Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor (5 page)

But he is six years my junior, an awkward, gloomy fellow burdened with a pronounced stutter; and all his consequence could not make of him a different man. As I would assuredly attempt to reform what nature had disposed Harris Bigg-Wither to
be
, I could only do him harm by accepting him. My instinct for self-preservation, my belief that marriage without love is the worst form of hypocrisy, gave me strength after a sleepless night to inform him of my error in encouraging his attentions, and to assure him that I was the woman least likely to bring him felicity in the married state. I departed Manydown not an hour later, in great despondency, certain that I had lost not only a suitor, but some part of my dearest acquaintance.

“And now you are come to Scargrave to forget your cares in a whirlwind of frivolity,” Isobel said, casting off her pensive air and reaching again for my hand.” We shall make certain that you do. I shall find some young man to dance attendance upon you, to flatter you and turn your head, and send Harris Bigg-Wither and his stutter to the nether reaches of your conscience.”

“Nay, Isobel,” I protested, “do not cause yourself the trouble to search further. I believe Lieutenant Hearst will amply serve my purpose. He has good looks and charm without the slightest suggestion of better feeling, and he possesses not a penny he may call his own. He shall do very well for a portionless clergyman's daughter: We may expect him to ruin me and then depart for a noble death before Buonaparte's cannon, at which point I shall throw myself in the millpond and be renowned in wine and song. Has Scargrave a millpond, Isobel?”

“Take care, Jane,” my friend said, struggling to be serious; “Tom Hearst is a pleasant enough rogue, but capable of great harm for all that. I would wish him less thrown in the way of my cousin Fanny, for he has so far made her forget herself as to appear a perfect wanton, on occasion—and nothing, as you know, is further from her character.”

“Assuredly,” I said, with less than perfect confidence in Fanny's character; “but enough of my cares, Isobel.” I surveyed my friend, who looked every inch the countess, from the ropes of pearls entwined in her dark red hair to the fashionable slimness of her gown's bodice. I had seen just such a cut to a neckline only once before—in an illustration of Buonaparte's consort, Josephine, from a London journal. Isobel appeared born to wear it. But as I studied her countenance, I was grieved to see marks of strain about her lovely eyes—as though she, the least likely of all my acquaintance, had slept poorly of late. Perhaps the adoption of her husband's station in life had proved too great a burden.

“What of you, Isobel,” I asked gently, “these three months married?”

“I? What may I possibly say of myself?” She spoke with more effort at gaiety than I should have thought necessary. “I am as you see me: an old married woman, whose adventures must be things of the past.”

“You appear very well.”

“I am glad to hear it,” she said, as a shadow came over her features, “for I exert myself to that end. I would not have my husband think other than that I am happy; and so my energies are directed.”

“Isobel—” I was seized with a sudden apprehension.

“Whatever can be the matter? You possess the
essence
of happiness as well as its outward form, assuredly?”

But she appeared insensible of my words, absorbed as she was in some activity on the nether side of the ballroom. “Jane!” she whispered, clutching at my arm, her features whitening and her brown eyes grown suddenly large.
“He
is here. He has had the insolence to appear in my home, in the first days of my return, and without my invitation. Unless it be that Frederick—”She turned in search of her husband, who had vanished from sight. Swift as a bird, her countenance regained its composure and her eyes fixed once more on her first object. “Good God, will I never be free of him?”

I followed the direction of her gaze and saw with foreboding the face that had inspired such fear. He was a tall man of indeterminate age, and thin, in the manner of one who is much out-of-doors in pursuit of frequent exercise. His face was tanned, his appearance elegant, and his carriage easy as he paced the margin of the room, hands clasped behind his back and eyes roving through the crowd. I knew with certainty that it was Isobel he sought, and my immediate instinct was to shelter her from his sight. There was something in the gentleman's aspect—the hooded eyes under a sharp brow, the sweep of silver hair, the long scar that bisected one tanned cheek—that inspired fear. This was a man too much in command of himself; and such an one must always strive to command all the world.

“But who is he?” I asked my friend in a whisper, as though his ears might penetrate even our sheltered alcove.

“He is Lord Harold Trowbridge,” Isobel replied, her fingers pinching my arm painfully, “the Duke of Wilborough's brother. He is intent upon purchasing Crosswinds, my father's estate in the Barbadoes, which has suffered sad reversals in recent years. He gives me no peace, by day or by night.”

“I believe he has seen us,” I said, my heart quickening, as the restless dark eyes came to rest on Isobel. A slow smile curled at the corners of Lord Harold's thin mouth, and with the most gracious ease he made his way across the room to where we sat. There could be no flight; the wall was to our backs, and he was before us.

“Countess.” He bowed low over Isobel's hand. “It gives me such pleasure to welcome you to your new home.”

“I fear the duty must be reversed, Lord Harold,” Isobel said, with an effort at a smile; “and that / must welcome
you.
I have also the honour of presenting you to my dear friend, Miss Austen, of Bath.”

“The honour is mine,” Lord Harold said, with a penetrating look and a bow in my direction.

“And have you found everything to your comfort?” Isobel enquired.

“Indeed,” he assured her, “I arrived but an hour ago from London, at Lord Scargrave's invitation, and have been settled comfortably by Mrs. Hodges.”

At my friend's expression of surprise, I judged she had not anticipated that the man would be taking up residence; but his insolence was equal even to this.

“I confess, I should not have missed such an occasion for the world,” Lord Harold continued. “To see a lady so happily and advantageously married must be a joy to those who rank her security among their dearest concerns.” His voice, though low and refined, bore a note of mockery that was lost neither on Isobel nor myself.

“I rejoice to hear it,” Isobel told him, rising as if to depart, “for it is some time since I believed my security to be the very
last
of your concerns.” The words were abrupt and forced, a shock to my ears; but Trowbridge appeared unmoved. His tall form, fixed before us as steadily as a tree, prevented Isobel from passing in a most ungentlemanly manner.

“Countess,” he said, his voice as tight and cutting as a bowstring, “I would speak with you in private.”

Isobel's mouth had hardened, and her words, when they came, fell with the heaviness of stone. “You can have nothing to say to me tonight, Lord Harold, that cannot better wait until morning. A ball is hardly the hour for business.”

“And tomorrow, no doubt, will be no better once it dawns,” he replied evenly, and smiled. “I will not wait forever,
my lady.
“

“You will wait as long as I please.” Isobel's eyes never left his face. “Remember,
my lord
, that you wait upon my pleasure.” Two bright spots burned in her cheeks, but her pallor was extreme, and I feared she might faint in another moment.

It was Lord Payne, the Earl's nephew, who put a stop to the high pitch of nerves, by appearing like a shadow at Trowbridge's shoulder. The two are equal in height, though Lord Payne has the better of Trowbridge in gravity; his courtesy was perhaps the more offensive for being exquisite.

“Lord Harold,” Lord Payne said, bowing low, “we are fortunate indeed in your company this evening. But I fear I must tear you from the gentler influence of the ladies at the behest of my uncle. He requests that you join him in his study; and in this, as in all things, I do his bidding.”

A few sentences only, but conveyed in such a tone that it served the moment. Lord Harold gave Lord Payne a single look, bowed low to Isobel and me, and was gone as silently as he had appeared.

“Impertinent devil!” Isobel cried, clutching at Lord Payne's hand, “he will hound me to the ends of the earth!”

“I would that I could rid you of his presence entirely,” said Lord Payne, “rather than for so brief a space as he is likely to grant us.” He retained the Countess's hand an instant, gazing at her with an expression of care and worry, and then recovered himself. “I fear you are unwell, Isobel. I shall inform my uncle that you are briefly indisposed, and have sought your rooms.”

More than the surprising adoption of her Christian name, his tender look, when it rested upon his uncle's wife, brought me to my senses. That he was mastered by a feeling unwonted even in so near a relation, I could not doubt; and I recollected Tom Hearst's banter earlier that evening. He had declared Isobel to be chief among Fitzroy Payne's acquaintance; and what the Lieutenant would intimate I now understood all too well—the Earl's silent nephew, so inscrutable in his reserve, was better revealed by strong feeling; Lord Payne knew what it was to love.

“Pray speak to Frederick on my behalf, Fitzroy,” Isobel said faintly, turning away from us both, “but say that I retire only for a little. I would not have Trowbridge believe he has me in his grasp.” As if remembering my presence for the first time since Lord Harold had withdrawn, she looked at me then, and managed a smile; and so she left us.

I must set down something of my sense of Fitzroy, Viscount Payne, for I find him the very type to serve as a character in one of my novels.
¹
He is a tall, well-made fellow, strikingly handsome, with slate-coloured eyes set above sharply-moulded cheekbones. It is his hair that astonishes in one but twenty-six, for it is gone completely grey in a fashion not unbecoming to his grave countenance. All the charm of his person must be weighed, however, against his manner—for Fitzroy Payne is possessed of that reserve that some might mistake for aloofness and pride. That he has a right to be proud, possessed as he is of his father's considerable estates, and being as well the man likely to succeed the Earl in his title and riches, was everywhere acknowledged among the intimates of the Scargrave ballroom; but Lord Payne's haughty silences were no more admired for having a just complacency as their cause. Though many wished to
win
him, I found myself hard-pressed to find any among the assemblage who truly
liked
him; and so enjoyed my time in his company all the more. To be marked out by the singular is a caprice of mine; I would rather spend an hour among the notorious than two minutes with the dull.

“I must thank you, sir,” I said, “for relieving me in a desperate moment. I confess I was unequal to Lord Harold in Isobel's defence, lacking full knowledge of the particulars at issue.”

“You suffer no dishonour by being unequal to Lord Harold,” Fitzroy Payne said. His eyes swept over my head, searching, I fancied, for dark red hair above a daring green gown; but Isobel had quitted the ballroom.

After a pause, and some observation of the dance, which had just then commenced, I assayed another attempt.

“I suppose Lord Scargrave wished Lord Harold present, the better to converse with him in his library—for certainly Isobel was much surprised at the gentleman's arrival.”

“Did she have full knowledge of Trowbridge's descent upon this house hours before he effected it, she should still be made as ill,” Lord Payne said, with some bitterness.

“You share the Countess's dislike,” I observed.

To this sally I received no answer but a knitting of the brows and a heightened gravity.

“Perhaps we shall summon Lieutenant Hearst and have him challenge Lord Harold to a duel,” I suggested, in an effort at lightness. “The Lieutenant shall exercise his honour, and be of service to a lady—two pursuits in which I understand he excels.”

A chill smile, but again no word.

“I detect a similarity in the turn of our minds, Viscount Payne,” I persisted, in some exasperation. “We are both of a taciturn, ungenerous nature, and would rather be silent until we may say what is certain to astonish all the world.”

For this I won the barest moment of liveliness in his grey eyes, and the gift of an answer.

“From a better acquaintance with my own foolishness, Miss Austen, I must be silent; but of you I can readily believe a delight in astonishing.”

“There!” I cried. “My opinion is proved. You cannot even
insult
without phrasing it well.”

“I meant rather to praise than insult, and so my words could hardly fall ill.” He turned his dark eyes upon me with a penetrating look. “The desire to astonish may be considered a vice only when it lacks the wit to achieve its aim—but with wit, Miss Austen, you are clearly most blessed. And now, I fear, I must desert you for the office with which I am charged—that of informing my uncle of my aunt's indisposition.”

He bowed; I nodded; and a gentleman assailing me for a dance at that moment, I left Fitzroy Payne to find his way amidst the boisterous throng. But during the course of the evening I was made more sensible of Lord Payne's attractions. My subsequent partners were to prove less able in conversation, and less provocative even in their silences, than the Viscount had proved with a single sentence.

IT WAS AFTER A PARTICULARLY TEDIOUS EXCHANGE WITH
such an one, that I bethought me of refreshment, and parting with my dubious suitor in some relief, betook myself along the gallery that led from the ballroom to the smallish parlour, where the supper was arrayed. The last of the dances being just then struck up, I found myself blessedly alone in my progress towards the wine punch. I had barely passed the first of the closed doorways lining the hall, when I was halted in my steps by the fierce eruption of argument near at hand. I turned and espied the entrance to the Earl's library, whence Lord Harold had disappeared but an hour before. From behind its closed door emanated the voices of two men, raised in strenuous argument. Lord Scargrave and Trowbridge? It could not be otherwise. I may perhaps be forgiven a woman's curiosity when I admit that, finding myself quite alone for the moment, I lingered along my way.