sir William's careful face. “But when I consider her manner these past few months, I would declare that she seemed unhappy. She missed her native climate, perhaps, in the coldness of England; snow she had never seen, for example, any more than I had myself; but where I found wonder, she found a strangeness to disturb. That it shook her, as being the opposite of all that was natural and familiar, I may fairly declare. She became quite superstitious and seemed to suffer from a condition of nervous excitement, starting at a sound and taking fixed dislike to what could do her no harm.”

“Such as Lord Scargrave, perhaps?” Sir William all but pounced.

“My husband she showed only deference.”

“I meant to indicate the present Lord Scargrave, Viscount Payne that was,” the magistrate said silkily.

Isobel coloured and started, her handkerchief dropping to the floor. “You have put your finger on it, Sir William. She did not like my nephew at all—something I ascribe to his hair greying overly-young. Marguerite would see in it the Devil's mark. She did not suffer herself to be alone in the same room with him.”

“A curious child,” Sir William murmured, and looked at me. I read his intention in his eyes, and willed him not to ask of Isobel the true nature of her relations with Fitzroy Payne.

“Lady Scargrave,” he began, and then stopped, as though debating with himself. “Have you any reason to believe your husband's death was other than it seemed?”

“None whatsoever,” Isobel said. Her chin came up and her beautiful brown eyes met the magistrate's.

“You say this, recognising I in no way accuse you of having any hand in its achievement?”

“I know you could not believe it possible, sir; any more than I may believe an intimate of this household—servant or relation—capable of such monstrous evil.”

Sir William sighed gustily and turned his back upon the Countess, his brow furrowed and his hands clasped behind his back. He paced the full length of the room again before he suffered himself to reply.

“My lady,” he said, wheeling to face us in his best barrister's manner, “I cannot for the life of me say what is to be done. The girl is not to be found, and her defamation, it would appear, is but meant for an audience of one—myself. Your reputation remains untarnished in the surrounding country.”

“But how long may we presume upon the maid's restraint?” I broke in.

Sir William raised an eyebrow. “She says nothing in that note, my dear Miss Austen, about any more letters. I suggest we do little for the present beyond our efforts to locate the maid, and pray God that her malice withers of itself with time.”

“You are very good, Sir William.” Isobel rose and extended her hand. “I will trust my welfare completely to your care.”

“MY DEAR JANE,” SIR WILLIAM SAID BRISKLY, AS
I
WALKED
with him to his carriage, “I would know the name and direction of the London physician. Have you any recollection?”

“He was a Philip Pettigrew,” I replied, “and I believe his offices were in Sloane Street. His fees should certainly support such an establishment.”

“Excellent! Excellent! You are a jewel among women, my dear.” And to my surprise, Sir William bent low to kiss my hand.

And so he was gone, on purposes and with intents he chose to keep to himself, but that I believe I divined nonetheless.

1. Austen's tone in this passage evokes the breathless morbidity of the Gothic novels that were quite popular in her day. Such authors as Ann Radcliffe and Charlotte Smith penned ghoulish tales intended to titillate and alarm their largely female audience. Though Austen often poked fun at such literature—
Northanger Abbey
is in part a spoof of these novels—she
did
read them, and on this night at least, appears to have been somewhat influenced by their powerful fantasies.—
Editor's note.