Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron jam-10 Page 10

  “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.

  BETSY WAS AS GOOD AS HER WORD, AND ARRIVED A FULL ten minutes in advance of six o’clock, in order to dress my hair. She brought with her — God knows where she found them — a set of curling tongs, which she proceeded to heat by the bedchamber fire. This had died down during the course of the day, which I had spent in dutifully writing such news as obtained to Cassandra, and in scribbling bits of dialogue as came to my mind — truly delightful badinage, if I do say so myself, on the subject of the ha-ha, as both landscape feature and metaphor of female bondage. I cannot get out, Maria Bertram cries, as she rattles the iron gate in frustration. At which Henry Crawford must smile knowingly — such delightful creatures being always possessed of the instruments of licence, when ladies desperate for freedom appeal to them — and show the foolish girl how to escape her betrothed.

  My own Henry had spent an unobjectionable day in perusing the sporting papers at Donaldson’s; met with me for a hearty nuncheon; declared himself determined to attend both tomorrow’s cricket match and race-meeting, weather permitting; and, having rubbed up against Lord Moira during his interval at the library, was carried off by the Earl to Raggett’s Club, for a debauch of silver-loo during the afternoon.[15]

  I did not enquire whether Henry’s luck was in; it mattered more whether Lord Moira’s was out — for as the Earl’s banker, Henry was doubly his surety for anything in the gambling line.

  “Aye, ma’am, and you do look fine,” Betsy offered in a kindly tone; she was patronising me, I am sure, for there was nothing very extraordinary in my black silk, it being the same gown I had worn Saturday evening. I had clipped my topaz cross on its fine gold chain around my neck, however — no gift from such a brother as Charles should ever disgrace me — and I was determined to leave off my matronly cap. My chestnut hair, tho’ shot with grey, is nearly long enough to stand upon. I had already brushed it, and plaited it into four tight braids, which I suggested Betsy should arrange about my head in a becoming fashion. This she managed to do with surprising aplomb, looping two strands first into a chignon at the crown of my head, and the remaining two at the nape, with a profusion of short curls about my ears and brow. Through all this, she wove a gold ribbon — just the touch required to relieve my inky black, and pick out the note of the topaz cross. I was quite pleased with the result; and tho’ my looks are no longer blooming, I believe my appearance would do justice to the Earl of Swithin’s table.

  “They do say, ma’am, as you were on the shingle when the poor lady from London was saved of the sea yesterday,” Betsy observed as she plied her curling tongs. “Blue as Death they do say she was, until the Earl tore off her clothes, and rubbed her body all over. A sight it was to make a Christian blush! But perhaps you know better, being intimate with the Earl and his lady.”

  I was astounded to learn that Caro Lamb’s disguise had already been penetrated, and turned — the tongs searing my scalp — to stare at Betsy. “I assure you the victim was a local cabin boy! A fisherman’s lad!”

  She suppressed a smile. “Aye, and I’m your grandma’s old tabby! The Earl’s scullery maid — she’s a Brighton girl, Lucy is, and goes with the house whoever takes it of a season — is my cousin. She said as how the lady was brought in, wearing a boy’s breeches and all of a swoon, and carried directly upstairs. Hot milk and bread she was given, tho’ precious little she ate. Lucy says the trays all came back, and the sops went to the house cat.”

  “Lucy is likely to lose her place, if her taste for gossip outstrips her good sense,” I said calmly. “The Earl should not like his servants to spread his business to the world; and as I am dining on the Marine Parade this evening, I may feel it my duty to inform his lordship how his confidence is betrayed.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am, please to say you wouldn’t do that!” Betsy’s hands were suspended over my head, her horror writ upon her simple countenance. “I won’t breathe a word of Lucy’s tales to anyone, I promise. She’s forever telling ’em — it goes with her place, you see, she’s privy to monstrous goings-on, every season, for the house is let only to those as is that high in the instep — ”

  “Naturally. But she shall never be more than a scullery maid if she does not guard her employer’s secrets. You, Betsy, I know, are anxious for advancement.”

  “I am that, ma’am,” the chambermaid said, her tone subdued.

  “I am very pleased with the dressing of my hair,” I told her. “And I thank you. Now, be a good girl — and do not spread this malicious gossip among the Castle’s servants. The poor creature the Earl saved from drowning shall no doubt be despatched to London tomorrow, and once gone, there is nothing more need be said. It will be as tho’ the incident never occurred.”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Betsy countered, “but the lady’s not bound for London. Lucy says as how she took herself off this morning to the Pavilion, her being a special friend of the Regent’s. Perhaps it was in longing for Prinny that she threw herself into the sea! Only fancy! One of the Regent’s light-o’-loves, naked on the shingle, with the Earl of Swithin caressing her body — and everybody certain it ’twere a boy! There’s been nothing like it
since Maria Fitzherbert turned respectable!”

  “IT IS TRUE,” DESDEMONA TOLD ME AS WE STOOD IN HER drawing-room before a great pier glass, sipping ratafia, “Caro would be gone — and has begged a room in the Pavilion itself. Her mother, Lady Bessborough, is forever staying there, you know — having been an intimate of the Prince these thirty years at least — but I had not thought Caro capable of such effrontery as to invite herself to become one of the Royal party. The Lambs are Whigs, as are all the Bessboroughs — as indeed we are ourselves, not to put too fine a point upon it — and the Regent is heartily turned against his old Whig cronies, now he has the reins of power in his hands. Such ingratitude! When it was we alone who championed his cause, when the King was run mad!”

  I chose to sidestep this swamp of politics, being country-bred and of Tory stock myself; I should leave the navigation of Whig waters to Henry, who was adept at playing every side to advantage. “But what can be Lady Caroline’s purpose in remaining in Brighton?”

  “She intends to plague poor Byron — so much is certain. He will not meet her in London if he can help it — deliberately avoids every rout or ball that Caro is pleased to attend — and is forever in Lady Oxford’s keeping. Caro employs an army of pages deployed upon the streets, expressly for divining other people’s business; from one she learnt that Byron quitted London on horseback late Saturday, intending to do a bit of sailing in Brighton. He has come down from Town some once or twice in recent weeks, drawn by the lure of the sea, and keeps a room at the King’s Arms, I believe, against just such whimsical excursions.”

  Or drawn, I thought, by the ingenuous charms of Catherine Twining, of whom neither Lady Oxford nor Caro Lamb has yet an inkling of.

  “Learning of his departure,” Mona persisted, “nothing must suit Caro then but that she should rattle down the New Road in her perch phaeton, with only her tyger up behind her, on Sunday! There has never been a propriety she feared to flaunt; and this is the result of it. She must have set out while it was yet dark, to achieve the shingle at the hour she did. But that is Caro Lamb all over — careless of opinion and sense.”

  “ — And mad as Bedlam into the bargain,” added Lord Swithin. “I confess I was not sorry to see her quit our house almost as soon as she entered it — having gained a foothold, she might have stayed all summer.”

  “ — Forcing us to flee delightfully to the Lakes,” his wife murmured, with one of her sidelong glances. “But no matter. Having seen Caro plunge after him into the sea, Byron will wish nothing more to do with boats or sailing for a time, and has probably already bolted back to St. James’s.”

  “You believe that he knew her ladyship, then?” Henry demanded. “ — That Lord Byron did not mistake her clothing and appearance for that of a boy, and sailed on in ignorance as tho’ the merest stranger had hailed him?”

  “Certainly he knew his pursuer for Caroline Lamb,” Swithin replied, “and was willing to let her try her strength against the sea. Lord Byron knows her ladyship to be indestructible. Little Mania, he calls her; and claims she haunts his very dreams, like a virago. One can hardly blame him for coldness; anything else should be read by Caro as encouragement.”

  “But I cannot forgive his lordship’s total indifference,” I protested. “To push resolutely forward, while the poor creature was o’erwhelmed by the waves — suggests a cold-heartedness of which no poet ought to be capable.”

  “You would have Byron stand by the spirit of what he writes?” Mona enquired, as the bell was rung for dinner.

  “A poet ought to be all sensibility — else he should better engage in political speeches, which nobody bothers to believe. Lord Byron’s verse offers every range of emotion — ardour, violence, the bitterest loss — but his behaviour yesterday betrays a coldness of inhuman proportions.”

  “Caro Lamb is inhuman in her proportions,” Swithin corrected. “No girl can be so thin, and yet survive; I am with Byron — and believe her to be a walking Wraith.”

  “Charles!” his wife cried. “Confess that you admired her, in her first Season! Indeed, I understood you nearly offered for her!”

  “A pitiable ploy, my darling, to pique your interest. You were decidedly averse to my suit in those days.”

  Desdemona pursed her lips to prevent herself from laughing; for indeed, she had treated poor Swithin abominably when she was but eighteen.

  “Caro Lamb’s persistence should drive any man mad,” the Earl concluded. “Moreover, it suggests a passion for self-abasement — and that cannot be admired. She is like a dog that craves to be whipped, and is forever kicked instead. Had George saved her from drowning, as I did, he should never be rid of her!”

  “Then let us hope Caro does not transfer her affections to you,” Desdemona said teasingly, “out of bottomless gratitude.”

  “If she does, my darling, you have my hearty consent to toss her back into the sea!”

  “Charles, you are the greatest beast in nature. Is he not, Mr. Austen?”

  The Countess, despite her words, was gazing at her husband with immense good humour. She slipped her arm through Henry’s. “I think I shall allow you to escort me into dinner!”

  Chapter 11 Cut Dead

  MONDAY, 10 MAY 1813

  BRIGHTON, CONT.

  STRAINS OF MUSIC DRIFTED FROM THE ASSEMBLY ROOMS as we mounted the Castle’s stairs, and the entry was crowded with young ladies in white muslin, gentlemen in satin knee breeches, and duennas of imposing gravity determined to protect the virtue of their charges. We were to part from the Earl and his lady at the Assembly Room doors, where the Swithins intended to form a part of the glittering throng; and as Henry and I turned from the brightly-lit room — hundreds of candles being illuminated in chandeliers suspended from the lofty ceiling — I was greeted in a barely audible accent by my young acquaintance, Miss Catherine Twining.

  She looked all the youthfulness of her fifteen years, a slight figure beside the imposing height and breadth of her father, the General; the white muslin she wore made her skin appear sallow; but her dark hair and eyes were as lovely as ever. Only a natural flush to her cheeks and an appearance of joy common to one of the Season’s first Assemblies, were utterly lacking — Catherine, I perceived, was not in spirits this evening.

  I begged the honour of making her known to our friends — performed the introduction of Earl and Countess, to Catherine’s pleased confusion; and joined my thanks to Lady Swithin for our delightful evening, with my brother Henry’s.

  “I shall call upon you first thing, my dear Miss Austen, to give you an account of the ball,” Desdemona promised, twinkling; and then her lord swept her into the Rooms, which were as full as they could hold.

  “How very fashionable the Countess is, and how very kind the Earl,” Catherine Twining breathed. “He looks most truly the gentleman.”

  She may have compared him to the unfavourable memory of Lord Byron; or perhaps to that of her more determined suitor — for a second glance at the crowd mounting the stairs behind General Twining revealed Mr. Hendred Smalls. He formed a third in the Twining party, and had no doubt already claimed several of Catherine’s dances.

  She made so bold, however, as to renew our acquaintance; pressed her father to acknowledge my brother Henry; extended the honour to Mr. Hendred Smalls, who bared his unfortunate teeth; and concluded breathlessly, in a lowered voice meant for my ears alone, “Oh, Miss Austen, are you indeed attending? Might I hope to speak with you in the interval between dances? For you must know, I am all of a quake!”

  “My state of mourning prevents me entirely from joining the Assembly; but I shall sadly miss your society, Miss Twining.” And I confess I did regret retiring to my bedchamber; the music was infectious, my foot was tapping out a reel. “What has occurred, my dear, to discompose you so?”

  “He is here!” she breathed. “Do but glance through the doors, and you shall espy him leaning against a column, for all the world as tho’ he were not in the habit of abducting unwilling females! I had
thought him returned for good to London! Am I never to be free of his society?”

  “Lord Byron shall hardly attempt to seduce you in the middle of a ball.” I was amused despite myself. But Miss Twining was too agitated for ill-applied humour.

  “Oh, Miss Austen, do you think it possible he has published my shame to all of Brighton? Am I entirely exposed? Is it likely I shall enter the Assembly, only to be cut dead by all my acquaintance?”

  “Hush, my child!” I glanced with a casual air through the doorway. As the sumptuously-dressed throng shifted and parted before my dazzled eyes, I caught a glimpse of a classic profile, a sweep of dark curls, a snowy cravat carelessly tied. Lord Byron leaned negligently against the wall, his lame right foot crossed over his left, one hand tucked into the breast of his coat. A branch of candles, flickering in the great room’s draughts, threw his face half in shadow — as romantical a picture as any poet could desire. As I watched, he leaned to whisper in the ear of another gentleman — a tall, thin exquisite with receding hair. Both men smiled.

  “His lordship is engrossed in conversation, and it does not appear that anyone has cut him dead,” I observed.

  “That is only Mr. Scrope Davies, who has been intimate with Byron for ages,” Catherine retorted. “I am sure he is already in possession of every detail — indeed, it was probably his cravat I choked on in my misery; Mr. Davies is a dandy, you know, and ruins a score of freshly-ironed cravats each morning, before his valet declares the last to be perfection.”