Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

Chapter 18 The Very Mrs. Hammond

3 January 1803

I SENT FOR MR. CRANLEY EARLY THIS MORNING, AND WAS gratified to see that gentleman arrive with alacrity not an hour later. To stem his apparent disappointment at Fanny Delahoussaye's absence — she was even then standing before Madame Henri, the Bond Street modiste — I bent myself briskly to business.

“Let us talk, Mr. Cranley, of evidence,” I began, closing the study door behind us, the better to guard against a servant's ears. “The presence near the paddock gate of Isobel's handkerchief, we may count as nothing. Any person desiring to throw blame upon the Countess, might readily have obtained her linen, monogrammed as it is, for the purpose; access to her apartments is not even necessary. I myself have observed Isobel leave her kerchiefs behind her wherever she goes.”

Mr. Cranley nodded. “I had assumed as much.”

“And what of Fitzroy Payne? Have you intelligence of his writing habits?” I perched on the edge of a chair, and Mr. Cranley did the same, leaning towards me in his eagerness.

“Your excellent understanding, Miss Austen, is cause for rejoicing,” he began.

“Capital!” I cried, clasping my hands together. “You have learned something to their advantage!”

The barrister nodded. “As you are no doubt aware, Fitzroy Payne was engrossed in resolving the business affairs of his uncle at the time of the maid's murder. He remained closeted in the library for days on end, over a quantity of papers, and much correspondence passed between Lord Scargrave and his London solicitors,”

“Well I remember it. The solicitors appeared at Scargrave immediately upon the Earl's death, but stayed only a few hours; thereafter all matters were conducted by post. And what a quantity of post! Madame Delahoussaye undertook several times to tidy the Earl's library, and was all agog at the mess.”

“According to Lord Scargrave, he never varies from routine in matters of business. In writing a letter, he painstakingly draws up a draft, and then copies it for clarity's sake onto another sheet of paper. It is the final copy which he sends to the recipient.”

“He has copies of all his correspondence?”

“He does. I think it possible that the phrase in question was torn from just such a draft—left lying about the Earl's library desk, to which everyone might have access — and the rest of the sheet destroyed.” The barrister slapped his knees in excitement, and sat back in his chair.

“But how to find the very letter?”

“I am directed to Fitzroy Payne's valet,” Mr. Cranley said, looking about him as though the man were hiding in one of the corners, “who retains a list of the Earl's correspondence, as well as his personal papers. If the draft of a letter is missing, we may discover to whom the final copy was sent, and search for the incriminating phrase in its text.”

I wished to partake of the barrister's evident satisfaction, but a doubt assailed me. “Do we look among the Manor household as you suggest, Mr. Cranley — where any might have access to the Earl's library and his drafts — or must we consider that the letter's recipient might also be the murderer?”

The barrister looked thoughtful at this, and rose restlessly from his chair. “If the maid's murderer received a letter from the Earl containing the incriminating language, he should have no need of a draft; it required only to tear the phrase from the letter itself and send it to the maid. If that is the case, we cannot hope to locate the damaged letter itself.” “But we may learn the murderer's identity, from finding the phrase of the maid's note in a draft of the letter in Danson's possession,” I observed.

Mr. Cranley beamed at me in approval. “If, however, the murderer is a member of the household — who searched among the Earl's drafts, and tore the incriminating phrase from the page — then the draft itself should be absent from Danson's collection.”

“This cannot show the Earl's innocence,” I mused, “but it may demonstrate that anyone familiar with the household — and Fitzroy Payne's habits of correspondence — might readily have secured a sample of his handwriting, and without his knowledge.”

“We are of one mind, Miss Austen,” the barrister said. “Our best hope of securing the Countess's freedom, as well as that of Fitzroy Payne, is to show the guilt of another. There is no avoiding that. But until we may locate our murderer, I shall send for Danson.”

I rose as Mr. Cranley made for the door. “And do you know where he is to be found?”

“Fitzroy Payne sent him on to his London establishment near his clubs in Pall Mall. Danson awaits his master's trial there in solitude — and, one assumes, some measure of despondency. For if the Earl is condemned, his valet's chances of obtaining a suitable new position must be very slim.”

“Danson should be active, then, in assisting us,” I replied. “For his future, too, hangs upon it.”

MR. CRANLEY BELIEVED THAT HIS ONLY DEFENCE LAY IN attacking Sir William on narrow points of law; but it seemed to me a wiser course to present an equally plausible case for the guilt of another — and though I felt myself to be taking on the crushing role of the Divine Creator, in assaying to mete out punishment or pardon, I felt it incumbent upon me to exert myself to that end. While the barrister was about locating Danson, I determined that I should visit Jenny Barlow's sister — and discover why her name had been the cause for such passionate vituperation between the incipient curate, Mr. George Hearst, and his uncle. I suspected it was due to righteous outrage on that gentleman's part at the late Earl's seduction of one of his own servants; but proof was nonetheless necessary.

Did I arrive in the Scargrave carriage, with its arms emblazoned on the doors, I should probably turn Rosie's humble establishment all aflutter; and so I deemed it best to secure a hackney carriage, the better to progress unknown, and thus made my way across Westminster Bridge to South London.

THE ADDRESS JENNY BARLOW HAD GIVEN ME WAS SUCH AS did not disgrace her sister. From the appearance of their exteriors, the homes of many estimable families sit in Gracechurch Street — modest tradesmen, no doubt, and men of profession, whose means have not yet ascended to the West End. I observed many a marble stoop scrubbed clean, and doors pulled wide to the milkman by fresh-faced young maids in starched aprons and mob caps; and felt assured that Rosie Ketch's fortune had been less melancholy than it might.

The hackney pulled up to a well-kept lodging house, with a doorman ready to hand me down; and to him I conveyed my card, and directed that it should be sent to Number 33, in search of Miss Rosie Ketch, and waited for what I might learn. The vestibule of the establishment revealed it to be of modest pretensions and circumstances, as befit the neighbourhood and its inhabitants’ means; and I confess myself as ever more puzzled as to how the girl came to be placed there.

Presently a kindly-faced woman of advanced years descended, and made herself known to me as a Mrs. Hammond — a name which must make me start, as having been attached to the woman identified by Harold Trowbridge as Fitzroy Payne's mistress. Observing that she might rather have been his mother, I decided it to be the merest coincidence; and forebore from impertinent questions. She bade me follow her up several flights of stairs, to an apartment of a few rooms and some comfort, though little style.

“And how, Miss Austen, may I be of service?” Mrs. Hammond said, in the manner of a genteel servant, having seated me on a worn settee by the fire and taken her place opposite. “Your card and your name are unknown to me.”

“But the name of Rosie Ketch is not?” I enquired.

“I have known a Rosie Ketch,” she replied, her kindly eyes nonetheless steely.

“I am come at the behest of Rosie Ketch's sister, Mrs. Barlow, whom I met while a visitor at Scargrave Manor. Mrs. Barlow is in some distress from the fact that she cannot hear from Rosie, and would have news of her by any means; and thus she prevailed upon me to call on her behalf, knowing that I was to be in Town.”

“Dear Jenny!” Mrs. Hammond exclaimed, her features softening. “As kind a girl as ever lived. How those two were born of that father, I'll never understand; but Susan Ketch was a lovely woman, and her children take after her, though she died so young in their rearing.”

“The girl is within, then?” I said.

“Aye, and she is. Jenny will have told you of her trouble?”

I replied in the affirmative.

“I'll have her out for you in a moment, then, and you can be the judge of her yourself,” said Mrs. Hammond; and rising with an energy commendable in one of her advanced years, she disappeared in pursuit of her young charge.

She had no sooner returned, with a slight girl of angelic appearance behind, than there was a knock upon the outer door; and with a curtsey, Mrs. Hammond left me with Rosie Ketch.

That she was far along in her condition was immediately evident; although how frail a girl, and of such apparent youth, could be expected to bear a child, was indeed to be wondered at. She had Jenny Barlow's fair hair and blue eyes, but where her sister's face showed that awareness of the world's harsher cares that maturity brings, Rosie's countenance was altogether innocent. I might readily believe her to have come by her condition, without any understanding of how she had been got that way; and pitied her deeply for the vagary of her fate. That any man could so impose upon such a child, was incredible; but that it should have been the late Earl — as I doubted not from Jenny Barlow's dark looks at his name and George Hearst's accusatory words in his study — must detract from his reputation for goodness.

“You are Rosie Ketch,” I said gently.

The girl nodded shyly, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor, and her hands clasped before her.

“I am Miss Austen, Rosie,” I told her. “I am come to bring you the love of your sister, who placed it in my charge when last I was at Scargrave. She is all benevolence on your behalf, and her concern has grown with the distance between you, and what I understand to be her husband's injunction of silence. May I assure her of your good health and steady spirits?”

“Tell Jenny as I am well,” she said carefully, in a clear, high voice, “though I fear for myself when my time comes, and would have her by me, if Ted can spare her.”

“I shall tell her so,” I said. “Are there yet many months to wait?”

“I can't say as I know rightly,” she said.

“And you have been here how long?”

At that, her eyes glanced to the door, which was even then opening to reveal Mrs. Hammond, ushering her latest visitor within. Imagine my shock upon discovering it to be a gentleman of my acquaintance — none other than Mr. George Hearst!

My surprise must have shown upon my face, or perhaps his own sensibility taught him to expect it; for he looked as confused as I. His intelligence quickly overcame his discomfiture, however, and he impeded my questions with a determined swiftness.

“My dear Miss Austen,” he cried, “what can have brought you here?”

“Mr. Hearst!” I exclaimed. “I might ask you as much!”

He coloured at that, but said nothing; and recovering himself swiftly, bent over my hand in greeting.

“You are acquainted with Mr. Hearst?” Mrs. Hammond said, looking from himself to me with a shrewd eye, as well she might; for I discerned that she had given him no knowledge of my presence, though knowing me only lately arrived from Scargrave, and more than likely to have encountered him there.

“Indeed,” Mr. Hearst said; “it has been my privilege.”

“Rosie,” Mrs. Hammond said briskly, “you must attend to the washing now; get along, girl. I'll be with you directly.”

At her charge's exit, she turned once more to me, and said, not without kindness, “You'll be wanting tea, miss, I expect. I'll fetch it and leave you to yourselves.”

As George Hearst clearly awaited my adoption of a seat, I chose the settee once more, and he assumed Mrs. Hammond's position opposite. He regarded me for the space of several seconds, and I, him. I may say that his countenance lacked his customary expression of melancholy; he appeared rather to be freed of some great weight, and at peace with what troubles he may have had.

“I know the confusion my presence in this house must cause you,” he began. “I will not pretend to mislead you, Miss Austen. Having found me out, you can expect nothing less than a full recital.”

“My own appearance must have similarly astonished you,” I rejoined. “/ am come at the behest of Jenny Barlow, but that she sent you on a similar errand, I must believe unlikely.”

“You would be correct,” the curate said, nodding. “I am here because of the letter I received of Mrs. Hammond Christmas Eve.”

“The day of the maid's murder — the day you made in haste for London.”

“I was called hither by Mrs. Hammond, who had only lately heard of the Earl's death,” he explained. “She felt certain that Rosie's circumstances should change as a result, and desired me to attend her with any news it might be in my power to convey.”

“But why should the lady enquire this of you? Had she not better have asked it of the present Earl?”

“As her grandmother, she is necessarily anxious on Rosie's behalf, and I am the man whose interest must decide the girl's fate.”

“Mrs. Hammond, Rosie's grandmother? She did not mention it.”

“Rosie's mother was a Hammond, and much beloved by her mother, though left behind at Scargrave when Fitzroy established Mrs. Hammond here.”

“Then the Earl is Mrs. Hammond's patron?” I remembered Harold Trowbridge's look of exultation, as he stood by the library fire talking of Fitzroy Payne's mistress. The grandmotherly woman even now preparing my tea was not at all what I should have expected. “It seems incredible!”

“That such a man should remember the affection of a nursemaid? I suppose it must seem so to you, who can have known him so little; but I assure you, Fitzroy is not without his goodness.”

“Nursemaid?” I cried, too late to stifle my astonishment; and at George Hearst's penetrating look, felt the colour enter my unfortunate cheeks.

“You thought her perhaps as having provided a nearer service?” he asked, in a rare moment of amusement; but at my confused dismay, he became sober once more. “No, Miss Austen, Mrs. Hammond is guilty of nothing more than having suckled the eighth Earl at her breast, and that, when he was hardly of an age to place an unpleasant construction upon it.”

Certain aspects of the situation readily became clear to me. It was not the late Earl, but the present one — Fitzroy Payne — who was responsible for Rosie's condition; she must be the mistress of whom Lord Harold spoke. Payne had sent her to the trustiest woman he knew for safekeeping, his former nursemaid, her grandmother. That the girl should be having a child was an added blow to Isobel's trust! Though one that Lord Harold, thankfully, had seen fit to keep from her — if, indeed, the rogue knew aught of it.

But what of George Hearst's heated argument over Rosie, the night of the late Earl's death? Perhaps the upright Mr. Hearst had discovered the matter, and betrayed Fitzroy Payne's confidence to his uncle — who had washed his hands of the girl, to the curate's dismay.

But this was hardly a motive for violent murder on George Hearst's part; and so my efforts to learn something to his disadvantage were all for nought.

“But could Fitzroy Payne be so depraved as to have seduced the granddaughter of his nursemaid,” I said aloud, all wonderment, “for whom he clearly felt continued affection, as evidenced by the comfort of such an establishment?”

“The Earl seduce Rosie Ketch?” George Hearst said. “Indeed he did not, Miss Austen. For that, I fear, you have to look no farther than myself.”

Whatever I had expected, it was hardly this; and I had so little mastery of myself at his disclosure, nor of the revulsion I could not help but feel, at the memory of the poor child's innocence — so ill-bestowed and so completely trodden under — that it was some moments before I could look on him with composure, or deign to offer any words. George Hearst is the very last man in whom I should expect to find his passion stronger than his virtue; and amazement warred with disapprobation for the first place in my thoughts.

That he felt all the weight of my contempt, I am certain by his aspect; and that he felt it of himself, and regretted his behaviour, was evident when I was capable of hearing him.

“I shall make no excuses for what I have done,” he said, when finally I met his eyes; “it is in every way reprehensible, and a lifetime of devotion to the duties of a clergyman cannot hope to remove the stain of my conduct. It was because of Rosie that I determined to take Holy Orders, Miss Austen, in an effort to repair my ways; and with the goal of winning forgiveness for the manner in which I have injured her, I shall work to my very last breath.”

The speech became him, in the force of conviction he threw behind it; but I was all amazement, and would know how it had occurred.

“I can only place the blame on myself,” he said, “in that I was ill-suited for the thwarting of my objectives and hopes. I had looked to my uncle for direction, and felt that in my father's absence, the Earl might be prevailed upon to make my fortune; that from him, if not from relations of my own name, I could hope for guidance in some profession. But he would have me manage the workings of his farm — a project for which, Miss Austen, I had little inclination and even less talent. In attempting to oversee the plantings, the harvests, and the tending of the beasts under Scargrave's care, however, I came much in contact with the Barlows; and with Rosie, who lived under their roof at that time in her life, having left the woman who oversaw her rearing some six years past.

“I did not intend to ruin her; I sought merely to find some comfort for the anger and bitterness in which I lived; some recompense, it may be, for all I felt I had been forced to sacrifice; and if my indulgence came at her expense, it was no more than the manner in which my uncle had seen fit to treat me. So I told myself; and so I reasoned, the better to act without remorse, in a sort of blind striking out for vengeance. But that Rosie could be the only person hurt by my conduct — that it should affect my uncle not at all — I saw too late.

“When I learned of her condition, I offered her my hand in marriage, though I knew that little good could come of such a union.”

“Rosie would not accept you?” I asked gently.

“My uncle could not accept her,” he rejoined, with an expression of grimness, “much to Jenny Barlow's horror and the anger of her husband, Ted. Though they knew me to be so far removed from their sister's station, they had still hoped for the preservation of her respectability, if not the elevation of her place in life. My name only they wished to have, that the child might be known as its father's; for Rosie to live quietly at some remove, supported and free of the world's censure, was their only aim. That I might have sacrificed my hopes to their necessity seemed only to be justice; and so I was prepared to do, but for my uncle.”

“You spoke to him of this,” I said, understanding coming full upon me, “on the night of his death.”

“I did,” George Hearst replied, with some astonishment at my perspicacity, “though I thought none could know of it. My uncle was utterly unaware of Rosie's ruin — I had placed her with Mrs. Hammond through my cousin Fitzroy's good offices, the better to keep the Earl in the dark — and when the fact of her condition was made plain, along with my intention to remedy it through the sacrifice of my prospects, my uncle was thrown into a cold rage. The disgrace— the violation of a sacred trust, in the seduction of a Scargrave dependent — and the impropriety, in one who aspired, as I did, to the Church — all were cause for dismay on the Earl's part. He very nearly sent me from the Manor entirely; but it ended instead with his forbidding me to have anything further to do with the girl.”

“And with his decision to alter his will,” I surmised, “by retracting that promise he had so recently made you, of receiving a living upon his death. How fortunate for you, Mr. Hearst, that he should be taken from this life before he had time to call his solicitors!”

A quick glance from the cleric's hollow eyes, a look eloquent in its anguish. “The denial of the living was as nothing, Miss Austen, when weighed against the denial of Rosie. Only consider that her young life should be blighted in consequence of my sin; that her future should be sacrificed upon the altar of my uncle's pride! I could not bear it. I had determined, when I left him in the library, to go to Rosie at once, and marry her. Scargrave be damned!”

Except that you were saved the trouble, I thought, your uncle's death having, like Fate, intervened. The Earl's sudden passage had allowed George Hearst to achieve his dearest aims — the preservation of his beloved's honour, and the awarding of his dearest wish, a clergyman's living. But I kept such thoughts to myself.

“And now tell me, Miss Austen,” the gentleman said, “how came you to know all of this? Or did you merely hazard some well-researched guesses?”

I had the grace to blush. “I overheard your conversation in the library that evening — some few words.”

George Hearst looked his surprise. “I was not aware of it. I confess that I was distraught, and left the library in great perturbation of mind.”

“And now that the Earl is dead,” I said, “what is to become of Rosie?”

“When I journeyed to London Christmas Eve, it was with the intent of marrying her; and so I have done,” the curate told me. “Rosie is to remain with her grandmother^ and the babe to be reared here for some years. Afterwards, it shall be sent away to school, in an anonymous fashion, to receive the education of a gentleman's child.”

“Rosie is indeed fortunate,” I told him. “She is yet young, and might, with proper care and education, make you a suitable wife, Mr. Hearst. In a living far from Scargrave, where her antecedents are not known, you might yet attain tolerable happiness.”

“I have not learned to look that far beyond the present moment,” he said thoughtfully. “Much remains to be resolved.”

It was then I remembered — if Fitzroy Payne hanged, George Hearst should become the Earl. What a burden this wife should then be felt! For he should be barred from seeking a suitable partner to his new estate, of fortune and standing in the peerage, and must acknowledge Rosie's babe as his heir. I understood, now, his inveterate melancholy; George Hearst's was a fate that seemed ever destined to turn awry.

I RETURNED TO PORTMAN SQUARE IN SOME PERPLEXITY OF thought. I had learned much in recent days of the private lives of Fanny Delahoussaye and George Hearst — had ever a great family been so determined in bastardy? — but nothing that proved useful, on the face of it, to Isobel's cause. The trial was to take place on the ninth of January, making it less than six days that remained to us. More than my circumspect probing was required, if the Countess's innocence was to be shown; and I felt impatience, of a sudden, for the return of Mr. Cranley from Pall Mall, and such assistance as the valet Danson could offer.