Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

by Stephanie Barron

  “It cannot be surprising,” I said, studying his face. Did Tom Hearst desire to learn of some other reason for the magistrate’s attention? “And in winter, one discovers the closeness of one’s friends. A call upon an acquaintance may prove more attractive in the tedium of the season, when simpler pursuits are denied us by weather.”

  “Certainly Sir William finds it so,” the Lieutenant commented, “though any man might find attraction enough in your presence, summer or winter.”

  I could not suppress a smile at his relentless gallantry, and thought it best to seek refuge in a different subject.

  “An officer such as yourself must be wedded to his horse,” I said. “Have you been a rider since infancy, Lieutenant?”

  “I have,” he replied, reaching up to stroke his hunter’s nose. “My father placed me astride at the tender age of two, thereby predestining his second son for the cavalry. It was perhaps his last fatherly act before departing for the Continent, his mistress, and his death.”

  “You are very much attached to your profession?”

  “I would sooner be an officer in the Blues,”4 he avowed cheerfully, “than a duke. There is all the style of a position at Court, and the elegance of such a set, aligned with the freedom and adventure of military service; the command of men, and the camaraderie of one’s fellows—all things which I find delightful. I owe much to my uncle’s goodness, Miss Austen, for it was he who purchased my commission.”

  “Did he?” I enquired, though it was no more than I had suspected. “Then he served you better than your brother, Lieutenant. Had the Earl treated you both in a similar fashion, he should have made you a clerk, to be shut up indoors in every season—your inclination being so clearly in the opposite direction.”

  “And so George has availed himself of your kindness, and poured out his grievances,” the Lieutenant observed, amused. “He is never done lamenting his thwarted hopes, though he knows my uncle thought better of his choice, and has left him a living. It seems to me that George suffers vastly in parting with regret—though he but exchanges it for his heart’s desire. Perhaps he has grown fond of the attitudes of blighted youth.”

  “Mr. Hearst is to receive a living under the Earl’s will?” I exclaimed, in some surprise.

  “So I believe, though I have not seen the document,” the Lieutenant replied, “my cousin Fitzroy and his solicitors being too bound up in affairs of the estate to give us all a proper reading. But my uncle informed my brother of the fact, upon his return from his wedding trip; marital bliss had made the Earl even more generous. In amending the will’s terms to provide for the Countess, my uncle attended to George’s affairs as well. If there is cause for any rejoicing in the melancholy event of the Earl’s demise, my brother may justly claim it.”

  “Indeed,” I said distractedly, my thoughts in some confusion. Had Mr. Hearst ignored this point in conversing with me, out of a natural delicacy? Or from the counsel of a guilty conscience? For he clearly benefited from his uncle’s death; and that death had been achieved not long after that gentleman had imparted the news of his inheritance. Given the violence of argument I overheard the night of the Scargrave ball, Mr. Hearst’s entire aspect appeared worthy of probing.

  I suddenly became sensible of the Lieutenant’s narrow gaze, and endeavoured to shift our tête-à-tête to lighter matters.

  “Your commission in the Blues, now, Lieutenant—it affords you an added advantage in your role as a rival for Miss Delahoussaye’s affections, in that she dearly loves the military profession,” I said, with an attempt at playfulness. “And being attached to the Royal Household, you are unlikely to serve in garrison towns far from places and people of fashion; this must decidedly recommend you to her mother, who will often make of the two of you a third.”

  I had meant the remark in jest, of a piece with his own raillery against that lady; but he flushed and regarded me earnestly.

  “You have discerned, then, Miss Fanny’s partiality for me?” he asked anxiously. “I would that it were less pronounced. But she was never a lady to conceal her affections from the object of them, though propriety would counsel such. I cannot expect her to do so now, even before those less intimate with my family.”

  “My apologies, sir,” I said hastily. “I spoke rashly, when I intended to speak lightly. As a stranger to Scargrave, I should have held my tongue. One cannot be a part of a household without sometimes giving offence, however, and that when one least intends it.”

  The Lieutenant ran a gloved hand through his hair, his expression remained troubled. “It is just that you have touched upon a point that I have been at pains to avoid. I may have reacted thus too warmly. Madame Delahoussaye’s dearest object is to affiance her daughter to my cousin Fitzroy, whose fortune may be said to eclipse Fanny’s own; but Lord Scargrave’s accustomed aloofness has told against him, and so Miss Fanny searches elsewhere for flattery.”

  “Which you certainly know how to supply,” I said reprovingly. “Life at Court has at least taught you this. But I am surprised, sir; can even such a gallant as you win her young heart in but a few days?”

  “I have been acquainted with Miss Delahoussaye some seven months,” he replied, “full as long as she has known my cousin. During the last London Season, I was as much a party to their revels as it was possible to be.”

  “And it being summer, and she a pretty girl, you thought it no harm to engage in light flirtation. I see how it was.”

  “Her attentions were marked whenever we met.” Tom Hearst laughed shortly. “Her attentions! Can such a word encompass Fanny’s absurdity? She has completely thrown herself in my way. No man would scruple to take what Fanny offers, Miss Austen. Certainly not I. Though it pains me to admit it. I must regard myself with contempt, for succumbing to physical charms, where character and sense are so lacking.”

  Such frankness! The Lieutenant hesitated not in revealing himself as utterly wanting in principle. But his careless derogation of Fanny Delahoussaye was such as another lady could not suffer to pass in silence, even one who esteemed her as little as I.

  “And since her fortune is not a small one,” I observed, “you should have been a further fool to offer coldness in the face of such warmth. Self-interest has been your sole mover where Miss Delahoussaye is concerned.”

  “You are possessed of decided opinions, Miss Austen! Would that they were formed of less truth,” the Lieutenant said, with a doubtful look. “But too late I took the measure of her grasping mother’s plans, and hesitated lest I offend Fitzroy, whose perfect command of countenance allows no one to suspect whether he is partial to the lady or no. Were Fitzroy to have formed honourable intentions towards Fanny, I should have done him a serious wrong; but to speak of it with such an one as the Viscount—the Earl—is impossible. I determined to put myself in the clear and leave him to his chances.”

  The Lieutenant pretends, now, to have no notion that Fitzroy Payne’s affections were already engaged elsewhere, as he so clearly intimated during our dance at the Scargrave ball. A curious omission, as though Tom Hearst would wipe clean the blot of his former impropriety.

  “Whatever Fanny’s fortune,” I said, recovering myself, “the retention of your cousin’s good opinion must be said to have greater value.”

  “Indeed.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “But I fear I tarried too long. Miss Delahoussaye’s teasing ways have lately brought the wrath of her mother upon my head. Madame has had the temerity to suggest that I have encouraged her daughter in displays that offend propriety!**

  “I am all amazement,” I said, with deliberate irony.

  “You would laugh,” Tom Hearst replied, “but Madame went so far as to request it of my uncle before his death that I be barred from Scargrave for the Christmas season.”

  This was news, indeed. The result of the rumoured duel, perhaps?

  “Did she!” I cried. “I had not an idea of it! And what did your uncle reply?”

  “I remain here, as you see,” the
Lieutenant said, smiling, “and feel myself completely free to devote myself to others more worthy of my interest.”

  And so we turned for home, absorbed in forming a plan for further riding lessons in subsequent days. Lieutenant Hearst appears eager for my company; and though he is an untrustworthy rogue, he is charming enough for all that. He amuses me, and I am in no danger from his attentions; I have too much sense to credit the Lieutenant’s flattery, particularly when I feel it to be offered by design.

  Thus, we have struck a bargain, of sorts, though the terms remain unspoken. My skill as a horsewoman shall benefit from his attentions; and in turn I shall be much persecuted on the subject of Sir William Reynolds. The why of Tom Hearst’s interest in the magistrate, however, eludes me.

  1. Pattens were small rings, usually of metal, that were strapped onto the bottom of shoes to raise the feet a few inches above muddy streets or slushy paths. Though still worn in both country and town in Austen’s day, they were considered decidedly unfashionable by mid-century.—Editor’s note.

  2. Hatchments were family shields, shrouded in black crape and mounted over the windows of a great house to inform the public that the family was in mourning. —Editor’s note.

  3. A gaming-hell was the Georgian term for a gambling den.—Editor’s note.

  4. The Royal Horse Guards, one of three cavalry regiments charged with guarding the Royal Household, were nicknamed the Blues due to the color of their uniforms.—Editor’s note.

  17 December 1802

  ˜

  I AWOKE THIS MORNING RESOLVED TO PAY MORE ATTENTION to the perplexing problem of the Earl’s demise, and less to the rakish Lieutenant Hearst. Such a man cannot be taken seriously by one in my position; however charming, and attentive, the Lieutenant is little likely to ally himself with a lady as destitute as I, and can be seen only as a poor fellow marooned in the country—who finds what solace he can in idle flirtation.

  With such sensible thoughts in mind, I descended to the little breakfast room with alacrity, my progress hastened by a healthy appetite and a vigorous sense of purpose. I had lain rather late abed—being much fatigued, due to the exertion of the previous day’s riding—and thought that I should have the table to myself; but Fitzroy Payne appeared not five minutes after the footman had pulled out my chair, and greeted me with a distracted bow.

  “Miss Austen. You look well.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I feel quite renewed by my excellent rest.” I would that I could have returned his compliment, but in truth, he appeared remarkably ill.

  “I fear that sleep is an indulgence I must deny myself for the present—my uncle’s affairs demand all my attention.” The Earl took a seat and waved away the servant’s proffered teapot. “Coffee for me, Fetters, and some fresh rashers.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  At the footman’s departure, Fitzroy Payne cast a glance over his shoulder and leaned across the table. “I must congratulate myself, Miss Austen, upon finding you quite alone. I would speak with you on a matter of some delicacy.”

  I set down my toast and touched a serviette to my lips. “I am all attention, Lord Scargrave.”

  The Earl hesitated at my use of his uncle’s title, and then gave me a rare smile. It had the power to utterly transform his face; from being rather a grave gentleman, possessed of sobriety unwonted in one so young, he was turned a convivial and charming fellow. I felt for an instant what it must have been to walk the streets of May-fair in his company, all those summer months ago, and understood a little of Isobel’s trouble.

  “I have observed your attentions to the Countess,” Fitzroy Payne began. “Though her present misfortunes are heavy, indeed, they must be counted as somewhat relieved by her enjoyment of such friendship.”

  I inclined my head. “Those who know Isobel’s goodness cannot help but love her.”

  “Would that it were otherwise,” he murmured, undoubtedly for his own ears. Then, collecting himself, he gazed at me with the greatest earnestness. “You have noted, I assume, my preoccupation with my late uncle’s affairs. It has denied me the opportunity I should otherwise have taken, of pursuing your acquaintance. So good a friend to Isobel should not remain a stranger to myself.”

  “Perhaps we may better understand one another in an easier time,” I said gently. “I should never reproach you for attending to that which demands your care and attention, Lord Scargrave. You have been graciousness itself when thrown in my way.”

  “When thrown in your way” he rejoined, with a gleam of amusement; “how poorly I have behaved to a guest beneath my roof! What would my fellows at White’s1 say of me now, did they observe my manners? But it cannot be helped. I must presume upon short acquaintance, and beg of you your good offices.”

  “If I may be of service to you in some matter, my lord, I would gladly know it.”

  “I ask not for myself, but for one who is dear—to us both.”

  This was a sort of frankness; for that he meant Isobel, I could not doubt, and by admitting to me—even in so delicate a manner—the depth of his own feeling for his late uncle’s wife, the Earl honoured me with his confidence, indeed.

  The sudden return of the footman, Fetters, with coffeepot and fresh rashers in hand, precluded further speech on the subject; but the Earl’s breakfast once served, the man was dismissed. At Fetters’s closing the breakfast room door discreetly behind him, I felt myself free to address the Earl’s anxiety once more.

  “What eager concern for Isobel has robbed you of your sleep, Lord Scargrave?”

  His slate-coloured eyes held a surprising humility, and in their depths I read a grudging acknowledgement of my penetration. “You speak the truth, Miss Austen. I would spend less time wakeful at my uncle’s affairs, were my sleep undisturbed by anxiety for the Countess.”

  “And is Lord Harold the author of your demons, Lord Scargrave? For I confess, that where that gentleman is concerned, I may offer no assistance. He confounds me utterly.”

  “To say utterly is perhaps an exaggeration. Miss Austen of Bath is never confounded utterly,” Fitzroy Payne said with gentle raillery. “No, Miss Austen—with Lord Harold I feel myself an equal. There is little the man would do to the Countess that I cannot forestall. It is Isobel herself who is the source of my anxiety.” The Earl hesitated, as if choosing his words. “I do not know how deeply you are admitted to her confidence—”

  “Suffice it to say that I know as much regarding her affection for yourself, as it was possible for her to convey to another person,” I said quietly.

  A wave of embarrassment overcame his face; but he quickly mastered it, and went on with greater ease. “Then you know that we two have achieved that level of intimacy which can admit of few impediments.”

  “So I should imagine.”

  “And yet, not a word beyond the common conventions of the household have I had from the Countess since my uncle’s death. She deals with me as with a stranger.” The Earl slapped the table with the palm of his hand, and abruptly thrust himself out of his chair, commencing to pace about the room.

  “You find this singular, my lord?”

  “Singular? It is insupportable!”

  “But she is lost to grief!”

  “And at such a time, I should be her first comfort! But she appears rather to wish me at the ends of the earth!”

  I knew not how to answer his confusion; for to say what I believed—that Isobel’s profound grief was mingled with a sense of guilt and shame where Fitzroy Payne was concerned—should only cause him further pain. And it was just possible—Isobel having kept from her beloved all knowledge of the maid Marguerite’s blackmailing missives—that the Countess desired to shield Fitzroy from her worry. That Isobel had taken the maid’s words to heart, and begun to fear the grey-hared lord, I thrust aside as unlikely.

  “Perhaps the Countess will be more herself with time,” I said lamely.

  “But what if she is not, Miss Austen? What if my uncle’s death has caused in her some rev
ersal of feeling? It is just such a fear as this that robs my nights of sleep.”

  Such honesty of sentiment, before myself—with whom he is acquainted only imperfectly—could not but win my active benevolence on Fitzroy Payne’s behalf.

  “Lord Scargrave,” I said, “the Countess has borne more than any lady of her tender years and experience should be expected to endure. Consider her disappointed passion for yourself—the strength required to overcome it—the melancholy resignation to a marriage of convenience—and now the sudden loss of a husband she revered at least as she might a father. It is not to be wondered that she seeks comfort in solitude. I should rather wonder at her doing anything else.”

  “That may be true,” Fitzroy Payne said, composing himself with better grace. “But I would ask you, Miss Austen, to bend your efforts to improving Isobel’s spirits. She is too much alone. Persuade her to walk with you, if the weather be fine; talk to her of subjects far from this unhappy house. And if it be possible to plead my cause—to speak warmly on my behalf—”

  “Then know that I shall do all that is in my power, Lord Scargrave,” I assured him without hesitation.

  “Blessed woman!” Fitzroy Payne cried, his gratitude in his looks; and so he left me.

  I could not be idle when so much anxiety was active on Isobel’s part; I hastened to her room, and found her very low.

  “My dear,” I said, placing a wrap about her shoulders as she sat by the fire, her face pensive and her hair undone, “you are not dressed! And your tea is undrunk! Has Daisy failed to attend you?”

  “Oh, Jane,” my friend sighed, “Daisy cannot attend to an illness of the spirit! Of what interest is dress to me? I cannot assume a different self, by assuming a different gown. I should rather remain here, in the quiet of my room, and repent of all my sins.”

  “Come, come,” I chided her. “You should better congratulate yourself for having survived so many tests of character, with such grace and fortitude.”

  “Neither word can apply to me.” Isobel thrust off the wrap and rose from her chair. “I have dishonoured a man who would have moved heaven and earth to make me happy.”