Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor Read online

  “Isobel! Such harshness, and so illogically applied! In your sorrow, you are unjust. Let your friend, who knows better your worth, remind you who you are.”

  “Do not flatter me, Jane,” she said brusquely, holding out a hand as if to impede my passage. “I have nothing to offer in return but the shame of a woman who has acted as she should not.”

  “Of what can you be speaking?” The depth of her guilt was as I had surmised. I must needs exert myself. “Nothing that you have recounted could dishonour Frederick. You esteemed him as your husband, and whatever your feelings for another, your behaviour has been such as no one can reproach.”

  She put her hands to her face, hiding it from my sight; her voice, when it came, trembled with emotion. “I cannot banish the maid’s words from my mind, Jane. Marguerite saw rightly. We killed my husband, Fitzroy and I—and our guilt could be no greater if we had poisoned him outright, as the maid claims.”

  A horror gripped me at her words; and I silently cursed the girl whose vicious pen could wreak such havoc in Isobel’s soul.

  “My dear;” I said firmly, grasping her wrists and drawing her hands from her face, “you can have nothing to regret beyond your husband’s untimely death. Mourn for him if you will, but do not take upon yourself the burden of your Maker. The ways of Providence are hidden, but as a clergyman’s daughter, I may freely own that they are rarely vindictive.”

  Isobel struggled free of me and fell languorously upon her chaise. Her face was hidden by dark red tresses; whether sorrow or anger o’erspread her features, I could not say. Prudence counseled me to desist; but friendship informed me that I had not done.

  “You brought your husband great joy, Isobel,” I said firmly. “Remember that I saw him happy before his death. You honoured the Earl by consenting to be his wife, and by sacrificing your better feeling to his. Nothing should instruct you otherwise; certainly not the fractured words of a half-wit maid.”

  “Jane,” the Countess said, brushing back her hair and turning her face to mine, “have done. Do not suppose your words are what I wish to hear. You cannot respect me any longer, knowing what you do of my character.”

  “Say rather that I cannot endure you any longer.” I was all exasperation. “Isobel, you persist in professing what you should not! Enough of pining, enough of regret. Your task now is to address the future with renewed energy. Scargrave is dead—but Scargrave still lives. And unless I am very much mistaken, you are wronging a man who loves you.”

  Isobel blushed scarlet, and turned her face aside. “Do not speak to me of Fitzroy. I feel nothing but shame when he is mentioned.” Her words were clipped and bitter.

  “You should not, my dear.”

  “How can I not?” she cried. “Oh, Jane, I am utterly miserable!”

  “But you care for him still?”

  She was silent a time, her fingers clutching and un-clutching at the lace of her gown. She looked away from me, towards the portrait of the late Frederick, his jovial face caught in a band of morning sunlight. Then, in a voice so low I must needs struggle to hear it, she said, “How can you ask such a question? My husband is hardly cold in the ground.”

  I felt all the force of her chastening words, and bit my lip. My vigour in urging Isobel out of a too-heavy sorrow had lacked a certain delicacy. But I felt an active anxiety regarding the guilt of one I held so dear, and so attempted one last injunction.

  “You cannot die with Frederick, however much you may believe it is required of your penitence, Isobel. *

  There was a tense silence, and then the Countess expelled a ragged breath. I hoped for some good effect from my words; but I was not to be so easily rewarded. Isobel bent to retrieve her wrap and settled it once more upon her shoulders, the openness of her expression completely shuttered, her eyes on the flames in the hearth. “Leave me now, Jane,” she said.

  “I shall.” I reached a hand to stroke her wild red waves, but at my touch, she stiffened. I said, “There are many people who love you, my dear. Perhaps more than you love yourself. Remember that, Isobel, when you determine to live.”

  FEELING SORELY THAT I HAD FAILED BOTH MY FRIEND AND her lover in my awkward attempts at persuasion, I found myself alone with the morning before me. Fanny Delahoussaye was indisposed with a stomach ailment, and Madame had gone off to the apothecary in Scargrave Close; the Hearsts kept still to their cottage in the lane. Fitzroy Payne was closeted in his library, and Lord Harold, thankfully, was not to be seen.

  Isobel’s melancholy threatened to overtake even my energetic spirits, but I reflected that we had at least one cause for rejoicing—the maid Marguerite’s vicious tongue, so injurious to the Countess’s self-respect, had fallen thankfully silent. Sir William Reynolds remained cheerfully in the company of his dear lady today, having no news of an evil nature to bring to our door. I was not so sanguine, however, as to believe the affair at an end—and judged it wise to pursue what intelligence I might regarding Scargrave’s intimates.

  I was determined to learn more of the woman named Rosie, who had been cause for such violence of argument between Mr. George Hearst and the late Earl. To that end, I made for the servants’ quarters, and after several enquiries, was directed to the housekeeper’s apartment.

  “Mrs. Hodges,” I said, when that good lady appeared at her sitting-room door, neatly arrayed in her habitual black with a snowy cap upon her head, “I would speak with you, if you have a quarter-hour to spare.”

  “I should be delighted, miss,” she replied, stepping back and throwing her door wide.

  I was shown to a comfortable chair by the fire and begged to sit. I confess to stealing a glance about me as Mrs. Hodges went in search of her teapot—for the housekeeper’s rooms at Scargrave are on such a scale that they might almost be those of the Austens in Bath, a comparison that should probably horrify the good Mrs. Hodges, did she know it. But I collected myself as she placed a cup before me, her kindly face eager to be of service.

  How to put the question I must ask? I had never been forced to the task of blatant inquisition before, and it rankled. To have done with, then, and suffer through, seemed the advisable course.

  “Mrs. Hodges,” I began, sipping at my cup, “I wonder if you can tell me whether a young woman by the name of Rosie has ever been a caller at Scargrave Manor?”

  A look of bewilderment came into her eyes as she settled herself in the chair opposite. “Rosie?” she said; “I can’t recollect as there was a lady by that name. There’s Rosies enough in the world, to be sure, but I am informed of the Manor’s guests by their surnames only, as is proper for one of my place.”

  Of course this was true; I myself should not have known the lady’s Christian name, had she been spoken of in the usual manner; but Mr. Hearst—for it was his voice that had surely pronounced it—had seen fit to drop the “Miss” before her surname. What had that been, after all? Catch? Fetch? No—a type of boat. Ketch. Rosie Ketch.

  “I believe the lady’s surname was Ketch,” I said.

  The transformation of Mrs. Hodges’s face was something remarkable—first white, then red, with eyes popping; I thought for an instant that she should fall into a fit of apoplexy. “Mrs. Hodges,” I said anxiously, setting my tea aside and reaching towards her with concern, “whatever is the matter? What can I have done?”

  “It’s nothing, miss,” she stammered, recovering herself with effort; “only I’ve asked as that slattern’s name never be pronounced in this house again. She was no example for the younger girls, and a heap o’ trouble while she was in service, and I’d forget her as soon as I’m able. I thought it was a lady you’d enquired after.”

  “It was my mistake,” I said. “I had no notion she was in service. I merely heard the name, attached to an interesting remark, and wondered when she had last been at Scargrave.”

  “I’ll warrant the remark was interesting,” Mrs. Hodges observed shrewdly, and clasped her hands upon her considerable stomach. “Rosie’s gone three months now, but if i
t’s news of her you want, you’d best be talking to Jenny Barlow, as is her sister down t’a home farm. Not that Rosie’s worth the asking after, mind you; but you have your reasons, I dare say.”

  That my reasons were unlikely to do me credit, her look and tone clearly implied; and I felt myself blush scarlet.

  It remained only to thank her for her hospitality and enquire the direction to Jenny Barlow’s home. Then I left Mrs. Hodges by her fire, donned my cloak and boots, and made my way through the kitchen gardens to the lane—which led, in a winding fashion much beset by drifts of snow, some three miles to Scargrave’s farm.

  THE WEATHER WAS VERY FINE, AND I FELT MY SPIRITS LIFT AS the cold sun touched my cheek. Being anxious to apprise no one of my errand, I could do little but walk; formnately, I possess such an excellent constitution, and am so accustomed to exercise, that I found the three miles not overly fatiguing. I had been told to expect Jenny Barlow’s cottage near the beginning of the fallow wheat fields; and indeed, upon rounding the last bend of the lane, I perceived a tiny hut, its good thatched roof a testament to the late Earl’s care for his tenants. A thin thread of smoke was rising from its chimney.

  I approached the doorway, and spied a small child blessed with the startled eyes of a doe; at my salutation, she took fright, and dashed within. Her mother soon appeared.

  “Jenny Barlow?” I enquired.

  “Yes, miss.” Her speech was suffused with the softness of Hertfordshire.

  I must set down here my first impression of the girl, for girl she undoubtedly is—not much above twenty, I should say, and quite lovely yet, despite the evidence of years of hard work. Jenny Barlow’s hair is gold, her eyes are cornflower blue, and her figure full and sturdy, making her seem something of a harvest goddess; but those poor particulars do not convey the truth of it. She is a beauty, her face delicate of line and her features elegant; she is just such an English rose, I judge, as is occasionally still found along its quieter byways.

  “Would you like to come in, miss, out o’ the cold?”

  I assented, and entered the darkened hut, which was filled with smoke; the unglazed windows were covered with oiled cloth, and only heightened the murkiness of the atmosphere. The child I had seen by the door was hiding under the table; another sat in a corner, worrying a lock of its hair; and I perceived Jenny to be yet again in a certain condition. The lot of women is indeed a cruel one—either die an old maid, reviled and unprovided, or die of hard work and childbed, both too liberally bestowed.

  “You’ve come from the big house,” she said. “It’s not often a lady seeks out the farm.”

  “I am presently staying at the Manor,” I replied, “and though it appears I have been walking for pleasure, in fact I am come to speak with you.”

  She looked her surprise, and was at a loss; and so provided a chair that I might more comfortably explain myself.

  “Mrs. Barlow, I have sought you out of instinct rather than clear purpose,” I began, taking the proffered seat, “and I hope that in speaking with you, I may know better how you are to help me. You are, of course, aware of the death of Lord Scargrave?”

  “Yes, God be praised,” she said quickly, and half under her breath.

  “And why should such a death be cause for thankfulness?” I asked.

  “He were an awful wicked man, the Earl,” Jenny answered, “awful wicked. I have reason to know it.”

  “That is very strong language, certainly.” I paused to survey Jenny Barlow’s countenance, but she did not look the sort of girl to strike out blindly, from malice or an envy of her betters. “Has Lord Scargrave had cause to injure you, my dear?” I enquired, feeling a sudden conviction of its truth.

  “Hurtin’ was as natural to him as breathin,” At that she fell silent, and from the way she glanced furtively around the hut, seemed to regret having said as much; I did not probe her further, but advanced on another tack.

  “The night of the Earl’s death,” I told her, “I had occasion to overhear Mr. George Hearst pronounce the name of Rosie Ketch. I understand that she is your sister. Is Mr: Hearst known to you?”

  “That he is, and a truer man never lived.”

  Such fervour, for the melancholy ecclesiastic! I remembered the vigour of George Hearst’s words, when speaking to his uncle about Rosie Ketch; and wondered at such a dour young man in the role of lady’s champion. It was a role better played by his gallant brother. Jenny Barlow turned her head at a disturbance by the doon Her eyes widened in alarm.

  “‘Ere, what’s ‘is?” demanded a burly fellow, leaning heavily in the doorway. “Somebody from tha Maner? Well, we wants nothin’ of the likes of you, I warrant. Be off with ye!”

  “No, Ted!” Jenny Barlow cried, “the lady is but resting along her way. She meant no ‘arm.”

  Ted Barlow, for so I divined him to be, reeled toward his wife, the pungent scent of barley and hops preceding him, and cuffed her a stiff blow to the side of her head. I confess I could not repress a sharp cry at the injustice of it, but the lout paid me no heed, so intent was he upon the poor creature in his power.

  “Mixin’ wit’ the quality, are ye? And look where ‘at’s got you afore!” He swept a beefy hand toward his children, who cowered away from him. “A passel of brats, and no bread for the table. That’s for quality,” he said, and spat upon the floor.

  I deemed it wise at this juncture to depart, but paused at the hut’s jamb long enough to seek Jenny Barlow’s eye. “If you should need me, Mrs. Barlow,” I said, “simply ask the way to Miss Austen.”

  I RETURNED ALONG THE SNOWY LANE IN SOME PERTURBATION, and with the leisure of three miles to give it full compass. That the late Lord Scargrave had marred the young girl’s life in some way, and that her husband still harboured a bitter grudge, was evident. I considered it no less likely that her sister Rosie was encompassed in Jenny Barlow’s cares. How the harm had been effected remained a mystery; tho’ I was just enough apprised of the ways of the world to think it possible the Earl had forced his attentions upon his milkmaid. There are precedents in history for it enough. I must wait, however, for the bestowing of Jenny’s confidence; given time and further thought, the girl may resolve to seek me out, and unburden herself willingly.

  I was but a few hundred yards from the paddock where I had ridden Lady Bess the previous afternoon; and at a nicker from the fence, I turned and saw her lovely chestnut nose stretched towards me appealingly.

  “I have no sugar; Bess,” I warned as I approached, “nor yet a piece of apple. But if you like, I shall rub your nose, and promise to visit on the morrow.”

  The mare bent her nostrils to my gloved hand, and I stood there some moments, scratching the short hairs between her ears and along the bridge of her face, marvelling at the liquid depths of her enormous eyes. It was then that a movement beyond her withers surprised me; I looked up, and caught sight of a bonneted head ducking into a shed to the left of the far paddock gate, on the nether side of the wintry field from where I stood. The lady’s pelisse was of a rich cherry, frogged round with black braid, and of a style to be worn by only one person—Fanny Delahoussaye! Perhaps she had come to ride, the better to win the Lieutenant’s heart.

  Lady Bess blew out a gusty breath, impatient for attention, and at that moment Fanny reappeared, unconscious of my presence, and slipped back through the gate towards the house. Her entire aspect declared her errand a furtive one.

  There was no gate in the fence before me—just the one, well around the field. I looked about to see that I was unobserved, swiftly mounted the lower rail, and swung myself, skirts and all, over the fence to stand beside a surprised Lady Bess. Then I set off across the snow-crusted grass, holding my hem above my ankles, the horse trotting alongside in evident enjoyment of the lark.

  It was a small outbuilding, no more than a storage shed for hay, really, and possessed of nothing in itself that might appeal to Fanny Delahoussaye. I bent my head to peer inside, and saw immediately what she had left—a small leath
er pouch tied with a string. I picked it up, and from the weight and jingle knew the purse to contain a quantity of coins.

  Fanny, leaving money for an unknown? How very singular. She was not the sort to engage in eccentric philanthropy, of an anonymous kind; more the reverse. Was this a payment for services—of a sort better unpublished in the light of day? There was no note, no sign of the intended recipient; and I did not like to open the pouch itself. I set it back upon the straw in some perplexity. It must remain another mystery, to be resolved another day.

  UPON REGAINING THE GREAT HOUSE, I WAS CAUGHT UP in a whirl of maids and footmen toing and froing; a strange carriage was at the door, with a coat of arms upon it, and baggage was being stowed behind I entered the house in haste, fumbling at the strings of my bonnet, and was in time to see Isobel exiting the Earl’s study.

  I was not, however, allowed to rejoice in her presence, fully dressed in her sombre widow’s weeds and becomingly coiffed; for from her expression, the Countess was in great tumult of mind.

  “My dear,” I cried, all concern for her distress, “whatever can be the matter?”

  She halted in the chill hall, the only still figure in the midst of her servants. Then, with neither a word nor a look, she brushed past me for the stairs.

  “Isobel—” I began, but she continued silently on her way, never heeding me. I turned towards the library door in consternation. What could Fitzroy Payne have done to so destroy my friend?

  But it was not the Earl who was the agent of Isobel’s misery. Lord Harold was within, standing by the fire with a cigar and a glass of Port. One look at his face told me he had triumphed finally in his relentless pursuit of Isobel’s Barbadoes plantations; Crosswinds was hers no more. I understood, now, the flurry about the coach drawn up to the door. Having gained his object, Harold Trowbridge had no further use for Scargrave.

  “Lord Harold,” I said, crossing to face him, my fear of his power banished, “I see that the dark angel has triumphed.”