Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

by Stephanie Barron

  —Unless he were avowedly elsewhere, in the company of others, at the self-same moment. I must discover his movements on the day of Marguerite’s death. And that meant a visit to his brother the Duke of Wilborough’s London residence. How to effect it? For that august family was unknown to this one, a fact Madame Delahoussaye underlined to me more than once when it appeared Lord Harold would remain at Scargrave through Christmas. She found it passing strange that he had deserted his brother the Duke for Isobel Payne in such a season, but knowing little of either Trowbridge or Wilborough, had assumed their relations were not close. But Lord Harold clearly acted from expediency, in forcing the acquaintance; and in more extreme circumstances, I should not be encumbered with greater delicacy. To Wilborough House on any pretext, therefore, I must go, the better to discover his whereabouts on the day of Marguerite’s murder.

  And what of the others? Madame Delahoussaye I ruled out, as unlikely to benefit in any way from the murder of the Earl, the hanging of her niece, or the similar execution of the peer she had hoped would marry her daughter. But of Fanny—could such silliness as possessed the girl hide a malevolent purpose? I could not forget her early morning walk to the paddock, she who did not ride; nor her furtive entry into the shed, nor the bag of coins she had left there. Anonymous philanthropy, I felt, was not in Fanny’s nature; if she parted with her pence, it was only under duress. Someone had blackmailed Miss Delahoussaye, for reasons I could not divine; and that it might as well be the maid, was urged by the choice of the shed for her depositbox. Had Fanny grown tired of demands for money, and ended the affair with Marguerite’s life?

  Why, then, go to such lengths to throw guilt upon her cousin and the newly-titled Earl? Avarice and ambition might counsel it. Someone should be guilty of the murder; and that it should not be herself or someone she loved—Lieutenant Hearst—but rather the man she did not want to marry, made perfect sense. With Fitzroy out of the way, George Hearst might inherit, and with the proper persuasion, could turn his brother into a titled man of wealth. Fanny intimated as much, only a few days ago; such calculation is natural in one so ruled by self-interest.

  But why drop Isobel’s handkerchief at the spot? For the satisfaction of having no rival at Scargrave? I should leave that question for later.

  Two people yet remained to me—Lieutenant Tom Hearst and his batman, Jack Lewis. That I thought the Lieutenant’s lighter character the least likely to be bent to darker purpose, I will not deny; and that a sensibility on my part influenced my views, I may as well admit. But I forced myself to construct an unflattering portrait of the Lieutenant, with all the force of possibility and motive.

  In seducing the maid to kill the Earl, and casting suspicion upon Fitzroy once Marguerite was forever silenced, Tom Hearst might hope to win the former Viscount’s title and fortune, at the hand of his brother George. This seemed an elaborate sort of plot for a man more likely to act upon impulse, or in the heat of temper; but I could imagine how it was done. The Lieutenant had declared himself resident in London during the period of Isobel’s brief courtship by his uncle, for it was then he had met Fanny Delahoussaye. He might have formed a liaison with Marguerite at the same time.

  I considered how Tom Hearst’s gliding step in the moonlit hall the previous midnight had reminded me of the spectral First Earl. Had the Lieutenant donned fancy dress and tip-toed past my door, all those nights ago at Scargrave Manor, the better to hide the Barbadoes nuts in Fitzroy Payne’s gun case? Were he observed entering his cousin’s room at that unlikely hour, the fact should be remembered when the nuts’ presence was discovered; but no one was likely to suggest that a ghost had incriminated the eighth Earl. And Tom Hearst had been at pains the next morning to reinforce my midnight impressions, by declaring that he had witnessed a similar visitation prior to his mother’s death.

  I reflected uneasily upon the Lieutenant’s character. He was playful enough—and so unprincipled, I feared—as to regard the effect of fancy dress as a devilish good joke. I had no proof that he was the spectral impostor; however, and determined to halt the progress of my thoughts, in turning from the Lieutenant to his batman. Certainly one of the two had removed the maid’s locket from her things, possibly because it contained his likeness. But which?

  The batman, Jack Lewis, was of a station far closer to the maid’s own. I considered that smart Cockney fellow, of the glad eye and shameless insolence, and decided he was the most likely to take a Creole girl strolling in Covent Garden. He was more likely than the Lieutenant, as well, to buy her a locket—and commit the indiscretion of placing his miniature inside.

  And then a thought occurred to me. Jack Lewis need not have been the murderer of the Earl (who can hardly have been known to him), to be the thief of the pendant. Sorrowing at her death, the batman might readily have retrieved the girl’s things from Lizzy Scratch, and then grown fearful at the sight of the bauble containing his likeness. Were it discovered, he was as good as hanged—or so he might have feared. And thus he secreted it somewhere about his person, and said nothing of its existence.

  I must endeavour to find out whether I am right or no, at the nearest opportunity.

  Which task to undertake first? Lord Harold Trowbridge, Rosie Ketch, or the batman, Jack Lewis? Since I should prefer the murderer to be Isobel’s despicable foe before all others, it seemed best to assault his defences first; but I should need a greater weapon than our slight acquaintance if I were to breast the ramparts of Wilborough House. I bethought myself of Eliza, rose of a sudden from the brealcfast table, and sought my bonnet and cloak.

  ELIZA, COMTESSE DE FEUILLIDE, IS MY BROTHER HENRY’S wife. She is also my cousin, being my father’s sister’s child, although reputedly not the daughter of my aunt’s husband.3 All that is to say that Eliza was conceived in adulterous love, and my cousin has made it her metier from the day of her birth—being an accomplished flirt, a charming adventuress, one of the chief ornaments of Versailles before the fall of Marie Antoinette, and a cheat of the guillotine where her first husband, the Comte de Feuillide, was not. That sad gentleman’s demise before the public executioner in 1794 left my bright Eliza returned to England and free to marry Henry some three years later. Though she is nearly ten years older than my favourite brother, and his union with her has been the subject of much unease in the family, I think them not unsuited. I rejoice, in fact, that my cousin is sobered somewhat by her Austen ties; and that Henry possesses in his wife so lively a wit to challenge his own.

  And she is undoubtedly useful, in knowing everyone, and being welcome everywhere.

  I arrived at No. 24 Upper Berkeley Street—but a few steps from Scargrave House’s door—with a spirit for adventure and a desire to encompass Eliza in my schemes. Fortune was with me—my brother was out and Eliza at liberty. Her maid Manon showed me to the sitting-room, where the petite comtesse was tucked up before a brisk fire, her writing things at hand, and her little dog, Pug, established in her lap.

  “My dearest Jane!” my cousin cried, thrusting the dog to the floor and standing in haste. “I had not an idea you were in London! Have you eloped with some dashing young man, and come to me for protection?”

  “Having heard of the affair of Harris Bigg-Wither, you cannot believe it possible,” I said, smiling. “I am sworn off men for a twelvemonth at least, having failed to attract the men I like, and behaved infamously to the ones I abhor.”

  “You should have been wasted upon such a poor pup,” Eliza rejoined dismissively; “and had you asked my advice, I should certainly have counseled you the same. But I suppose your family is mortified? They always are,” she finished cheerfully, “when women think for themselves. Well! How are we to celebrate such a meeting?”

  “I was hoping to prevail upon you, Eliza,” I said, “to accompany me on a matter of some delicacy.”

  “Delicate affairs being my chief occupation,” she observed, her eyes sparkling with interest.

  “It concerns the Duke of Wilborough,” I continued, “o
r rather, his brother.”

  “Trowbridge? Good Lord, you haven’t set your cap at that fellow, my dear? I’m as fond as the next of dangerous rogues; I was quite susceptible to them, at one time. But Lord Harold is too much of the real thing.”

  “I think him quite the most evil man I have ever met.”

  “And with reason.” Eliza fluttered her many-ringed fingers in my direction. “There are those who say he was the financial ruin of Sir Hugh Carmichael, and that he seduced his wife; in any case, she was sent away to family in Wales until the child was born, and poor Sir Hugh shot himself in the middle of Pall Mall not two months ago. A scandalous business. But how do you come to know Lord Harold Trowbridge?”

  “I shall tell you in the carriage,” I said, “for time is of the essence.”

  “But, my dear Jane—I must think what to wear. For this old thing cannot do for the Duke of Wilborough’s residence. No, indeed.” Dismayed, she surveyed her short-sleeved gown, of pumpkin-coloured silk overlaid with bronze braid, and cut as always in the latest fashion. At forty-one, cousin Eliza has not cast off her youth, and to judge from her effect on most gentlemen, her care is well rewarded. She cast a swift glance in the mirror and hurried towards the door; Pug at her heels. “I shall not be a moment, Jane. Manon!”

  1. Spencer Perceval (later Prime Minister of England, assassinated in the House of Commons, 1812) was Attorney-General in 1803, and thus should have argued the case for the Crown. His “indisposition” may, in fact, have been overwork—he was engrossed at this time in preparing the prosecution of a Colonel Despard, who had recently plotted the assassination of George IE and the overthrow of the government.—Editor’s note.

  2. As noted elsewhere, a defense lawyer in 1802 could do very little for his client—being barred from questioning or cross-examining the prosecution’s witnesses or allowing the defendant to testify on his or her own behalf. His role was limited to arguing points of law as presented in the prosecution’s case.—Editor’s note.

  3. Austen scholars believe that Eliza de Feuillide is the probable model for Jane Austen’s most outrageous heroine, Lady Susan, of the eponymous novel. Eliza was probably the natural child of Warren Hastings (Governor-General of Bengal from the 1760s to the mid-1780s), and Jane Austen’s aunt, Philadelphia Austen Hancock. Hastings stood god-father to the infant Eliza, and provided a £10,000 trust fund for her support; she later named her only son, who was to die in his youth, Hastings de Feuillide. Warren Hastings is most famous for a spectacular impeachment trial in the House of Commons from 1787-1795, where he was eventually cleared of charges of murder, bribery, and mismanagement.—Editor’s note.

  1 January 1803, cont.

  ˜

  WILBOROUGH HOUSE SITS IN ST. JAMES SQUARE, IN ALL the glory of grey stone and the lustre of its ancient name.1 That Eliza was acquainted with the Duchess of Wilborough, I had long known—it was my chief purpose in her recruitment, for her card, which bore still her French title of Comtesse de Feuillide, should readily gain acceptance where my own poor Miss Austen should languish in the entry-hall bowl. It was as I predicted—the austere fellows guarding either side of the door in livery and white wigs surveyed the grandeur of Eliza’s emerald-green gown, tasselled turban, and ermine stole; bowed with a certain contained respect, and returned promptly to inform us that the Duchess was at home.

  No one could resist Eliza. She was possessed, always, of the latest intelligence regarding one’s acquaintance.

  We were ushered up a broad stair and through lofty rooms done up in the fashion of Europe. Painted murals of fat cupids and slender nymphs adorned the ceilings, the walls were sheathed in boiserie, and precious Sevres vases filled every corner.

  “Frightfully stuffy, my dear, like the Duchess’s mind,” Eliza confided, and I expelled my breath in relief. She, at least, was not overawed.

  Through enfiladed drawing-rooms, past set after set of tall doors that opened noiselessly at our approach—a score of footmen alone must be required for the delivery of the Duchess’s callers; what she demands for a small dinner party, I cannot imagine. At last we were shown into an intimate lady’s parlour, all gilt and white and silk-strewn chairs of the uncomfortable sort deemed necessary for the preservation of one’s posture, and faced the Duchess of Wilborough herself. A little woman, of pinched and imperious countenance, who smiled creak-lly at the sight of Eliza.

  “My dear,” the Duchess said, extending a limp hand, “so good of you to cheer a friend in her solitude.”

  “Are you quite alone, then, Duchess?” Eliza enquired, her voice all concern, and bent to clasp the beringed fingers she was offered. “I have brought you my favourite sister,2 Miss Austen of Bath, only recently arrived in Town. She has been intimate these past weeks at Scargrave Manor; where I believe your dear brother recently visited as well.”

  “Harry?” the Duchess said with some asperity; “I cannot pretend to know whose houses or whose beds Harry has visited last. But I am obliged to make your acquaintance, Miss Austen, and to see you none the worse for your recent encounter with my brother.”

  All amazement at her vulgarity, I murmured something in reply, and took the seat the Duchess offered.

  “Now,” she said, settling her hands comfortably, “you must tell me all you know of the scandal.”

  “The scandal?” I said, affecting ignorance.”

  “Regarding Scargrave’s death,” she returned impatiently. “Is it true the young rogue who was his heir has been enjoying the favours of the Countess?”

  It was plain that the Duchess felt complete frankness to be her reward for admitting me to the elevated circle of her acquaintance; and my discomfort must have shown on my face. I knew not what to say. Matters of such a delicate nature should not be tossed about for amusement; and yet, I had come for just this sort of information myself. Eliza rescued me.

  “My dear cousin is an intimate friend of the lady,” she murmured, leaning forward to offer the full force of her charm; “and Your Grace cannot expect her to betray a confidence of so serious a nature. But I am under no such compunction; and I may relate that the Countess and the present Earl are even now locked away in Newgate prison. They were brought before the Assizes soon after Christmas, and remanded to the House of Lords for trial.”

  “No!” the Duchess said, slapping her hands on her lap; “and Bertie” (by this I took her to mean her husband, the Duke) “will have to hear it in the Lords. How extraordinary! We must send for Bertie at once. For I am certain the trial shall not be long postponed.”

  “Indeed, it is to be scheduled among the first items of the new session’s business,” I ventured. “His Grace is not in residence?”

  “Lord, no,” she replied. “He and Trowbridge have been over in Paris nearly a fortnight, about some wretched business with the West Indies trade. I begged off at the last moment—can’t abide Buonaparte, you know, nor that slattern he calls his wife. Intelligence is not her strong suit, and her taste in clothes—”

  “How adventurous of His Grace,” Eliza broke in. “Very few of his countrymen should risk a trip to France, when hostilities have been suspended so little time.”3

  “I am of your opinion, and told the Duke the same. ‘If that upstart invades while you are away, my dear,’ I said to Bertie, ‘you shall be thrown in prison, and I shall retire to the country.’ Of what worth is a concession to trade with the French Indies, when the word of the dictator cannot be trusted? They should content themselves with trading among good English subjects alone. Buonaparte has tried to strangle the flow of British goods, but he shall not prevail while we hold our colonies in the Caribbean.”

  “How refreshing to hear politics discussed by a lady,” Eliza murmured, with an ecstatic look; “and how I envy your husband’s chance to visit once more that unhappy country! It will live forever in my memory as the most poignant, and beloved, epoch of my past.” She looked down at her gloves, and managed a tear; the Duchess was instantly all sympathy.

  “How could
I be so cruel as to remind you of such horrors! Forgive me, my dear—and you, too, Miss Austen.”

  “And so Lord Harold went directly from Scargrave to Paris,” I said. “He cannot, then, have learned of the Countess’s recent misfortune.”

  “Indeed, not,” the Duchess said, “but I shall write to Bertie directly. Neither he nor Trowbridge would wish to miss the event, of such importance to the peerage.”

  “I fear; Duchess, that we must leave you now,” Eliza said tearfully, as though overcome by bitter memories of the past; “but we have so enjoyed our little visit.” She rose in a manner that suffered no protest, extended her exquisitely gloved hand, and turned for the door, myself in her wake.

  Behind us, the Duchess rang a bell, and at the door’s silent opening, we were pleased to find a footman waiting to conduct us to the street. Without a guide, I am sure that even Eliza should have wandered lost about the corridors, surveyed by Wilborough ancestors scowling from their frames.

  Once freed of the oppressive rooms, with their weight of conscious elegance, my cousin breathed a sigh of relief. “Poor Honoria is an unfortunate old frump,” Eliza said, mounting the carriage step in a swirl of green silk, “but she told us what we desired to learn.”

  “And in exchange, we may expect her to trample Isobel’s name in all the best houses,” I rejoined. “I must suppose it impossible that Lord Harold murdered the maid, however, as he was clearly abroad at the time; and so must look to others for the Countess’s relief.”