Jane Austen Mysteries 10 Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron (16 page)

"Henry!" I cried. "Fetch a chair! Surely there will be one standing before the Castle! A
chair
, and make haste!"

He dashed off on the instant, heedless of explanation. A stout pair of chairmen must suffice; hackney chaises were difficult to secure in Brighton. Time enough to fetch a doctor once we knew whether Caroline Lamb still breathed.

Desdemona went to her husband; he set down the frail figure and fell to his knees beside it. "Rub her limbs," he urged. "Your vinaigrette, Mona--do you have it?"

She shook her head, mutely chafing Caro's wrists; Desdemona had never been one for die-away airs, nor the remedies employed to defeat them. Hartshorn would be absent from her reticule as well. Burnt feathers might serve to bring Lady Caroline round--but where to procure them? I glanced about. The fishwives burnt charcoal near their trestles; perhaps the smoke from this would do? I hastened to beg a bit of coals, and as my half-boots trod the shingle, I caught sight of a veritable gull's feather among the rocks. I snatched at it, lit the tip in the fishwives' fire, and hurried back to my friends, my palm cupping the flame against the sea wind.

Swithin had turned Caro Lamb on her side, and was supporting her insensible form as she retched; he had been careful, I saw, to face his charge
away
from the curious who were massed on the Marine Parade. A few of these--gentlemen all--had ventured down onto the shingle; and one, in catching my eye, loudly enquired, "May one do anything? May one be of service?"

"It is only a local lad," I returned as I handed my burnt feather to Desdemona, who waved it vigourously beneath Caro's nose. "A cabin boy, off a fishing vessel. He ventured out too deep."

The gentleman nodded, indifferent now, and turned back. I saw him convey the quelling news to others in his party, who swiftly related it to the rest; and of a sudden, the crowd began to disperse in as leisurely a fashion as it had gathered. There was nothing in the life or death of a cabin boy to excite the interest of the Great.

"She breathes," Desdemona whispered.

And indeed, the small chest rose slightly and fell; some life remained unextinguished.

My brother's figure appeared on the low wall that separated Parade from sand; he lifted his arm in salute.

"The chair is come," I murmured in a low voice.

"Excellent," Swithin said. "Your shawl, now, Mona, if you please. I shall carry her; the weight is no more than our son's."

The frail face--like a faerie's or a sleeping child's--was still insensible as the Earl conveyed Lady Caroline across the sand. I had read of her looks in every newspaper in the land--how she was called the Sprite, in respect of her ethereal grace and a certain fey quality to her character. But in her looks I saw desolation, rather--as tho' some great flame had passed through her being and burnt away all substance, leaving but a husk.

The chair stood waiting between its stout fellows, under Henry's anxious eye. The Earl shifted Lady Caroline gently within, and stepped back, that Desdemona might have the arranging of the Paisley shawl. As the Countess's hands secured the folds, Lady Caroline's eyelids fluttered.

"Am I drowned?" she muttered.

"No, my dear. You are saved. Hush, now."

"
He
saved me?" The eyes, clear as agates, searched Desdemona's face. "Mona Swithin--what are
you
doing here?"

"It was my husband who brought you out of the sea."

The eyes closed; a tear seeped from one. Caro Lamb shuddered the length of her body as tho' suffering an intolerable pain. "And so he sailed on! I should rather have died, Mona, than have it so."

"Hush," the Countess said again, and closed the chair door. "Number 21, Marine Parade," she told the chairmen.

"My pantaloons are ruined," Swithin said conversationally as the Irish carriers moved off. "And it is the first time I have worn them. I shall have Byron's neck for this."

W
E PARTED FROM THE
E
ARL AND HIS
L
ADY BEFORE THEIR
door, having secured from them a promise of swift news of Lady Caroline's health--and our assurances, in return, that we should be delighted to dine with them on the morrow. We should not be attending the Assembly at the Castle, of course--for two such figures as ourselves, deep in the throes of mourning, it could not be seemly to dance. But a private dinner among friends, and an early evening of retirement while the music drifted up from the floors below--there could be nothing objectionable in
this
.

"Besides, Jane," Henry said as we achieved our inn, ravenous for our well-earned nuncheon, "I shall not be deprived of every detail the Swithins learn of Lady Caroline's exploits--whether she comes down to dinner, or keeps to her room as solitary as a nun! I feel I have won such intelligence by my exertions today. I was in a quake the whole time, in the belief that if Swithin failed, I must be hurled into the breach next--and you know how many victims the fishwives should have had to rescue
then
!"

"Only think how dull our days would be, Henry, had we chosen Lyme over Brighton," I said thoughtfully. "There is a deceptive mildness about this place--and yet so much passion beneath the surface!"

I meant the words in jest; but they bore a prophetic quality I learnt to regret.

CHAPTER TEN
Friends in High Places

M
ONDAY
, 10 M
AY
1813
B
RIGHTON

M
ONDAY DAWNED IN LOWERING CLOUDS AND RAIN
.

The bed in this chamber is hung with heavy curtains--very grand, to be sure, but nothing I am accustomed to at home; I do not draw them when I sleep, and thus was afforded a glimpse of heaving grey seas beyond my window from the moment I awoke. It was a desolate sight, and made plain the truth that few enjoyed the pleasures of Brighton in winter; it should prove a dreary clime. I was happier when my gaze fell on Betsy, kneeling at the hearth with her kindling and tinder-box in full employ; there was a damp chill to the room that a cheerful fire should soon dispel. I raised myself up on my pillows, and at this slight sound the chambermaid turned, dusted off her hands, and rose with a hesitant smile.

"Would you be wanting your tea, then, ma'am?"

"That would be delightful," I said.

I recall a time when I was perennially addressed as
Miss;
but those days are sadly fled.

She rubbed her hands on her apron and disappeared into the passage, returning seconds later with the silver tray; I humped up my knees under the bedclothes, held the delicate porcelain cup to my lips, and allowed the scent of China Black to drift gratefully to my nostrils. There is such a luxury in being waited upon of a morning, that I shall hardly know how to endure the return to Chawton, where Cassandra is abroad at the first cock-crow, tending to her poultry and her little dogs, and it is my office to walk down the village lane to procure the day's bread. I am content with such a life, of course--the gentle habits of the country entirely suit my need for quiet reflection, and provide endless studies of character, in the subtle turns of Fate that are visited upon the village's inhabitants--but an interval of harmless dissipation, of gazing upon the rain without the slightest need of going out, safe in the knowledge that no one should make a claim upon my attention until the dinner hour at least--was bliss to savour.

"It rains so hard this morning, the Lord must be looking for Noah," Betsy observed, as she halted with her hand on the door latch. "'Twill go hard with them as serve the Assembly tonight; such a mess of wet wraps and dirty shoes as shall have to be looked after! And I'll have the cleaning of the floors, I don't doubt, on the morrow!"

I had never considered the inconvenience of rain to the servants at an inn; and the thoughts uppermost in my own mind--that the delicate silk sandals of the ladies intent upon dancing should never survive such weather, without the ladies themselves being carried by gentlemen of their acquaintance from their carriages to the Castle's threshold, which should serve as a delicious intimacy to every girl who had yet to be clasped in a gentleman's strong arms--unless that gentleman disappointingly proved to be her brother. And how was such a feat to be accomplished, in a town where almost
nobody drove
? Would the gentlemen walk staidly under their umbrellas beside the chairs procured for the ladies? Ho
did
the poor chairmen manage in such a deluge, when all the world was mad for chairs? Did the cost of such a conveyance
rise
as the mercury fell?--None of these questions appeared compatible with the more practical sentiments of a Betsy; but they were perfect for the delights of hot tea, sipped in bed, with a view of the stormy sea.

"I am sure you shall have much to do," I managed to say to the chambermaid sympathetically.

"Aye, and there's nothing new in that," the girl returned. "You'll not be attending the Assembly yourself, ma'am, on account of your loss?"

"I shall not."

"--Because I should have been happy to dress you, had you the need."

"Thank you, Betsy--I may in fact require your services, around six o'clock. Mr. Austen and I dine out this evening, with a small party of friends." I was conscious of vanity, and added, "We are expected at the home of the Earl of Swithin, on the Marine Parade. I should be very happy to have your help in dressing my hair, if you feel equal to it."

She eyed me doubtfully, being almost half my age, and uncertain whether the fashions of twenty should suit a lady so stricken in years as myself--but the desire for advancement overcame all hesitation, and she bobbed a curtsey. "Six o'clock, ma'am, without fail."

I poured myself a second cup of tea as the door closed behind her, and allowed myself to drift happily into the world of Henry Crawford--who waited in suspense for the decision of his insipid Fanny, his Creator being otherwise engaged by the frivolities of Brighton. I cannot
like
my poor Fanny, tho' her scruples are such as must command respect; I believe I shall spare the darling Henry such a cross, and bestow the lady upon her cousin Edmund--who has earned her as penance, for his utter lack of humour. Edmund has taken Holy Orders, after all; and a clergyman requires a certain daily disappointment in earthly life, as confirmation of his spiritual worth.