She was perfectly positioned as her mount took the final fence, her frail figure aligned with the horse’s as it leapt; and there was no doubt of the heedless courage in every fibre of both creatures’ beings. I had no doubt they moved, in that instant, as one; which made the horrendous destruction that followed almost incomprehensible. The colt cleared the fence, but sailed just short of the vicious trunk; his hind legs caught in a tree limb; the horse staggered, fell forward on its knees, and somersaulted—with Caro Lamb going straight over its neck.
A moan of horror went up from our assembled crowd; and for an instant, all breath and movement was suspended. I saw, as in a dream, China Trade swirl across the finish; saw her jockey pull up his heaving mount in expectation of universal acclaim—and watched, as horror freed its grip, the first of the gentlemen bolt past the victorious mare in the direction of the insensible lady lying prone on the ground.
“As I observed,” Lady Oxford said drily, “the wretched fool has broken her neck. How in God’s name are we to explain it to William Lamb?”
Desdemona made as if to descend from her carriage, but her husband’s hand on her wrist stopped her.
“Stay,” he said. “I shall go. You can do nothing there.”
The black colt had scrambled to its feet but stood all of a huddle, head hanging, one back leg pulled up as tho’ in agony. Several gentlemen had reached Lady Caroline, and knelt about her; one of them called, in an agitated accent, “She breathes!”
“Praise God,” Lady Oxford murmured; and again, I was startled at her charity.
A crack, as of a pistol shot, rang out—and I saw to my horror the beautiful black colt crumple to the ground, with a shudder as profound as thunder—a ruin to Lady Caroline’s whims. It was the starter’s pistol that had done it; and a gentleman stood a moment over the pitiable creature, staring at its noble head, pistol dangling, before turning away.
“I suppose the hind leg was broken in the tree,” Lady Oxford said with a slight catch in her voice. “I cannot bear to see it—a hunter of mine went in just such a way, some years since, when I rode with the Quorn.20 God forgive us for the way we use our beasts.”
“I hope He may find it in His heart to forgive Lady Caroline, at least,” I murmured. “She drove that colt to its destruction.”
Lady Oxford was silent a moment. “I have often thought it is herself she wishes to destroy. But until that day—Caro will be content to smash everything near her,” she said.
20 The Quorn Hunt, founded in 1696 by Mr. Thomas Boothby of Tooley Park, Leicestershire, is still in existence today. It was considered one of the most rigorous, demanding, and exciting of the hunts of Jane Austen’s time, and to be invited to ride with its members conferred considerable prestige. It takes its name from the village of Quorn, where the pack was kenneled from 1753 to 1904.—Editor’s note.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Green-Eyed Monster
WEDNESDAY, 12 MAY 1813
BRIGHTON, CONT.
I MAY BE FORGIVEN IF I CONFESS THAT AFTER SO EXHAUSTING a day, replete with inquests, seductive poets, duelling inamoratas, and suicidal races, I looked for nothing more engaging than an early dinner and an inviting bed. First, however, I was required to witness Lady Caroline Lamb’s retirement from the field—sensible at last, and carried aloft on a hurdle, with her riding habit trailing to the ground like a heroine out of Shakespeare.
I must observe, as an aside, that I am forever put in mind of the stage when I am treated to one of Caro Lamb’s scenes; and I am hardly alone in this. Her life is lived on so dramatic a plane that the theatre cannot be far from one’s thoughts. This reflection leads me inevitably to another: Does the air of High Tragedy persist, even when the lady is entirely alone, and playing only to her mirror?
I should like a private interview with Lady Caroline—she betrayed herself as so completely in possession of the history of Catherine Twining, when she chose to spar with Lady Oxford, that I imagine she gained rather more of the child’s confidence than she admitted at the inquest. It is even possible she might say more of her parting from Catherine—the exact hour and circumstance that left the poor girl without escort home to Church Street—if properly managed.
And what, I wonder, is the significance of the name Leila? We two shall have much to discuss, once Caro’s shattered frame is on the mend.
I say shattered, but in truth she broke no bones, being but shaken to her core. The ground dealt a shocking blow to the head; she took leave of her senses; and was less than coherent for several hours after, according to general report. Lord Wyncourt—whose horse had come to grief without the necessity of being shot—was kind enough to bear Caro Lamb back to the Pavilion in his laudaulet; and it was from his words the intelligence soon emanated the length and breadth of Brighton, which had seen nothing to equal her ladyship’s display since the Regent had grown too fat to gallop over the Downs.
I shudder to think what must have been Caro’s reception, once the news of the black colt’s end was received at the Pavilion. The Regent’s love for his horses is everywhere known—and is said to exceed even his love of women. His Royal Highness cannot, in good conscience, despatch an injured lady post-haste back to London, even were the magistrate to allow it; but it is certain that Caro Lamb is in disgrace, and shall be barred from the stables so long as she remains in the town.
“What a race, eh, Jane?” my brother crowed as Mona backed and turned her phaeton in preparation for quitting the meeting-ground. Henry was standing with deceptive insouciance beside China Trade, as tho’ he had been an intimate of Lord Swithin’s this age, a privileged friend and sporting companion.
How Eliza should have loved the picturesque! I thought with a pang. And almost forgave her betrayal.
The sprightly mare’s bay coat was darkened with sweat, but she appeared to regard the exertion so little, as to be ready to try a second round of the course. The Earl’s countenance had regained its colour, and he met a hail of felicitations from the gentlemen whose wagers he had justified, with becoming relish.
The ladies of the party, I may disclose, accomplished the return to Brighton in subdued spirits. Desdemona was disposed to exclaim about Caro Lamb and her mad behaviour, and I might have seconded her observations with praise of the Earl’s game little jumper, had not Lady Oxford’s demeanour silenced us both. Her ladyship was lost in distraction, and that the tendency of her thoughts ran to Lord Byron, and all that Lady Caroline had disclosed, was revealed by her asking abruptly, “Does George truly mean to dine with you tonight, Mona, or is that but a falsehood as well?”
Desdemona shot me a sidelong look—I was wedged between the two Countesses—and said diffidently, “I depend upon his appearance, as he accepted the invitation with alacrity only this afternoon. He was most solicitous for your welfare, Jane, I assure you—being well aware that the Regent is no great favourite of yours, and that it is His Royal Highness who sets the tone of Society in Brighton. Byron had no wish to see you come to hammer-and-tongs with Prinny over Princess Caroline.”
“—He did not wish to see me snubbed, you mean,” Lady Oxford returned. “It would never do for the acknowledged maîtresse of so celebrated a poet, to receive the cut direct from all Brighton. Pray speak plainly, Mona. Does he dread my coming?”
“What?” her ladyship exclaimed, as tho’ outraged. “George, dread to see the lady nearest his heart? Do not be a goosecap, my dear! You cut your Wisdoms too long ago!”
It was perhaps unfortunate that Mona should have invoked Lady Oxford’s age, at such a moment, when her friend required only reassurance; it was done entirely without malice, however, as the unfortunate adoption of cant expressions usually is—with frequent disastrous effect.
“Yes, I’m rather more than seven,” her ladyship observed acidly; and to my horror, she began to weep. Mona, on my left hand, was entirely unaware of the distress she had caused. Tears streamed silently down Lady Oxford’s cheeks, trailing through the powder and rouge her ladyshi
p employed—which can only have served as salt in her wounds. I drew a clean handkerchief from my reticule and wordlessly offered it. Lady Oxford mopped delicately at her face.
“I have known Caroline Lamb long enough to declare that while she is an accomplished little liar, she rarely tries it on in publick,” she told us. “Every word she uttered today, whether in a whisper or a screech, was potently true, was it not, Mona?”
“I could not undertake to say,” stammered the Countess of Swithin. “Certainly as regards the more intimate of her barbs, I cannot be allowed to have an opinion.”
Lady Oxford made a dismissive gesture with her hand; my black-hemmed square of lawn fluttered away behind the dashing phaeton. “But the gist of it, Mona: Byron was in love with the girl?—This Twining chit? And has been deceiving me liberally the whole spring long? When I believed him besotted—”
The Countess of Swithin was silent an instant, as tho’ marshalling her arguments. I may say that despite the necessity of preserving her wits and temper in the face of her friend’s turbulent spirits, she continued to drive her demanding team to the very inch, for which I was no end grateful.
“Who can tell what George Gordon truly feels in that place he claims for a heart?” she declared at last. “Never having penetrated it, my dear, I should not attempt to say. Certainly he conceived a passion for Catherine Twining—but whether as a man, or a poet inspired by a particular muse, who knows? The girl was the merest child! And he has always been enslaved by ladies of more … experience … and … and maturity … as you know. Such innocence as Catherine displayed could not have captivated him long.”
Lady Oxford drew a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. She ought to have been reassured by her friend’s words, but her face was become a mask, distracted and anxious; Desdemona had only increased her misery.
“With those of Byron’s stamp,” her ladyship persisted, “it must be enough to figure in his imagination; one can never hope to possess it solely, as one might with a lesser Genius. You have been Aspasia, your little daughter has been Ianthe—must you strive to be his Leila too?”
There it was, again: that haunting name, so evocative of climes far from England’s shores. Caro Lamb had caught it; from Byron himself—or Catherine Twining?
“It was Caro who named me thus, not Byron,” Lady Oxford said, reverting to the first part of Mona’s sentence. “Aspasia—for Socrates’ wise mistress. We used to meet so often, in past years, to talk over the latest radical ideas—there is a wild Genius, when all is said, to Caro’s understanding. Mad she may be, untamed her heart shall always be—but there is nothing deficient in her intellect. Indeed, there are few women I should prefer to meet, had this unfortunate break not come between us.”
She spoke as tho’ the break had not been of her making—and yet, I thought with amazement bordering on revulsion, there had been a choice when she succumbed to Byron’s ardour. Lady Oxford had certainly known of Caro Lamb’s amorous history—that lady had made a gift of every detail to her entire world. But Jane Harley had deliberately taken as her lover the man who had discarded her dear friend. That both ladies were married already was of the slightest consequence, it seemed.
Aspasia, indeed!
I should never become accustomed to the casual betrayals that served as bread-and-butter to the haut ton.
THE COUNTESS OF SWITHIN SEEMED LESS INCLINED TO AN intimate dinner with Lady Oxford, now that her friend was decidedly blue-deviled, and was most pressing in her invitation to both Henry and me to swell their family party. But I pled weariness, and remained firm in declining all frivolity. As I stepped down from the phaeton before the Castle’s door, and walked round to Mona’s side to curtsey my thanks, she leaned from her seat and muttered, “I shall urge the Countess to trust you entirely, dearest Jane, with references to my brother Kinsfell, and your perspicacity on numerous occasions—indeed, it should be enough to mention my uncle Trowbridge’s regard, for they were as intimate as two peas in a pod, you know. I shall write to you on the morrow—provided my friend is not taken up for the murder of Lord Byron in the interval—”
With a roguish smile and a flick of her whip, she left me to turn slowly into the comparative peace of the inn, in search of my comfortable dinner—which was fated to be discomposed by fruitless pondering of the terms intimate and peas in a pod.
Had Lord Harold, too, been Lady Oxford’s slave? What had he called her—Aspasia, Ianthe, or simply Jane?
I was unaccountably brusque with Henry throughout the evening.
———
“BY THE BY, JANE,” HE SAID AS THE GUINEA FOWL, TURBOT, radishes, and shrimps were removed, and a dish of pears in jellied wine and a syllabub were set before us, along with half a local cheese—“you have not asked me one word about my conversation with Scrope Davies. I thought you intended for me to pump the fellow!”
As the better part of Henry’s conversation had concerned horses during dinner—the various points of those in the field, and those capable of completely outshining it, that had scratched at the last moment due to strained hocks, or other vagaries of Fortune; the obscure genealogy of Lord Wyncourt’s colt, which was said to require a fomenting of the knees as a result of its fall; the practices pursued by the Earl of Swithin on his estates in Ireland, where the bay mare had been bred; and the general outcome of the betting—I found this declaration self-serving, if not openly unjust.
I stabbed the cheese with a spoon. “I should like to hear what you thought of the gentleman.”
“Oh! As to that—he’s an excellent fellow! Highly intelligent, with an air of Fashion, and unfailingly good ton. I could wish him rather more plump in the pocket—he ought to bag an heiress one of these days, but the mammas are all against him, smelling the fortune-hunter. It is a sad thing when a man of no particular profession sets up as a Dandy—without he carries a title, or the expectation of an inheritance, the Polite World is apt to look askance. However, there is nothing to quarrel with in the tying of Davies’s cravat, or the set of his coat; he moves in the first circles, and if he does play too deep at basset, I am sure it is no affair of mine. He banks with Coutts.”
“Henry,” I said with a commendable effort at controlling my temper, “did Eliza never tell you that you are the most infuriating Henry in all the world?”
“Eliza doted on me, as well she ought.” He tossed a grape in the air and caught it between his teeth, as tho’ he had been yet a boy; and it occurred to me that he must have placed a good deal of money on the bay mare, for his spirits verged on the giddy.
“Out with it,” I commanded. “How much did you win?”
“Seven hundred guineas.”
I sat back in my chair, astounded. Such a princely sum should never have entered my head—and the betting surely had not argued such massive winnings—the bay mare was the clear favourite stepping out of the post—
“You bet against Caro Lamb,” I said. “Didn’t you?”
“Having seen that lady come to grief on the shingle, did you expect me to back her on the turf?” he retorted drily. “For all I could judge, her ladyship was likely to ride as poorly as she swam. It was a close-run thing, of course—the colt very nearly cleared that final jump, and had Lady Caroline placed, it should have been bellows to mend with me.… May I offer you a grape, Jane?”
I will never underestimate the reckless disregard of bankers.
I shook my head, and concentrated on consuming a bite of cheese.
“Very well,” I said. “On the strength of seven hundred guineas, I have no compunction in demanding that you sing for your supper—and frank me in a new gown I shall order tomorrow at a modiste’s I fancy in North Street. I regard myself as entirely responsible for Caro’s queer freaks, merely from having overlistened her speeches to Lady Oxford. Without myself as audience, she should hardly have performed to such a height—or been moved to plunge into the field, from a fevered desire for further applause.”
“Done,” my brother said. “
What would you have me sing?”
“Your opinion of Scrope Davies. And I do not mean of his cravat,” I added. “The Twinings’ butler would have it that Davies was acquainted with the family—that it was he, in fact, who made his friend Byron known to Miss Twining.”
“Did he, tho’?” Henry returned, with an air of surprize. “That is devilish odd, Jane. I’d have sworn he carried a tendre for the young lady himself.”
I studied my brother. The elation natural to a gentleman who has raped Fortune of so grand a sum as seven hundred guineas had been heightened by the liberal resort to an excellent French claret, which had been followed with applications of a mellow Port; and it was obvious that my brother was rather well to live, as the saying goes. I had not seen him so jubilant since Eliza’s illness first clenched its talons all too palpably in her breast, some ten months ago. I love Henry so well—he is, not even excepting Frank, the dearest of my brothers, as being the most aligned in temperament to myself—that I revelled in this resurgence of his native jubilance; and indeed, found that my own megrims were entirely banished, at the sight of Henry’s high colour and dancing looks.
“Go on,” I said.
Henry threw down his napkin and rocked backwards on his chair, the picture of happy surfeit.
“It was obvious you required an interval to examine his drunken lordship,” he began, “so I made it my business to entertain Mr. Davies. I commenced with the usual gambit—felicitations all round on the happy outcome of the inquest, and the undoubted part Mr. Davies’s own evidence had played—but I found him unreceptive. Throughout the quarter-hour in which we spoke—or I spoke, rather, for the exertion was almost entirely on my side—the gentleman was decidedly ill-at-ease.”
My interest sharpened. “From what cause?”
“Divided attention. He was engrossed in overlistening your conversation with Lord Byron, and at first I assumed he did so from an anxiety to protect his inebriated friend. However, I swiftly concluded he was consumed with a desire to know the gentleman’s sentiments, not your own, and was more nearly attending to Byron’s words than mine. Indeed, I was forced to enquire thrice whether he meant to visit the racing-ground this afternoon, before receiving less than a distracted answer.”
Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron Page 19
