Jane and the Barque of Frailty

by Stephanie Barron

  “I see. And her use for Malverley—?”

  “From the bitterness with which he refers to her ladyship, I should judge that she treats him as a lackey—attractive in company, and caressingly addressed before the Great, in tribute to his style and beauty and breeding; but sent about his business as soon as they are shut into the carriage together.”

  “Deplorable! And is his heart bestowed on another?”

  Again, Mr. Chizzlewit hesitated. “I cannot undertake to say. I collect that he is in the habit of patronising the Muslin Company—but has resisted the respectable lures thrown out to him by enterprising mammas. In truth, I should wonder that any such lures are thrown—for he is but a third son, after all, with limited expectations. If Castlereagh’s star should rise again, he may go far in politics—”

  “—But if scandal and suicide dim the star to the point of extinction, friend Malverley shall be forced to desert the ship,” I concluded, with a lamentable mixing of metaphors.

  “Exactly. Hence the restraint I detect when he speaks of his lordship. He does not wish to commit his loyalties too far. In fact, at one point—” He broke off, biting his lip. “Malverley was in his cups. He burst out, as tho’ in the grip of passion, By God, there are some things no gentleman will do, even for hire.”

  “And you took this to refer to Castlereagh?” “I did. I collect the demand his lordship made was of a personal nature, and repugnant to Malverley.”

  “How intriguing. And what of your friend’s loyalties on the night in question? Were you able to divine anything of Malverley’s real movements during the early hours of Tuesday morning?”

  “If I failed, it was not for lack of trying.” Mr. Chizzlewit smiled. “We are now come to the latter part of the evening I spent, in trespassing on the trust of an old friend—when we sat down, rather more foxed than not, to play at picquet. 3 Malverley was bosky enough to throw caution to the winds, and suggest pound points; but I had not so far shot the cat as to render me agreeable to such folly, and insisted upon shillings. It was after the third hand that he began to talk of the horror of that night.”

  My interest quickened. “He felt it to be so?” “Horrible? It was the very word he used. I cannot tell you what he found to do in Castlereagh’s office for so many hours before dawn—I cannot believe that a man whose present pursuit is the raising of merino sheep on his country estate, may be deluged with letters requiring immediate reply—but in any case, Malverley’s dismay at finding the Princess’s body at the door was real enough. He broke down when he spoke of it, choking with sobs over his hand of cards—and every attempt at play had to be abandoned.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “God, her throat! is what I chiefly recall; and, the poor creature, to use herself so vilely! He shuddered like a child in the grip of nightmare—and seemed deeply affected by the memory. It was all I could do to calm him.”

  “Then I collect, in such a fit of hysteria, you could get little more of sense from him?”

  Mr. Chizzlewit grimaced. “Very little. But I would swear to it that Malverley was astonished to discover the corpse in Berkeley Square. His aspect last evening was not that of guilt, but of misery and regret. The death was perhaps more deeply felt, for having burst upon him like a shell.”

  “I see. You explain it very well. What did you then?”

  “I called for ale and coffee, a judicious mixture of which will invariably set the brandy-drinker to rights; and a little after three o’clock, he toddled home towards the Albany. He would have walked, but that I insisted on putting him into a hackney.”

  “The Albany?” I repeated, much struck.

  “Yes. Any number of single gentlemen lodge there—you must know it: the old Duke of Albany’s pile, converted to some seventy apartments, just off Piccadilly.”

  “Indeed I do! My brother Henry kept a branch of his bank there some years ago, before moving to Henrietta Street. It is possible Malverley referred to his rooms at the inquest. But the Albany! It is just—” I stopped short, considering.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “I, too, dined out last evening—and one of the party was the young Comte d’Entraigues, Monsieur Julien. He professes to have seen the Princess Tscholikova some hours before her death, standing alone in the middle of the Albany’s courtyard. He lodges there himself, and says he witnessed the lady’s arrival from an upper storey window.”

  “Good God! Then you think she went in search of Malverley? But why?”

  “To plead his intercession with Lord Castlereagh, perhaps? Malverley admitted to a glancing social acquaintance with the lady.” I paused. “But we are too previous. As you say, some seventy gentlemen lodge in the Albany—including young d’Entraigues. We cannot assume it was Malverley she sought.”

  “Not without we know more—whether there was indeed a connexion between my friend and the Princess.”

  “That alone might account for his sense of horror at finding her dead … ” I raised my eyes and met Sylvester Chizzlewit’s. “Of one connexion, however, I would know a good deal more. A something exists between Julien d’Entraigues and Charles Malverley; I am certain of it.”

  Mr. Chizzlewit frowned. “What would you imply?”

  “The young Count spoke of your friend in such terms, last night, that I should judge he hated him,” I said.

  1 A panada was a dish made of bread or crackers, boiled to a pulp and flavored, and generally served to invalids.—Editor’s note.

  2 This was a cant term for indebtedness, as the wellborn who lacked means tended to live “on tick”—or credit.—Editor’s note.

  3 Foxed, well to live, shot the cat, and bosky are all cant terms for inebriation.—Editor’s note.

  Chapter 25

  A Call in Russell Square

  Monday, 29 April 1811, cont.

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  WE SPENT A QUIET MORNING AFTER MR. CHIZZLEWIT departed on his various errands of intrigue and mercy. I completed the work of proofing Egerton’s pages; practised for an hour upon Eliza’s pianoforte; and embroidered a set of handkerchiefs I have been working for Henry, while sitting at Eliza’s bedside. By one o’clock she was quite bored with her novel, had run through her frivolous periodicals; consumed a bowl of Madame Bigeon’s sustaining broth, and was sleepy enough to close her eyes for an hour. I drew the silk draperies and saw her comfortably disposed with a pillow behind her back.

  “Do not be doing anything I should not like,” she warned as I crept to the door. “And do not, I beg of you, embark on any adventure so exciting that I should mourn to have missed it! I will be on my feet tomorrow, Jane.”

  She was an endearing, if slightly comic figure, with her head wrapped in Haden’s neat bandage, and a lace confection perched rakishly over the whole.

  “May I write to Henry, and assure him of your safety?”

  “On no account are you to send him the least word of what has occurred,” she forbid sharply. “He would post back from Oxford on the instant—and then where should we be?”

  “—Forced to divulge the whole, which I may say I cannot think an unalloyed evil.”

  “That is because you have had the good sense to remain unmarried! I should never hear the end of Henry’s reproaches, should he learn of my folly in brokering Anne’s jewels. He should believe me a creature sunk in deceit, Jane—one who must always prowl on the sly, behind his back—and that I cannot bear; for if one is to be judged very nearly a criminal, it ought to be for indiscretions of one’s own. One therefore may claim all the pleasure, as well as the pain, of a misdeed. But to figure as reprehensible in Henry’s eyes on account of that … that French opera dancer … I can’t and won’t do it!”

  “Eliza! —When Henry is the kindest man alive? And loves you so entirely? How can you utter such falsehoods?”

  She drew a square of linen from the sleeve of her nightdress, and mopped lugubriously at her eyes. “It is his very kindness that makes everything worse! Go away, dear Jane, before you cut u
p all my peace!”

  RUSSELL SQUARE IS A SECTION OF NEW-BUILT HOUSES, north of the genteel part of Town, thrown up by the architect Mr. Burton on the ruins of the Duke of Bedford’s pile—which was pulled down some ten years since, to make way for a great clearing of the land, and the raising of a row of houses adorned by Ionic columns, which Mr. Burton dearly loves. Indeed, construction yet continues on a section of the square, and is not likely to be concluded for several years; the whole vicinity is so raw and fresh as to fairly squeak with pain. Bedford Square is to the west, and the Foundling Hospital to the east; and in general, Eliza should declare the situation ineligible, without one is a mushroom or a cit. 1

  In this marginal locale, the beautiful Julia Radcliffe leased a house: an entire house, for the enjoyment and display of a daring seventeen-year-old; furnished up and decorated in the latest style, full of green and gold satin and rosewood tables. I was moved to wonder at the largesse which had established the whole, and discount the rumour that would have Miss Radcliffe refusing carte blanche from a host of suitors; someone had certainly put down a good deal of blunt to trick the Barque of Frailty out in stile. If Sylvester Chizzlewit had not furnished me with the address, I should have believed myself mistook when I was shown by the housekeeper into the small anteroom reserved for callers on the ground floor. I had not troubled to veil myself, as Eliza would have urged; both anteroom and square were respectable in the extreme, with the sort of emphatic rectitude common to families in trade. Miss Radcliffe, I must suppose, was merely a merchant of another order; her charms being synonymous with her wares.

  A good fire burned in the grate, with a settee drawn up to it; I warmed my hands an instant, for spring had forgot its carefree airs of Sunday, and turned chill once more. A gilt pier glass in the Adam style held reign over a marquetry console; I studied my reflection in the glass, and thought how hagged I looked, now that I have twice Miss Radcliffe’s years in my dish. The sound of a woman’s laughter, and a man’s low voice, drifted from the drawing-room above. I deserted the fire and glanced instead in the porcelain bowl that held pride of place in the middle of the console. It held calling cards.

  The housekeeper had gone to report my name to her mistress, and request the favour of an interview— but from the sound of conversation above, I could not doubt Miss Radcliffe would deny herself. I turned over the cards in the bowl idly, awaiting the housekeeper’s return. The Honourable George Ponsonby, one said; Horace Beckford, another; Lord Luttrell’s card was there, and Frederick Bentinck’s. All men of fashion— including George Brummell. And at the bottom, as tho’ left a few days previous, a card that must stop me cold.

  Julien, it read in delicate black lettering, Comte d’Entraigues.

  Did the son worship at Miss Radcliffe’s altar, no less than the father? Or had Julien come on some errand of his père’s?

  “Miss Austen,” Julia Radcliffe said.

  She regarded me from the doorway, as elegant in her appearance as ever; her dress being straw-coloured silk, with a worked bodice—hardly morning wear, but I must suppose that Miss Radcliffe’s mornings were vastly different than my own.

  I made her a courtesy. “I do not disturb you?”

  “Only a little,” she returned with frankness. “I have a surfeit of visitors today—several are even now upstairs. But I have ordered refreshment to be sent in to them, and may spare you a few moments. Pray, let us sit down. Has that odious Bill Skroggs been haunting you again?”

  She was studiously free of artifice or reserve; and for so much I ought to be thankful. No time would be wasted in meaningless pleasantries.

  “I believe it was his colleague, Mr. Black, who shadowed my movements this morning,” I answered calmly, “but I did not come to speak to you of that.

  Miss Radcliffe, am I correct in believing that Princess Tscholikova called at this house a few days before her death?”

  “She did.” The girl’s countenance did not change. “Were you at all acquainted with her?”

  “I was not—but Bill Skroggs chuses to believe I am responsible for her death. A great quantity of precious stones belonging to the Princess were placed in my keeping; and by a series of circumstances, were revealed to the Magistracy in Bow Street as having been stolen. I am now suspected of their theft—and worse.”

  Miss Radcliffe rose abruptly from the settee and moved to the hearth. Her composure was absolute, but for this sudden shift; she stood immobile, as tho’ desirous only of warming herself at the flame.

  “Does my communication surprise you at all?”

  She smiled faintly. “No, indeed. I have been waiting for some further intelligence of what I may only describe as a mystery, Miss Austen—but hardly looked for enlightenment from this quarter. How did the jewels come into your keeping?”

  I was sensible that the girl was entirely mistress of herself, and governed by a profound caution. She intended to learn more than she revealed; and for all her frankness of manner, it must be my lot to fence with her, as two potentates might navigate a treaty.

  “Before I tell you—may I know the substance of the Princess’s errand in this household?”

  “She wished to pay a call.” Julia Radcliffe sank back onto the settee, her posture upright and watchful. “I must observe that you have done the same, and on as slight an acquaintance.”

  “You were known to one another, however?”

  “By name only. I had never spoken to Tscholikova before in my life, tho’ I had often noticed her at the opera, and similar places. Tell me, Miss Austen—why are you come?”

  “Because the threat of the gallows hangs over me.”

  “And what have I to do with that?”

  The coldness of the remark gave me pause. “Much, I must imagine. I have been told the jewels were in your keeping, before they passed into … mine.”

  “Have you, indeed?” A look of incredulity lit her perfect features. “Then I have been betrayed by one whose discretion I believed to be infallible.”

  “The Comtesse d’Entraigues?”

  The expression of shock drained from her countenance; composure was once more regained. “Ah. The Comtesse … and what did she tell you?”

  “Surely you may surmise!”

  “I hardly know of what that creature is capable. I should like to have the recital whole, from your lips.”

  I shrugged, aware that in giving way to her request, I accorded her the ascendancy in our battle. “You must forgive me if I offend your sensibilities— if I tread too closely on matters of an intensely private nature—but the pressure of events, and Mr.

  Skroggs’s attention, are very great, and must urge me to be explicit.”

  “I prefer plain dealing.”

  “Very well. Anne de St.-Huberti informed me that she had come to Russell Square to beg you to renounce her husband; that she feared the loss of her household and security, under the threat of divorce; and that by way of recompense for your conquest of the Comte, you pressed upon her Tscholikova’s jewels.”

  “ I pressed them upon her?” Julia Radcliffe’s delicate brows rose. “I see. Then there is very little point in my denying it.”

  The swiftness of the admission convinced me, as outcry or argument would not have done, that she lied. Julia Radcliffe had accepted the Comtesse’s claims as a matter of policy—a tactical choice, rather than an admission of guilt.

  “Miss Radcliffe,” I demanded, “did Princess Tscholikova place her jewels in your keeping when she called here, several days before her death?”

  “She must have done so. The Comtesse d’Entraigues would have it I gave the jewels to her— and for that to be true, I must have received them from the Princess … ”

  Her tone was almost one of amusement. I studied her visage searchingly.

  “If I am to escape the threat of hanging,” I said slowly, “it will be chiefly through the implication of guilt in others—Bill Skroggs will have his prey. I should not like to think it is you, Miss Radcliffe, I am coursing
into his jaws.”

  A silence fell between us.

  “I must consider all you have said.” She rose gracefully, her countenance betraying nothing. “I cannot possibly know what may be told—what I may… in short, I must consult with another. If you would be so good as to give me your direction—”

  “I am staying with my brother, Mr. Henry Austen, of No. 64 Sloane Street, Hans Town.”

  “Very well. I shall call upon you at the earliest possible moment, Miss Austen. At present, however, I am sadly neglecting my guests.”

  She bobbed a curtsey; I returned it; and then Julia Radcliffe was gone.

  I HAD THE LENGTH OF MY JOURNEY HOME TO REFLECT upon all that had passed. I was not, in the event, entirely downcast: I had learned that Miss Radcliffe had indeed seen the Princess before her death; that she was aware of the existence of the jewels—for she had betrayed no surprise or curiosity when they were mentioned—and that there was some other she would shield, consult, and protect. For all that she had revealed so little, I felt I must be nearer my object. I had played my trump card: the threat of pursuit from Bill Skroggs—a man whom at Grafton House she had owned she hated. I had merely to wait for Miss Radcliffe to return my call—and such a well-behaved, gently-reared girl was unlikely to neglect the exertion.

  1 Cit was an abbreviation of citizen and designated a person engaged in trade in the City, or square mile of merchant London east of the genteel neighborhoods bordering Hyde Park. Mushroom designated a cit who aspired to the upper classes, either through conspicuous consumption or marriage with the gentry; like mushrooms, such people were viewed as unattractive social growths who sprang up overnight.—Editor’s note.

  Chapter 26

  Tales to Frighten Children

  Tuesday, 30 April 1811

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  SHE CAME TO ME TODAY, FAR SOONER THAN I HAD expected, and such a show of breeding must be imputed to her Radcliffe rearing.