Jane and the Wandering Eye (32 page)
Read Jane and the Wandering Eye Online
Authors: Stephanie Barron
“Lord Harold! Why did not you say so at once, unfortunate girl!”
I rose, and smoothed my hair; Lord Harold strode into the room, and tossed his hat carelessly upon a table. “Miss Austen.” He bowed over my hand, but his eyes remained fixed on my own. “I fear I should better have stayed away. You are even now in mourning. My very deepest sympathies.”
I nodded, too overcome for speech. Solicitude in the Gentleman Rogue is so seldom a mover, as to make its recipient almost uneasy.
“Your housemaid informed me of the loss. She had little inclination to allow my passage, but I confess I overruled her.” He straightened, and studied my countenance. I knew it to be decidedly ugly with the effects of weeping. “I shall not presume upon your privacy long. You have other concerns that must render the affair in Laura Place of very little consequence.”
“Nay—I beg of you, do not disturb yourself on my account,” I rejoined with haste. “Pray tell me what has occasioned your journey into Seymour Street this morning.”
I seated myself once more at my little table, but Lord Harold took a turn about the room, his hands in his trouser pockets. My brothers being prone as yet to the wearing of knee breeches, I had rarely seen a man who sported the newer fashion—and never one whose tailor had managed it so entirely to perfection. He came to a
halt before a porcelain box reposing upon the mantel, and subjected it to the regard of his quizzing-glass.
“Tell me a little of your friend.”
“Madam Lefroy? She was everything that was excellent in a woman. For this, you need seek no further than Her Grace’s good opinion—for the Dowager was quite intimate with Anne Lefroy, I believe, and desired her presence at last Tuesday’s rout.”
“So much I had understood. I had rather you told me how she came to die.” The quizzing-glass swung round, and was briefly fixed upon myself. I shuddered at the distorted grey eye its lens revealed, feeling touched once more by the shadow of nightmare; and then Lord Harold secured the glass within his coat.
“I hardly know how to consider the matter myself,” I slowly said. “Madam Lefroy was thrown from a runaway horse—a mount she considered so lazy, as to make bolting the very last of her concerns. And her skill as a horsewoman was celebrated throughout the country.”
Lord Harold took up his customary position by the fire, one booted foot raised upon the fender. “You find in her end a disturbing tendency.”
As always, he moved directly to the heart of matters.
“I do. Though it may be only the misapprehension of grief—a denial of the ways of Providence.”
He smiled grimly and retrieved a small packet from within his coat. “I would have you peruse the contents of a letter I received this morning from France, my dear Jane—and only
then
judge of the ways of Providence.”
I straightened in my chair. “A letter—from Mrs. Cos-way? Regarding the malevolent eye?”
“Indeed. It was in the hope of soliciting your opinion that I determined to call at Green Park Buildings this morning. For I begin to wonder if we have not approached this affair from the wrong direction entirely.”
He handed me the letter—a single sheet close-written
in a feminine hand. I read hurriedly through the initial paragraphs, feeling acutely for Mr. Cosway, and the exposure of his most intimate affairs; but was very soon rewarded with an end to all suspense.
14 December, Lyons
My dear Richard—
I received your letter by express only this morning, and found in it yet further proof of your continuing regard for myself despite our differences and the sad losses we have sustained. I have bade the messenger to wait, for I comprehend you require the most precipitate of replies, and every moment must be precious; but I congratulate myself that you shall have this letter in a very few days.
Your words were as water in a desert—and I thank you for their most cherished sentiments. I continue to make progress in my establishment for the education of young ladies; Father Benedict has been most helpful and kind, and I expect to have no less than twenty pupils when at last I open my doors. It is quite impossible, as you see, to contemplate a return to England at present, though your assurances of assistance in the event are always welcome.
Your enquiry regarding the miniature whose likeness you enclosed—a most excellent line drawing my dear Richard, and quite of a piece with your accustomed skill—is readily answered. I do not need to send to Paris, or solicit the opinion of my acquaintance among the artists of this country, for I am cognisant of the pendant’s origins myself, and should have recognised the painter’s hand in an instant. Though done in the French style, I believe the portrait to have been painted by Mr. Thomas Lawrence, with whose technique I am quite intimate. You will recall, no doubt, that my brush was united with his a few years past in the execution of the portrait of Princess Caroline and her
daughter, Charlotte
.
8
Mr. Lawrence only rarely paints in miniature—the grandeur of his passions requires a broader canvas—but he does so on occasion at the behest of friends. If you require the name of the subject, you would do well to ask Lawrence himself; for of the sitter I know nothing.Adieu, my dearest friend—do not prolong your silence, I beg—but send me the slightest intelligence of yourself and my beloved England.
Your Maria
“Another Maria,” I murmured. “That name is destined to haunt our very sleep. And have you gone to Mr. Lawrence, my lord?”
“I have—and learned that he will not admit visitors, being shut up in his rooms after the most bruising attack upon his chair Saturday evening. It is singular, is it not,” Lord Harold added, “how roughly our friends are treated?”
“Singular and disturbing in the extreme.” I frowned in consideration. “I wonder if Mr. Lawrence knows to whom he owes his present misfortunes?”
“We must enquire of him ourselves. Will you consent to accompany me to the Bear tomorrow morning, Jane, for the interrogation of the man?”
I hesitated. “Nothing would pique my interest more, Lord Harold, but I am engaged to attend the concert in the Upper Rooms, and would not wish to be delayed for dinner.”
“Then we shall undertake to pay the call at one o’clock, and remain not above an hour. But now tell me,
my dear—was Mr. Lawrence at all acquainted with your friend Madam Lefroy?”
I started at his words, and felt my heart to commence a painful beating. “A little, I must assume. For Madam Lefroy was much in conversation with a Red Harlequin at Her Grace’s rout, and Lady Desdemona assures me it was thus Mr. Lawrence was disguised. Even Mr. Conyngham remarked their intimacy, for he spoke of it when we danced together in the Lower Rooms—” I faltered as the implication of this thought fell hard upon me. “What would you intimate, my lord—that Madam was
murdered
for her acquaintance with Mr. Lawrence?”
“—Or was Lawrence attacked because of his acquaintance with Madam Lefroy?” his lordship countered.
At this, my senses were thrown entirely into turmoil. From dismay and incredulity, I swiftly moved to conviction—and returned to doubt again. “Impossible!” I cried. “It must be impossible! Dearest, most excellent, Anne Lefroy! That your life should be snuffed out like the merest taper—and for what? Where is the sense to be found in such evil?”
“Pray compose yourself, my dear Jane,” Lord Harold advised me gently, “and endeavour to think. Though I am no friend to magistrates in general, and must consider even Mr. Elliot’s conventions tiresome in the extreme, it is well to search for
proofs
before one contemplates the charge of murder—particularly when one is entirely without a culprit. Let us set about the ordering of our minds. What became of Madam’s mount? The beast that threw her?”
“My brother assures us that it was destroyed.”
“A pity. But only to be expected. We might have learned much from its harness—whether the saddle, for example, was meddled with. But at this remove from events, all such discovery is unlikely.” He commenced to
pace again, the picture of brooding. “Unless … your brother might serve our purpose.”
“James?”
“He is resident in Hampshire, I presume?”
“Yes—and will have the performing of Madam’s funeral service in a few days’ time.”
“A clergyman!” Lord Harold’s countenance lightened. “But that is capital! He might well learn something to our advantage. I suggest you write to him with the desire for further particulars of your dear friend’s tragic end. Say that you cannot rest until you are apprised of every detail of Madam Lefroy’s death. This is often the way with ladies, I believe; they hunger for the minutest fact of a fellow creature’s passing, the better to brood over it, and lament, and sigh in contemplation of their own more happy escape. Let it appear, at least, that such is your inclination—the better to deceive your brother.”
“For
that
is required no undue exertion,” I replied, with a thought for James’s unfortunate Mary. “My brother has always inclined to the view that women are extremely foolish creatures; and it has been amply proved by his experience.”
“All the better. He will journey to Ashe—and there he will interrogate the family, or even perhaps the groom who attended Madam Lefroy, and faithfully report his intelligence. Do you make certain to beg that he relate the exact circumstances of the horse’s bolting. Was it a rook, calling too loud within a hedgerow? Or the sudden report of a gun? How came the servant to account for it? Depend upon it, all at Ashe will know; tho’ they cannot place upon events the construction that
we
should do.”
“And perhaps I may enquire,” I added slowly, “whether any strangers were remarked of late in the village.”
“A funeral is quite often an occasion for the exchange
of gossip,” Lord Harold observed delicately. “They may have remarked a handsome young man of distinguished appearance, putting up at the local inn; or worse yet, a transient labourer of brutish aspect—remarkable for his dissimilar eyes.”
1
James Austen’s first wife, Anne Mathew, whom he married in 1792, died suddenly in 1795—after which he married Mary Lloyd, the sister of Jane’s lifelong friend Martha. Martha would later become Frank Austen’s second wife.—
Editor’s note.
2
This description of Anne Lefroy’s death accords quite closely with that contained in the family memoir
Jane Austen: A Family Record
(by William Austen-Leigh and Richard Arthur Austen-Leigh, revised by Deirdre LeFaye, London: The British Library, 1989).—
Editor’s note.
3
Jane ascribes similar feelings, in virtually the same language, to Anne Elliot of
Persuasion
—a woman who, at twenty-seven, regrets the advice of her older friend, Lady Russell, who discouraged her attachment eight years previously to a young sailor without prospects. Jane allowed Anne Elliot to be eventually reunited with Captain Frederick Wentworth.—
Editor’s note.
4
Women rarely attended funerals in Austen’s day, it being considered the province of a family’s male members to follow the body to both chapel and cemetery. The best a bereaved woman might do was to read Divine Service in the privacy of her home.—
Editors note.
5
In August 1799, Jane Leigh-Perrot was accused by a shopkeeper in Bath Street of stealing a card of white lace, which was found wrapped with some black lace she had purchased in the establishment. She denied the theft—and was probably framed by the shopkeeper, who knew that the monetary value of the stolen lace—in excess of twelve pence—made the theft a capital crime, punishable by death or transportation to Australia. Blackmail was probably the object, and when the Leigh-Perrots refused to pay for silence, they were imprisoned together at Ilchester gaol for seven months before Mrs. Leigh-Perrot’s trial and acquittal. Austen scholar Park Honan points out, however, that Mrs. Leigh-Perrot’s defense attorney thought she was a kleptomaniac who got off.—
Editor’s note.
6
Charades formed a part of Christmas revels in England throughout the eighteenth, nineteenth, and early twentieth centuries. They took two forms—the recitation of a riddle, the first part of which defined the first syllable of a word, and the second its ending; or the presentation of a short play, designed to illustrate each syllable and the word as a whole. Several charades thought to be composed by James Leigh-Perrot and Jane Austen can be found in
Jane Austen: Collected Poems and Verse of the Austen Family
(David Selwyn, ed., U.K.: Carcanet Press Ltd., 1996). Mr. Leigh-Perrot’s are sweet but obvious, while Jane’s are brief and fiendishly clever.—
Editor’s note.
7
The Waits were a group of carolers often paid by the mayor of a town to sing at public functions or holidays. Over time, the term evolved to mean any group of Christmas carolers who performed for tips.—
Editor’s note.
8
Maria Cosway and Thomas Lawrence collaborated on the 1801 portrait of the Princess of Wales and her daughter, with Mrs. Cos-way completing much of the portrait’s ground, and Lawrence working on the principals’ faces.—
Editor’s note.
Chapter 15Portrait of a Witch
