Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

Chapter 8 She Stoops to Conquer

17 December 1802

I AWOKE THIS MORNING RESOLVED TO PAY MORE ATTENTION to the perplexing problem of the Earl's demise, and less to the rakish Lieutenant Hearst. Such a man cannot be taken seriously by one in my position; however charming, and attentive, the Lieutenant is little likely to ally himself with a lady as destitute as I, and can be seen only as a poor fellow marooned in the country — who finds what solace he can in idle flirtation.

With such sensible thoughts in mind, I descended to the little breakfast room with alacrity, my progress hastened by a healthy appetite and a vigorous sense of purpose. I had lain rather late abed — being much fatigued, due to the exertion of the previous day's riding — and thought that I should have the table to myself; but Fitzroy Payne appeared not five minutes after the footman had pulled out my chair, and greeted me with a distracted bow.

“Miss Austen. You look well.”

“Thank you, my lord. I feel quite renewed by my excellent rest.” I would that I could have returned his compliment, but in truth, he appeared remarkably ill.

“I fear that sleep is an indulgence I must deny myself for the present — my uncle's affairs demand all my attention.” The Earl took a seat and waved away the servant's proffered teapot. “Coffee for me, Fetters, and some fresh rashers.”

“Yes, milord.”

At the footman's departure, Fitzroy Payne cast a glance over his shoulder and leaned across the table. “I must congratulate myself, Miss Austen, upon finding you quite alone. I would speak with you on a matter of some delicacy.”

I set down my toast and touched a serviette to my lips. “I am all attention, Lord Scargrave.”

The Earl hesitated at my use of his uncle's title, and then gave me a rare smile. It had the power to utterly transform his face; from being rather a grave gentleman, possessed of sobriety unwonted in one so young, he was turned a convivial and charming fellow. I felt for an instant what it must have been to walk the streets of May-fair in his company, all those summer months ago, and understood a little of Isobel's trouble.

“I have observed your attentions to the Countess,” Fitzroy Payne began. “Though her present misfortunes are heavy, indeed, they must be counted as somewhat relieved by her enjoyment of such friendship.”

I inclined my head. “Those who know Isobel's goodness cannot help but love her.”

“Would that it were otherwise,” he murmured, undoubtedly for his own ears. Then, collecting himself, he gazed at me with the greatest earnestness. “You have noted, I assume, my preoccupation with my late uncle's affairs. It has denied me the opportunity I should otherwise have taken, of pursuing your acquaintance. So good a friend to Isobel should not remain a stranger to myself.”

“Perhaps we may better understand one another in an easier time,” I said gently. “I should never reproach you for attending to that which demands your care and attention, Lord Scargrave. You have been graciousness itself when thrown in my way.”

“When thrown in your way” he rejoined, with a gleam of amusement; “how poorly I have behaved to a guest beneath my roof! What would my fellows at White's[26] say of me now, did they observe my manners? But it cannot be helped. I must presume upon short acquaintance, and beg of you your good offices.”

“If I may be of service to you in some matter, my lord, I would gladly know it.”

“I ask not for myself, but for one who is dear — to us both.”

This was a sort of frankness; for that he meant Isobel, I could not doubt, and by admitting to me — even in so delicate a manner — the depth of his own feeling for his late uncle's wife, the Earl honoured me with his confidence, indeed.

The sudden return of the footman, Fetters, with coffeepot and fresh rashers in hand, precluded further speech on the subject; but the Earl's breakfast once served, the man was dismissed. At Fetters's closing the breakfast room door discreetly behind him, I felt myself free to address the Earl's anxiety once more.

“What eager concern for Isobel has robbed you of your sleep, Lord Scargrave?”

His slate-coloured eyes held a surprising humility, and in their depths I read a grudging acknowledgement of my penetration. “You speak the truth, Miss Austen. I would spend less time wakeful at my uncle's affairs, were my sleep undisturbed by anxiety for the Countess.”

“And is Lord Harold the author of your demons, Lord Scargrave? For I confess, that where that gentleman is concerned, I may offer no assistance. He confounds me utterly.”

“To say utterly is perhaps an exaggeration. Miss Austen of Bath is never confounded utterly,” Fitzroy Payne said with gentle raillery. “No, Miss Austen — with Lord Harold I feel myself an equal. There is little the man would do to the Countess that I cannot forestall. It is Isobel herself who is the source of my anxiety.” The Earl hesitated, as if choosing his words. “I do not know how deeply you are admitted to her confidence—”

“Suffice it to say that I know as much regarding her affection for yourself, as it was possible for her to convey to another person,” I said quietly.

A wave of embarrassment overcame his face; but he quickly mastered it, and went on with greater ease. “Then you know that we two have achieved that level of intimacy which can admit of few impediments.”

“So I should imagine.”

“And yet, not a word beyond the common conventions of the household have I had from the Countess since my uncle's death. She deals with me as with a stranger.” The Earl slapped the table with the palm of his hand, and abruptly thrust himself out of his chair, commencing to pace about the room.

“You find this singular, my lord?”

“Singular? It is insupportable!”

“But she is lost to grief!”

“And at such a time, I should be her first comfort! But she appears rather to wish me at the ends of the earth!”

I knew not how to answer his confusion; for to say what I believed — that Isobel's profound grief was mingled with a sense of guilt and shame where Fitzroy Payne was concerned — should only cause him further pain. And it was just possible — Isobel having kept from her beloved all knowledge of the maid Marguerite's blackmailing missives — that the Countess desired to shield Fitzroy from her worry. That Isobel had taken the maid's words to heart, and begun to fear the grey-hared lord, I thrust aside as unlikely.

“Perhaps the Countess will be more herself with time,” I said lamely.

“But what if she is not, Miss Austen? What if my uncle's death has caused in her some reversal of feeling? It is just such a fear as this that robs my nights of sleep.”

Such honesty of sentiment, before myself — with whom he is acquainted only imperfectly — could not but win my active benevolence on Fitzroy Payne's behalf.

“Lord Scargrave,” I said, “the Countess has borne more than any lady of her tender years and experience should be expected to endure. Consider her disappointed passion for yourself — the strength required to overcome it — the melancholy resignation to a marriage of convenience — and now the sudden loss of a husband she revered at least as she might a father. It is not to be wondered that she seeks comfort in solitude. I should rather wonder at her doing anything else.”

“That may be true,” Fitzroy Payne said, composing himself with better grace. “But I would ask you, Miss Austen, to bend your efforts to improving Isobel's spirits. She is too much alone. Persuade her to walk with you, if the weather be fine; talk to her of subjects far from this unhappy house. And if it be possible to plead my cause — to speak warmly on my behalf—”

“Then know that I shall do all that is in my power, Lord Scargrave,” I assured him without hesitation.

“Blessed woman!” Fitzroy Payne cried, his gratitude in his looks; and so he left me.

I could not be idle when so much anxiety was active on Isobel's part; I hastened to her room, and found her very low.

“My dear,” I said, placing a wrap about her shoulders as she sat by the fire, her face pensive and her hair undone, “you are not dressed! And your tea is undrunk! Has Daisy failed to attend you?”

“Oh, Jane,” my friend sighed, “Daisy cannot attend to an illness of the spirit! Of what interest is dress to me? I cannot assume a different self, by assuming a different gown. I should rather remain here, in the quiet of my room, and repent of all my sins.”

“Come, come,” I chided her. “You should better congratulate yourself for having survived so many tests of character, with such grace and fortitude.”

“Neither word can apply to me.” Isobel thrust off the wrap and rose from her chair. “I have dishonoured a man who would have moved heaven and earth to make me happy.”

“Isobel! Such harshness, and so illogically applied! In your sorrow, you are unjust. Let your friend, who knows better your worth, remind you who you are.”

“Do not flatter me, Jane,” she said brusquely, holding out a hand as if to impede my passage. “I have nothing to offer in return but the shame of a woman who has acted as she should not.”

“Of what can you be speaking?” The depth of her guilt was as I had surmised. I must needs exert myself. “Nothing that you have recounted could dishonour Frederick. You esteemed him as your husband, and whatever your feelings for another, your behaviour has been such as no one can reproach.”

She put her hands to her face, hiding it from my sight; her voice, when it came, trembled with emotion. “I cannot banish the maid's words from my mind, Jane. Marguerite saw rightly. We killed my husband, Fitzroy and I — and our guilt could be no greater if we had poisoned him outright, as the maid claims.”

A horror gripped me at her words; and I silently cursed the girl whose vicious pen could wreak such havoc in Isobel's soul.

“My dear;” I said firmly, grasping her wrists and drawing her hands from her face, “you can have nothing to regret beyond your husband's untimely death. Mourn for him if you will, but do not take upon yourself the burden of your Maker. The ways of Providence are hidden, but as a clergyman's daughter, I may freely own that they are rarely vindictive.”

Isobel struggled free of me and fell languorously upon her chaise. Her face was hidden by dark red tresses; whether sorrow or anger o'erspread her features, I could not say. Prudence counseled me to desist; but friendship informed me that I had not done.

“You brought your husband great joy, Isobel,” I said firmly. “Remember that I saw him happy before his death. You honoured the Earl by consenting to be his wife, and by sacrificing your better feeling to his. Nothing should instruct you otherwise; certainly not the fractured words of a half-wit maid.”

“Jane,” the Countess said, brushing back her hair and turning her face to mine, “have done. Do not suppose your words are what I wish to hear. You cannot respect me any longer, knowing what you do of my character.”

“Say rather that I cannot endure you any longer.” I was all exasperation. “Isobel, you persist in professing what you should not! Enough of pining, enough of regret. Your task now is to address the future with renewed energy. Scargrave is dead — but Scargrave still lives. And unless I am very much mistaken, you are wronging a man who loves you.”

Isobel blushed scarlet, and turned her face aside. “Do not speak to me of Fitzroy. I feel nothing but shame when he is mentioned.” Her words were clipped and bitter.

“You should not, my dear.”

“How can I not?” she cried. “Oh, Jane, I am utterly miserable!”

“But you care for him still?”

She was silent a time, her fingers clutching and un-clutching at the lace of her gown. She looked away from me, towards the portrait of the late Frederick, his jovial face caught in a band of morning sunlight. Then, in a voice so low I must needs struggle to hear it, she said, “How can you ask such a question? My husband is hardly cold in the ground.”

I felt all the force of her chastening words, and bit my lip. My vigour in urging Isobel out of a too-heavy sorrow had lacked a certain delicacy. But I felt an active anxiety regarding the guilt of one I held so dear, and so attempted one last injunction.

“You cannot die with Frederick, however much you may believe it is required of your penitence, Isobel. *

There was a tense silence, and then the Countess expelled a ragged breath. I hoped for some good effect from my words; but I was not to be so easily rewarded. Isobel bent to retrieve her wrap and settled it once more upon her shoulders, the openness of her expression completely shuttered, her eyes on the flames in the hearth. “Leave me now, Jane,” she said.

“I shall.” I reached a hand to stroke her wild red waves, but at my touch, she stiffened. I said, “There are many people who love you, my dear. Perhaps more than you love yourself. Remember that, Isobel, when you determine to live.”

FEELING SORELY THAT I HAD FAILED BOTH MY FRIEND AND her lover in my awkward attempts at persuasion, I found myself alone with the morning before me. Fanny Delahoussaye was indisposed with a stomach ailment, and Madame had gone off to the apothecary in Scargrave Close; the Hearsts kept still to their cottage in the lane. Fitzroy Payne was closeted in his library, and Lord Harold, thankfully, was not to be seen.

Isobel's melancholy threatened to overtake even my energetic spirits, but I reflected that we had at least one cause for rejoicing — the maid Marguerite's vicious tongue, so injurious to the Countess's self-respect, had fallen thankfully silent. Sir William Reynolds remained cheerfully in the company of his dear lady today, having no news of an evil nature to bring to our door. I was not so sanguine, however, as to believe the affair at an end — and judged it wise to pursue what intelligence I might regarding Scargrave's intimates.

I was determined to learn more of the woman named Rosie, who had been cause for such violence of argument between Mr. George Hearst and the late Earl. To that end, I made for the servants’ quarters, and after several enquiries, was directed to the housekeeper's apartment.

“Mrs. Hodges,” I said, when that good lady appeared at her sitting-room door, neatly arrayed in her habitual black with a snowy cap upon her head, “I would speak with you, if you have a quarter-hour to spare.”

“I should be delighted, miss,” she replied, stepping back and throwing her door wide.

I was shown to a comfortable chair by the fire and begged to sit. I confess to stealing a glance about me as Mrs. Hodges went in search of her teapot — for the housekeeper's rooms at Scargrave are on such a scale that they might almost be those of the Austens in Bath, a comparison that should probably horrify the good Mrs. Hodges, did she know it. But I collected myself as she placed a cup before me, her kindly face eager to be of service.

How to put the question I must ask? I had never been forced to the task of blatant inquisition before, and it rankled. To have done with, then, and suffer through, seemed the advisable course.

“Mrs. Hodges,” I began, sipping at my cup, “I wonder if you can tell me whether a young woman by the name of Rosie has ever been a caller at Scargrave Manor?”

A look of bewilderment came into her eyes as she settled herself in the chair opposite. “Rosie?” she said; “I can't recollect as there was a lady by that name. There's Rosies enough in the world, to be sure, but I am informed of the Manor's guests by their surnames only, as is proper for one of my place.”

Of course this was true; I myself should not have known the lady's Christian name, had she been spoken of in the usual manner; but Mr. Hearst — for it was his voice that had surely pronounced it — had seen fit to drop the “Miss” before her surname. What had that been, after all? Catch? Fetch? No — a type of boat. Ketch. Rosie Ketch.

“I believe the lady's surname was Ketch,” I said.

The transformation of Mrs. Hodges's face was something remarkable — first white, then red, with eyes popping; I thought for an instant that she should fall into a fit of apoplexy. “Mrs. Hodges,” I said anxiously, setting my tea aside and reaching towards her with concern, “whatever is the matter? What can I have done?”

“It's nothing, miss,” she stammered, recovering herself with effort; “only I've asked as that slattern's name never be pronounced in this house again. She was no example for the younger girls, and a heap o’ trouble while she was in service, and I'd forget her as soon as I'm able. I thought it was a lady you'd enquired after.”

“It was my mistake,” I said. “I had no notion she was in service. I merely heard the name, attached to an interesting remark, and wondered when she had last been at Scargrave.”

“I'll warrant the remark was interesting,” Mrs. Hodges observed shrewdly, and clasped her hands upon her considerable stomach. “Rosie's gone three months now, but if it's news of her you want, you'd best be talking to Jenny Barlow, as is her sister down t'a home farm. Not that Rosie's worth the asking after, mind you; but you have your reasons, I dare say.”

That my reasons were unlikely to do me credit, her look and tone clearly implied; and I felt myself blush scarlet.

It remained only to thank her for her hospitality and enquire the direction to Jenny Barlow's home. Then I left Mrs. Hodges by her fire, donned my cloak and boots, and made my way through the kitchen gardens to the lane — which led, in a winding fashion much beset by drifts of snow, some three miles to Scargrave's farm.

THE WEATHER WAS VERY FINE, AND I FELT MY SPIRITS LIFT AS the cold sun touched my cheek. Being anxious to apprise no one of my errand, I could do little but walk; formnately, I possess such an excellent constitution, and am so accustomed to exercise, that I found the three miles not overly fatiguing. I had been told to expect Jenny Barlow's cottage near the beginning of the fallow wheat fields; and indeed, upon rounding the last bend of the lane, I perceived a tiny hut, its good thatched roof a testament to the late Earl's care for his tenants. A thin thread of smoke was rising from its chimney.

I approached the doorway, and spied a small child blessed with the startled eyes of a doe; at my salutation, she took fright, and dashed within. Her mother soon appeared.

“Jenny Barlow?” I enquired.

“Yes, miss.” Her speech was suffused with the softness of Hertfordshire.

I must set down here my first impression of the girl, for girl she undoubtedly is — not much above twenty, I should say, and quite lovely yet, despite the evidence of years of hard work. Jenny Barlow's hair is gold, her eyes are cornflower blue, and her figure full and sturdy, making her seem something of a harvest goddess; but those poor particulars do not convey the truth of it. She is a beauty, her face delicate of line and her features elegant; she is just such an English rose, I judge, as is occasionally still found along its quieter byways.

“Would you like to come in, miss, out o’ the cold?”

I assented, and entered the darkened hut, which was filled with smoke; the unglazed windows were covered with oiled cloth, and only heightened the murkiness of the atmosphere. The child I had seen by the door was hiding under the table; another sat in a corner, worrying a lock of its hair; and I perceived Jenny to be yet again in a certain condition. The lot of women is indeed a cruel one — either die an old maid, reviled and unprovided, or die of hard work and childbed, both too liberally bestowed.

“You've come from the big house,” she said. “It's not often a lady seeks out the farm.”

“I am presently staying at the Manor,” I replied, “and though it appears I have been walking for pleasure, in fact I am come to speak with you.”

She looked her surprise, and was at a loss; and so provided a chair that I might more comfortably explain myself.

“Mrs. Barlow, I have sought you out of instinct rather than clear purpose,” I began, taking the proffered seat, “and I hope that in speaking with you, I may know better how you are to help me. You are, of course, aware of the death of Lord Scargrave?”

“Yes, God be praised,” she said quickly, and half under her breath.

“And why should such a death be cause for thankfulness?” I asked.

“He were an awful wicked man, the Earl,” Jenny answered, “awful wicked. I have reason to know it.”

“That is very strong language, certainly.” I paused to survey Jenny Barlow's countenance, but she did not look the sort of girl to strike out blindly, from malice or an envy of her betters. “Has Lord Scargrave had cause to injure you, my dear?” I enquired, feeling a sudden conviction of its truth.

“Hurtin’ was as natural to him as breathin,” At that she fell silent, and from the way she glanced furtively around the hut, seemed to regret having said as much; I did not probe her further, but advanced on another tack.

“The night of the Earl's death,” I told her, “I had occasion to overhear Mr. George Hearst pronounce the name of Rosie Ketch. I understand that she is your sister. Is Mr: Hearst known to you?”

“That he is, and a truer man never lived.”

Such fervour, for the melancholy ecclesiastic! I remembered the vigour of George Hearst's words, when speaking to his uncle about Rosie Ketch; and wondered at such a dour young man in the role of lady's champion. It was a role better played by his gallant brother. Jenny Barlow turned her head at a disturbance by the doon Her eyes widened in alarm.

“‘Ere, what's ‘is?” demanded a burly fellow, leaning heavily in the doorway. “Somebody from tha Maner? Well, we wants nothin’ of the likes of you, I warrant. Be off with ye!”

“No, Ted!” Jenny Barlow cried, “the lady is but resting along her way. She meant no ‘arm.”

Ted Barlow, for so I divined him to be, reeled toward his wife, the pungent scent of barley and hops preceding him, and cuffed her a stiff blow to the side of her head. I confess I could not repress a sharp cry at the injustice of it, but the lout paid me no heed, so intent was he upon the poor creature in his power.

“Mixin’ wit’ the quality, are ye? And look where ‘at's got you afore!” He swept a beefy hand toward his children, who cowered away from him. “A passel of brats, and no bread for the table. That's for quality,” he said, and spat upon the floor.

I deemed it wise at this juncture to depart, but paused at the hut's jamb long enough to seek Jenny Barlow's eye. “If you should need me, Mrs. Barlow,” I said, “simply ask the way to Miss Austen.”

I RETURNED ALONG THE SNOWY LANE IN SOME PERTURBATION, and with the leisure of three miles to give it full compass. That the late Lord Scargrave had marred the young girl's life in some way, and that her husband still harboured a bitter grudge, was evident. I considered it no less likely that her sister Rosie was encompassed in Jenny Barlow's cares. How the harm had been effected remained a mystery; tho’ I was just enough apprised of the ways of the world to think it possible the Earl had forced his attentions upon his milkmaid. There are precedents in history for it enough. I must wait, however, for the bestowing of Jenny's confidence; given time and further thought, the girl may resolve to seek me out, and unburden herself willingly.

I was but a few hundred yards from the paddock where I had ridden Lady Bess the previous afternoon; and at a nicker from the fence, I turned and saw her lovely chestnut nose stretched towards me appealingly.

“I have no sugar; Bess,” I warned as I approached, “nor yet a piece of apple. But if you like, I shall rub your nose, and promise to visit on the morrow.”

The mare bent her nostrils to my gloved hand, and I stood there some moments, scratching the short hairs between her ears and along the bridge of her face, marvelling at the liquid depths of her enormous eyes. It was then that a movement beyond her withers surprised me; I looked up, and caught sight of a bonneted head ducking into a shed to the left of the far paddock gate, on the nether side of the wintry field from where I stood. The lady's pelisse was of a rich cherry, frogged round with black braid, and of a style to be worn by only one person — Fanny Delahoussaye! Perhaps she had come to ride, the better to win the Lieutenant's heart.

Lady Bess blew out a gusty breath, impatient for attention, and at that moment Fanny reappeared, unconscious of my presence, and slipped back through the gate towards the house. Her entire aspect declared her errand a furtive one.

There was no gate in the fence before me — just the one, well around the field. I looked about to see that I was unobserved, swiftly mounted the lower rail, and swung myself, skirts and all, over the fence to stand beside a surprised Lady Bess. Then I set off across the snow-crusted grass, holding my hem above my ankles, the horse trotting alongside in evident enjoyment of the lark.

It was a small outbuilding, no more than a storage shed for hay, really, and possessed of nothing in itself that might appeal to Fanny Delahoussaye. I bent my head to peer inside, and saw immediately what she had left — a small leather pouch tied with a string. I picked it up, and from the weight and jingle knew the purse to contain a quantity of coins.

Fanny, leaving money for an unknown? How very singular. She was not the sort to engage in eccentric philanthropy, of an anonymous kind; more the reverse. Was this a payment for services — of a sort better unpublished in the light of day? There was no note, no sign of the intended recipient; and I did not like to open the pouch itself. I set it back upon the straw in some perplexity. It must remain another mystery, to be resolved another day.

UPON REGAINING THE GREAT HOUSE, I WAS CAUGHT UP in a whirl of maids and footmen toing and froing; a strange carriage was at the door, with a coat of arms upon it, and baggage was being stowed behind I entered the house in haste, fumbling at the strings of my bonnet, and was in time to see Isobel exiting the Earl's study.

I was not, however, allowed to rejoice in her presence, fully dressed in her sombre widow's weeds and becomingly coiffed; for from her expression, the Countess was in great tumult of mind.

“My dear,” I cried, all concern for her distress, “whatever can be the matter?”

She halted in the chill hall, the only still figure in the midst of her servants. Then, with neither a word nor a look, she brushed past me for the stairs.

“Isobel—” I began, but she continued silently on her way, never heeding me. I turned towards the library door in consternation. What could Fitzroy Payne have done to so destroy my friend?

But it was not the Earl who was the agent of Isobel's misery. Lord Harold was within, standing by the fire with a cigar and a glass of Port. One look at his face told me he had triumphed finally in his relentless pursuit of Isobel's Barbadoes plantations; Crosswinds was hers no more. I understood, now, the flurry about the coach drawn up to the door. Having gained his object, Harold Trowbridge had no further use for Scargrave.

“Lord Harold,” I said, crossing to face him, my fear of his power banished, “I see that the dark angel has triumphed.”

He raised his glass to me in mocking salute and tossed back its contents. “Was there ever a doubt?” he said.

“Lucifer was possessed of just such certainty, my lord, and his prospects in the end were hardly sanguine.”

“I would disagree, Miss Austen. Lucifer inherited a kingdom, assuredly, and one of his own design. Many men would wish to claim as much.”

I waved a hand dismissively. “You talk but to hear yourself speak, my lord, and I have no time for the cultivation of vanity. I am come to bid you good-bye, but not farewell and hardly adieu. I should rather wish you to fare poorly and go straight to the Devil.”

Such language, I admit, is shocking in any woman, and particularly in a clergyman's daughter; but the blood was upon me, as my dear brother Henry would say, and I was careless of effect. The one I produced, however was the last I should have anticipated. Rather than smiling in scorn, or throwing back his head in outright laughter, Harold Trowbridge took his cigar from his lips, and studied me speculatively.

“Your aspect gains something in the liveliness of anger, Miss Austen. Had I anticipated such, I should have provoked you to it sooner, simply for the enjoyment of the effect.” His dark eyes actually danced, with all the impudence of a man who has never known scruple.

“How can you speak so, my lord, when you have been the ruin of one of the gentlest, the best, and certainly now the most suffering of women?”

“You would have it that I find pleasure in my achievements, particularly when they are won at the expense of such.”

“You are in every way despicable,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he rejoined, “but I am nonetheless successful, and the Countess is merely noble and poor.”

“How,” I began, my voice unpleasantly strident to my own ears, “did you prevail upon her? She was in every way opposed to your purpose. It can only be that the weight of her recent afflictions has enervated her, and that she gave up the struggle rather than contest with one such as you.”

“I merely pointed out that she is penniless,” Trowbridge said calmly, “and that her creditors have called in their debts. While her husband was alive, I chose to bide my time, and learn what the cost of clearing the estates’ encumbrance was worth to him; but with Scargrave gone, there is no point in delaying further.”

“Scargrave is gone, but Scargrave is yet with us,” I pointed out. “The Earl has an heir, possessed of all the potency of his estates.”

“And a healthy debt of his own,” the rogue said mildly. “Even if the Countess were to rush in unseemly haste, and marry her lover” — at this demonstration of his knowledge, I gasped, but he took no notice — ”Fitzroy Payne must look to his own accounts first. Half of London are his creditors; his own holdings in the Indies are beset with difficulties, and should his uncle not have died, Payne should soon have been hauled into court, or killed in a duel by one of the many men to whom he owes debts of honour.”

“Debts of honour?” I was aghast.

“Miss Austen,” Lord Harold said with a condescension that made my blood run hot, “I understand you are more accustomed to the ways of the country than of Town. Doubt cannot be in your nature, nor suspicion in your character. But let me assure you that Fitzroy Payne keeps up with a very fast set. Indeed, he forms its chief ornament. The cost of his establishment — his clothes, the maintenance of his Derbyshire estate, the gambling to which he is all too partial — exact a heavy toll on a fortune that is not above three thousand pounds a year. He has wagered heavily on the expectation of his inheritance, and his creditors, recognising his prospects, have been content to give him more line with which to hang himself. But he has reached the end of his rope, and I fear there is no slack for your friend the Countess to grasp.”

I was struck by all the power of Trowbridge's words, so carelessly bestowed, and clearly without a suspicion that the Earl might have died by other than natural causes. That Fitzroy Payne had a motive to murder — and well before the Earl should get himself a son, and thus disinherit his nephew — was patently obvious. The image of Fitzroy Payne's noble face rose in my mind; could such a man be capable of killing? But certainly his appearance gave no hint of the pressure of his circumstances; he had never betrayed the desperation that must haunt his every thought. I understood better now, why he had not pressed Isobel to break off her engagement to the Earl, and marry him instead; the wrath of his uncle should have blasted his future prospects entirely. Better to win the Countess's heart from her husband — and so guard against the possibility of an heir and the loss of an immense estate.

What had seemed noble, in retrospect was revealed as vilely mercenary. But my thoughts were interrupted by Lord Harold's implacable voice.

“… and then there is the matter of Mrs. Hammond.”

“Mrs. Hammond?”

“A woman he keeps in a flat in Cheapside. It pains me to wound the sensitivities of a lady, but there it is. Her tastes are somewhat extravagant, according to my sources.”

A mistress, when Payne had professed love for Isobel. By any account, it was too much. “Your information has been complete, indeed, Lord Harold,” I said contemptuously. “I would that the gathering of it did you more honour.”

“I make it a point to learn all that I can of my adversaries,” Trowbridge replied easily. “Finance is war; Miss Austen, and one cannot wage war without knowledge. The force of mine was readily apparent to the Countess.”

“You told her of this?” I exclaimed, with horror. “Of Mrs. Hammond as well?”

“It was essential for little Isobel to understand that any hope of succour from the new Earl must be impossible. I could not defer my offer for Crosswinds until such time as she might marry the rogue. I could not depend upon his funds being directed my way.”

I comprehended now the utter defeat of my friend's aspect as she sought the stairs; the air of bewildered pain. Where she assumed strength and love to be hers, she was met with treachery and deceit. And / had urged her only this morning to put aside regret and turn to the living. / had pled Fitzroy Payne's case, when all such pleading must be injury.

“I believe the Countess felt the truth of my arguments,” Lord Harold continued, reaching for the decanter of Port to refill his glass. “She agreed to accept a sum — quite generous, under the circumstances — in return for her properties and the discharge of her debt. She shall have something to live on, at least, which she certainly could not say before.”

And so he feels himself to have been magnanimous. Vile man.

I wheeled for the door, intent upon taking no leave of Harold Trowbridge, but a thought stopped me where I stood. An adventurer like his lordship never wagers without great purpose; and so there must be a value to Crosswinds of which dear Isobel knew nothing.

“What can have been so important, Lord Harold,” I said, turning again to face him, “that you should struggle so long against the Countess?”

“Winning alone has made it worthwhile,” he answered carelessly, drawing on his cigar and releasing the smoke in a foul-scented cloud. “But then there is the matter of the property itself. The lands run down to a deep-water harbour perfect for the mooring of heavy ships; it is unique to the Barbadoes in being held in private hands. Such a port is essential.”

“Essential for what purpose?”

“One you should hardly understand, my dear. And now,” he said, drawing forth a pocket watch, “I fear I must depart. It has been a delightful encounter^ Miss Austen. We make a compelling pair. My initiative, and your wits — had you a greater fortune, I should almost think myself in danger. But alas, you are quite portionless; and hardly possessed of enough beauty to make lack of means a trifle.”

“That is just as well, Lord Harold,” I said clearly, “for your lack of finer feeling, of scruple and honour — of everything, in truth, that turns a man a gentleman — makes you the very last person I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”