Jane and the Wandering Eye: Being the Third Jane Austen Mystery Page 25
Not even James could resist so patent an invitation to gossip.
Quite pleased with my efforts, I sealed the sheet with a wafer, inscribed the direction, and had only to await the collection of the post. I have never been so decidedly impatient for correspondence from my eldest brother in all my life—for we do not enjoy as happy an intimacy as I might wish. I must hope that the oddity of my beseeching him for news, should not utterly rouse his suspicions.
I SET OUT NOT LONG THEREAFTER FOR LAURA PLACE; BUT had only achieved Pulteney Bridge, when I espied the figure of a woman in conversation with someone in a phaeton drawn up near one of the shops that line its length. Something in her elegant figure, the remarkable carriage of her head, seemed familiar, but the lady was so heavily veiled, I could not make her features out. As I approached she turned away, and hurried off into the marketplace that runs along the river at that point; and I decided I must have been mistaken. My conviction was given considerable reinforcement as I drew up with the carriage itself—and was hailed by none other than Colonel Easton.
“Colonel!” I cried. “And a very good day to you. Are you intending to call in Laura Place?”
“I am, Miss Austen—and should have been there already, had not I chanced upon the wife of a fellow officer, Mrs. Grimsby, a most excellent young woman, indeed. Grimsby is presently called away to the North, and she is sadly without friends. All the world is abroad this morning, I may say! But I am happy to find you here. May I carry you to Lady Desdemona?”
With these words, the Colonel chanced to take the measure of my sombre gown and black gloves, and his bluff good humour immediately faded. “I say—I hope I don’t intrude unhandsomely—but have you recently sustained a loss, Miss Austen?”
“I regret that I have.”
“My deepest sympathies, ma’am. And in such a season!”
“You are very good, Colonel. I should be delighted to attend you to Laura Place.”
He jumped out with a glad smile, and showed me into the phaeton. “I had hoped to ride with Lady Desdemona this morning, but I learned to my regret that she was a trifle indisposed.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
He shook his head. “I fancy she’s only blue-devilled by Kinsfell’s entanglement. And that uncle of hers cannot be a comfort—Trowbridge is forever dangling after one woman or another. I saw him myself in Orchard Street only last night, in such a display! Most unbecoming, with the family’s fortunes at such a pass; but the fellow never had the least discretion.”
Colonel Easton’s tact might as readily have been suspect; but I assumed he had not yet adopted the habit of reading the Bath Chronicle. He handed me into his chaise, then stepped up himself as swiftly as his wounded right arm would allow; and in pleasantries on one side, and some absence of mind on the other, we soon achieved Laura Place.
“MISS AUSTEN!” LADY DESDEMONA CRIED, RISING FROM what had obviously been a most interesting tête-à-tête with the Earl of Swithin. His long legs were stretched indolently towards the fire, in so comfortable an attitude that he might have claimed the Dowager’s drawingroom as his own these many months; but at the sight of visitors the Earl propelled himself to his feet, and managed a bow.
Lady Desdemona’s colour was high, and her eyes sparkling; and if she cast a guilty glance Lord Swithin’s way, and looked too conscious when she met my gaze, I could not find it in me to reproach her.
“I am delighted to see you,” she said, her hand extended. “And Colonel Easton—”
Her warmth must falter at the Colonel’s advance, but she need not have discomposed her mind. Easton had only to observe his rival in possession of coveted ground, take stock of the force he might bring to bear, and determine upon a judicious retreat; and with the most correct of bows, and a wooden countenance, the Colonel declared himself sadly engaged among acquaintance in Rivers Street, and stopping only long enough to enquire after Mona’s health.
“I chanced upon Miss Austen at Pulteney Bridge, and was so happy as to be able to bring her hither; but having seen her to your door, my lady, I fear it is beyond my power to remain.”
“How unfortunate,” Lady Desdemona replied implausibly. “But we shall have the concert this evening.”
“Until then,” Colonel Easton murmured—and so she rang for the footman.
“What an excellent fellow Easton is, to be sure,” Lord Swithin observed, as the rattle of his carriage proclaimed him well upon his way. The Earl was decidedly dashing this morning, I thought, in yellow pantaloons and tasselled Hessians, polished to a fare-thee-well. “He is correct almost to a fault—though one could wish his arm less encumbered by that wretched sling. It must decidedly reduce the effect of his regimentals.”
“You are a beast, Swithin,” Lady Desdemona rejoined tardy. “Easton is everything that is admirable in a man—his character must be beyond reproach.”
“Yes—and he is the sort of man the whole world speaks well of, but no one remembers to speak with. But having bested him at twenty paces, my dear Mona, I should be foolish to attempt it a second time when his back is turned. Miss Austen, I am sure, would not approve; and for Miss Austen’s approval I live in daily hope.” The Earl accompanied this sally with an archly raised eyebrow, and despite my doubts regarding his character, I could not quite repress a smile.
“To laugh at a man when he is incapable of justification would seem a paltry art,” I observed, “but I see you have managed it in the same breath as you declare it to be unwarranted.”
“Cleverness will out, despite one’s better nature,” he said with a bow. “But enough of Easton. I like him even less clean-shaven, than I did when he disguised his fawning looks with whiskers. I understand, Miss Austen, from my sisters that they had the pleasure of meeting you at Dash’s Riding School on Sunday.”
I should hardly have expected the insipid Lady Louisa, or the pettish Lady Augusta, to have recalled the face of an insignificant Miss Austen, much less her name—but I inclined my head in acknowledgement of the Earl’s good breeding. “Yes, I was so fortunate as to make their ladyships’ acquaintance. They were—most gracious, indeed. Though perhaps a little fatigued, at having been summoned so unexpectedly to Bath.”
“It was very bad of you, Swithin, to throw all your sisters’ schemes for the season into upheaval,” Lady Desdemona said with an innocent air. “I cannot think what should draw you to Bristol—nor why, once determined upon Christmas in Bath, you gave your family so little notice.”
She was, I observed, decidedly a Trowbridge.
The Earl seemed to hesitate, and then plunged unwillingly into explanation. “As for Bristol, Mona—I had matters of business that could not be put off. Bristol has long been the seat of a wealth of trade, as no doubt you are aware—and though it pains me to admit vulgarity, my dear, a Venturer in trade I have, of necessity, become.” He arranged himself near the hearth, his gaze averted, as though drawn by the play of the flames. “As for Christmas in Bath—I had long determined to descend upon the place. I may date the decision from the moment of your having done so yourself, my dear Mona. I tarried in London some weeks after your departure, however, for the silencing of the gossips. Had I informed Augusta and Louisa of my intention, the news should have been all over Town in a thrice.” He turned then, and studied her with amusement. “I may be your devoted servant, my dear—quite lost to every consideration, and willing to undertake any humiliation in your train—but I have no wish for the world to observe it. A trifling fatigue on the part of my sisters was well worth the preservation, however fleeting, of my reputation.”
Lady Desdemona blushed, and avoided his eye. “Swithin, Swithin—what have I done to you?”
He said nothing for a moment, his countenance grown suddenly grave; then he reached for his elegant black hat. “What no other lady has managed, my dear; and therein lies the mystery of your charms. But perhaps you will find it in your heart to pity me, Mona—and allow me to escort you to Mr. Rauzzini’s concert this evening.”
“The concert! I had not thought—that is to say—I am to be escorted this evening by Colonel Easton.”
“A pity. Easton cannot appreciate an Italian love song as I do, nor hope to translate it so prettily. But I shall have the pleasure of seeing you, at least; and such things may sustain a man a fortnight, with care. Miss Austen, your servant—” The Earl bowed, and quitted the room not a moment later.
“What an extraordinary man,” I observed in puzzlement. “I cannot make him out at all. He has quite the air of command; and I might almost believe him to have walked a quarterdeck, in company with my naval brothers, than the more prosaic ground of Tattersall’s betting room.”
“Oh, Miss Austen!” Lady Desdemona cried, with a brilliant smile, “you are a caution! It is exactly that quality in Swithin that so outrages and enslaves me both! His air of command! Decidedly, it is his air of command! I shall be in agonies tonight on Easton’s arm.”
“You remain so sensible of the Earl’s regard,” I said carefully, “though your uncle believes him capable of the grossest deceit?”
“Whatever Uncle may choose to think—whatever, indeed, he may eventually prove—my heart will whisper that Swithin is honourable,” Lady Desdemona replied firmly.
I could not remonstrate, or argue—for I had myself been urged by a similar conviction, not so very long ago, in the matter of Geoffrey Sidmouth; and had I ignored the counsel of my heart, and followed solely the evidence of others, he might eventually have hanged.
“But I am forgetting!” Lady Desdemona cried, and hurried to the little desk at one corner of the room. “You have come to enquire of Uncle—and he charged me most earnestly not to delay a moment. He left this note for you.”
It held a few lines only—Lord Harold regretted the inconvenience, but he had been called out urgently on business—should be most happy if I might meet him at the Bear—Her Grace’s carriage to be called for the purpose—he remained my humble and devoted, etc.
A glance at the mantel clock betrayed my tardiness; I could not stay for the harnessing of the horses; and so with a hurried farewell, I found myself once more in the street, and hastening in the direction of the Pump Room.
• • •
THE BEAR IS THE SECOND OF BATH’S FOREMOST COACHING inns, with a broad yard fronting on Cheap Street intended for the regular accommodation of the London stages and the mail coach. The inn’s frenzied activity at certain hours may be readily observed from both the White Hart and the Colonnade opposite; and it is not uncommon for young ladies intent upon the Pump Room to be nearly overrun at Union Passage by gentlemen too inept to keep their spirited teams in check. I never can approach the Bear without witnessing a near disaster, or hearing screams and oaths uttered together with a desperate lack of concern for the public view.
To the Bear I proceeded through the dirty streets—a typical Bath rain having quite blasted the morning’s promise of sun, and occasioned my employment of a broad black umbrella pressed upon me by Lady Desdemona. I had set out in good time, but Lord Harold was there before me—leaning carelessly against the inn’s iron gates, adjusting his gloves. The Gentleman Rogue was very fine this morning in a bottle-green coat and fawn pantaloons, with a greatcoat over all; and he bowed as I approached, and pronounced me most punctual.
We were informed by the Bear’s landlady, a Mrs. Pope, that Mr. Lawrence was not at present within, but that she expected him returned at any moment, and would be happy if we condescended to await the painter’s arrival in comfort upstairs.
Upstairs we were duly shewn—to a parlour attached to several commodious rooms, one serving, by all appearances, as bedchamber, and the other as temporary studio. Here we found Mr. Lawrence’s assistant—Job Harnley by name, a lad of perhaps sixteen, who was awash in sweat and very red about the face. It seemed that Lawrence was set upon London at last—and would depart this evening in a post-chaise. Master Harnley was even now intent upon the stowing of his traps, and the arranging of his canvases; for though he should keep his rooms at the Bear in earnest of his return, there were clients in London whose demands necessitated the striking of the studio.
“Perhaps his brush with a band of ruffians has quite overset our Lawrence’s spirits,” Lord Harold murmured.
We assured the young man of our indifference to his continued labour, and charged him to proceed as though we were ourselves invisible; and sat some moments in silence, our eyes wandering the parlour’s walls. Here there were sketches of every size and description—half-lengths, full-lengths, and three-quarters—that seemed to leap from the canvas itself, as though intent upon three dimensions. There were heads in profile, heads resting upon arms or drooping in melancholy abstraction—and they captivated the heart and fixed the gaze immediately.
Lord Harold had once told me that when Lawrence painted women, he contrived to convert them to pieces of confection; and as I surveyed the examples mounted on the walls, I understood what he had meant. They were, in the main, fashionable ladies displayed to decided advantage, of no very great interest to any but their originals. But when Lawrence undertook to paint a man—here was movement, expression, energy, power. The eyes glowed, the lips curled in misery or disdain; the features—freed from the burden of vanity—worked with thought and emotion. To one, in particular, my gaze was often turned; and this was a head of Mrs. Siddons’s brother, John Philip Kemble. Did he play at Hamlet? Or perhaps Macbeth? Some creature surely tormented beyond reason. The ghastly features were mere suggestions—broad strokes of the brush; the neck and chest were naked still in the charcoal of their underpainting; but the agony stamped on the half-finished head was palpable in the extreme. I was moved and horrified at once. As an artist, Mr. Lawrence clearly thrilled to the passion of the theatre.
“Do you observe the sketch on the wall opposite?” Lord Harold said, breaking into my thoughts.
I followed the direction of his eyes.
“That is Mr. John Julius Angerstein, I believe—a highly influential merchant in Town. He has recently undertaken to reform Lloyd’s, the insurers, and is one of the most important collectors of Old Master paintings. In this he rivals the Prince of Wales, who has profited from the confusion in France to acquire the greatest paintings in Europe.”
“It is a noble head, indeed,” I observed, studying the sketch, “though hardly handsome. An honesty of expression—a forthright countenance—and the care of years of trial are stamped upon the features.”1
A crash from beyond the studio door, where poor Master Harnley laboured, suggested the overturning of an easel.
“I recollect your saying that Mr. Lawrence rarely painted a woman in the truest light—or at least, that his feminine portraits lack a certain vivid emotion he never denies his men,” I continued. “In viewing these, I comprehend your meaning. But I would direct your eye to the sketch of Mrs. Wolff. It is extraordinary, is it not?”
The portrait was as yet in charcoal on canvas, without a touch of paint; but the curve of her swan-like neck, and the aversion of her glance as she bent over a book, suggested an infinite silence and containment, as though she were a woman complete in herself.
“It is a classical pose,” Lord Harold observed. “Taken, I think, from Michelangelo. One of his Sibyls, perhaps. Lawrence has managed it superbly. You are acquainted with the lady?”2
“She is intimate with my sister Eliza. And also, I think, quite intimate with Mr. Lawrence. In fact, I should not be surprised to learn that it is to Mrs. Wolff, in Bladuds Buildings, that he is presently gone.”
“I see.” Lord Harold bent to leaf through a collection of drawings propped in a huddle against the wall, his lips pursed and his eyes narrowing at a few. Of a sudden, however, his gaze was arrested—and the stillness of his entire form, together with the slight tremble in his fingers, fixed my attention.
“My lord?”
He turned and handed me the portrait without a word. Maria Conyngham, if I did not greatly mistake—her beautiful face turned fully toward
s the viewer, and her long-limbed form arranged upon a divan. She wore a dressing-gown of filmiest gauze, and her hair was unloosed upon a pillow; the expression in her superb brown eyes was dreamy, wanton, half-expressed and half-realised. The face of a creature moved by passion, if not by love.
“It is an excellent likeness,” I observed hollowly. “Perhaps he intended her as Juliet. Mr. Lawrence delights, I understand, in portraying artists of the theatre in their greatest roles.”
“He has portrayed her as a courtesan,” said Lord Harold abruptly, and withdrew the portrait from my hands. “We might wonder when she sat for it. Or should I say—reclined?”
“Lord Harold—”
But his attention was already fled. He had set the revealing image aside and withdrawn another, his brows knit in a scowl. “And who is this, I wonder?”
It was the head of a girl—done in charcoal, with eyes like burning coals. They had been fixed on Lawrence with an expression of some intensity, but whether of love or hate I could not tell. A stormy creature, in any event, with a tangle of short curls about her face, a prominent nose, a pursed mouth, and the suggestion of a hectic flush upon her cheeks.
But most extraordinary of all was the vicious scrawl of red paint—stark and mortal as blood—smeared across the surface. It partly obscured the girl’s features, and rendered the whole slightly lunatic.
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but I would wish you didn’t bother with those things,” said Master Harnley in an anxious voice. We turned as one, and observed him in the doorway of the makeshift studio. “They didn’t ought to be there, in truth, being intended for the rubbish.”
“Mr. Lawrence is disposing of these?” Lord Harold enquired in some astonishment.