Jane Austen Mysteries 10 Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron (38 page)

Mona being already out of the room, it was evident she had contrived to leave the two Janes in possession of it; and so I resumed my seat. Lady Oxford, however, paced a little restlessly before the fire, as tho' in an effort to order her thoughts.

"I need not inform you, I know, of the nature of my sentiments towards Lord Byron," she began. "Nor must I beg you to hold anything I might say in complete confidence. Mona assures me that I may trust in your discretion--and tho' Mona may act the goosecap at times, she owns an excellent heart, and should never betray a friend."

"I honour her esteem, and shall endeavour to deserve it," I said quietly.

Her ladyship paced some once or twice, her ringed hands braced upon her hips; it was a regal pose, and entirely unconscious, as was the forbidding look upon her countenance. "I should begin, I suppose, by allowing you to read
this,
" she said abruptly. She drew from an inner pocket a piece of closely-penned paper.

I must have shrunk back a little, because she said hurriedly, "It is no private correspondence, I assure you. Only some verses of Lord Byron's he left behind last evening. He has been working on a long narrative poem some months--during the winter at Eywood, my estate in Herefordshire--and this spring, both in London and Brighton. As he certainly means to publish, I can see no harm in showing the verses to you. The poem is called
The Giaour.
"

I glanced up. "As is his yacht?"

"Yes--a word his lordship picked up in Turkish, during his wanderings--it means infidel, or foreigner, or perhaps simply Christian Englishman. I suppose it most truly refers to
himself:
the lone traveller in distant lands. A pretty enough name for a seagoing craft, certainly.... But this latest fragment ..." Her voice trailed away. "I find it disturbing. And suggestive. Please read it, Miss Austen, and lend me your thoughts."

I accepted the piece of paper, and studied Byron's hand--which was fair copperplate, entirely legible, and not the impassioned scrawl I might have expected from a Romantic.

Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave
,
But his shall be a
colder
redder grave;
Her spirit
charged
pointed well the steel
Which taught that felon heart to feel
.
He called
on Heaven
the Prophet, but his power
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour:
Thou Paynim heart
I watched my time, I leagued with these
,
The
blackguard
traitor in his turn to seize;
My wrath is wreaked, the deed is done
,
And now I go,--but go alone
.

And further down, at the bottom of the page, another few couplets, as tho' scrawled at random:

Much in his visions mutters he
Of maiden
drowned
whelmed beneath the sea;

On
jagged
cliff he has been known to stand
And rave as to some bloody hand

Her treachery was truth to me;
To me she gave her heart, that all
Which Tyranny can ne'er enthrall
And I, alas! Too late to save
!
Yet all I then
Something, something
, our foe a grave

But for the thought of Leila slain
Give me the pleasure with the pain
,
So would I live and love again

??
?

Tis all too late--thou wert, thou art
The cherished madness of my heart
!

"Poor Lord Byron," I said soberly. "He grieves, certainly."

"I must conclude he truly loved the girl."

Lady Oxford's voice was tight with pain; to have believed that smouldering passion hers to command--and then know it to have been incited by Another--

"And you have read the earlier verses?" I said by way of distraction. "Are they all a paean to Miss ... to Leila?"

Lady Oxford shook her head. "It seemed, at first, rather a dashing tale of battle between Infidel and Christian, as told by an old campaigner to his priest." She sank at last into a chair by the fire, her eyes bent upon the flames. "But this.... It is as tho' the narrative turned to something other--a
revenge
tale, Miss Austen. There is grief in it, to be sure--but also bloodlust, a desire to see violence given where violence has taken away."

Her understanding--of both her lover and his verse--was certainly acute; hers was a formidable mind. Byron had claimed, during our interview the previous day, that his passion for Catherine had already been waning. But what if that were merely a pose, adopted to veil his vengeful heart? A chill swept over me. "Countess--what is it that you fear?"

She met my gaze bleakly. "That George means to have a private justice. Miss Austen, he knows
exactly
who killed Catherine Twining."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Dancing Partners

T
HURSDAY
, 13 M
AY
1813
B
RIGHTON, CONT
.

H
ENRY
'
S INTERVIEW WITH THE MAGISTRATE, HE ASSURED
me over dinner this evening, went quite well. He found Old HardCross as the Earl had predicted: playing at faro for pound points before a comfortable fire at Raggett's, while the rain lashed the windows outside. Sir Harding's mellow mood may be attributable to the quality of Raggett's cellars, or perhaps to his luck at cards; in any case, he quitted the faro table for the privacy of a side parlour, and listened while Swithin's odd banking fellow told his tale of sliding panels and stone tunnels.

"Good Lord!" he snorted with something between shock and amusement. "Always said the Prince was mad for pleasure in his youth. Confess I see no point in a tunnel--subterfuge should be entirely unnecessary in His Highness's case--never made any bones about his penchant for carousing--should wonder why he concerned himself with publick opinion a'tall!"

Henry had mentioned something about an
allowance
--the Prince's funds being managed by his father, George III; the King's open displeasure with his son's reckless spirits; the power of the purse being used to curb a wild temperament; deceit therefore being the natural recourse to defray paternal ire, etc.

"But a
tunnel,
" Old HardCross replied. "He'd have had to hire labourers! Put down his blunt on pallets of stone! Must've cost him a fortune, first and last!"

Henry referred to the Regent's comfort with indebtedness, and known passion for building.

"The fellow never
has
had a particle of sense, where bricks and mortar are concerned," the magistrate agreed gloomily.

Henry suggested, as delicately as possible, that the tunnel's being let out into the King's Arms might prove of material interest to the Twining murder.

Old HardCross's eyes narrowed a little at this, and he appeared to take thought on the subject. There was a silence of several moments, painful to Henry's ease.

"Something shall have to be done about it, of course," the magistrate said at last. "You did quite right in coming to me so quietly, Austen--we may hope now to keep the facts from being too widely known. Much obliged, indeed."

And he clapped Henry on the shoulder before returning to his cards.

"But what does Sir Harding intend?" I demanded. "Does he mean to interrogate the Regent's guests? Interview the footmen charged with fetching wine from the cellars? Discover whether Lady Caroline Lamb brought her maid--or has become the surrogate employer of someone else, fully capable of carrying the corpse of a young girl from the shingle to the Arms?"

"I could not undertake to say, Jane."

I frowned at my brother. "It is high time you begged Lord Moira or Colonel McMahon for a private tour of the Pavilion--on behalf of your grieving sister! Without we make a thorough canvass of the intimates and servants, I begin to think the truth shall
never
be learnt!"

W
E PRESENTED OURSELVES IN
M
ARINE
P
ARADE AT NINE
o'clock, and after a desultory cup of coffee--desultory, perhaps, because Lord Byron was absent, and the Countess of Oxford decidedly flat--set out through the mizzle for the Old Ship. The Assembly Rooms in this comfortable inn, which are much picked out with gilt and satin, are regarded by Brighton's notables as having slightly the preference over the Castle's. I looked into the suite as we arrived--saw much the usual arrangement of ballroom, supper room, and card room--and felt that the length and breadth of Britain, there was nothing new under the sun.

I was arrayed in dark blue silk--one of my older gowns, last worn at Eliza's musical party during the spring of 1811--but less quelling to the sensibilities of the Master of Ceremonies, I thought, than dusky black should be. If I did violence to what was required of one in mourning, my conscience was assuaged by Henry's saying nothing in reproach; as we met in the passage, he merely assured me I was in excellent looks, as any wise brother ought. It was without much trepidation, therefore, that I followed Lady Swithin into the gaiety of the Assembly Rooms--and after a little interval of greetings and introductions among her varied acquaintance--Lady Oxford having to be exclaimed over by all those of the
ton
as yet ignorant of her arrival--Mona took me aside and said: "The Master of Ceremonies, Mr. Forth, is over there--by the French window letting out onto the balcony."