I felt the absence of Tom Hearst, and knew not whether to wish for the return of such a man or no. But my confusion was to be of short duration. A parting of the crowd, a sight of a curly head, and a jaunty bow in my direction; and I found myself facing the Lieutenant not four couples removed from the Earl and his lady, in all the flushed excitement of a first dance.
The knowledge of Lieutenant Hearst’s having killed a man put flight to every other thought in my head, but since it is impossible to move through the figures without some attempt at conversation, I cast about in desperation for the slightest word. I fear I blushed, and turned my eyes to the ground, and appeared in every way as missish as possible, giving the Lieutenant as inaccurate a picture of myself as perhaps Miss Delahoussaye had drawn of him. My wordless confusion made him hesitate to utter a syllable; and thus we laboured in profound stupidity, for fully half the dance’s span. But of all things detestable, I most detest a silent partner—and thrusting aside my horror of pistols at dawn, I took refuge in a lady’s light banter.
“I have profited from your absence, Lieutenant, to enquire of your character,” I began.
A merry look, from under a lifted eyebrow. “And am I fit to touch your glove, Miss Austen?”
“I learned that you are everywhere regarded as a man of charm and intelligence; that you are an officer renowned for bravery and quick temper; that you are observed to spend a good deal of time on horseback in the Park; and that you prefer saddle of mutton to roast beef, in which you have been disappointed this evening.”
“Nay!” he cried, his head thrown back in laughter, “and shall we have the size of my boot and my preference in tailors as well?”
“It was an intelligence I could not, with delicacy, gather,” I replied, “but if you disappear with such alacrity again, I shall be certain to find it out.”
With great good humour the Lieutenant then began to converse quite freely, enquiring of my life in Bath and the circumstances of my family with a becoming interest. For my part, I quickly learned that he is the son of Lord Scargrave’s sister, Julia, dead these niany years, and that his father was a dissolute rogue. Having reduced the Lady Julia to penury (for so I interpreted the Lieutenant’s more generous words), the elder Mr. Hearst had the good sense to abandon his sons to her brother and depart for the Continent, where he subsequently died in the arms of his mistress. Lord Scargrave has had the rearing of the Hearst boys these twenty years; and it would not be remarkable if they looked to him as a father.
The Lieutenant added that he had tired of schooling while still at Eton, and spurned Oxford for the more brilliant ranks of the military; that he is at present a member of the Royal Horse Guards, resident in St. James, and is at Scargrave on leave through the Christmas holidays; though he failed to intimate that it was an enforced leave, due to his having recently killed a man.
Indeed, having spent some time in Lieutenant Hearst’s company, I must wonder whether Miss Delahoussaye’s romantic notions have not run away with what little sense she commands. For the Lieutenant seems as unlikely to kill a man as my dear brother Henry.
Fond of jokes, liberal in his smiles, incapable of giving offence to anybody, Tom Hearst is a ray of sun; but like the sun, can scorch when least expected. We had been half an hour along in the dance, and were nearing its close, when he turned the subject to Isobel, with some impertinence of manner.
“I may rejoice that my uncle has married,* he said, taking my hand as I exchanged places with my neighbour, “when my aunt’s acquaintance proves so delightful.”
“Did you not rejoice, then, before I came to Scargrave?”
An anxious look, as having betrayed too much, was my reward, and an affectation of laughter. “For my own part,” the Lieutenant replied, “I take my uncle’s happiness as the sole consideration. But others may feel a nearer interest.”
“I do not pretend to understand you.” I turned my back upon him in the dance and caught Isobel’s eye as she made her way along the line.
“You must be aware, Miss Austen,” said Tom Hearst, “that an elderly man without children of his own may disappoint his family when he goes in pursuit of heirs.”
“With a father past seventy, I should not call eight-and-forty elderly” I replied, turning again to face him.
“Oh! To be sure! I spoke but as a matter of form. I do not doubt, however; that my cousin the Viscount”—this, with a glance at Lord Payne, who stood opposite Fanny Delahoussaye in the next couple but one—”may feel such a mixture of emotions more acutely than I. Though Lord Fitzroy Payne appears to rank the Countess as chief among his acquaintance, even he must acknowledge the blow to his fortunes. If my uncle gets an heir, Lord Payne’s prospects are decidedly the worse.”
“Your solicitude for your cousin’s purse may disarm reproof,” I told him, “but your uncle’s happiness must be said to outweigh more material concerns.” That I wondered at his imparting so much of a personal nature to a complete stranger I need not emphasise; but it hardly dissuaded me from pursuing the conversation further.
“Oh! Uncle’s happiness,” said the Lieutenant, turning his gaze upon Lord Scargrave, who even then was engaged in a bout of laughter as he moved his elegant wife through the figures. “His happiness cannot be doubted. We should all be as fortunate at eight-and-forty. But as we are blessed with only half his years, Miss Austen, let us throw off sober talk and take up other things. Have you been much in Hertfordshire?”
Recovering his senses, as it seemed, the Lieutenant conversed with great charm until the music ended, and then he bowed low over my gloved hand. After earnestly entreating me to favour him with another dance, and hearing me plead the necessities of fatigue, he took himself off in search of wine punch.
I gazed after him for an instant, turning over his words in my mind, then shook my head and resolved to think of him no more. Tom Hearst is altogether a scapegrace, a rake, and possibly a dangerous fellow, with his likeable face, his vigourous dancing, and his easy manners; a man who might do with a woman as he liked, having once won her heart.
1. A brief explanation of English titles and modes of address may be helpful to American readers, who lack Jane’s easy familiarity with both. Isobel Collins married Frederick Payne, the Earl of Scargrave, and as such became the Countess of Scargrave. She would be addressed as Lady Scargrave, but because she is a commoner by birth, she would never be addressed as Lady Isobel; that would be a courtesy title conferred on the daughter of a peer. The Earl is usually addressed as Lord Scargrave, taking his name from his title, rather than as Lord Payne, his family name, which in this account denotes his heir Fitzroy, Viscount Payne. —Editor’s note.
2. In Austen’s day, it was a sign of great friendship and mutual esteem to address an acquaintance by his or her first name. This was a privilege usually reserved for the family circle; between unrelated men and women, for example, it generally occurred only after an engagement was formed.—Editor’s note.
3. The novel to which Jane refers was initially called Susan. Finished and sold to a publisher for ten pounds in 1803, it had still not been published in 1816 when Jane bought it back from the purchaser. Later retitled Northanger Abbey, it was published posthumously in 1818.—Editor’s note.
4. The term living applied to a clergyman’s post—his salary and usually his home—which passed from one man to another, often as the gift of a patron who “owned” the living, or, if the clergyman himself had purchased the living, through the sale of the position before the incumbent’s death. Sale of a living after the incumbent’s death was considered trafficking in Church property—a violation of the laws of simony.—Editor’s note.
5. To kill one’s opponent in a duel was considered murder in England, and as the nineteenth century wore on, the successful combatant was often forced to flee the country if he did not wish to face the law. Around the turn of the eighteenth century, however, the authorities still occasionally winked at dueling—particularly among military men, for whom the conce
pt of personal honor was as vital as wealth or high birth. As Lieutenant Hearst is a cavalry officer, it would be left to his commanding officers to decide his fate.—Editor’s note.
11 December 1802, cont.
˜
THE MOST CURIOUS OF THE INCIDENTS I WITNESSED LAST night sprang from the arrival of a man—a gentleman and a stranger, but of so malevolent an aspect, that I shiver to find him still beneath our roof as the Earl lies dying. He is the chief of what I would understand about life at Scargrave Manor; and I must look to my friend Isobel for explanation, since it was in pursuit of her that he came.
I was engaged in observing Lieutenant Hearst’s progress towards the wine punch, when Isobel appeared at my side. Her face was becomingly flushed, and her brown eyes alight.
“My dear Jane! Is not this an excellent ball? Is not it an elegant assembly? And yet I have bade my husband be off, that I may steal a few moments in your company,” she declared, taking my hand. “Come into this corner and tell me all that has happened, for since your arrival I have not had a moment to spare for your cares.”
She led me to a settee placed conveniently within the alcove of a window, the better to view the progress of her ball while conversing unmolested. I confessed to some little fatigue after the rigours of Lieutenant Hearst’s conversation and enthusiasm, and sank into the seat with relief,
“I had hoped to be able to wish you joy, my dear Jane,” Isobel began, “but you are determined to deny me the pleasure. Now, do not run away,” she added, as I looked conscious, “in the fear that I am going to scold you—on the contrary, I admire you. Yes,” she insisted, when I would protest, “I admire your courage. It is rare to find a woman who places her personal happiness above her fears for the future. You refused Mr. Bigg-Wither, refused his offer of a home, a family, and the comfortable means they assured, to retain your independence, despite the counsel of all who wished you well and threw their weight behind the match. What strength!”
“Did you know Mr. Bigg-Wither, you would think me less noble,” I said. “There cannot be two men so likely to meet with refusal in the entire country. What is remarkable is that I accepted him at all, if only for an evening. The thought of an eternal fireside tête-à-tête with Mr. Bigg-Wither; the endless presiding over the Bigg-Wither teapot; the possibility of little Bigg-Withers, all equally as dull as their father—such nightmares were enough to chasten me by morning.”
“But at least your nightmares were of short duration, Jane.” Isobel smoothed the elegant folds of her green silk gown, her aspect turned sombre in an instant. “There are too many ladies, I fear, who must suffer them the length of an unhappy marriage. Better to reject a suitor, than to lie forever wakeful in contemplation of one’s mistake.”
“Indeed. Had I joined my life to Mr. Bigg-Wither’s, the alliance must be brief; for I would certainly have died of insomnia before the week’s end.”
My design was to provoke laughter, but in truth, my decision to reject Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither of Manydown Park a mere four-and-twenty hours after accepting him—to the joy of my dear friends, his sisters—has caused me great pain and mortification. He is heir to extensive estates in Hampshire, and his position and fortune would be thought a conquest for any lady, particularly one such as myself, whose means are so unequal to his, and whose first bloom of youth is gone. Despite these claims against my person, Mr. Bigg-Wither had fixed upon me as the companion of his future life almost from the moment I entered Manydown House a few weeks ago. In short, his proposal was quite gratifying, coming as it did without even the pretence of courtship. In a fit of gratitude—nay, I must and shall be honest—in a fit of vanity, I accepted him.
But he is six years my junior, an awkward, gloomy fellow burdened with a pronounced stutter; and all his consequence could not make of him a different man. As I would assuredly attempt to reform what nature had disposed Harris Bigg-Wither to be, I could only do him harm by accepting him. My instinct for self-preservation, my belief that marriage without love is the worst form of hypocrisy, gave me strength after a sleepless night to inform him of my error in encouraging his attentions, and to assure him that I was the woman least likely to bring him felicity in the married state. I departed Manydown not an hour later, in great despondency, certain that I had lost not only a suitor, but some part of my dearest acquaintance.
“And now you are come to Scargrave to forget your cares in a whirlwind of frivolity,” Isobel said, casting off her pensive air and reaching again for my hand.” We shall make certain that you do. I shall find some young man to dance attendance upon you, to flatter you and turn your head, and send Harris Bigg-Wither and his stutter to the nether reaches of your conscience.”
“Nay, Isobel,” I protested, “do not cause yourself the trouble to search further. I believe Lieutenant Hearst will amply serve my purpose. He has good looks and charm without the slightest suggestion of better feeling, and he possesses not a penny he may call his own. He shall do very well for a portionless clergyman’s daughter: We may expect him to ruin me and then depart for a noble death before Buonaparte’s cannon, at which point I shall throw myself in the millpond and be renowned in wine and song. Has Scargrave a millpond, Isobel?”
“Take care, Jane,” my friend said, struggling to be serious; “Tom Hearst is a pleasant enough rogue, but capable of great harm for all that. I would wish him less thrown in the way of my cousin Fanny, for he has so far made her forget herself as to appear a perfect wanton, on occasion—and nothing, as you know, is further from her character.”
“Assuredly,” I said, with less than perfect confidence in Fanny’s character; “but enough of my cares, Isobel.” I surveyed my friend, who looked every inch the countess, from the ropes of pearls entwined in her dark red hair to the fashionable slimness of her gown’s bodice. I had seen just such a cut to a neckline only once before—in an illustration of Buonaparte’s consort, Josephine, from a London journal. Isobel appeared born to wear it. But as I studied her countenance, I was grieved to see marks of strain about her lovely eyes—as though she, the least likely of all my acquaintance, had slept poorly of late. Perhaps the adoption of her husband’s station in life had proved too great a burden.
“What of you, Isobel,” I asked gently, “these three months married?”
“I? What may I possibly say of myself?” She spoke with more effort at gaiety than I should have thought necessary. “I am as you see me: an old married woman, whose adventures must be things of the past.”
“You appear very well.”
“I am glad to hear it,” she said, as a shadow came over her features, “for I exert myself to that end. I would not have my husband think other than that I am happy; and so my energies are directed.”
“Isobel—” I was seized with a sudden apprehension.
“Whatever can be the matter? You possess the essence of happiness as well as its outward form, assuredly?”
But she appeared insensible of my words, absorbed as she was in some activity on the nether side of the ballroom. “Jane!” she whispered, clutching at my arm, her features whitening and her brown eyes grown suddenly large. “He is here. He has had the insolence to appear in my home, in the first days of my return, and without my invitation. Unless it be that Frederick—”She turned in search of her husband, who had vanished from sight. Swift as a bird, her countenance regained its composure and her eyes fixed once more on her first object. “Good God, will I never be free of him?”
I followed the direction of her gaze and saw with foreboding the face that had inspired such fear. He was a tall man of indeterminate age, and thin, in the manner of one who is much out-of-doors in pursuit of frequent exercise. His face was tanned, his appearance elegant, and his carriage easy as he paced the margin of the room, hands clasped behind his back and eyes roving through the crowd. I knew with certainty that it was Isobel he sought, and my immediate instinct was to shelter her from his sight. There was something in the gentleman’s aspect—the hooded eyes under a sharp
brow, the sweep of silver hair, the long scar that bisected one tanned cheek—that inspired fear. This was a man too much in command of himself; and such an one must always strive to command all the world.
“But who is he?” I asked my friend in a whisper, as though his ears might penetrate even our sheltered alcove.
“He is Lord Harold Trowbridge,” Isobel replied, her fingers pinching my arm painfully, “the Duke of Wilborough’s brother. He is intent upon purchasing Crosswinds, my father’s estate in the Barbadoes, which has suffered sad reversals in recent years. He gives me no peace, by day or by night.”
“I believe he has seen us,” I said, my heart quickening, as the restless dark eyes came to rest on Isobel. A slow smile curled at the corners of Lord Harold’s thin mouth, and with the most gracious ease he made his way across the room to where we sat. There could be no flight; the wall was to our backs, and he was before us.
“Countess.” He bowed low over Isobel’s hand. “It gives me such pleasure to welcome you to your new home.”
“I fear the duty must be reversed, Lord Harold,” Isobel said, with an effort at a smile; “and that / must welcome you. I have also the honour of presenting you to my dear friend, Miss Austen, of Bath.”
“The honour is mine,” Lord Harold said, with a penetrating look and a bow in my direction.
“And have you found everything to your comfort?” Isobel enquired.
“Indeed,” he assured her, “I arrived but an hour ago from London, at Lord Scargrave’s invitation, and have been settled comfortably by Mrs. Hodges.”
At my friend’s expression of surprise, I judged she had not anticipated that the man would be taking up residence; but his insolence was equal even to this.
Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor Page 3
