Jane and His Lordship's Legacy

Chapter 17 Too Long in the Back

Saturday, 8 July 1809

“As the house was built in the late seventeenth century,” Lady Imogen observed as she led us into a long gallery at Stonings that was more lumber room than habitable space, “it remains firmly rooted in Palladio. The serene limestone façade, for example, is virtually free of adornment; no Jacobean chimneys or Tudor panelling are to be found, and as successive generations did not see fit to alter the original style, the house preserves a delightful unity — without the awkward shifting from epoch to epoch one so often observes in less modern creations.”

“Lord!” Ann Prowting exclaimed. “I wonder you can find your way to breakfast of a morning! I should require signposts in each passage to direct me from place to place. It is a vast pile, is it not?”

“Nearly three hundred rooms. Mr. Wyatt, whom we consulted regarding the improvements, has widened the whole and brought reason to the arrangement of the principal apartments.[21] This is the saloon,” Lady Imogen added, throwing open a set of lofty doors surmounted by a pediment, “ — where we often play at cards of an evening. The music room, where my instrument is set out, is adjacent. The apartment is our chief delight at present, as Mr. Wyatt’s work here is nearly complete.”

Mr. Prowting, whose anxious bulk hovered at my right elbow, managed a phlegmatic “Magnificent!”

It was a bright and airy chamber, with ivory-coloured walls and mouldings picked out in gold leaf; a massive chimney piece of carved white stone, in the form of nymphs supporting a plinth, dominated each end. The chief virtue of the room, however, lay in its great windows, which gave onto a delightful prospect of lawns and trees sloping gently towards the lake. This was skirted and surmounted in its narrowest part by a great stone parapet, over which our carriages had clattered only a few moments before.

We had set out from Chawton at ten o’clock, taking in Henry on our way. It was a smaller party than originally planned, my brother Neddie having pledged himself to all the cares and irksomenesses of Quarter Day, and being even now established in Mr. Barlow’s back parlour awaiting the appearance of his numerous tenants. My mother could not be torn from the vigourous excavations undertaken in her back garden, of which she had unflagging hopes; and Mrs. Prowting was indisposed for a long carriage drive in the heat of summer, but thought it highly necessary that her husband accompany the two girls. We had therefore placed ourselves at Miss Maria Beckford’s disposal, Cassandra and I taking two seats in the Middleton carriage. The three Prowtings and Miss Benn went in the magistrate’s barouche; and the three eldest Middleton girls went in a hired equipage with their maid. Henry had made a dashing cicisbeo, trailing beside Miss Benn on his hired hack, and offering charming observations on the suitability of the party; and the weather had not seen fit to disappoint. We had achieved the intervening miles at an easy pace, and arrived in Sherborne St. John a few moments before noon. We had been cordially met by Major Spence and Lady Imogen, who tarried only long enough to see our wraps bestowed on a housemaid, before conducting us through the marble-floored entry hall to the delights within.

“I am reminded,” Cassandra said in a lowered tone, “of the Duke of Dorset’s establishment at Knole, in Kent; but tho’ easily as extensive as this, that is a house in an entirely different style.”

Mr. Thrace, we were told, was still engaged in his morning’s ride, but was every moment expected. Lady Imogen looked as tho’ she did not notice her rival’s absence. She was in excellent spirits, her manner a mixture of the arch and the sweet that could not fail to please. She was clothed this morning in a light muslin gown of pale jonquil colour, with beribboned sandals on her feet, her countenance glowing with the animation of her speech. There was a kind of triumph in all her aspect that suggested a victory gained — and I felt a surge of anxious solicitude on the subject of my stolen chest. Such happiness could not be due merely to last evening’s win at cards — she had a deeper game in train, and appeared confident of her luck. The admiration of every gentleman in the room was evident; the rest of the ladies must be cast in the shade; and it was as well for my brother Edward that he had stayed in Alton — this lady was far too bewitching for his fragile state to bear. Major Spence did not need to proclaim his captivation: tho’ correct and more often silent than not, he frequently bent his dark eyes upon Lady Imogen’s face or form, and she did not move to a door or a chair but he was before her instantly as guide. How difficult must be the trials of such a man, placed in a position of subservience to the object of his ardent love! To offer his heart, as he clearly had done, in the shattering knowledge that were she to accept him, the match should be called a misalliance by the Great. Had she ever attempted to use her power over him? — Attempted, perhaps, to employ his allegiance against Julian Thrace? I could hardly say. Lady Imogen showed Spence nothing more than easy affection, of a sort she might have reserved for a groom that had placed her, long ago, upon her first pony.

As I stood near Cassandra in the elegant saloon, and gazed out at the picturesque view offered through its windows, I considered of the beauties of the Earl’s estate — and very nearly forgave the theft of Lord Harold’s precious documents. To be mistress — or master — of Stonings was an ambition that might inspire any number of crimes!

“And to think that all this has been left slumbering for years!” Henry declared.

“Having never expected to inherit the title — he was a younger son, you know — my father was disinclined to live in the style befitting an Earl,” Lady Imogen replied. “I do not think his lordship’s memories of childhood in this place are entirely happy ones. And having been a single gentleman for much of his life, he naturally prefers to maintain an establishment in Town — near his clubs and cronies — or retire to his shooting box when a craving for the country seizes him. I cannot remember when we last visited Stonings together; when I was no more than three, I daresay.”

The year the Countess of Holbrook ran away with a Colonel of the Horse Guards, I thought; and from Henry’s looks, his mind was reverting to the same. But whatever the Earl’s past feelings towards the house, he did not seem disposed to hold it in contempt now. So much sudden and expensive activity, on behalf of a putative heir — or an elegant daughter with habits of expence?

“Stonings frightened me when I was little,” Lady Imogen confided. “It was always cold and cheerless, and the servants were not the ones I knew. I used to lose my way in the upper storeys and be found crying behind some moth-eaten curtain, convinced I had been buried alive. But now I am grown, I see the place for what it is: an ancient and honourable seat that ought not to be allowed to fall into ruin.”

“Mr. Dyer’s folk have much to do, I presume?” Mr. Prowting enquired.

Charles Spence inclined his head. “They have been engaged on the repairs nearly three months, and are likely to continue their labour a year or more. The roof tiles had given way extensively in a number of places — the south end of the east wing, and the central hall — so that there is damp in nearly every ceiling and wall, and the plaster has required to be replaced throughout. Then there are the ravages to wainscoting and floors from a variety of feral creatures we are even still discovering in various corners, and the collapse of stone walls about the property. For you must understand, Mr. Prowting, that however grand the house itself, it is as nothing to the gardens, which were extensively improved in the last century by the present Earl’s grandfather, with the assistance of Mr. Capability Brown.”

“Major Spence is a fund of knowledge regarding Stonings,”

Lady Imogen observed, “and his work is tireless. I believe Charles loves this place better than all of us.”

“When one has been far from home, and privileged to defend it,” he replied, “one cannot help but hold English soil more precious than anything else in life.”

“My father would not agree with you!” Imogen chortled. “If you could hear him deplore this rackety old barracks!”

“And yet he chose wisely, in placing the Major here,” I observed. “Perhaps the Earl will descend upon Hampshire soon, and inspect the progress.”

“The Earl will be arrived in less than three weeks’ time,” said a voice from the music room doorway, “and intends, so I believe, to give a ball. I will be three-and-twenty then, you know — and you must all drink to my health!”

It was Mr. Thrace, arrayed in his riding dress; he strode towards us, bowed, and was made known to Cassandra, who alone of the party was yet a stranger to him.

“A ball!” Ann Prowting cried. “I am longing for a ball!”

“Then you must certainly come,” Mr. Thrace returned easily, as tho’ the office of inviting guests to Stonings was already his, “and as the distance between our homes is so great,” his gaze moved with warmth to Catherine Prowting, “you and all your family must certainly spend the night.”

“Julian,” Major Spence interposed gently, “we must leave the details of her party in Lady Imogen’s capable hands.”

“Does she plan to attend? I had not thought she would remain so long in the country.” Mr. Thrace bowed, a satiric expression about his lips. He lacked her ladyship’s high animal spirits this morning — the natural result, perhaps, of his losses at the faro table; but he appeared no less certain of himself than when I had first observed him. He was determined to display himself as the lord of Stonings. The battle, then, was well and truly joined.

But which of them —which of them? — had Lord Harold’s proof ranged on their side?

It seemed unlikely that Lady Imogen should have hired Old Philmore or his nephew to steal the chest; she was too little known in the country, and too high in the instep to condescend in Normandy Street or at Thatch Cottages. But necessity might work the cruellest alteration in a person’s habits, and necessity was Lady Imogen’s goad. She was distressed in her circumstances, and on the brink of losing her fortune. In such a case, might she avail herself of those same bonds of obligation and custom I had remarked in our servant Sally Mitchell? Lady Imogen’s maid might be familiar with every soul in Alton, and be despatched with certainty to the very man required to do the job.

In the case of Mr. Thrace, the matter was entirely easy. He came and went from Chawton and Alton as tho’ Hampshire born and bred. He was in the habit of dining at the Middletons’, and might have encountered Old Philmore any time these past several weeks; for a gentleman to engage the discreet services of a labourer was a simple matter of pounds and pence. And there was this that must arouse the deepest suspicion in my breast: Thrace had regaled our entire dinner party with the history of the Rubies of Chandernagar — a story which must be apocryphal, and employed for only one purpose: to explain the sudden appearance of strangers at Chawton Cottage, searching by stealth for a hidden treasure — or entering the house by force when its owners were absent.

“Pray come through to the terrace,” Lady Imogen commanded. She did not rebuke the upstart Beau for his pretensions, or throw down her gauntlet in public; indeed, she looked blithely unconscious. “It is in a dubious state of repair, but will serve charmingly for a nuncheon. See, Charles, how I have ordered Rangle to scatter the little tables about, and arrange the pyramids of fruit so delightfully? This is the only sort of picnic I will bear: with firm stone underfoot, and ample accommodation for every guest, and no fears of dirt or damp to tarnish one’s clothing.”

“An excellent arrangement,” he replied with playful courtesy, “but hardly so like a picnic.”

“Bah! You cavalry officers are never content unless you may bivouac on the hard ground, with a fire at your feet and a Spanish maiden to boil your coffee. I know how it is! Don’t attempt to beguile me, Charles — I know you for a blackguard of old!”

When the raspberry cordial and the Madeira wine had been drunk, and a quantity of cold meat and peaches eaten, there was nothing to do but watch the Middleton girls chase one another through the grass. Mr. Prowting, with all the beauty of the lake spread before him, expressed a regret that he had not thought to bring rods and tackle; and this began an exhaustive discussion of coarse fishing among the gentlemen, Mr. Thrace in particular being addicted to the sport. He and Mr. Prowting determined to walk down to the water itself, but could not tempt the ladies to join them. Mr. Middleton and Miss Beckford elected to rest in the shade before the arduous journey back to Alton; Cassandra was observing the little girls at play; Henry amused Lady Imogen with an anecdote regarding their mutual acquaintance in Town; Major Spence listened courteously to some effusion of Miss Benn’s. I guarded my privacy jealously, and cast about for the most effective means of searching the vast property.

It seemed a ridiculous hope, this idea that I might discover a single chest amidst all the objects of a noble household amassed over more than a century, and that house presently under repair. Even to attempt such a search was folly, and dangerously offensive to my hosts. I suspected Mr. Thrace and Lady Imogen equally, but I could not bring myself to steal away from the company, and lose my way in the passages of Stonings, where I might encounter any number of servants duly engaged in their proper affairs. How was I to discern which bedroom belonged to the principal parties, and how to justify my presence in either of them?

“Do you hunt with your brother, Miss Austen?”

Lady Imogen stood before me, her arm through Henry’s.

“As my brother will expose me to derision without remorse — I must confess I am a sad horsewoman.”

“But how is this!” she exclaimed. “Your brothers all mad for sport — intimates of Mr. Chute at the Vyne — and you will not undertake to ride? I have just such a little hunter in my stables even now as should tempt you, Miss Austen. You must walk down with me to visit Nutmeg.”

“With pleasure,” I assented, “provided you do not compel me to mount. I will stand outside the box and admire your Nutmeg all you wish.”

“That will do for a start. Take some of the sugar from the table — we must not arrive empty-handed.”

The scheme of a walk being generally broached, and the Prowting girls — no riders themselves — being eager to admire the cunning little hunter, a rather larger party set out for the stables than originally planned. Lady Imogen monopolised Henry with her desire to be made known to the Master of the Vyne, and admitted to all the revels of the local hunt; from her playful words it seemed she intended to be established at Stonings by autumn.

“I have long been allowed to hunt with the Quorn,” she informed Henry, “and must own that I prefer the Melton country; but what is that to the delights of one’s neighbours, and the intimacy of a local pack? I shall not disdain it. Perhaps my father may go so far as to look in once or twice. He is a punishing rider to hounds!”

Mr. Thrace placed himself beside Catherine Prowting, and talked to her of the Prince Regent. “It is a fearful crush at Carlton House, but nothing compared to the present scene in Brighton, where the Prince is established for the summer months. And the Pavilion itself is so exquisitely curious — it is a treat akin to Astley’s Amphitheatre, to be bidden in attendance!”

“I have never visited Astley’s Amphitheatre,” Catherine returned hesitantly, “and Papa is most adamant in his opposition to Brighton. Watering places he regards as insipid, and dens of vice.”

“As a man of the world, he must fear the effect of your beauty on the town,” Thrace observed with gallantry. “You should be carried off within a day of descending upon Brighton, Miss Prowting!”

There were half a dozen horses turned out in the loose boxes; among them I recognised the powerful grey Mr. Thrace had ridden in Chawton. Lady Imogen called for her groom — a spare figure with a weathered face and sharp eyes rather like a monkey’s — and said, “Lead out Nutmeg, Robley; I will have my girl admired.”

The groom entered the box, and led the mare into the stable yard, so that all the gentlemen might examine her lines and comment upon her excellence as a hunter.

“You paid all of six hundred guineas for her, Lady Imogen?”

Mr. Thrace enquired with an air of surprise. “Very showy, I grant you — and yet she is too long in the back. You will gladly take five pence for her from anybody who will offer it, after your first hard outing, I’ll be bound.”

“Say that again if you dare!” the Earl’s daughter flashed.

“Say that again, Thrace — and I’ll whip you myself! I was riding with the Quorn when you were still a raw schoolboy. She is as neat a filly to go as any you’ve seen! Admit it!”

“She is too long in the back, ” the gentleman repeated, and turned away.

Lady Imogen was white with fury. The insult to her horse — the insult to her own powers of judgement and her experience in the field — piqued her as Thrace’s milder pretensions to mastery could not. Her hands clenched convulsively, her breast heaved with a powerful emotion — and I feared she might hurl herself on her putative half-brother if Major Spence’s firm hand had not restrained her.

“Too long, perhaps, for a rider like yourself, Thrace,” the steward said mildly, “and I should not like to test her either — but in Lady Imogen’s hands, she will be the sweetest of goers.”

Thrace smiled. His suggestion of contempt only enflamed Lady Imogen further.

“Fetch your grey!” she cried. “Fetch your grey, and let us see who is the better judge of horseflesh!”

“But you are not dressed to ride, my lady,” the groom Robley protested.

“What is that to me? I am among friends, not parading in Hyde Park. Pray saddle Nutmeg.”

“Hold the horse, Robley,” Thrace said with sudden choler.

“I will fetch the saddle.”

He disappeared into the tack room, while the rest of us looked on in suspense. Henry sidled over to me.

“Her ladyship is in a rare temper,” he said, “and for my part, I should say the right is all Thrace’s. The mare is assuredly too long in the back.”

“But he need not have thrown the fact in her face,” I returned softly. “It is almost as tho’ he would incite her to betray herself. He wished her to appear unbecoming before her guests.”

“Even so — this will be a spectacle worth recounting at my club! The Earl of Holbrook’s heirs disputing their rights over open ground!”

At that moment, Mr. Thrace reappeared with a small leather saddle in his hands. “Here, Robley — saddle the mare while I fetch Rob Roy.”

He led out the grey, who looked fresh and handsome as ever; tossed his own saddle over the hunter’s back with a practised hand, and placed his boot in the stirrup.

“Have a care, Julian,” Spence muttered. “She will work herself into a passion.”

“Let the course be set,” Mr. Thrace declared, “as the span of sweep between the stable yard and the main gate, a distance of nearly a mile. Are we agreed?”

“Agreed,” Lady Imogen declared. “But what will you wager, Thrace? What is the price of your honour? — The sum of your losses at faro? For I know you cannot settle that debt.”

Her seat was graceful and easy, her gloved hands light on the reins. The dreadful pallor of anger had fled, to be replaced by the high colour of excitement.

“Are you so dubious of victory, Lady Imogen? Why not wager something we both hold dear? Let us say—” Thrace hesitated, as tho’ measuring his odds. “Let us compete for Stonings.”

The look of elation drained from her ladyship’s face. “That is not mine to stake, Thrace, as you very well know. Nor yours to demand.”

“If you would already concede defeat—”

“Very well!” she cried. “Stonings it is! And may the best judge of horseflesh win!”