Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor Read online

  “His lordship thwarted you deliberately?”

  “He did,” Mr. Hearst replied. “My uncle believed I lacked what is essential for a man of the cloth.”

  “That being, in the Earl’s opinion?”

  “Obedience. Humility. The Earl would have it that I suffer from pride, Miss Austen, out of all proportion to my station in life. Though how I could be expected to do otherwise—” At this, he broke off, and glanced around the expanse of Scargrave Park. I understood him all too well. He was of good birth—his mother the daughter of an earl—but utterly without an income capable of supporting such claims as family imposed. Neither freedom of will, nor freedom from dependence, should be his so long as he remained in Scargrave Cottage; and yet, how go elsewhere, on so little means? Pride, indeed, might be all that remained to such a man.

  “And so you were subject to the Earl’s whims,” I said, as we plodded on. Very little of the lane remained to be travelled, and if I were to learn anything to my advantage, I must press the case.

  “To his continued security, I was and am,” Mr. Hearst replied heavily. “All that I have in the world, I owe to his goodness. If he wished me to play at overseer for the estate, then overseer I should be, however ill formed for the office.”

  “How unfortunate was the Earl’s lot,” I mused. “To have such power over others for happiness or despair. It might justly have made his dearest relations hate him.”

  Mr. Hearst did not immediately respond to this sally, as though lost in consideration of its merits. Finally, however, with a sidelong glance from his hollow eyes, he said, “Hate may perhaps be too strong an emotion. But in my breast, at least, the Earl assuredly engendered ill feeling.”

  “Did you quarrel with your uncle, Mr. Hearst?” I enquired boldly, though I hardly expected him to answer. Had he done the Earl some violence, he should be little likely to admit to the fact; and the very notion of discord would be one he must refute.

  “At seven-and-twenty, Miss Austen, I am as you see me,” he replied, stopping before the Manor’s steps. “Ill-suited to my enforced profession, thwarted in my hopes, resentful of my fellows more graced by fortune. Of course I quarrelled with my uncle. Why else should I feel such a depth of remorse at his passing? It is ever thus. We find the words to speak when all hope of converse is past.”

  An unwonted frankness, perhaps—but lonely walks in winter’s snows will sometimes urge a confidence. At the very least, Mr. Hearst’s utter lack of dissembling suggested that the gentleman saw no utility in deceit.

  “I am heartily sorry for you, Mr. Hearst,” I said slowly. “I, too, have known what it is to wish for an estate that my means would not allow. But perhaps the Earl thought better of his opinion, and provided in his will for your adoption of the clerical life.”

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Hearst said, glancing back down the lane towards his cottage, “but I shall not hope for it. He is more likely to have left Tom an additional sum for the squandering in a gaming-hell. It was ever my uncle’s way to reward with as much blindness as he punished.”3

  He bit back whatever bitterness had urged these words, and cast a penetrating glance in my direction, as though only just sensible that his thoughts had been shared with a lady, and a virtual stranger. Then, recollecting himself, as it seemed, Mr. Hearst bade me adieu, and trudged back along his way to the cottage.

  A curious gentleman, the would-be ecclesiastic. In one respect only does he resemble his brother the Lieutenant: They both of them are wont to say more than discretion would advise—although not enough, in this instance, for my purposes. For though I had learned much about Mr. Hearst’s animus towards his uncle, I still knew nothing at all about one particular argument—the night of the Earl’s death, and in his library.

  I WAS LOATH TO REENTER THE MANOR’S DARKENING HALLS; and so, snow or no, I betook myself to the shrubbery and made my way through its light drifts a little distance from the rear of the house, in an effort to organise my mind. Scargrave’s gardeners had been before me; a footpath of sorts was dredged along the broad avenues and terraces.

  The day that had dawned in storm was now graced by a thin sun; the long blue shadows of afternoon advanced before me like cheerful ghosts of last summer’s growth, dancing past the withered flower borders and the stiff hedges to fall at the feet of a stone nymph, her cascade of water frozen in her urn. The brilliant winter landscape could not effect a similar elevation in my spirits, however; for I could not shake the apprehension that further trouble lay in wait for the intimates of Scargrave.

  I chose a stone bench swept clean of snow, but fearsomely cold against my backside, for all that, and settled into my pelisse to mull over all that had occurred. I turned first to Sir William’s interview.

  That the maid Marguerite found no opportunity to turn a coin from the whole affair must baffle; for without mercenary motives, I was left with only two—the desire to mortally wound her mistress, and Fitzroy Payne into the bargain; or an honest attempt to bring foul murder to light. Neither made for happy consideration. If the former was Marguerite’s motivation, it suggested some great wrong had been done to the creature that Isobel was loath to avow. Or perhaps Isobel was as yet ignorant of it, and Payne was guilty of the evil.

  Was the sober young Earl the sort to dally with a lady’s maid, and think no more of it than he might a morning’s ride to the hounds? Many a woman has attempted to place her foot upon the neck of a man she loved in vain, or hated for just cause, whether that neck be stations above her or no. When I considered Fitzroy Payne, however, I could not imagine him causing such injury. What I have seen of that gentleman’s conduct is irreproachable. His temper is always held in check, despite the absurdities of his nearest relations; his words reveal nothing but a fine understanding and the exercise of good sense. In general, Fitzroy Payne is so far removed from what is base in human nature, that I should think him guilty of the grossest duplicity, were I to discover him prey to vice. But I must needs discover it, if vice there be. Marguerite should surely have good cause for revenge against Isobel if she felt herself illused by Payne.

  And if the maid’s motive is nothing less than a desire to expose murder?

  Such a powerful aim would seem necessary to drive a girl of the islands from the security of Scargrave in the midst of an English winter. If this be the force that moves her, then it cannot be denied that she believes murder to have been done. It is but a moment’s leap to say that Marguerite is convinced Frederick was dispatched by his wife’s hand, in concert with Payne’s—and her anonymous letters are written from the purest of motives.

  If the maid’s desire is to expose Isobel, rather than blackmail her, then my faith in my friend might be profoundly shaken. But I am not so lightly possessed of friendship. Marguerite must be in error, however firmly she believes herself in the right; and my object now must be to put my finger upon the killer.

  I raised my head and sniffed the wintry air, revelling in its power to clear my senses. The disposition of Isobel’s trouble seemed, in that instant, to be the subject of only a few hours. I drove my hands more deeply into my muff, the better to warm them, and took up the matter once more.

  If not Fitzroy Payne, if not Isobel—then whom? The villain must be an intimate of the household, and was hardly likely to be a servant; another member of the family, or Lord Harold, was all that remained to me.

  Harold Trowbridge I could readily cast in the role of murderer. He had the resolve, the ruthless aspect, and the motivation—for the late Earl had stood between him and his acknowledged goal, the acquisition (at a pittance) of Isobel’s West Indies estates. Intent that Trowbridge should not secure her birthright, the Countess had implored her husband’s protection; and by all appearances, the late Earl had been empowered and inspired to settle all her financial troubles. In favour of Lord Harold’s guilt, I noted that Frederick’s death occurred the very night of Trowbridge’s arrival at Scargrave— the night that gentleman was summoned to the Earl’s library for an intervi
ew, the conduct of which we knew nothing. Had it provoked Trowbridge to such violence that he poisoned the Earl’s wine—drained to the dregs but a few moments before poor Frederick’s fatal indisposition?

  Yet, I reminded myself, I had no proof that Trowbridge in fact met with the Earl the night of the ball—the interview I myself overheard was between the Earl and Mr. George Hearst. Nor could I assert that Trowbridge possessed any poison, nor that he had administered it; and he was certainly not the man to let slip anything to his disadvantage.

  In fairness to the scoundrel, however, I should as readily consider the motivations of others. It was but an instant’s work to turn from a purported interview in the Earl’s library to the one I had in fact overheard—an interview marked, by the evidence of my own ears, with intimations of violence. George Hearst had not parted from his uncle on friendly terms. Indeed, it was clear that the embittered nephew had sought Frederick’s support for some scheme, had not received it, and had been enraged as a result.

  You have driven me to my utmost extremity, and I know how it is that I must act, George Hearst had cried, or words to that effect. Much could be made of such sentiments, did we discover the Earl was murdered. But despite my recent effort at interrogation, I had not an idea what Mr. Hearst’s affair was about. Holy Orders, perhaps, or worse yet, money—for we are ever driven to extremes by lack of funds, and pressure of obligation; I have reason to feel the force of that argument myself. Yet I distinctly recall Mr. Hearst mentioning a woman that night—Ruby? Rosamund? Rosie. Rosie it had been.

  I must endeavour to learn more about Rosie, the better to weigh the strength of Mr. Hearst’s outrage against his frankness during our walk in the Park.

  As I sat engrossed in my thoughts, the sound of feet rapidly coursing through the snow fell upon my ears, and I looked up to see Lieutenant Hearst, his smart blue uniform the most vivid spot in all that grey landscape.

  “And so I have found you at last,” he cried, approaching my seat with alacrity. “I had feared you returned this morning to Bath. But my heart rises to learn that you have not deserted us quite yet.” He peered at me closely, his banter trailing away. “Miss Austen, I declare, you look as though you had seen a ghost.”

  “Is the entire household arrayed against me?” I muttered crossly, and stood up, dusting off my skirts. “Can not a woman lose sleep of nights, without exciting the concern of her entire acquaintance?”

  Tom Hearst’s handsome face was instantly contrite. “I beg your pardon,” he said hastily. “I meant no harm.”

  “Oh, Lieutenant—the apology must be mine,” I said, recovering myself. “One consequence of broken sleep is assuredly diminished civility.”

  “So you did have a disturbed night.”

  “It is only the First Earl,” I replied, attempting humour. “He treads the boards nightly in my dreams, mourning the late Lord Scargrave.”

  Rather than laughing as I expected, Tom Hearst looked pensive. “I would that I might believe you to speak in jest,” he said gravely, holding my eyes, “but I saw him once myself, while yet a child, before my dear mother died. This is not a household for peaceful dreams, I fear.” Then he slapped his thigh and assumed his customary grin. “Come for a short ride on Lady Bess. The air will do you good.”

  “Indeed, I am no horsewoman,” I said with a smile. “My father lacked the resources to furnish us with mounts when we were children, and I must confess to some trepidation at the prospect of assuming the art at my advanced age.”

  “Nonsense!” The Lieutenant tucked my arm firmly under his own and led me back up the path. “I shall do everything in my power to render the experience so delightful, Miss Austen, and your trust so well-placed, that you shall hesitate to refuse me anything in future.”

  “And have you been taught to fear the refusal of young ladies, Lieutenant?” I enquired archly.

  He has a very satiric eye. “Taught so well, Miss Austen, that I have made it a rule never to plead for that which I am not certain of desiring,” he replied, “and so it may seem to some young ladies”—at this, he glanced upwards at the second-storey window where Fanny Delahoussaye’s profile was clearly limned, bent over her work—”that I never will ask.”

  LADY BESS PROVED TO BE A GENTLE MOUNT, AND WHEN taken at a walk, her stride was so little disturbing as to quell even my violent fears of being unseated. Lieutenant Hearst spent some time walking before me, his hand on the bridle, and his own horse blowing contentedly at my side; but after a little, he thought it wise to rest by the hedgerow in conversation, and I was glad enough to dismount while Lady Bess nosed at the snow.

  An awkwardness here ensued; my hands being engaged in supporting myself upon the saddle, the Lieutenant gripped my waist and abruptly pulled me to the ground. A furious blush overcame my features at being thus made so closely acquainted with his jacket front; but Tom Hearst was unabashed.

  “Come, come, Miss Austen,” he said teasingly, his hands still about my waist, “a young lady of your experience and perspicacity cannot be entirely a stranger to a gentleman’s embrace.”

  “An unmarried lady of my station cannot admit to being anything but, Lieutenant,” I retorted firmly, and moved to thrust the offending hands from my person. To my mortification, he tightened his grip, and added to the embarrassment of his stance, the discomfiture of my own. I was forced to grasp his gloved hands in mine to win my freedom, and the image of how we must appear only increased my blushes.

  The Lieutenant laughed heartily and released me, but I failed to see the humour in his affront.

  “Is it Fanny Delahoussaye who has taught you such indelicacy, Lieutenant? Or is it thus you school her on your snowy walks?” I turned on my heel and would have left him in my anger, but he caught me up in a moment, the horses on the rein, and apologised most prettily.

  “I must declare myself a complete reprobate, Miss Austen,” he avowed. “A life too long spent among the soldiers of the garrison has made my conduct rough and ungentlemanly. You, who have brothers in the Navy, must acknowledge we have few opportunities for the study of civility. In your company, perhaps, I shall learn better how to behave than in Miss Fanny’s.”

  “I do not think you shall have another chance at my company, Lieutenant,” I said, refusing to meet his eye and increasing my pace.

  “Miss Austen!” he cried, halting the horses in the midst of the field, “what cruelty is this? Does my gentle offence truly merit such censure? And are you not in part responsible? I should not have been tempted, did the winter cold not heighten the beauty of your cheeks, bring sparkle to your eyes, and in general make of you such a picture!”

  “I fear you give way all too often to temptation, Lieutenant,” I replied, thinking of Fanny Delahoussaye. Tom Hearst can have little constancy in his attachments if he plays as idly with her as he has done with me.

  “I beg your forgiveness,” he said earnestly, dropping to his knees in the snow, “and your heart cannot be so hard as to withhold it. I meant no dishonour to your virtue—if anything, Miss Austen, I meant to honour your charms.” He made a pretty enough picture, his curling head raised in supplication, his uniform a darker splash against the horses’ chestnut. As I watched, Lady Bess exhaled a steamy breath, and nuzzled Tom Hearst’s shoulder; he looked around and fondled the mare affectionately. “Lady Bess would have your forgiveness on my behalf,” he continued penitently. “And in return I will pledge to molest you no more.”

  It is not in my nature to preserve a prudish distance; the Lieutenant’s present earnestness called to mind my brother Frank, the darling of my concerns; and so I unbent my stiffened posture and walked to his side.

  “Please rise, Lieutenant,” I said. “The snow cannot be good for your breeches.”

  “Nor my knees,” he said, jumping to his feet. “My batman will have my head in the morning, when I’m too stiff to get out of bed. But I shouldn’t mention such things to a lady. I forget myself. Will you walk back to the house with me, Miss Austen, and teac
h me the proprieties Miss Fanny cannot?”

  “I will consent to accompany you, Lieutenant, on one condition.”

  “Anything, dear lady.”

  “That you will instruct me in the art of horsemanship while I remain at the Manor,” I said, by way of reward for his penitence. “Lady Bess is a mount to suit my tastes, and I believe I should profit from the exercise.”

  “Capital!” Tom Hearst cried, slapping his thigh, “and I from your gentle schooling.”

  “Let us talk no more of that.”

  “Very well. Though of what else we may converse, I hardly know. All subjects are contraband. Did we talk of our intimates here at Scargrave, we should touch upon death; and I refuse to traffick in melancholy in the company of a lovely woman.”

  “Lieutenant!”

  “What, no compliments may I extend?” He stopped, as one amazed. “No praise of all that is before me? Miss Austen! Your cruelty is beyond belief! You provoke my enthusiasm, and then chide me for its expression!”

  I may, I think, declare myself to be no fool. I have looked at my face and figure in the glass these six-and—no—seven-and-twenty years; and neither is of a nature to drive a young man wild. Either Tom Hearst is quite bored with life at Scargrave, and finds in me some amusement; or he hopes to turn my head with flattery for a purpose I have not yet divined.

  At his next observation, I felt all the force of my latter conjecture.

  “Have you known Sir William Reynolds long?” the Lieutenant enquired, as though to turn the conversation.

  I hesitated before replying, wondering what possible interest he could have in the good Justice.

  “Since before memory serves,” I replied, picking my way through the snow. I had discarded my pattens in order to ride, and my boots should assuredly be ruined. “Sir William has always been a fond intimate of my father’s house. To me, he is as much like an uncle as a friend.”

  “He avails himself of your presence to visit Scargrave with greater frequency than in the past.”