Secrets in the Snow

by Michaela MacColl

  “Marie has the Comte’s pistol,” Jane said quietly. No matter that the gun was not loaded; she just needed to dissuade Tom.

  He stared at her for a long moment. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  She nodded, her eyes fixed on his face.

  “I cannot protect you when the magistrate finds out what happened.”

  Her eyes narrowed, she asked, “How will he know?”

  As though it were self-evident, Tom said, “Because I will tell him.”

  “Even if I will be prosecuted?” Jane asked. She sighed inwardly; she should have seen this eventuality. Tom’s principles were deeply held.

  “Of course.” His eyes were wounded, but as he spoke he became angrier. “Absolutely no one is above the law.” He turned on his heel and went back inside.

  Jane waited on the porch, rubbing her arms against the cold. It felt like a penance she should endure. A few minutes later Tom returned, wearing his greatcoat. Suddenly formal, he bowed. “I’ve said my farewells to your mother. I shall take my leave, Miss Austen.”

  Then he strode toward the stable and out of her sight.

  CHAPTER 22

  “He has broken no faith with me.”

  “But he told you that he loved you.”

  “Yes—no—never absolutely. It was every day

  implied, but never professedly declared. Sometimes

  I thought it had been, but it never was.”

  SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

  Jane’s head was pounding with the exquisite agony of an awl boring its way through her eyes. She had hardly slept the night before, between worrying about Marie, reliving her brief embrace with Tom, and wondering where Henry was. He had looked in briefly in the afternoon, after everyone had left, but then he had disappeared.

  She had heard footsteps on the landing in the early hours of the morning. She had opened her door a crack to see an exhausted Henry, carrying his muddy boots. He had paused in front of Eliza’s door, but thought better of knocking and continued to his own room.

  The breakfast table was practically deserted. The toast sat uneaten on the sideboard. Henry and Eliza had not come downstairs. Eliza had sent a message by Prudence that she would miss breakfast but would join them for church. James was already on his way there. Jane’s body went rigid with tension. Even James couldn’t miss a corpse in his vestry.

  “Did you quarrel with Mr. Lefroy, Jane?” Her mother’s querulous voice seemed to add a rasp to the awl.

  Steeling herself for the obligatory scolding, Jane said, “Why do you ask, Mother?”

  “He left quite abruptly. And he wouldn’t look at me when he took his leave. What happened? Things were going so well between you. I was thinking you’d made a match at last.”

  Rubbing her temples with her fingers, Jane answered, “We had an irreconcilable difference of opinion.”

  “You mean you couldn’t be amenable,” Mrs. Austen chided. “What harm would it do to let the gentleman win an argument occasionally? You will never marry if you can’t climb down from your high horse. And if you don’t marry, how will you live? Your father and I won’t be around forever, you know!”

  Jane let her mother blather on. Her eyes were fixed on the window, watching for James to come running down the lane with news of a body in the vestry. At least when the Comte is found, she thought, Mother will have something more interesting to worry about. And as the daughter of a reverend, Jane would be relieved to have the Comte properly buried in consecrated ground.

  Henry appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Austen immediately shifted her complaints to his appearance. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week, nor bathed! And your hands, Henry! Were you in a fight?” Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Austen went to the sideboard and began assembling a plate for Henry.

  Henry yawned and sat down next to Jane. She twisted her neck so she could see: His knuckles were bruised and cut and his nails were filthy.

  “What were you doing last night?” she whispered.

  “I’ll tell you later,” he promised. His eyes were bloodshot and he needed to shave.

  “What about James?” she asked. “He’s at the church now!”

  “Little sister, have I ever let you down?”

  “Frequently!”

  Henry’s face split in a wicked grin, and Jane relaxed. She didn’t know what he had done, but his confidence reassured her.

  “What are you two mumbling about?” Mrs. Austen asked.

  “Nothing, Mother,” Jane and Henry said in unison.

  “The two of you will be the death of me,” she complained. “Now finish your breakfast. James is expecting us to be punctual.”

  Henry muttered something under his breath about what James could do with his punctuality. Jane elbowed him in the side and he nearly spilled his tea.

  Promptly at the hour of departure, Eliza came downstairs. She looked as lovely as always. Perhaps only Jane noticed how simple her toilette was without a lady’s maid to help her. Henry’s eyes lit up when he saw her, and Eliza’s return smile was full of promises.

  As Jane buttoned her pelisse, she thought how typical it was that Henry and Eliza, the most feckless players in this melodrama, would prosper most once the dust settled. And Jane? What would happen to her? A fairy-tale ending with Tom Lefroy? Not likely.

  The Austens joined the line of villagers going to the church. The bright sun was warm to the skin, and the snow was melting apace. It made for a muddy lane, yet Jane couldn’t help but think that the more the snow melted, the more evidence of wrongdoing would disappear, too.

  Henry was walking arm in arm with Eliza ahead of her. Jane caught up to them. “Eliza, dear,” Jane said, “I must borrow Henry for a moment.”

  Eliza’s lighthearted demeanor froze. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jane said.

  “Everything is fine,” Henry assured them. “Eliza, I shall return in a moment.”

  Jane drew him to one side of the lane. “What did you do with the body?” she demanded.

  “I acted like the soldier I am.” He grinned. “I took direct action to solve the problem.”

  Eyebrows lifted impatiently, Jane waited for him to explain.

  “Yesterday, I went into Basingstoke and spoke to . . . well, I cannot tell you his name. Suffice it to say that Edward told me who to go to if something untoward were to happen.”

  “I would say that murder qualifies,” Jane said dryly.

  “Particularly when the body in question belongs to a French aristocrat who is already presumed dead,” Henry agreed. “They were very concerned that this matter be dealt with speedily. And discreetly.”

  “Does this discreet action involve the marks on your hands?”

  He nodded. “Last night, the War Office sent two men to help me. We buried the Comte deep in the woods. It wasn’t easy; the ground was frozen in spots.”

  “You didn’t bury him in the churchyard?” Jane asked, aghast.

  “Of course not,” Henry retorted. “How could that be kept a secret?” Henry’s direct gaze dared her to argue.

  Reluctantly, Jane had to agree. “And that’s the end of it?” she asked. “There’ll be no investigation?”

  “Of what?” He lifted his shoulders. “The death of a dead man? The Comte was killed a year ago by a rogue government. He left behind a beautiful widow and son. That is the end of the story.”

  Jane considered. It was the end. Even the clandestine burial had the approval of the English government. With no body, there was no crime. Marie and her son could safely leave the country without fear of reprisals. Eliza had escaped the taint of scandal. As had the Austens. It was over.

  As they walked, the church came into view. Jane averted her eyes from the graveyward where she had found the Comte’s body. The clearing was filled with scatterings of people. Their cheerful conversation seemed to be cleansing the space, making it fit for worship and joy again.

  James was waiting at the doorwa
y. When he saw them he came striding over. His black robes flapped behind him, reminding Jane of a massive crow. Given her recent experience with crows, the thought was an unwelcome one.

  “Jane!” he said. “I’m very disappointed in you.”

  Jane’s eyes darted to Henry, who lifted his shoulders. “Why?” she asked warily.

  “The church is dusty. There are footprints everywhere! It was your task to clean it.” His aggrieved tone made it clear that he took her neglect personally.

  Letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding in, Jane was uncharacteristically apologetic. “I’m sorry, James. I neglected my duties.”

  “You were scribbling your little stories, no doubt!” he said scathingly. “Don’t let it happen again.”

  Holding onto her temper with effort, Jane simply nodded.

  In that instant, James was distracted by the sound of horses trotting in the lane. Jane followed his eyes to see Tom Lefroy on horseback. Mr. Bigg-Wither followed. From the glare he gave to Tom’s back, it was obvious that the magistrate blamed Tom for forcing him outside on a winter morning.

  They dismounted. Tom nodded briefly to James, but ignored the others. Jane heard her mother draw in an offended breath.

  “Reverend Austen,” Tom announced, “we are here about a murder.”

  Mr. Bigg-Wither pushed his way in front of Tom. “I am the magistrate for this parish. I’m here to investigate the crime. This young man simply reported it.”

  “A crime?” James asked. “At my church?”

  “At Father’s church,” Henry muttered under his breath. “It’s not yours yet.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Bigg-Wither said. “I’ll trouble you to let us examine the vestry.”

  “There’s a body there,” Tom said. “And Henry and Jane Austen know all about it.”

  “So nice to know who our friends are,” Henry said to the sky.

  Tom looked determined but miserable. Jane bit her lip, of two minds about Tom Lefroy. No one liked a talebearer, but Tom had only done what he thought was right.

  “A body? That’s absurd.” James’s face reflected his puzzlement.

  “I must insist that you let us search the church,” Mr. Bigg-Wither said.

  “Very well,” James conceded. “Please hurry. The bells are ringing for the start of my service.”

  Tom and Mr. Bigg-Wither jostled to be first through the narrow door, but Mr. Bigg-Wither’s bulk won the day. James followed.

  Left behind, Henry stood close to Eliza. She took his hand and held it tight, regardless of who might see.

  Mrs. Austen turned to her daughter. “Do you know anything about this, Jane?”

  Jane shrugged. The seconds ticked by like minutes, but soon enough Mr. Bigg-Wither stormed out of the church. Tom was on his heels, remonstrating. “Sir, we must search. The body cannot be far.”

  “If there’s a body at all!” Mr. Bigg-Wither retorted. “I’d heard you were a bit wild. Let this be a lesson to you about the perils of drinking too much.”

  “But I tell you—”

  Mr. Bigg-Wither cut him off. “Your imagination has embarrassed my office, not to mention dragging me out in the snow when my lumbago is acting up. I’ll thank you never to mention this again unless you want me to take it up with your distinguished uncle!”

  Tom, furious, shut his mouth. Staring stonily at Mr. Bigg-Wither, he waited until the magistrate had ridden away. Then he turned to Jane. “Where is it? I know you are behind this.”

  “Me?” she asked, a hint of asperity in her voice. “I’m just a misguided woman; how could I dispose of a body?”

  “Then your brother,” he said, glaring at Henry. Henry started to step forward, but Eliza held him back. Jane appreciated her tact; Tom Lefroy was Jane’s problem.

  “Whatever was done was sanctioned,” Jane warned him. “You will do yourself and your precious law career no favors by insisting otherwise.”

  Tom drew her farther from the others. His face was bleak. “Jane,” he implored in an intimate voice that tugged at her heart. “You know this was wrong. You’ve circumvented the law and allowed a murderer to go free. This is beneath you.”

  Jane considered what he was saying carefully. In the cold light of day, did she still believe that it was more important to show Marie compassion than it was to hang her as a murderer?

  Yes, she did. Even the entreating look in Tom’s wide dark eyes couldn’t convince her otherwise.

  “We saved the lives of two people: Marie and her son,” Jane said. “All you did was destroy any possibility of our future together. I shan’t regret what I did. Shall you?”

  Tom stared at her, and she gave herself the luxury of enjoying his handsome features, until she reached the accusation in his light green eyes.

  She walked away from him into the church. A boy was in the bell tower, hanging on to the bell ropes. The pealing of the bells filled her ears but could not crowd out the sharp pang of loss.

  “Goodbye, Tom,” she said quietly but did not look back.

  Dear Cassandra,

  Now that my adventure has ended as abruptly as it began, at least I have the solace of writing to you again!

  Madame Lefroy has just left the rectory. She tells me Mr. Lefroy has left the district, I suspect never to return. Or at least not return to me. So you may set your worries for my reputation aside. It’s very amusing, is it not? Tom and I might have overcome the traditional impediments of poverty, distance, and nationality (did I tell you that he was Irish?) only to founder on philosophical differences. Well, perhaps it is not so amusing after all.

  Earlier today, I put aside my pen to go for a walk. I needed to clear my head. I visited George. It was very soothing to have my conversation limited to what I can say with my hands.

  We did have one awkward moment when George asked after Tom. He gets so few visitors and George had liked him so much. But a bag of Cook’s special toffee sufficed to make him happy again.

  I had ample time walking to and fro to come to terms with my circumstances. I knew the moment I lied to Tom about Marie that he wouldn’t forgive me. I was right. He could not, or would not, I am not sure which, circumvent the law for what seemed to me to be an even nobler purpose.

  I wish Tom well. I’m certain he has a grand future in front of him. Only to you will I admit that I wish it could have been with me.

  Henry has proposed to Eliza, and needless to say she has accepted him. It’s rather cruel of Henry to ask James to officiate at the ceremony, but then Henry always did have an uncomfortable sense of humor. With Eliza’s connections and fortune to back him, we may expect his swift rise in the ranks.

  Eliza is preparing to return to London and tell Hastings the news. Poor boy, he is inconsolable without his friend Daniel as a playmate. And you will not be surprised to hear that Eliza is inconsolable without a maid to help her pack. She takes some comfort that her coachman has returned. We have not had any news of Marie, so we assume she made it to France safely.

  This letter grows long and costly, but there are still things I want to tell you that should not be put on paper, even now. Come home, Cassandra, and I will recompense you for the luxuries of Godmersham with a new story.

  Imagine a gentleman with five daughters and no fortune. The business of his wife is to get her daughters married. The two eldest sisters might resemble us: one who is sweet and kind like you, and another who is too clever for her own good. Of course there will be dances, misunderstandings, heartbreak, and at least one engagement. No murder, however. I am done with that.

  With best love,

  Jane

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Jane Austen was born in 1775, the second youngest of seven children. Her sister Cassandra, the elder by almost three years, was the only other girl in the family and Jane’s close confidante. Cassandra called Jane “the sun of my life.” They usually shared a room and when they were parted, would write almost daily letters.

  Cassandra’s letters from Jane are our
primary source of information about Jane’s personal life. They are funny and full of biting commentary about their friends and acquaintances. Jane felt comfortable enough to say what she really thought to Cassandra. Unfortunately, Cassandra destroyed most of the letters after Jane’s death (one historian estimates that only 160 letters remain out of a possible 3,000). It was the custom to destroy casual correspondence in the 19th century, but Cassandra may also have respected Jane’s wishes that her private thoughts remain private.

  The Austen siblings did not have much money. Their father, a country reverend, had a limited income. After launching his sons’ careers, there was little left to provide dowries for his daughters. In 1794 Cassandra was engaged to a poor clergyman named Thomas Fowle. They could not afford to marry right away and settled on a long engagement. Unfortunately, he died of fever in the West Indies three years after he proposed.

  Jane’s relationship with Tom Lefroy is one of the great near-romances in literary biography. Jon Spence’s biography, Becoming Jane Austen (later adapted as the movie Becoming Jane), claimed that Jane had a serious relationship with young Mr. Lefroy. In fact, we only know that he visited his uncle in nearby Ashe, during which time he danced several times with Jane. She wrote about him to Cassandra, saying he was a “gentlemanlike, good-looking, pleasant young man.” She also called him her “Irish friend” and downplayed their relationship by telling her sister, “I do not care sixpence” for Mr. Lefroy.

  But Cassandra must have heard rumors and clearly cautioned Jane about her reputation. By return letter, Jane confessed that she and Tom had been doing “everything most profligate and shocking in the way of dancing and sitting down together.”

  But Tom left in January of 1796, never to see Jane again. He would settle in Ireland, marry an heiress, and have seven children. His career would prosper, too; by 1852 he would hold the exalted post of Lord Chief Justice of Ireland. As an old man, he admitted to his nephew that he had been in love with Jane Austen, by this time a famous novelist, but he called it a “boyish love.” Perhaps it is only a coincidence that he named his first daughter Jane.