Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

by Stephanie Barron

  I was arrayed in dark blue silk—one of my older gowns, last worn at Eliza’s musical party during the spring of 1811—but less quelling to the sensibilities of the Master of Ceremonies, I thought, than dusky black should be. If I did violence to what was required of one in mourning, my conscience was assuaged by Henry’s saying nothing in reproach; as we met in the passage, he merely assured me I was in excellent looks, as any wise brother ought. It was without much trepidation, therefore, that I followed Lady Swithin into the gaiety of the Assembly Rooms—and after a little interval of greetings and introductions among her varied acquaintance—Lady Oxford having to be exclaimed over by all those of the ton as yet ignorant of her arrival—Mona took me aside and said: “The Master of Ceremonies, Mr. Forth, is over there—by the French window letting out onto the balcony.”

  He was a tall, broad, and exceedingly corpulent fellow, dressed in satin knee breeches, silk stockings, and shining black slippers with large gold buckles. His coat was dark blue superfine; his cravat was snowy, and so intricately tied as to support several of his chins. The top of his head was quite bald, but he compensated for the lack by wearing what remained of his hair luxuriantly long—a fall of curls, as gold as a newborn’s. He was so like an illustration from a ladies’ magazine of what a Master ought to be, that I nearly laughed outright; but Mona had seized my hand and begun to thread her way through the throngs of Fashionables and red-coated cavalry officers, all milling about the floor in expectation of the first dance. I had time enough to glimpse a touseled dark figure limp towards Lady Oxford—saw the Countess turn as though under the force of a spell, her countenance transformed by the intoxicating presence of Byron—and Mona had achieved the French windows.

  “Good evening, Mr. Forth,” she said. “You have a sad crush this evening! I think we may declare the Brighton Season launched!”

  “Countess,” the Master responded in a tone of profound gratitude; and swept Desdemona a low bow. For a large fellow, he was surprisingly nimble. “Our poor hamlet is made infinitely finer by your presence, and that of your excellent Earl—his Hessians undoubtedly by Hoby, his coats by Weston, his collars exactly the correct height, neither so low as to suggest a despicable carelessness, nor so high as to trumpet the Dandy—”

  “Yes, yes,” Mona said impatiently, “but you must attend, Mr. Forth! I have been wanting to present my dear friend Miss Austen, lately of London and Hampshire, to your acquaintance—for this is her first visit to Brighton, you know, and there is no one but you who may put her in the correct way of things!”

  “Charmed,” said Mr. Forth, taking my hand and bowing over it—but not before his gaze had run the length of my blue gown, and calculated its worth and probable age to a nicety. “London modiste, but not one of the greatest talents; beaded trim no longer fashionable this year—ought to have changed it for grosgrain; colour suits her, however, but I should recommend next time she chuse claret-colored sarcenet,” he murmured almost inaudibly under his breath.

  “Do not regard him for the world, Jane,” Mona hissed in my ear as the Master recovered from his bows, mopping his bald pate with a handkerchief; “it is said he was born the son of a tailor, and cannot leave off the instincts of his trade however glorious his present station. Mr. Forth!” she cried. “You were present, I know, at Monday’s Assembly at the Castle. Miss Austen unfortunately was not—but her particular friend, Miss Catherine Twining, danced several dances to my certain knowledge.”

  “Ah! Our lamented Miss Twining!” the Master cried; and his brown eyes—lugubrious and reminiscent of a hound’s—filled with sadness. “Diaphanous white muslin, circlet of rosebuds and pearls, satin slippers with shoe-roses to match. Irreproachable taste, of course, for Mrs. Silchester had the dressing of the girl—and tho’ the woman will be featherbrained, she remains good ton. I recall the toilette well. Miss Twining was everything that was charming. And a particular friend of Miss Austen’s, you would say? You have my sympathy, ma’am. Such an unaccountable death—nothing in her stile to suggest it—I fear the world is a very wicked place. Even in our poor hamlet!”

  “I have been attempting to make sense of the senseless myself, sir,” I managed in a hollow tone. “And I have been endeavouring to record all the details of Miss Twining’s final evening—her last on earth!—no matter how small. I wished to convey a picture of her in a letter to my family, which shall be amazed to learn of her death”—as how could they not be, knowing nothing of Miss Twining at all—“and felt that in justice I ought to remember the gaieties she enjoyed, as only Catherine could, before her young life was so brutally cut short. The Countess”—I felt Mona’s title offered excellent value on the present occasion—“thought immediately of yourself, and said there should be no one in Brighton better able to recall the evening—which dances poor Catherine stood up for, and who were her partners. I should be infinitely happy if you should be so good as to search your memory …”

  Mr. Forth closed his eyes an instant. “We opened, naturally, with a minuet, and closed the ball with another. Now, I recall Miss Twining had Mr. Hendred Smalls—nothing to remark in either stile or person, being entirely unworldly in his aspect, except as pertains to the Regent, whom he toadies unbearably—as partner for the first dance; also to the second, poor child, which was a contredanse. Mr. Smalls could not keep his mind on the figures, and was constantly giving offence with his stupidity in the dance. Now, who was her partner for the third? That would be the cotillion with Allemande; I believe it was young Holsten, the baronet’s heir just down from Oxford—excessive padding to shoulders and calves, coat by Hearn, white waistcoat and satin breeches—good ton, of course, but no shoulders, no air or address, and apt to stutter. Poor Holsten was greatly incommoded by Lord Byron—most careless in his cravat, patterned waistcoat not at all the thing, and that lamentable right foot—who persisted in interrupting the dance to importune Miss Twining for an interview, which she steadily refused. At the close of the cotillion, General Twining quitted the Assembly and left his daughter in Mrs. Silchester’s care.

  “The fourth was a Scots reel; Miss Twining had young Captain Viscount Morley of the 10th to that one—very dashing fellow, excellent figure, excessively charming, cravat à la Napoleon, the new patent leather pumps. Captain Morley was most attentive, frowned down Lord Byron, whom he appeared to regard not at all, and carried Miss Twining into the supper room after the reel; they partook of smoked salmon, pistache cream, and champagne. Lord Byron again approached Captain Morley, and words were exchanged, at which point I intervened, so that peace might be restored. Lord Byron retired to the card room; and after this little interval, the Captain would, I believe, have partnered Miss Twining again—but she very rightly declined, so as not to appear too particular. The Captain, as I recall, watched the next dance—another cotillion—but solicited no other partner; none could please him after Miss Twining, it would seem. She acceded to Mr. Scrope Davies’s request—one of our most distinguished gentlemen. Such refinement of person! Such elegance in his watch chain and fobs! And tho’ his hair may suffer a trifle from thinning at the top—one cannot reproach a true gentleman for the vagaries of nature.”

  My gaze inevitably strayed to Mr. Forth’s own gleaming scalp. He went on, imperturbably: “Miss Twining appeared greatly fatigued after the cotillion, as should not be remarkable in one so young. Mr. Davies, as I recall, endeavoured to lead her apart; he appeared most anxious to speak with her in private—pleading his friend Byron’s case, perhaps. He carried Miss Twining off to one of the chairs drawn up against the wall, and went in search of lemonade, for indeed his fair partner looked as tho’ she might faint—and I observed, in his absence, Lord Byron approach her. Miss Twining immediately started up, and would have quitted her place, but at that moment—it was perhaps midnight—Lady Caroline Lamb appeared at the entrance to the Assembly Rooms, and Lord Byron’s temper changed. Ah! Lady Caroline—remarkable air, extraordinarily outré looks, not at all what one wishes to emulate with the Brighto
n crowd, yet undeniably compelling. The Sprite, as Greek Muse! What one should call a leader of Fashion, if one could but find a lady brave enough to follow her. Sad, to see such talent enslaved to a mercurial temperament—”

  “Did you happen to observe, sir,” I interjected, “how Lady Caroline came to make Miss Twining’s acquaintance?”

  “Went bang up to her, barely a few moments later. That would be once Lady Caroline had crossed the entire ballroom to meet Lord Byron, who appears not to have valued the honour as he ought. He left the Assembly in considerable dudgeon not long thereafter. Miss Twining, however, appeared most gratified by her ladyship’s attention, and declined to dance again, tho’ Captain Viscount Morley attempted to lure her back to the floor for the waltz. I rather wondered the Silchester did not throw her charge in the Captain’s way—for he is a most charming young officer, and is Derwentwater’s heir, to boot. But perhaps she guessed he is addicted to gambling, like all the rest of the family, and did not like to put Miss Twining forward.”

  Derwentwater. Where had I heard the title before? And not so long since? My thoughts raced backwards. Not at Mona’s, nor yet in Lady Oxford’s conversation; it was Mrs. Silchester herself who had uttered the name.

  “Derwentwater?” I repeated. “Do I collect you to refer to the Earl?”

  “Indeed. Grown sadly ramshackle since his wife’s death, and spends too much time hunting with the Quorn to keep his good looks; but a gentleman to the teeth. One wonders at him exposing his son to all the dangers of a cavalry regiment in the present age—he has only the one, and the Captain, they say, was very gallant at Talavera—but soldiering is a passion in the Barrett family, you know, and young Philip would not be denied his colours. Barrett, of course, is the Earl’s family name; Derwentwater being the Earl’s title, and Viscount Morley the Captain’s honourific, until such melancholy time as he is forced to sell out, and accede to his father’s duties.”

  It was just such a fussy point of pedantry as a Master of Ceremonies might be expected to convey. Lady Swithin sighed impatiently beside me; but she could not know how Mr. Forth’s words had electrified me.

  “Did you say … Philip?” I stammered. “Was there not … another Barrett of that name?”

  The Master of Ceremonies’s rich murmur dropped even lower. “The Viscount’s uncle, I believe. Present Earl’s younger brother, killed in an affair of honour. Derwentwater never speaks of him, I understand.”

  “Of course,” I murmured. Because the Earl’s brother had eloped with Catherine Twining’s mother.

  Could it be possible the dashing young Captain had unknowingly courted the daughter of General Twining—whose pistols had put paid to his uncle’s life? Or, as seemed more probable, had he deliberately cultivated the connexion under the General’s very nose? And had the General observed it, and known the Captain for his persecutor? Was it for this reason—one he might hesitate to disclose to his daughter—he had quitted the Assembly early? But if fearful of the Captain’s knowledge and influence—why had General Twining not carried his daughter home with him? It was a decided puzzle.

  And then a more sinister thought entered my head, conjured by Lady Oxford’s ominous phrase. A revenge tragedy. Good God—what if the Captain had merely bided his time, until the child of his family’s enemy had been alone and defenceless? What if he had followed Catherine from the Assembly that night, and awaited her release from the Pavilion, only to spirit her off to her watery death? He was, after all, a soldier—accustomed to killing through years of hard campaigning. Was that the same, however, as deliberately drowning a young girl?

  And could he have known of the tunnel from the Pavilion?

  Having known of it, and determining to use it, was but a simple step; to throw all suspicion on Lord Byron, whom the Captain apparently held cheap, should make a lark of murder.

  “Jane,” Mona said to me, “are you quite well? You look faint.”

  “It is nothing, I assure you. Merely that Mr. Forth’s descriptions—so exact in every detail—bring the whole of Monday evening before my mind; and I confess the impressions must make any friend of Miss Twining’s rather low. Do not regard it, I beg. Mr. Forth has been everything that is patient and kind, and has been wishing me at the far end of the earth this quarter-hour, I am sure. I shall not trespass longer upon your time, sir.”

  “It was a pleasure, ma’am,” he said with regal condescension; and offered me a final bow.

  Mona and I curtseyed; I observed a mamma and daughter hovering near the French doors in the hope of being noticed by the Master and put in the way of introductions for the dance; and made good my escape. I should dearly have loved to have heard Mr. Forth’s assessment of their dress, however—for his calculation of the cost of their trimmings should, I am sure, have been entirely exact.

  Italian lace, twelve shillings the yard, purchased on the cheap at Pantheon Bazaar …

  “If you should like a glimpse of the fascinating Captain,” Mona muttered in my ear, “I believe he is even now in the card room—playing at whist with Lord Byron.”

  “Mona,” I said, “General Twining killed the Captain’s uncle in a duel.”

  “I know,” she calmly replied. “I have been acquainted with Derwentwater from my cradle; he very nearly offered for me when his first wife, Lady Sarah as was, went off in childbirth—but I have never believed in second attachments. And a wise decision it was—the Master is correct in saying he hunts too much.”

  “But were you at all acquainted with the younger brother?”

  “Philip? Naturally. He was a rakehell if ever I knew one. But an elopement—I cannot think why he thought it necessary! Such affaires never end well.”

  “But do you not think it exceedingly odd that his nephew should be dancing with General Twining’s daughter?”

  “Well—she was excessively pretty,” Mona said blandly. “Recollect that I was present at the ball, Jane; I observed the Captain and Miss Twining dance; but I did not find anything particular to remark in it. Else I should have told you the whole.”

  I could have shaken the Countess for her imperturbability. “Nothing particular—even when the Assembly was concluded with Catherine’s murder? And I suppose you see nothing untoward in the Captain’s playing at whist with a man he despises?”

  She gazed at me, bewildered. “But men are always gambling with those they despise! It lends spice to the winnings!”

  “Exactly,” I returned, in my driest manner. “Lead me to the Captain, Mona, if you please.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Damning Testimony

  THURSDAY, 13 MAY 1813

  BRIGHTON, CONT.

  THE OVERWHELMING FIRST IMPRESSION OF CAPTAIN Viscount Morley was his remarkable beauty; the second, must be of his relative youth. The former I had expected; the latter took me by surprize.

  He was a golden lad, with eyes of cornflower blue; a slim and sinewy figure, whose whipcord body suggested the hunting field—or the cavalry ring. The social excesses of the 10th Hussars were made much of, owing to their patronage by the Prince and the breathless breeding of their officers; but the 10th was also a disciplined, honed, and formidable fighting machine tempered by hard campaigning in the Peninsula—where this boy had conducted himself with “gallantry.” I knew full well what that meant—he had cut his way with a sabre, on horseback, through rank upon rank of the French; and he had come out unscathed at the other side. Seen from the rear in his regimentals, the Captain appeared compact, spare, and efficient—one glance at his face, however, which was suggestive of the angel, and any girl of fifteen should be lost.

  He rose from the card table as Mona approached; bowed with charm and correctness as she forced my acquaintance upon him; and remained standing, to Lord Byron’s impatience, until we should have passed on. I met those limpid blue eyes only once, before demanding of myself how I could possibly have imagined such a boy capable of murder. He could not be above four-and-twenty years of age. That he should find Catherine
’s face and form alluring must be natural; that he should then ruthlessly force her head beneath the waves, impossible.

  But the questions must be asked—and I alone should ask them. How to effect a tête-à-tête?

  “My luck is out, Mona,” Lord Byron said with a scowl, throwing down his cards. His pale countenance bore a restless, feverish look, and his fingers played with the stem of his wineglass, which was only half-full. “Morley’s a deep one; he has had the best of me tonight. I must summon my Runner and make for home.”

  The Captain gathered up the cards—coolly pocketed the winnings—and said, “I imagine your mind is engaged on greater matters than whist, Byron. You are writing a poem, are you not? To the memory of your Leila? But then—you are always writing a poem to someone. The ladies who have figured in your verse are legion. Only one, however, has suffered mortally from the honour.”

  Byron’s countenance flushed, as tho’ all the wine in his veins had roared angrily to the surface, and his glittering look fixed upon the Captain. I felt, with a sense of shock, all the violence of passion that emanated from the man; it attracted far more powerfully than it repelled.

  “She shall live long in my verse, Morley,” he growled, “when you are already rotted in your grave!”

  “No doubt,” the Captain returned, “—if you are permitted time enough to finish your poem. I thought you exceedingly brave to show your face at the Assembly tonight—and should have feared for your very life on your return home. But you relieve my mind; I had forgot the fact of the Runner.”