Jane and the Wandering Eye: Being the Third Jane Austen Mystery

by Stephanie Barron

  “I would not have gone for the world, indeed, but that I felt this obligation. And there is Henry to think of.”

  “Henry?” my mother enquired.

  “Henry,” I said firmly. “He has great hopes of the Wilborough fortune. He has performed some little service on Lord Harold’s behalf, in the financial line, and an improvement in my acquaintance with the entire family might further Henry’s interest.”

  “Oh, in that case, you had much better go,” my mother cried. “Eliza is such a sad, heedless housekeeper—so extravagant in her ways—and poor Henry has never had much of a head for business. Only do not be saying so to the Duchess, I beg, Jane. You must do for your brother what you can. For I very much fear that if you do not, our Henry may end with skulking in the Savoy, or running for Parliament. And we cannot have politicians in the family. They have so little conversation, being given to incessant speeches, that they induce my head to ache dreadfully.”2

  And with this obscure remark, my mother hastened away, to see to the brushing of my gloves.

  AT SEVEN EXACTLY THE WILBOROUGH CARRIAGES ARRIVED—one a chariot-and-four, which contained the Duchess, her niece, and her companion, Miss Wren; and the other, a curricle, with Lord Harold at the reins. The Gentleman Rogue himself descended in pursuit of me; and his appearance was at once so elegant and daring, in his fashionable black pantaloons and coat, that my father’s expression of gravity increased. My mother was all but overcome; and my sister, after the briefest of introductions, retired forthwith to her room.

  Were it not for the gravity of circumstances surrounding the Trowbridge family, I should have been entirely gay; but an oppression of feeling could not be overcome. Lord Harold, tho’ possessed of admirable qualities, might never be said to move in a high flow of spirits. He was grave, and I was contained; and so we made our progress to the theatre, with a few sentences only exchanged on either side. I ventured to enquire whether Mr. Cosway had fulfilled his commission, and learned to my satisfaction that Lord Harold waited but for the receipt of certain necessary papers, to be fetched from London by an express, before sending the packet to Portsmouth.

  The first play was to be Kotzebue’s Lovers’ Vows, with Miss Conyngham in the role of Agatha; her brother was to play at Frederick.3 The public taste for German sentiment, first fed some years previous by Mrs. Siddons and her brother Kemble in The Stranger, reigns unabated in Bath; but I must confess to a preference for Sheridan’s comedies, or for Shakespeare’s work, so elevated in its expression and refined in its feeling. There is a maudlin note in Kotzebue that borders on vulgarity; an artificiality of speech and an excessive display of sentiment that I cannot like. My taste in theatre had gone unsolicited, however—and the purpose of the evening’s entertainment being so far above the enjoyment of the play, that I determined to express only gratification, and turn my energies from the stage to the probing of Lady Desdemona.

  Orchard Street was entirely blocked with traffic, and the Wilborough equipages spent a tedious interval in attempting the entrance.

  “I fear the public’s enthusiasm for the present drama, though necessarily large, has found an increase in the players’ notoriety,” Lord Harold observed. “So great has been the sensation at poor Richard Portal’s death, that many who should never venture into Orchard Street in the course of their usual pursuits, are present this evening.”

  “It puts me in mind of a Siddons night in Drury Lane, when first she played at Isabella,” I observed. “I have had to suffer such indignities on that lady’s behalf, in my attempts to gain a respectable seat, as might occur at a Tyburn hanging.”4

  Lord Harold turned, one eyebrow lifted. “You are a hardened devotee, then, of the Dramatic Muse? I should have suspected it, Miss Austen. You possess a decided flair for role-playing.”

  “It was my family’s custom to stage an amateur theatrical at Christmas, throughout my tender years in Steventon; on certain occasions we employed our barn for stage, and at others, our neighbours the Lefroys were wont to offer their double parlours for proscenium and pit. I cannot, in truth, consider drama as divisible from Christmastide.” I forbore to mention, however, that I had attempted the composition of a play or two, and had determined it was not my particular art—for of my writing I never spoke with Lord Harold.

  “What think you of the divine Siddons?” the gentleman enquired, his attention divided between myself and the turbulent street.

  “She is possessed of a decided majesty, that none who attempt to play at tragedy may approach. There is nothing, I believe, to equal her Lady Macbeth. But I wonder if I should enjoy her company on a less exalted plane—the drawingroom, for example, rather than the stage? She seems a chilly creature. And her brother Kemble is worse! How he prates and turns about the boards, as emotive as a block of marble! Until I had seen him play at Pizarro, I could never like him; but there his figure gained in animation.”

  “Perhaps tragedy is not your predilection. For there can be few performances to equal Kemble’s Hamlet.”

  “I do confess, Lord Harold, that with so much of sorrow to be found in the everyday—tragedies, perhaps, of a smaller scale—I can but wonder that we pay so often for the privilege of enduring it. When I exert my energies towards the theatre, I hope to be transported—to leave such griefs and disappointments behind. I do incline to a preference for Mrs. Jordan.”

  “Ah, the cheeky sprite,” my companion rejoined. “She is no friend to Kemble either—but, being happy in the protection of still greater men, she cannot have cause to repine. Perhaps our own Miss Conyngham may rise so high in the world’s estimation.”5

  We had achieved the entrance; Lord Harold leapt down, and handed the reins to a waiting footman. He managed the several duties of attending his family and myself with competent grace; and our introductions having been made in all the bustle of the foyer, we had very soon left both snowy street and cloakroom behind, for the relative quiet of the box.

  Lord Harold ensured that my place should be at his niece’s side; himself he seated by the Dowager; and Miss Wren was forced to suffer in isolation, at the farthest remove from the stage. She is the sort of poor relation that I shudder to think I shall become—dependent, decaying, and despondent in her aspect. An unfortunate creature in her middle years, without strong affection or security to protect her, and necessitous to the point of enduring the Duchess’s caprice in exchange for daily bread. Her sunken cheeks, sharp nose, and respectable grey muslin proclaim Miss Wren the soul of abject decency; and I averted my eyes from the pitiable sight, lest her circumstance destroy my brief happiness in my new gown.

  “You are very fine this evening, Miss Austen,” Lord Harold observed, as he cast an eye over his niece and myself. “You must always go about in exactly that shade, regardless of weather or season. It becomes your dark hair and eyes extremely.”

  I blushed, and expected every moment the weight of the Dowager’s stare, and some unease regarding her son’s attentions to a mere nobody—but in a moment, all discomfiture was at an end. Eugenie had so far ignored Lord Harold’s remark, being absorbed in a perusal of the program, that it might never have fallen. She was this evening a confection of diamonds and ebony lace, her carriage erect and her sharp-featured face held high; and as she leant towards the rail, an ebony cane grasped firmly in one hand, her brilliant eyes narrowed in a manner that was strikingly familiar.

  “Harry,” she declared in a peremptory tone, “I cannot find Miss Conyngham listed in the program. Can it be that she is indisposed?”

  “Perhaps the death of her colleague has affected her too deeply.”

  “Then I shall be greatly amazed. I confess I detected no affection in the case.”

  “Indeed?” Lord Harold’s interest quickened. “Then I have been labouring under a misapprehension. I had understood them to be lovers.”

  “Lord Harold!” squeaked Miss Wren. “How can you speak so! And in front of the young ladies!”

  “Most of Bath has thought the same,” h
is mother replied crisply, as though Miss Wren had never spoken, “but I persist in denying the attachment. It seemed, to my mind, but an affair of convenience. We must descend upon the wings, Harry, when the play is at an end, and make Hugh Conyngham tell us how she does.”

  Miss Wren let out another squeak, and jumped slightly from agitation. “Would that be entirely proper, Your Grace? I cannot think that it should, particularly for Lady Desdemona—”

  “I am at your service, madam,” Lord Harold replied to his mother. “I confess to an active interest in Miss Conyngham’s condition myself.”

  In an apparent effort to turn the conversation, Lady Desdemona said, “You are privileged, Miss Austen, in calling Bath your home?”

  I stifled a barbed retort—Bath being the very last place I should honour with that sentiment—and took refuge in the notion that there was nothing like a pleasure place for diverting one’s attention from one’s cares. Did Lady Desdemona claim a broad acquaintance in Bath? She did not; and confessed herself quite lonely.

  “Then the addition of your uncle to Her Grace’s party must be a happy one,” I observed. “With such a gentleman to escort you to the theatre and the Rooms, your enjoyment of Bath may only increase.”

  “Oh, yes,” the lady replied, with a grateful look for Lord Harold, who seemed engrossed in observing the crowd through his quizzing glass. “I do so esteem my uncle! He pays the least mind to what is tedious in social convention—quite unlike Papa, who is forever preaching about a lady’s proper place—that I am entirely easy in his company.”

  “He is an excellent man.”

  “Do you think so?” She laughed in delight. “How relieved I am. I hear such scandalous reports of Uncle’s conduct, as to suspect that he is very little admired in the world.”

  “Then we may assume he is but little known. For those who comprehend the depth of his character, cannot but honour it.” I spoke from the heart, and too late regretted the force of my words.

  “But of course!” Lady Desdemona cried. “I had quite forgot. You are Uncles acquaintance, not Grandmère’s.” Her grey eyes, so like Lord Harold’s, took on an aspect of calculation; and I knew her to be wondering at my friendship with the man, and all that it might imply. At nearly thirty, and never entirely able to consider myself handsome—lacking birth or fortune to distinguish me—I cannot have seemed at all in the Trowbridge line.

  I hastened to disabuse her.

  “Our acquaintance is quite recent. It is my brother Mr. Henry Austen, who claims a nearer friendship with his lordship. I only met your uncle a few weeks ago”—(though this was hardly true, I had no wish to detail the tragic events at Scargrave)—“at Henry’s London residence. I can only suppose that Lord Harold has learned I am a great enthusiast for Kotzebue—and so extended his very kind invitation to make another of your party.”

  “Then I am happy of the addition,” she replied simply. “I very nearly refused to show my face abroad this e’en—but one cannot hide within doors forever. Poor Kinny’s affairs are so sadly entangled—” She faltered, and compressed her lips.

  “I am certain Lord Harold will soon put them to rights.”

  “You were present, I understand, at Grandmère’s rout?”

  “I had the honour of dancing with your brother well before supper.”

  Her face brightened. “Then you must see it as I do! You will know how impossible it is for Kinny to do anyone a mischief!”

  “Was he long in residence at Laura Place before the sad events of Tuesday?”

  “He was arrived but a fortnight.”

  “Lord Kinsfell,” Miss Wren interposed with an important air, “was come on an errand from His Grace the Duke. He intended the removal of Lady Desdemona from Bath, and I for one must deeply regret that he did not carry his point!” At this, she cast a withering look at the Dowager Duchess; and I concluded that Eugenie had refused to give up her granddaughter. “But then, in my forty years, I have often observed, that a world of misfortune will result from the too-great indulgence of a wilful mind. I—”

  “Oh, Lord, Wren, will you have done?” Lady Desdemona cried in evident exasperation. “Would you have me sent off, against my express wishes? Returned summarily to that dreadful prison?”

  “Wilborough House may certainly be draughty, and its decoration of a vanished era, but no bars does it boast, nor turnkeys at the door,” Miss Wren replied with pointed reproof. “Whereas Bath cannot be safe for your reputation, my dear Mona, in its present climate of opinion. You are well launched on your first Season—but we cannot sink in complacency. You would do well to seize what opportunity offers. We are none of us growing the younger.”

  Lady Desdemona trembled with indignation, and colour mounted to her cheeks. I may say that she appeared to even greater advantage this evening, being dressed all in white and with pearls in her hair, than she had in the midst of the rout. At eighteen, her figure was already formed; she was fine-boned and elegant, and her countenance glowed with the outrage of her feeling.

  “Grandmère,” she pleaded, with a hand to the Dowager’s arm. “It is beastly of Wren to speak to me so—as though Kinny’s misfortune were entirely my fault! Tell her that she is not to interfere. Tell her I may stay with you always.”

  “Of course, my darling,” the Dowager replied indulgently. “You shall grow old in retirement—nay, retreat to a convent if necessary—for the discouragement of Lord Swithin. Not a new gown shall you have, nor any amusement, until a more respectable man begs for your hand.”

  “But Lord Swithin is a man of parts!” Miss Wren spluttered. “I wonder, Mona, that you should slight a gentleman of his consequence; but it is ever the way with headstrong youth. You cannot know your own interest.”

  “And is interest the sole consideration upon which I must judge exactly how I am to be happy?” Lady Desdemona exclaimed, with a quickening in her looks. “Lord Swithin is a man of far too many parts, by my way of thinking—and he has bestowed them far too widely about Town.”

  “Mona!” Miss Wren cried, in shock. “What will your uncle think?”

  “The Earl may be capable of intrigues, and dissipation, and schemes of the most pernicious kind—but as to comporting himself respectably, and in a manner that might ensure any woman’s love—”

  “Brava, my dear,” the Dowager said comfortably. “You speak the part well. How I wish that a grandchild of mine might respectably tread the boards!”

  “With respect, Your Grace,” Miss Wren interposed, “the Duke of Wilborough sees nothing objectionable in Lord Swithin—and in my day, a father’s approbation should have been enough. It is unbecoming in a lady to think so firmly for herself. It smacks of stubbornness and caprice, and neither may recommend her to the stronger sex. When you are as blessed with experience as I, my dear Mona—”

  “—I shall undoubtedly be the happier, in having followed my heart,” Lady Desdemona concluded. “I may wonder, Wren, that having presented so biddable a nature in your day, you failed to find a husband.”

  The mortification of this last remark was admittedly shocking; but I could not suppress a smile, nor a quick look for Lord Harold, whose countenance betrayed a smothered animation. The unfortunate Wren retreated hastily in a dignified silence, but declared from her looks that all enjoyment in the evening was at an end. A moment’s reflection seemed to chasten the Lady Desdemona; her cheeks flushed and her eyes found her lap; and so the curtain rose.

  MISS CONYNGHAM, AS IT HAPPENED, WAS NOT INDISPOSED.

  To the Dowager Duchess’s delight, the actress appeared in the very soul of Agatha—arch, too-intimate, and vulgar by turns—with a heightened colour and a depth of intonation that must captivate even the stoniest of hearts. Lord Harold, I observed, was most keenly aware of the lady—and fixed his quizzing glass upon her for the duration of the first act.

  We had borne with the diverse fates of the inhabitants of a small German village—their incestuous proximity, their fantastic doubts; had heard love proclai
med, rejected, denied, and at long last embraced—and had, with relief at least for my part, achieved the space of an intermission. Lord Harold let fall his glass at last—and his countenance, to my surprise, was a study in abstraction. What quality in Maria Conyngham could so enthrall his thought?

  “If you will excuse me, Mother, I believe I shall take the air,” he said abruptly, and bowed his way from the box.

  “The devil tobacco,” Eugenie declared with an indulgent smile. “It is the sole influence he cannot master.”

  “Are you comfortable, Your Grace?” Miss Wren enquired anxiously. “I am sure you must be warm. It is decidedly overheated—dreadfully close—and such odours as will rise from the pit—”

  “In truth, Wren, I am feeling a trifle cold,” Eugenie replied serenely. “Perhaps you will fetch my shawl.”

  The Dowager’s shawl—a formidable square of cashmere—being hung even now in the cloakroom, Miss Wren let slip a martyred sigh, and went in search of the stairs.

  I turned my attention to Lady Desdemona. “The excellence of this evening’s performance must do Mr. Portal credit. The company might almost have exerted themselves to honour his memory.”

  “Indeed,” the girl replied. She glanced at her grandmother, who gave every appearance of dozing behind her fan, and lowered her voice. “It is a pity, is it not, that he was denied the pleasure of witnessing their glory? The success of this theatre was his dearest concern, and Kotzebue his delight. It is incredible that he should be with us no more—he was so full of life, so animated with hopes for the season, and the new theatre in Beauford Square! Mr. Portal looked to the mounting of Lovers’ Vows to quite ensure his success; for it cannot fail to fill the stalls.”

  “And so he has done. By the simple act of dying in so sensational a manner, Mr. Portal has brought all of Bath to Orchard Street,” I observed with deliberate coldness. “Were he on the brink of bankruptcy, we might accuse him of having staged his death merely for the sake of profit!”