Jane Austen Mysteries 10 Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron (15 page)

"And yet," I observed, reverting to our earlier subject of conversation, "Lady Oxford is Byron's current
inamorata--
and Lady Oxford is welcome everywhere."

Desdemona smiled. "Not
quite
everywhere. The Regent will not receive her, on account of her support for the Princess; and so Byron, too, is given the cut direct when he descends upon Brighton."

"I am glad to know that man has suffered
some
rejection, at least!"

But the Countess was no longer attending. Her eyes had narrowed, in gazing at a particular boat just then thrusting out to sea. It was a sailing vessel, not at all large as such things go: but a single mast and sail, and what my Naval brothers should have called a jib--I might almost have ventured abroad in it myself. It had been some years since I had rowed my nephews in a little boat about Southampton Water. But Desdemona was not lost in contemplation of the boat, pretty tho' it was, with its gay sails and dark red paint.

"And so the Devil is come to Brighton," she murmured softly. "And I
do mean
Devil, Miss Austen. That is Byron himself--just there, springing into the boat with a quickness surprising in one who is lame--George, Lord Byron, about to set sail. Is there not something poetic about the scene?"

She spoke a simple truth. There was the boat: bright-hulled, bucking on the waves like a horse impatient for a gallop; and the broad-shouldered, lithe young man with the windswept black locks, his deft fingers working at the ropes. A timeless image; beautiful in its clean lines and brilliant colours, its implicit promise of freedom--

"My dear," called the Earl of Swithin, from where he stood a little advanced from us in company with Henry, "I believe we should beg our friends' pardon for detaining them so long, and enquire whether they might dine with us, before the Assembly tomorrow?"

But Desdemona was deaf to her lord.

I was scarcely more attentive myself. For a young boy had raced, barefoot, across the sand directly for Lord Byron's boat. His blond hair was cropped short, in curling waves over nape and forehead; his nankeen breeches were so loose on his wiry frame that they were lashed to his waist with a stout leather belt; and his shirt--a rough linen one with flowing ruffles and sleeves, that put me strongly in mind of a Gypsy's--was so blowsy as to suggest it might better have fitted Byron himself. A local urchin, I thought, whose intent was to earn a copper or two by helping his lordship heave his vessel into the sea.

But the lad was too late--his lordship was already afloat--and in desperation, the boy surged out into the waves, hailing the vessel in a high, excited accent, the linen shirt ripping free of his breeches in the brisk wind.

Byron turned and fixed his gaze upon his pursuer's countenance--and his own visibly darkened. As Desdemona and I observed the scene, his lordship's beautiful mouth curled in contempt and hatred. "Little Mania!" he shouted. "You may go to the bottom and welcome, for all I care!"

And he let out his sail with an impatient twitch of line, willing the little boat to surge forward, away from the boy.

"How cold the water must be," I murmured. "I have only assayed it once, in Charmouth--and that, from a bathing machine--I am sure it is far colder in the midst of the ocean, against one's sodden clothing. Poor lad--what
can
be his purpose?"

Desdemona's gloved hand gripped my wrist with painful urgency. "Turn away, Miss Austen. Turn away this instant! We must not look, or I shall not be answerable for the consequences--Oh, Lord, that I had not seen what I have! That I should not feel myself
compelled
to inform Lady Oxford--"

I stared at her in wonderment. "Whatever are you speaking of? It is only a boy. Observe! His lordship is waving him off! He is letting out more sail, and the wind has taken it! The water is too deep for the lad--he cannot reach the boat, and indeed, indeed, Lady Swithin, I believe the poor fellow is drowning!"

The Countess whirled on the instant, her eyes seeking the fair head as it bobbed, sank, and disappeared beneath the waves. Byron was staring resolutely in the opposite direction, out to sea; at least fifty yards now separated him from the desperate boy.

"Good God!" Mona cried. "Swithin--Swithin,
do something
, for all our sakes! Do you not see? There, in the wake of that vessel? It is Lady Caroline Lamb who is perishing in the sea!"

13
Jane confirms here an opinion of Lady Oxford already expressed to her friend Martha Lloyd in a letter dated 16 February 1813. See Jane Austen,
Jane Austen's Letters
, Deirdre Le Faye, ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), Letter No. 82.

14
By this, the Countess of Swithin refers to Princess Caroline, the Regent's estranged wife, who maintained a separate residence and household. Such a degree of hatred subsisted between the two royals that one could not be a friend to both.--
Editor's note
.

CHAPTER NINE
A Remedy for Drowning

9 M
AY
1813
B
RIGHTON, CONT
.

M
Y BROTHER
H
ENRY
, I
KNEW
,
COULD NOT SWIM
.

The Earl of Swithin's fingers were already working at the buttons of his dark blue coat, however, and his hat was tossed on the paving at his feet. "Hullo the boat!" he cried towards Lord Byron's diminishing vessel. "Byron! Lord Byron!"

I saw what he was about in an instant; Byron should be more likely to reach the drowning woman, did he abandon his vessel in an attempt to save her; but the wind carried Swithin's words back into his throat.

Henry leapt from the Parade to the shingle below, and began to halloo in company with Swithin; but it was of little use. The only notice he secured was that of the fishwives who gutted the local catch on trestles set up near the sea, their skirts kirtled high about their waists and their heads wrapped in bright scarves. Several stilled their knives and stared up at us in wonderment, as tho' we were drunken or mad.

"She surfaces!" Desdemona cried.

Her husband, boots discarded and clad only in pantaloons and linen shirt, pelted over the stony sand with the speed of a schoolboy; and as he plunged into the sea, fighting against the waves that dragged at his thighs, I saw the dark gold head of Lady Caroline Lamb--was it truly she?--rise like a seal's and then disappear, almost instantly overwhelmed. Beside me, Desdemona was dancing with anxiety and fear, muttering imprecations and encouragement, her eyes narrowed in a desperate attempt to locate Lady Caroline once more. I, too, was searching the serrated water frantically with my gaze; but the sodden curls did not reappear.

Lord Byron's yacht, taken by the wind, had moved far from our party; he had tacked, I thought, and was visible as a gull-winged shape against the bright horizon. Had he known Caro Lamb could not swim? Had he wished her to die while he sailed onwards, indifferent? Could any man--however tormented by a discarded lover--be so callous as
this
?

But of course he could, I recollected. This was the same Lord Byron--the
poet
--who had abducted Catherine Twining in his carriage.

Desdemona had quitted the Parade to hasten after the gentlemen; she was straining towards her husband, just shy of the tide's reach. I hastened to join Henry, who said, "I believe Lady Caroline has been submerged some minutes. Swithin will have to dive. Let us pray he has sufficient strength--
I
should never be equal to it. The force of the waves! I am all admiration for such a man."

It was as Henry said: Swithin was drawing great breaths, then plunging fully under the sea. I had an idea of his eyes, blinded by salt water, searching the murky depths in frantic haste for the slim figure of the boy-girl. I found I was clutching at Henry's arm with my gloved fingers in a manner that he might generally have regarded as painful, but appeared not to notice at this present; I heaved a shuddering sigh of dread, as tho' my breath might supply the swimmers'.

Desdemona had begun to pace the sand, tossing anxious half looks towards the sea, and I sensed her mounting anxiety--where was Swithin? He had not resurfaced from his last dive. Had his strength flagged? His senses been suddenly overpowered?

"Henry," I attempted--

But at that moment, Swithin's head surged out of the waves and he shook it, like a dog. Under his left arm there was a white and limp shape--a neck, a dark blot of head; with his right arm he began the painful crawl back towards us.

"Pray God he is not too tired," I breathed.

"Pray God that is not a corpse," Henry returned. His lips were set in a thin line. "Damned foolish, Jane. Damned foolish. What can she have been thinking?"

I did not answer, but hurried towards Desdemona, who was now urging her husband on with every call of encouragement she could think of, entirely oblivious to the crowd of Fashionables that had gathered, slowly but inevitably, on the Marine Parade behind us. They could have no notion whose drama was played in the waves below them; they were drawn, rather, by the spectacle--and by the clear interest of our own anxiety, the fact that Henry and I were dressed in mourning, as tho' the outcome of events were already certain. Some few of them would certainly recognise the Countess of Swithin.

"My lady," I said, "we are the object of all Brighton. No one must be allowed to penetrate Lady Caroline's disguise. Are we not agreed?"

She gave me a swift glance, then drew her fine Paisley shawl from her shoulders. "We shall wrap her in this. And carry her to our house--it is but a few steps off the Marine Parade. Only how are we to convey her?"

Swithin was standing in the shallows, now, his burden lifted in his arms; his lungs gasped for air and his stumbling legs sought a secure foothold. Soon, he would deposit Lady Caroline on the sand--and the moment of danger would be arrived.