Jane and the Barque of Frailty Page 16

  I had succeeded in discovering the Irish linen, and was fingering its weave somewhat doubtfully, when a cool voice enquired at my elbow, “Miss … Austen, is it not? May I enquire whether your poor ankle is quite recovered?”

  It was Julia Radcliffe.

  The Barque of Frailty wore a gown of pale blue muslin, arrayed with a quantity of pin tucks drawn up close about the throat—an elegant, modest, and wholly becoming gown for a slip of a girl, as she undoubtedly was. A straw jockey bonnet was perched on her golden curls, and her hands bore gloves of York tan; the whole afforded a picture of perfection that betrayed nothing of her calling. I could well believe what Eliza had told me—that Julia Radcliffe had been reared in one of the first families, and despite the events that had led to her being cast off, she retained an elegance of person that owed everything to breeding and taste. Her maid stood a few yards behind her, quietly supporting a quantity of purchases—Miss Radcliffe was certainly on the point of quitting the linendraper’s.

  “Thank you,” I stammered. “You are very good to enquire—the ankle is perfectly mended. Lord Moira was very chivalrous, was he not, in insisting I should be borne immediately from the gravel? I am sure that I suffered no further indisposition solely because of his care.”

  “Lord Moira is all politeness,” Miss Radcliffe returned, with a gleam of laughter in her looks. “A lady has only to fall at his feet for him to lift her up with pleasure! I am glad you did not incur a lasting injury. And now I am going to test your good will further, and betray that I am well aware that odious man is dogging your footsteps. May I aid you in any way?”

  I looked all my surprise. Was it possible she referred to Henry? And had he abandoned his position in the street?

  “Perhaps you are unaware of it,” Miss Radcliffe amended. “He is somewhere behind me, taking great care to appear invisible—and thus must draw excessive attention to himself. Bow Street Runners invariably do.”

  Bow Street Runners.

  My cheeks flaming with colour, I glanced around Miss Radcliffe. There were so few gentlemen dotted among the crowd of women that the Runner’s round black hat and scarred visage were instantly perceptible. Bill Skroggs.

  He was turning over a set of fashion plates displayed on a gilt stand, as tho’ intent upon securing the latest kick of the mode—but as I stared at him, aghast, his gaze rose to meet mine. He must have read my consternation in my looks, for a slow smile o’erspread his countenance, and he raised his hat with savage amiability.

  “I shall not press you to disclose why that scoundrel makes you the object of his chivalry,” Miss Radcliffe said evenly, “but should you ever require assistance, Miss Austen, you may be assured of mine. He has earned an implacable hatred.”

  She nodded, and would have passed on without another word—but the suggestion of pride in her carriage, the fear of being rebuffed by an outraged and respectable woman, urged me to call after her, “Miss Radcliffe!”

  She turned.

  I was tempted to ask how Skroggs had made her his enemy—but found I could not presume so far on acquaintance.

  “That is a very fetching hat,” I said lamely. “May I know where you obtained it?”

  “At Mademoiselle Cocotte’s,” she replied, a dimple showing, “but you should be shockingly out of place there, I am afraid. You would do better to mention the style at Mirton’s. They will have what will suit you, there. Good day, Miss Austen.”

  Bill Skroggs was not alone in following Miss Radcliffe’s passage from Grafton House—she could not fail to command the attention and envy of many wholly unknown to her—but I profited from the Runner’s momentary inattention to myself to put as much distance between us as possible.

  Eliza had abandoned the gloves for a selection of swansdown trimmings.

  “Only look, Jane! Three shillings per ell! I must and will have a quantity. It would do very well to trim a new pelisse—if I could have one made … ”

  “The counters are too crowded, Eliza, and consider of Henry! We must abandon our errand and return at a better hour.”

  “Perhaps you are right.” She sighed. “I am all too often prey to a kind of madness that overcomes me in this place—and find myself returned home with packets of goods for which I have not the least use! But oh, Jane! Feel the softness of this paisley shawl— and quite reasonably priced too! I saw just such another in Bond Street for nearly fifty guineas, and here they want only ten! Conceive of the saving!”

  “Henry, Eliza,” I said firmly, and steered her through the throng to the door. I did not attempt to determine if Bill Skroggs was in pursuit; the mere fact of his presence in Grafton House informed me that he was spying upon us—and intended that we should know it. The Runner hoped to haunt our dreams, and so torment our waking hours that we must scatter like pheasants before a beater. I had too much pride to betray to the man that I was, indeed, frightened—that I met his appearance in this comfortable place with the deepest dismay. My energy was now bent upon shielding my brother from all knowledge of how we were pursued. Bill Skroggs should not cut up Henry’s peace—or Eliza’s—if I could help it.

  Chapter 20

  The Frustrate Heart

  Saturday, 27 April 1811, cont.

  ∼

  “SHE IS COME,” MADAME BIGEON SAID CALMLY AS she closed the kitchen door and returned to her chair by the fire. “Manon has shown her to the saloon. We have now only to wait. The tea, it is hot enough, yes?”

  “Quite hot,” I returned in a whisper, “but pray, Madame, hush!”

  The housekeeper had established me at the oak work table with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits, the better to fend off anxiety while we endured the Comtesse d’Entraigues’s interview. We had barely returned from our expedition to Grafton House— Henry grumbling that it had proved to be a fool’s errand—before the hour of the Frenchwoman’s visit was upon us; and my brother was very glad to hie himself off to his club immediately, maintaining that he had some letters of business to write, that could only be undertaken in the sanctity of the Members’ Room.

  The kitchen door was quietly opened, and Manon slipped within, bearing the Princess Tscholikova’s journal beneath her arm. “I am to bring them sherry,” she observed sotto voce, “and then busy myself about the hall, so as to be close at hand if la comtesse grows ugly in her manner.”

  “How does she seem?” I whispered.

  Manon shrugged. “Much as usual, that one. She does not betray her fears; she looks always as tho’ she has supped on whey. Madame Henri, however, is in high spirits—and will not sit, but has adopted a position in the drawing-room, with her back to the fire. She intends to employ a poker, voyez-vous, if her life is at issue.”

  I took a long draught of tea, and wished that we had admitted Henry to our confidence. From the front of the house the faint shrill of a woman’s voice—Anne de St.- Huberti’s, by its tone—was audible; she did not sound to be as yet enraged. I prayed that Eliza should have the good sense to betray nothing of her suspicions, and conduct her conversation according to the plan we had determined: no accusations, but a cunning attempt to elicit what intelligence we could.

  I feared, however, that the Comtesse d’Entraigues should prove cleverer by far than Eliza.

  Madame Bigeon was already setting out the sherry glasses on a silver tray, and was reaching for the decanter. Manon turned over the leaves of Tscholikova’s private volume, her brow furrowed. “I find that the Princess was a great one for writing to herself—hours and hours she must have been engaged, comme d’habitude, over her pen, out? And much of it bien mélancolique. There is a something here,” she murmured, “that I particularly wish you to see. It is noted down for the Saturday before she did herself the violence—but the writing is most agitated.”

  She turned the book so that I might peruse its pages. I am better able to read the French tongue than to speak it—and as the maid lifted up her tray and swept once more into the hall, I attempted to make out the furious hand. Manon was c
orrect: the slim volume was so crossed with writing that it more nearly resembled a letter to an intimate; and I felt a swift stab of pity for the dead Princess. It was as tho’ all the outpourings I despatched to my dear sister Cassandra had found no object in the Princess’s life—Tscholikova enjoyed no friend of the bosom to whom she might turn—and so the frustrate heart cried aloud to the empty page. I turned back to the beginning, and skimmed the first entries—which had been laid down but six months before. There was little of acute interest to the present investigation—a monotony of visits paid, and rebuffs received; of trips to the milliner’s; of plays endured at various houses.

  Not a word of assignations with Lord Castlereagh— and tho’ I looked for the name of d’Entraigues, I could detect it nowhere.

  A month before Tscholikova’s death, however, was inscribed an entry that must give me pause—if only because of the extreme agitation betrayed by the shaking hand.

  I saw him today in Hyde Park [she had written in French] and could not approach. The gentleness of his look! And yet the aura of a god that clings to his person! The extraordinary kindness from one who has every reason to despise me—I, who am not worthy to kiss his boot—and yet, when I recall the circumstances under which we met—the strange benediction it seemed, to move for even a little while in his orbit, to breathe the same air … I could not help myself: when he had nodded and passed on, I followed his showy hack and observed the ones he chose to notice, the fortunate few with whom he exchanged greetings! I went veiled, and kept myself at a distance; but he must have known me—must have felt the intensity of my gaze, and the ardour of my spirit. Can so much yearning, from a heart tormented, go unfelt, unrecognised? I will not believe it to be so.

  The tumult of my nerves and reason would not be stilled, tho’ I sat quietly once more at home—and thus I am restless and wakeful, long into the night. Where is he now? What is he thinking? Is it possible he has entirely forgotten me? Or is there a hope I may yet be dear to him? I take out his letters from the precious days in Paris—and my own voice will not be silenced. I pour forth my soul again upon the paper, as I have done a hundred times before, and seal it with a kiss. But should the letter be sent? Can it be?

  A letter. Could this possibly refer to the disputed correspondence with Lord Castlereagh? But the Princess had mentioned Paris—and his lordship was unlikely to have entered that city since the onset of hostilities with Buonaparte. Did she speak, in her veiled way, of d’Entraigues? But a man less like a god could hardly be described. It was undoubtedly true that beauty was in the eye of the beholder …

  Manon chose this interesting moment to reappear in the kitchen with the decanter and tray. “La comtesse is weeping,” she said resignedly. “She is wholly distraught. It will require several handkerchiefs, sans doute, to stem the flood. I do not think she poses the least danger to Madame Henri now.”

  “What has Eliza said to cast her into despair?” I demanded perplexedly. “She was meant to lull the woman into happy security!”

  “No doubt they talk of the despicable husband,” Madame Bigeon suggested. “His infidelities—her endless sacrifices—the mortification and the scorn of the world—you will know how it is.”

  Manon disappeared through the doorway again with a feather duster in her hand. I returned to the Princess’s diary.

  I must be careful. I have been too long in the world not to know the way of it—to recognise that the ardent love that animates my being must be an object of ridicule before the ton. I pay my morning calls, and yearn to hear of him; I talk of fashion, and of balls, and yearn to talk of him; I walk in the Park, and yearn to encounter him. He has not answered my letter I am in a frenzy at every post. Perhaps he has gone out of town—is on a visit to the country—is engaged in the hunt? Or perhaps it is politics that engrosses him—all this talk of government, and appointments… I must consider it likely, however, that he no longer loves me—that the passions which brought me to London, like a dog called to heel, no longer stir in his breast. He no longer loves me. Perhaps he never did.

  This petulant recital was followed by a series of entries describing the Princess’s dissatisfaction with her correspondence. These came to an abrupt end a mere week before her murder.

  Were I the sort to read newspapers, I might have known long before what the Polite World believes— but if I had known, I might never have set foot outside in daylight again, but stolen from this house at dead of night, and made for Moscow by any road that offers. The shame of it! That I should learn the truth from my modiste—that it should be the girls in the fitting room, slatterns all, giggling over my card as it was sent in to Fanchette—that she should have the impertinence to demand immediate payment, and decline further custom, “the notoriety of the Morning Post being not what she can like.” He has done what he should not—he has betrayed every sacred trust— and my heart is exposed in all the obscenity of print, for the entire world to read! I cannot understand it— I am brought to my knees by his perfidy. I cannot understand it. I wander about the prison of this house as tho’ dazed from a blow to the head; but anger is as strong as pain. Were I a man, I should demand satisfaction—I should hurl my glove in his face, and look down the barrel of a pistol with rejoicing in my heart, as the blood blossomed in his throat—that perfect, lovely throat I have caressed with my lips so often in memory. I would like to kill him …

  I set down the book.

  The Princess had discovered the publication of her correspondence, and the imputation the Great had placed upon it. She had never sold her letters; but someone in Castlereagh’s household had. And with rage stirring in her Russian heart, she had sought his lordship at his very door. To plead with him … or to do him the sort of violence that had ended in her own death?

  My mind raced at the idea: Tscholikova, bent upon revenge. Castlereagh, unaccountably absent from home and unwilling to admit to the world how he had spent the hours between one o’clock and five in the morning. The lady, calling at his house with a porcelain box in her hands. Had it contained her jewels, as we had supposed? Or the letters she had received from Castlereagh, and intended to hurl back in his face?

  Had it contained, even, a weapon?

  She had not found his lordship at home. She had quitted the house. And four hours later, she lay in a ruined heap upon the flagway, with the lid of her porcelain box in pieces beside her …. Where had she hidden herself in the interval? Had she merely lain in wait for Castlereagh’s return? Or had they met elsewhere—by chance or appointment—to discuss the furor occasioned by the Morning Post?

  And then I recalled the carriage described at the inquest, drawn up in the mews behind Berkeley Square: with sounds of passion—or violence—emanating from within. For the first time, I could picture the whole in my mind; but how to secure proofs?

  “La comtesse is on the point of departure,” Manon hissed from the doorway. “You have seen the oh-so-curious passage I mentioned?”

  “They are all of them curious,” I retorted.

  Manon threw up her hands and withdrew. From the hall came all the bustle of two ladies’ adieux. I looked for the final entry—that which the Princess had penned on the Saturday prior to her death.

  I have seen Canning. He has told me all. There is nothing for it—I must take my courage in my hands, and warn the heedless girl. If a man may look like a god and behave like the very Devil, then no one is safe in his love. I would not consign my worst enemy to the Fate I have endured—and even she, whom the world might consider as having little of reputation to lose— even she might be made to suffer. It will be my last act of kindness before the end. Tomorrow I will pay a visit to—

  “Well, Jane,” Eliza said from the doorway, “I must say that I am pleasantly surprised. Anne was all that was frank with me—and I flatter myself I learned a good deal more than I gave away! You will never guess from whom she had the Princess’s jewels! It was not her husband at all. It was that little Bird of Paradise—”

  “Julia
Radcliffe,” I concluded.

  Chapter 21

  The Opera Singer’s Tale

  Saturday, 27 April 1811, cont.

  ∼

  “YOU KNOW, JANE, THAT I CAN NEVER ENDURE A friend’s misery, without feeling miserable myself,” Eliza said as she drew up a chair to the oak work table—seeming as much at home as tho’ she actually comprehended the art of cookery, rather than being the most helpless creature in a kitchen I have ever encountered. “It is so dreadfully affecting to see one’s oldest friend quite undone by the fear of age, and all the natural affection for her son that one should expect her to feel—particularly when one has lost a child oneself! I declare I was made quite as miserable as Anne, when I had heard the whole, and only the recollection of the esteem in which dear Henry holds me—and the perfect manners he never fails to exhibit, whatever larks he may get up to in my absence—could return me to a sense of happiness again.”

  “We shall take it as given that you engaged in an orgy of sensibility,” I said. “But pray cut line, Eliza! What did the Comtesse say?”

  “You were quite in the wrong of it,” my sister informed me. “It was not Anne who killed the unfortunate Princess and stole her jewels, because she has long since dismissed the Russian as a rival for her husband’s affection—Tscholikova was grown too long in the tooth, of late years, and he did not care a fig for her. It is true that the Princess and d’Entraigues were the subject of scandalous rumour during the time they both lived in Vienna—which I believe was something in the year 1801 or ’02—but the story of their romance was put about by the French ambassador, who could not like d’Entraigues, owing to his having fled France at the Terror. The Austrians, however, would have it that d’Entraigues was spying for Buonaparte! I ask you, Jane, could anything be the more ridiculous? When he is an émigré nobleman, whom one may meet everywhere, and quite in the confidence of the Tory party? Anne very nearly laughed through her tears at the whole, and said the old scandal was inflamed and enlarged by Tscholikova, who must needs fancy herself in love with Emmanuel—their Viennese association being nearly a decade since, when the Comte had still all his teeth. That is why Anne can never bear to hear Tscholikova mentioned, for Anne was excessively fond of the Austrian court, and detested being forced to quit the city for a petty rumour.”