Jane and the Wandering Eye (9 page)

Chapter 4
The Eye in Question

12 December 1804, cont.
~

T
HE
E
ARL OF
S
WITHIN, IN CONVERSE WITH
M
R.
H
UGH
Conyngham! Were they, then, acquainted? And was it the actor alone who had drawn Lord Swithin in such haste to the Pump Room?

I stood as though rooted to the broad plank floor, transfixed by a shaft of wintry light. It fell directly upon the Earl’s fair head, as though in benediction, and revealed him as a gentleman not above the middle height, but powerful in his frame and general air of address—a commanding figure, much hardened by sport and exercise, and tailored to within an inch of its life. Lord Swithin’s countenance might be said to be handsome, for there was not an ill-made feature in it, but for the coldness that lurked in his bright blue gaze and the suggestion of bitterness about the mouth. This was not a man to be lightly crossed—and I could not wonder that Lady Desdemona had fled to Bath, rather than brook the tide of rage occasioned by her refusal.

“Jane!” Eliza hissed. “Pray turn your eyes away from
his lordship, or we shall both be detected in the grossest vulgarity!”

But I was insensible of Eliza’s anxious looks, so compelling were the Earl and his interlocutor. With heads drawn close together and a flow of speech that suggested some urgency of matter, the two men
must
be canvassing the murder in Laura Place.

“Eliza,” I murmured, “is the Earl likely to recollect your acquaintance, so many years since in Bengal?”

“I should think not,” she replied stoutly. “It was his mother, you know, who called upon mine. I do not think he was even born before we quitted India entirely.”

“That is very well. Let us stroll about the room with as unconscious an air as possible.”

“We may attempt the stroll, Jane, but should abandon the unconscious air at the outset. You are not equal to it, darling girl. You have not the necessary schooling in deception.”

“Fiddlesticks,” I whispered viciously. “Speak to me of something diverting.”

“I have
heard”
Eliza attempted immediately, “that though the Earl of Swithin’s title is of ancient pedigree, his considerable fortune has been amassed through trade.”

“You shall not horrify
me
, my dear. I am no respecter of snobbish distinction. He retains the claims of a gentleman.”

“But perhaps the nature of his trading may surprise you. The Earl is given to running opium, no less, out of Bengal to China, and using private ships to do it. He learned the habit of his father, and since that gentleman’s demise has greatly increased the activity. Henry heard the tale only last week, while lunching at Boodle’s.”
¹

“The Earl? An opium trader? I may hardly credit it!”

Eliza’s dark eyes glinted deliciously. “Do not sound so astonished, my dearest Jane. You must know that the Honourable Company has long employed opium as an antidote to tea.
²
We import so very much of that leaf, and can sell little to advantage in China; our debt in trade—or its imbalance, as Henry might put it—for many years bid fair to sink us; the kingdom bled bullion as from an open wound; but matters of late have righted themselves, and all on account of the Chinese taste for opium. Such men as the Earl must receive our thanks, however much the Government officially abhors their activity. And so the world turns round—
we
import tea from China; China imports opium from India; and India imports woolens from Manchester! Admirable, is it not, how the yearnings and vices of the multitude provide Lord Swithin with a dashing carriage and four?”

“Admirable or otherwise, it cannot be very agreeable to claim the opium trade as occupation,” I observed. “I wonder whether His Grace the Duke of Wilborough is cognizant of the Earl’s activity?”

We had progressed very nearly to a position opposite the Visitors’ Book, where the Earl and the actor were as yet engrossed. I halted in our promenade, and turned my back upon the pair. Their voices drifted very faintly to my ears—a word or two only. “Continue conversing, Eliza, I beg—but speak of lace, or the price of muslin, in as audible a tone as you may manage.”

Of all things required, my sister was equal to
this
; and she prated on happily about the number of flounces so
necessary to a fashionable gown for evening, and the appearance of epaulettes, in deference to the heightened military style inevitable in such a climate, while I endeavoured to overlisten our neighbours’ conversation. It was the Earl’s voice, acute and low, I first discerned.

“… must have the letters.”

“I tell you they are not …” (indistinguishable words) “… and … is most disagreeable at present. I cannot assure your lordship … influence with her.”

“Then I must see her myself.”

“That would … unwise. I cannot answer …”

“… is due to me! I have wasted … a hands-breadth to the gallows!”

“… time.”

“I have had enough of your
time!
Time has brought me only grief and vexation, sir!” This last was very nearly shouted, so that the enraged Earl was rewarded with the shocked glance of several in the Pump Room; and after an exasperated sigh, he lowered his voice once more. The next words were almost inaudible.

“… expect you to … method of securing my …”

Had I truly heard it aright? Securing
what
—the Earl’s freedom? His reputation? His interest?

His letters?

“… well. Good day, my lord.”

“Good day.” All private business concluded, the Earl achieved a more civil tone. “And remember me to your sister, Conyngham. I shall be in attendance at Orchard Street tomorrow.”

The actor bowed; the Earl received his deference with a faint air of irritation; and so they parted. Lord Swithin quitted the Pump Room by the door immediately opposite the Visitors’ Book, apparently intent upon returning to the White Hart. Hugh Conyngham plunged towards the opposite end of the vast hall. There was an expression
of anxiety and despair upon his countenance I could not like.

“I must leave you, Eliza,” I said. “Forgive me. My compliments and best love to Henry—we hope to see you this evening in Green Park Buildings to drink tea, if you are not otherwise engaged.”

“What have you heard, Jane?” Eliza enquired with penetration.

“I hardly know. Everything—or nothing. Who can say?”

“Jane—” My sister reached a hand to my arm, restraining me when I would depart. “Had you not better leave such things to the magistrate, Mr. Elliot?”

“I do not understand you, Eliza,” I retorted.

“And as for tea—”

The Henry Austens were to attend the concert that evening in the Upper Rooms—a recitation of love songs in the Italian by Mrs. Billington
³
—and Eliza was pressing in her invitation that Cassandra and I should make an addition to the party. Though I may accomplish a Scotch air on the pianoforte with pleasure, I am in the general way no friend to music. Singing, I own, induces a tedium that may be relieved only by a thorough review of one’s neighbour’s attire and conversation. And for the present, all thought of love songs, Italian or otherwise, must be banished by the interesting notion of the Earl and the actor united in intrigue.

But I promised Eliza most faithfully to propose the
scheme to my sister—and with a kiss to her cheek, ran thankfully away.

I
N COMPARATIVE SOLITUDE
I
PASSED THROUGH
Q
UEEN
Square, where the first golden glow of an unfashionably early dinner hour now shone through the modest windows. My mother will persist in hankering after the square—it was the most select address that Bath afforded, in her girlhood—but the narrowness of the rooms will never do for so large a party as ours. She must be content with a weekly visit to the Queen’s chapel, where we hear divine service of a Sunday, and a passage through its park when business draws her to that part of town. We are treated, however, to a daily recitation of Queen Square’s advantages, and must allow it to be superior to every other location in Bath if we are to achieve any domestic peace.

I thrust my mother from my mind in the present instance, however, and saw again in memory the Earl of Swithin. What could such a man—of so lofty an establishment, and so recently descended upon the town—have to say to Hugh Conyngham? Who, however admirable his skill as a thespian, is as yet a provincial player, without birth or connexions to recommend him? I had expected to hear Richard Portal’s name, or at the very least Lord Kinsfell’s—and yet the two had spoken only of letters. Whose? And who was the mysterious
she?

Maria Conyngham?

The actress’s magnificent form limned itself on the paving-stones at my feet, like an enchantress materialising out of the common snow and dirt; and I knew her immediately for a woman any man might die to possess. Maria Conyngham had fire, beauty, and all the spirit to be expected in one untrammelled by society’s conventions. I should not find it remarkable if her charms had
ensnared a legion heretofore unknown to me—not least amongst them, the redoubtable Earl.

And then I sighed. Upon reflection, I should never be privileged to learn the truth—for my part in the drama must surely be at an end. With the Earl come in haste to Bath, and Lord Harold not far behind, any office I might have fulfilled, as silent duenna to Lady Desdemona, should be for naught. The unfortunate girl would be sent away to London, as soon as attention could be spared her, while the efforts of her relations should be turned to the vindication of the heir. The charge of murder brought against Simon, Lord Kinsfell, must throw his sister’s private troubles entirely into the shade.

And so it was in no very great humour that I pulled the bell of No. 27, in Green Park Buildings, and awaited the advent of Mary, the housemaid. She opened to my summons before the last peals had entirely died away.

“Ooh, miss,” she said, with a look of mingled terror and awe, “there’s a gentleman here as is
that
grand. He’s been waiting on you above a half-hour.”

“In the sitting-room, Mary?”

“Yes, miss. In the Reverend’s chair.”

I hastened upstairs to my visitor’s relief, and found none other than Lord Harold Trowbridge, standing erect and silent before the window, his back turned to the room. My poor father gazed at him helplessly, while my mother—in full flood upon the subject of actors and their pugilism—ran on unabated.

“Sir!” I burst out. “This is indeed an honour!”

He turned, one eyebrow raised, and bowed. “Miss Austen. The honour is entirely mine.”

The gravity of his tone might have impressed me less, had it not been wed to an equal command of countenance. Lord Harold was in no mood for civilities or folly—and I determined upon the removal of my mother from the room as swiftly as convention might allow.

“Jane, my dear,” my father said, “your mother and I have been expecting you this half-hour, as we assured Lord Harold. What
can
have occasioned so protracted an absence?”

“Only a Pump Room acquaintance of Eliza’s, Father,” I replied, my eyes on the Gentleman Rogue. “And a general buzz of gossip concerning a new arrival. The Earl of Swithin has come to Bath. Only fancy!”

“The Earl of Swithin? And what is the Earl of Swithin to
us
, pray? Come, come, Mrs. Austen.” My father rose slowly from a stiff-backed chair at some remove from the fire—
not
his usual seat. “If we are to have a whiff of air before Cook sets the dinner bell to ringing, we must away!”

“I am certain we have not time enough,” my mother objected, “and that I shall catch a chill. Moreover, the gloom is
not
prepossessing. We shall stumble over ourselves, in attempting the pavement.”

“That is always the way with December, my dear, but I must have my exercise. Mr. Bowen is most insistent.”

At this, my mother submitted, for my father’s health has been indifferent of late, to our great anxiety, and the surgeon—Mr. Bowen—is punctilious on the matter of a daily airing.

Lord Harold bowed to them both, and I heard the sitting-room door click behind them with palpable relief.

“These are comfortable lodgings,” he said, with a glance about the room.

“Indeed. Although a trifle damp—in the kitchen and offices particularly.”
⁴

“You have been here how long?”

“A few months only—since our return from Lyme.”

“Ah, yes. Lyme.” The barest suggestion of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “It is in my power to inform you, Miss Austen, that our friends reached America in safety. They have taken up residence in the state of New York.”

A rush of feeling welled suddenly within me, and as swiftly died away. Geoffrey Sidmouth and his cousins might as well be on the moon, for any likelihood I should ever have of seeing them again.
⁵

“That is excellent news, indeed,” I managed, and felt my cheeks to burn.