Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor (16 page)

“So I should imagine.”

“And yet, not a word beyond the common conventions of the household have I had from the Countess since my uncle's death. She deals with me as with a stranger.” The Earl slapped the table with the palm of his hand, and abruptly thrust himself out of his chair, commencing to pace about the room.

“You find this singular, my lord?”

“Singular? It is insupportable!”

“But she is lost to grief!”

“And at such a time, I should be her first comfort! But she appears rather to wish me at the ends of the earth!”

I knew not how to answer his confusion; for to say what I believed—that Isobel's profound grief was mingled with a sense of guilt and shame where Fitzroy Payne was concerned—should only cause him further pain. And it was just possible—Isobel having kept from her beloved all knowledge of the maid Marguerite's blackmailing missives—that the Countess desired to shield Fitzroy from her worry. That Isobel had taken the maid's words to heart, and begun to fear the
grey-hared lord
, I thrust aside as unlikely.

“Perhaps the Countess will be more herself with time,” I said lamely.

“But what if she is
not
, Miss Austen? What if my uncle's death has caused in her some reversal of feeling? It is just such a fear as this that robs my nights of sleep.”

Such honesty of sentiment, before myself—with whom he is acquainted only imperfectly—could not but win my active benevolence on Fitzroy Payne's behalf.

“Lord Scargrave,” I said, “the Countess has borne more than any lady of her tender years and experience should be expected to endure. Consider her disappointed passion for yourself—the strength required to overcome it—the melancholy resignation to a marriage of convenience—and
now
the sudden loss of a husband she revered at least as she might a father. It is not to be wondered that she seeks comfort in solitude. I should rather wonder at her doing anything else.”

“That may be true,” Fitzroy Payne said, composing himself with better grace. “But I would ask you, Miss Austen, to bend your efforts to improving Isobel's spirits. She
is
too much alone. Persuade her to walk with you, if the weather be fine; talk to her of subjects far from this unhappy house. And if it be possible to plead my cause—to speak warmly on my behalf—”

“Then know that I shall do all that is in my power, Lord Scargrave,” I assured him without hesitation.

“Blessed woman!” Fitzroy Payne cried, his gratitude in his looks; and so he left me.

I could not be idle when so much anxiety was active on Isobel's part; I hastened to her room, and found her very low.

“My dear,” I said, placing a wrap about her shoulders as she sat by the fire, her face pensive and her hair undone, “you are not dressed! And your tea is undrunk! Has Daisy failed to attend you?”

“Oh, Jane,” my friend sighed, “Daisy cannot attend to an illness of the spirit! Of what interest is dress to me? I cannot assume a different self, by assuming a different gown. I should rather remain here, in the quiet of my room, and repent of all my sins.”

“Come, come,” I chided her. “You should better congratulate yourself for having survived so many tests of character, with such grace and fortitude.”

“Neither word can apply to me.” Isobel thrust off the wrap and rose from her chair. “I have dishonoured a man who would have moved heaven and earth to make me happy.”

“Isobel! Such harshness, and so illogically applied! In your sorrow, you are unjust. Let your friend, who knows better your worth, remind you who you are.”

“Do not flatter me, Jane,” she said brusquely, holding out a hand as if to impede my passage. “I have nothing to offer in return but the shame of a woman who has acted as she should not.”

“Of what can you be speaking?” The depth of her guilt was as I had surmised. I must needs exert myself. “Nothing that you have recounted could dishonour Frederick. You esteemed him as your husband, and whatever your feelings for another, your behaviour has been such as no one can reproach.”

She put her hands to her face, hiding it from my sight; her voice, when it came, trembled with emotion. “I cannot banish the maid's words from my mind, Jane. Marguerite saw rightly.
We
killed my husband, Fitzroy and I—and our guilt could be no greater if we had poisoned him outright, as the maid claims.”

A horror gripped me at her words; and I silently cursed the girl whose vicious pen could wreak such havoc in Isobel's soul.

“My dear;” I said firmly, grasping her wrists and drawing her hands from her face, “you can have nothing to regret beyond your husband's untimely death. Mourn for him if you will, but do not take upon yourself the burden of your Maker. The ways of Providence are hidden, but as a clergyman's daughter, I may freely own that they are rarely vindictive.”

Isobel struggled free of me and fell languorously upon her chaise. Her face was hidden by dark red tresses; whether sorrow or anger o'erspread her features, I could not say. Prudence counseled me to desist; but friendship informed me that I had not done.

“You brought your husband great joy, Isobel,” I said firmly. “Remember that I saw him happy before his death. You honoured the Earl by consenting to be his wife, and by sacrificing your better feeling to his. Nothing should instruct you otherwise; certainly not the fractured words of a half-wit maid.”

“Jane,” the Countess said, brushing back her hair and turning her face to mine, “have done. Do not suppose your words are what I wish to hear. You cannot respect me any longer, knowing what you do of my character.”

“Say rather that I cannot
endure
you any longer.” I was all exasperation. “Isobel, you persist in professing what you should not! Enough of pining, enough of regret. Your task now is to address the future with renewed energy. Scargrave is dead—but Scargrave still lives. And unless I am very much mistaken, you are wronging a man who loves you.”

Isobel blushed scarlet, and turned her face aside. “Do not speak to me of Fitzroy. I feel nothing but shame when he is mentioned.” Her words were clipped and bitter.

“You should not, my dear.”

“How can I not?” she cried. “Oh, Jane, I am utterly miserable!”

“But you care for him still?”

She was silent a time, her fingers clutching and un-clutching at the lace of her gown. She looked away from me, towards the portrait of the late Frederick, his jovial face caught in a band of morning sunlight. Then, in a voice so low I must needs struggle to hear it, she said, “How can you ask such a question? My husband is hardly cold in the ground.”

I felt all the force of her chastening words, and bit my lip. My vigour in urging Isobel out of a too-heavy sorrow had lacked a certain delicacy. But I felt an active anxiety regarding the guilt of one I held so dear, and so attempted one last injunction.

“You cannot die with Frederick, however much you may believe it is required of your penitence, Isobel. *

There was a tense silence, and then the Countess expelled a ragged breath. I hoped for some good effect from my words; but I was not to be so easily rewarded. Isobel bent to retrieve her wrap and settled it once more upon her shoulders, the openness of her expression completely shuttered, her eyes on the flames in the hearth. “Leave me now, Jane,” she said.

“I shall.” I reached a hand to stroke her wild red waves, but at my touch, she stiffened. I said, “There are many people who love you, my dear. Perhaps more than you love yourself. Remember that, Isobel, when you determine to live.”

FEELING SORELY THAT
I
HAD FAILED BOTH MY FRIEND AND
her lover in my awkward attempts at persuasion, I found myself alone with the morning before me. Fanny Delahoussaye was indisposed with a stomach ailment, and Madame had gone off to the apothecary in Scargrave Close; the Hearsts kept still to their cottage in the lane. Fitzroy Payne was closeted in his library, and Lord Harold, thankfully, was not to be seen.

Isobel's melancholy threatened to overtake even
my
energetic spirits, but I reflected that we had at least one cause for rejoicing—the maid Marguerite's vicious tongue, so injurious to the Countess's self-respect, had fallen thankfully silent. Sir William Reynolds remained cheerfully in the company of his dear lady today, having no news of an evil nature to bring to our door. I was not so sanguine, however, as to believe the affair at an end—and judged it wise to pursue what intelligence I might regarding Scargrave's intimates.

I was determined to learn more of the woman named Rosie, who had been cause for such violence of argument between Mr. George Hearst and the late Earl. To that end, I made for the servants’ quarters, and after several enquiries, was directed to the housekeeper's apartment.

“Mrs. Hodges,” I said, when that good lady appeared at her sitting-room door, neatly arrayed in her habitual black with a snowy cap upon her head, “I would speak with you, if you have a quarter-hour to spare.”

“I should be delighted, miss,” she replied, stepping back and throwing her door wide.

I was shown to a comfortable chair by the fire and begged to sit. I confess to stealing a glance about me as Mrs. Hodges went in search of her teapot—for the housekeeper's rooms at Scargrave are on such a scale that they might almost be those of the
Austens
in Bath, a comparison that should probably horrify the good Mrs. Hodges, did she know it. But I collected myself as she placed a cup before me, her kindly face eager to be of service.

How to put the question I must ask? I had never been forced to the task of blatant inquisition before, and it rankled. To have done with, then, and suffer through, seemed the advisable course.

“Mrs. Hodges,” I began, sipping at my cup, “I wonder if you can tell me whether a young woman by the name of Rosie has ever been a caller at Scargrave Manor?”

A look of bewilderment came into her eyes as she settled herself in the chair opposite. “Rosie?” she said; “I can't recollect as there was a
lady
by that name. There's Rosies enough in the world, to be sure, but I am informed of the Manor's guests by their surnames only, as is proper for one of my place.”

Of course this was true; I myself should not have known the lady's Christian name, had she been spoken of in the usual manner; but Mr. Hearst—for it was his voice that had surely pronounced it—had seen fit to drop the “Miss” before her surname. What
had
that been, after all? Catch? Fetch? No—a type of boat.
Ketch.
Rosie Ketch.

“I believe the lady's surname was Ketch,” I said.

The transformation of Mrs. Hodges's face was something remarkable—first white, then red, with eyes popping; I thought for an instant that she should fall into a fit of apoplexy. “Mrs. Hodges,” I said anxiously, setting my tea aside and reaching towards her with concern, “whatever is the matter? What can I have done?”

“It's nothing, miss,” she stammered, recovering herself with effort; “only I've asked as that slattern's name never be pronounced in this house again. She was no example for the younger girls, and a heap o’ trouble while she was in service, and I'd forget her as soon as I'm able. I thought it was a
lady
you'd enquired after.”

“It was my mistake,” I said. “I had no notion she was in service. I merely heard the name, attached to an interesting remark, and wondered when she had last been at Scargrave.”

“I'll warrant the remark was interesting,” Mrs. Hodges observed shrewdly, and clasped her hands upon her considerable stomach. “Rosie's gone three months now, but if it's news of her you want, you'd best be talking to Jenny Barlow, as is her sister down t'a home farm. Not that Rosie's worth the asking after, mind you; but you have your reasons, I dare say.”

That my reasons were unlikely to do me credit, her look and tone clearly implied; and I felt myself blush scarlet.

It remained only to thank her for her hospitality and enquire the direction to Jenny Barlow's home. Then I left Mrs. Hodges by her fire, donned my cloak and boots, and made my way through the kitchen gardens to the lane—which led, in a winding fashion much beset by drifts of snow, some three miles to Scargrave's farm.

THE WEATHER WAS VERY FINE, AND
I
FELT MY SPIRITS LIFT AS
the cold sun touched my cheek. Being anxious to apprise no one of my errand, I could do little but walk; formnately, I possess such an excellent constitution, and am so accustomed to exercise, that I found the three miles not overly fatiguing. I had been told to expect Jenny Barlow's cottage near the beginning of the fallow wheat fields; and indeed, upon rounding the last bend of the lane, I perceived a tiny hut, its good thatched roof a testament to the late Earl's care for his tenants. A thin thread of smoke was rising from its chimney.

I approached the doorway, and spied a small child blessed with the startled eyes of a doe; at my salutation, she took fright, and dashed within. Her mother soon appeared.

“Jenny Barlow?” I enquired.

“Yes, miss.” Her speech was suffused with the softness of Hertfordshire.

I must set down here my first impression of the girl, for girl she undoubtedly is—not much above twenty, I should say, and quite lovely yet, despite the evidence of years of hard work. Jenny Barlow's hair is gold, her eyes are cornflower blue, and her figure full and sturdy, making her seem something of a harvest goddess; but those poor particulars do not convey the truth of it. She is a beauty, her face delicate of line and her features elegant; she is just such an English rose, I judge, as is occasionally still found along its quieter byways.

“Would you like to come in, miss, out o’ the cold?”

I assented, and entered the darkened hut, which was filled with smoke; the unglazed windows were covered with oiled cloth, and only heightened the murkiness of the atmosphere. The child I had seen by the door was hiding under the table; another sat in a corner, worrying a lock of its hair; and I perceived Jenny to be yet again in a certain condition. The lot of women is indeed a cruel one—either die an old maid, reviled and unprovided, or die of hard work and childbed, both too liberally bestowed.