Jane Austen Mysteries 08 Jane and His Lordship's Legacy (2 page)

I could not assure my brother that I understood too well his sentiments; could not add my misery to his own, as he sat glar- Jane and His Lordship's Legacy ~ 5

ing at the waste of all that constituted his happiness. Edward knew nothing of the Gentleman Rogue, beyond a passing ac-quaintance with one who had called briefly at Godmersham several years before, and had long since been forgot. I could not explain that I, too, must submit to all the agony of bereave-ment--with the added burden of suffering in silence. Never having been Lord Harold Trowbridge's acknowledged love, I must be mute in misery before the world he deserted so abruptly last November.

As I studied my brother's countenance--grave, where it had once been gay; worn, where it had formerly appeared the por-trait of inveterate youth--I concluded that there was at least this relief in publick grief: one was not forced to shield the feel-ings of others. The Bereaved might be all that is selfish in their parade of unhappiness. Whereas I was continually chafing un-der the daily proofs of inconsideration, imperviousness, high animal spirits, and insensibility that surrounded me, when every hope of happiness for myself was at an end.

When the Rogue expired of a knife wound on the fifth of November, some ten months ago, it was as though a black pit yawned at my feet and I trembled on the brink of it for days to-gether without being conscious of what I said or did. I know from others that his body was fetched back to London in the Duke of Wilborough's carriage; that Wilborough House, so lately draped in black for the passing of the Rogue's mother, re-mained in crepe for this second son; that nearly five hundred men followed the cortege first to the Abbey church at Westmin-ster and then, on horseback, to the interment in the Wilbor-ough tomb. It was said that no less than seven ladies of Fashion fainted dead away at the awful news of his demise, and three fell into a decline. All this my mother read aloud from the London papers, offering comment and opinion of her own.

6 ~ Stephanie Barron

Murdered by his manservant, so they say, Jane, a foreigner his lord-
ship took up with on the Peninsula. I'll wager that fellow knew a thing
or two of Lord Harold's unsavoury affairs! It is a nasty end, Jane, but
no more than he deserved. I always said he was a most unsuitable
ten-dre
for a young lady such as yourself, and quite elderly into the bar-
gain; but nobody listens to me, I am always overruled. Still, it is a pity
you did not get him when you could--you might have been the Relict of
a lord! And now all his riches will go to Wilborough's son--who will
find no very good use for them, I'll wager. The Marquis is a rakehell
and a gamester, so they say. Kinsfell has taken a page from his uncle's
book, and will undoubtedly prove as disreputable a character. We must
impute it to the Dowager Duchess's French blood, and habits of parad-
ing onstage. . . .

Four days after the murder I took up my pen to compose a few paragraphs of explanation and regret that ought to have been despatched without delay to his lordship's niece, Desde-mona, Countess of Swithin. That lady, despite her lofty position in Society and the cares attendant upon her duties as a mother, has been narrowly concerned--as much as a woman could be--in Lord Harold's affairs, and loved him more dearly, I sus-pect, than she did her own father. It seemed imperative to me that the Countess be in full possession of the facts of his lord-ship's death--of the bravery with which he embraced it, and his determination not to submit to a form of treachery that might imperil His Majesty's government--so that no scandalous false-hood put about by his enemies among the
ton
should shake her faith in his worth. From what I knew of Desdemona, I doubted that anything could.

Her answer was brief, correct, and exceedingly cold. I knew not whether she regarded my letter of commiseration in the light of an impertinence; or whether she charged me with hav-ing precipitated her uncle's death. Perhaps she merely judged Jane and His Lordship's Legacy ~ 7

his attentions to a woman so clearly beneath his touch as de-plorable. I cannot say. But her ladyship's brevity cut me to the quick. I have had nothing from her since.

Only Martha Lloyd, who in Cassandra's absence has be-come as dear as a sister to me, understood a little of the pain I suffered. Tho' Martha referred to my grief as a chronic indis-position, she was quick to order me to bed, and leave me in si-lence with a pot of tea during the long grey winter afternoons.

My brother Frank, who had witnessed the Rogue's death in company with myself, was a considerable comfort. Tho' he no longer shared our lodgings, his occasional visits afforded the opportunity to unbend--to speak openly of what we both knew and mourned in his lordship's passing. Even in Frank's silence I felt sympathy, and in his accounts of his naval activities--he oversaw the landing in January of the remnant of General Sir John Moore's Peninsular army, a tattered band of harried sol-diers deprived too soon of the leadership of that excellent man--I felt some connexion to the greater world Lord Harold had known and ruled. We are forced to go on living, however little we relish the interminable days.

In April, Frank quitted home waters for the China Station and we devoted ourselves to the activity of household removal.

My mother's querulous demands and persistent anxieties re-garding the packing provided diversion enough; so, too, did the necessary farewells to naval acquaintance, the last visits to the little theatre in French Street, and a final Assembly endured at the Dolphin Inn. I even danced on that occasion with a black-eyed foreign gentleman too shy to enquire my name. But I had no joy in any of these things. The coming of spring mocked me with a promise of life I no longer shared. At the moment of our descent upon Edward's house in Kent, I had determined I should never feel hopeful again.

8 ~ Stephanie Barron

There is no remedy for the loss inflicted by death except re-membrance. And so I tried to recollect what his lordship's dy-ing words had been.

Promise me . . . you will
write . . .

What is writing compared to life, my lord?

All we have . . . Jane.

He was wont to speak the truth, no matter how harsh its ef-fect. It was one of the qualities for which I esteemed him: his unblinking gaze at the brutality of existence.

But I could not keep my promise. What are words and para-graphs in comparison of what might have been? A cold solace when love is forever denied. I had written nothing in the long months that followed Lord Harold's headlong flight from this world but stilted letters to Cassandra, remarkable for their brit-tleness of tone and the forced lightness of their jokes.

Before quitting Castle Square, however, I had gone so far as to enquire of Messrs. Crosby and Co., of Stationers Hall Court, London, whether they ever intended to publish the manuscript entitled
Susan,
which I had sold to them for the sum of ten pounds six years previous; but their answer was not encourag-ing. I was impudently informed by Mr. Crosby himself that he did not chuse to publish my work; that if I attempted to place it elsewhere, he should most vigourously prevent its appearance; and in conclusion, that I might have the manuscript returned for the same figure he had laid out for it. Being hard pressed to command so considerable a sum as ten pounds, I was forced to let the matter drop; and was dissatisfied enough with the scant consideration offered prospective Authoresses, as to ignore the burden of Lord Harold's dying breath.

Now, as I stood in the dusky heat of a Hampshire July, lark song rising about me, I felt the first faint stirrings of life. Feeble, yes--and a hairsbreadth from guttering out; but stirrings all the Jane and His Lordship's Legacy ~ 9

same. I unknotted my bonnet strings and bared my head to the sun. Lord Harold's gaze--that earnest, steadfast look--wavered before my mind's eye; I blinked it away.
Perhaps here,
I thought, as I opened the door of the cottage and stepped inside its white-washed walls,
perhaps here I might begin again.

y4141414141414141 t

Chapter 2

An Indifferent Welcome

4 July 1809, cont.

~

It was airless and dim inside the cottage, as though the windows had been too long shut up, and I recollected that although the workmen had been busy about the house some weeks, Mrs. Seward had quitted the place full four months pre-vious. I hesitated in the entry hall, my gaze taking in the uneven floorboards, and was reminded inevitably of my childhood home at Steventon Parsonage, where my brother James now lived. Just so had the spare rooms been whitewashed, the low ceilings crossed with beams.

The passageway divided on the right hand at the dining par-lour and on the left at the sitting room. In the latter, Edward had caused the broad front window--so necessary to a publi-can's commerce, but injurious to our privacy--to be bricked up, Jane and His Lordship's Legacy ~ 11

and had ordered a bow thrown out overlooking the garden.

This was all the main floor of the house for domestic use; an ell at the rear housed the kitchen; and a staircase from the entry led upwards to six bedchambers, none of them large. My mother was to have one, Martha Lloyd another, and I must share a third with Cassandra in a few days' time when Edward es-corted her from Kent in his carriage. A fourth was set aside for Edward's use, should he care to visit--Chawton Great House, my brother's Tudor pile at the opposite end of the village, being let at present to a gentleman by the name of Middleton.

One glimpse of these modest arrangements, however, and I suspected that Edward should repair for comfort to the George Inn at Alton, where my mother and I had lately been staying.

Alton is the principal market town in this part of Hampshire, and Edward the absentee owner of the George; Mr. Barlow, his publican, has been our especial servant in all the bustle of this removal. It was Barlow's man, Joseph, who drove us to Chawton today in the George's pony trap, and we have tarried under Mr. Barlow's roof on several occasions during the past twelve-month--probably, in the poor man's estimation, frequently outstaying our welcome.

The remaining bedchambers were already apportioned to those as yet unknown servants we intended to employ: a maid, a cook, and a man to do the heavy labour about the place.

Martha and I have settled it that the manservant--who natu-rally shall be named William or John--is to marry the cook and seduce the maidservant, thus providing endless matter for con-versation among ourselves.

I moved from dining parlour to sitting room and back again, drawing off my bonnet as I did so. Most of our furnish-ings from Castle Square had long since arrived by dray from the south, and been placed at random by the carter in various 12 ~ Stephanie Barron

rooms. With a good airing and brisk activity we might contrive to make the cottage feel a home. From the side window I could just glimpse Chawton Pond, as I believed it was called: a shallow but broad expanse of muddy water across the lane, useful for the watering of cattle and the amusement of small boys given to skipping stones. From the rear I might observe a parade of riches: the well, with the pump newly-primed; the bake house that Martha will love to command with her cherished receipts; a granary just large enough to house a donkey and cart; and a henhouse. It is hardly the abode of people of Fashion, but for a party of women long since on the shelf, should do well enough.

We had each of us carried modest hopes to this place: Cassandra wished to procure a dog and raise some poultry; my mother yearned to grow vegetables again, while I was deter-mined to purchase a pianoforte, the best that could be got for thirty guineas. I could scarcely believe that such a sum was now in my possession, or that I contemplated squandering it entirely for my own use.

Edward pressed the coins into my hand four nights ago as I prepared to quit Godmersham. When I protested that he had already done far too much, he curled my fingers over the leather pouch.

"It is nothing," he told me firmly, "or rather--it is a some-thing in remembrance of one whose ears are forever stopped with earth. You know how much Lizzy admired your playing, Jane. It distressed her exceedingly that you were denied an in-strument on which to practise. Pray play a song for her--now and again. . . ."

I could say little as he turned away, my throat constricted by tears; he has buried the carefree gentleman of Fashion, and we shall not see that ghost again.

A rough young voice disturbed my reverie.

Jane and His Lordship's Legacy ~ 13

"Are you the Squire's lady?"

I peered through the open doorway into the sunlit after-noon and espied a boy, of perhaps thirteen years, standing at the pony's head. He was sharp-eyed, brown as a guinea hen, and wiry of limb. Tho' his nankeen trousers were worn, they had been neatly patched. I judged him to hail from the yeoman class of Edward's tenants.

"I am Miss Austen," I supplied, "and the Squire is my brother. My mother and I are come to take up residence in this house. What is your name, young sir?"

"Toby Baigent," he returned promptly, "from Symond's Farm." One careless hand gestured somewhere west, beyond my ken; I had not yet acquired the necessary knowledge of Chawton village to be able to reply with authority. "We heard you were expected, from Dyer's folk. They've been working hard days a fortnight or more, now."

These words I interpreted as a reference to Mr. John Dyer, of Ivy House in Alton, a builder whose men were responsible for the blocked window and new privy so admired by my mother. "And we are very grateful for their labour," I said.

Toby Baigent spat indecorously in the dust. "Labour wasted, so my pa says. You'll be leaving soon enough."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Reckon you'll be cursed, in a house not rightfully your own."