Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

Chapter 4 Pleasures of a Prince

7 MAY 1813, CONT.

THE CASTLE INN, BRIGHTON

I FIND PROXIMITY TO THE SEA A DELIGHT ABOVE ALL others — one that is especially dear, in being the more generally denied. Some two years’ residence in Southampton, and the example of my Naval brother Frank, taught me a degree of comfort with quays and small boats, the bustle to be found on every sort of waterfront, and I sometimes yearn for the vigour of that life in my present, quieter abode at Chawton. The desire for fresh salt air and the constant tumult of the tides overwhelms me, some once or twice, of a hot Hampshire noon. My acquaintance with watering places, however, is not great — on two occasions I have been at Lyme, so sweet in its autumnal association with vanished romance, that I wish still for another glimpse of the Cobb and the bathing machines at Charmouth.[3] Of Teignmouth and Sidmouth I have seen a little, and Ramsgate in Kent, and Worthing but twelve miles west on this same Sussex coast. Yet I have never braved the mettle of Brighton, at once the most breathtaking and outrageous resort of the present age.

Breathtaking, indeed, from the moment our curricle began its descent from the sweep of untenanted Downs, a rolling country of grassland that affords a magnificent view of the well-ordered town at its foot, and the sea beyond, dotted with shipping and pleasure-craft. The sun, just past its zenith, glinted on the stately white buildings as we approached; on a welter of Corinthian columns and Adam-esque façades, and the classical purity of the Marine Pavilion, the Regent’s residence.[4] The New Road swung directly past its western lawns, so that a splendid view of the edifice — all but dwarfed by its massive new stable block, constructed in the Indian stile — was obtained directly upon entering Brighton.

We turned into Church Street, and the direction of Miss Twining’s home.

She was deathly pale as the curricle pulled to a halt, and had to be lifted to the paving by my brother. We each supported her up the steps, and waited for some response to Miss Twining’s pull of the bell. During the short interval from Cuckfield, she had informed me that Lord Byron took her up in his chaise at a few minutes past eleven o’clock; it was now nearly half-past four. Her poor Papa must be frantic with worry.

The heavy oak was pulled back; a bent form in livery stared impassively out at us. “Miss Cathy,” it said. “You have been wanted these two hours and more.”

“Oh, Suddley!” she cried, and stumbled across the threshold. “Indeed I did not mean to run away!”

“Miss Twining has met with a sad accident,” I said as I followed my charge within doors, “and requires rest and refreshment. She was so good as to permit us to escort her home. My name is Austen; if Miss Twining’s father should care for an explanation, we should be happy to offer it.”

“That will do, Suddley,” said a voice from the far end of the hall.

He was a soldierly-looking man, endowed with Miss Twining’s dark hair, but scowling in a manner assured to quell a more ardent spirit than his daughter’s. “Well, miss? And what have you to say for yourself? Gadding about in hoydenish pleasures — making a sport of my name throughout Brighton, I’ve no doubt, and not yet returned from school a month! I do not know what is to become of you — I declare that I do not! A disgrace to your name, and your sainted mother’s memory — Good God, Catherine, have you no conduct? Have you no shame?”

“Sir — ” Henry started forward, part anxiety and part indignation.

“Father, may I present Mr. Henry Austen, and his sister, Miss Austen, to your acquaintance? Mr. and Miss Austen, my father — General Twining.”

“And who are they, pray?” this personage demanded, as tho’ we were absent from the room entirely. “It is unusual, is it not, to force one’s notice upon young ladies entirely unknown to one? And in mourning too! I cannot think it becoming.”

“It was I who forced acquaintance upon the Austens, Papa,” Miss Twining returned tremblingly. “Indeed, they have been my salvation this day, and are deserving of considerable gratitude — but I should prefer to tell you all in greater privacy. May we not go into the drawing-room?”

“Very well,” he said grudgingly. “But I shall offer no refreshment. It is not my policy to reward impudence. Encroaching manners! Town bronze!”

He eyed my brother dubiously as he swung past Henry towards the drawing-room; a tall, spare man of advancing years — perhaps in his middle fifties — but still powerfully built, with a breadth of shoulder and a strength of limb that suggested the seasoned campaigner. His forehead jutted over deeply-set eyes of an indeterminate brown; his thin lips appeared permanently compressed, and his chin protruded pugnaciously. A man of ill-managed temper, I concluded, and frequent periods of oppression; an uneasy man to endure. He was dressed in dusky black rather than regimentals, and swung an ebony walking cane.

“It is a pleasure, sir, to meet any member of Miss Twining’s family,” I managed, hoping to spare our acquaintance further mortification; but her father was not inclined to tact.

“—Having assumed, no doubt, that such a forward young woman had no relations at all.” He eyed her with disfavour as he ushered us through the doorway. “I understand you were taken up in Lord Byron’s carriage, miss — oh, yes, you need not look so startled, the maidservant has been your Judas! Thought to elope with the Rage of the Ton, did you? And when did you discover your mistake? When the fellow achieved his object — then wanted no part of you?”

I thought it probable Henry would so far forget himself as to strike the General; his fist was certainly clenching at his side. I placed a restraining hand upon his arm.

“Your daughter was abducted, sir, by his lordship. She was discovered by my brother and myself at the stable yard in Cuckfield — bound and gagged and imprisoned in his lordship’s carriage against her will. It is to her credit that despite her pitiable state, she was capable of crying out for succor; which plea we heard, and came to her immediate assistance. Miss Twining cannot be held to blame; she is entirely innocent of the affair; and we must all congratulate ourselves that she escaped with no greater injury than a swoon, and considerable chafing to her wrists.”

The General’s eyes bulged in his head; his countenance empurpled; and with a snort he reached roughly for Miss Twining’s right hand — staring at the red weals on her arm.

“Disgraceful.” His head snapped up to meet his daughter’s shrinking gaze. “Did you connive in this outrage? Did you hope to run like a harlot from your old father?”

“Never, sir,” she whispered. Her pallor was so extreme, I feared she might faint again — and observed my brother take a step closer, in the event she slipped to the floor.

“Little liar,” the General said through his teeth, and struck Miss Twining with his open hand against her cheek.

She did not cry out, nor did she faint; she simply swayed as she stood, her face averted and her hand shielding the spot where her parent’s hand had fallen.

“General!” Henry burst out. “You forget yourself!”

“No, damme, but I know who does. Get out of my house this instant, sir, and never darken its door again!”

“Papa!” cried Miss Twining, all her outrage in her looks; the General might treat her like the merest chattel, it seemed, but she would not see her friends abused.

“We shall leave you now, Miss Twining,” I said firmly, with a curtsey for the trembling girl. “I am quite sure when your father is restored to calm, he will better apprehend how blameless you have been today. If he should require further corroboration of your excellent conduct, I am happy to supply it at any time. But now I would urge you to seek your room” — I gave her an expressive look — “and place yourself in the hands of your maid; you will be wanting supper on a tray, I am sure, and an interval of quiet. General, we must bid you good day.”

I dropped the old renegade another curtsey, and rose to find his snapping eyes fixed upon my face. “Very well,” he said unexpectedly, “you have my thanks for my daughter’s deliverance from Lord Byron — however much I may suspect the tale, and the motives of every member of this party! We shall not speak of this day again. I cannot like a Twining’s disgrace to be known to complete strangers!”

“Be assured, General, that we shall dismiss every insult we have witnessed, from our minds as soon as may be,” my brother said evenly.

And having bowed our farewells at the door, and seen Miss Twining hastening above-stairs — we had nothing more to do than seek our rooms at the Castle Inn.

THIS PROVED TO BE ONE OF TWO PRINCIPAL HOSTELRIES that Brighton affords, a modern building replete with every convenience, including an admirable Assembly Room some eighty feet long, of which the servant offered me a glimpse while conducting us to our bedchambers. The ceiling must be half again as high, and surrounded by a delightful frieze in the Classical manner. A ball is held at the Castle every Monday, as Catherine Twining had assured me, and thus Henry and I shall be treated to all the Fashionables the town at present affords — swirling animatedly in a crush of music, heat, and scent.

Our apartments overlook the Steyne, the Promenade Grove — a pleasant enough arrangement of poplars, flowers, and darting paths — and just beyond these, the sea. We are fortunate in having descended upon Brighton in advance of the true Season, which may be said to begin in June; and thus may command a commodious suite of rooms: two bedchambers with a private parlour between. Tho’ the furnishings are nothing extraordinary, they are just bright and easy enough to suit a seaside holiday. The whole adventure, indeed, wants only Eliza’s careless frivolity to make it quite perfect.

—And at that thought, to my surprize, I fancied I caught an echo of my late cousin’s bell-like laughter. I turned enquiringly towards the door, but no quick step passed it; I shook my head impatiently, and answered some query of the chambermaid’s regarding the disposition of my things.

“SHOULD YOU CARE TO WALK, JANE?” HENRY ENQUIRED perhaps a half-hour later as he thrust his head into my room, “or are you famished?”

“Walk,” I said decidedly. “The sea air alone shall give me an appetite — and I have it on the best authority that even the Prince Regent dines early at Brighton.”

“You have been gossiping with the serving-girl, I collect.”

“Who better to impart the holy rituals of the place? Her name is Betsy; she is not above twenty years old, and is exceedingly wise; she is a native of Brighton, and she urges me to order our dinner for six o’clock, with no fear of being judged unpardonably vulgar.”

Henry’s face lit up; I do not think he has enjoyed a meal since Eliza slipped into her decline, some weeks ago. “I shall bespeak a green goose, Jane, and some turbot — for we cannot dine in Brighton without a nod to the sea.”

“Lobster patties,” I said dreamily, “and champagne.”

My brother laughed aloud. “You shall have to walk a good two hours, my dear, to merit such indulgence! But do you know — I believe that is exactly the menu Eliza should have requested, were she our companion in dissipation.”

“She is, Henry,” I said seriously. “She is.”

We set out across the Steyne, intending to seek the Marine Parade, and spent a good hour ambling west along the sea-front. The day being well advanced, the more notable denizens of the town could be discovered in the Promenade Grove, where an orchestra dispensed music from an elevated platform at its centre, and the Pinks of the ton might ogle the Beauties who effected to admire the profusion of May flowers in the neatly arranged beds. Thus Henry and I, in our funereal black, had the Parade entirely to ourselves. There is nothing so bracing as a brisk stride against the wind, with a lowering edge of cloud on the sea’s horizon, and the waves churning whitely at a safe distance. I felt my spirits rise inevitably, and I thought from the glint in Henry’s eye as he surveyed an elegant vessel, well hove-over on her keel with her sails full of wind, that he had left his grief behind him. He is wise to quit Sloane Street, with its memories that should not soon be forgot, and its loneliness that might never be altered; he is the sort of man who must be doing things, and I admire him for it.

“What is to be your programme for Brighton, Jane?” he carelessly asked. “Or do you intend to closet yourself in your room for hours on end, scribbling at your latest oeuvre?”

“I am hardly proof against the temptations of this town, Henry! How am I to write, when so much that is delightful is spread before my feet! Better to set down my pen until I am back at home, and the rain of June has descended with persistence, and there is nothing but mud and desolation to be had out-of-doors. Then I might give thought to Henry Crawford, and the salvation of his blackened soul.”

“You admire Brighton, do you?”

“I have never seen such a place. There is not a beggar or a blight from one end to the other! The buildings, the plants, the horses, the people — all perfectly elegant, all seemingly immune to the decay of nature! How the equipages gleam, and the shop fronts beckon! I should call it unnatural, and the result of witchcraft, were I not aware that a vast sum of money is necessary to its achievement.”

“Money, indeed — and most of it drawn from taxing the British subject,” Henry returned drily. “It is the pleasure ground of a Prince, remember, and one who is no stranger to debt. Brighton is carried on the backs of the most impoverished denizens of London, and by the nabobs of India; by the canny traders of Chinese cantons and the millworkers of York. But I daresay if you asked the Regent, he would claim credit for the whole.”

It was true, of course — trust a banker like my brother to advise me of it. Paradise is never granted for halfpence. The Regent had achieved more than fifty years of age without ever having been called to a reckoning of his accounts; a more expensive Royal never lived. Parliament itself had been forced to relieve his debts; he had married his hated cousin, Caroline of Brunswick, merely to obtain a handsome allowance; and was probably a million pounds to the red side of his ledger at present. The Regent remained as enthusiastic as ever in his schemes for the improvement of Carlton House, in London, and the Marine Pavilion here, without the scantest consideration of such an ugly word as cost.

“You ought to have seen Brighton as I first did, before the Prince discovered it,” Henry murmured, his gaze still following the sailing vessel, on which two or three wind-whipped figures could just be discerned. “It was called Brighthelmston then, and was the simplest of fishing villages — the Pavilion a modest farmhouse Prinny leased for the enjoyment of Mrs. Fitzherbert. They were said to spend the majority of their evenings playing at cards, with their intimates, and retiring early from exhaustion at the salt air. One wag noted that there were more sheep than people on the Channel Coast in those days! An utterly wholesome and rather poignant interlude, in the Regent’s shameful career.”

Maria Fitzherbert. Unfortunate woman! I could not consider her without a lurch of the heart — for I had made the acquaintance of the Regent’s true wife, the twice-widowed and Catholic beauty who, even in her twilight years, remained devoted to the memory of the Prince for whom she had sacrificed reputation, respectability, and the best years of her youth. I knew such truths of that lady — how she had borne the Prince a son, and been forced to give the child up; nay, how she had acquiesced in sending the boy out of the Kingdom, unacknowledged by his legitimate family, and given over to the kindness of strangers, across the Atlantic in America.

I had never spoken of these things to Henry; I had been sworn to secrecy; and besides, they formed a part of my own life too painful to contemplate. It was Maria Fitzherbert who had watched with me, as the one man I wholly loved — Lord Harold Trowbridge — drew his final, shuddering breath. It must be impossible to hear her name without the face of the Gentleman Rogue hovering just out of reach, in my mind’s eye.[5]

How perfectly marvellous his lordship should appear against this backdrop of sea and Fashion, this playing-field of the Privileged, striding towards us in his impeccably tailored black coat, careless under the gaze of the most lofty — for he was a duke’s son, after all, and no one conveyed such excellent ton, for all his dubious reputation, as Lord Harold.

I do not like to see you in mourning, Jane, the Rogue’s voice murmured in my ear. Black does not suit you. You should go forever dressed in silk the colour of wine.

“Are you feeling faint, Jane? Is the wind too chill for your liking?” Henry asked in concern.

I shook my head, and rallied with an effort. “You have proved the perfect antidote,” I told him. “When I exclaim at Brighton’s perfection, you recall me to the rottenness at its core. I cannot like the Regent; indeed, when I consider his lack of gallantry towards the fairer sex, I could almost hate him. The Prince is no model for his subjects, and I must assume that Brighton has taken its likeness from its patron — a glorious exterior, wrapped about a hollow shell!”

“Enjoyable enough for a fortnight, despite all that,” Henry remarked comfortably. “Do not become missish, Jane, when you may command a suite of rooms at the Castle! Now — you have not answered my question. I am at your disposal for at least the next ten days. What do you crave, for your dissipation?”

“Nothing very scandalous. I should like to walk each morning, Henry, and fill my lungs with the tang of salt air, so that I might remember it in August when the drone of bees is soporific in Chawton. I should like to make a trial of the waters, by hiring a bathing machine and taking a dip in the sea. I should like you to drive me along the Lewes road, so that I might have a glimpse of the 10th Hussars at Brighton Camp — I am sure that Lydia Bennet would wish me to see a place of which I have invented so much! I desire to attend the Brighton Races. I should like to dance at the Assemblies — but such a thing is not to be thought of, in our state of mourning; visit this Pavilion, for which it seems we have all paid so much; and take out a subscription at Donaldson’s Circulating Library.”

“The Library we might manage,” Henry said dubiously, “but as for an invitation to the Pavilion — I confess that may prove to be above even my touch, Jane.”

“I do not expect you to secure it,” I retorted indifferently. “I shall undertake to do so myself. Lord Moira is an intimate of the Regent’s; and when his flowers arrived in respect of Eliza, the missive bore his direction at the Pavilion. He is even now in residence. He shall not forget us, I am sure.”

Henry looked impressed.

“But should his lordship fail me,” I continued, “I shall learn to be content with reading. The Circulating Library is certain to have the latest publications. Perhaps even Lord Byron has been scribbling something — provided Lady Oxford accords him sufficient liberty.”

“Could not Miss Twining supply the intelligence?”

“I should never distress her by alluding to his lordship, Henry!” I scolded. “But Miss Twining assures me that all the most respectable persons in Brighton may be found at Donaldson’s. The ladies display their gowns, and the gentlemen consult the London newspapers, and members of both sexes play cards there of an evening. It would not do to be a stranger to Donaldson’s. Besides, I wish to see how often my book is in request. If the Fashionables of Brighton do not constantly solicit the privilege of reading Pride and Prejudice, I shall find no good in them at all — even if Lord Byron is the writer most commonly claimed by the town.”

“Again, Lord Byron! That gentleman has certainly seized your fancy!”

“Gentleman?” I repeated, astonished. “—Merely because he claims a title? He is no gentleman, Henry, and well you know it! But I confess Lord Byron has seized my fancy. I should like to make his acquaintance, and tell him in the strongest possible language my opinion of his Turkish treatment of Catherine Twining!”

“The fellow is a common blackguard, for all he is a lord,” my brother returned. “One has only to consult his past conduct. I do not regard his current inamorata — Lady Oxford is an established woman of the world, and entirely mistress of what she is about; but consider Lady Caroline Lamb! And her unfortunate husband! There one may justly say that hatred for the tender sex, as much as love, has animated Lord Byron.”

My brother’s intimacy with the Great, tho’ it sprang from his banking trade rather than privileged birth, had made me familiar with the names and histories of the gossiping ton. I had even seen Lady Caroline Lamb some once or twice during my sojourns in London; Eliza had been on nodding terms with her ladyship. Caroline Ponsonby was born the Earl of Bessborough’s only daughter; her mother, Lady Bessborough, formed a vital part of the Devonshire House Set; her aunt, Georgiana, was Devonshire’s first Duchess. I was once acquainted with the Cavendish family, during a precious interval in Derbyshire some years ago, when Lord Harold — an intimate of Chatsworth — introduced me to the family’s notice. Caro, as she was called, had grown up in the chaotic and amorous atmosphere of that great Whig establishment, and had emerged as one of its chief eccentrics. Brilliant and charming in conversation, faerie-like in her figure, outrageous in her behaviour, Caro Ponsonby was apostrophised the Sprite by her gallant admirers and took London by storm in her first Season, when she was but seventeen. William Lamb, heir to Viscount Melbourne, married her two years later; and for nearly a decade now had endured her tantrums and scenes. Tho’ Caro screamed hysterics at their wedding, tore her gown in a passion, and was carried fainting from the room, this was considered nothing out of the ordinary Devonshire way — and so William and his Caro determined to be happy. They read Great Works together all day, that Caro might complete her education, and went into Society all night; dressed their pages in a livery of crimson and chocolate; and once sent Caro to the dinner table, naked beneath a chafing dish, as amusement for her relations and friends. A notable Whig orator, William Lamb stood for Parliament and was rumoured for a Cabinet post — until George Gordon, Lord Byron, burst upon the scene with Childe Harold last year.

His lordship has said that he awoke upon the day of his poem’s publication to discover that he was famous. Certainly no one has shot from obscurity to fame as swiftly before. The street outside his lodgings was blocked with fashionable carriages delivering endless invitations; publick riots broke out whenever his lordship walked abroad. It was inevitable, in such a general fever of admiration, that Caro Lamb must pursue him. Byron’s looks and verse alike were calculated to inflame her wild imagination; all decorum and propriety forgot, she committed every publick folly — riding openly with him in Hyde Park; entertaining him at Melbourne House, where he mounted to her rooms by a back stair; loitering outside the doors of gentlemen’s clubs in the livery of a page. She was said to have entered his rooms by the upper-storey windows, a feat only a monkey might have performed. And like a monkey, she grew a dreaded nuisance on Lord Byron’s back.

Once ardent and attached, he became, in a matter of mere months, indifferent and cold; met her protests and pleas, her hundreds of letters, with formal refusals; and in sum, cut the connexion dead.

It was as tho’ he had studied the character of my Willoughby, confronted with an unreconciled Marianne, in his calculated cruelty.[6]

Caro, for her part, became nearly lunatic: stalking her Love by night or day; refusing food, refusing sleep; running out into the street, hatless, to pawn her jewels, with the intention of taking ship alone for God Knows Where, provided it were far from England and the desolation of her heart. Alternately disgusted and enthralled by her persistence, Byron played with the lady as a cat might with a mouse — and reduced her to a state of mental and emotional incapacity.

William Lamb has stood by his wife, but declined to stand again for Parliament. His misery may be observed at any private gathering of the haut ton, by whom he is generally supported.

“Lord Byron does appear to confuse love and hatred,” I admitted to my brother. “There was nothing very tender in his treatment of Miss Twining today — and yet he must be violently in love with her, to attempt a flight to the Border!”

“Perhaps he is simply mad,” Henry replied. “A thread of misfortune dogs the Gordon family — and the men die young and violently, it is said.”

Mad.

A poet touched by the insane.

A diabolical figure of licence and flame, armed with a pen.

Little as I could like him, I should wish to know more of Lord Byron. So few real writers ever come in my way. Perhaps, if I am very lucky, his lordship might yearn to sail again during my stay in Brighton.