Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

Chapter 21 A Position of Trust

5 January 1803, cont.

WHEN ELIZA HAD MADE HER ADIEUX, I BADE MR. CRANLEY wait for me in the study, and returned with some hesitation to the Delahoussayes. Fanny and Madame were the centre of a hovering group, encompassed of Simmons, the butler, and two of the upper housemaids, who held steaming basins and compresses at the ready. But at my entrance, poor Fanny raised a streaming face, and breaking from her mother's embrace, extended her hand. “Oh, Miss Austen!” she cried, as she gripped my fingers in hers, “is not this dreadful news? No one but you can know how dreadful!”

“I am sure you excite yourself unnecessarily, Fanny,” Madame said, with ringing disapproval. “Tom Hearst is hardly worth such a display, as he has shown in his manner of departing this life. Did I not fear to upset you further, I should rejoice at this news.”

Fanny's only answer was a redoubled expression of grief, and Madame raised her hands in consternation.

“And from this, Miss Austen, we may learn the value of novels,” she said, to my mystification, “for only from the produce of such cheap pens as the novel-publishers employ, could my daughter have learned to indulge such an unfortunate sensibility. She is all romantic airs, and no sense; but perhaps, now that the Lieutenant's unwholesome influence is removed, we might hope for an improvement in time.”

“And did the Lieutenant read novels, Madame?” I enquired in exasperation, and bent to bestow my interest on a more worthy subject. Poor Fanny clung pitifully to me, and quite stained my grey wool gown with the force of her tears; her mother snorted in contempt, and rose without another word.

“I can do nothing with her, Miss Austen,” she said, forcing a passage through the maids; “perhaps you shall have better luck. I shall be in my room, if Fanny returns to her senses.”

I patted the poor creature's back, and spoke such soothing nonsense as succeeds in quieting a child, and instructed the servants and their basins to depart. Presently Fanny's lamentations subsided, with a hiccup and a sniff, and she wiped her plump fingers across her eyes.

“Whatever shall I do?” she said, in a breaking whisper. “I fear; Miss Austen, that with Tom dead, I am truly lost!”

Seeing in her blue eyes that a fresh cloud threatened to burst, I determined to speak briskly, and offer the only help I knew. “We shall make the best of events, Fanny my dear; and hope in Isobel's speedy release. With the Countess restored to freedom, you shall have a support before your mother, and can divulge to her the entirety of your wrongs. Do not scruple to lay them at Tom Hearst's door; he has imposed upon you most disturbingly, and must bear the guilt for his deeds, however dead he might be. But say nothing to Madame at present, and trust in Isobel's excellent understanding, whenever she is returned to us. Something shall be devised for your comfort, and the preservation of your reputation.” I assessed the fullness about her stomach. “The interlude at the mantua-maker's you survived without discovery?”

Fanny nodded disconsolately. “I am to have some lovely things, Miss Austen, though they are in black.” Her eyes welled anew. “And though Tom shall never admire me the more!”

I SAW FANNY SAFELY TO HER ROOM, AND BADE HER TO REST if she might; and then in some distraction, I sought the patient Mr. Cranley below.

“Mr. Cranley!” I cried, as he started from a brown study at my entrance, “was there ever a truer gentleman? And was he ever treated to a house in greater disarray? But share with me your news.”

He drew forward a chair without preamble. “I have obtained from Danson the Earl's correspondence. With it should be a list of letters sent on certain dates, with the names of their recipients — for Lord Scargrave is most meticulous in accounting for his postage debts,” the barrister added, as an afterthought.[43] “Do I ask too much, Miss Austen, or may I beg your assistance in the task? I should like to have a witness to whatever I may find.”

“I shall bend myself to your will, Mr. Cranley,” I assured him.

“The Earl's letters are kept locked in this portable desk.” Mr. Cranley crossed the room to a small wooden cabinet, whose lid folded back to reveal a writing surface suitable for one's lap. “Danson allowed me to carry it hither.”

There were nineteen letters in all, written carefully in a strong, even hand, and dating from the day of the ball at Scargrave — a day that might have occurred in a different lifetime. That they were solely letters of business, we readily perceived; and from a hasty comparison of the Earl's list and his extant drafts, we learned immediately that one more letter had been sent than the little desk now contained.

“Capital!” Mr. Cranley cried; “it is as you thought, Miss Austen. A draft was written during one of those difficult days following the late Earl's demise; it was copied, and mailed; and before Lord Scargrave's man had time to file it with the other papers that evening, it was seized and used to form the note found on the maid Marguerite.”

“Or the draft may simply have been discarded,” I warned, feeling some restraint was necessary; “one may not always conform to habit or rule.”

We set to comparing the drafts to the Earl's list, and saw that the missing letter was one of several sent to his solicitors, in Bond Street; it but required a glance from Mr. Cranley to his watch, and a call for a hackney carriage, and we were on our way to their door.

MAYHEW, MAYHEW & CRABB WAS A RESPECTABLE ESTABLISHMENT, as befit men of business who cater to the peerage; the plate secured to the deep green door was of brass, and the marble stoop was well scrubbed. Upon seeing the firm's name so declared, I remembered with a start Isobel's last injunction before leaving the Manor — that I deliver her testament to one Hezekiah Mayhew. I had tarried in doing so, in the hope that all such matters might be deferred some decades, once Isobel's freedom was secured; but now that we stood before the solicitors’ door, I bethought me of the document, which I kept safe in my reticule, and placed beneath my pillow at night. I should deliver the deed to Mr. Mayhew immediately, should he be within.

We were ushered to a snug parlour, where a bright fire cast its glow on several easy chairs; and Mr. Cranley's card had barely been delivered, than Mr. Hezekiah Mayhew appeared to place himself at our service. He was a portly gentleman of some seventy years, quite stooped, with a shining pate that had long since lost its hair, and two bushy white eyebrows that attempted to supply the difference.

“Mr. Cranley,” the solicitor said, with a deep bow in the barrister's direction; “it is a pleasure to welcome you to my humble office.”

“The honour must be mine,” Mr. Cranley rejoined, “as well as my thanks, for having placed the Countess's trouble in my hands.”

“This firm has had the management of the Scargrave family's business for eighty years, at least,” Mr. Mayhew observed, with an eyebrow cocked for Cranley, “but never have we witnessed so terrible a passage as this. I merely chose the best and most reliable barrister I knew.” The grave brown eyes turned upon my face. “And you, Madam, would be—?”

“Miss Jane Austen. I am a friend of the Countess's.”

“Miss Austen is ungenerous in her own behalf,” Mr. Cranley interrupted smoothly. “She is the greatest friend the Countess could hope to have, and no less energetic in the new Earl's defence.”

“That is very well — very well, indeed.” Mr. Mayhew's glance was penetrating. “Friends, in my experience, are like ladies’ fashions, Miss Austen. They come and go with the seasons, and are rarely of such stout stuff as bears repeated wearing. I am glad to find you formed of better material.” With that, he led us to his inner rooms.

Mr. Cranley offered me a chair, and took one of his own before the solicitor's great desk.

“You are here on the Countess's behalf?” Mr. Mayhew enquired, with a glance that encompassed us both.

“Not directly,” I replied, “though I am charged with placing this in your safekeeping, Mr. Mayhew.” I handed him the sealed parchment that contained Isobel's final directions, and felt the lighter for having passed the burden to another. “I would ask that you address the matters it contains when we have presumed upon your time no longer.”

“Having other, more pressing matters, to discuss?” the solicitor surmised, his bushy eyebrows lifting.

“We come to you on the Earl's behalf today,” Mr. Cranley said.”

“Though, indeed, the two can hardly be separated,” I broke in. “What may serve to prove the innocence of one, cannot help but assist the other.”

“Indeed. Indeed. Pray enlighten me as to your purpose. “Mr. Mayhew drew forth a pen and a sheet of paper and set a pair of ancient spectacles upon his nose.

We explained the business of Fitzroy Payne's correspondence, and were gratified to discover that old Mayhew's wits were swift. He seized the importance of our questions directly; a correspondence file was ordered, and the final copies of several letters, whose rougher selves we had previously perused in Danson's desk, were produced for our examination.

And to our great joy, we found that one of them was utterly strange to us. No draft of it had we seen.

I glanced up at Mr. Cranley as I finished the letter; let us meet in our accustomed place was there, certainly, and crying out for comparison to the fragment found in the maid's bodice. But it was the content of the letter itself that struck me forcibly — Lord Harold had imposed upon Isobel so entirely, that he had outwitted even himself.

“Are you of the Earl's opinion, Mr. Mayhew?” I asked the solicitor. “Is it so impossible for the Countess to make over her West Indies property?”

The rheumy brown eyes blinked at me shrewdly, and Hezekiah Mayhew cleared his throat. “I have examined the problem narrowly, Miss Austen, and I may say it is indeed a pretty one. A very pretty problem for the Countess and the Earl.” He paused, and looked from Mr. Cranley to myself.

“My good sir,” Mr. Cranley said urgently, “all these matters may bear upon his lordship's survival; we cannot know until all the information is ours. Pray continue.”

“Separate property is, of necessity, comprised of assets,” Mr. Mayhew replied. “And as we know, assets may suddenly lose their value, against all expectation. Securities may plummet, banks and their holdings fail; and property — particularly property valued for the crops it produces — lose much of its value. Under the terms of the trust established at the death of the Countess's mother, Amelie Delahoussaye Collins, once Crosswinds is so reduced in value as to bring bankruptcy upon the trust, the trustees may consider the sale of the property itself to satisfy creditors.”

The solicitor shifted his considerable girth and reached for a clay pipe. Then eyeing me — it would not do to smoke before a lady — he returned it to its place upon the polished surface of his desk, with a soft sigh and an irritable frown. “And that is very nearly what has happened,” he said, for Mr. Cranley's benefit.

“Can the Countess's land be so lacking in value?” the barrister enquired.

“The land is not, but the crops it produces assuredly are,” Mr. Mayhew answered bluntly. “In ^he time of the Countess's father, John Collins, a decision was made to turn from sugar cultivation to coffee.” The large white eyebrows came down alarmingly, and Hezekiah Mayhew turned to enlighten me. “Coffee bushes, Miss Austen, take several years to mature; and if they are blighted in their youth — as these unfortunately were — they must be destroyed and replanted. Twice this happened to John Collins; and twice he sought additional capital to supplement his losses. When he finally produced a saleable crop, the world price had dropped due to a rise in production in Brazil; and Collins's beans were hardly worth the blood money he had paid to grow them. The revolts among the slave populations have caused great losses as well — in human capital, and in the destruction of crops and outbuildings by fire; the cost of rebuilding and replanting again required Mr. Collins to seek capital from investors, and at his death, his assets were found to be insufficient to satisfy his creditors. Although the property in trust remained so legally in the Countess's marriage settlement, it is an open question whether her trustees might not be prevailed upon to sell the property itself.” He sat back in his chair, which creaked in protest, his hands upon his watch chain.

“But the Countess herself may not do it?” Mr. Cranley pressed.

“She must have the agreement, in writing, of the trustees.”

“And who are these men?” I enquired, in an eager accent.

The parched old face creased into a smile. “I fear I misspoke, Miss Austen, from long habit,” the solicitor said. “There is only one trustee, and she is hardly male — an unusual circumstance, certainly, but reflective of the wishes of the Countess's family. They were originally French bankers, you know, who set up the first bank in Martinique, and they remained a clannish sort of set, never trusting their business to outsiders. As trustees — all family members — died, they could not be replaced; and so only one now remains, a woman and the Countess's aunt, Madame Hortense Delahoussaye.”

“And it is solely her permission, Mr. Mayhew, which Lord Harold must secure?”

“It is,” the solicitor gravely replied.

I leaned forward in my anxiety. “But he has not yet obtained it?”

Something of interest flickered in Hezekiah Mayhew's shrewd eyes. “Not to my knowledge,” he said. “With the Countess's fate hanging yet in the balance, it is probable Madame Delahoussaye will defer any business some little while.”

Assuredly she would, if I comprehended the character of Madame Delahoussaye. Her daughter; Fanny, should become the fortunate heir to Isobel's property, however encumbered by debt, in the event of Isobel's hanging for her husband's murder; and if the family pride in property remained as fierce as Mr. Mayhew believed, Madame might throw all the weight of her material resources behind discharging the debt, and restoring the plantations themselves. But why had she not offered Isobel similar support, in the Countess's dire need?

The seed of an idea was taking shape. I stood up in haste. Though the hour was late, every minute was as gold; we lacked but four days until the trial should commence in the House of Lords.

“Forgive me, Mr. Mayhew,” I said, with extended hand, “you have been kindness itself, and have greatly assisted our efforts; but Mr. Cranley and I have pressing business elsewhere that cannot wait. I am honoured to have met you, sir — and feel certain that with your penetration exercised on her behalf, the Countess shall escape the clutches of her enemies even still.”

“She is unlikely to require my support, Miss Austen,” Hezekiah Mayhew said dryly, “when your own is already hers.”

Mr. Cranley parted from me at the solicitor's door; having procured a hackney carriage for my return to Scargrave, and hastening himself to his chambers at Lincoln's Inn, the better to prepare his defence of my friends. It was but a few moments to Scargrave House, where I found Fanny as yet upstairs in a darkened room, and Madame Delahoussaye resting on the settee before the drawing-room fire.

“My dear Miss Austen,” Madame said, sitting up briskly at my appearance, “I could not think where you had gone — and the house all at sixes and sevens. If you intend to run about by yourself in this manner, it would be well if you were to tell Cook when you expect to return, so that dinner at least is not a matter for conjecture.”

“I was not alone, Madame,” I rejoined. “I was with Mr. Cranley, in a visit to the Scargrave solicitors.”

“With Mr. Cranley,” Madame's expression dissolved in contempt, and she ran her eyes the length of my grey wool, as though it were transparent. “I suppose you have set your cap at him. He is not a bad sort of fellow, and quite suitable for one of your position in the world.”

I felt myself colour. Setting my cap at him, indeed. “That is an expression, Madame Delahoussaye, that I particularly abhor,” I cried, perhaps too warmly. “Its tendency is gross and illiberal, and if its construction could ever have been deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity.[45] I merely accompanied Mr. Cranley on a matter of business.”

I turned away, intending to dress for dinner, being unequal to the maintenance of my temper if I retained the room any longer; but Madame called after me.

“Business? What may a lady have to do with business, pray?”

I revolved slowly and regarded her before answering. “It is Madame who must answer that, and not I.”

Something of the sourness in her expression drained from her face, and was replaced by obvious caution. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Austen?”

“I had understood that business was a peculiar province of your own, Madame. Particularly the business of your family fortune.”

She started at this, and looked somewhat nettled; and seeing that she was for once deprived of speech, I determined to press my advantage.

“Mr. Cranley and I were only now informed of your interest in the Countess's affairs. It seems it is to you Isobel must look for financial protection.”

“I!” the good lady cried, her composure regained, “she can find no protection from me, I assure you.”

“That much is evident, from your disinterest in her troubles,” I said bitterly. “It is even possible she is past all such protection, in any case.”

To these words of reproach, Madame answered me nothing. With glittering eyes, she rose from her place and swept by me, out of the room; and after a moment, I followed in her train. I was greatly fatigued, and looked forward to my dinner, and considered dispensing with the necessity of changing my dress; I should far rather enjoy a tray by my bedchamber fire, than a chilly hour in Madame's company. But I had only gained the comfort of my room a few moments, and undone the quantity of horn buttons that run the length of my gown's back, before the swift passage of footsteps in the corridor demanded my attention. I peered around my door, and observed Madame Delahoussaye disappearing down the stairs, arrayed in a cloak and a very fine hat, indeed. And since she should require the use of neither in the Scargrave dining room, I quickly surmised that she had determined to disregard the lateness of the hour, and undertaken to pay a call.

Alone in the doorway, my gown undone, I debated with myself. Madame might do little more than fetch a physick for poor Fanny from the local apothecary; but no — in that case, she should dispatch a servant. Only the greatest need could send Madame forth at such a time — and I little doubted that it was my words, spoken angrily in the drawing-room below, that had done it. I reached for my pelisse and hat, and ran hurriedly for the stairs, clutching at my undone back. I was in time to observe Madame through the drawing-room window, in an attitude of some urgency, as she stepped swiftly into the Scargrave carriage.

SHE LED MY HACKNEY A MERRY CHASE, MADE ALL THE MORE difficult by my injunction to the driver upon engaging him, that he should be at pains not to be observed by our quarry. It is not that the way to Wilborough House was so difficult to find, but that the traffic at this hour, when merchants and gentlemen were bent upon finding their dinners at home or in the exclusive clubs of Pall Mall, should be decidedly snarled. The jostling of carriages and horses, of coachmen and waggoneers shouting invective as hallmarks of their masculinity and claim to place, made any passage a tedious if colourful one; and the anxiety of keeping the Scargrave carriage in sight, without ourselves being seen, was an added fillip of torture.

Madame soon arrived at her destination, however; ordered the coachman to wait; and ascended the august flight of marble steps with alacrity. I recalled that during Lord Harold's Christmas visit to Scargrave Manor she had particularly declared herself a stranger to the Duke and Duchess of Wilborough; and so such a call, at such an hour, was something to amaze. But having observed her flight, I had guessed she would fetch up here; and I had little doubt as to her object in paying homage to those so much above her station. Madame cared nothing for Wilborough, or his lady: it was his brother she sought, her partner in all her crimes.