Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron jam-10 Read online

  “It was Caro who named me thus, not Byron,” Lady Oxford said, reverting to the first part of Mona’s sentence. “Aspasia—for Socrates’ wise mistress. We used to meet so often, in past years, to talk over the latest radical ideas—there is a wild Genius, when all is said, to Caro’s understanding. Mad she may be, untamed her heart shall always be—but there is nothing deficient in her intellect. Indeed, there are few women I should prefer to meet, had this unfortunate break not come between us.”

  She spoke as tho’ the break had not been of her making—and yet, I thought with amazement bordering on revulsion, there had been a choice when she succumbed to Byron’s ardour. Lady Oxford had certainly known of Caro Lamb’s amorous history—that lady had made a gift of every detail to her entire world. But Jane Harley had deliberately taken as her lover the man who had discarded her dear friend. That both ladies were married already was of the slightest consequence, it seemed.

  Aspasia, indeed!

  I should never become accustomed to the casual betrayals that served as bread-and-butter to the haut ton.

  THE COUNTESS OF SWITHIN SEEMED LESS INCLINED TO AN intimate dinner with Lady Oxford, now that her friend was decidedly blue-deviled, and was most pressing in her invitation to both Henry and me to swell their family party. But I pled weariness, and remained firm in declining all frivolity. As I stepped down from the phaeton before the Castle’s door, and walked round to Mona’s side to curtsey my thanks, she leaned from her seat and muttered, “I shall urge the Countess to trust you entirely, dearest Jane, with references to my brother Kinsfell, and your perspicacity on numerous occasions—indeed, it should be enough to mention my uncle Trowbridge’s regard, for they were as intimate as two peas in a pod, you know. I shall write to you on the morrow—provided my friend is not taken up for the murder of Lord Byron in the interval—”

  With a roguish smile and a flick of her whip, she left me to turn slowly into the comparative peace of the inn, in search of my comfortable dinner—which was fated to be discomposed by fruitless pondering of the terms intimate and peas in a pod.

  Had Lord Harold, too, been Lady Oxford’s slave? What had he called her—Aspasia, Ianthe, or simply Jane?

  I was unaccountably brusque with Henry throughout the evening.

  “BY THE BY, JANE,” HE SAID AS THE GUINEA FOWL, TURBOT, radishes, and shrimps were removed, and a dish of pears in jellied wine and a syllabub were set before us, along with half a local cheese—“you have not asked me one word about my conversation with Scrope Davies. I thought you intended for me to pump the fellow!”

  As the better part of Henry’s conversation had concerned horses during dinner—the various points of those in the field, and those capable of completely outshining it, that had scratched at the last moment due to strained hocks, or other vagaries of Fortune; the obscure genealogy of Lord Wyncourt’s colt, which was said to require a fomenting of the knees as a result of its fall; the practices pursued by the Earl of Swithin on his estates in Ireland, where the bay mare had been bred; and the general outcome of the betting—I found this declaration self-serving, if not openly unjust.

  I stabbed the cheese with a spoon. “I should like to hear what you thought of the gentleman.”

  “Oh! As to that—he’s an excellent fellow! Highly intelligent, with an air of Fashion, and unfailingly good ton. I could wish him rather more plump in the pocket—he ought to bag an heiress one of these days, but the mammas are all against him, smelling the fortune-hunter. It is a sad thing when a man of no particular profession sets up as a Dandy—without he carries a title, or the expectation of an inheritance, the Polite World is apt to look askance. However, there is nothing to quarrel with in the tying of Davies’s cravat, or the set of his coat; he moves in the first circles, and if he does play too deep at basset, I am sure it is no affair of mine. He banks with Coutts.”

  “Henry,” I said with a commendable effort at controlling my temper, “did Eliza never tell you that you are the most infuriating Henry in all the world?”

  “Eliza doted on me, as well she ought.” He tossed a grape in the air and caught it between his teeth, as tho’ he had been yet a boy; and it occurred to me that he must have placed a good deal of money on the bay mare, for his spirits verged on the giddy.

  “Out with it,” I commanded. “How much did you win?”

  “Seven hundred guineas.”

  I sat back in my chair, astounded. Such a princely sum should never have entered my head—and the betting surely had not argued such massive winnings—the bay mare was the clear favourite stepping out of the post—

  “You bet against Caro Lamb,” I said. “Didn’t you?”

  “Having seen that lady come to grief on the shingle, did you expect me to back her on the turf?” he retorted drily. “For all I could judge, her ladyship was likely to ride as poorly as she swam. It was a close-run thing, of course—the colt very nearly cleared that final jump, and had Lady Caroline placed, it should have been bellows to mend with me.… May I offer you a grape, Jane?”

  I will never underestimate the reckless disregard of bankers.

  I shook my head, and concentrated on consuming a bite of cheese.

  “Very well,” I said. “On the strength of seven hundred guineas, I have no compunction in demanding that you sing for your supper—and frank me in a new gown I shall order tomorrow at a modiste’s I fancy in North Street. I regard myself as entirely responsible for Caro’s queer freaks, merely from having overlistened her speeches to Lady Oxford. Without myself as audience, she should hardly have performed to such a height—or been moved to plunge into the field, from a fevered desire for further applause.”

  “Done,” my brother said. “What would you have me sing?”

  “Your opinion of Scrope Davies. And I do not mean of his cravat,” I added. “The Twinings’ butler would have it that Davies was acquainted with the family—that it was he, in fact, who made his friend Byron known to Miss Twining.”

  “Did he, tho’?” Henry returned, with an air of surprize. “That is devilish odd, Jane. I’d have sworn he carried a tendre for the young lady himself.”

  I studied my brother. The elation natural to a gentleman who has raped Fortune of so grand a sum as seven hundred guineas had been heightened by the liberal resort to an excellent French claret, which had been followed with applications of a mellow Port; and it was obvious that my brother was rather well to live, as the saying goes. I had not seen him so jubilant since Eliza’s illness first clenched its talons all too palpably in her breast, some ten months ago. I love Henry so well—he is, not even excepting Frank, the dearest of my brothers, as being the most aligned in temperament to myself—that I revelled in this resurgence of his native jubilance; and indeed, found that my own megrims were entirely banished, at the sight of Henry’s high colour and dancing looks.

  “Go on,” I said.

  Henry threw down his napkin and rocked backwards on his chair, the picture of happy surfeit.

  “It was obvious you required an interval to examine his drunken lordship,” he began, “so I made it my business to entertain Mr. Davies. I commenced with the usual gambit—felicitations all round on the happy outcome of the inquest, and the undoubted part Mr. Davies’s own evidence had played—but I found him unreceptive. Throughout the quarter-hour in which we spoke—or I spoke, rather, for the exertion was almost entirely on my side—the gentleman was decidedly ill-at-ease.”

  My interest sharpened. “From what cause?”

  “Divided attention. He was engrossed in overlistening your conversation with Lord Byron, and at first I assumed he did so from an anxiety to protect his inebriated friend. However, I swiftly concluded he was consumed with a desire to know the gentleman’s sentiments, not your own, and was more nearly attending to Byron’s words than mine. Indeed, I was forced to enquire thrice whether he meant to visit the racing-ground this afternoon, before receiving less than a distracted answer.”

  “He groaned, I recollect, and clut
ched his face with his hands, at something Byron said.”

  “Quite right,” Henry replied. “But I have no notion of the subject; my ears are less acute, it would seem, than Davies’s.”

  “The poet was describing his intention, once happily in possession of Miss Twining’s notice in that closed carriage he employed for abduction,” I said drily. “He was attempting to frame the spur to his passion, as I recall. Her face, her figure, her soft voice were incitement to anything you might imagine—and I should never be proof against their charms!—Or that was the burden of his periods; he’s much given to windy declarations, fairly besotted with his own words. He might as well have said: I wanted to tear her clothes from her body and have her right there against the squabs, and be done with it. I wonder why he did not?—Have her, I mean, not talk about it?”

  If the image of Byron in the throes of passion caused my skin to tingle, I did not share the fact with Henry.

  “I should imagine Mr. Davies is asking himself the same thing. As well as why he wastes his friendship on such a blackguard as Byron—the fellow’s tendencies are vile.” Henry leaned across the table conspiratorially. “I suspect that the idea of Miss Twining’s embarrassment has weighed heavily on Davies’s mind ever since the attempt at abduction was made. Perceiving his distress, I made so bold as to offer my condolences on the sad loss of his young neighbour. Davies stared at me in starkest misery. ‘Neighbour?’ quoth he. ‘You may call her such, if you wish; for it is true I took this house for the Season merely to observe her beauty. To meet with Miss Twining in the street by chance was unlooked-for happiness; to hear her voice, a benediction. To know that such a perfect flower is cut down, in the midst of her blooming …’ and then he was overcome, and could not go on.”

  “You fascinate me, Henry.”

  My brother’s countenance turned sombre. “Consider of it, Jane. How the man must be tortured. If indeed Davies loved Catherine Twining—took a house in Church Street on purpose to meet with her at every opportunity—”

  “Only to have Byron descend upon him within days of Catherine’s return from her Bath seminary, and demand an introduction—”

  “—and watch, powerless, as the greatest rake in England pursued his perfect flower—”

  “—and presumed so much upon friendship, as to make Davies his accomplice in Catherine’s ruin—”

  “—used Davies’s lodgings as a base for his amorous interludes, and made him privy to his lewdest schemes, not excepting the foiled attempt at abduction—”

  “And capped all, by naming his friend as chief witness to his movements and character, on the night Davies’s love was murdered!”

  I sat back, all animation fled. “What a dreadfully sordid little tale it is, Henry.”

  “Yes,” my brother agreed, “and all the more pitiable, from Davies’s apparent devotion to the girl. The fellow is suffering all the torments of grief, Jane—I’d swear to the fact, from having known that abyss myself.”

  There was a little pause; I had not expected Henry to invoke his loss—indeed, I had been watching him determinedly outrun it these several days past. At length, my brother resumed, with suppressed violence: “Whether he believes his friend to be innocent or no, I wonder Davies can bear to admit Byron into his drawing-room—or tolerate a word the fellow says!”

  Unlike Henry, I could comprehend how impossible it might be to thwart Byron’s will. But I was revolving the curious code of friendship and honour that obtained among gentlemen who had known one another since their schooldays. Scrope Davies had served as witness to Byron’s movements—but so, too, had Byron served as Davies’s. We had no independent witness to attest that Davies cooled his heels in the publick room at the Arms, while the valet packed Byron’s traps and his lordship settled accounts with the publican. What if Davies, that Tulip of Fashion, had required a restorative breath of air after the heat of the Assembly Rooms—and taken a turn upon the shingle?—And there met the adored object of all his phantasies, Byron’s Leila, Catherine Twining?

  I had an idea of a drowned sylph, with the marks of violence about her neck—whose only crime was to have been too well loved. At what point did passion for a woman prove weaker than a murderous jealousy, of the kind Othello had known?

  Chapter 21 Mrs. Silchester’s Confidence

  THURSDAY, 13 MAY 1813

  BRIGHTON

  THE RAIN THIS MORNING WAS TORRENTIAL, FORESTALLING all ventures out-of-doors; there would be no drives along the sea, no visits to picturesque ruins, no picnics on the Downs—and to my secret relief, no assaults upon bathing machines. Henry should spend the better part of the morning at Raggett’s Club, talking airily of his keen sense of the turf; I might do as I chose—whether my whims tended towards the patronage of a favoured linen-draper’s on North Street, or several hours’ indulgence of reading in my rooms. I debated the former: Of what use was the purchase of a gown that must be black? And should I be justified in securing a different colour at Henry’s expence, against a future freed of mourning? What, I asked myself, would Eliza do?

  And therein had my answer.

  Eliza should buy the most outré gown to be had in Brighton, in a shocking colour of silk that became her extremely, and complete the toilette with gloves, reticule, diaphanous shawl, and bonnet. Furthermore, she should sport the ensemble at the first opportunity—and the Regent’s invitation—and set the whole town on its ears.

  La comtesse est morte. Vive la comtesse.

  I drank the scalding tea that Betsy supplied, and smiled a little wryly at my vanished sister. I was not Eliza de Feuillide, and however much her unquenchable spirits had inspired my admiration in the past, the present demanded a less frivolous duty.

  Tucked beneath the journal on my bedside table was a scrap of paper; the list of questions regarding Catherine’s death I had penned only yesterday. I glanced at it, then threw back the bedclothes, donned my wrapper—one of the few things I presently wear, along with my nightdress, that is thankfully not black—and settled into an armchair close to Betsy’s fire.

  1. With whom did Catherine Twining dance at the Assembly, besides Mr. Smalls?

  —I had yet to ascertain. Mrs. Silchester might supply the intelligence; but the most dependable source should be the Master of Ceremonies, a quelling gentleman by the name of Forth, who held the social world of Brighton in his thrall; and as today was Thursday—when, murder or no murder, the second Assembly of the week should be held, at the Old Ship—I knew where he might be found. Surely even a lady in mourning might be admitted to the ballroom, if her object is to interrogate the Master? I should have to secure my introduction to Mr. Forth from the Countess of Swithin. In Mona’s presence, even he must unbend.

  2. When did Catherine arrive at the Pavilion in Caro Lamb’s care?

  —I noted down the approximate time of one o’clock.

  3. What was the purport of the ladies’ tête-à-tête?

  —According to Caro Lamb, so that she might warn Miss Twining against Byron; but Catherine required no warning—she went in fear of the poet already. I scribbled, rather: so that Caro Lamb might learn every detail of her former lover’s passion for Miss Twining, and then toss her out into the street in a fury of jealousy. I could readily imagine her ladyship committing such an unpardonable act of rudeness; it explained her vagueness as to the time and manner of Catherine’s departure. But had she been jealous enough to observe the girl’s movements … lure her back into the grounds of the Pavilion … lead her down to the shingle, and force her head beneath the waves? Caro Lamb looked frail; but I had watched those supple hands on the reins of her flying horse, and guessed she commanded a wiry strength. I could not, however, imagine her ladyship trussing the body into a hammock stolen from Byron’s boat—which must be moored at a distance from the shingle, necessitating a midnight swim from a woman who had nearly drowned in those waters the day previous—much less carrying the shrouded body into the King’s Arms in the middle of the night. Could Caro have bought
the aid and silence of Another?

  4. When did Catherine quit the Pavilion?

  —I might trust the undergroom’s testimony by the stable clock; she had been seen at three-quarters past one. But did she truly leave the grounds at that hour?

  5. If the undergroom observed her walking towards the Steyne, how did she come by her death in the sea?

  —It seemed certain Catherine had tarried in the shadow of the Pavilion long enough to be seized—or lured—down to the water. But by whom?

  6. Where was Lord Byron at the time?

  —Walking with his friend Scrope Davies and his valet towards Church Street, along the very route Miss Twining should have adopted on her way home. Were the three men conspirators? Had one killed her, and the others observed it—agreeing, out of loyalty or avarice, to lie on each other’s behalf? Of Davies I could believe mendacity possible; but the valet owed Byron no particular loyalty—he must live among his fellows in Brighton for years to come, long after Byron should be forgot; he might hang for his lies, were they discovered; in sum, the man named Chaunce had too much to lose and too little to gain. I could not think conspiracy likely.

  7. Colonel George Hanger?

  He was the Regent’s guest, and might have observed Catherine Twining’s arrival with Caro Lamb—and her solitary departure. Did he think to finish his attempted rape by the water line, and grow too violent when Catherine screamed? Did Catherine scream—and if so, did anyone hear it?

  I sighed. There were a number of enquiries to be made at the Marine Pavilion—and I could wish them to have been made anywhere else. One does not easily put pointed questions to Royalty and its circle. Henry would have to work a miracle with his acquaintance, Lord Moira or Colonel McMahon, to secure an interview on that exalted ground.

  8. General Twining? Mr. Hendred Smalls?

  —The General claimed to have left the Assembly at eleven o’clock Monday evening, leaving his daughter to the care of Mrs. Silchester. One could assume Hendred Smalls quitted the place at the same hour—perhaps even letting down his friend in Church Street before proceeding in a hack chaise to his lodgings at Brighton Camp; but what if the cleric had lingered? I had an absurd idea of the moist-handed gentleman conceiving a jealous passion against Lord Byron; of lurking in sight of the Assembly Rooms; observing the departure of Miss Twining for the Pavilion; and at a quarter to two in the morning, halting the young lady in her path with a confused declaration of suspicious love. Even an absurd fellow may have feelings; even a bald and aging cleric may be moved to violent passion. I must endeavour to learn the movements of Mr. Smalls on the night in question.