If I am weak, so be it. I have the satisfaction of knowing that I am not yet beyond the reach of all human feeling.
Freddy, having a more carnal object in view, is no such respecter of the fair Hélène’s predestination. “Bollocks,” he said, when I would have pled St. Eustace’s case. “Don’t tell me you don’t hate the man. I know that you do. He’s a Viscount; well, by God, I’m an Earl now, Harry—and I claim my droit de seigneur.” I must hope that if Bertie is thrown from his horse one day, and leaves me in possession of the strawberry leaves and Wilborough House, that I do not commit the same follies of arrogance that Freddy has come to, since the receipt of that letter from Hampshire.1 Droit de seigneur. And so, regardless of whom she may love, Hélène de Pont-Ravel is forever a chattel, the property of one man or another who proposes to claim her. No wonder Mamma saw fit to run off to the Parisian stage. Freedom is worth any amount of scandal.
I should not be a woman for anything in this world.
Chapter 11
The Steward
6 July 1809, cont.
~
CHAWTON GREAT HOUSE, CONSTRUCTED OF FLINT IN THE Tudor style, sits at the southern end of the village on a gentle rise above the church of St. Nicholas. It is a noble and somewhat eccentric old gentleman’s house, with wings facing awkwardly to west and north, and any number of curious, ill-considered passages running through its interior. I spent more than a week as an intimate of the place two years ago, while Edward made some repairs to the property prior to Mr. Middleton’s taking up his lease, and was thus prepared for the archaic splendours within.
Tho’ the light of a summer’s evening was still strong as the Austen party approached the entrance porch for our appointed dinner, Mr. Middleton had caused flaming torches to be set into brackets near the door.
“Quite a feudal note, Jane,” Henry observed; “I wonder whether we shall be compelled to share our joint with the hounds?”
As a sportsman, Mr. Middleton might be expected to keep a pack of hunting dogs, or at the very least a family of spaniels; and the galleries running off the top of the main staircase do possess a Dog Gate, designed to prevent the beasts from invading the upper storeys. There is a Great Hall within, accessible through a gap in an ancient oak screen; a draughty, inhospitable space, such as may serve for the reception of tenants on Publick Days, but cannot hope to cheer a family party even in July. Oak panelling rises on every wall, much of it carved, and a massive fireplace struggles in winter to heat the room—notable for its fireback, which is engraved with the name John Knight, and the date 1588—the year of the Hall’s completion as well as the Spanish Armada. In addition to all these, the house boasts a dining parlour; a stone-flagged kitchen; a buttery; a drawing-room where the chief treasure of Chawton—the Lewkenor Carpet1—is hung; and a much-neglected garden.
The Knight family line failed in 1679, when Sir Richard Knight—whose imposing effigy is carved in stone on his tomb in St. Nicholas Church—died childless, and all the subsequent owners of Chawton have been obliged under his will to take the name of Knight in order to succeed to his riches. In death Sir Richard exerted a powerful influence over as-yet-unborn kin: the Martins and Broadnaxes, and now the Austens. It was inevitable, I supposed, that my brother Edward and all his progeny would one day exchange their name for Sir Richard’s—and I should have done the same to possess even one such house.
Mr. Middleton had caused a fire to be lit in the massive Hall grate; and around this cheerful if superfluous blaze several persons were gathered. I recognised Miss Benn, looking self-consciously fine in a gown of black sarcenet; all the Prowtings; Mr. Julian Thrace, whose attention was claimed by Miss Ann Prowting; and standing a little apart from them, another gentleman perhaps five years Thrace’s senior, in close conversation with a handsome young woman whose dress and air proclaimed her an established member of the ton.
Mr. Middleton, who was listening to Miss Benn’s effusions regarding his kindness, patted that lady’s gloved hand gently and broke away long enough to pay his respects to the Austen party. A sharp-featured and brilliant-eyed lady was before him, however, her hand imperiously extended.
“My brother should have brought me to your door already, Mrs. Austen, but that he is too intent upon showing his guests the country; I hope you will forgive our appalling manners.”
“My sister, Miss Maria Beckford,” interposed Mr. Middleton hastily. “She is so kind as to do the duties of the Great House.”
From the difference in the lady’s name, I must assume she was actually the sister of Mr. Middleton’s deceased wife, and had established herself in the household to oversee the education of his five children. However long ago Mr. Middleton’s lady had departed this world, he had not learned to love her sister instead; but Miss Maria Beckford appeared entirely in command of the situation, in her richly-trimmed silk gown and her dignified posture. I should not have judged her to be much beyond the middle thirties, an age I am myself approaching; her hair, though pulled back severely from her forehead under a lace cap, was still a rich reddish-brown, and an expression of intelligence and good humour lit her dark eyes. This was no female dependant or shrinking drudge sacrificed to her family’s service, but a lady who could command all the glories of Mr. Middleton’s income and establishment—without the bother of being his wife. I thought her rather to be congratulated than pitied.
“You are Miss Austen?” she demanded.
“Miss Jane Austen. My elder sister is as yet on her road from Kent.”
Miss Beckford surveyed me from head to foot; lingered an instant in contemplation of my own unwavering gaze; and then nodded slightly as though in approval.
“And are you fond of books and reading?”
“I am, ma’am.”
“Do you sketch or paint in watercolours?”
“Unhappily I lack that talent.”
“A pity. The beauties of Hampshire afford innumerable subjects for contemplation. But perhaps you play or sing?”
“I am a devotee of the pianoforte—although my own instrument … is not yet arrived.”
“That is very well. You may delight us with a performance this evening. We are happy to welcome you to Chawton, Miss Austen. The accomplishments of ladies in these parts are most unfortunately limited. But for Miss Hinton and the Prowtings we should have no society worth the name. —But I see that the Hintons are arrived. If you will excuse me—”
She brushed past, intent upon the couple who now stood in the doorway; and as I had no desire to hasten my meeting with the avowed enemies of the Squire, I stepped forward to claim the notice of the rest of the party, to whom my brother Henry was already speaking. He intended, I knew, to make the most of his proximity to such exalted circles, and dine out on the strength of his intelligence regarding Julian Thrace for the next twelvemonth.
“Mr. Thrace and Miss Benn you know,” Mr. Middleton was saying, “but I do not think you are as yet acquainted with Lady Imogen Vansittart.”
The handsome young woman inclined her head with a regal air, but uttered not a syllable. She was tall, slender, dark-eyed, and eloquent of feature; her gown was white muslin; she wore a circlet of emeralds in her dark hair. Tho’ I should judge her to be several years younger than Miss Catherine Prowting, who stood a little distance apart from the elegant Lady Imogen, she was so far beyond Catherine in countenance and assurance that she seemed the woman, and Catherine the girl.
“And Major Charles Spence,” my host continued, “who comes to us, in company with Mr. Thrace and Lady Imogen, from Stonings—the Earl of Holbrook’s seat near Sherborne St. John.”
If my own heart quickened at the name of that man and that estate, Henry was before me. My brother’s keen grey gaze was immediately fixed upon Major Spence.
“Sherborne St. John!” he cried, with unforced delight. “But then you must be acquainted with the Chute family, our friends these two decades at least. As a boy, my brother James and I hunted with the Vyne.”2
“—As
it was my privilege to do only last winter,” Major Spence returned amiably. “Mr. Chute is a very respectable, gentleman-like man, and a most welcome neighbour.”
“I cannot perfectly recall Stonings, however.”
“My father caused it to be let to a family from the North for much of the past two decades,” Lady Imogen supplied. “But the Rices have lately given the house up—and I took a fancy to see it. It is possible the estate may fall to my lot in time—and I have never been the sort of woman to buy a mount without first having a look at its teeth.”
She threw a look of challenge at Julian Thrace. There were several meanings implicit in such a speech, and I thought I had missed none of them. Lady Imogen was the Earl of Holbrook’s daughter—the legitimate issue about to be supplanted in the bulk of her inheritance by a man sprung from exactly nowhere. Her looks said plainly that she was fiercely determined to rout her rival, and expose him to the world’s censure as an imposter; but she should never fail in politeness while she did so. I guessed her to have courage and wit enough to meet any trick the Bond Street Beau might serve her.
Henry smiled at the lady, his face alight with all the interest of the party before him. There was a fortune to be made among the betting books of the St. James clubs, and if truth was to be drawn from present company, my brother was poised to reap the whirlwind. The Viscount St. Eustace was as naught; the wise money should be entirely on the Earl of Holbrook. I wondered Henry did not post immediately to London.
“I should not wish you to put the horse through its paces at present,” Charles Spence observed. “Stonings has been sadly in want of refurbishment for many years. I am presently employed by the Earl of Holbrook as his steward, Mr. Austen—and am charged with the duty of bringing order where neglect has been the rule.”
“The place is in such a degree of decay,” Mr. Middleton added, “that I pressed Spence most earnestly to make a stay of some duration here at the Great House. It cannot be a pleasant thing, to sleep amidst dust and plaster, with the sound of Dyer’s joiners toiling away in the lower parts of the house; but our Stonings party comes to us for this evening only, and will depart on the morrow—depriving Chawton of its most lovely flower.”
He bowed in Lady Imogen’s direction.
Dyer’s joiners, I thought. Had any of the present labourers discovered Shafto French’s secret? And did the handsome party assembled before me share his guilty knowledge—or that of his sad end?
As Mr. Middleton quitted us to greet another of his guests, Major Spence said, “Am I to understand, Miss Austen, that you are but two days arrived in Chawton?”
“That is true, sir. We are hardly strangers to Hampshire, however, having lived in this county the better part of our lives. My father was once rector of Steventon, where presently my brother James is incumbent.”
“A clergyman’s daughter,” he observed with a smile, “and I am a clergyman’s son.”
“Are you, indeed? From what part of the country do you hail?”
“The North. I was raised in Yorkshire. Do you know that part of the world, ma’am?”
“I regret to say that I do not. But how are you come to be in this part of the world? It is a great change of scene, surely?”
“It does not follow that such a change must be unwelcome. Unlike your brother, I had no inclination for the Church, Miss Austen, and broke my father’s heart at the age of seventeen by running away to the Army. I am recently sold out from the Eighteenth Light Dragoons, having suffered a trifling wound at Vimeiro.”
A military man just back from Spain, and limping with it. I had not yet observed the game leg in action—but should have dearly liked to examine the Major’s footwear more closely. The notion of this particular gentleman riding some twelve miles at night in order to drown a man and hide his body in my cellar seemed, however, fantastic. “You were with Sir Arthur Wellesley, then, last September?”
“I was—altho’ the injury to my leg required me to be taken off the coast of Maceira immediately following our engagement with the French. I was not required to endure the privations later visited upon my fellows during Sir John Moore’s catastrophic retreat—to my enduring shame.”
“My brother, Captain Frank Austen of the Canopus, carried away the remnant of Sir John’s men this past January,” I said in a subdued accent. “From his account I must suppose the losses to have been frightful.”
“But no worse than we shall serve Buonaparte in future,” Spence replied stoutly.
We were both silent an instant, our thoughts far removed from the frivolity of a summer evening; mine were travelling in memory to Southampton the previous autumn, and the low-voiced communication of a government spy in the hold of a Navy ship. Where Major Spence’s thoughts might be wandering, I could not hazard a guess; but from his expression, it was no Elysian Field.
“And so I threw myself upon the mercy of my relations,” he resumed with forced lightness, “and accepted employment as the Earl of Holbrook’s steward. I may say that I am entirely unfitted to the task—being a soldier is no recommendation for business—but his lordship was prevailed upon to accept me. I am a second cousin to the Earl, once removed, on the distaff side.”
“I am sure he has every reason to be grateful for your stewardship of Stonings,” I observed. “Mr. Dyer’s men have been very busy about the place, I collect?”
“It is a noble estate,” he said thoughtfully. “But the degree of neglect is much to be deplored. The Earl, being an intimate of the Carlton House Set, formed the early habit of repairing to Brighton in the summer months. He spends the winters at his hunting box in Leicestershire. The remainder of the year is passed in Town. I do not think the Earl has descended into Hampshire above three times since his accession to the title.” He glanced about the panelled hall, gaze roving among the leaded windows. “Your brother, I believe, is the owner of this house! It is a very fine old place—Elizabethan, I should judge?”
“Exactly so. But like your Earl, my brother does not deign to live in Hampshire.”
“Middleton informed me that he is an excellent landlord; so very liberal, in fact, that Middleton cannot keep away from Chawton. He has leased this estate twice in recent years.”
“And is a most agreeable tenant in every respect. Are you very much acquainted with Mr. Middleton?”
“A sporting acquaintance, one might call it,” Spence said diffidently, “formed on the hunting field. He is all affability, however, and does not disgrace your brother’s good opinion. I hope to see more of him.”
“And was it you who introduced Mr. Thrace to Mr. Middleton’s acquaintance?”
“Not at all. Thrace fell in with the Middleton family while travelling on the Continent, I believe. But Thrace will have to tell you how it was himself; I am not perfectly in command of the history.”
Henry had referred to Thrace’s past as being obscured by war and curious incident—a childhood in France, or a French mother, perhaps. It was impossible not to speculate at what point he had first sought the Earl of Holbrook’s notice, and claimed the relation of son to father—impossible not to wonder how the Earl had received this news. Or broken it to Lady Imogen.
I found my eyes lingering on the Beau’s face, attempting to trace some likeness between himself and Lady Imogen; but I confess I could find none. One so dark, the other so light, they appeared to excellent effect—but hardly as brother and sister. But then I recollected: they were related in half-blood only. Much might be attributed to the influence of different mothers.
Thrace, I noticed, was exerting himself to engage Catherine Prowting in conversation—despite the jealous attempts of her sister to divert the gentleman’s attention. Catherine’s colour was high, her eyes brilliant; and tho’ she remained the picture of elegant self-possession, I thought she did not meet Mr. Thrace’s attentions with indifference.
“I hope I do not intrude—but I could not forbear to offer my sympathy for the trials you have so lately undergone,” Major Spence continu
ed in a lower tone. “Thrace told me of the shocking affair only this morning, as I was arrived with Lady Imogen from Sherborne St. John. I trust you have suffered no ill-effects from the anxiety?”
“None at all, I assure you.”
“And your home … it was not unduly disturbed? There were no losses of a personal nature?”
His concern was so earnest, his expression so truly amiable, that I could not be unmoved. “You are very good, sir—but the losses were not ours to tally. That has been poor Mrs. French’s office.”
“You will wish to take greater care in future, I am sure, Miss Austen, to secure your valuables against a similar invasion. The coroner, I understand, could arrive at no solution to the mystery of the labourer’s death? —Or at least, how he came to be in your cellar?”
“You must question Mr. Prowting on that score. He is our magistrate, and must be in command of more particulars than I.” With more courage than tact I added, “The poor man was often at Stonings, I understand, in recent weeks. Did you never notice him there?”
An instant’s confusion clouded the Major’s countenance, but any reply he might have made was forestalled by the approach of Miss Maria Beckford.
“Miss Austen,” she said in her brisk, decisive way, as tho’ commanding a parade ground, “allow me to introduce Miss Jane Hinton to your acquaintance.”
Major Spence stepped aside, and bowed; I curtseyed to the woman at Miss Beckford’s right hand, and regarded with amusement this new trial.
Jane Hinton was some years older than her brother—a woman nearly forty whose bloom had long since gone off. She appeared correct and unremarkable in a prim white cap and a pair of spectacles, behind which her flat brown eyes were intently appraising. Her dress was of a most unbecoming yellow hue, her skin coarse; and when she spoke, it was with a pronounced lisp that made her speech singularly unpleasing.
Jane and His Lordship's Legacy Page 11
