Jane and the Wandering Eye (14 page)

Chapter 6
Lovers Vows

13 December 1804, cont.
~

T
HE MORNING WAS WELL ADVANCED WHEN WE QUITTED
Camden Place. I had arranged to return to Madame Le-Blanc’s for a final fitting before dinner—Lord Harold must wait upon Cosway in an hour’s time—and the theatre beckoned for the evening’s investigation. No visit to Laura Place, with the intention of thoroughly searching the panelled door’s passage, was accordingly possible; and so we parted in the Lansdowne Road with hasty protestations of goodwill and thanks on either side.

Madame LeBlanc had worked wonders on my peach silk in the interval. I observed myself as one transformed by a faery godmother—and in some little exultation, tripped my distance home in time for dinner. I availed myself of an hour at its conclusion, to record these thoughts in my little book; and at six o’clock exactly, when I had commenced to fret, a messenger appeared at Green Park Buildings, with Madame LeBlanc’s glorious box beneath his arm. I tore at the wrappings quite heedless of decorum, and unveiled the gown to the Austens’ wondering eyes.

“It is very bad of you, I declare,” my mother cried, as she saw me pink with pleasure at the lovely drape of stuff. “You have spent this quarter’s pin money entire, I daresay, Jane, and will be playing the pauper for months on end. And so you are off—and without a thought for the rest of your dear family! You were always a headstrong, selfish girl! I am certain Cassandra would never behave in a like manner. Had you shewn a more becoming consideration, and pressed Lord Harold for the invitation,
we
might have gone as well. The Wilborough box undoubtedly holds eight. Who is
Jane
, that the Duchess must so distinguish
her?
I confess, I should never be easy in the enjoyment of a pleasure denied to others; but my character has always been remarked for its delicacy.”

“Lord Harold, indeed?” my father exclaimed, with a roguish look. “And have you made a conquest, my dear? He is a very fine fellow, I declare—though perhaps a trifle lacking in conversation. I cannot remember that I have ever heard anything of him that does not disconcert—he is a sad reprobate, in the world’s estimation, and fully fifteen years your senior—but I recollect you are an avowed intimate of old Mr. Evelyn, so perhaps there is nothing very shocking in this.”
¹

“Indeed, Father, I owe Lord Harold no greater gratitude than the preservation of my beloved Isobel, as I think you know,” I replied. “Were it not for his efforts, she should surely have hanged; and a lifetime of recompense,
in the attending of plays in the Wilborough box, might not be taken amiss.”

“—if it were in fact your Isobel who danced attendance.” My father’s amusement reigned unabated; but his gaze was searching when it met my own. He knew a little of my Lyme adventures—enough to have feared for my safety, tho’ not so much as to comprehend Lord Harold’s involvement in
that
scheme as well; and it was possible that he had formed a suspicion of the present intrigue. The murder at Laura Place was so much talked of, on the streets and in the papers, that my sudden intimacy with the family would excite an understanding far less brilliant than my father’s. I hastened to turn the tide of conversation, lest it drown me entirely.

“I would not have gone for the world, indeed, but that I felt this obligation. And there is Henry to think of.”

“Henry?” my mother enquired.

“Henry,” I said firmly. “He has great hopes of the Wilborough fortune. He has performed some little service on Lord Harold’s behalf, in the financial line, and an improvement in my acquaintance with the entire family might further Henry’s interest.”

“Oh, in that case, you had much better go,” my mother cried. “Eliza is such a sad, heedless housekeeper—so extravagant in her ways—and poor Henry has never had much of a head for business. Only do not be saying so to the Duchess, I beg, Jane. You must do for your brother what you can. For I very much fear that if you do not, our Henry may end with skulking in the Savoy, or running for Parliament. And we cannot have politicians in the family. They have so little conversation, being given to incessant speeches, that they induce my head to ache dreadfully.”
²

And with this obscure remark, my mother hastened away, to see to the brushing of my gloves.

A
T SEVEN EXACTLY THE
W
ILBOROUGH CARRIAGES ARRIVED
—one a chariot-and-four, which contained the Duchess, her niece, and her companion, Miss Wren; and the other, a curricle, with Lord Harold at the reins. The Gentleman Rogue himself descended in pursuit of me; and his appearance was at once so elegant and daring, in his fashionable black pantaloons and coat, that my father’s expression of gravity increased. My mother was all but overcome; and my sister, after the briefest of introductions, retired forthwith to her room.

Were it not for the gravity of circumstances surrounding the Trowbridge family, I should have been entirely gay; but an oppression of feeling could not be overcome. Lord Harold, tho’ possessed of admirable qualities, might never be said to move in a high flow of spirits. He was grave, and I was contained; and so we made our progress to the theatre, with a few sentences only exchanged on either side. I ventured to enquire whether Mr. Cosway had fulfilled his commission, and learned to my satisfaction that Lord Harold waited but for the receipt of certain necessary papers, to be fetched from London by an express, before sending the packet to Portsmouth.

The first play was to be Kotzebue’s
Lovers’ Vows
, with Miss Conyngham in the role of Agatha; her brother was to play at Frederick.
³
The public taste for German sentiment,
first fed some years previous by Mrs. Siddons and her brother Kemble in
The Stranger
, reigns unabated in Bath; but I must confess to a preference for Sheridan’s comedies, or for Shakespeare’s work, so elevated in its expression and refined in its feeling. There is a maudlin note in Kotzebue that borders on vulgarity; an artificiality of speech and an excessive display of sentiment that I cannot like. My taste in theatre had gone unsolicited, however—and the purpose of the evening’s entertainment being so far above the enjoyment of the play, that I determined to express only gratification, and turn my energies from the stage to the probing of Lady Desdemona.

Orchard Street was entirely blocked with traffic, and the Wilborough equipages spent a tedious interval in attempting the entrance.

“I fear the public’s enthusiasm for the present drama, though necessarily large, has found an increase in the players’ notoriety,” Lord Harold observed. “So great has been the sensation at poor Richard Portal’s death, that many who should never venture into Orchard Street in the course of their usual pursuits, are present this evening.”

“It puts me in mind of a Siddons night in Drury Lane, when first she played at Isabella,” I observed. “I have had to suffer such indignities on that lady’s behalf, in my attempts to gain a respectable seat, as might occur at a Tyburn hanging.”
⁴

Lord Harold turned, one eyebrow lifted. “You are a hardened devotee, then, of the Dramatic Muse? I should have suspected it, Miss Austen. You possess a decided flair for role-playing.”

“It was my family’s custom to stage an amateur theatrical at Christmas, throughout my tender years in Steventon; on certain occasions we employed our barn for stage, and at others, our neighbours the Lefroys were wont to offer their double parlours for proscenium and pit. I cannot, in truth, consider drama as divisible from Christmastide.” I forbore to mention, however, that I had attempted the composition of a play or two, and had determined it was not my particular art—for of my writing I never spoke with Lord Harold.

“What think you of the divine Siddons?” the gentleman enquired, his attention divided between myself and the turbulent street.

“She is possessed of a decided majesty, that none who attempt to play at tragedy may approach. There is nothing, I believe, to equal her Lady Macbeth. But I wonder if I should enjoy her company on a less exalted plane—the drawing-room, for example, rather than the stage? She seems a chilly creature. And her brother Kemble is worse! How he prates and turns about the boards, as emotive as a block of marble! Until I had seen him play at
Pizarro
, I could never like him; but there his figure gained in animation.”

“Perhaps tragedy is not your predilection. For there can be few performances to equal Kemble’s Hamlet.”

“I do confess, Lord Harold, that with so much of sorrow to be found in the everyday—tragedies, perhaps, of a smaller scale—I can but wonder that we
pay
so often for
the privilege of enduring it. When I exert my energies towards the theatre, I hope to be transported—to leave such griefs and disappointments behind. I do incline to a preference for Mrs. Jordan.”

“Ah, the cheeky sprite,” my companion rejoined. “She is no friend to Kemble either—but, being happy in the protection of still greater men, she cannot have cause to repine. Perhaps our own Miss Conyngham may rise so high in the world’s estimation.”
⁵

We had achieved the entrance; Lord Harold leapt down, and handed the reins to a waiting footman. He managed the several duties of attending his family and myself with competent grace; and our introductions having been made in all the bustle of the foyer, we had very soon left both snowy street and cloakroom behind, for the relative quiet of the box.

Lord Harold ensured that my place should be at his niece’s side; himself he seated by the Dowager; and Miss Wren was forced to suffer in isolation, at the farthest remove from the stage. She is the sort of poor relation that I shudder to think I shall become—dependent, decaying, and despondent in her aspect. An unfortunate creature in her middle years, without strong affection or security to protect her, and necessitous to the point of enduring the Duchess’s caprice in exchange for daily bread. Her sunken cheeks, sharp nose, and respectable grey muslin proclaim Miss Wren the soul of abject decency; and I averted my eyes from the pitiable sight, lest her circumstance destroy my brief happiness in my new gown.

“You are very fine this evening, Miss Austen,” Lord
Harold observed, as he cast an eye over his niece and myself. “You must always go about in exactly that shade, regardless of weather or season. It becomes your dark hair and eyes extremely.”

I blushed, and expected every moment the weight of the Dowager’s stare, and some unease regarding her son’s attentions to a mere nobody—but in a moment, all discomfiture was at an end. Eugenie had so far ignored Lord Harold’s remark, being absorbed in a perusal of the program, that it might never have fallen. She was this evening a confection of diamonds and ebony lace, her carriage erect and her sharp-featured face held high; and as she leant towards the rail, an ebony cane grasped firmly in one hand, her brilliant eyes narrowed in a manner that was strikingly familiar.

“Harry,” she declared in a peremptory tone, “I cannot find Miss Conyngham listed in the program. Can it be that she is indisposed?”

“Perhaps the death of her colleague has affected her too deeply.”

“Then I shall be greatly amazed. I confess I detected no affection in the case.”

“Indeed?” Lord Harold’s interest quickened. “Then I have been labouring under a misapprehension. I had understood them to be lovers.”

“Lord Harold!” squeaked Miss Wren. “How can you speak so! And in front of the young ladies!”

“Most of Bath has thought the same,” his mother replied crisply, as though Miss Wren had never spoken, “but I persist in denying the attachment. It seemed, to my mind, but an affair of convenience. We must descend upon the wings, Harry, when the play is at an end, and make Hugh Conyngham tell us how she does.”

Miss Wren let out another squeak, and jumped slightly from agitation. “Would that be entirely proper, Your
Grace? I cannot think that it should, particularly for Lady Desdemona—”

“I am at your service, madam,” Lord Harold replied to his mother. “I confess to an active interest in Miss Conyngham’s condition myself.”

In an apparent effort to turn the conversation, Lady Desdemona said, “You are privileged, Miss Austen, in calling Bath your home?”

I stifled a barbed retort—Bath being the very
last
place I should honour with that sentiment—and took refuge in the notion that there was nothing like a pleasure place for diverting one’s attention from one’s cares. Did Lady Desdemona claim a broad acquaintance in Bath? She did not; and confessed herself quite lonely.

“Then the addition of your uncle to Her Grace’s party must be a happy one,” I observed. “With such a gentleman to escort you to the theatre and the Rooms, your enjoyment of Bath may only increase.”

“Oh, yes,” the lady replied, with a grateful look for Lord Harold, who seemed engrossed in observing the crowd through his quizzing glass. “I do so esteem my uncle! He pays the least mind to what is tedious in social convention—quite unlike Papa, who is forever preaching about a lady’s proper place—that I am entirely easy in his company.”