“And is James, then, become a stranger?”
Cassandra sighed. “You know that I do not speak of James.”
I took up the letter and broke open the seal. There were two full sheets, quite written through and crossed.
22 December 1804
Steventon Rectory
My dear Jane—
I was gratified to receive your letter of Wednesday last, and found it most proper in every expression of condolence and respect for the Deceased, though perhaps a trifle wanting in the form of its composition. You shall never be a truly accomplished writer, dear Sister, until you have studied the art of orthography and attempted consistency in its employ. In point of length your missive was not deficient, but in the organisation of your ideas—! The postscript alone was a mere jot, and entirely unconnected to the previous subject of your thesis. A sad muddle altogether. But of this, it is perhaps wiser not to speak. I may credit the fullness of your heart—that becoming depth of feeling so natural in the Female—for the unfortunate flow of your words, and the lack of stops to your sentences. I recollect that our excellent Father did not see fit to have you tutored in either Latin or Greek—quite rightly, too, for it should have burdened a mind remarkable for the weaknesses of its Sex!—and that you must be regarded, accordingly, as only half-educated.
I was so fortunate as to accompany my esteemed colleague, the Reverend Isaac Peter George Lefroy, to the carpenter’s last week, about the ordering of the coffin. I had offered this little service, of attending him in the arrangements for the burial of the Deceased, and I may assure you that he was excessively quick in his acceptance. The Reverend Lefroy was gratified, I daresay, by my expression of respect and willingness to act in the guise of Son, to one who has always behaved with Paternal Affection. His own boys, I may report, behave abominably; young Ben has not left off crying since the Unhappy Event; and even Mr. Rice, whose assumption of Orders should have taught him delicacy and advised him to stand in a Son’s place, to the father of his Chosen Companion, has failed utterly to lend support. He has taken, in fact, to Spirits, and spends the better part of every evening in throwing dice among the stable-boys.1 But I was enabled by your letter, my dear Jane, to convey the Austen family’s warmest sentiments of regard and feeling to the Reverend Lefroy, and can extend to you in turn the melancholy gratitude of a Man reduced to nothing by Grief.
The carpenter resided in Broad Street, in the neighbouring village of Overton; and as we progressed thither, our hearts could not fail to be oppressed by the dreadful memory of the Unhappy Event, in being forced to review again the site of the tragedy itself. You will recall that Madam Lefroy was in the act of quitting Overton, and had attained the top of Overton Hill, when her horse bolted and precipitated her injury. As we drew near the Fatal spot, Reverend Lefroy would not be gainsaid by the most earnest entreaty—he drew up his horse at the hedgerow itself—and holding aloft his whip, he pronounced the awful words.
“Here, my dear Austen, is the very ground of her unmaking. Here did the poacher sit, under cover of winter’s early dusk; here, he aimed his gun, and fired upon the partridge, that should have gone to Sir Walter’s bag”—for you know, fane, that Sir Walter Martin has always held that hedgerow in fief, and is sadly plagued by poachers—“and here the horse took fright, and ran away with my Beloved, to her tragic ruin.” At this juncture he dismounted, and tore at the hedgerow’s branches, and commenced a fearful weeping; and I must believe that had he proceeded alone, the carpenter should never have received him at all.
In consideration of Reverend Lefroy’s behaviour, indeed, I begin to comprehend the excesses of his offspring—but will allow no hint of remonstration to fall from my lips.
I apprehend, from the tenor of your missive, Jane, that you wish a full recital of Madam Lefroy’s misfortune, and some account of her final hours. I might caution you, perhaps, against the over-indulgence of a morbid sentiment, and the feverish immersion in all that pertains to the Passing of the Flesh; but I believe you to be a lady of some sense, Jane, and will trust in Providence and the excellent example of our beloved father, to preserve you from excesses of Emotion and Thought.
I encountered Madam Lefroy myself on that fateful day, as our father has no doubt informed you from the intelligence of my late express. She remarked at the time that her mount was so stupid and lazy she could hardly make him go, and so we parted—I to return home, and she to conduct her business among the tradesmen of the town. At about the hour of four o’clock, however, Madam Lefroy was in the act of quitting Overton with her groom—when at the summit of Overton Hill, her horse was frighted by the report of a gun fired from the hedgerow not ten paces distant from the animal’s withers. The horse bolted, and the groom failed in his attempt to seize its head. From fright or unsteadiness, Madam Lefroy then threw herself off; and sustained the gravest concussion. After some little delay about the conveyance, she was carried home to Ashe, and there lingered some twelve hours. Mr. Charles Lyford of Basingstoke—you will remember him, I am sure—attended her; but she slipped away quietly in the early hours of Sunday morning. I do not know whether she stirred or spoke before the End.
The shot that startled the horse has been imputed to the carelessness of a poacher—a poacher who remains at large, and will probably be far from his native turf at present, for the preservation of his neck. A just horror at the ruin his shot had caused, should undoubtedly have urged the rogue to flee under cover of the falling dark. His apprehension must go unaided by any report from Madam’s groom, who was necessarily engrossed in the pursuit and recovery of his mistress’s mount, now sadly destroyed—and so we must impute the Disaster to Him whose ways are hidden, and accept it with the propriety and grace becoming a Christian.
Propriety and grace, however, are sadly lacking among the Lefroys at present, and I may congratulate myself at having borne my own Dear Departed’s passing with a more commendable fortitude, as my present Wife is quick to recollect. The Lefroys are a family destined to be plagued with misfortune, as Mary has also condescended to point out; the heedlessness and injury to young Anthony’s back, and his subsequent death, were almost a presaging of this fresh tragedy.2 They had much better avoid the horses altogether in future. But, however—I could not find it remarkable in any of them to behave most lamentably throughout the service, and was duly resigned to demonstrations of grief on every side.
You enquired, at the last, whether I have remarked the appearance of any strangers recently in the neighbourhood. There were a great many come for Madam Lefroy’s service—and I congratulate myself that I did not disappoint their expectations!—but I take it you would refer particularly to your acquaintance from Bath. How you come to know such disreputable persons as the man Smythe, I cannot begin to think, my dear sister; and when I mentioned the matter to my beloved Mary, she joined most vigorously in my opinion. For the full extent of his history, I was forced to enquire of the housemaid, Daisy, who was so unfortunate as to encourage the man’s lingering in the vicinity of the parsonage, through the offering of table scraps; and I have learned to my horror that he is a most dissolute person. If Daisy is to be credited, Smythe caroused in the Overton inn, meddled with the tradesmen’s daughters, and performed certain high jinks in the public lanes—tumbling and jumping for such pennies as the curious might afford him. We were only too glad to learn that he had quitted the vicinity as suddenly as he came; and must wonder at your having noticed him at all. Where he is gone, I cannot tell you.
Daisy I have dismissed for her impertinence and want of proper discretion, with full pay and her character, of course.
I remain, your most respectful Brother,
Reva. Ja. Austen
I set down the letter with hands that would tremble. Smythe had been in Overton; and Madam’s horse had been frighted by a shot from the hedgerow at Overton Hill’s summit. James could tell me nothing of dates; but I remembered Lord Harold’s opinion of coincidence, and knew that though I should never possess what Mr. El
liot should describe as proof, I had learned the name of Anne Lefroy’s murderer.
Nothing should be simpler, than the achievement of the deed. Smythe had only to conceal himself in the hedgerow for the purpose, and fire a gun lent to him by Hugh Conyngham. For the precarious seat of ladies forced to ride side-saddle was everywhere acknowledged—and Madam’s ruin was certain. He might as readily have pointed the gun at her heart.
“What a commendable letter, Jane,” Cassandra observed, “in its closing passages, particularly. I can never like my brother’s style or sentiments—he has grown too pompous with the advance of years, and his preferment in his profession—but his concern for your reputation is quite honestly expressed. He might have been altogether a different man, perhaps, if—that is to say—” Her voice trailed abruptly away.
“Altogether different, had Anne survived,” I finished for her. We had all of us loved the elegant and well-bred Anne; her character was steady, her understanding excellent. And though we could not like Mary Lloyd half so well, our affection for her sister Martha would generally make us silent upon the subject.
“Can you not confide in me, Jane, the reason for your attention to Madam Lefroy’s passing?”
I avoided my sister’s eye. “There is nothing very extraordinary in it, surely? We must all of us feel the most lively interest on the subject.”
“I cannot dismiss it soon enough. To dwell upon such matters is intolerable, and quite unlike your usual activity. You do not brood, Jane. I am quite confounded at the impulse that should solicit such a letter.”
“You must not importune me, Cassandra,” I replied. “We all of us have different ways of grieving, and of making our last farewells. And now I think I should like to walk a little in the Crescent, and take a breath of air. Would you consent to accompany me, my dear?”
• • •
WE SAT DOWN TO AN EARLY DINNER, AS IS USUAL WITH THE Austens; but a pull of the bell not long thereafter brought a note addressed to myself, and in Lord Harold’s crabbed hand. I was summoned to drink the season’s cheer and Lady Desdemona’s health, in Laura Place at eight o’clock.
“Tea!” my mother exclaimed. “Had they considered you this morning, it might as well have been dinner. This is no very great honour, Jane, in being left so late—and on Christmas Eve, too! They have been disappointed in another of their party, I expect, and require your presence now merely to make up a table of cards. You had much better decline the invitation—for it will not do to seem grateful for so small a consideration.”
“Indeed, ma’am, I am sure you mistake,” I calmly replied. “At her time in life, the Duchess has no very great love of distinction; and being formerly of less than the first rank herself, is more inclined to show interest than disdain for ladies with modest prospects. I would be gratified to drink her tea, I assure you.”
“Oh, well—if you must throw yourself in his lordship’s way, it cannot be helped, I suppose,” my mother replied with an appearance of indifference. “Only tea! However, they may desire you to remain for supper, Jane, and I will not have you sitting down with a duchess in your brown cambric. Run along and exchange your gown for another, my dear, and do not neglect to leave off your cap. Mary will dress your hair.”
IT WAS A SELECT AND EVEN ELEGANT PARTY THAT GATHERED in Laura Place this evening—the Duchess seated in comfortable intimacy with Lord Harold, while Lady Desdemona provoked the Earl and her brother to rueful laughter at the opposite end of the room. Miss Wren held down the middle part, established over her fringe— and at first I feared I should fall victim to her desire for a confidante, and learn every syllable of the abuse she must suffer, now Mona was to go away, and leave Miss Wren quite at the Dowager’s mercy—but at length, the young lady herself condescended to open the pianoforte, and required Miss Wren to turn the pages. Lady Desdemona commenced a Scotch air, her sweet voice swelling with pathos; and as if drawn by an invisible chord, the Earl moved close to the instrument to gaze upon his beloved.
“You will recollect, Jane, that I said I would not have my Mona thrown away,” Lord Harold observed as he came to stand by my side. “I cannot now think any other man so deserving of her. My sources tell me that Swithin has entirely left off the opium trade, by the by, and indeed, has spent the better part of the years since his father’s death, in extricating the family fortunes from that dubious business.” A glint of amusement flickered in his hooded gaze, then vanished abruptly. “He is a ruthless fellow, but he has a character of iron; and men of that stamp are rare enough in any age. Mona is quite resigned to the Colonel’s infamy, happy in her brother’s release—and looks only to the future.”
“But you, however, cannot,” I said.
A swift look, as swiftly averted. “No,” Trowbridge replied. “I have had news this evening, my dear Jane, that must weigh heavily upon me. Maria Conyngham is dead.”
“Dead!”
“She hanged herself at Ilchester—tore the flounces from her gown, it seems, and wound them into a noose. Her brother is said to be mad with grief, and screaming vengeance on my head.”
We were silent a moment; and in the confusion of my thoughts I heard Lady Desdemona’s voice—simple, pure, and joyous without reckoning. “You cannot feel yourself responsible, my lord,” I told Lord Harold, “for what Hugh Conyngham has done. The ruin of his sister’s life, and his own, was inspired by his lust for vengeance against Mr. Lawrence; and had he never been moved to violence—had he allowed Maria Siddons to rest in her grave—his sister might yet be treading the boards in Bristol this evening.”
“I wonder, Jane,” Lord Harold mused. “I wonder. When I consider the Colonel, willing to risk everything to murder such a man—I cannot believe the plotting to be entirely Conyngham’s. Easton would not have lifted a finger for him. But for Maria Conyngham, he would have done much—even married a lady he did not love, in order to keep them both in fortune. No—the revenge against Mr. Lawrence was planned, I believe, by Maria alone; and now she has cheated even her brother, and left him to shoulder the blame.”
“So much of ruin, for a girl already gone three years to her grave, and a man not worth speaking of,” I mused.
“I imagine Maria Siddons would be gratified, did she know of it. She was, like Miss Conyngham, a creature formed for vengeance; and if Mr. Lawrence’s peace has been even a little disturbed by the threat to his person, she will be dancing tonight in heaven.”
“And what of the portrait, my lord? Maria Siddons’s malevolent eye?”
“It shall be returned, of course, to her mother—though I must admit to the temptation of tossing it in the river. Such ill-fortuned baubles should be entombed with their subjects.”
“—Excepting, perhaps, Mr. Lawrence’s sketch of Maria Conyngham?”
Lord Harold’s eyes failed to meet my own. I had observed him to secure the impassioned likeness within his coat the morning of our visit to the painter’s rooms, and I must suppose his lordship to retain it still; but I could hardly expect him to declare as much. Impertinence is usually met by Lord Harold with an impenetrable silence, as I had occasion to know; and the present instance would not warrant an exception.
He sighed, and reached for my cup of tea. “This is hardly Christmas cheer, my dear. I shall fetch you some claret.”
“My lord—”
He turned, and lifted an eyebrow.
“You must learn to endure it. As I have learned to endure Madam’s death,” I said softly.
“I shall, Jane. I shall—as the hangman submits to his calling; with revulsion, and anxiety, until the grave is filled. It is a dreadful presumption to serve in judgement on one’s fellow men. It is to play a little at God—and though I have been accused of such a score of times before, I only now admit to approaching it.”
“When justice is done, you may sleep in peace.”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “And until then, I believe I shall go away for a time.”
I knew better than to enquire his direction.
/> THE HOUR OF MIDNIGHT STRUCK; LADY DESDEMONA THREW wide the drawingroom casements, and looked down into the street below. “Look, Grandmère! The Waits are come!” Her glowing face turned affectionately to Lord Kinsfell. “How happy I am, dear Kinny, that you are with us to hear them sing!”
The Dowager cried out to Jenkins to conduct the Waits hither; and they very soon assembled before the drawingroom fire, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with cold. They were a rag-tag group of common folk, dressed for warmth rather than style, some of them no more than children—but the sound of their singing, when once they commenced, had the power to lift the heart. The very soul of Old England, rife with Yule logs and roasting mutton, good fellowship and love. I thought of Anne Lefroy, divided forever from her comfortable hearth, the table surrounded by children, and shivered with a sudden chill.
God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing ye dismay …
I lifted my voice, and sang aloud with the rest.
1 Henry Rice, Madam Lefroy’s son-in-law, although the curate of Ashe, was a confirmed gamester who ended his days in flight to the Continent, pursued for debt.—Editor’s note.
2 James Austen refers here to the death of Anne Lefroy’s second son, Anthony Brydges Lefroy, who was injured in a fall from a horse at the age of fourteen, and endured a lingering decline of some two years before dying in 1800.—Editor’s note.
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