Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor Read online

  Dear Isobel’s gaze was fixed on emptiness, her hands lying idle in her lap; from the frequent waves of emotion that swept o’er her countenance, I judged her to be reviewing the length of December’s sad history, and falling ever more into despair at the terrible reversal in her fortunes. I ached to go to her; but the presence of the others—and the weight of Sir William’s impending return—froze me in my place. So in search of calm, I turned my eyes from the room to the snowy view beyond the window, marvelling that a day marked by such terrible events, should still appear so fine.

  In the flurry over the maid, all notions of Christmas Eve dinner had been lost to us, but not to Mrs. Hodges, the dependable Scargrave housekeeper; and it was with a start that I heard the bell summoning us to table. Tom Hearst was first to the door, and held it open for the ladies. Fitzroy Payne closed his book with a slap, his eyes upon Isobel, who rose from her chair as if waking from a dream. I inclined my head to the Earl and followed the Countess down the hall, feeling a trifle sick. But none of the party paused in its progression to the table, however little appetite we might possess; the activity of lifting a fork should at least prove a welcome alternative to restless silence.

  Once in the dining parlour, however, I felt my efforts at equanimity completely routed. Mrs. Hodges had endeavoured to impart a seasonal aspect to the meal, by the addition of red bows and holly to the great Scargrave candelabra—and at the sight of such cheerful nonsense, my mind would turn to my family circle in Bath. What did my dear Cassandra, my father and mother say of me tonight? Did my absence cause in their breasts as much loneliness as in my own? But I looked to Isobel, who failed even to notice the table’s ornaments, so desolate and bereft was she; and felt my resolve stiffen. The maid’s death meant little of a happy nature lay before the Countess; she had need of stalwart friends.

  Madame Delahoussaye was already seated, though her countenance bode poorly for the meal’s prospects. Her black eyes were sharp and her lips compressed. “Isobel, my dear; your cousin remains indisposed,” she said.

  “I regret to hear it, Aunt.” The Countess sank into the chair the footman held ready, her face as pale as death. “Perhaps you should take dear Fanny to London once the holiday is passed—for certainly Scargrave can offer little to cheer her.”

  “It is decidedly unhealthy,” Madame declared, her eyes upon Tom Hearst, “and I believe we shall depart the day after tomorrow. The society of Town, Isobel, must effect an elevation in poor Fanny’s spirits.”

  “The society of Town being so much superior to Scargrave’s, Madame?” the Lieutenant broke in. His distracted air was banished, and he shook out his serviette like a man possessed of good appetite. “I must confess that we are of one mind. In truth, I may congratulate myself that a better understanding has rarely existed between two such people, divided though we are by temperament, years, and experience. I shall seek my regiment in St. James at the first opportunity, the better to escort Miss Fanny to the gaieties of the Season.”

  “Insolent rogue!” Madame burst out, her face turning white with anger. “You shall do no such thing.”

  “I fear that I must, dear lady. I received a summons from my regiment this very day.”

  And what of the affair of the duel? I thought. Did his regiment welcome the Lieutenant with open arms, all his sins forgotten?

  Madame clenched the handle of her fork as though she would drive it through the Lieutenant’s heart. “There is nothing I desire less than that Fanny’s prospects should be poisoned by your acquaintance.”

  “Dear Aunt!” Isobel cried, starting in her chair. “You forget yourself. Lieutenant Hearst is a member of the Scargrave family!”

  “He is all too much a member of the family. He presumes upon his relation, Isobel. He thinks to have Fanny’s beauty and her fortune for a song. And what is he? Nothing but an adventurer in a blue coat. The second son of a wastrel.” Madame threw down her serviette and thrust back her chair. “I have no appetite for dining in such company. Inform Mrs. Hodges, Isobel, that I shall take a tray in my room.”

  Lieutenant Hearst raised his glass to the lady. “Your health, Madame,” he cried, as she swept by him, her eyes snapping. Then he tipped his wine towards me. “It shall make quite a picture, shall it not, Miss Austen? Miss Fanny and the Lieutenant. So little sense, allied with so much sensibility.”

  “Good Lord, Tom,” Fitzroy Payne chided, “must you plague Madame so? Her daughter’s care is as the world to hen We who know you, know that you delight in provoking; but she feels only insult in your raillery.”

  “Reproaches, Fitzroy?” The Lieutenant affected dismay. “And I had looked for thanks! For by my offices the good woman is returned to her room, and we may take Christmas Eve dinner in peace.”

  Tom Hearst may have meant his words in jest, but his tone was cutting; and I wondered, as I listened, at the edge of bitterness in his voice. The truth of it all escapes me. Does he admire Fanny? His barbs would suggest the opposite. But he continues to tease Madame unmercifully with his attentions, as though her daughter remains his object. And yet, and yet—when I spend an hour in his company, and feel his warmth, my heart whispers that Fanny hopes in vain.

  IT WAS WHILE WE TOYED WITH MRS. HODGES’S EXCELLENT oyster soup that Sir William returned. Not two hours had passed since he had left us, I judged; but from the transformation of his countenance during that time, it might well have been a year.

  He stood in the doorway, clearing his throat, his eyes on the Countess’s pale face. “I am distressed to disturb you at your dinner, my lady,” he said, “but I am forced to ask of those present a few questions.”

  “But of course, Sir William.” Isobel set down her spoon, her features more composed than I could have believed, despite the air of strain that governed the room. “How may we be of service?”

  The magistrate glanced at the two footmen ranged against the dining parlour’s walls, and then gave the Countess an expressive look. “I should prefer to speak to the family alone. Excepting, that is, Miss Austen.”

  Isobel lifted her hand in a gesture of dismissal, and the footmen departed. Their removal only heightened the tensions around the table. But Sir William did not prolong the suspense.

  “I believe this is yours, my lady,” he said, advancing upon Isobel’s chair with hand extended.

  “Why, so it is!” she exclaimed, taking the proffered handkerchief. “I am forever leaving my linen about like a forgetful schoolgirl. Where did you encounter it?”

  “Miss Austen was so good as to retrieve it from the paddock this morning,” the magistrate replied.

  “The paddock …” Isobel’s face drained of its last vestiges of colour. “But I have not been to the paddock these several days. Jane—” Her eyes sought mine in confusion.

  “It was lying by the gate, Isobel,” I told her quietly “From its appearance in the snow, it was quite recently let fall.”

  Sir William interposed smoothly. “Have you any recognition of the hand that penned these words, Countess?” He took from his waistcoat the bloody slip of paper I had retrieved from Marguerite’s bodice.

  Isobel bent to study it with indrawn breath. She looked at me and then at the magistrate. “But what does it mean?” she said.

  “The hand, my lady?”

  With her eyes fixed upon the Earl’s face, she replied slowly, “I should swear it to be Fitzroy’s.”

  Tom Hearst cleared his throat and pushed back his chair. As I watched, he folded his arms across his chest— the better, perhaps, to contain himself. Our eyes met, and his eyebrow lifted—a mute plea for some sense from all this muddle.

  Sir William turned to the Earl, and withdrew his hand from his pocket. In his open palm sat a clutch of small brown objects. “My lord,” he said, “is it in your power to name these?”

  Fitzroy Payne frowned and replied in the negative.

  “And you, my lady?”

  Isobel peered at the fruit, each one as small as a seed, in the magistrate’s hand
. “Why, they are the nuts of the Barbadoes tree!” she exclaimed. “The humble folk of my native island swear by them as a physick. But where did you find them?”

  “Wrapped in velvet—in the present Lord Scargrave’s gun case, my lady,* Sir William replied, and his face was very grave. “I had thought it possible, but could not be certain, that they were the very seed you have named.” He placed the nuts carefully on a serviette that lay upon the sideboard, and folded it into a neat package.

  “And have you journeyed to the Indies unbeknownst to me, Fitzroy?” Isobel looked at the Earl, her brown eyes troubled. She retained admirable command of her voice, but I saw the pulse throbbing at her throat, and knew her heart was racing.

  “You know it to be impossible,” Fitzroy Payne replied. “Sir William, are the nuts wholesome?”

  “The taste is so delightful, that to eat one is to eat them all,” Sir William said, “which is what we may judge the late Earl to have done. For the Barbadoes nut is poison, Lord Scargrave; so deadly a purgative, in fact, that illness commences but a quarter-hour after ingestion, and death is achieved in a very few hours.”

  Tom Hearst leapt to his feet, his hand upon his sabre hilt. “Good God, man, what do you mean to say?”

  There was a small sound, almost a whimper, from Isobel, whose face had gone a deadly white. Her hands were clenched on the table edge, as though without its support, she should crumple to the floor.

  “Sit down, Tom.” Fitzroy Payne’s voice was weary.”Sir William intends us to believe the nuts caused my uncle’s last illness.”

  “But, Fitzroy, are you mad? The fellow is suggesting—”

  “I know what the Justice is suggesting.” At his cousin’s look, Tom Hearst stiffened, but regained his seat. Fitzroy Payne inclined his head to Sir William. “Pray continue.”

  “It is my duty, Lord Scargrave,” Sir William said slowly, his eyes upon the floor; “to ask that the body of Frederick, Lord Scargrave, be exhumed from its resting place in the Scargrave vault.”

  “To what purpose, sir, would you so disturb my uncle’s rest?”

  “I should like Dr. Philip Pettigrew, of Sloane Street, who attended his lordship at his death, to reexamine the body.” Sir William’s eyes came up from the floor at that, and the coldness in them startled me.

  “And what end may that serve?” The Earl’s voice had lost its accustomed courtesy. “Pettigrew has already declared the man to be dead.”

  Sir William glanced at Isobel, and following his gaze, I saw my friend’s hand had gone to her throat. “It is possible, my lord,” the magistrate said, “for a physician to divine the contents of the stomach, even days after death; and from those, the cause of a man’s demise.”

  “You would anatomise1 my husband?” Isobel’s countenance was sick with shock.

  “I fear it is our only course, my lady,” Sir William said, not without gentleness. “In the case of poison, even a purgative that induces vomiting, it is the only method for proving the truth or falsity of the murdered maid’s claims.”

  I drew a deep breath, and found I was wadding the brown wool of my gown between my fingers.

  “Sir William, I doubt you do this for your own satisfaction,” Lord Scargrave said, in a low voice. “There is a public aspect to all of this.” His dark eyes revealed nothing of the nature of his thoughts.

  “There is, my lord. I should like the summary of Dr. Pettigrew’s findings to be presented to a jury summoned by the coroner assigned to Hertfordshire, who shall be charged with finding the cause of the late Earl’s demise. We must in any case summon such a panel for the poor maid Marguerite, and it may as well serve for the presentation of evidence in your uncle’s death.”

  “My dear Countess,” Tom Hearst’s voice broke in, “I fear you are unwell.” Isobel’s eyes were closed, and her breathing shallow. The Lieutenant rose as if to go to her; but Isobel stopped him with an upraised palm.

  “I feel only what I should, dear Tom,” she said, “and for that, there is no remedy. Please—let us hear Sir William out.”

  The magistrate had the grace to look uncomfortable for having caused a lady so much pain, and turned his gaze from Isobel with relief.

  “The two cases can have nothing to do with one another” Fitzroy Payne avowed. “The maid’s assertions are calumnies and lies. My uncle suffered a common complaint, and though he died of a sudden and was cheated of his span, such things have happened before.”

  “Have they, my lord?”

  “Fitzroy,” Isobel said faintly, and all our eyes turned to meet her own.

  “Do as he asks, my love,” she said, now past all care forpropriety. “We shall never be free of doubt if we resist, and there shall be no living in the country.”

  “I very much fear, my lady, that you are right.” Sir William inclined his head stiffly. “And my duty as a magistrate forces me to insist—for the maid’s sake, if not your own.”

  Tom Hearst coughed, as though he choked, and I raised my eyes to his; but he gazed at something in the middle distance. I observed that his fingers gripped the arms of his chair so fiercely, the knuckles had gone white.

  “The maid,” Fitzroy Payne said thoughtfully. “That piece of paper, written in my hand, bears the marks of blood.”

  “You are observant, my lord.” Sir William paced about the room and came to rest opposite my chair.

  The new Earl appeared to hesitate before asking the question that burned in his mind, but apprehension is a cruel master. “You found it on her person?” he said.

  “It was found there, assuredly, my lord.” Sir William cast an uneasy glance my way. I felt my face overcome with blushes, but none of the Scargrave party could spare a moment to study Miss Austen.

  “But this is madness!” Fitzroy Payne rose forcefully to his feet, his calm deserting him at the last. “Madness, I tell you!”

  We were all of us struck dumb. When a quiet man is moved to passion, it seems the very earth will shake; and at the violence of the Earl’s words, Scargrave Manor trembled. Tom Hearst moved to stand tall behind his cousin, and the two faced Sir William with all the strength of their ancestors rising in the blood.

  “I swear to you on my honour as a gentleman,” the Earl cried, in a fevered accent, “on the reputation of the proud family of which I claim a part, that I have not seen the girl Marguerite since the day after my uncle’s death.”

  “And the nuts found among your possessions, my lord?” Sir William’s voice was as mild as the dusk beyond the windows.

  “If they did cause the Earl’s death—”

  “If they did, assuredly.” The magistrate turned and strolled towards the door, as though the Scargrave men suggested no belligerence. “For that, we must await the word of the good doctor:”

  “—even if it be that those foul seeds struck him a mortal blow, it can have nothing to do with me,” Fitzroy Payne asserted. “I have known nothing of their existence until the moment you showed me them.”

  “Very well, my lord,” Sir William said, and bowed to the entire room.

  “You must believe me!”

  The magistrate’s gaze was on the Earl, and I was struck by die grimness of my old friend’s countenance. “I greatly fear; Lord Scargrave,” Sir William said, “that you plead with the wrong man. It is the coroner you must convince.”

  1. The medical dissection of corpses was a practice reserved for the bodies of executed criminals, which were often turned over to doctors for scientific study. Anatomization, as it was called, was considered the most degrading fate possible for the body of a loved one, so that even the families of condemned criminals sought to hide their corpses after execution, to prevent such disgrace.—Editor’s note.

  27 December 1802

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  I MUST CONFESS TO A FEELING OF LASSITUDE AND MELANcholy in the three days that have followed my discovery of the maid’s body, a mood I may perhaps attribute to the sleeplessness that has marked my nights. Images of the murdered girl—her white-rolle
d eyes and lolling head, the necklace of gore that encircled her throat—fill up my sight when I would close my eyes; and so I lie wakeful in the December dark, intent upon discovering the hint of footsteps in the gallery. It seems, however; that the spectral First Earl is possessed of discernment in his mourning; tonight he does not deign to recognise the passing of a mere servant with the show that preceded her death. In my present state, however, I cannot find it in me to feel apprehension at his possible coming; even fear is swallowed up in my general malaise.

  It was a poor sort of Christmas, despite my quiet pleasure in a letter and a holiday box I owed to my dear Cassandra—containing fifteen yards of a lovely pink muslin for the making up of a new gown. After church in Scargrave Close, Isobel kept to her room for much of the day, while Lord Scargrave sought the freedom of the out-of-doors, walking Scargrave’s surrounding parkland for hours and returning only with the falling dusk. I was left to the company of Tom Hearst, whose every attention was monopolised by the lively Fanny Delahoussaye, and to his brother George—who though returned from London, appeared little recovered from his bad humour of Christmas Eve. The cleric wasted many hours in silent contemplation before the fire, brows drawn down over brooding eyes.

  I bent myself to the pianoforte, music being the one solace for my nerves, but was eventually forced to break off by Miss Delahoussaye, who called me to attention long enough to pronounce us all a sad sort of company for Christmastide. She proposed some simple amusement—play-acting in the parlour, perhaps, or the arrangement of tableaux vivants, neither of which activity was suited to our mood or situation.

  “There is Fanny!” Madame Delahoussaye exclaimed indulgently; “so gay, no trifle can burden her light spirits; so full of good humour, that one forgets all one’s cares!”