Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

Chapter 32 The Corsair

SATURDAY, 15 MAY> 1813

BRIGHTON, CONT.

HENRY INSISTED UPON REMAINING WITH GENERAL TWINING’S body, the letter replaced in its position on the desk, while I walked swiftly back in the direction of Marine Parade in order to rouse the Earl of Swithin’s household. It was for Charles Swithin, we thought, to inform Sir Harding Cross that his case of murder was done—so that the magistrate might have the reading of Twining’s sealed letter before anyone else should find it. That it had been dictated to the General by Lord Byron, and probably at gun point, I never doubted; whether his lordship or the General’s hand eventually despatched the pistol’s ball into the General’s brain, I do not care to consider over-long. The duelling pistol was the General’s own—and antique enough to have accounted for the death of his wife’s lover, nearly fifteen years since. It was found on the floor near the General’s chair; and coupled with the confessional letter, was enough for Old HardCross to proclaim the death self-murder, and to acquit Lord Byron of any charges in the drowning of Catherine Twining. As for Byron’s part in the General’s scandalous end—so far as Sir Harding knew, his lordship had never been more than near the place, having repaired to his friend Mr. Davies’s lodgings the very instant his amorous page effected his release from Brighton Camp.

When the contents of the General’s letter were related to me the following morning, over a late breakfast at No. 21, Marine Parade, they were much as I had suspected: The General confessed to having drowned his daughter in a fit of drunken rage. After Captain the Viscount Morley knocked him senseless outside the Pavilion’s doors, the General had regained his wits in time to observe Lord Byron entering the Pavilion. When Catherine exited a few moments later, in evident agitation, her father had followed her out of the courtyard. He had confronted her on the Steyne with his suspicions—that she had disgraced herself like a common trollop with Lord Byron. He then informed her, with evident glee, that her indiscretions should never dishonour her father again—that he had agreed that very night to give her hand in marriage to Mr. Hendred Smalls. In return, Catherine declared that her heart already belonged to Captain Morley—and that she should rather be dead than marry anyone else.

It was this honest expression of feeling that inflamed the General against his own flesh and blood. In his right mind, of course, he might only have struck the girl, and carried her home to live out a miserable existence confined to her rooms. In his drunken state, however, he was deaf to all reason. He had declared that she should have her dearest wish—and dragged her towards the shingle, where he thrust her head beneath the waves.

It was a dreadful history; and I suspect that the General’s old friend, Colonel Hanger—in having plied his former comrade with Port that night—bears much of the responsibility for Catherine’s death. I am certain it was indeed Hanger, discovering the corpse in one of his solitary midnight strolls, who hit upon the excellent joke of sewing Catherine Twining into a shroud formed of the Giaour’s hammock—and deposited Catherine in what he assumed to be Byron’s bed.

The Colonel, of course, cannot be accused, approached, or touched—he remains the Regent’s friend, and enjoys a Royal protection. But I confess I hate the very sight of him.

What might have been the General’s sentiments the following morning, when he awoke to a brain restored from drink, a full sense of the horror of his crime, and the intelligence that his daughter’s remains had been discovered in such circumstances, can only be guessed at; his confessional letter is silent upon all points. His cowardice, however, in allowing another man to bear the brunt of suspicion and guilt, to the very threshold of the gibbet, must acquit the world of the slightest impulse towards sympathy.

“I must say, Jane, that you are very poorly repaid for all your efforts on Lady Oxford’s behalf,” Mona observed as she crumbled a roll and sipped at her tea, “for she left Brighton last night before Byron’s escape was even heard of; and never thought to thank you. I am ashamed of Jane Harley, I confess; tho’ in truth I cannot blame her. Lord Byron would try a saint.”

“Then let us hope Lady Oxford exerts her considerable energies in sailing past Gibraltar,” I replied, “and that Lord Byron is left to enslave another lady with his verse and his caprice.” If I felt a slight wistfulness at failing to bid the poet adieu, I ruthlessly suppressed it. I did not approve Lord Byron, I should never judge his character as worthy of respect—but it is something, indeed, to have won the esteem of such a writer. I shall not judge myself too harshly for exulting in his privileged knowledge—or his flattering regard.

“If Lady Oxford does not know how to repay Jane’s exertions,” my brother interjected, “I certainly do. You came here for the restorative powers of Brighton; and thus far, have enjoyed none of them. Tomorrow you shall bathe in the sea, with the aid of a dipper and a machine—”

I confess I squeaked at this, from both pleasure and dread.

“—but today, you will spend the whole morning at Madame La Fanchette’s, in purchasing a modish gown in any colour but black. There remains a quantity of winnings that must be spent.”

Lady Swithin clapped her hands, and I jumped up to hug my brother; he truly is such an excellent Henry.

SILK THE COLOUR OF WINE, LORD HAROLD’S GHOST HAD urged; an opinion seconded by Mr. Forth, the redoubtable Master of Brighton, who had gone so far as to name the wine claret. Madame La Fanchette possessed no less than three bolts of a suitable shade—one a sarcenet, one a French twill, and the last a silk so gloriously rich I might fancy myself a figure in the Regent’s Chinese gallery, as precious an objet d’art as the porcelains he collected. My practical soul counseled the selection of French twill—as serviceable as it was fashionable; I reluctantly weighed the claims of stout sarcenet; but another voice—neither Lord Harold’s nor Mr. Forth’s—whispered me nay.

Let it be the taffeta, my dearest Jane.

And I caught a snatch of laughter tinkling as bells, remote and beguiling as birdsong.

Eliza. She was with me still, and I was returned on the instant to Sloane Street, her soul flying away from me without a backwards look. My eyes pricked at unexpected tears, despite the blandishments of Madame La Fanchette, the furls of cloth sliding between my gloved fingers, the dulcet chatter of Lady Swithin as she turned the plates of a fashion magazine. My breath drew in on a sob, quickly stifled.

Forgive, the butterfly shade murmured. You know what Byron is. You felt it, I am sure. The response, so involuntary, of every nerve. A woman might sell her soul for such an instant of glory.

Of course I had felt it.

Regret. Regret.

Forgive.

Of course you are forgiven, Eliza—and never forgotten. Never.

“Jane?” Mona said gently. “Are you unwell?”

I blinked back my tears, and fumbled in my reticule for one of Manon’s black-edged kerchiefs. It was Mona, however, who handed me her own—embroidered with the flourishing script of entwined initials, Wilborough and Swithin.

“In all this bustle of murder and accusation,” she said softly, “I had almost forgot you were mourning.”

I smiled at her. How extraordinary it was that I should find again this acquaintance of long ago, this connexion unlooked for to my roguish lord; how extraordinary that in Eliza’s passing, I should discover a friend.

“I believe,” I said firmly, “that I shall take the claret-coloured silk. A ball-gown with demi-train, in the very latest mode, Madame—and a headdress to match.”

Eliza should have countenanced no less.

It was as we were leaving Madame La Fanchette’s some three hours later—I, smug in the knowledge of having ordered a becoming gown for evening wear, Mona in possession of a very fetching carriage dress that should become her dashing perch phaeton to perfection—that we espied Lady Caroline Lamb, bound for the New Road.

She held the reins of a showy pair whose coats exactly matched the tint of her own cropped curls; her landaulet was piled high with baggage. A diminutive tyger was mounted behind—no more than a child—in the chocolate and maroon livery the Lambs favoured. Her ladyship pulled up at the sight of us, and inclined her head; and Mona—when put to the test of acknowledging the reprobate, or offering the cut direct—deeply curtseyed.

“Bound for London, Lady Caroline?”

“Naturally—for Byron has already gone, you know.” The Sprite’s mobile countenance—so often captured in dreaming or fury—was woebegone today. Byron had escaped her toils again; her pallor was extreme, her glance feverish, her eyes encircled with darkness. She had not slept from the moment the wild plan of impersonating the Regent’s page had overtaken her, I judged; and now that her god was freed, her costume thrown off, her drama run—she was cast off, by Regent and poet both. Poor Sprite! So like a child in her passions and tantrums, and a lost child now in her misery, lips trembling and fingers clutching at the reins. The smouldering fire of life was doused—Byron, in all his intensity and chaos, had fled. “There is nothing else in Brighton I should stay for,” she said petulantly. “I quite despise the sea, and this town is grown impossibly stuffy—all quizzes and dowds! Besides, my poor William will be wondering where I have got to.”

Poor William, I thought, should more likely be enjoying the first peaceful interlude he had known in nearly ten years of tempestuous marriage; but it should not do to say so aloud.

“I almost forgot!” Caro cried. “I have thought of the most cunning thing—only look at the buttons of my tyger’s livery! I mean to have all my servants sport the same!”

We approached the carriage at her ladyship’s behest, and leaned closer to study the boy’s buttons. Engraved on their face was the Latin inscription Ne crede Byron.

Do not believe Byron.

“The Regent’s silversmith engraved them for me,” Caro confided, “and is not the phrase apt?—For you cannot believe a word his lordship says. It is all poetry. George assured me, when I rescued him from that horrid gaol, that he meant to remain in England all the summer; and now I find he intends to sail to Sardinia, in pursuit of that tiresome Jane Harley. Byron, of course, insists it is to gather impressions for his verses—having done with The Giaour, he means now to embark upon a long narrative entitled The Corsair, and must therefore put to sea at once. I am sure it will be vastly exciting, but I dread the effort of persuading poor William to embark. I may be forced to abandon my home. Do you think,” she enquired dreamily, “that I should look well in the garb of a pirate? Or perhaps a pirate’s jade?”

Mona and I exchanged glances, then stepped back from the landaulet.

“Walk on,” Caro commanded her pair; and with a flick of her whip and a nod of her head, moved briskly up the New Road.

“Jane,” Mona said faintly, “I stand in need of a good, stout nuncheon; and then I must look into Donaldson’s. I have had enough of poetry. I require a dose of prose. I shall spend my remaining hours in Brighton established on the sopha, with a volume of Pride and Prejudice in my hands. Do you think it at all likely the authoress has commenced a third novel?”

“I had heard,” I answered cautiously, “from sources I should judge unimpeachable, that such a work is undertaken—but is not yet launched upon the unsuspecting publick.”

“It does not, I trust, deal with piracy?”

“I believe the subject is Ordination.” I glanced at her with considerable apprehension, to learn how so fashionable a member of the ton should receive such a tedious topic.

Mona closed her eyes in relief. “Thank Heaven. My dear Jane, should you care to join me at Donaldson’s? We might enquire the title of Miss Jennings. She is certain to know it.”

“With pleasure,” I said; and linking arms, we strolled off in the direction of Marine Parade.