Jane and the Wandering Eye (15 page)

“He is an excellent man.”

“Do you think so?” She laughed in delight. “How relieved I am. I hear such scandalous reports of Uncle’s conduct, as to suspect that he is very little admired in the world.”

“Then we may assume he is but little known. For those who comprehend the depth of his character, cannot but honour it.” I spoke from the heart, and too late regretted the force of my words.

“But of course!” Lady Desdemona cried. “I had quite forgot. You are
Uncles
acquaintance, not Grandmère’s.”
Her grey eyes, so like Lord Harold’s, took on an aspect of calculation; and I knew her to be wondering at my friendship with the man, and all that it might imply. At nearly thirty, and never entirely able to consider myself handsome—lacking birth or fortune to distinguish me—I cannot have seemed at all in the Trowbridge line.

I hastened to disabuse her.

“Our acquaintance is quite recent. It is my brother Mr. Henry Austen, who claims a nearer friendship with his lordship. I only met your uncle a few weeks ago”—(though this was hardly true, I had no wish to detail the tragic events at Scargrave)—“at Henry’s London residence. I can only suppose that Lord Harold has learned I am a great enthusiast for Kotzebue—and so extended his very kind invitation to make another of your party.”

“Then I am happy of the addition,” she replied simply. “I very nearly refused to show my face abroad this e’en—but one cannot hide within doors forever. Poor Kinny’s affairs are so sadly entangled—” She faltered, and compressed her lips.

“I am certain Lord Harold will soon put them to rights.”

“You were present, I understand, at Grandmère’s rout?”

“I had the honour of dancing with your brother well before supper.”

Her face brightened. “Then you must see it as I do! You will know how impossible it is for Kinny to do anyone a mischief!”

“Was he long in residence at Laura Place before the sad events of Tuesday?”

“He was arrived but a fortnight.”

“Lord Kinsfell,” Miss Wren interposed with an important air, “was come on an errand from His Grace the Duke. He intended the removal of Lady Desdemona from Bath, and I for one must deeply regret that he did
not carry his point!” At this, she cast a withering look at the Dowager Duchess; and I concluded that Eugenie had refused to give up her granddaughter. “But then, in my forty years, I have often observed, that a world of misfortune will result from the too-great indulgence of a wilful mind. I—”

“Oh, Lord, Wren,
will
you have done?” Lady Desdemona cried in evident exasperation. “Would you have me sent off, against my express wishes? Returned summarily to that
dreadful
prison?”

“Wilborough House may certainly be draughty, and its decoration of a vanished era, but no bars does it boast, nor turnkeys at the door,” Miss Wren replied with pointed reproof. “Whereas Bath cannot be safe for your reputation, my dear Mona, in its present climate of opinion. You are well launched on your first Season—but we cannot sink in complacency. You would do well to seize what opportunity offers. We are none of us growing the younger.”

Lady Desdemona trembled with indignation, and colour mounted to her cheeks. I may say that she appeared to even greater advantage this evening, being dressed all in white and with pearls in her hair, than she had in the midst of the rout. At eighteen, her figure was already formed; she was fine-boned and elegant, and her countenance glowed with the outrage of her feeling.

“Grandmère,” she pleaded, with a hand to the Dowager’s arm. “It is beastly of Wren to speak to me so—as though Kinny’s misfortune were entirely my fault! Tell her that she is
not
to interfere. Tell her I may stay with you always.”

“Of course, my darling,” the Dowager replied indulgently. “You shall grow old in retirement—nay, retreat to a convent if necessary—for the discouragement of Lord Swithin. Not a new gown shall you have, nor any amusement, until a more respectable man begs for your hand.”

“But Lord Swithin is a man of parts!” Miss Wren spluttered. “I wonder, Mona, that you should slight a gentleman of his consequence; but it is ever the way with headstrong youth. You cannot know your own interest.”

“And is
interest
the sole consideration upon which I must judge exactly how I am to be happy?” Lady Desdemona exclaimed, with a quickening in her looks. “Lord Swithin is a man of
far too many
parts, by my way of thinking—and he has bestowed them far too widely about Town.”

“Mona!” Miss Wren cried, in shock. “What
will
your uncle think?”

“The Earl may be capable of intrigues, and dissipation, and schemes of the most pernicious kind—but as to comporting himself respectably, and in a manner that might ensure
any
woman’s love—”

“Brava
, my dear,” the Dowager said comfortably. “You speak the part well. How I wish that a grandchild of mine might respectably tread the boards!”

“With respect, Your Grace,” Miss Wren interposed, “the Duke of Wilborough sees nothing objectionable in Lord Swithin—and in
my
day, a father’s approbation should have been enough. It is unbecoming in a lady to think so firmly for herself. It smacks of stubbornness and caprice, and neither may recommend her to the stronger sex. When you are as blessed with experience as I, my dear Mona—”

“—I shall undoubtedly be the happier, in having followed my heart,” Lady Desdemona concluded. “I may wonder, Wren, that having presented so biddable a nature
in your day
, you failed to find a husband.”

The mortification of this last remark was admittedly shocking; but I could not suppress a smile, nor a quick look for Lord Harold, whose countenance betrayed a smothered animation. The unfortunate Wren retreated hastily in a dignified silence, but declared from her looks
that all enjoyment in the evening was at an end. A moment’s reflection seemed to chasten the Lady Desdemona; her cheeks flushed and her eyes found her lap; and so the curtain rose.

M
ISS
C
ONYNGHAM, AS IT HAPPENED, WAS NOT INDISPOSED.

To the Dowager Duchess’s delight, the actress appeared in the very soul of Agatha—arch, too-intimate, and vulgar by turns—with a heightened colour and a depth of intonation that must captivate even the stoniest of hearts. Lord Harold, I observed, was most keenly aware of the lady—and fixed his quizzing glass upon her for the duration of the first act.

We had borne with the diverse fates of the inhabitants of a small German village—their incestuous proximity, their fantastic doubts; had heard love proclaimed, rejected, denied, and at long last embraced—and had, with relief at least for
my
part, achieved the space of an intermission. Lord Harold let fall his glass at last—and his countenance, to my surprise, was a study in abstraction. What quality in Maria Conyngham could so enthrall his thought?

“If you will excuse me, Mother, I believe I shall take the air,” he said abruptly, and bowed his way from the box.

“The devil tobacco,” Eugenie declared with an indulgent smile. “It is the sole influence he cannot master.”

“Are you comfortable, Your Grace?” Miss Wren enquired anxiously. “I am sure you must be warm. It is decidedly overheated—dreadfully close—and such odours as will rise from the pit—”

“In truth, Wren, I am feeling a trifle cold,” Eugenie replied serenely. “Perhaps you will fetch my shawl.”

The Dowager’s shawl—a formidable square of cashmere—being hung even now in the cloakroom, Miss
Wren let slip a martyred sigh, and went in search of the stairs.

I turned my attention to Lady Desdemona. “The excellence of this evening’s performance must do Mr. Portal credit. The company might almost have exerted themselves to honour his memory.”

“Indeed,” the girl replied. She glanced at her grandmother, who gave every appearance of dozing behind her fan, and lowered her voice. “It is a pity, is it not, that he was denied the pleasure of witnessing their glory? The success of this theatre was his dearest concern, and Kotzebue his delight. It is incredible that he should be with us no more—he was so full of life, so animated with hopes for the season, and the new theatre in Beauford Square! Mr. Portal looked to the mounting of
Lovers’ Vows
to quite ensure his success; for it cannot fail to fill the stalls.”

“And so he has done. By the simple act of dying in so sensational a manner, Mr. Portal has brought all of Bath to Orchard Street,” I observed with deliberate coldness. “Were he on the brink of bankruptcy, we might accuse him of having staged his death merely for the sake of profit!”

“Miss Austen!” Lady Desdemona cried in horror; but horror swiftly gave way to amusement. Not for Lord Harold’s niece, Miss Conyngham’s outraged sensibility; and this alone could tell me much. She looked again at the dozing Dowager, and then dropped her voice to a whisper. “Had Mr. Portal suspected there to be money in the act, I do not doubt he should have entertained the notion. He prized riches above all things—even, perhaps, the glory of his company.”

“Did he, indeed? And did he possess considerable means?”

“I
cannot undertake to say. He was hardly murdered
for his purse, if that is what you would suggest, Miss Austen. For it was discovered upon his person.”

“I merely wondered how such a man—with reputation, wealth, and every consideration of good society—should have occasion for making enemies. For someone must have despised him enough to end his life.
You
were acquainted with the gentleman, my lady—surely you must have formed an opinion on the subject. What can Mr. Portal have done, to warrant his violent end?”

“I do not know,” Lady Desdemona replied. Her brow furrowed. “I have worried at the subject like a terrier at a bone. My acquaintance with Mr. Portal was hardly so intimate, as to permit me to form anything but the most cursory judgement of his character. He perpetually ran in a high flow of spirits; he was fond of company and of wine; he possessed energy enough for ten; and was rarely so nice in his sentiments or expression, as to render him the safest of companions. In short, he was boisterous and crude, and sadly wanting in tact.” She shook her head. “I could imagine him to offend any number of persons without the least intention of doing so, and forget the insult as readily as he ignored his engagements—which was repeatedly, I assure you.”

“Does want of tact, then, explain the gentleman’s scene with Lord Kinsfell?”

Her eyes slid away. “Of that I may say even less. For Kinny is chary of taking offence, particularly among his friends; and so I must believe the injury to have been a peculiar one. My brother was excessively grieved.”

“Mr. Portal does not seem an ideal lover for Miss Conyngham,” I mused. “I wonder what she saw in him to recommend his suit?”

“Was he to marry her, then? How come you to know of it?” A quickening of interest, and a faint blush to the lady’s cheeks. “I had not heard that rumour.”

“Nor had I. I speculate, that is all. Miss Conyngham
was sadly shaken by Mr. Portal’s murder—and must have felt the loss quite deeply.”

“—Though not so deeply as to forgo her present performance,” Lady Desdemona retorted. “She would sacrifice everything to the goddess of success, I believe.”

“You do not esteem her.”

My companion shrugged. “I cannot claim any great knowledge of the lady. But I have observed, Miss Austen, that they who earn their bread in the performance of a role, have often difficulty in quitting the stage. They dissemble, as it were, in everything—and the truth of their characters is difficult to seize. I should never be certain whether Miss Conyngham were dying of grief at Mr. Portal’s loss—or if her feelings were quite the reverse.”

I had not looked for such penetration in a girl of eighteen; but she was, after all, Lord Harold’s niece.

“You do not endure a similar sense of ruin?” I enquired gently.

“My brother, indeed, is sadly circumstanced—but I can have no occasion for despair. Now Uncle is come, all shall soon be set to rights.”

I was prevented from pursuing this interesting line of intelligence, by a circumspect cough from the direction of the box’s door. Lady Desdemona’s head swung round, her grey eyes widened, and involuntarily, she seized my arm.

The cold blue glare of a fair-headed gentleman, arrayed in all the brilliance of fawn knee breeches and a bottle-green coat, met my interested gaze. The very Lord Swithin. He was a remarkable figure of a man—and yet the good looks of his countenance were undoubtedly marred by the arrogance that suffused them.

“Lady Desdemona.” He bowed with exquisite grace, but the hauteur of his glance might have guttered a candle-flame. “I am happy to see you. Your Grace—”

The Dowager Duchess awoke with a start, glanced
about, and then held out her hand with all the appearance of cordiality. “Swithin! I declare! It is like your insolence to come to Bath at such a time. I could wish that
all
our acquaintance were as careless of convention.”

If he took the measure of her ambivalence, the Earl betrayed no sign. He bent low over the Dowager’s hand.

Eugenie patted the empty place beside her, with a look for Lady Desdemona, who sat stiffly upright in her chair. “Do sit, Lord Swithin, I beg. We have not talked this age.”

“I fear that the honour is beyond my power at present to indulge, Your Grace. A large party of friends awaits my attention.”

“Of ladies, you mean?” Lady Desdemona cried, and lifted her glass to peer about the theatre. “Now where is your box? I should dearly love to see the rogues’ gallery you’ve carried in your train.”

“You have quite failed to acquaint me with your friend, Mona,” said the Earl in a tone of quelling severity.

“And are you due any such civility, Lord Swithin? I am not entirely convinced. But since you shame me to the courtesy—Miss Austen, may I present the Earl of Swithin. Lord Swithin, Miss Austen.”

The gentleman bowed and clicked his heels. “You are visiting Bath, Miss Austen?”

“A visit of some duration, my lord,” I replied easily, “since it has been prolonged now these three years and more. You are only just arrived, I collect?”