Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

Chapter 9 A Remedy for Drowning

9 MAY 1813

BRIGHTON, CONT.

MY BROTHER HENRY, I KNEW, COULD NOT SWIM.

The Earl of Swithin’s fingers were already working at the buttons of his dark blue coat, however, and his hat was tossed on the paving at his feet. “Hullo the boat!” he cried towards Lord Byron’s diminishing vessel. “Byron! Lord Byron!”

I saw what he was about in an instant; Byron should be more likely to reach the drowning woman, did he abandon his vessel in an attempt to save her; but the wind carried Swithin’s words back into his throat.

Henry leapt from the Parade to the shingle below, and began to halloo in company with Swithin; but it was of little use. The only notice he secured was that of the fishwives who gutted the local catch on trestles set up near the sea, their skirts kirtled high about their waists and their heads wrapped in bright scarves. Several stilled their knives and stared up at us in wonderment, as tho’ we were drunken or mad.

“She surfaces!” Desdemona cried.

Her husband, boots discarded and clad only in pantaloons and linen shirt, pelted over the stony sand with the speed of a schoolboy; and as he plunged into the sea, fighting against the waves that dragged at his thighs, I saw the dark gold head of Lady Caroline Lamb — was it truly she? — rise like a seal’s and then disappear, almost instantly overwhelmed. Beside me, Desdemona was dancing with anxiety and fear, muttering imprecations and encouragement, her eyes narrowed in a desperate attempt to locate Lady Caroline once more. I, too, was searching the serrated water frantically with my gaze; but the sodden curls did not reappear.

Lord Byron’s yacht, taken by the wind, had moved far from our party; he had tacked, I thought, and was visible as a gull-winged shape against the bright horizon. Had he known Caro Lamb could not swim? Had he wished her to die while he sailed onwards, indifferent? Could any man — however tormented by a discarded lover — be so callous as this?

But of course he could, I recollected. This was the same Lord Byron — the poet — who had abducted Catherine Twining in his carriage.

Desdemona had quitted the Parade to hasten after the gentlemen; she was straining towards her husband, just shy of the tide’s reach. I hastened to join Henry, who said, “I believe Lady Caroline has been submerged some minutes. Swithin will have to dive. Let us pray he has sufficient strength — I should never be equal to it. The force of the waves! I am all admiration for such a man.”

It was as Henry said: Swithin was drawing great breaths, then plunging fully under the sea. I had an idea of his eyes, blinded by salt water, searching the murky depths in frantic haste for the slim figure of the boy-girl. I found I was clutching at Henry’s arm with my gloved fingers in a manner that he might generally have regarded as painful, but appeared not to notice at this present; I heaved a shuddering sigh of dread, as tho’ my breath might supply the swimmers’.

Desdemona had begun to pace the sand, tossing anxious half looks towards the sea, and I sensed her mounting anxiety — where was Swithin? He had not resurfaced from his last dive. Had his strength flagged? His senses been suddenly overpowered?

“Henry,” I attempted —

But at that moment, Swithin’s head surged out of the waves and he shook it, like a dog. Under his left arm there was a white and limp shape — a neck, a dark blot of head; with his right arm he began the painful crawl back towards us.

“Pray God he is not too tired,” I breathed.

“Pray God that is not a corpse,” Henry returned. His lips were set in a thin line. “Damned foolish, Jane. Damned foolish. What can she have been thinking?”

I did not answer, but hurried towards Desdemona, who was now urging her husband on with every call of encouragement she could think of, entirely oblivious to the crowd of Fashionables that had gathered, slowly but inevitably, on the Marine Parade behind us. They could have no notion whose drama was played in the waves below them; they were drawn, rather, by the spectacle — and by the clear interest of our own anxiety, the fact that Henry and I were dressed in mourning, as tho’ the outcome of events were already certain. Some few of them would certainly recognise the Countess of Swithin.

“My lady,” I said, “we are the object of all Brighton. No one must be allowed to penetrate Lady Caroline’s disguise. Are we not agreed?”

She gave me a swift glance, then drew her fine Paisley shawl from her shoulders. “We shall wrap her in this. And carry her to our house — it is but a few steps off the Marine Parade. Only how are we to convey her?”

Swithin was standing in the shallows, now, his burden lifted in his arms; his lungs gasped for air and his stumbling legs sought a secure foothold. Soon, he would deposit Lady Caroline on the sand — and the moment of danger would be arrived.

“Henry!” I cried. “Fetch a chair! Surely there will be one standing before the Castle! A chair, and make haste!”

He dashed off on the instant, heedless of explanation. A stout pair of chairmen must suffice; hackney chaises were difficult to secure in Brighton. Time enough to fetch a doctor once we knew whether Caroline Lamb still breathed.

Desdemona went to her husband; he set down the frail figure and fell to his knees beside it. “Rub her limbs,” he urged. “Your vinaigrette, Mona — do you have it?”

She shook her head, mutely chafing Caro’s wrists; Desdemona had never been one for die-away airs, nor the remedies employed to defeat them. Hartshorn would be absent from her reticule as well. Burnt feathers might serve to bring Lady Caroline round — but where to procure them? I glanced about. The fishwives burnt charcoal near their trestles; perhaps the smoke from this would do? I hastened to beg a bit of coals, and as my half-boots trod the shingle, I caught sight of a veritable gull’s feather among the rocks. I snatched at it, lit the tip in the fishwives’ fire, and hurried back to my friends, my palm cupping the flame against the sea wind.

Swithin had turned Caro Lamb on her side, and was supporting her insensible form as she retched; he had been careful, I saw, to face his charge away from the curious who were massed on the Marine Parade. A few of these — gentlemen all — had ventured down onto the shingle; and one, in catching my eye, loudly enquired, “May one do anything? May one be of service?”

“It is only a local lad,” I returned as I handed my burnt feather to Desdemona, who waved it vigourously beneath Caro’s nose. “A cabin boy, off a fishing vessel. He ventured out too deep.”

The gentleman nodded, indifferent now, and turned back. I saw him convey the quelling news to others in his party, who swiftly related it to the rest; and of a sudden, the crowd began to disperse in as leisurely a fashion as it had gathered. There was nothing in the life or death of a cabin boy to excite the interest of the Great.

“She breathes,” Desdemona whispered.

And indeed, the small chest rose slightly and fell; some life remained unextinguished.

My brother’s figure appeared on the low wall that separated Parade from sand; he lifted his arm in salute.

“The chair is come,” I murmured in a low voice.

“Excellent,” Swithin said. “Your shawl, now, Mona, if you please. I shall carry her; the weight is no more than our son’s.”

The frail face — like a faerie’s or a sleeping child’s — was still insensible as the Earl conveyed Lady Caroline across the sand. I had read of her looks in every newspaper in the land — how she was called the Sprite, in respect of her ethereal grace and a certain fey quality to her character. But in her looks I saw desolation, rather — as tho’ some great flame had passed through her being and burnt away all substance, leaving but a husk.

The chair stood waiting between its stout fellows, under Henry’s anxious eye. The Earl shifted Lady Caroline gently within, and stepped back, that Desdemona might have the arranging of the Paisley shawl. As the Countess’s hands secured the folds, Lady Caroline’s eyelids fluttered.

“Am I drowned?” she muttered.

“No, my dear. You are saved. Hush, now.”

“He saved me?” The eyes, clear as agates, searched Desdemona’s face. “Mona Swithin — what are you doing here?”

“It was my husband who brought you out of the sea.”

The eyes closed; a tear seeped from one. Caro Lamb shuddered the length of her body as tho’ suffering an intolerable pain. “And so he sailed on! I should rather have died, Mona, than have it so.”

“Hush,” the Countess said again, and closed the chair door. “Number 21, Marine Parade,” she told the chairmen.

“My pantaloons are ruined,” Swithin said conversationally as the Irish carriers moved off. “And it is the first time I have worn them. I shall have Byron’s neck for this.”

WE PARTED FROM THE EARL AND HIS LADY BEFORE THEIR door, having secured from them a promise of swift news of Lady Caroline’s health — and our assurances, in return, that we should be delighted to dine with them on the morrow. We should not be attending the Assembly at the Castle, of course — for two such figures as ourselves, deep in the throes of mourning, it could not be seemly to dance. But a private dinner among friends, and an early evening of retirement while the music drifted up from the floors below — there could be nothing objectionable in this.

“Besides, Jane,” Henry said as we achieved our inn, ravenous for our well-earned nuncheon, “I shall not be deprived of every detail the Swithins learn of Lady Caroline’s exploits — whether she comes down to dinner, or keeps to her room as solitary as a nun! I feel I have won such intelligence by my exertions today. I was in a quake the whole time, in the belief that if Swithin failed, I must be hurled into the breach next — and you know how many victims the fishwives should have had to rescue then!”

“Only think how dull our days would be, Henry, had we chosen Lyme over Brighton,” I said thoughtfully. “There is a deceptive mildness about this place — and yet so much passion beneath the surface!”

I meant the words in jest; but they bore a prophetic quality I learnt to regret.