Dessert was sensibly arrayed in the drawing-room on the Chutes’ massive sideboard, so that we might sample the brandied fruits and biscuits, the oranges and raisins, the wafers and sugared almonds at our leisure. Coffee was poured out, too, once the gentlemen joined us.
“I say,” Edward Gambier cried as he entered the drawing-room before the others, “it is as well that none of us must depart The Vyne tonight—for there is a gale of snow falling! I’d lay odds we’ll see no hunting.”
“Then it will be the first St. Stephen’s Day in memory that the pack lies in,” William Chute growled. He looked most unhappy, and went immediately to the large French windows giving out onto the back garden. A bitter swirl of frozen air blew into the room as he opened one of them, and the flames in the great hearth darted and hissed.
“Lord, William, you will carry us all away,” Eliza cried. “Shut the window and prepare to play at charades, like a gentle host.”
I daresay each of us was so stupefied by food and drink, that we should gladly have sat in silence for an hour or so before toddling to our beds; but Eliza was determined to lead us all in merriment—and what is Christmas night without charades?
“I do relish a good riddle,” my mother said brightly. She is inordinately proud of what she terms her “sprack wit,” or deftness with rhyme.
“Then I propose, madam,” said Mr. L’Anglois the secretary, “that you take up this pad and pen.” He stood ready with a supply of each, and pressed them upon us.
“Are we to enter the lists singly,” I queried, “or play in teams?”
“Let it be teams,” muttered Lady Gambier, “lest we be tied here all night.”
If Eliza heard this dispiriting remark, she chose to ignore it.
“James,” Mary said quite audibly, “I have a fearful headache; and I am sure that Caroline must be nodding!”
Caroline had long ago disappeared with Miss Wiggett and James-Edward to the Chutes’ nursery wing—she was to have a bed near the governess, with all the delights of warm milk by the schoolroom fire. I had an idea of her introducing fine Jemima to Miss Wiggett’s dolls—no doubt long since outgrown—and talking over vanished modes. But James bowed to his wife with alacrity. “As you wish, my dear. You will always know what is best for the child.” He showed no inclination to accompany her upstairs, however, and made his way to the sideboard groaning with sweetmeats.
With a tragic air, Mary swept from the room. No one appeared to remark her departure.
We formed ourselves into three teams. William Chute, Miss Gambier, Thomas-Vere, and I were the first; Mamma, Mr. West, Mr. Gambier, and Eliza the second; Cassandra, Lady Gambier, Mr. Langlois, and James the third. Mamma’s team—to the surprize of none of us Austens—offered their clew before the rest of us; it was a foregone conclusion that in charades, sprack wit must carry off the laurels.
We were handed a few lines of verse in my mother’s hand.
You may lie on my first by the side of a stream,
And my second compose to the nymph you adore,
But if, when you’ve none of my whole, her esteem
And affection diminish—think of her no more!
Our group of four consulted feverishly, and I observed sidelong that Cassandra’s party was in vociferous debate.
“The first is quite obviously bed,” William Chute declared. “Streambed, you know.”
“That is under the stream, not beside it,” I muttered.
“Surely it is grass, Mr. Chute? Or perhaps moss?” Miss Gambier suggested.
“Bracken?” Thomas-Vere chortled. “Couch? Why could not one recline on a couch by a stream as well as by a window, Miss Austen? You are a genius with the pen; pray tell us your solution to this riddle.”
“And the second must be letter,” Mr. Chute persisted doggedly. “Bed letter. If your lady does not like your bed-letters, why, give her prompt notice—what?!”
“No, no, William—it must be poem.” Thomas-Vere raised his quizzing-glass and stared at our host satirically. “One never writes anything so prosaic as letters to a nymph. You forget your classical education.”
“Never had one,” Mr. Chute snorted.
“Couch poem?” Miss Gambier repeated in bewilderment. “Surely not.”
“The answer is banknote,” I interjected, raising my voice a trifle on the final word, so that Mamma might hear me. She waved her reticule in gleeful congratulation.
By my side, William Chute’s lips were moving as he went over the slip of paper in his hand, brow furrowed. Gradually his confusion cleared, and he laughed heartily.
“Excellent, Mrs. Austen—excellent! If your lady spurns you for want of the Ready, why—turn her out-of-doors this instant! Take care, Eliza—you have been warned!”
We parsed five more charades—a total of two from each team—and were evenly scored. The hour grew late, and I believe most of us should have gone happily to bed without a murmur, but our hostess would have none of it. “One last attempt,” Eliza cried, “to decide the whole! In fairness, any of us may submit a teazing rhyme.” She glanced round the room and seized upon an empty porcelain bowl. “Place your folded clews anonymously here, and I shall chuse one. I shall read it aloud—and recuse myself from play.”
Everyone on my team looked to me; with a sigh, I bent to my pad and pencil. Perhaps three minutes passed, during which only the soft hiss of settling embers in the drawing-room fire could be heard. My mother uttered a satisfied “Hah!” and tripped over to Eliza with her folded chit; James proffered another; I tossed mine into the bowl. No one else moved.
“Come, come!” I chided. “We cannot have only Austens. At least three more charades must make up Eliza’s pot, or this shall be far too easy for some of us!”
Perhaps two more minutes passed. Mr. L’Anglois and Mr. Edward Gambier sheepishly dropped twists of paper into the bowl. Cassandra forbore to add to the Austen weight. Miss Gambier, however, valiantly delivered a clew; and so, eventually, did Raphael West.
Eliza twirled her fingers among the bits of paper and drew one forth. With a smile, she said, “This is one for the season! It is entitled ‘A Virgin Birth.’ ”
My first is best seen in the Garden of Eden;
My second will serve to bore holes in shoes.
By the time my third has set, this e’en,
Then any old name will do, that you chuse.
From its halting phrases, this was no Austen effort. We never titled our charades, from fear of giving away the solution. “Pray read it again, Eliza,” I begged. I was unaccountably stuck on the first word … best seen in the Garden of Eden …
“Snake?” Thomas-Vere suggested. “Apple? Or shall we plump for the more mellifluous name of Mephistopheles?”
“Too long,” William Chute said seriously.
“Could it be tree?” I frowned. “Or perhaps Eve—with Eve being merely the first part of a longer word, such as …”
“Awl,” Thomas-Vere mused. He tapped his pursed lips with his quizzing-glass, the picture of foppish distraction. “Eve-awl. Evil. It does give one to think. I had been wont to consider Eden as the absence of all evil.”
“Surely that can have nothing to do with a Virgin Birth,” Chute pointed out.
Miss Gambier cleared her throat. She was looking pallid; the lateness of the hour did not agree with her. “You are wrong, Miss Austen,” she said. “The first is not Eve, but Nature. I believe awl is correct, however, for the second.”
“Natural,” William Chute pounced.
“Natural … sun?” I attempted, considering the third word’s clew. “For the sun sets in the evening.” I felt my cheeks warm suddenly, as I heard the sense of what I had said. Natural son. A polite term for bastard.
“Indeed,” Miss Gambier said. “The thing for which any old name will do.” She uttered the words with sharp bitterness, and rose abruptly from her chair.
“Miss Gambier—” Eliza was staring at her, open-mouthed.
“I have grown weary of th
is game,” she said brusquely. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Chute—but I must retire immediately.”
“But we intended to close the night with Evensong in the Chapel,” Eliza protested. “Mr. Austen has been so good as to say he will preside—”
“Aunt Louisa, may I escort you to your bedchamber?” Miss Gambier interrupted, ignoring the import of Eliza’s speech.
“Thank you, my dear,” Lady Gambier whispered, and pulled herself to her feet with obvious effort. Although her frame was stout enough, her voice and aspect were frail; like her niece, she seemed about to drop where she stood. Mr. West caught her as she swayed and said tersely, “Gambier—a glass of brandy for your aunt.”
The good lady protested, but was persuaded to resume her seat for a little, and consume one or two sips of brandy; at which point, supported by her niece and nephew, she was led from the room. I observed Eliza’s gaze to follow them, a little frown of puzzlement between her eyebrows, and all hint of gaiety fled from her countenance.
“Who among us,” she said as the Gambiers’ footsteps died away, “can have written that charade?”
There was silence for an instant. “I did not,” I said.
“I should be ashamed to own it,” my mother added. “To suggest that Eden and e’en rhyme—!”
“Perhaps,” Raphael West broke in quietly, “it were as well to say nothing more of the matter, Mrs. Chute. Such a source of obvious discomfort cannot be too quickly forgotten.”
Evensong was not broached again. I half-expected James to be jealous of his office, and of such a setting as The Vyne Chapel—which is renowned for its age and quiet beauty—but he refrained from herding us all into attendance; and I confess I could not be sorry.
We Austen ladies did not long succeed the Gambiers, but left the gentlemen to the enjoyment of the drawing-room and its fire. As I mounted the darkened stairs by the glow of my candle, the house wrapt in the quiet of falling snow, I thought I heard a muffled sob from somewhere in The Vyne. Perhaps it was merely the wind crying.
6
A MESSENGER FROM GHENT
Monday, 26th December 1814
The Vyne, cont’d.
I closed the leaves of my journal, set down my drained teacup, and reached for my dressing gown. Cassandra still slumbered, but I had a duty to fulfill—the delivery of Caroline’s present for the second day of Christmas: one of Lady Jemima’s delicious costumes. It must be laid on the child’s coverlet in the nursery before she awoke, as an act of faerie mischief. Tho’ the doll had made her debut in ball dress, as befitted a lady at her first coming-out, she could not always be wearing silk. Mindful that the Feast of St. Stephen—in addition to being a day of gifts to the poor—was generally celebrated with a Hunt, Cassandra and I had fashioned a riding habit. It was deep rose (the very same stuff as my sister had worn last night, in fact), severe in its lines and closely fitted, with a sweeping train. Cassandra had employed a tiny crochet hook—intended for making lace—to create black silk braid for the trim, and twirled it into loops and frogs at throat and bodice. I had contrived the hat, a dashing black topper garlanded with tiny red cherries.
All we needed was a horse.
I drew the costume from the bandbox in which we had hidden all Caroline’s presents, and tiptoed to the door. But as I did, Cassandra sighed and turned in her sleep. Her eyelids drifted open.
“Stay a moment, Jane, and I shall come with you.”
I did as she bade, and perched at the foot of her bed whilst she drank a cup of my cooling tea. Trust Cass never to disturb a servant twice, while tea remained in the pot—she has a horror of imperious women, who live to be waited upon hand and foot.
“You slept well, I trust?”
“Not at all,” she replied. “See how heavy-eyed I am? I was restless all night. Miss Gambier figured heavily in my dreams.”
“The matter of the charade,” I guessed. “I have been puzzling over it, too—for Eliza’s question is apt. Who can have composed it? And why? Was it done with the intent of embarrassing Miss Gambier—or was it a bow drawn at a venture?”
“She certainly quit the drawing-room hard upon solving the riddle. Whether intended or not, the arrow went home. Virgin Birth—of a natural son? Grossly improper.”
“You observed her aunt’s discomposure as well?”
Cassandra nodded. “What can it mean?”
“A family affair. Nothing we shall be privy to.”
“Can it be possible that Miss Gambier … that at some unfortunate period in her past—”
“She had a child out of wedlock? But why should a stranger—any one of ourselves—be aware of her history? Or use that private knowledge to Miss Gambier’s disadvantage?”
I had a sudden memory of Edward Gambier’s careless reference to by-blows and inheritance at dinner last evening. Surely he should not venture the topic with such obvious unconcern, if it touched his sister so nearly?
“It felt, Jane,” Cassandra said slowly, “like a clumsy attempt at blackmail.”
I shivered, despite the new-laid fire. An ugly thought of Cassandra’s, in the midst of a jolly Christmas party. It caused me to feel exposed—unsure of my friends, and of the temper of those who surrounded me at The Vyne. But perhaps we had made too much of a trifle last evening; perhaps Miss Gambier and her aunt had merely been over-tired.
“I daresay we all guard secrets we cannot wish to share,” I told my sister briskly. “A house-party is only as successful as the goodwill and mutual tolerance of its members will allow; otherwise, our carriages should be ordered within hours. Now, if you are done with your tea, Cassandra, we have a gift to bestow.”
She thrust her feet into her slippers and was with me in an instant.
WHEN WE CAME DOWN to breakfast an hour later, it was clear there should be no Hunt on St. Stephen’s Day. Even the less fortunate in the parish were kept within-doors, and only those few servants with families hard by in Sherborne St. John seemed likely to quit The Vyne for their free day. Eliza assured them they should have their Christmas boxes regardless, and a bowl of punch to celebrate with, in the servants’ hall.
Little Caroline danced in from the schoolroom with Miss Wiggett behind her, both girls smiling at Jemima’s transformation. “Look, Papa,” Caroline cried. “A riding habit! Is it not lovely? Another gift from the faerie Aunts!”
James glowered at me over his newspaper. “Do you mean to spoil the child, Jane?”
“Yes,” I said.
“May I learn to ride one day, too, Papa, and hunt with The Vyne?” Caroline continued, oblivious of disapproval. “Miss Wiggett intends to do so, when once she is Come Out. Mrs. Chute is most decided upon the point that every lady should be adept at riding to hounds.”
“That is only Aunt Eliza’s way, Caroline, because she is used to do it herself,” Miss Wiggett said. She coloured as she spoke, and her voice trembled. “I confess I am afraid of horses, myself. They are so very large, are they not? But I must attempt to conquer my fears, for Aunt Eliza’s sake.”
“Poor Miss Wiggett,” Caroline said kindly. “Perhaps after breakfast we might visit the stables.”
“You shall do nothing of the sort!” James snapped. “Not only is it vulgar for young ladies to hobnob with grooms—it snows!”
The snowstorm was absolute—a whirl of white at every window, without respite—and as the hours wore on, we were all thankful to secure a chair tucked by a table or in a quiet bay of the great library upstairs, and take down a quarto volume for perusal or slumber. The ladies drew out their embroidery. The gentlemen played at billiards. Miss Gambier sat with a travelling writing desk on her lap, composing a letter. Mary had produced a large sketchbook over which she was ostentatiously working—where she had unearthed it, I could not imagine, and suspected a pilfering of Miss Wiggett’s schoolroom. James was at one of the large tables, busy about a sermon, his back to all of us and his head drooping over a sheaf of foolscap.
Mr. West prevailed upon William Chute to retire to his
book room, where the Master of Hounds posed in various attitudes for nearly an hour, while his lineaments were sketched. Chute calls this smallish chamber off the library his book room, but it is properly known at The Vyne as the Tapestry Room—with a splendid collection of chinoiserie and arras hangings. I envied Chute this charming closet for the conduct of his business; what words I should have put on paper there! The light, however, was hardly good for Raphael West’s purposes. I should dearly have loved to observe the portrait session—but that part of Mr. West’s sketchbook was closed to me; the elements of Art intended for his father’s use were not for anyone else’s delectation.
When I tired of Berlin work and reading, I found myself gazing absently at Miss Gambier’s hand, moving fluently across her writing-paper. Her expression was hardly cheerful. Did the lady harbour a private sorrow? Her aunt had not come down to breakfast today, as tho’ last evening’s irritations had been too much for her. I glanced around the library, with its composition of idle and industrious faces. Who among us had written the offensive charade? And why had she or he delivered it? There was a puzzle, here, that all the good manners in the world could not entirely erase; and I could hardly put my questions to Miss Gambier herself. She was a reserved young woman.
What I had yesterday chosen to regard as haughtiness and Fashionable airs appeared in the light of morning to be mere shyness and diffidence. She was not the sort to chatter with strangers, or indulge in a comfortable coze with an intimate; confidences were probably reserved for her journal and pen, or the recipients of her letters. I should judge her to be in her late twenties—long since off the Marriage Mart—and yet her delicate features and trim figure were pleasing enough. A want of fortune, perhaps, had been the ruin of her hopes; or a Disappointment in a first attachment. I could easily fabricate an interesting past for Mary Gambier—her brushes with Naval personages, her intimacy with Government through the Admiral—but perhaps her life had lacked these dashing interludes.
Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas: Being a Jane Austen Mystery Page 6
