Jane and His Lordship's Legacy

Chapter 22 The Figure in the Night

9 July 1809, cont.

I related nothing of all I had learned among the cottage circle tonight, but allowed my sister to talk of the beauties of the surrounding country — in which she had walked a little with the dog Link, so that he might become acquainted with his neighbourhood. “It is full of dells and hills, Jane — a rolling, varied country quite unlike the flat monotony of Steventon in which we were raised—” I listened to a letter from Fanny, which had followed Cassandra on her journey from Kent, the post having no concern for the delays imposed by broken axle-trees and the ostlers at Brompton’s Bell. And I was made privy to all the minute concerns of Edward’s household, which Neddie should never bother relating and which Cassandra has not yet learned to give up: how the four youngest children — Charles, Louisa, Cassandra-Jane, and Brook-John — are as yet in the charge of Susannah Sackree, the beloved Caky of the nurserywing, while the elder girls — Lizzy and Marianne — are not to be sent away again to school, Marianne having most bitterly despised her exile from the rest of the family. The two eldest boys, Edward and George, are to return to Winchester in the autumn term, and then Fanny may well obtain some peace and quiet — a governess being to be hired for Lizzy and Marianne, a tutor for young Henry and William. Of the tutor in particular Cassandra had great hopes: he was a nephew of the Duke of Dorset, only lately having quitted Cambridge, and intended for the Church. She only hoped he should not fall in love with Fanny, as she is barely out— as such things may be determined in Kentish society. There could be no question of a real London Season for Fanny; Edward’s spirits were not up to the hiring of a house in Town.

“Good God,” I murmured. “And to think that poor Fanny is expected to manage all this! I wonder she could consent to part with you, Cass — despite the allurements of our six bedchambers and numerous outbuildings. Shall you miss Kent exceedingly?”

She flushed pink, and returned some small nothing regarding the insignificance of her own contribution, and the worth of Fanny’s talents. I recalled to mind a picture of Godmersham as I had myself left it only a short while ago — the elegance of its apartments, the plasterwork above the mantel in the entry hall, the marble floors, the pleasing aspect of the high downs behind the house. In the environs of Canterbury one meets with only the most liberal-minded and cultivated of friends; no Ann Prowtings or Miss Benns for Cassandra’s edification. Kent is the only place for happiness, after all; everybody is rich there, and my brother’s household not excepted. I must endeavour to remember that Cassandra’s spirits might be a trifle low in coming months, until she has grown accustomed once more to the simplicity of our arrangements.

My mother announced over our Sunday meal of buttered prawns and cold beef that she had quite given up her scheme of retrieving the Rubies of Chandernagar. Mr. Thrace’s guilt she had taken to heart, and regarded it as a sure sign of duplicity in everything the man had said; for how else must she account for the failure of her searches? Mr. Papillon’s sermon on the evils of avarice had proved no less salutary. She should not like the Companion of My Future Life — for so she persisted in regarding poor Mr. Papillon — to believe his prospective mother-in-law a hardened sinner. Then, too, she had happened to catch Sally Mitchell laughing with the baker’s boy about the eccentric habits of her mistress, and was most discomfited to find that she had broken three fingernails in digging.

We left her after dinner to all the pleasures of a hot bath in the washroom, and sat down to compose a few letters: Cassandra to Fanny, and I recounting what I could of Chawton events to my friend Martha Lloyd.

Thoughts of Charles Spence, however, could not help but intrude. I might sit by the Pembroke table, in the soft air of evening, and attempt to write in compact lines of the people we had met, and the alterations we had effected in the cottage; but the Major’s dark eyes must sketch themselves on the sheet of paper. His serious, earnest gaze — the dreadful pallor of his looks at Lady Imogen’s death — the fury of the man, as Thrace escaped — all must clamour for my attention. I had wondered before if Spence’s honour might be suborned by a woman of Lady Imogen’s power — if her bewitching charm and his desire for her affection might compel him to all manner of actions he should never undertake alone. I was now certain that they had.

Charles Spence could find no peculiar interest in Lord Harold Trowbridge’s papers, absent the interest of the woman he loved. Lady Imogen had bent him to her purpose — cajoled him, as a steward well-acquainted with the labouring class — to secure a pair of ruffians who might force their way into my house.

Had they also, I wondered, forced their way into Henry’s bank nearly a week ago?

Had the plan to find Lord Harold’s bequest been in train long before my arrival in Chawton? It was certain that Lady Imogen possessed an understanding of the chest’s contents for some months; she should have learned of their true nature from Desdemona, Countess Swithin, during the last London Season.[25]

Locating the chest itself, however, had demanded some time and exertion; no doubt Lady Imogen had recruited others besides Spence to the task. Who might her accomplices be?

I concluded my letter to Martha with a request that she bring some peony cuttings from her sister’s garden at Kintbury — and rose to take a restless turn about the room.

“What is it, Jane?” Cassandra asked.

“I hardly know.”

“You are thinking of our acquaintance in Sherborne St. John. Has there been no word yet of Mr. Thrace’s capture?”

“None that Edward or I have heard. The renegade appears to have vanished into thin air.”

“Then he will soon be desperate. With all the country alive against him, how can he hope to obtain so much as a cup of water?”

“—Unless he has found friends who will help him.”

“How can such a man — a stranger to Hampshire — recruit friends?”

“He might buy them, I suppose, among those who have no concern for murder.”

She set down her pen. “And what of Henry?”

“He must have reached Brighton some hours ago — but has not seen fit to despatch the news to his sisters Express. I suppose all such activity must be reserved for the Earl, and all such letters for Charles Spence.”

Charles Spence.

I had written to him myself only this morning; he might even now be reading my letter — the post between Chawton and Sherborne St. John being no very great distance.[26] What should be his feelings upon perusing my words?

... pray accept my very deepest condolences on the sad loss you have recently suffered. Lady Imogen was all that was lovely and amiable, and to witness her sudden taking off — at such an interesting period of life, when youth, high spirits, beauty, and the privilege of birth must conspire to make her existence a blessed one — is a dreadful reminder of the end we must all someday face, and our daily proximity to our Maker. It is regrettable at such a moment to allow the personal to intrude. Circumstances, however, require that I be perfectly frank. I have reason to think that her ladyship’s natural exuberance — her desire to best Mr. Thrace at every turn — and her very commendable wish to prevent her respected father from committing an error his friends must all deplore — may have led her to engage in an activity injurious to her reputation, and beneath her better sense. In point of fact, I believe the chest taken from my home — a bequest of my friend Lord Harold Trowbridge — might even now be found among Lady Imogen’s effects.

If what I have related causes you pain, I am heartily sorry for it. I am aware, however, that Stonings may soon be shut up and yourself gone from the premises, as must only be natural; and I should wish the chest returned before all your party has quitted Hampshire. Do I ask too much, Major Spence, or may I be allowed to wait upon you at Stonings as soon as may be convenient?

I had taken a good deal of trouble over the letter, as being a most awkward composition to a man in Spence’s state of mourning. Indeed, I had winced at the brutal force of it — the necessity of putting so delicate a matter into the bluntest prose. But I had done my work, and seen it into the hands of the post some hours before; and could not call it back again. The knowledge that Spence himself was encompassed in Lady Imogen’s crimes, however, made the communication a bitter one. It was possible he should read in my letter a veiled threat to his own security. If I professed to know that Lady Imogen had taken the Bengal chest, how could I be ignorant of the methods by which it was obtained? Did Charles Spence think to find me at Stonings’ door with Mr. Prowting the magistrate at my back?

I feared that I had blundered in writing as I did. Spence was no fool; and despite the misery of his present circumstances, must be alive to the implication of my charge. He was as likely to sink Lord Harold’s chest in the bottom of the Stonings’ lake, as return its contents to me; and I had only my own impatience to thank.

I placed my letter to Martha near Cassandra’s own, for posting on the morrow; made trial of a novel in three volumes that my sister had brought especially from Canterbury; picked up and set down a bit of mending the light no longer permitted me to see; and at the last, went up rather earlier than was my habit, to bed.

It was the dog, Link, that woke me: starting up from a sound sleep and barking furiously into the night. His small, sinewy body trembled with indignation; his attention was fixed on a disturbance below; his outrage filled our ears.

“Link!” Cassandra hissed. “Lie down, boy! There’s a good fellow! Link! ”

I threw back the bed linen and reached for my dressing gown. The terrier dashed to the window, his forepaws on the sill.

“What is it, lad?” I whispered. “What do you see? Another burglar, perhaps, come to steal into the household?”

A low growl escaped his quivering throat; I hushed him with a hand to his head.

The full moon of the previous week — which had allowed Julian Thrace to ride out at midnight, Shafto French to be murdered, and Jack Hinton to make his way from Surrey despite the befuddlement of his senses — was nearly gone. The night was dull as a blown candle, and heavy shadow lay about the fields surrounding the house. Chawton Pond was barely a gleam on the edge of my vision; no figures swayed in desperate combat beside it tonight. I strained to pierce the darkness of our yard, and could make out nothing; no furtive movement of man or beast could be detected near the henhouse or the privy. It might be any hour between the tolling of St. Nicholas’s curfew bell and dawn; I could not undertake to say.

“What is it, Jane?” Cassandra demanded in a hushed voice; there was anxiety in her accent.

I lifted my hand for silence, and Link growled again.

Perhaps he had seen what I had: a faint wisp of light bobbing down the sweep from Prowtings. It was, I guessed, the pale glow of a candle encased in a lanthorn — the kind that might be shielded from prying eyes by the fall of a cloak or wrap. Someone was setting out through the darkness on an errand that did not admit of scrutiny; and as the fugitive achieved the Gosport road, I thought I understood why. In the form and height of the figure — the hesitant, half-furtive movement — I recognised a woman.

Catherine Prowting.

I have found it difficult to sleep of nights for some weeks past. Where was she going, alone and at such an hour?

Her errand was not an open one. She did not intend her family to know of it.

With all the country alive against him, how can he hope to obtain so much as a cup of water?

I had been wrong. One friend at least in the neighbourhood Julian Thrace had no need to buy. I might follow Catherine, I thought, as Link strained against me.

I might rouse the neighbourhood and her father, bring a man to justice, and ruin forever the reputation of a young woman rather like myself — restless for life, bounded by country lane and glebe, her prospects lowering with each passing year. A starling beating against the bars of its cage. Lady Imogen. Shafto French.

Justice.

“Jane?” Cassandra repeated. “Is anything amiss?”

I shut the window.

“Nothing at all, Cass. Your dog must have scented a hare on the wind.”

I lay sleepless long into the night, listening for Catherine Prowting’s return.