Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

by Stephanie Barron

  Desdemona had begun to pace the sand, tossing anxious half looks towards the sea, and I sensed her mounting anxiety—where was Swithin? He had not resurfaced from his last dive. Had his strength flagged? His senses been suddenly overpowered?

  “Henry,” I attempted—

  But at that moment, Swithin’s head surged out of the waves and he shook it, like a dog. Under his left arm there was a white and limp shape—a neck, a dark blot of head; with his right arm he began the painful crawl back towards us.

  “Pray God he is not too tired,” I breathed.

  “Pray God that is not a corpse,” Henry returned. His lips were set in a thin line. “Damned foolish, Jane. Damned foolish. What can she have been thinking?”

  I did not answer, but hurried towards Desdemona, who was now urging her husband on with every call of encouragement she could think of, entirely oblivious to the crowd of Fashionables that had gathered, slowly but inevitably, on the Marine Parade behind us. They could have no notion whose drama was played in the waves below them; they were drawn, rather, by the spectacle—and by the clear interest of our own anxiety, the fact that Henry and I were dressed in mourning, as tho’ the outcome of events were already certain. Some few of them would certainly recognise the Countess of Swithin.

  “My lady,” I said, “we are the object of all Brighton. No one must be allowed to penetrate Lady Caroline’s disguise. Are we not agreed?”

  She gave me a swift glance, then drew her fine Paisley shawl from her shoulders. “We shall wrap her in this. And carry her to our house—it is but a few steps off the Marine Parade. Only how are we to convey her?”

  Swithin was standing in the shallows, now, his burden lifted in his arms; his lungs gasped for air and his stumbling legs sought a secure foothold. Soon, he would deposit Lady Caroline on the sand—and the moment of danger would be arrived.

  “Henry!” I cried. “Fetch a chair! Surely there will be one standing before the Castle! A chair, and make haste!”

  He dashed off on the instant, heedless of explanation. A stout pair of chairmen must suffice; hackney chaises were difficult to secure in Brighton. Time enough to fetch a doctor once we knew whether Caroline Lamb still breathed.

  Desdemona went to her husband; he set down the frail figure and fell to his knees beside it. “Rub her limbs,” he urged. “Your vinaigrette, Mona—do you have it?”

  She shook her head, mutely chafing Caro’s wrists; Desdemona had never been one for die-away airs, nor the remedies employed to defeat them. Hartshorn would be absent from her reticule as well. Burnt feathers might serve to bring Lady Caroline round—but where to procure them? I glanced about. The fishwives burnt charcoal near their trestles; perhaps the smoke from this would do? I hastened to beg a bit of coals, and as my half-boots trod the shingle, I caught sight of a veritable gull’s feather among the rocks. I snatched at it, lit the tip in the fishwives’ fire, and hurried back to my friends, my palm cupping the flame against the sea wind.

  Swithin had turned Caro Lamb on her side, and was supporting her insensible form as she retched; he had been careful, I saw, to face his charge away from the curious who were massed on the Marine Parade. A few of these—gentlemen all—had ventured down onto the shingle; and one, in catching my eye, loudly enquired, “May one do anything? May one be of service?”

  “It is only a local lad,” I returned as I handed my burnt feather to Desdemona, who waved it vigourously beneath Caro’s nose. “A cabin boy, off a fishing vessel. He ventured out too deep.”

  The gentleman nodded, indifferent now, and turned back. I saw him convey the quelling news to others in his party, who swiftly related it to the rest; and of a sudden, the crowd began to disperse in as leisurely a fashion as it had gathered. There was nothing in the life or death of a cabin boy to excite the interest of the Great.

  “She breathes,” Desdemona whispered.

  And indeed, the small chest rose slightly and fell; some life remained unextinguished.

  My brother’s figure appeared on the low wall that separated Parade from sand; he lifted his arm in salute.

  “The chair is come,” I murmured in a low voice.

  “Excellent,” Swithin said. “Your shawl, now, Mona, if you please. I shall carry her; the weight is no more than our son’s.”

  The frail face—like a faerie’s or a sleeping child’s—was still insensible as the Earl conveyed Lady Caroline across the sand. I had read of her looks in every newspaper in the land—how she was called the Sprite, in respect of her ethereal grace and a certain fey quality to her character. But in her looks I saw desolation, rather—as tho’ some great flame had passed through her being and burnt away all substance, leaving but a husk.

  The chair stood waiting between its stout fellows, under Henry’s anxious eye. The Earl shifted Lady Caroline gently within, and stepped back, that Desdemona might have the arranging of the Paisley shawl. As the Countess’s hands secured the folds, Lady Caroline’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Am I drowned?” she muttered.

  “No, my dear. You are saved. Hush, now.”

  “He saved me?” The eyes, clear as agates, searched Desdemona’s face. “Mona Swithin—what are you doing here?”

  “It was my husband who brought you out of the sea.”

  The eyes closed; a tear seeped from one. Caro Lamb shuddered the length of her body as tho’ suffering an intolerable pain. “And so he sailed on! I should rather have died, Mona, than have it so.”

  “Hush,” the Countess said again, and closed the chair door. “Number 21, Marine Parade,” she told the chairmen.

  “My pantaloons are ruined,” Swithin said conversationally as the Irish carriers moved off. “And it is the first time I have worn them. I shall have Byron’s neck for this.”

  WE PARTED FROM THE EARL AND HIS LADY BEFORE THEIR door, having secured from them a promise of swift news of Lady Caroline’s health—and our assurances, in return, that we should be delighted to dine with them on the morrow. We should not be attending the Assembly at the Castle, of course—for two such figures as ourselves, deep in the throes of mourning, it could not be seemly to dance. But a private dinner among friends, and an early evening of retirement while the music drifted up from the floors below—there could be nothing objectionable in this.

  “Besides, Jane,” Henry said as we achieved our inn, ravenous for our well-earned nuncheon, “I shall not be deprived of every detail the Swithins learn of Lady Caroline’s exploits—whether she comes down to dinner, or keeps to her room as solitary as a nun! I feel I have won such intelligence by my exertions today. I was in a quake the whole time, in the belief that if Swithin failed, I must be hurled into the breach next—and you know how many victims the fishwives should have had to rescue then!”

  “Only think how dull our days would be, Henry, had we chosen Lyme over Brighton,” I said thoughtfully. “There is a deceptive mildness about this place—and yet so much passion beneath the surface!”

  I meant the words in jest; but they bore a prophetic quality I learnt to regret.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Friends in High Places

  MONDAY, 10 MAY 1813

  BRIGHTON

  MONDAY DAWNED IN LOWERING CLOUDS AND RAIN.

  The bed in this chamber is hung with heavy curtains—very grand, to be sure, but nothing I am accustomed to at home; I do not draw them when I sleep, and thus was afforded a glimpse of heaving grey seas beyond my window from the moment I awoke. It was a desolate sight, and made plain the truth that few enjoyed the pleasures of Brighton in winter; it should prove a dreary clime. I was happier when my gaze fell on Betsy, kneeling at the hearth with her kindling and tinder-box in full employ; there was a damp chill to the room that a cheerful fire should soon dispel. I raised myself up on my pillows, and at this slight sound the chambermaid turned, dusted off her hands, and rose with a hesitant smile.

  “Would you be wanting your tea, then, ma’am?”

  “That would be delightful,” I said.
<
br />   I recall a time when I was perennially addressed as Miss; but those days are sadly fled.

  She rubbed her hands on her apron and disappeared into the passage, returning seconds later with the silver tray; I humped up my knees under the bedclothes, held the delicate porcelain cup to my lips, and allowed the scent of China Black to drift gratefully to my nostrils. There is such a luxury in being waited upon of a morning, that I shall hardly know how to endure the return to Chawton, where Cassandra is abroad at the first cock-crow, tending to her poultry and her little dogs, and it is my office to walk down the village lane to procure the day’s bread. I am content with such a life, of course—the gentle habits of the country entirely suit my need for quiet reflection, and provide endless studies of character, in the subtle turns of Fate that are visited upon the village’s inhabitants—but an interval of harmless dissipation, of gazing upon the rain without the slightest need of going out, safe in the knowledge that no one should make a claim upon my attention until the dinner hour at least—was bliss to savour.

  “It rains so hard this morning, the Lord must be looking for Noah,” Betsy observed, as she halted with her hand on the door latch. “’Twill go hard with them as serve the Assembly tonight; such a mess of wet wraps and dirty shoes as shall have to be looked after! And I’ll have the cleaning of the floors, I don’t doubt, on the morrow!”

  I had never considered the inconvenience of rain to the servants at an inn; and the thoughts uppermost in my own mind—that the delicate silk sandals of the ladies intent upon dancing should never survive such weather, without the ladies themselves being carried by gentlemen of their acquaintance from their carriages to the Castle’s threshold, which should serve as a delicious intimacy to every girl who had yet to be clasped in a gentleman’s strong arms—unless that gentleman disappointingly proved to be her brother. And how was such a feat to be accomplished, in a town where almost nobody drove? Would the gentlemen walk staidly under their umbrellas beside the chairs procured for the ladies? Ho did the poor chairmen manage in such a deluge, when all the world was mad for chairs? Did the cost of such a conveyance rise as the mercury fell?—None of these questions appeared compatible with the more practical sentiments of a Betsy; but they were perfect for the delights of hot tea, sipped in bed, with a view of the stormy sea.

  “I am sure you shall have much to do,” I managed to say to the chambermaid sympathetically.

  “Aye, and there’s nothing new in that,” the girl returned. “You’ll not be attending the Assembly yourself, ma’am, on account of your loss?”

  “I shall not.”

  “—Because I should have been happy to dress you, had you the need.”

  “Thank you, Betsy—I may in fact require your services, around six o’clock. Mr. Austen and I dine out this evening, with a small party of friends.” I was conscious of vanity, and added, “We are expected at the home of the Earl of Swithin, on the Marine Parade. I should be very happy to have your help in dressing my hair, if you feel equal to it.”

  She eyed me doubtfully, being almost half my age, and uncertain whether the fashions of twenty should suit a lady so stricken in years as myself—but the desire for advancement overcame all hesitation, and she bobbed a curtsey. “Six o’clock, ma’am, without fail.”

  I poured myself a second cup of tea as the door closed behind her, and allowed myself to drift happily into the world of Henry Crawford—who waited in suspense for the decision of his insipid Fanny, his Creator being otherwise engaged by the frivolities of Brighton. I cannot like my poor Fanny, tho’ her scruples are such as must command respect; I believe I shall spare the darling Henry such a cross, and bestow the lady upon her cousin Edmund—who has earned her as penance, for his utter lack of humour. Edmund has taken Holy Orders, after all; and a clergyman requires a certain daily disappointment in earthly life, as confirmation of his spiritual worth.

  BETSY WAS AS GOOD AS HER WORD, AND ARRIVED A FULL ten minutes in advance of six o’clock, in order to dress my hair. She brought with her—God knows where she found them—a set of curling tongs, which she proceeded to heat by the bedchamber fire. This had died down during the course of the day, which I had spent in dutifully writing such news as obtained to Cassandra, and in scribbling bits of dialogue as came to my mind—truly delightful badinage, if I do say so myself, on the subject of the ha-ha, as both landscape feature and metaphor of female bondage. I cannot get out, Maria Bertram cries, as she rattles the iron gate in frustration. At which Henry Crawford must smile knowingly—such delightful creatures being always possessed of the instruments of licence, when ladies desperate for freedom appeal to them—and show the foolish girl how to escape her betrothed.

  My own Henry had spent an unobjectionable day in perusing the sporting papers at Donaldson’s; met with me for a hearty nuncheon; declared himself determined to attend both tomorrow’s cricket match and race-meeting, weather permitting; and, having rubbed up against Lord Moira during his interval at the library, was carried off by the Earl to Raggett’s Club, for a debauch of silver-loo during the afternoon.15

  I did not enquire whether Henry’s luck was in; it mattered more whether Lord Moira’s was out—for as the Earl’s banker, Henry was doubly his surety for anything in the gambling line.

  “Aye, ma’am, and you do look fine,” Betsy offered in a kindly tone; she was patronising me, I am sure, for there was nothing very extraordinary in my black silk, it being the same gown I had worn Saturday evening. I had clipped my topaz cross on its fine gold chain around my neck, however—no gift from such a brother as Charles should ever disgrace me—and I was determined to leave off my matronly cap. My chestnut hair, tho’ shot with grey, is nearly long enough to stand upon. I had already brushed it, and plaited it into four tight braids, which I suggested Betsy should arrange about my head in a becoming fashion. This she managed to do with surprising aplomb, looping two strands first into a chignon at the crown of my head, and the remaining two at the nape, with a profusion of short curls about my ears and brow. Through all this, she wove a gold ribbon—just the touch required to relieve my inky black, and pick out the note of the topaz cross. I was quite pleased with the result; and tho’ my looks are no longer blooming, I believe my appearance would do justice to the Earl of Swithin’s table.

  “They do say, ma’am, as you were on the shingle when the poor lady from London was saved of the sea yesterday,” Betsy observed as she plied her curling tongs. “Blue as Death they do say she was, until the Earl tore off her clothes, and rubbed her body all over. A sight it was to make a Christian blush! But perhaps you know better, being intimate with the Earl and his lady.”

  I was astounded to learn that Caro Lamb’s disguise had already been penetrated, and turned—the tongs searing my scalp—to stare at Betsy. “I assure you the victim was a local cabin boy! A fisherman’s lad!”

  She suppressed a smile. “Aye, and I’m your grandma’s old tabby! The Earl’s scullery maid—she’s a Brighton girl, Lucy is, and goes with the house whoever takes it of a season—is my cousin. She said as how the lady was brought in, wearing a boy’s breeches and all of a swoon, and carried directly upstairs. Hot milk and bread she was given, tho’ precious little she ate. Lucy says the trays all came back, and the sops went to the house cat.”

  “Lucy is likely to lose her place, if her taste for gossip outstrips her good sense,” I said calmly. “The Earl should not like his servants to spread his business to the world; and as I am dining on the Marine Parade this evening, I may feel it my duty to inform his lordship how his confidence is betrayed.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am, please to say you wouldn’t do that!” Betsy’s hands were suspended over my head, her horror writ upon her simple countenance. “I won’t breathe a word of Lucy’s tales to anyone, I promise. She’s forever telling ’em—it goes with her place, you see, she’s privy to monstrous goings-on, every season, for the house is let only to those as is that high in the instep—”

  “Naturally. But she shall
never be more than a scullery maid if she does not guard her employer’s secrets. You, Betsy, I know, are anxious for advancement.”

  “I am that, ma’am,” the chambermaid said, her tone subdued.

  “I am very pleased with the dressing of my hair,” I told her. “And I thank you. Now, be a good girl—and do not spread this malicious gossip among the Castle’s servants. The poor creature the Earl saved from drowning shall no doubt be despatched to London tomorrow, and once gone, there is nothing more need be said. It will be as tho’ the incident never occurred.”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Betsy countered, “but the lady’s not bound for London. Lucy says as how she took herself off this morning to the Pavilion, her being a special friend of the Regent’s. Perhaps it was in longing for Prinny that she threw herself into the sea! Only fancy! One of the Regent’s light-o’-loves, naked on the shingle, with the Earl of Swithin caressing her body—and everybody certain it ’twere a boy! There’s been nothing like it since Maria Fitzherbert turned respectable!”

  “IT IS TRUE,” DESDEMONA TOLD ME AS WE STOOD IN HER drawing-room before a great pier glass, sipping ratafia, “Caro would be gone—and has begged a room in the Pavilion itself. Her mother, Lady Bessborough, is forever staying there, you know—having been an intimate of the Prince these thirty years at least—but I had not thought Caro capable of such effrontery as to invite herself to become one of the Royal party. The Lambs are Whigs, as are all the Bessboroughs—as indeed we are ourselves, not to put too fine a point upon it—and the Regent is heartily turned against his old Whig cronies, now he has the reins of power in his hands. Such ingratitude! When it was we alone who championed his cause, when the King was run mad!”