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  “But when is she likely to return? Can nothing be done for her present relief?”

  Mr. Cosway hesitated. His eyes roved the room as if in search of acquaintance. “I may say that my wife is not without resources. She has made the best of her situation — and has gone to Lyons, for the purpose of founding a school for the education of young ladies in the Catholic faith. You know, of course, that she was born in Italy, and has always been a subject of Rome.”

  “But of course,” Eliza replied dubiously. “And how long do you intend, sir, to dazzle Bath with your presence?”

  “Not above three months, I assure you. I am bound for Brighton at Easter.”

  “How delightful!” Eliza cried. “I long to visit Brighton! What schemes and dissipation — the chariot races on the shingle! The breakfasts out-of-doors! The fireworks and expeditions — the crush of the balls! How vast an acquaintance one must cultivate, too, in the Prince’s household train. The demands, I fear, are unending.”

  “The amusements of Brighton are as nothing to me, who must suffer from the want of solitude that such a pleasure party demands; but I cannot help be a slave to the Prince,” Mr. Cosway observed, with a grotesque smile. “The decoration of the Pavilion, the maintenance of his collections — the imperative of Art! — are the foremost objects of my soul. My own poor daubs must be as nothing. I have not the nature for self-interest, I own — I am all devotion to the people I love.”

  “I am sure it does you very great credit, Mr. Cosway,” the Comtesse replied, with what I thought to be admirable forbearance. “We must hope to solicit your society a little, perhaps, while yet you remain in Bath.”

  And with a bow and a flourish of his handsome grey melton hat, Mr. Richard Cosway left us.

  “What a ridiculous fellow, to be sure,” Eliza told me, “though quite accomplished in his line.”

  “How come you to be acquainted with him, Eliza?”

  “My godfather, Mr. Hastings, sat to Cosway for a miniature some years past,” she said carelessly, “but I formed a true attachment to the enchanting Mrs. Cos-way. Maria had all of London at her feet, you know, in the ‘eighties. We met in France, I recollect, in ‘91 or ‘92—just after the birth of her little girl, whom she abandoned to her husband’s rearing.”[24]

  “How very singular!”

  “It was. He suffered from the conviction of Maria’s infidelity, and thought the child to be anyone’s but his own — and so she left him, for nearly four years.”

  “Four years! And the child?”

  “She fell dead of a fever not long after Maria’s return — in ‘96, or thereabouts.” My poor Eliza’s voice must tighten; for she knew what it was to lose an only child.

  “I have always observed, Eliza, that those who seem to possess a life graced with distinction, and every comfort or happy mark of Fortune, may conceal in fact the deepest sorrows,” I reflected. “How unhappy for the entire family!”

  “Yes — but as Cosway can never survive a tragedy without turning it to account, he painted a portrait of the child on her deathbed, poignant in the extreme; and had Maria not forbidden it, he should have sold the engravings in the very streets! The man is the soul of self-promotion, Jane — has sunk art in the mire of commerce — and yet can protest that he is all selflessness and sacrifice! Were I shockingly ill-bred, I should laugh aloud! But it is of no consequence. Now his wife has deserted him, all his fashionable friends have quite thrown him over, I believe.”

  “And yet the Prince appears to support him still.”

  “The Prince! Yes, I believe he does. Whatever else Mr. Cosway may be — doomsayer, apocalypst, and practitioner of every kind of superstition — he is nonetheless possessed of the most exquisite taste in the arrangement of interiors, and is a connoisseur of the first rank. The Prince, they say, would be utterly lost without him, and should spend far more money to far less purpose than he already does.”

  “Indeed,” I replied. “And how comes a mere painter to so elevated a place?”

  Eliza did not scruple to abuse my stupidity. “Richard Cosway! A mere painter! Would you speak, my dear, of the great Cosway, who captured the likeness of Mrs. Fitzherbert, so that the Prince might wear it about his neck? The cunning miniaturist whose tokens in ivory are all the rage! Pray do not tell me you are ignorant of this, as of so much else in the fashionable world!”[25]

  We had commenced to pace about the room in company with all of Bath, and I gave barely a moment to Eliza’s abuse, so intent was I upon glimpsing the Earl of Swithin.

  “Jane! Are you attending?”

  “I confess I care so little for the Prince and all his set, that I have never endeavoured to follow his example in anything, Eliza. This cannot seem so very wonderful, even to you.”

  “But Cosway’s taste has set the mode of the age!” she protested. “He may look like a monkey, my dearest girl, but he is a cunning fellow, even brilliant in his way. Cosway would have it that every objet d’art, every fold of drapery, every touch of gilt in Carlton House is placed at his direction.[26] There can be few, I suppose, with so just a claim to having influenced fashion. In past years, of course, this was recognised — and barely a great name throughout the world failed to pay him homage, and seek his advice. But hardly anyone calls in Stratford Place, now that Maria has run away.”

  “And yet he is such a figure! — Better suited to ride bareback at Astley’s, I should think, than to promenade in Bath!”[27]

  “Indeed he does pay too much attention to matters of dress,” Eliza conceded. She was vulnerable on the point, in having made her attire the primary occupation of her life these twenty years at least. “I learned only last month that he possesses no less than forty waistcoats.”

  “It is fortunate, then, that he is much at Carlton House — where such profligacy may go unremarked.”

  “But you must own, Jane, that the notion of capturing the likeness of an eye in oils is utterly singular. In this, at least, you must confess Cosway’s peculiar brilliance. For it was entirely his own invention, I believe.”

  “The likeness of an eye? This has become his particular art?”

  “Of course! He began it with Maria Fitzherbert. The Prince conceals the image of her eye in a golden locket, that he is said to wear next to his heart. Even you must be aware that such intimate likenesses of a chère-amie, when worn about the person, are the last word in fashion. Observe.” She unbuttoned her dark grey pelisse and drew forth a pendant chain. “I myself have taken to wearing an eye.”

  “Eliza! You would not!”

  The Comtesse shrugged with infinite grace. “It is no more than any lady of good society would undertake, I assure you. And isn’t it fetching? Though Richard Cos-way is much above my touch, I fancy that Engleheart is equally presentable.[28] I particularly admire the set of the brow. Quite a rogue, he must have been.”

  “Who, pray?”

  “The gentleman who sat for the miniature, of course!”

  “Then you are wholly unacquainted with him?”

  “Naturally!” she rejoined blithely. “Would you suspect me of an intrigue against your dearest brother?”

  “But, Eliza — to wear such a token, is to suggest to the world that you carry a tendre for a lover! I wonder Henry can bear it!”

  “It was Henry who made a present of it to me,” Eliza retorted equably. “And he thinks the notion very good fun, I do assure you.” Her expression of amusement faded, and I saw that her interest was already claimed by another. She seized my arm in pleasurable agitation. “There, Jane! By the Visitors’ Book! It is the Earl! But to whom does he speak with such urgency?”

  I followed the direction of her eyes. “To Mr. Hugh Conyngham, Eliza — the principal actor of the Theatre Royal.”

  Chapter 4

  The Eye in Question

  12 December 1804, cont.

  THE EARL OF SWITHIN, IN CONVERSE WITH MR. HUGH Conyngham! Were they, then, acquainted? And was it the actor alone who had drawn Lord Swithin in such
haste to the Pump Room?

  I stood as though rooted to the broad plank floor, transfixed by a shaft of wintry light. It fell directly upon the Earl’s fair head, as though in benediction, and revealed him as a gentleman not above the middle height, but powerful in his frame and general air of address — a commanding figure, much hardened by sport and exercise, and tailored to within an inch of its life. Lord Swithin’s countenance might be said to be handsome, for there was not an ill-made feature in it, but for the coldness that lurked in his bright blue gaze and the suggestion of bitterness about the mouth. This was not a man to be lightly crossed — and I could not wonder that Lady Desdemona had fled to Bath, rather than brook the tide of rage occasioned by her refusal.

  “Jane!” Eliza hissed. “Pray turn your eyes away from his lordship, or we shall both be detected in the grossest vulgarity!”

  But I was insensible of Eliza’s anxious looks, so compelling were the Earl and his interlocutor. With heads drawn close together and a flow of speech that suggested some urgency of matter, the two men must be canvassing the murder in Laura Place.

  “Eliza,” I murmured, “is the Earl likely to recollect your acquaintance, so many years since in Bengal?”

  “I should think not,” she replied stoutly. “It was his mother, you know, who called upon mine. I do not think he was even born before we quitted India entirely.”

  “That is very well. Let us stroll about the room with as unconscious an air as possible.”

  “We may attempt the stroll, Jane, but should abandon the unconscious air at the outset. You are not equal to it, darling girl. You have not the necessary schooling in deception.”

  “Fiddlesticks,” I whispered viciously. “Speak to me of something diverting.”

  “I have heard,” Eliza attempted immediately, “that though the Earl of Swithin’s title is of ancient pedigree, his considerable fortune has been amassed through trade.”

  “You shall not horrify me, my dear. I am no respecter of snobbish distinction. He retains the claims of a gentleman.”

  “But perhaps the nature of his trading may surprise you. The Earl is given to running opium, no less, out of Bengal to China, and using private ships to do it. He learned the habit of his father, and since that gentleman’s demise has greatly increased the activity. Henry heard the tale only last week, while lunching at Boodle’s.”[29]

  “The Earl? An opium trader? I may hardly credit it!”

  Eliza’s dark eyes glinted deliciously. “Do not sound so astonished, my dearest Jane. You must know that the Honourable Company has long employed opium as an antidote to tea.[30] We import so very much of that leaf, and can sell little to advantage in China; our debt in trade — or its imbalance, as Henry might put it — for many years bid fair to sink us; the kingdom bled bullion as from an open wound; but matters of late have righted themselves, and all on account of the Chinese taste for opium. Such men as the Earl must receive our thanks, however much the Government officially abhors their activity. And so the world turns round—we import tea from China; China imports opium from India; and India imports woolens from Manchester! Admirable, is it not, how the yearnings and vices of the multitude provide Lord Swithin with a dashing carriage and four?”

  “Admirable or otherwise, it cannot be very agreeable to claim the opium trade as occupation,” I observed. “I wonder whether His Grace the Duke of Wilborough is cognizant of the Earl’s activity?”

  We had progressed very nearly to a position opposite the Visitors’ Book, where the Earl and the actor were as yet engrossed. I halted in our promenade, and turned my back upon the pair. Their voices drifted very faintly to my ears — a word or two only. “Continue conversing, Eliza, I beg — but speak of lace, or the price of muslin, in as audible a tone as you may manage.”

  Of all things required, my sister was equal to this; and she prated on happily about the number of flounces so necessary to a fashionable gown for evening, and the appearance of epaulettes, in deference to the heightened military style inevitable in such a climate, while I endeavoured to overlisten our neighbours’ conversation. It was the Earl’s voice, acute and low, I first discerned.

  “… must have the letters.”

  “I tell you they are not …” (indistinguishable words) “… and … is most disagreeable at present. I cannot assure your lordship … influence with her.”

  “Then I must see her myself.”

  “That would … unwise. I cannot answer …”

  “… is due to me! I have wasted … a hands-breadth to the gallows!”

  “… time.”

  “I have had enough of your time! Time has brought me only grief and vexation, sir!” This last was very nearly shouted, so that the enraged Earl was rewarded with the shocked glance of several in the Pump Room; and after an exasperated sigh, he lowered his voice once more. The next words were almost inaudible.

  “… expect you to … method of securing my …”

  Had I truly heard it aright? Securing what — the Earl’s freedom? His reputation? His interest?

  His letters?

  “… well. Good day, my lord.”

  “Good day.” All private business concluded, the Earl achieved a more civil tone. “And remember me to your sister, Conyngham. I shall be in attendance at Orchard Street tomorrow.”

  The actor bowed; the Earl received his deference with a faint air of irritation; and so they parted. Lord Swithin quitted the Pump Room by the door immediately opposite the Visitors’ Book, apparently intent upon returning to the White Hart. Hugh Conyngham plunged towards the opposite end of the vast hall. There was an expression of anxiety and despair upon his countenance I could not like.

  “I must leave you, Eliza,” I said. “Forgive me. My compliments and best love to Henry — we hope to see you this evening in Green Park Buildings to drink tea, if you are not otherwise engaged.”

  “What have you heard, Jane?” Eliza enquired with penetration.

  “I hardly know. Everything — or nothing. Who can say?”

  “Jane—” My sister reached a hand to my arm, restraining me when I would depart. “Had you not better leave such things to the magistrate, Mr. Elliot?”

  “I do not understand you, Eliza,” I retorted.

  “And as for tea—”

  The Henry Austens were to attend the concert that evening in the Upper Rooms — a recitation of love songs in the Italian by Mrs. Billington[31] — and Eliza was pressing in her invitation that Cassandra and I should make an addition to the party. Though I may accomplish a Scotch air on the pianoforte with pleasure, I am in the general way no friend to music. Singing, I own, induces a tedium that may be relieved only by a thorough review of one’s neighbour’s attire and conversation. And for the present, all thought of love songs, Italian or otherwise, must be banished by the interesting notion of the Earl and the actor united in intrigue.

  But I promised Eliza most faithfully to propose the scheme to my sister — and with a kiss to her cheek, ran thankfully away.

  IN COMPARATIVE SOLITUDE I PASSED THROUGH QUEEN Square, where the first golden glow of an unfashionably early dinner hour now shone through the modest windows. My mother will persist in hankering after the square — it was the most select address that Bath afforded, in her girlhood — but the narrowness of the rooms will never do for so large a party as ours. She must be content with a weekly visit to the Queen’s chapel, where we hear divine service of a Sunday, and a passage through its park when business draws her to that part of town. We are treated, however, to a daily recitation of Queen Square’s advantages, and must allow it to be superior to every other location in Bath if we are to achieve any domestic peace.

  I thrust my mother from my mind in the present instance, however, and saw again in memory the Earl of Swithin. What could such a man — of so lofty an establishment, and so recently descended upon the town — have to say to Hugh Conyngham? Who, however admirable his skill as a thespian, is as yet a provincial player, without birth or connexion
s to recommend him? I had expected to hear Richard Portal’s name, or at the very least Lord Kinsfell’s — and yet the two had spoken only of letters. Whose? And who was the mysterious she?

  Maria Conyngham?

  The actress’s magnificent form limned itself on the paving-stones at my feet, like an enchantress materialising out of the common snow and dirt; and I knew her immediately for a woman any man might die to possess. Maria Conyngham had fire, beauty, and all the spirit to be expected in one untrammelled by society’s conventions. I should not find it remarkable if her charms had ensnared a legion heretofore unknown to me — not least amongst them, the redoubtable Earl.

  And then I sighed. Upon reflection, I should never be privileged to learn the truth — for my part in the drama must surely be at an end. With the Earl come in haste to Bath, and Lord Harold not far behind, any office I might have fulfilled, as silent duenna to Lady Desdemona, should be for naught. The unfortunate girl would be sent away to London, as soon as attention could be spared her, while the efforts of her relations should be turned to the vindication of the heir. The charge of murder brought against Simon, Lord Kinsfell, must throw his sister’s private troubles entirely into the shade.

  And so it was in no very great humour that I pulled the bell of No. 27, in Green Park Buildings, and awaited the advent of Mary, the housemaid. She opened to my summons before the last peals had entirely died away.

  “Ooh, miss,” she said, with a look of mingled terror and awe, “there’s a gentleman here as is that grand. He’s been waiting on you above a half-hour.”

  “In the sitting-room, Mary?”