Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron jam-10 Page 23

  “I honour her esteem, and shall endeavour to deserve it,” I said quietly.

  Her ladyship paced some once or twice, her ringed hands braced upon her hips; it was a regal pose, and entirely unconscious, as was the forbidding look upon her countenance. “I should begin, I suppose, by allowing you to read this,” she said abruptly. She drew from an inner pocket a piece of closely-penned paper.

  I must have shrunk back a little, because she said hurriedly, “It is no private correspondence, I assure you. Only some verses of Lord Byron’s he left behind last evening. He has been working on a long narrative poem some months—during the winter at Eywood, my estate in Herefordshire—and this spring, both in London and Brighton. As he certainly means to publish, I can see no harm in showing the verses to you. The poem is called The Giaour.”

  I glanced up. “As is his yacht?”

  “Yes—a word his lordship picked up in Turkish, during his wanderings—it means infidel, or foreigner, or perhaps simply Christian Englishman. I suppose it most truly refers to himself: the lone traveller in distant lands. A pretty enough name for a seagoing craft, certainly.… But this latest fragment …” Her voice trailed away. “I find it disturbing. And suggestive. Please read it, Miss Austen, and lend me your thoughts.”

  I accepted the piece of paper, and studied Byron’s hand—which was fair copperplate, entirely legible, and not the impassioned scrawl I might have expected from a Romantic.

  Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave,

  But his shall be a colder redder grave;

  Her spirit charged pointed well the steel

  Which taught that felon heart to feel .

  He called on Heaven the Prophet, but his power

  Was vain against the vengeful Giaour:

  Thou Paynim heart

  I watched my time, I leagued with these,

  The blackguard traitor in his turn to seize;

  My wrath is wreaked, the deed is done ,

  And now I go,—but go alone.

  And further down, at the bottom of the page, another few couplets, as tho’ scrawled at random:

  Much in his visions mutters he

  Of maiden drowned whelmed beneath the sea;

  On jagged cliff he has been known to stand

  And rave as to some bloody hand

  Her treachery was truth to me;

  To me she gave her heart, that all

  Which Tyranny can ne’er enthrall

  And I, alas! Too late to save !

  Yet all I then

  Something, something , our foe a grave

  But for the thought of Leila slain

  Give me the pleasure with the pain,

  So would I live and love again

  ???

  Tis all too late—thou wert, thou art

  The cherished madness of my heart!

  “Poor Lord Byron,” I said soberly. “He grieves, certainly.”

  “I must conclude he truly loved the girl.”

  Lady Oxford’s voice was tight with pain; to have believed that smouldering passion hers to command—and then know it to have been incited by Another—

  “And you have read the earlier verses?” I said by way of distraction. “Are they all a paean to Miss … to Leila?”

  Lady Oxford shook her head. “It seemed, at first, rather a dashing tale of battle between Infidel and Christian, as told by an old campaigner to his priest.” She sank at last into a chair by the fire, her eyes bent upon the flames. “But this.… It is as tho’ the narrative turned to something other—a revenge tale, Miss Austen. There is grief in it, to be sure—but also bloodlust, a desire to see violence given where violence has taken away.”

  Her understanding—of both her lover and his verse—was certainly acute; hers was a formidable mind. Byron had claimed, during our interview the previous day, that his passion for Catherine had already been waning. But what if that were merely a pose, adopted to veil his vengeful heart? A chill swept over me. “Countess—what is it that you fear?”

  She met my gaze bleakly. “That George means to have a private justice. Miss Austen, he knows exactly who killed Catherine Twining.”

  Chapter 25 Dancing Partners

  THURSDAY, 13 MAY 1813

  BRIGHTON, CONT.

  HENRY’S INTERVIEW WITH THE MAGISTRATE, HE ASSURED me over dinner this evening, went quite well. He found Old HardCross as the Earl had predicted: playing at faro for pound points before a comfortable fire at Raggett’s, while the rain lashed the windows outside. Sir Harding’s mellow mood may be attributable to the quality of Raggett’s cellars, or perhaps to his luck at cards; in any case, he quitted the faro table for the privacy of a side parlour, and listened while Swithin’s odd banking fellow told his tale of sliding panels and stone tunnels.

  “Good Lord!” he snorted with something between shock and amusement. “Always said the Prince was mad for pleasure in his youth. Confess I see no point in a tunnel—subterfuge should be entirely unnecessary in His Highness’s case—never made any bones about his penchant for carousing—should wonder why he concerned himself with publick opinion a’tall!”

  Henry had mentioned something about an allowance—the Prince’s funds being managed by his father, George III; the King’s open displeasure with his son’s reckless spirits; the power of the purse being used to curb a wild temperament; deceit therefore being the natural recourse to defray paternal ire, etc.

  “But a tunnel,” Old HardCross replied. “He’d have had to hire labourers! Put down his blunt on pallets of stone! Must’ve cost him a fortune, first and last!”

  Henry referred to the Regent’s comfort with indebtedness, and known passion for building.

  “The fellow never has had a particle of sense, where bricks and mortar are concerned,” the magistrate agreed gloomily.

  Henry suggested, as delicately as possible, that the tunnel’s being let out into the King’s Arms might prove of material interest to the Twining murder.

  Old HardCross’s eyes narrowed a little at this, and he appeared to take thought on the subject. There was a silence of several moments, painful to Henry’s ease.

  “Something shall have to be done about it, of course,” the magistrate said at last. “You did quite right in coming to me so quietly, Austen—we may hope now to keep the facts from being too widely known. Much obliged, indeed.”

  And he clapped Henry on the shoulder before returning to his cards.

  “But what does Sir Harding intend?” I demanded. “Does he mean to interrogate the Regent’s guests? Interview the footmen charged with fetching wine from the cellars? Discover whether Lady Caroline Lamb brought her maid—or has become the surrogate employer of someone else, fully capable of carrying the corpse of a young girl from the shingle to the Arms?”

  “I could not undertake to say, Jane.”

  I frowned at my brother. “It is high time you begged Lord Moira or Colonel McMahon for a private tour of the Pavilion—on behalf of your grieving sister! Without we make a thorough canvass of the intimates and servants, I begin to think the truth shall never be learnt!”

  WE PRESENTED OURSELVES IN MARINE PARADE AT NINE o’clock, and after a desultory cup of coffee—desultory, perhaps, because Lord Byron was absent, and the Countess of Oxford decidedly flat—set out through the mizzle for the Old Ship. The Assembly Rooms in this comfortable inn, which are much picked out with gilt and satin, are regarded by Brighton’s notables as having slightly the preference over the Castle’s. I looked into the suite as we arrived—saw much the usual arrangement of ballroom, supper room, and card room—and felt that the length and breadth of Britain, there was nothing new under the sun.

  I was arrayed in dark blue silk—one of my older gowns, last worn at Eliza’s musical party during the spring of 1811—but less quelling to the sensibilities of the Master of Ceremonies, I thought, than dusky black should be. If I did violence to what was required of one in mourning, my conscience was assuaged by Henry’s saying nothing in reproach; as we met in the p
assage, he merely assured me I was in excellent looks, as any wise brother ought. It was without much trepidation, therefore, that I followed Lady Swithin into the gaiety of the Assembly Rooms—and after a little interval of greetings and introductions among her varied acquaintance—Lady Oxford having to be exclaimed over by all those of the ton as yet ignorant of her arrival—Mona took me aside and said: “The Master of Ceremonies, Mr. Forth, is over there—by the French window letting out onto the balcony.”

  He was a tall, broad, and exceedingly corpulent fellow, dressed in satin knee breeches, silk stockings, and shining black slippers with large gold buckles. His coat was dark blue superfine; his cravat was snowy, and so intricately tied as to support several of his chins. The top of his head was quite bald, but he compensated for the lack by wearing what remained of his hair luxuriantly long—a fall of curls, as gold as a newborn’s. He was so like an illustration from a ladies’ magazine of what a Master ought to be, that I nearly laughed outright; but Mona had seized my hand and begun to thread her way through the throngs of Fashionables and red-coated cavalry officers, all milling about the floor in expectation of the first dance. I had time enough to glimpse a touseled dark figure limp towards Lady Oxford—saw the Countess turn as though under the force of a spell, her countenance transformed by the intoxicating presence of Byron—and Mona had achieved the French windows.

  “Good evening, Mr. Forth,” she said. “You have a sad crush this evening! I think we may declare the Brighton Season launched!”

  “Countess,” the Master responded in a tone of profound gratitude; and swept Desdemona a low bow. For a large fellow, he was surprisingly nimble. “Our poor hamlet is made infinitely finer by your presence, and that of your excellent Earl—his Hessians undoubtedly by Hoby, his coats by Weston, his collars exactly the correct height, neither so low as to suggest a despicable carelessness, nor so high as to trumpet the Dandy—”

  “Yes, yes,” Mona said impatiently, “but you must attend, Mr. Forth! I have been wanting to present my dear friend Miss Austen, lately of London and Hampshire, to your acquaintance—for this is her first visit to Brighton, you know, and there is no one but you who may put her in the correct way of things!”

  “Charmed,” said Mr. Forth, taking my hand and bowing over it—but not before his gaze had run the length of my blue gown, and calculated its worth and probable age to a nicety. “London modiste, but not one of the greatest talents; beaded trim no longer fashionable this year—ought to have changed it for grosgrain; colour suits her, however, but I should recommend next time she chuse claret-colored sarcenet,” he murmured almost inaudibly under his breath.

  “Do not regard him for the world, Jane,” Mona hissed in my ear as the Master recovered from his bows, mopping his bald pate with a handkerchief; “it is said he was born the son of a tailor, and cannot leave off the instincts of his trade however glorious his present station. Mr. Forth!” she cried. “You were present, I know, at Monday’s Assembly at the Castle. Miss Austen unfortunately was not—but her particular friend, Miss Catherine Twining, danced several dances to my certain knowledge.”

  “Ah! Our lamented Miss Twining!” the Master cried; and his brown eyes—lugubrious and reminiscent of a hound’s—filled with sadness. “Diaphanous white muslin, circlet of rosebuds and pearls, satin slippers with shoe-roses to match. Irreproachable taste, of course, for Mrs. Silchester had the dressing of the girl—and tho’ the woman will be featherbrained, she remains good ton. I recall the toilette well. Miss Twining was everything that was charming. And a particular friend of Miss Austen’s, you would say? You have my sympathy, ma’am. Such an unaccountable death—nothing in her stile to suggest it—I fear the world is a very wicked place. Even in our poor hamlet!”

  “I have been attempting to make sense of the senseless myself, sir,” I managed in a hollow tone. “And I have been endeavouring to record all the details of Miss Twining’s final evening—her last on earth!—no matter how small. I wished to convey a picture of her in a letter to my family, which shall be amazed to learn of her death”—as how could they not be, knowing nothing of Miss Twining at all—“and felt that in justice I ought to remember the gaieties she enjoyed, as only Catherine could, before her young life was so brutally cut short. The Countess”—I felt Mona’s title offered excellent value on the present occasion—“thought immediately of yourself, and said there should be no one in Brighton better able to recall the evening—which dances poor Catherine stood up for, and who were her partners. I should be infinitely happy if you should be so good as to search your memory …”

  Mr. Forth closed his eyes an instant. “We opened, naturally, with a minuet, and closed the ball with another. Now, I recall Miss Twining had Mr. Hendred Smalls—nothing to remark in either stile or person, being entirely unworldly in his aspect, except as pertains to the Regent, whom he toadies unbearably—as partner for the first dance; also to the second, poor child, which was a contredanse. Mr. Smalls could not keep his mind on the figures, and was constantly giving offence with his stupidity in the dance. Now, who was her partner for the third? That would be the cotillion with Allemande; I believe it was young Holsten, the baronet’s heir just down from Oxford—excessive padding to shoulders and calves, coat by Hearn, white waistcoat and satin breeches—good ton, of course, but no shoulders, no air or address, and apt to stutter. Poor Holsten was greatly incommoded by Lord Byron—most careless in his cravat, patterned waistcoat not at all the thing, and that lamentable right foot—who persisted in interrupting the dance to importune Miss Twining for an interview, which she steadily refused. At the close of the cotillion, General Twining quitted the Assembly and left his daughter in Mrs. Silchester’s care.

  “The fourth was a Scots reel; Miss Twining had young Captain Viscount Morley of the 10th to that one—very dashing fellow, excellent figure, excessively charming, cravat à la Napoleon, the new patent leather pumps. Captain Morley was most attentive, frowned down Lord Byron, whom he appeared to regard not at all, and carried Miss Twining into the supper room after the reel; they partook of smoked salmon, pistache cream, and champagne. Lord Byron again approached Captain Morley, and words were exchanged, at which point I intervened, so that peace might be restored. Lord Byron retired to the card room; and after this little interval, the Captain would, I believe, have partnered Miss Twining again—but she very rightly declined, so as not to appear too particular. The Captain, as I recall, watched the next dance—another cotillion—but solicited no other partner; none could please him after Miss Twining, it would seem. She acceded to Mr. Scrope Davies’s request—one of our most distinguished gentlemen. Such refinement of person! Such elegance in his watch chain and fobs! And tho’ his hair may suffer a trifle from thinning at the top—one cannot reproach a true gentleman for the vagaries of nature.”

  My gaze inevitably strayed to Mr. Forth’s own gleaming scalp. He went on, imperturbably: “Miss Twining appeared greatly fatigued after the cotillion, as should not be remarkable in one so young. Mr. Davies, as I recall, endeavoured to lead her apart; he appeared most anxious to speak with her in private—pleading his friend Byron’s case, perhaps. He carried Miss Twining off to one of the chairs drawn up against the wall, and went in search of lemonade, for indeed his fair partner looked as tho’ she might faint—and I observed, in his absence, Lord Byron approach her. Miss Twining immediately started up, and would have quitted her place, but at that moment—it was perhaps midnight—Lady Caroline Lamb appeared at the entrance to the Assembly Rooms, and Lord Byron’s temper changed. Ah! Lady Caroline—remarkable air, extraordinarily outré looks, not at all what one wishes to emulate with the Brighton crowd, yet undeniably compelling. The Sprite, as Greek Muse! What one should call a leader of Fashion, if one could but find a lady brave enough to follow her. Sad, to see such talent enslaved to a mercurial temperament—”

  “Did you happen to observe, sir,” I interjected, “how Lady Caroline came to make Miss Twining’s acquaintance?”

  “Went
bang up to her, barely a few moments later. That would be once Lady Caroline had crossed the entire ballroom to meet Lord Byron, who appears not to have valued the honour as he ought. He left the Assembly in considerable dudgeon not long thereafter. Miss Twining, however, appeared most gratified by her ladyship’s attention, and declined to dance again, tho’ Captain Viscount Morley attempted to lure her back to the floor for the waltz. I rather wondered the Silchester did not throw her charge in the Captain’s way—for he is a most charming young officer, and is Derwentwater’s heir, to boot. But perhaps she guessed he is addicted to gambling, like all the rest of the family, and did not like to put Miss Twining forward.”

  Derwentwater. Where had I heard the title before? And not so long since? My thoughts raced backwards. Not at Mona’s, nor yet in Lady Oxford’s conversation; it was Mrs. Silchester herself who had uttered the name.

  “Derwentwater?” I repeated. “Do I collect you to refer to the Earl?”

  “Indeed. Grown sadly ramshackle since his wife’s death, and spends too much time hunting with the Quorn to keep his good looks; but a gentleman to the teeth. One wonders at him exposing his son to all the dangers of a cavalry regiment in the present age—he has only the one, and the Captain, they say, was very gallant at Talavera—but soldiering is a passion in the Barrett family, you know, and young Philip would not be denied his colours. Barrett, of course, is the Earl’s family name; Derwentwater being the Earl’s title, and Viscount Morley the Captain’s honourific, until such melancholy time as he is forced to sell out, and accede to his father’s duties.”

  It was just such a fussy point of pedantry as a Master of Ceremonies might be expected to convey. Lady Swithin sighed impatiently beside me; but she could not know how Mr. Forth’s words had electrified me.