Jane and His Lordship's Legacy

Chapter 4 Of Knights and Villains

4 July 1809, cont.

“Letters!” my mother exclaimed in horror upon her return, unmindful of Mr. Prowting at her elbow. “What kind of a man leaves his paramour letters? A cottage perhaps, in a good situation — an annuity of a thousand pounds for the remainder of your days — but a bundle of papers not worth the ink smeared over them? Was the Rogue mad, Jane?”

“Never more so,” I replied. “Have you enjoyed your walk, Mamma?”

“Fiddle my walk!” She rounded on Mr. Prowting. “You will have heard, I am sure, of Lord Harold Trowbridge — a Whig and an adventurer, for all he was the son of a duke; not content with having his fingers in every Government pie, and spoiling them all, but he must break my poor girl’s heart! I can only say, Mr. Prowting, that murder is too good for him. He was born to be hanged!”

“So I apprehend, ma’am, from the London papers,” the magistrate said stiffly. “I had not understood that you were on terms of acquaintance with the gentleman— For so we must call him, in deference to his birth. That at least remains unimpeachable.”

“And a good deal of money the old Duke must have laid down to make it so,” my mother retorted shrewdly. I chose to ignore this impertinence, in deference to the heaviness of her disappointment, and turned instead to the magistrate. “His lordship’s Bengal chest is of considerable size, Mr. Prowting. Would you be so kind as to assist me in securing it?”

Mr. Chizzlewit’s warning had not been lost upon me. Lord Harold’s enemies were numerous and determined; death alone should not quiet their fears. I had weighed the merits of henhouse and privy as unlikely objects of a thief’s interest, but settled instead upon the depths of the cottage as being more convenient to hand. Our present abode having once served as an alehouse, it must be assumed that the cellars were commodious and in good repair. A double-doored hatch protruded from nether region to yard, undoubtedly for the purpose of rolling barrels of ale within; but this could be secured from below by a stout bar. I might sit upon Lord Harold’s papers like a hen upon an egg, a priest upon a crypt, alive to every threat of violation.

“I am entirely at your service,” Mr. Prowting said with a bow. A foetid air rose from the damp and musty space as I descended the narrow stairs, a tallow candle held aloft.

“You will require a manservant,” the magistrate declared. He was puffing from exertion, the wooden casket clutched precariously in his arms. “I shall take upon myself the task of securing a likely fellow from Alton.”

“He must be called William or John, mind. I depend upon that.” A scuttling of feet greeted my flame, and for an instant I hesitated on the bottom step. “Does the history of our former alehouse encompass smuggling, Mr. Prowting?”

“Every alehouse in the country must. Your brandy will not serve, unless it comes by stealth from France. But that is no Gentleman of the Night, Miss Austen. You will also be wanting a dog, I think — a stout little terrier to clear your cupboards for you.”

In the glow of the tallow I observed several dark and stealthy forms stealing from a heap of sacking that filled one corner of the cellar. Rats. Decidedly rats. I repressed a shudder and quitted the final step, the fitful play of my candle throwing grotesque shadows about the stone walls.

“Pah — we must open the hatch.” Mr. Prowting set the chest heavily on the sandy floor, and heedless of the dust and cobwebs that must adorn it, reached for the wooden bar that secured the double doors set into the cellar’s ceiling. In an instant they were thrust wide, and light and air streamed down from the pleasant summer afternoon above like a benediction of Providence.

“Ah,” the magistrate breathed with satisfaction. “That shall soon mend matters. The atmosphere was better suited to a tomb—”

He broke off, mouth sadly agape, eyes fixed on the cellar corner. I turned my head to follow his gaze, and to my shame let out a cry. The bars of sunlight shafting through the open hatch revealed the pile of sacking to be something more: the figure of a man, laid out in all the rigour of death.

“Good God!” Mr. Prowting moved with surprising swiftness to the corpse.

The unfortunate wretch was clothed as a labourer — from village or field — and from the strength of his form, had been in the prime of life. His arms were slack by his sides and one leg sprawled akimbo, as tho’ he had dropped off to sleep of an afternoon; but his countenance was unrecognisable. The rats, I judged, had been feeding upon it some time.

“Quite dead,” Mr. Prowting murmured.

“But how did he come here?” I exclaimed. “The house was shut up!”

The magistrate’s looks were blank. “Mr. Dyer of Alton will have possessed a key.”

Of course. The builder and his improvements. “Do you know this poor man at all? Is he one of Dyer’s men?”

“With such a visage, who can say? How is his own mother to know him?” Prowting stared down at the ravaged figure. “A dreadful business. And on the very day of your arrival — for the Squire’s sister to make such a discovery—”

“It is a pity Mr. Chizzlewit is already gone,” I observed. “We might otherwise have sent word to the George and summoned a carter. The body should be removed to the inn in expectation of the coroner. I am sure my brother would wish it.”

My neighbour appeared to return to his senses from a great way off. He studied me strangely. “You are not overpowered by the sight, Miss Austen?”

“I am sadly lacking in delicate sensibility, Mr. Prowting. I have lived too long in the world.”

His gaze sharpened and he drew me towards the stairs.

“There is likely to be some unpleasantness these few hours. You will wish to retire, I think; and will be very welcome in Mrs. Prowting’s drawing-room.”

“But, sir— How did the unfortunate die?”

“A fit, perhaps.”

“What sort of fit strikes down a healthy man?”

“There is a strong stench of spirits about the corpse,” Mr. Prowting said abruptly. “I think it very likely he died of excessive drink, Miss Austen. And now, if you would be so good—”

I bowed my head, and went to break the news to my mother.

“You are no stranger to Hampshire, I collect, Mrs. Austen?” enquired the magistrate’s wife as she served herself from a dish of chicken and peas. Dinner at Prowtings had been delayed until the fashionable hour of seven o’clock, from all the necessity of a corpse’s removal. Mr. Prowting had found occasion to stand for two hours in the street, while a crowd of gawking village folk materialised to observe the proceedings. Word of the gruesome tragedy had spread like wildfire through every tenant’s cot, but no one appeared in the guise of anxious mourner — no woman stood with wringing hands and suckling babe to claim the Dead as her own. I observed this, and drew the obvious conclusion: the corpse did not belong to Chawton. We should have to look farther afield for the dead man’s name. Poor Joseph, our driver of the morning, had returned from Mr. Barlow’s establishment in Alton with a heavy dray, and an ominous object swathed in old linen was swung upwards from the cellar hatch. At the departure of the corpse, a few boys made to follow it into Alton; but the majority of our neighbours dispersed, hastened on their way by the magistrate’s abjurations. My mother, after an appropriate shriek and fainting fit, had suffered herself to be supported the length of the Prowtings’ long gravel sweep under the eyes of the entire village — and hugely enjoyed her role as tragic heroine. There could be nothing like the Austens’ descent upon their new home, I thought with some exasperation. First, a delegation of solicitors bearing mysterious chests; and then a dead man in the cellar — all in the space of a single afternoon! We should provide the village with matter for conjecture sufficient to endure a twelvemonth, and feed young Baigent’s claims that our household was indeed cursed.

Mrs. Prowting made my mother comfortable for an hour in a spare bedchamber; calmly bade her daughters leave off staring out the front windows; and observed that there was nothing like a body to drive folk from their work. She was a lady of significant proportions, her countenance placid; a woman whom even Death could not disturb. I observed, however, that she clutched a black-bordered square of lawn firmly in one hand throughout dinner — in expectation, perhaps, of being momentarily overcome by the Awfulness of the Event.

“I have lived in this country nearly all my life, Mrs. Prowting, with the exception of an interval in Bath,” my mother declared in answer to her polite enquiry. “I do not count my childhood in Oxford — for that was decidedly long ago — and though Southampton is quite southwards, it is nonetheless Hampshire.”

It had required several lessons in geography to impart this certainty to my mother’s mind; I thanked Providence the point no longer admitted of doubt.

“And you are soon to be joined here in Chawton by two other ladies?”

“My elder daughter is, as we believe, already on her road from Kent; and our dear friend Miss Lloyd — who has formed a part of our household since the not entirely unexpected death of her mother a few years since — is presently visiting her sister at Kintbury. We look for both ladies every day — and Mr. Edward Austen as well.”

“Mr. Austen is expected in Chawton!” ejaculated Mr. Prowting. “That is news indeed! We shall have to organise a party of welcome for the Squire. We shall indeed, my dear.”

“Mr. Austen is always welcome in this house,” rejoined his wife comfortably. “He is often in the country, as you must know, Mrs. Austen, for the settling of his tenant accounts. He is wont to engage a room at the George for that express purpose each quarter, and all his folk come and go to pay their respects — and their rents.”

“We are quite the family party in this corner of the world,” my mother sighed, as though rents and their accounting were all the joy she asked of life. “My eldest son, Mr. James Austen, is rector at Steventon, but a dozen miles distant; my fourth son, Henry, maintains a branch of his London bank — Austen, Gray & Vincent, perhaps you know it? — so near as Alton; and the wife of my fifth son, Captain Francis Austen, has lately taken a house in the same town.”

“So many sons,” observed Mrs. Prowting. “And which Alton house does the Captain’s wife rent, ma’am?”

“Rose Cottage, in Lenton Street.”

“I know it well! That is excellent news; you shall have a daughter within walking distance.”

“I had almost considered removing to Mrs. Frank,” my mother faltered, “on the strength of this dreadful business — I know I shall not sleep a wink in such a house — a house of death. but Mrs. Frank is indisposed at present, and I cannot presume upon the kindness of one in her condition. Her first child nearly killed her, you know.”

“You are most welcome to remain with us, ma’am,” Mrs. Prowting said warmly. “I should not think of sending you back to the cottage this evening.”

My mother looked as though she might accept with gratitude — but I considered of Lord Harold’s papers, lodged for the nonce in the henhouse, and interposed a negative.

“You are very good, Mrs. Prowting, but we are perfectly content in the cottage. A clergyman’s family, as you know, is accustomed to the Dead.”

A pompous speech enough; but Mrs. Prowting looked as though she admired it. My mother was nettled, and kicked my shin quite savagely beneath the table. She had the grace, however, not to engage in public argument.

“I think you said that Captain Austen is serving on the China Station?” Mr. Prowting enquired. “Excellent! Excellent!

We hope to welcome another member of the Navy into the bosom of our family before very long; a young man we greatly esteem—”

“Papa! I beg you will not run on in that unbecoming way! I am sure I shall die of consciousness! The Austens can have no interest in Benjamin Clement — and to be sure, he is grown so odd of late — so inconstant in his attentions — that I protest I have no interest in him either!”

This impassioned cry fell from the lips of the youngest Miss Prowting, a girl I should judge to be at least twenty. She was fairhaired, blue-eyed, and full-figured; her white muslin gown was bestowed from neck to hem with fluttering primrose ribbons. It was clear she was accounted a Great Beauty, but I could not join in the general acclaim. Tho’ Ann’s complexion was good, it bore an expression of peevishness, and she had not the slightest pretension to either wit or conversation.

“Eh, do not be pouting at me, miss!” her father returned fondly, chucking her under the chin. “Young Benjamin is always the most constant of your beaux, no matter how little you are inclined to notice! Quite the belle of the village, our little Ann!”

It was as well, I thought, that my mother and Ann Prowting had divided the dinner table between them; for I had rarely been so ill-disposed to the rigours of Society, nor been so woefully unable to concentrate my energies. My mind was full of Lord Harold’s bequest and the puzzle of the corpse in our cellar. I could not be attending to the insipidities of a country neighbourhood, however congenial the party.

“The Squire was well, I hope, when you quitted Kent?” Mrs. Prowting enquired. A brief silence ensued; her gaze, I saw too late and with sudden horror, was fixed upon me.

“My brother was very well, I thank you, Mrs. Prowting,” I returned in a rush.

“It’s a sad business, a gentleman of Mr. Austen’s circumstances being left with all those children on his hands.” Mrs. Prowting continued to study me, as though attempting to discern some likeness in my features — but it is Henry whom I resemble, not Edward. “A sad business, indeed; but Man proposes and the Lord disposes, as we have good reason to know. Does Mr. Austen think of giving up the Kentish place, and settling here in Chawton, with so many of his family fixed in the neighbourhood?”

“I do not think my brother has any idea of quitting Kent,” I replied. “All his affections and interest are bound up in the environs of Canterbury.”

“I should adore to go into Kent!” Ann Prowting sighed.

“Hampshire beaux are nothing to those of Canterbury, I am sure! All the smart ton fellows descend upon the place for the races in August, Mamma!”

Mamma did not appear inclined to notice this effusion; and it was the elder daughter, Catherine, who turned the conversation. She was dark where her sister was fair, and retiring in her disposition. We had not yet had five words together from her lips.

“We were very sorry to hear of Mrs. Edward Austen’s passing,” she managed. “That lady only came to Chawton once within memory, but she left an impression of goodness as well as of fashion, and appears to have been everything that is amiable.”

“Thank you,” I said. “We have all felt my sister’s loss most keenly; and as Mrs. Prowting observes, my brother’s children above all. There are no less than eleven little Austens, and the youngest has not yet attained a year of age.”[4]

Mrs. Prowting lifted up her eyes to Heaven, and then retreated for a moment behind her square of linen.

“Mamma is thinking of William again,” Ann observed in a bored tone, “or perhaps of John. They were both of them odious little boys; I am sure I cannot count the times they teazed me unmercifully, and pulled my hair.”

“Ann,” Catherine whispered fiercely. “Consider where you are.”

But her sister continued insensible of danger.

“Perhaps your brother will chuse a second wife, Miss Austen,” Ann suggested brightly, “should he ever return to Chawton. He will not find the ladies so high in the instep as in Kent! We are all easy here! I should set my cap at him myself — but as he is so old, I do not think there could be any fun in it. He shall do very well for Catherine.”

“Minx,” Mr. Prowting said fondly. “She is a sad baggage, Miss Austen.”

“Catherine cares nothing for flirtation or good jokes,” Ann added with a curl of her lip, “and would not object to so many children, provided she were left in peace with her harp. Lord, Mamma! Only conceive of the look on Jane Hinton’s face, when Catherine was presented as the Squire’s wife! How you should love to parade it over the Hintons, with their endless preaching about entailments and usurpers.”

An appalled silence greeted this sally, but as Ann was engaged in adjusting her bodice lace, she failed to notice. Mrs. Prowting had flushed rosily, and her elder daughter could not lift up her eyes. It required only this united weakness, I supposed, for Ann’s impudence to rule the Prowting household.

“The Hintons?” my mother innocently enquired. “I do not recollect the name. Are they also our neighbours?”

“Mr. John-Knight Hinton is the son of our late rector, who was a most excellent man,” Prowting said with an appearance of discomfiture. “I wish that I could say the same of his son. But Jack Hinton is an indolent fellow, dissatisfied with his station in life, and unequal to improving it by either wit or exertion.”

“You are too unkind, Papa.” Catherine’s countenance was suffused with a blush. “Mr. Hinton’s character is good, and his understanding — tho’ perhaps not brilliant—”

“—is as high as you may safely look for a beau,” her sister observed waspishly.

“Ann,” Mrs. Prowting protested.

“The Church would not do for him,” continued the magistrate with impatience, “—nor yet the Army; and as he is the youngest child and only son, Mrs. Austen, he has been much spoilt. Tho’ now fully five-and-thirty years of age if he is a day, Jack lives in idleness with his elder sister at Chawton Lodge, directly opposite the Great House.”

My mother glanced from one Prowting to another in considerable puzzlement. “The Lodge did not pass to the new incumbent, I collect?”

“Dear Mr. Papillon — such a kind gentleman, and so eloquent on the subject of forgiveness — rebuilt the old Rectory when Mrs. Knight gave him the Chawton living several years since,” Mrs. Prowting supplied. “But the Lodge was not in that lady’s gift; it was formerly the Dower House, and has passed through the female line to the Hinton family.”

My mother frowned. “Then I must have seen the place not an hour ago, when you were so kind as to escort me to the Great House gates, Mr. Prowting. I wonder you did not mention it. And Mr. Hinton’s Christian name is John-Knight, you say? And he lives in the former Dower House? Are the family at all related to the Kentish Knights?”

It was the Knight family that had adopted my brother Edward as their heir, and the Knight family that had inherited the manors of Chawton, Steventon, and Godmersham that Neddie now enjoyed. There had once been Knights in Hampshire, but they were all died out; and their Kentish cousins had come into these distant properties as a matter of course. My mother’s questions were posed in all innocence, but their effect was galvanic.

“Lord!” cried Ann Prowting, “Do you mean to say you are ignorant of what everybody hereabouts knows — that the Hintons and all their relations are the last true descendants of the Hampshire Knights?”

“Ann,” her mother attempted once more. “I do not think it is for us—”

“But, Mamma,” she retorted impatiently, “it is beyond everything great! Here Jack Hinton has been saying for an age that he ought to be Squire of Chawton — and the Squire’s mamma don’t even know it!”