Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron
PRAISE FOR STEPHANIE BARRON’S
BEING A JANE AUSTEN MYSTERY SERIES
Jane and the Barque of Frailty
“Barron does an admirable job not only with the [Jane Austen] mysteries, but also in mimicking Austen’s style.”
—The Tampa Tribune
“Satisfying right to the last revelation … Like Regency great Georgette Heyer, the author excels at both period detail and modern verve. Aping Austen’s cool, precise and very famous voice is a hard trick to pull off, but Barron manages it with aplomb.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Charming, literate and unequaled in its dissection of Regency-era social injustices.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Jane and His Lordship’s Legacy
“Considered by some as the best of the ‘neo-Austens,’ Barron gets high marks for authenticity and wit.”
—Booklist
Jane and the Ghosts of Netley
“The latest installment in Stephanie Barron’s charming series … [is] a first-rate historical mystery. Barron writes a lively adventure that puts warm flesh on historical bones. The nice thing is she does so in a literary style that would not put Jane Austen’s nose out of joint.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“With elements of an espionage thriller and a Regency romance, [this] is a book Barron fans have been awaiting. The suspense is superb.… Barron brings historical mysteries to a new level.”
—Romantic Times Bookclub
“A wonderfully intricate plot full of espionage and intrigue … The Austen voice, both humorous and fanciful, with shades of Northanger Abbey, rings true as always. Once again Barron shows why she leads the pack of neo–Jane Austens.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House
“There’s plenty to enjoy in the crime-solving side of Jane.… [She] is as worthy a detective as Columbo.”
—USA Today
“A carefully written, thoroughly researched novel … An enjoyable, authentic portrayal of this classic author, a strong setting and a thoroughly enjoyable plot will convert new readers to the series as well as satisfy longtime fans.”
—The Mystery Reader
“The mores and manners of Jane Austen’s 19th-century world are brought skillfully to life in Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House. A skillfully told tale with a surprise ending.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
Jane and the Stillroom Maid
“Barron does a wonderful job of evoking the great British estates and the woes of spinsters living in that era … often echoing the rhythms of the Austen novels with uncanny ease.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“This work bears all the wonderful trademarks of the earlier titles, including period detail, measured but often sardonic wit, and authenticity.”
—Library Journal
Jane and the Genius of the Place
“This is perhaps the best ‘Jane’ yet. The plot moves smoothly and quickly to its denouement. Barron’s mysteries also educate the reader, in a painless fashion, about the political, social and cultural concerns of Austen’s time. Jane [is] a subtle but determined sleuth.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Barron tells the tale in Jane’s leisurely voice, skillfully re-creating the tone and temper of the time without a hint of an anachronism.”
—The Plain Dealer
THE JANE AUSTEN MYSTERIES BY STEPHANIE BARRON
Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor
Jane and the Man of the Cloth
Jane and the Wandering Eye
Jane and the Genius of the Place
Jane and the Stillroom Maid
Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House
Jane and the Ghosts of Netley
Jane and His Lordship’s Legacy
Jane and the Barque of Frailty
Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron
Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Bantam Books Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2010 by Stephanie Barron
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Barron, Stephanie.
Jane and the madness of Lord Byron: being a
Jane Austen mystery / by Stephanie Barron.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90780-3
1. Austen, Jane, 1775–1817—Fiction. 2. Byron, George Gordon Byron, Baron,
1788–1824—Fiction. 3. Women novelists—Fiction. 4. Poets—Fiction. 5. Upper
class—England—Fiction. 6. Brighton (England)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3563.A8357J338 2010
813′.54—dc22 2010010513
www.bantamdell.com
v3.1
In Memory of Bupsh
1918–2010
Pictures of perfection as you know
make me sick & wicked.
—JANE AUSTEN in a letter to her niece,
Fanny Knight, 23 March 1817
Contents
Cover
Other Books by this Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One - Summons from London
Chapter Two - An Interval for Reflection
Chapter Three - An Incident on the Road
Chapter Four - Pleasures of a Prince
Chapter Five - A Patron of Donaldson’s
Chapter Six - Encounter at the Camp
Chapter Seven - The Regent’s Reception
Chapter Eight - The Girl in Boy’s Clothing
Chapter Nine - A Remedy for Drowning
Chapter Ten - Friends in High Places
Chapter Eleven - Cut Dead
Chapter Twelve - Canvassing a Murder
Chapter Thirteen - The Passions of Lord Byron
Chapter Fourteen - A Call to Justice
Chapter Fifteen - Evidence of an Undergroom
Chapter Sixteen - Conflicting Testimony
Chapter Seventeen - The Poet
Chapter Eighteen - The Rivals
Chapter Nineteen - Incident on the Downs
Chapter Twenty - The Green-Eyed Monster
Chapter Twenty-One - Mrs. Silchester’s Confidence
Chapter Twenty-Two - A Passion for Publick Houses
Chapter Twenty-Three - Where the Tunnel Led
Chapter Twenty-Four - Ode to a Drowned Girl
Chapter Twenty-Five - Dancing Partners
Chapter Twenty-Six - Damning Testimony
Chapter Twenty-Seven - A Matter of Questions
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Sentry Duty
Chapter Twenty-Nine - The Viscount’s Tale
Chapter Thirty - The Giaour
Chapter Thirty-One - Poetic Justice
Chapter Thirty-Two - The Corsair
A Few Questions for Stephanie Barron
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Summons from London
25 APRIL 1813
SLOANE STREET, LONDON
MR. WORDSWORTH OR SIR WALTER SCOTT SHOULD NEVER struggle, as I do, to describe Spring in Chawton: the delight of slipping on one’s bonnet, in the fresh, new hour before breakfa
st, and securing about one’s shoulders the faded pelisse of jaconet that has served one so nobly for countless Aprils past; of walking alone into the morning, as birdsong and tugging breezes swell about one’s head; of the catch in one’s throat at the glimpse of a fox, hurrying home to her kits waiting curled and warm in the den beneath the Park’s great oaks. Spring—in all its rains and clinging mud, its sharp green scents fullblown on the nose, and a newborn foal in the pasture below the Great House!
And in this glorious season, too, a splendid change has come upon the little Hampshire village I call my own—for my elder brother, the rich and distinguished Mr. Edward Austen Knight, as he and all his numerous progeny must now stile themselves, having acceded to his benefactor’s surname as well as his estates in Kent and Hampshire—has descended in state upon Chawton Great House, with his full retinue of trusted servants, under-gardeners, grooms, coachmen, and what I am pleased to call Edward’s Harem: a hopeful clutch of motherless daughters, most too young to marry and still at home.
Edward intends to spend the better part of the summer in the antiquated pile that once was let to our dear neighbours, the Middletons, Mr. John Middleton having determined to give up the place when his treaty was run. While the Austen Knights idle away June and July in Hampshire, their principal seat—Godmersham Park, in Kent—will submit to refurbishment, the interiors having grown sadly shabby without Edward’s late wife’s care. It is quite a treat to have one’s relations—and all the elegancies of table, coach, and society—but a stone’s throw from one’s door; and I spun many happy webs for myself that bright April morning, as I walked through the meadows, and listened to the song of a blackbird hidden somewhere in the hedgerow. Edward’s eldest daughter, Fanny, is full twenty years old—and although a trifle subdued for my taste, and possessed of starched notions quite appalling in one so young, she must be adjudged a welcome addition to the Cottage circle, whenever she may venture through the village in search of trifles and laughter. It was possible, I thought, that Martha Lloyd and I between us might be of use to poor dear Fanny, in enlarging her spirit and mind—or at the very least, her capacity for wit. There is nothing so quelling in a young woman, I find, as a want of humour; but much must be forgiven the girl—she was thrust too young into the rôle of Mother, when Elizabeth died. Fanny cannot have been more than fifteen, then; and at twenty, must feel already as though she has lived two lifetimes, in managing her father’s household. She is certain to find Chawton unutterably dull, however; the Assemblies in Alton are not such as she has been used to, in the elegant Kentish circle she frequents. Was there, I wondered, any young man in the neighbourhood capable of engaging her interest?
Considering and discarding the various scions of local families as I walked amidst the dew-laden grass, I was full of pleasurable schemes that dreadful morning. Once Fanny was dismissed as too dear a prize for Alton’s youth, my mind revolved the various attractions of an altogether different cut of gentleman—one Henry Crawford: for I have reached a most delicious point in the writing of my third novel, which is to be called Mansfield Park, when I must decide whether another Fanny (a sober and rather humourless young woman entirely of my own invention, though not quite my niece) is to make the roguish creature the Happiest of Men, or cast him into the Depths of Misery at a single word.
I had turned towards home after a brisk half-hour of exercise and rambling thought; when all at once it was as though a cloud moved swiftly across the sun, and my pleasure in the day was blotted out. The very air felt chill. I stopped short a good thirty paces from the Cottage door, a feeling of deepest dread in my heart—and for why? Only that a handsome chestnut hack was tethered to the post in the lane, one I recognised as my nephew Edward’s mount. Why should a morning call, even one paid so unfashionably before breakfast, have the power to stop my heart?
I ran the final distance to the door.
My brother’s eldest son and heir was standing before the fire, dressed not for hacking about the countryside in buckskins and boots, but for Town; his cravat meticulously tied, shirt points terrifyingly starched; a striped waistcoat trimly buttoned over primrose-coloured pantaloons. An Oxford lad of nearly nineteen, he had stiled himself a Corinthian of the First Stare; and it was this unwonted grandeur, as well as the expression of scared dignity on his young countenance, that informed me my heart had not erred. Disaster was in the air.
“What is it?” I whispered.
Cassandra came to me then, and enfolded me in her arms.
“An Express from Henry, to the Great House,” she said.
“Has she gone?” I faltered. “And none of us aware?”
Edward cleared his throat. “Not quite gone, Aunt. But failing, Uncle Henry says. She is asking for you, I believe. Father says you are to travel up to London as soon as may be—in his chaise—and I am to bear you company.”
“Edward!” I stared at him. “I am sure you should much rather be hunting rabbits on such a fine morning.”
“So I should, ma’am,” he stammered, “but under the circumstances—no exertion too great—should consider it an honour—wish most earnestly that you will accept my escort.” He bowed stiffly, his face flushing with embarrassment. “Not the thing, you know—lady travelling entirely alone. Might very well be offered an intolerable insult. Besides, m’father commands it.”
Edward, whom I cared for and cajoled so many years since, when his own mother died—to be offering me escort! I understood, then, the punctiliousness of his manner and dress. My nephew was representing his House—and paying off a debt of gratitude. I should be churlish to protest further; and besides, the hour was already advancing.
I uttered not another word, but dashed upstairs to throw what swift provision I could into a carpet bag. My beloved Eliza, Comtesse de Feuillide, wife of Mr. Henry Austen of Sloane Street—was dying. It seemed far too bitter a truth for Spring.
WHEN DID SHE FIRST APPREHEND HER MORTAL SICKNESS, I wondered for the thousandth time as the chaise jolted and swayed over the Hog’s-back an hour later?1 Was it so early as my descent on London some two years since, for the proofing of the typeset pages of Sense and Sensibility? She suffered then, as I recall, from a trifling cold, and took to her bed on the strength of it; but surely that was a deliberate indulgence, to avoid the necessity of attending Divine Service of a particular Sunday?
Eliza was never very fond of Divine Service; she had seen too much of Sin, to place her faith in either repentance or redemption; and she felt certain that the clergy were the very last sort of men to lecture their brethren—indeed, she declared the whole pious enterprise an essay in hypocrisy. Eliza preferred to live her life and leave her neighbours to live theirs, without the benefit of unwanted advice or inspection; and on the whole, I confess I admire her philosophy. There is a great deal of disinterested benevolence in it.
If not April of 1811, then, the illness came upon Eliza soon after: a mass in the breast, that grew until it might almost have formed another—with tenderness, increasing pain, and suppuration. She had watched over her mother’s dying of the selfsame malady, years since. She recognised the Enemy.
My incorrigible Eliza. My gallant friend. A word for gentlemen of high courage—but courage she brought to this final battle, knowing full well she would never triumph. The summer months of 1812 she spent in travel—relished two weeks in the sea air of Ramsgate in October—wished me joy of Pride and Prejudice’s sale to Mr. Egerton in November (which met with decided success at its publication this winter among the Fashionables of the ton!)—and by Christmas was rapidly declining.
And Henry?
I might have said that he has not the mind for Affliction; he is too busy; too active; too sanguine. All the increasing cares of banking—my Naval brother Frank being now a partner in Henry’s concern—and the activity necessary to a gentleman in the prime of his life, must inevitably attach Henry to the world. Add to this, that Eliza is fully ten years my brother’s senior, and that the gradual progression of the disease h
as offered an interval for resignation and acceptance—and we may apprehend the steadiness with which Henry meets his impending loss. And yet—his summons to me surely augurs an unquiet mind, a soul in need of comfort. To part with such a companion as Eliza!—Who, though she gave him no child, brought him endless cheer and laughter from the first day he met her, as a boy of fifteen, when she descended à la comtesse on the Steventon parsonage, and dazzled us all within an inch of our lives.
“I believe Uncle Henry intends to give up Sloane Street,” Edward observed as we rolled into Bagshot. “He claims he cannot bear to meet with my aunt’s memory at every stair and corner.”
“Better to remove from London, then,” I managed, my throat constricted, “for Eliza shall haunt every bit of it.”
I HAVE KNOWN THE JOURNEY FROM CHAWTON TO RUN FULL twelve hours, when leisure permitted; but we were to have no dawdling nuncheon, no walking before the coachman in admiration of April flowers, no pause for fine views as we descended the final stage into the Metropolis. Barely eight hours elapsed from the moment I bade farewell to Cassandra at the Cottage door, until I found myself alighting in Sloane Street.
We met the surgeon, Mr. Haden, on the threshold—Madame Bigeon being on the point of ushering the good man out, as we ushered ourselves within—and paused, despite a scattering of rain, to learn his opinion.
“I fear she is sinking, Miss Austen,” he informed me sombrely. “A matter of hours must decide it. I have left a quantity of laudanum—you are to give her twenty drops, in a glass of warm water, as she requires it.”
“But Eliza detests laudanum!” I cried. “I have known her dreams to be frightful under its influence.”
“Her agony will be the more extreme without it.” The surgeon doffed his hat to Edward and me, and stepped past us to the street.
“Mademoiselle Jane!” Mme. Bigeon’s elderly voice quavered on the greeting; she gave way that we might enter the hall, her black eyes filled with tears. “At last you are come! I feared—but it is not too late. She sleeps much, yes, but she will wake for you, mon Dieu! Come to her at once!”