Jane and His Lordship's Legacy Read online

  Mr. Chizzlewit raised his eyes from the paper and studied me drily.

  At such a moment, in contemplation of his own death, much might have been said. But it was like Lord Harold to utter not a syllable of assurance or endearment; not for him the maudlin turn upon Death’s stage. He had probably believed this testament would never be read—but in the event it was, had been all business as he wrote: brisk, ironic, cynical to the end.

  “Once the protests and objections of the family were laid aside—once all talk of contesting the Will’s provisions in court was at an end—I attempted first to fulfill the bequest in Southampton,” Mr. Chizzlewit said, “but learned that you had already quitted that city. It has been some weeks since I was able to trace you through your brother, Mr. Henry Austen of the London banking concern, and fixed the very hour you would be arriving in Chawton.”

  “Good God,” I murmured blankly. “Is this a joke?”

  “I fear not.”

  I rose from my seat and took a turn about the room, agitation animating my form. “All his papers—! His most intimate accounts—! He must have been quite mad!”

  “So His Grace conjectured. The Sixth Duke should rather have burnt the lot, than seen such a legacy pass into the hands of a stranger. Blackmail is the least of the ills Wilborough forebodes.”

  “Well may I believe it.” At the thought of the outraged peer and his anxieties, I could not suppress a smile. “How is it that so much as a fragment of Lord Harold’s papers has survived His Grace’s wrath?”

  “Lord Harold, being of a peripatetic habit, formerly made the chambers of Chizzlewit and Pauver the repository of his documents,” the solicitor answered primly. “It has been a heavy charge. Our premises have been violated no less than four times in the past decade, as we believe with the specific object of robbing Lord Harold of his papers, requiring us to stoop to an almost criminal ingenuity: to greater measures and vigilance—as well as the addition of a variety of locks. I must warn you, Miss Austen, that there are many who would not hesitate to incur bodily injury in order to secure a glimpse of these papers, or to excise their own names from mention within them. It is a powder keg you observe before you, ma’am, in the form of a Bengal chest. I do not envy you the responsibility of shepherding his lordship’s legacy.”

  “May I refuse it?”

  Mr. Chizzlewit scrutinised me in silence.

  How could I refuse it?

  All the mishaps and alliances, the seductions and great passions—the acts of heroism or cowardice that might be contained within that Bengal chest! —Written, without flinching, in Lord Harold’s own hand. It was possible he had even set down something of his sentiments towards me.

  Of a sudden I was tempted to fall on my knees before the iron hasps and force them with my fingernails.

  “I am empowered in the present instance only to discharge my duty,” Mr. Chizzlewit rejoined. “What you do with the papers is your own affair. Read them—burn them—despatch them by the London stage to His Grace the Duke of Wilborough. I do not care.”

  But Lord Harold had cared very much indeed. With such matter at hand, not even Jane may fail to write. Lord Harold had been determined to influence my future, however little of it he might hope to share.

  The elderly solicitor reached for his walking-stick and, with one hand braced on my mother’s table, thrust himself to his feet. I was struck of a sudden by the devotion that had kept him sedulously in pursuit of his duty, when another man of his advanced years should have been already nodding by the fire.

  “Mr. Chizzlewit, you have my deepest gratitude,” I said soberly.

  “No thanks are necessary.” He stared at me as though I had uttered an impertinence. “I was honoured by his lordship’s confidence. We are all of us diminished by his foul murder.”

  And pressing a heavy lead key into my palm, he wordlessly bowed.

  The interview, I perceived, was at an end.

  Chapter 4

  Of Knights and Villains

  4 July 1809, cont.

  ~

  “LETTERS!” MY MOTHER EXCLAIMED IN HORROR UPON HER return, unmindful of Mr. Prowting at her elbow. “What kind of a man leaves his paramour letters? A cottage perhaps, in a good situation—an annuity of a thousand pounds for the remainder of your days—but a bundle of papers not worth the ink smeared over them? Was the Rogue mad, Jane?”

  “Never more so,” I replied. “Have you enjoyed your walk, Mamma?”

  “Fiddle my walk!” She rounded on Mr. Prowting. “You will have heard, I am sure, of Lord Harold Trowbridge—a Whig and an adventurer, for all he was the son of a duke; not content with having his fingers in every Government pie, and spoiling them all, but he must break my poor girl’s heart! I can only say, Mr. Prowting, that murder is too good for him. He was born to be hanged!”

  “So I apprehend, ma’am, from the London papers,” the magistrate said stiffly. “I had not understood that you were on terms of acquaintance with the gentleman— For so we must call him, in deference to his birth. That at least remains unimpeachable.”

  “And a good deal of money the old Duke must have laid down to make it so,” my mother retorted shrewdly.

  I chose to ignore this impertinence, in deference to the heaviness of her disappointment, and turned instead to the magistrate. “His lordship’s Bengal chest is of considerable size, Mr. Prowting. Would you be so kind as to assist me in securing it?”

  Mr. Chizzlewit’s warning had not been lost upon me. Lord Harold’s enemies were numerous and determined; death alone should not quiet their fears. I had weighed the merits of henhouse and privy as unlikely objects of a thief’s interest, but settled instead upon the depths of the cottage as being more convenient to hand. Our present abode having once served as an alehouse, it must be assumed that the cellars were commodious and in good repair. A double-doored hatch protruded from nether region to yard, undoubtedly for the purpose of rolling barrels of ale within; but this could be secured from below by a stout bar. I might sit upon Lord Harold’s papers like a hen upon an egg, a priest upon a crypt, alive to every threat of violation.

  “I am entirely at your service,” Mr. Prowting said with a bow.

  A foetid air rose from the damp and musty space as I descended the narrow stairs, a tallow candle held aloft.

  “You will require a manservant,” the magistrate declared. He was puffing from exertion, the wooden casket clutched precariously in his arms. “I shall take upon myself the task of securing a likely fellow from Alton.”

  “He must be called William or John, mind. I depend upon that.” A scuttling of feet greeted my flame, and for an instant I hesitated on the bottom step. “Does the history of our former alehouse encompass smuggling, Mr. Prowting?”

  “Every alehouse in the country must. Your brandy will not serve, unless it comes by stealth from France. But that is no Gentleman of the Night, Miss Austen. You will also be wanting a dog, I think—a stout little terrier to clear your cupboards for you.”

  In the glow of the tallow I observed several dark and stealthy forms stealing from a heap of sacking that filled one corner of the cellar. Rats. Decidedly rats. I repressed a shudder and quitted the final step, the fitful play of my candle throwing grotesque shadows about the stone walls.

  “Pah—we must open the hatch.” Mr. Prowting set the chest heavily on the sandy floor, and heedless of the dust and cobwebs that must adorn it, reached for the wooden bar that secured the double doors set into the cellar’s ceiling. In an instant they were thrust wide, and light and air streamed down from the pleasant summer afternoon above like a benediction of Providence.

  “Ah,” the magistrate breathed with satisfaction. “That shall soon mend matters. The atmosphere was better suited to a tomb—”

  He broke off, mouth sadly agape, eyes fixed on the cellar corner. I turned my head to follow his gaze, and to my shame let out a cry. The bars of sunlight shafting through the open hatch revealed the pile of sacking to be something more: the figure
of a man, laid out in all the rigour of death.

  “Good God!” Mr. Prowting moved with surprising swiftness to the corpse.

  The unfortunate wretch was clothed as a labourer—from village or field—and from the strength of his form, had been in the prime of life. His arms were slack by his sides and one leg sprawled akimbo, as tho’ he had dropped off to sleep of an afternoon; but his countenance was unrecognisable.

  The rats, I judged, had been feeding upon it some time.

  “Quite dead,” Mr. Prowting murmured.

  “But how did he come here?” I exclaimed. “The house was shut up!”

  The magistrate’s looks were blank. “Mr. Dyer of Alton will have possessed a key.”

  Of course. The builder and his improvements. “Do you know this poor man at all? Is he one of Dyer’s men?”

  “With such a visage, who can say? How is his own mother to know him?” Prowting stared down at the ravaged figure. “A dreadful business. And on the very day of your arrival—for the Squire’s sister to make such a discovery—”

  “It is a pity Mr. Chizzlewit is already gone,” I observed. “We might otherwise have sent word to the George and summoned a carter. The body should be removed to the inn in expectation of the coroner. I am sure my brother would wish it.”

  My neighbour appeared to return to his senses from a great way off. He studied me strangely. “You are not overpowered by the sight, Miss Austen?”

  “I am sadly lacking in delicate sensibility, Mr. Prowting. I have lived too long in the world.”

  His gaze sharpened and he drew me towards the stairs. “There is likely to be some unpleasantness these few hours. You will wish to retire, I think; and will be very welcome in Mrs. Prowting’s drawing-room.”

  “But, sir— How did the unfortunate die?”

  “A fit, perhaps.”

  “What sort of fit strikes down a healthy man?”

  “There is a strong stench of spirits about the corpse,” Mr. Prowting said abruptly. “I think it very likely he died of excessive drink, Miss Austen. And now, if you would be so good—”

  I bowed my head, and went to break the news to my mother.

  “YOU ARE NO STRANGER TO HAMPSHIRE, I COLLECT, MRS. Austen?” enquired the magistrate’s wife as she served herself from a dish of chicken and peas. Dinner at Prowtings had been delayed until the fashionable hour of seven o’clock, from all the necessity of a corpse’s removal. Mr. Prowting had found occasion to stand for two hours in the street, while a crowd of gawking village folk materialised to observe the proceedings. Word of the gruesome tragedy had spread like wildfire through every tenant’s cot, but no one appeared in the guise of anxious mourner—no woman stood with wringing hands and suckling babe to claim the Dead as her own. I observed this, and drew the obvious conclusion: the corpse did not belong to Chawton. We should have to look farther afield for the dead man’s name.

  Poor Joseph, our driver of the morning, had returned from Mr. Barlow’s establishment in Alton with a heavy dray, and an ominous object swathed in old linen was swung upwards from the cellar hatch. At the departure of the corpse, a few boys made to follow it into Alton; but the majority of our neighbours dispersed, hastened on their way by the magistrate’s abjurations.

  My mother, after an appropriate shriek and fainting fit, had suffered herself to be supported the length of the Prowtings’ long gravel sweep under the eyes of the entire village—and hugely enjoyed her role as tragic heroine. There could be nothing like the Austens’ descent upon their new home, I thought with some exasperation. First, a delegation of solicitors bearing mysterious chests; and then a dead man in the cellar—all in the space of a single afternoon! We should provide the village with matter for conjecture sufficient to endure a twelvemonth, and feed young Baigent’s claims that our household was indeed cursed.

  Mrs. Prowting made my mother comfortable for an hour in a spare bedchamber; calmly bade her daughters leave off staring out the front windows; and observed that there was nothing like a body to drive folk from their work. She was a lady of significant proportions, her countenance placid; a woman whom even Death could not disturb. I observed, however, that she clutched a black-bordered square of lawn firmly in one hand throughout dinner—in expectation, perhaps, of being momentarily overcome by the Awfulness of the Event.

  “I have lived in this country nearly all my life, Mrs. Prowting, with the exception of an interval in Bath,” my mother declared in answer to her polite enquiry. “I do not count my childhood in Oxford—for that was decidedly long ago—and though Southampton is quite southwards, it is nonetheless Hampshire.”

  It had required several lessons in geography to impart this certainty to my mother’s mind; I thanked Providence the point no longer admitted of doubt.

  “And you are soon to be joined here in Chawton by two other ladies?”

  “My elder daughter is, as we believe, already on her road from Kent; and our dear friend Miss Lloyd—who has formed a part of our household since the not entirely unexpected death of her mother a few years since—is presently visiting her sister at Kintbury. We look for both ladies every day—and Mr. Edward Austen as well.”

  “Mr. Austen is expected in Chawton!” ejaculated Mr. Prowting. “That is news indeed! We shall have to organise a party of welcome for the Squire. We shall indeed, my dear.”

  “Mr. Austen is always welcome in this house,” rejoined his wife comfortably. “He is often in the country, as you must know, Mrs. Austen, for the settling of his tenant accounts. He is wont to engage a room at the George for that express purpose each quarter, and all his folk come and go to pay their respects—and their rents.”

  “We are quite the family party in this corner of the world,” my mother sighed, as though rents and their accounting were all the joy she asked of life. “My eldest son, Mr. James Austen, is rector at Steventon, but a dozen miles distant; my fourth son, Henry, maintains a branch of his London bank—Austen, Gray & Vincent, perhaps you know it?—so near as Alton; and the wife of my fifth son, Captain Francis Austen, has lately taken a house in the same town.”

  “So many sons,” observed Mrs. Prowting. “And which Alton house does the Captain’s wife rent, ma’am?”

  “Rose Cottage, in Lenton Street.”

  “I know it well! That is excellent news; you shall have a daughter within walking distance.”

  “I had almost considered removing to Mrs. Frank,” my mother faltered, “on the strength of this dreadful business—I know I shall not sleep a wink in such a house—a house of death … but Mrs. Frank is indisposed at present, and I cannot presume upon the kindness of one in her condition. Her first child nearly killed her, you know.”

  “You are most welcome to remain with us, ma’am,” Mrs. Prowting said warmly. “I should not think of sending you back to the cottage this evening.”

  My mother looked as though she might accept with gratitude—but I considered of Lord Harold’s papers, lodged for the nonce in the henhouse, and interposed a negative.

  “You are very good, Mrs. Prowting, but we are perfectly content in the cottage. A clergyman’s family, as you know, is accustomed to the Dead.”

  A pompous speech enough; but Mrs. Prowting looked as though she admired it. My mother was nettled, and kicked my shin quite savagely beneath the table. She had the grace, however, not to engage in public argument.

  “I think you said that Captain Austen is serving on the China Station?” Mr. Prowting enquired. “Excellent! Excellent! We hope to welcome another member of the Navy into the bosom of our family before very long; a young man we greatly esteem—”

  “Papa! I beg you will not run on in that unbecoming way! I am sure I shall die of consciousness! The Austens can have no interest in Benjamin Clement—and to be sure, he is grown so odd of late—so inconstant in his attentions—that I protest I have no interest in him either!”

  This impassioned cry fell from the lips of the youngest Miss Prowting, a girl I should judge to be at least twenty. Sh
e was fair-haired, blue-eyed, and full-figured; her white muslin gown was bestowed from neck to hem with fluttering primrose ribbons. It was clear she was accounted a Great Beauty, but I could not join in the general acclaim. Tho’ Ann’s complexion was good, it bore an expression of peevishness, and she had not the slightest pretension to either wit or conversation.

  “Eh, do not be pouting at me, miss!” her father returned fondly, chucking her under the chin. “Young Benjamin is always the most constant of your beaux, no matter how little you are inclined to notice! Quite the belle of the village, our little Ann!”

  It was as well, I thought, that my mother and Ann Prowting had divided the dinner table between them; for I had rarely been so ill-disposed to the rigours of Society, nor been so woefully unable to concentrate my energies. My mind was full of Lord Harold’s bequest and the puzzle of the corpse in our cellar. I could not be attending to the insipidities of a country neighbourhood, however congenial the party.

  “The Squire was well, I hope, when you quitted Kent?” Mrs. Prowting enquired. A brief silence ensued; her gaze, I saw too late and with sudden horror, was fixed upon me.

  “My brother was very well, I thank you, Mrs. Prowting,” I returned in a rush.

  “It’s a sad business, a gentleman of Mr. Austen’s circumstances being left with all those children on his hands.” Mrs. Prowting continued to study me, as though attempting to discern some likeness in my features—but it is Henry whom I resemble, not Edward. “A sad business, indeed; but Man proposes and the Lord disposes, as we have good reason to know. Does Mr. Austen think of giving up the Kentish place, and settling here in Chawton, with so many of his family fixed in the neighbourhood?”