Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

by Stephanie Barron

  “His lordship will descend upon Brighton without warning,” Miss Twining persisted, “to indulge his passion for sailing; and on such occasions condescends to enter the Rooms at the Castle of a Monday evening, or even the Old Ship—which Assembly you will know is held on Thursdays—from time to time.”

  This flood of information conveying very little to me, being a stranger to the town and its delights, I contented myself with a mere, “I see.”

  “His lordship never dances, however,” the girl hurried on, “being ashamed, so they say, of his lame foot. But he often skirts the edge of the Assembly with one of his intimates—Mr. Scrope Davies, or Mr. Rogers—to whom he alone will speak; and being forced to sit out several dances myself, I have had some once or twice the privilege of conversing with him. I never sought his attentions, I assure you—tho’ all the town is wild about Lord Byron, and celebrates his verses, and swoons at his every entrance—I cannot like him, Miss Austen. Indeed, he frightens me.”

  This last was uttered in a whisper; I saw the threat of renewed tears, and said hurriedly, “But this morning there was a change?”

  She swallowed convulsively. “I am afraid I have been very foolish.”

  I glanced at Henry.

  “I was strolling with my maid along the Steyne, intending to exchange a book at Donaldson’s, when Lord Byron’s chaise came up alongside. Or rather—I should properly say Lady Oxford’s chaise, for it bears her ladyship’s crest, and is excessively well-sprung—the squabs are straw-coloured satin.”

  “Indeed—it was an admirable equipage,” I stammered. Lord Byron had used Lady Oxford’s chaise to abduct another woman? “And his lordship invited you to take a drive?”

  “He was all politeness. He told me he was bound for London, and should be deprived of my society for at least the next fortnight; he added that my cruelty should be beyond everything, did I not consent to spare him a few moments. He pined already for my society, he said; could I not bear him company so far as Donaldson’s, so that he might cherish my image the length of his journey to London?”

  The gentleman was, after all, a poet, and the most celebrated Romantic of our age; what girl of fifteen should be proof against such ardent address? Miss Twining had dismissed her maid, and ascended into the carriage.

  “But he did not stop at Donaldson’s,” she said wonderingly, “and indeed, he urged the coachman to all possible speed, so that we bowled out of town along the New Road at such a pace, I was forced to cling to the side-straps in sheer terror!”

  She had attempted to flee the carriage when it slowed at Lewes; and it was then that Byron subdued her, his superior strength and the natural fear she bore him, combining to render her passive when he produced his cravats. His lordship was so good, at that juncture, as to inform Miss Twining of her intended fate: he travelled not to London but to the Border—a journey of several days’ duration—with a Gretna Green marriage in view.

  Apprehending that after several days in the gentleman’s sole company, her reputation should be utterly ruined, Miss Twining cried—she pled for his lordship’s mercy—assured him that she could not love him; but her shrinking only inflamed Byron further. He was unaccustomed, it seemed, to rejection; the adulation of all the Polite World having convinced him that Miss Twining must be hoping for just such an avowal of ardent love.

  “Marriage?” Henry repeated, all astonishment. “I had not thought Lord Byron much taken with the married state—unless it be to persuade those ladies already shackled with it, to break their sacred vows! He did you a decided honour, Miss Twining, in thus singling you out; you should be the wonder of your acquaintance, did they know of it. To make a conquest of Lord Byron!”

  “Do not be so tiresome, Henry,” I retorted crossly. “You must know that she abhors the man!”

  Outside Lewes, Byron overmastered her, and assured Miss Twining that she should not prove so missish within a very few hours—for her honour depended entirely upon marriage, as she should be brought to understand. She screamed for the coachman’s aid, at which Byron laughed diabolically, and gagged her mouth.

  “And if you had not heard me moan, Miss Austen,” she concluded, “I should be entirely ruined. How I am to face Papa, I know not! He is sure to blame me—to be most frightfully angry—for fast behaviour in a female is what he cannot condone, and try as I might, I cannot regard my behaviour today as anything other than fast.”

  “We shall engage to put the matter before Papa in the proper light,” I told her. “He should do better to set the whole of the blame at Lord Byron’s door—and I shall urge him most forcefully to do so. His lordship must be called to account for his insult, or no young female in Brighton shall be safe! Your father’s interview must be absolutely discreet, however—the preservation of your reputation demands it. Is it known where Lord Byron lodges, when he is in Brighton?”

  “He keeps a suite of rooms at the King’s Arms, against those occasions when the whim overtakes him to sail. He has been staying at the King’s Arms a good deal, of late.… Oh, pray that he never returns!” Miss Twining cried.

  “Undoubtedly he shall not,” I agreed, “—gentlemen being loath to admit their losses, you know; Lord Byron shall find other fish to fry in London.”

  “The blackguard,” Henry commented coolly. “And now, Jane, the team is put to—if we make haste, we might be in Brighton within the hour. Miss Twining, you will of course accompany us?”

  LADY OXFORD’S CHAISE, WITH ITS OUTRAGED OCCUPANT, was nowhere in sight when we ventured into the stable yard. But I could not help noting, as Henry’s curricle bore us away, two lengths of soiled linen lying trampled in the mud.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pleasures of a Prince

  7 MAY 1813, CONT.

  THE CASTLE INN, BRIGHTON

  I FIND PROXIMITY TO THE SEA A DELIGHT ABOVE ALL others—one that is especially dear, in being the more generally denied. Some two years’ residence in Southampton, and the example of my Naval brother Frank, taught me a degree of comfort with quays and small boats, the bustle to be found on every sort of waterfront, and I sometimes yearn for the vigour of that life in my present, quieter abode at Chawton. The desire for fresh salt air and the constant tumult of the tides overwhelms me, some once or twice, of a hot Hampshire noon. My acquaintance with watering places, however, is not great—on two occasions I have been at Lyme, so sweet in its autumnal association with vanished romance, that I wish still for another glimpse of the Cobb and the bathing machines at Charmouth.3 Of Teignmouth and Sidmouth I have seen a little, and Ramsgate in Kent, and Worthing but twelve miles west on this same Sussex coast. Yet I have never braved the mettle of Brighton, at once the most breathtaking and outrageous resort of the present age.

  Breathtaking, indeed, from the moment our curricle began its descent from the sweep of untenanted Downs, a rolling country of grassland that affords a magnificent view of the well-ordered town at its foot, and the sea beyond, dotted with shipping and pleasure-craft. The sun, just past its zenith, glinted on the stately white buildings as we approached; on a welter of Corinthian columns and Adam-esque façades, and the classical purity of the Marine Pavilion, the Regent’s residence.4 The New Road swung directly past its western lawns, so that a splendid view of the edifice—all but dwarfed by its massive new stable block, constructed in the Indian stile—was obtained directly upon entering Brighton.

  We turned into Church Street, and the direction of Miss Twining’s home.

  She was deathly pale as the curricle pulled to a halt, and had to be lifted to the paving by my brother. We each supported her up the steps, and waited for some response to Miss Twining’s pull of the bell. During the short interval from Cuckfield, she had informed me that Lord Byron took her up in his chaise at a few minutes past eleven o’clock; it was now nearly half-past four. Her poor Papa must be frantic with worry.

  The heavy oak was pulled back; a bent form in livery stared impassively out at us. “Miss Cathy,” it said. “You have been wanted t
hese two hours and more.”

  “Oh, Suddley!” she cried, and stumbled across the threshold. “Indeed I did not mean to run away!”

  “Miss Twining has met with a sad accident,” I said as I followed my charge within doors, “and requires rest and refreshment. She was so good as to permit us to escort her home. My name is Austen; if Miss Twining’s father should care for an explanation, we should be happy to offer it.”

  “That will do, Suddley,” said a voice from the far end of the hall.

  He was a soldierly-looking man, endowed with Miss Twining’s dark hair, but scowling in a manner assured to quell a more ardent spirit than his daughter’s. “Well, miss? And what have you to say for yourself? Gadding about in hoydenish pleasures—making a sport of my name throughout Brighton, I’ve no doubt, and not yet returned from school a month! I do not know what is to become of you—I declare that I do not! A disgrace to your name, and your sainted mother’s memory—Good God, Catherine, have you no conduct? Have you no shame?”

  “Sir—” Henry started forward, part anxiety and part indignation.

  “Father, may I present Mr. Henry Austen, and his sister, Miss Austen, to your acquaintance? Mr. and Miss Austen, my father—General Twining.”

  “And who are they, pray?” this personage demanded, as tho’ we were absent from the room entirely. “It is unusual, is it not, to force one’s notice upon young ladies entirely unknown to one? And in mourning too! I cannot think it becoming.”

  “It was I who forced acquaintance upon the Austens, Papa,” Miss Twining returned tremblingly. “Indeed, they have been my salvation this day, and are deserving of considerable gratitude—but I should prefer to tell you all in greater privacy. May we not go into the drawing-room?”

  “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “But I shall offer no refreshment. It is not my policy to reward impudence. Encroaching manners! Town bronze!”

  He eyed my brother dubiously as he swung past Henry towards the drawing-room; a tall, spare man of advancing years—perhaps in his middle fifties—but still powerfully built, with a breadth of shoulder and a strength of limb that suggested the seasoned campaigner. His forehead jutted over deeply-set eyes of an indeterminate brown; his thin lips appeared permanently compressed, and his chin protruded pugnaciously. A man of ill-managed temper, I concluded, and frequent periods of oppression; an uneasy man to endure. He was dressed in dusky black rather than regimentals, and swung an ebony walking cane.

  “It is a pleasure, sir, to meet any member of Miss Twining’s family,” I managed, hoping to spare our acquaintance further mortification; but her father was not inclined to tact.

  “—Having assumed, no doubt, that such a forward young woman had no relations at all.” He eyed her with disfavour as he ushered us through the doorway. “I understand you were taken up in Lord Byron’s carriage, miss—oh, yes, you need not look so startled, the maidservant has been your Judas! Thought to elope with the Rage of the Ton, did you? And when did you discover your mistake? When the fellow achieved his object—then wanted no part of you?”

  I thought it probable Henry would so far forget himself as to strike the General; his fist was certainly clenching at his side. I placed a restraining hand upon his arm.

  “Your daughter was abducted, sir, by his lordship. She was discovered by my brother and myself at the stable yard in Cuckfield—bound and gagged and imprisoned in his lordship’s carriage against her will. It is to her credit that despite her pitiable state, she was capable of crying out for succor; which plea we heard, and came to her immediate assistance. Miss Twining cannot be held to blame; she is entirely innocent of the affair; and we must all congratulate ourselves that she escaped with no greater injury than a swoon, and considerable chafing to her wrists.”

  The General’s eyes bulged in his head; his countenance empurpled; and with a snort he reached roughly for Miss Twining’s right hand—staring at the red weals on her arm.

  “Disgraceful.” His head snapped up to meet his daughter’s shrinking gaze. “Did you connive in this outrage? Did you hope to run like a harlot from your old father?”

  “Never, sir,” she whispered. Her pallor was so extreme, I feared she might faint again—and observed my brother take a step closer, in the event she slipped to the floor.

  “Little liar,” the General said through his teeth, and struck Miss Twining with his open hand against her cheek.

  She did not cry out, nor did she faint; she simply swayed as she stood, her face averted and her hand shielding the spot where her parent’s hand had fallen.

  “General!” Henry burst out. “You forget yourself!”

  “No, damme, but I know who does. Get out of my house this instant, sir, and never darken its door again!”

  “Papa!” cried Miss Twining, all her outrage in her looks; the General might treat her like the merest chattel, it seemed, but she would not see her friends abused.

  “We shall leave you now, Miss Twining,” I said firmly, with a curtsey for the trembling girl. “I am quite sure when your father is restored to calm, he will better apprehend how blameless you have been today. If he should require further corroboration of your excellent conduct, I am happy to supply it at any time. But now I would urge you to seek your room”—I gave her an expressive look—“and place yourself in the hands of your maid; you will be wanting supper on a tray, I am sure, and an interval of quiet. General, we must bid you good day.”

  I dropped the old renegade another curtsey, and rose to find his snapping eyes fixed upon my face. “Very well,” he said unexpectedly, “you have my thanks for my daughter’s deliverance from Lord Byron—however much I may suspect the tale, and the motives of every member of this party! We shall not speak of this day again. I cannot like a Twining’s disgrace to be known to complete strangers!”

  “Be assured, General, that we shall dismiss every insult we have witnessed, from our minds as soon as may be,” my brother said evenly.

  And having bowed our farewells at the door, and seen Miss Twining hastening above-stairs—we had nothing more to do than seek our rooms at the Castle Inn.

  THIS PROVED TO BE ONE OF TWO PRINCIPAL HOSTELRIES that Brighton affords, a modern building replete with every convenience, including an admirable Assembly Room some eighty feet long, of which the servant offered me a glimpse while conducting us to our bedchambers. The ceiling must be half again as high, and surrounded by a delightful frieze in the Classical manner. A ball is held at the Castle every Monday, as Catherine Twining had assured me, and thus Henry and I shall be treated to all the Fashionables the town at present affords—swirling animatedly in a crush of music, heat, and scent.

  Our apartments overlook the Steyne, the Promenade Grove—a pleasant enough arrangement of poplars, flowers, and darting paths—and just beyond these, the sea. We are fortunate in having descended upon Brighton in advance of the true Season, which may be said to begin in June; and thus may command a commodious suite of rooms: two bedchambers with a private parlour between. Tho’ the furnishings are nothing extraordinary, they are just bright and easy enough to suit a seaside holiday. The whole adventure, indeed, wants only Eliza’s careless frivolity to make it quite perfect.

  —And at that thought, to my surprize, I fancied I caught an echo of my late cousin’s bell-like laughter. I turned enquiringly towards the door, but no quick step passed it; I shook my head impatiently, and answered some query of the chambermaid’s regarding the disposition of my things.

  “SHOULD YOU CARE TO WALK, JANE?” HENRY ENQUIRED perhaps a half-hour later as he thrust his head into my room, “or are you famished?”

  “Walk,” I said decidedly. “The sea air alone shall give me an appetite—and I have it on the best authority that even the Prince Regent dines early at Brighton.”

  “You have been gossiping with the serving-girl, I collect.”

  “Who better to impart the holy rituals of the place? Her name is Betsy; she is not above twenty years old, and is exceedingly wise; she is a nat
ive of Brighton, and she urges me to order our dinner for six o’clock, with no fear of being judged unpardonably vulgar.”

  Henry’s face lit up; I do not think he has enjoyed a meal since Eliza slipped into her decline, some weeks ago. “I shall bespeak a green goose, Jane, and some turbot—for we cannot dine in Brighton without a nod to the sea.”

  “Lobster patties,” I said dreamily, “and champagne.”

  My brother laughed aloud. “You shall have to walk a good two hours, my dear, to merit such indulgence! But do you know—I believe that is exactly the menu Eliza should have requested, were she our companion in dissipation.”

  “She is, Henry,” I said seriously. “She is.”

  We set out across the Steyne, intending to seek the Marine Parade, and spent a good hour ambling west along the sea-front. The day being well advanced, the more notable denizens of the town could be discovered in the Promenade Grove, where an orchestra dispensed music from an elevated platform at its centre, and the Pinks of the ton might ogle the Beauties who effected to admire the profusion of May flowers in the neatly arranged beds. Thus Henry and I, in our funereal black, had the Parade entirely to ourselves. There is nothing so bracing as a brisk stride against the wind, with a lowering edge of cloud on the sea’s horizon, and the waves churning whitely at a safe distance. I felt my spirits rise inevitably, and I thought from the glint in Henry’s eye as he surveyed an elegant vessel, well hove-over on her keel with her sails full of wind, that he had left his grief behind him. He is wise to quit Sloane Street, with its memories that should not soon be forgot, and its loneliness that might never be altered; he is the sort of man who must be doing things, and I admire him for it.