“Or aspiring to a fortune not rightly his own,” I added thoughtfully.
“It is in the worst order of fretful childishness,” Neddie agreed easily. “Recollect that I have sons of my own, and all of them sighing for the airs of a Corinthian. But in a fellow of Hinton’s years—!”
“Your sons, I hope, will know better how they should get on.”
“My sons were not spoilt from infancy!” Neddie retorted impatiently. “There was never time enough between them to tell one from the other, if you must know! And I thank God for it. They have not lacked for masters or instruction; if they wish for mounts or the means to pursue any peculiar passion, I generally grant their wishes. But my boys earn their rights, by Jove! And not by whining.”
“Well, Squire Austen—and what do you intend to do for the odious Mr. Hinton?”
“Find William Prowting as soon as may be—and suggest the sneering lout be returned to his sister’s leading strings. I have an idea of her contempt for all matters of sport; and think her brother deserves to suffer a little beneath Jane Hinton’s management.”
“For my part, I should not wish such a purgatory on any man.” I could not forestall a shudder, tho’ the morning was warm. “You are a hardened case, Edward. Hinton’s revenge is as nothing to yours.”
I LEFT MY DEAR BROTHER HAPPY IN ORDERING HIS DINNER AT the George, and reflected that there was nothing like a little useful activity to dispel a fit of the megrims. Edward loves Godmersham and the society of Kent—but the perfect serenity of that great estate may throw too profound a veil between my brother and the world. He has endured a winter of isolation, and a summer of slow awakening; the Jack Hintons of life should bring him only good, in the folly of their ways and the absurdity of their cares.
The pleasant summer’s day was drawing in as I walked south towards Chawton, the air grown oppressive and a weight of cloud hovering to the west. We should have thunderstorms by nightfall, and the dusty lanes turned to quagmire; the good turnpike stretches, however, were well maintained between this part of Hampshire and the principal towns of the coast. Henry must long since have reached the Earl’s household at Brighton. How had the former Freddy Vansittart—with his rakehell dark looks, his charm, his easy conversation—taken the news of his daughter’s death?
“Miss Austen!”
I lifted my head at the salutation, my mind recalled from distant wandering—and observed a slight woman with her hair neatly bound beneath a kerchief, and a look of unease around her eyes. Her face must be familiar, tho’ she no longer held a babe to her breast. Rosie Philmore, the laundry maid, and wife of the man who had stolen Lord Harold’s papers.
She stood near the verge of the Alton road, her back to Chawton, and curtseyed.
“Good day, Mrs. Philmore. How are your children?”
“Well enough, thank you. I left them in the charge of their grandmother, ma’am, while I walked to Chawton.” She hesitated, and then said in a rush, “I’ve been and gone to visit Old Philmore—but he still is not returned, and no one in the village can say where he is gone, or when he is likely to come back. He has not stopped in Alton in near a week, and my Bert is that put out! Afeared, he is, that summat has occurred to harm the old man.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“It’s not like Old Philmore to leave Bertie in the lurch. Clutch-fisted he may be, and nip-cheese into the bargain, but blood is blood when all’s said and done.”
“I understand. Did you enquire of Miss Benn, at Thatch Cottages? For she is one of Old Philmore’s tenants.”
“And right glad to be shut of him. Miss Benn hardly opened her door to me, lest I had come to collect the rents in the old man’s stead.”
“Have you seen your husband at Alton gaol?”
“I spoke with Bert last night, when I took him a bit of supper.”
“He must be familiar with his uncle’s habits. Can he offer no hint of where Old Philmore might be gone to ground?”
Her work-hardened fingers fretted at the edge of her apron, and her eyes fell. In an instant I understood the poor woman’s dilemma—she did not wish to see her husband imprisoned for years, or even transported to Botany Bay, for an offence that had brought no good to the household; and yet, Bertie Philmore had probably bound her to secrecy when he sent her in search of his uncle. How much did Rosie Philmore truly know of the two men’s adventures?
The thought of Lord Harold’s chest, broken and discarded with all its contents, flamed within me. I must have it back.
“Mrs. Philmore,” I said gently, “I dislike to see you in such trouble. I fear for the well-being of your little ones. If there is any way in which I may help you, be assured that I will attempt it.”
“That is kind in you. But a woman did ought to stand by her husband, ma’am. You’re not to know, being a spinster lady—”
“You cannot make your husband’s case worse than it is already, by speaking; for his silence has already placed him in Alton gaol. Do you wish to find Old Philmore?”
“It’s Bert as is hankering after the old man!” she cried. “He’s that worried—thinks his uncle was taken ill on his road, or been killt—or something worse.”
—Something worse being, no doubt, Old Philmore’s delighted release from all his Hampshire cares, through the spoils of burglary of which Bertie Philmore now had no share. The nephew, I saw, was torn between a very real anxiety for the man who had long served him as parent, and the jealous regard for his own interest, which the uncle might long since have betrayed. Sitting alone in his cell, hour after hour, his thoughts could not be happy ones. He must suffer the delusions of the forgotten: seeing first in his mind’s eye the image of his uncle’s corpse, trampled and abandoned in some woodland hole; and then again, the picture of his uncle in a far distant land—the West Indies perhaps—and surrounded by every luxury.
“Mrs. Philmore, you know that your husband and Old Philmore stole a valuable chest from my cottage. I must assure you most earnestly that the papers within, which you have already described, cannot save your husband’s life or contribute to the well-being of his family. The person who wished them stolen—the person I believe hired your husband and Old Philmore—is lately dead.”
She emitted a shriek, and pressed her hand in horror to her lips. “Dead? —The gentleman from Stonings is dead?”
“Gentleman?” I returned, my thoughts swiftly revolving. “Did your husband say that he was hired by a gentleman?”
Too late, she saw her error. She stepped backwards, as tho’ in retreat. “He might have said something. I don’t know what. Not really.”
“A gentleman from Stonings wished the papers stolen?” It was not impossible, after all. We now knew that Julian Thrace had a taste for low company, and was much given to drinking with Dyer’s builders; I had found in this a ready explanation for Shafto French’s murder. But why not for the theft of the chest, as well? Thrace would have learned of Lord Harold’s bequest in much the way Lady Imogen knew of it, and was quick enough to apprehend the danger its contents might pose. He had ample knowledge of our invitation to dinner at the Great House, for he had been present at the very moment of Mr. Middleton’s issuance of it. He might all too easily have secured the services of Bertie Philmore on the night in question, and delayed our arrival home by his elaborate telling of fantastic anecdotes, and his prolonged losses at cards.
And yet—I had thought Lady Imogen so happy yesterday morning, as tho’ she possessed the key to her entire future. If Julian Thrace had been the one to seize the papers, how had she come by her certainty? He should have destroyed the evidence of his birth, and attempted to hide the truth from the Earl and all his household. The very last person Thrace should tell was surely Lady Imogen.
“If it is Mr. Thrace you would mean,” I said to Rosie Philmore, “I fear for Old Philmore’s life. Thrace has two murders already to his account, and is believed to have fled the country.”
The woman frowned. “I know of no Thrace, ma�
�am. ’Twas not of him my Bertie spoke. My man was hired by the master of Stonings—that Major Spence, what walks with a limp—to rob ye of your chest.”
Chapter 22
The Figure in the Night
9 July 1809, cont.
~
I RELATED NOTHING OF ALL I HAD LEARNED AMONG THE cottage circle tonight, but allowed my sister to talk of the beauties of the surrounding country—in which she had walked a little with the dog Link, so that he might become acquainted with his neighbourhood. “It is full of dells and hills, Jane—a rolling, varied country quite unlike the flat monotony of Steventon in which we were raised—” I listened to a letter from Fanny, which had followed Cassandra on her journey from Kent, the post having no concern for the delays imposed by broken axle-trees and the ostlers at Brompton’s Bell. And I was made privy to all the minute concerns of Edward’s household, which Neddie should never bother relating and which Cassandra has not yet learned to give up: how the four youngest children—Charles, Louisa, Cassandra-Jane, and Brook-John—are as yet in the charge of Susannah Sackree, the beloved Caky of the nursery-wing, while the elder girls—Lizzy and Marianne—are not to be sent away again to school, Marianne having most bitterly despised her exile from the rest of the family. The two eldest boys, Edward and George, are to return to Winchester in the autumn term, and then Fanny may well obtain some peace and quiet—a governess being to be hired for Lizzy and Marianne, a tutor for young Henry and William. Of the tutor in particular Cassandra had great hopes: he was a nephew of the Duke of Dorset, only lately having quitted Cambridge, and intended for the Church. She only hoped he should not fall in love with Fanny, as she is barely out—as such things may be determined in Kentish society. There could be no question of a real London Season for Fanny; Edward’s spirits were not up to the hiring of a house in Town.
“Good God,” I murmured. “And to think that poor Fanny is expected to manage all this! I wonder she could consent to part with you, Cass—despite the allurements of our six bedchambers and numerous outbuildings. Shall you miss Kent exceedingly?”
She flushed pink, and returned some small nothing regarding the insignificance of her own contribution, and the worth of Fanny’s talents. I recalled to mind a picture of Godmersham as I had myself left it only a short while ago—the elegance of its apartments, the plasterwork above the mantel in the entry hall, the marble floors, the pleasing aspect of the high downs behind the house. In the environs of Canterbury one meets with only the most liberal-minded and cultivated of friends; no Ann Prowtings or Miss Benns for Cassandra’s edification. Kent is the only place for happiness, after all; everybody is rich there, and my brother’s household not excepted. I must endeavour to remember that Cassandra’s spirits might be a trifle low in coming months, until she has grown accustomed once more to the simplicity of our arrangements.
My mother announced over our Sunday meal of buttered prawns and cold beef that she had quite given up her scheme of retrieving the Rubies of Chandernagar. Mr. Thrace’s guilt she had taken to heart, and regarded it as a sure sign of duplicity in everything the man had said; for how else must she account for the failure of her searches? Mr. Papillon’s sermon on the evils of avarice had proved no less salutary. She should not like the Companion of My Future Life—for so she persisted in regarding poor Mr. Papillon—to believe his prospective mother-in-law a hardened sinner. Then, too, she had happened to catch Sally Mitchell laughing with the baker’s boy about the eccentric habits of her mistress, and was most discomfited to find that she had broken three fingernails in digging.
We left her after dinner to all the pleasures of a hot bath in the washroom, and sat down to compose a few letters: Cassandra to Fanny, and I recounting what I could of Chawton events to my friend Martha Lloyd.
Thoughts of Charles Spence, however, could not help but intrude. I might sit by the Pembroke table, in the soft air of evening, and attempt to write in compact lines of the people we had met, and the alterations we had effected in the cottage; but the Major’s dark eyes must sketch themselves on the sheet of paper. His serious, earnest gaze—the dreadful pallor of his looks at Lady Imogen’s death—the fury of the man, as Thrace escaped—all must clamour for my attention. I had wondered before if Spence’s honour might be suborned by a woman of Lady Imogen’s power—if her bewitching charm and his desire for her affection might compel him to all manner of actions he should never undertake alone. I was now certain that they had. Charles Spence could find no peculiar interest in Lord Harold Trowbridge’s papers, absent the interest of the woman he loved. Lady Imogen had bent him to her purpose—cajoled him, as a steward well-acquainted with the labouring class—to secure a pair of ruffians who might force their way into my house.
Had they also, I wondered, forced their way into Henry’s bank nearly a week ago?
Had the plan to find Lord Harold’s bequest been in train long before my arrival in Chawton? It was certain that Lady Imogen possessed an understanding of the chest’s contents for some months; she should have learned of their true nature from Desdemona, Countess Swithin, during the last London Season.1 Locating the chest itself, however, had demanded some time and exertion; no doubt Lady Imogen had recruited others besides Spence to the task. Who might her accomplices be?
I concluded my letter to Martha with a request that she bring some peony cuttings from her sister’s garden at Kintbury—and rose to take a restless turn about the room.
“What is it, Jane?” Cassandra asked.
“I hardly know.”
“You are thinking of our acquaintance in Sherborne St. John. Has there been no word yet of Mr. Thrace’s capture?”
“None that Edward or I have heard. The renegade appears to have vanished into thin air.”
“Then he will soon be desperate. With all the country alive against him, how can he hope to obtain so much as a cup of water?”
“—Unless he has found friends who will help him.”
“How can such a man—a stranger to Hampshire—recruit friends?”
“He might buy them, I suppose, among those who have no concern for murder.”
She set down her pen. “And what of Henry?”
“He must have reached Brighton some hours ago—but has not seen fit to despatch the news to his sisters Express. I suppose all such activity must be reserved for the Earl, and all such letters for Charles Spence.”
Charles Spence.
I had written to him myself only this morning; he might even now be reading my letter—the post between Chawton and Sherborne St. John being no very great distance.2 What should be his feelings upon perusing my words?
… pray accept my very deepest condolences on the sad loss you have recently suffered. Lady Imogen was all that was lovely and amiable, and to witness her sudden taking off—at such an interesting period of life, when youth, high spirits, beauty, and the privilege of birth must conspire to make her existence a blessed one—is a dreadful reminder of the end we must all someday face, and our daily proximity to our Maker.
It is regrettable at such a moment to allow the personal to intrude. Circumstances, however, require that I be perfectly frank. I have reason to think that her ladyship’s natural exuberance—her desire to best Mr. Thrace at every turn—and her very commendable wish to prevent her respected father from committing an error his friends must all deplore—may have led her to engage in an activity injurious to her reputation, and beneath her better sense. In point of fact, I believe the chest taken from my home—a bequest of my friend Lord Harold Trowbridge—might even now be found among Lady Imogen’s effects.
If what I have related causes you pain, I am heartily sorry for it. I am aware, however, that Stonings may soon be shut up and yourself gone from the premises, as must only be natural; and I should wish the chest returned before all your party has quitted Hampshire. Do I ask too much, Major Spence, or may I be allowed to wait upon you at Stonings as soon as may be convenient?
I had taken a good deal of trouble over the letter,
as being a most awkward composition to a man in Spence’s state of mourning. Indeed, I had winced at the brutal force of it—the necessity of putting so delicate a matter into the bluntest prose. But I had done my work, and seen it into the hands of the post some hours before; and could not call it back again. The knowledge that Spence himself was encompassed in Lady Imogen’s crimes, however, made the communication a bitter one.
It was possible he should read in my letter a veiled threat to his own security. If I professed to know that Lady Imogen had taken the Bengal chest, how could I be ignorant of the methods by which it was obtained? Did Charles Spence think to find me at Stonings’ door with Mr. Prowting the magistrate at my back?
I feared that I had blundered in writing as I did. Spence was no fool; and despite the misery of his present circumstances, must be alive to the implication of my charge. He was as likely to sink Lord Harold’s chest in the bottom of the Stonings’ lake, as return its contents to me; and I had only my own impatience to thank.
I placed my letter to Martha near Cassandra’s own, for posting on the morrow; made trial of a novel in three volumes that my sister had brought especially from Canterbury; picked up and set down a bit of mending the light no longer permitted me to see; and at the last, went up rather earlier than was my habit, to bed.
IT WAS THE DOG, LINK, THAT WOKE ME: STARTING UP FROM A sound sleep and barking furiously into the night. His small, sinewy body trembled with indignation; his attention was fixed on a disturbance below; his outrage filled our ears.
“Link!” Cassandra hissed. “Lie down, boy! There’s a good fellow! Link!”
I threw back the bed linen and reached for my dressing gown. The terrier dashed to the window, his forepaws on the sill.
“What is it, lad?” I whispered. “What do you see? Another burglar, perhaps, come to steal into the household?”
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