Jane and the Wandering Eye (18 page)

“I could wish, sir, that your activity might profit you more than the unfortunate manager,” I said lightly, as I gave him my hand. He eased me down from the curricle’s step, his aspect suddenly grave.

“Wish me more of courage, Miss Austen. I dread what I may find. For once we risk Pandora’s box, we cannot shut it up again.”

Chapter 8
The Dangerous Mr. Lawrence

Friday,
14 December 1804
~

I
SPENT THE FIRST PART OF THIS MORNING—THE MORNING
of Lord Kinsfell’s inquest—in composing my account of last evening at the Theatre Royal, and inscribing it here in my little book. I had determined, however, to spend a few hours after breakfast in the society of my sister Cassandra, embroidering a flannel waistcoat that should serve as my father’s Christmas gift. I am a decided proficient in the satin stitch, and may offer my work to the most discerning without hesitation or blush; and though I detest flannel in general, the damps of Bath in January are so penetrating—and the Reverend’s health so very indifferent—that no other cloth would do. And so I took up my workbasket and sought my dear sister in the little dressing-room that adjoins our bedchambers.

Cassandra’s head was bent over a muslin cap of her own design, intended for my mother.

“So you did not think well of
Lovers’ Vows,”
my sister enquired, “though the Conynghams were quite in form last evening?”

“The entire company might have played the truant, Cassandra, for all my notice—as I think you very well know. I am no friend to Kotzebue.”

Cassandra was silent at this, her eyes fixed on her cap and her needle flying. “Lord Harold is a very—a very
imposing
gentleman.”

“Imposing? I suppose he is, upon first acquaintance. But his manners grow more easy with time.”

“And are they pleasing, Jane?” My sister fixed me with a look, part entreaty and part frustration. “Are they such as might be capable of winning your affection?”

“My affection! Indeed, Cassandra, I cannot think that my affection should be necessary to Lord Harold’s happiness. He is sufficient unto himself—”

“Then
why
do you accept his invitations? Why seek out his society? It cannot be profitable to either your heart or your reputation, Jane. He is a man of whom every ill thing might be said—and
has
been said—by the world in general. He is accused of the most atrocious part in all manner of affairs—adultery, betrayal, and no doubt treason!”

“Hardly treason, Cassandra,” I observed mildly, “or he should never be employed by the Crown, on affairs too delicate to be breathed. Of the rest, however, I can say nothing. It is true he is regarded as a formidable opponent, in affairs of honour; and such duels are rarely fought without cause.”

“How
can
you speak so lightly, Jane! I begin to believe I do not know my own sister!”

I sighed, at that moment, for Eliza’s more liberal humour. Cassandra’s goodness may be said to verge, with advancing age, upon prudery; and however respectable my sister’s motives in the present case, her methods recalled the schoolroom.

“And you know that he is far above our station,” she
persisted. “So great a man cannot make
Miss Austen
his object from any other motive than dalliance. You are too wise to play the fool, my dear—though his consequence may be gratifying, and his attention a boon to vanity. You know how you will expose yourself—to the derision of the world for disappointed hopes, or worse.”

“Cassandra! These are serious words indeed! Where
can
you have heard ill of Lord Harold?”

“From yourself, Jane. But two years ago.”

This brutal truth must give me pause.

“There was a time, I recall, when you did not scruple to name him as the very worst man in the kingdom,” Cassandra continued. “Are you so blinded by elegance and means? Are you so fearful of ending an old maid, Jane, that you would sacrifice the respect of the people you love, merely to go about on the arm of such a man?”

“My dear—” I laid aside the waistcoat. “In the first instance, I very much doubt that Lord Harold intends to make me the object of dalliance. He merely seeks my society on behalf of his niece—who cannot claim a large acquaintance in Bath, and who is sadly grieved by her brother’s present misfortunes. I may assure you that I feel for Lord Harold no more tender sentiment than friendship. I have grown to esteem him with the passage of time, for reasons I am not at liberty to relate; and if the world continues in benighted ignorance of his honourable character, then fie upon the world!”

“But from such ignorance, Jane, the world will include you in its contempt. The warmth of your nature—its impulsive regard—has misled you in the past, to your regret. Are the delights, now, of an overcrowded rout, or of an indifferent play in the splendour of the Wilborough box, worth the risk of such censure?”

She was not to be persuaded; in Lord Harold’s very name she read an evil; and so I threw up my hands.

“We must persist, Cassandra, in dividing our opinions upon the subject. As long as my father and mother decline to censure Lord Harold’s society, I shall continue to accept it with gratitude; and hope that a greater acquaintance with the gentleman, will increase your regard and esteem.”

“That must be impossible, Jane—for I intend no greater acquaintance with Lord Harold.” And at this, she snapped her thread with a vengeance, thrust aside the cap, and quitted the room.

I
PUZZLED OVER MY SISTER’S BEHAVIOUR LATER THIS MORNING
, as I walked towards Pulteney Bridge. The weak light of a fitful sun turned the limestone face of Bath to faintest yellow. A weak, a dysenteric face, as though the town had languished too long in an unhealthy clime—but I am no ardent admirer of Bath, it must be said, and can never see its beauties in the proper light. I set my heart against the place from the first moment of settling here, and I have endured its customs and frivolities nearly four years, as others might submit to exile. It is in the country that I am happiest; the habits of a simple life most suit my retiring nature; but while my father lives, in Bath we shall remain. In this city was he wed to my mother, and here they suffered their first days as man and wife—so that in the last ebb of fading strength, George Austen has sought comfort in Bath, as another man’s wits might return to childhood.

I achieved the bridge, and spared not a moment for its shops; looked back over my shoulder at the hills and winding crescents of the town; then turned my face to Laura Place, and the Dowager Duchess’s abode. Cassandra should shudder to see me here, I knew—but from whence arose her decided disapproval? From commendable anxiety for my standing in the world—or from envy
and fear of desertion? We had grown up together in the greatest love and friendship—my mother had once observed of us as children, that if Cassandra were to have her head cut off, I should beg to have mine taken, too—and any hint of discord in our opinions and thoughts was unsettling in the extreme. But perhaps the spectre of Lord Harold—of his consequence quite dazzling my senses—had caused Cassandra’s nose to turn?

I had dressed with care for this journey to Laura Place, in a rosy muslin and spencer that were not unbecoming. I thought it only right, that the great civility of Lady Desdemona’s attention last evening—and indeed, the condescension of the entire Trowbridge family—should be met with some equal exertion on my part, in paying a morning call in Laura Place as soon as decency would allow. I must confess as well to some suspense regarding the inquest, and an anxiety for the earliest particulars of Lord Kinsfell’s fate. It being now hard on one o’clock, I felt fairly certain of finding Lady Desdemona at home, and well-disposed towards visitors. And so, with an indrawn breath, I pulled the bell.

Daylight revealed the Dowager’s abode as a magnificent establishment constructed of Cotswold stone, undoubtedly designed by Baldwin, and maintained in all the elegance that easy circumstances will allow.
¹
The interior, however, was much as I remembered it from Tuesday’s fateful rout—albeit greatly improved by a dearth of heat and company.

I handed the footman my card, and enquired whether
the lady was within; he departed to learn the answer; and returned as quickly, followed by Lady Desdemona herself. She was arrayed as though for a ball—in tamboured white muslin, pink slippers, and long silk gloves. A spray of diamonds glittered in her hair. If she had so much as thought of her brother’s inquest this morning, I should be very much surprised.

“Miss Austen! And quite recovered from your injuries of last evening!” she cried with animation. “But how divine! You are just in time to observe Mr. Lawrence!”

“Mr. Lawrence?”

“The painter! He is above, in the drawing-room, about the business of my portrait.”

I blushed in confusion. “I had not an idea that my visit should so incommode the household, Lady Desdemona. Pray, do not tarry below for my sake! Stay only to accept my heartfelt gratitude—for last evening’s amusement, and the pleasure of your company. I shall look for your society another day, at a more favourable hour.”

“Nonsense! You might divert me while he paints! It is the very last word in tedium, I own, to strike a pose for hours together. One’s nose is certain to itch; and to give way to the impulse is quite impossible. Mr. Lawrence is extremely strict on all such matters—I daren’t move an inch!—and he has
such
a satiric eye. I confess,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “that he makes me quite
wild
with the penetration of his looks.”

And with that, she turned and hastened up the stairs; and I felt myself compelled to follow.

I had heard, of course, of Mr. Thomas Lawrence. I had even gone so far as to gaze upon his more celebrated subjects, having visited the Royal Academy exhibitions of past years in Henry and Eliza’s company. Who can forget his portrait of the Queen, or of the actress Elizabeth Farren, or of Sarah Siddons herself? These are perhaps his
most famous pictures; but many a less notorious head has submitted to Lawrence’s gaze, and appeared again as recognisably itself, upon the humble canvas. Of a sudden I wished for Cassandra—who alone of the Austens may claim a talent for drawing. She would have profited from a meeting with the great man, and studied his manner of wielding the brush.

“Mr. Lawrence,” Lady Desdemona said, as she advanced into the room; and I started at finding the object of her address to be a fairly young gentleman, of a fine figure and noble head—no more than thirty, perhaps.
²
I had assumed that celebration in the world of art was predicated upon an advanced age, if not virtual morbidity; and so displayed my astonishment in my countenance. Mr. Lawrence was arrayed in a very fine wool coat, the most fashionable of trousers, a neckcloth assiduously-tied, and a collar of moderate height—which latter suggested, I thought, some soundness of mind. He might rather have been a suitor for Lady Desdemona’s hand, than a painter in oils; and I understood, of a sudden, that a sort of rank in its own right attends a member of the Royal Academy, whom all the world is desperate to secure, that must be denied the fellow accustomed to daubing at innkeepers’ signs, or attempting the likeness of a squire’s prize horse.

“Miss Austen, may I beg the honour of introducing you to Mr. Thomas Lawrence. Mr. Lawrence, my friend Miss Austen.”

“It is a pleasure, madam.” He bowed abruptly and then turned back to his easel. “Lady Desdemona, if you would regain your place I should be deeply grateful. I
am never blessed with a surfeit of time, and I have expended today already more than is strictly necessary.”

“But of course, sir,” the lady replied, with stifled amusement, and settled herself in a chair.

“Turn slightly to the left—
my
left, Lady Desdemona—lift the chin—now gaze at me adoringly, as though I am the only man you could ever esteem—yes, that is capital—” And so saying, Mr. Lawrence reached for a bit of charcoal and swiftly moved his hand across the canvas.

I was prepared to be suitably silent some minutes, but a very little time indeed was required, before I detected the faint suggestion of Lady Desdemona’s form. It was breathtaking to observe the man—so effortless, so certain, was his crayon—and the results were quite extraordinary. While the Duke’s daughter sat with smile fixed and eyes unblinking, save when necessity required, the master painter all but seized her ghost. Twenty minutes, perhaps, and Mr. Lawrence then released her.

“That is sufficient for today, my lady,” he pronounced, with a step backwards to survey his canvas. “I could not improve upon it were I to labour a fortnight.”