Eliza gasped at Jane’s blunt speech.
Jane continued, merciless. “Cassandra’s fiancé is a very respectable clergyman. He loves her, but he’d think twice about marrying into our family if you persist in misbehaving.”
Eliza jumped up and began pacing about the room. “You’re blaming me? You heard what Jean did. How can you expect me to go to such a monster? Not to mention being exiled to the wilds of America!”
Jane murmured that she had heard Boston was a very civilized city. “It won’t be that bad. You and Hastings may like it there.”
Eyes blazing, Eliza jabbed a finger at Jane. “Did you notice how he didn’t even ask after his own son? Hastings is better off without his father. The only thing the Comte had to offer him was a title—and the Revolution took even that away.”
Jane kept a firm grip on her temper. “But the Comte is still very much alive. And all your wishing won’t change that. I sympathize with your predicament, but until you have dealt with your husband you absolutely cannot form a new attachment.” Particularly with my brother, Jane added in her mind.
Returning to the narrow bed, Eliza perched on the edge and rested her chin in her cupped hands. “He only came back for the money.”
They were the saddest words Jane had ever heard. And the truest.
Eliza went on tragically. “I’d gladly pay a huge price to rid myself of him.”
Jane stared at her, struck by the elegance of Eliza’s casual suggestion. “Of course! That is what we shall do.”
“I didn’t mean it, Jane.”
“Didn’t you?” Jane insisted. “I propose that we go to him this very morning and demand his price to go away for good.”
“Do you think it would work?” Eliza asked doubtfully.
Jane nodded eagerly, warming to her plan. “He would have to swear to stay in America and never return. And of course, he could not use his name.”
“And I would be free?” Eliza clasped her hands together. Jane could see she was trembling.
Jane shrugged. “He’s been declared dead, so I suppose so.”
“Do it!” Eliza hugged Jane. “Go to him and ask him how much my freedom is worth!”
Taken aback, Jane stared. “I cannot do it, Eliza. You should go.”
“I cannot. He would try to bully me for the sake of my entire fortune. But you know him for his true cowardly self. And that knowledge will shame him. He will negotiate with you. It must be you, Jane.”
Jane was alternately flattered and exasperated. She would enjoy bending the Comte to her will, but it was typical of Eliza to want someone else to clean up her mess.
After a scant moment’s hesitation, she agreed. “How much can I offer him?” she asked.
Less than twenty minutes later, Jane tiptoed downstairs. She had little fear of waking anyone as last night’s merriment had continued until the small hours of the morning. The gentlemen had been lively indeed, and more than one bottle of port had been emptied.
She slipped her stoutest boots on her feet and wrapped her pelisse about her body.
“Miss Jane? Is that you?” Prudence’s voice at her elbow made her jump.
“You startled me!” Jane said sharply, then immediately repented when she saw the stricken look on Prudence’s face. The Austens couldn’t afford a trained maid, and Prudence was new to a gentleman’s house and her duties. “Good morning.”
“You’re going out?” Prudence asked.
“On Saturday mornings Cassandra cleans the church for the Sunday service,” Jane explained. “Since she’s not here, it falls to me.” To herself she thought that today there was more than dust in the old church. She had to sweep the Comte out of the church and Eliza’s life.
“You might want something warm in you before you go out in the snow,” Prudence suggested.
Jane thought that was an excellent idea; she would not mind some fortification before facing the Comte again. She and Eliza had left him angry and despairing the night before. Who knew how he would react today?
She followed Prudence into the kitchen. Jacques was there stacking wood by the fireplace under Cook’s watchful eye.
“Good morning, Cook, Jacques,” Jane said, pouring herself a cup of tea from the teapot on the table.
“Mademoiselle, bon matin.” Jacques nodded respectfully.
“Good morning, Miss,” Cook said as she rummaged through a drawer full of cooking utensils. “You aren’t going to the church in this weather, are you?”
“You say that every Saturday morning in the winter,” Jane teased. Cook had worked for the Austens for many years, and Jane was accustomed to her familiar ways. “James is to preach tomorrow, and you know he sneezes if there’s too much dust. Someone has to sweep the church.”
A large log slipped out of Jacques’ hands and crashed to the slate floor.
“Goodness, Jacques, are you all right?” Cook asked.
“Yes, I am fine,” he said, his face red. Then he turned to Jane. “Mademoiselle, the way to the church is impassable.”
Jane laughed. “I’m not like the Comtesse. Here in the country we are used to walking despite poor conditions.”
“I’ll accompany you, then,” he offered.
“No, thank you,” Jane said. “I would rather go alone.”
“I insist . . .” he began.
“I said no,” Jane said firmly.
“As you wish, mademoiselle,” he said, turning to go back outside for more wood.
Cook was muttering under her breath and removing every item from the drawer.
“Is something amiss?” Jane asked. She was very fond of Cook and did not like to see her perturbed.
“My best knife is missing.”
“I’m sure it was merely misplaced,” Jane said. “Ask Prudence when she comes downstairs.” Quickly gulping the last of her tea she went outside, bracing herself against the cold air.
The storm was over. At least a foot of snow had fallen, but now the sky was bright and blue. The whiteness was blinding. Their footprints from the night before were filled in, leaving not a trace of their passage. The powdery snow was almost fun to walk through, and Jane found herself more lighthearted than she expected.
Halfway there she remembered how she had trailed an unsuspecting Eliza the day before. She whirled around suddenly to check for any followers, but no one was in sight.
In just a few minutes she was at the church door. The familiar pointed arch was flanked with stone carvings: a man’s head on the left and a woman’s on the right. After many years of attending her father’s services here, Jane thought of the carvings as old friends. She touched the woman’s forehead, borrowing some courage for the encounter ahead.
She knocked loudly; after all, the Comte was nervy and had a pistol. She did not want to startle him.
“It is Jane Austen,” she announced, her voice echoing about the clearing. There was no answer within. She pushed open the door. “Hello! Comte?”
The church was cold and appeared to be empty. She quickly made a circuit of the small building but there was no one. The fire had burned out. She held her hand to the ashes, but they were cold.
Hands on her hips, she surveyed the space. The Comte’s few belongings were gone. Except for the ashes in the fireplace, there was no trace that he had ever been there.
She went outside and surveyed the area around the church. There was no sign of him. Perhaps he had despaired of winning Eliza back. Perhaps he would just disappear and Eliza could remain a merry widow. But of course how then could she remarry, knowing her husband was still alive?
Resolved to return to the parsonage and tell Eliza that her husband was gone again, Jane pulled the door closed and then realized she had no way to lock it. The Comte must still have the key. It would be no easy matter to get a new key made for the ancient lock.
As she turned to head home, she saw an enormous crow wing its way from the bell tower to the east side of the church, where the graveyard was. In the quiet of the morning, th
e bird’s cawing was unnaturally loud. Soon it was joined by another crow, and then another. “A murder of crows,” Jane murmured to herself, shivering a little with foreboding. No doubt a small animal had frozen in the storm and the crows were announcing a free meal to the others.
Curious, she made her way through the deep snow around the corner of the church to the small graveyard. The clearing was punctuated with the tops of gravestones peeking out of the drifts. A crow was perched on the nearest stone, surveying the scene. A dozen yards away more crows were pecking at a long oblong lump hidden under a drift. A streak of crimson marred the perfect whiteness.
Jane stepped slowly closer, dreading what she might see. At the end of the oblong shape, something was sticking up out of the snow. She gasped when she realized it was not another tombstone but the tops of booted feet.
She stood frozen for an instant. There was nothing she wanted to do less than look at whoever was attached to those boots. But she knew her duty. She moved closer.
The boots belonged to a man lying on his back. She couldn’t see his face. The hilt of a large knife was stuck in his chest. The crows were digging their beaks into the wound.
“Shoo! Get away! Get away!” she screamed at the crows, waving her arms frantically. She didn’t recognize her own voice. The black birds reluctantly lifted off and took up positions in the surrounding trees.
She nerved herself to brush the snow from the figure’s face. With a sense of inevitability, she recognized the Comte. His eyes were open, staring unseeingly into the sky. Crystals of ice had formed on his eyelashes and his handsome face was blue.
She stumbled back, her hand to her mouth. It was no use; she bent over and vomited into the snow.
CHAPTER 17
“I never should have mentioned it to you,
if I had not felt the greatest dependence
in the world upon your secrecy.”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Jane straightened up and breathed deeply. The cold air cut into her lungs, and her eyes stung. Looking anywhere but at the Comte’s lifeless body, she scanned the clearing. She felt alone and defenseless. The Comte had been armed with a pistol, but still someone had killed him. Was the murderer still here? What would the killer do to her?
Jane forced herself to look at the Comte again. His face was contorted in a grimace of surprise and pain. She tried to lift his hand but it was frozen, either from death or cold, she didn’t know which. There were no footprints breaking up the smooth perfection of the snow, not even the Comte’s own. That meant whoever killed him had done it while it was still snowing enough to cover any tracks.
Surely the murderer must be far away by now. When Jane had finally gone to bed at midnight the night before, she had noticed the snow had not yet stopped falling. A shiver went through her body; maybe the killer had been lurking in the woods when Jane and Eliza were still at the church.
She had to get help. Jane headed for the path home, but stopped short when she heard the exultant cawing of the crows. She looked back to see them swooping over the corpse.
She ran at them, windmilling her arms and yelling until they again took flight. She couldn’t leave the body unprotected. Jane ran into the church, looking for the blankets she had seen the night before. She raced to the tiny unheated vestry at the back of the church. There were the blankets, neatly folded on a shelf. She grabbed one and a small lacy square of fabric fell to the ground. The handkerchief was trimmed with fine lace and bore an embroidered E.
“Eliza, why must you be so careless? You’re always . . .”
A memory of Henry tucking Eliza’s handkerchief in his waistcoat the night before flew into Jane’s mind. She shook her head. Henry had no reason to come to the church.
Stuffing the handkerchief into her pocket, Jane raced back outside, clutching the blanket. She made ready to place it over the Comte’s body when she noticed something she hadn’t seen before. The knife hilt sticking out of his chest looked familiar.
Steeling herself, because getting closer to that terrible wound was the last thing she wanted to do, she knelt down to examine the knife. There was a deep crack going down the center of the bone handle; Jane would recognize it out of a thousand others. It was Cook’s missing knife.
She fell back into the snow, thinking hard. This changed everything. Whoever had killed the Comte de Feuillide had come from her own house.
Henry?
No.
But what about the handkerchief?
No. There were several possible explanations. Eliza had at least a dozen of those handkerchiefs. This one might even have been a keepsake of the Comte’s.
Jane told herself that the killer must be someone who had reason to hate him. The killer must be Jacques, she told herself. It had to be.
Jacques had motive. He had a most grievous and righteous grudge against the Comte. Jacques had tried to keep her from coming to the church. And who better than a servant had such access to the Austens’ kitchen?
Or maybe it was Marie? More likely Marie had conspired with Jacques. Jane recalled the secretive meeting between them in the garden. What if Marie had discovered the Comte was still alive—after all, Eliza was not the most discreet!—and told her brother-in-law?
Jane started to push herself up from the ground and her hand struck something soft. She flinched. Surely it couldn’t be more awful than a dead body.
Jane felt gingerly about in the snow and pulled out a black hat. She remembered how the Comte had tilted the hat to hide his face. That was puzzling. How could the hat accumulate a foot of snow but the Comte’s body only a few inches?
Jane stood up and shook the snow from her skirts. There were too many questions. She needed to talk to someone. Tom Lefroy’s face popped into her mind but she rejected him out of hand. She needed someone she could trust absolutely. Someone strong, preferably armed, who would return with her to the church and deal with the body.
She should probably get James; in their father’s absence he was in charge of the church. The War Office suspected Eliza was spying for the French—if they found out the Comte was not dead, that would confirm their suspicions. But James saw everything as black and white, true and false. Subtlety, and perhaps a certain degree of moral flexibility, were required to preserve Eliza’s reputation. Jane needed help, but from someone who would put Eliza’s interests first. Henry loved Eliza; he was the one to fetch.
She quickly placed the blanket over the Comte’s body, being sure to cover his head. She didn’t want to think about the crows pecking away at his eyes. She hurried home.
As she approached, she saw movement in the garden and darted behind a tree to watch.
Jacques was chopping more wood. He lifted the ax above his head and brought the blade down with enough force to drive it clear through a thick log. Jane shivered. He was strong enough to stab the Comte, that was certain.
As quietly as she could, she opened the door and slipped inside. Without troubling to take off her coat, she hurried upstairs. “Henry!” she whispered. “Open the door! Henry!”
She heard him stumbling about the room, then a crack and a muffled curse. The door opened a few inches. Henry, unshaven and definitely the worse for a night of hard drinking, peered out at her. He was still wearing his trousers from last night, and his shirt hung loose. “Jane?” he asked, not concealing his irritation. “Why are you knocking at this ungodly hour?”
“Keep your voice down,” Jane whispered. “I need you at the church.”
He glared at her. “If you think I’m going to help you clean, you’re mad.”
“It’s not that.” She hesitated. Was there an easy way to say what she had to say? She pushed into his room and whispered, “Henry, there’s a dead body there.”
His forehead creased in confusion. “Is there a funeral today?”
“Not that kind of body.” She watched carefully to see if his face might betray him. “Someone’s been killed,” she finally
said. She couldn’t say more in the house. And when Henry saw that knife, he would understand her urgency.
“Who?”
“I can’t discuss it here,” she said. “But I need your help. Now.”
Something in her expression must have convinced him she was in earnest, because he nodded. “I’ll be just a moment,” he said, starting to close the door.
“Bring your pistol,” she hissed.
He froze and stared at her. Slowly he nodded and shut the door. She leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. She wasn’t alone any longer.
“Good morning, Jane.”
Jane spun around. Tom stood there. Like Henry, he still wore last night’s clothes, but his curly hair was at least partially tamed and his white shirt was neatly tucked in.
Jane forced her countenance into a neutral smile. “Why, good morning, Tom.”
Henry opened his door and stepped out. He looked relieved when he saw Tom. “Lefroy! Just the fellow!” he exclaimed. “My sister needs our help, and a lawyer might be required.”
“But . . .” Jane started faintly.
“I’ve told you before that I am at your service,” Tom said with a short bow.
Jane grimaced, but there was nothing she could do without revealing what she knew. So the threesome hurried outside and down the snowy path.
Both Henry and Tom had the air of dressing hastily, their greatcoats misbuttoned and their scarves tied clumsily about their necks. Tom seemed to be enjoying the novelty. “What, may I inquire, could require legal services so early on a Saturday morning?”
“Jane has found a body.”
Tom pulled up. “What?”
Jane waved her arms. “Come on,” she said. “It’ll be far faster to simply show the two of you.”
Only a few minutes passed before Jane led them to the graveyard and the shrouded body. Tom and Henry, suddenly sobered, stared down. No one wanted to remove the blanket.
“Who is it?” Henry asked impatiently.
Her eyes fixed on Henry’s face, Jane said quietly, “It is the Comte de Feuillide.”
Henry’s face paled. “Eliza’s husband?”
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