Jane and The Wandering Eye

Chapter 11 A Knife at the Throat

Saturday,

15 December 1804

I PARTED FROM THE HENRY AUSTENS IN THE FOYER OF THE Lower Rooms not long thereafter, but I did not go to my chair in even tolerable composure. My thoughts were entirely consumed with Lord Harold Trowbridge for the better part of my journey home to Green Park Buildings. He has ever been a man of coldest calculation, a master-player at chess, and moving amongst a multitude of boards — all of them quite chequered. I had thought the tender passions to be his abhorrence; and indeed, with such a career as he has made, they should never prove his friends. However many women he may keep in style in Mayfair, his heart is unlikely to be touched. This containment of temper preserves him from the stabs of the impertinent, just as it renders the exploitative without object. Moreover, I trace in its lineaments the result of some great disappointment in early life — the loss of a beloved to betrayal, or perhaps a crueller fate. My intimacy with Lord Harold has never been of so great a kind as to permit the exchange of confidences; and thus my conjectures must remain unsatisfied. But his weakness in the present instance troubles me — I detect an inclination to the challenge of Maria Conyngham’s heart — and I fear for the composure of his mind.

I cannot, however, find in this any possible hope of happiness for Lord Harold. He knows of her proximity to Richard Portal, and of that gentleman’s blackmailing art; knows, too, that Maria is tied by affection or avarice to the Earl of Swithin. And though he cannot prove it was her hand that thrust home the dagger, suspicion will curl in his very entrails — poisoning his thoughts, destroying his sleep, and turning his tenderest feeling the betrayer of his judgement. He will be flayed alive by the division in his soul — and that suffering will lead him to divine the truth.

And in seeking the truth, he can only destroy Miss Conyngham.

A sudden lurch to the chair thrust me strongly against the left-hand window, and I cried out in some alarm. I had barely time to observe that the forward bearer had set down his poles, pitching me to the front of my seat, before the aft man did likewise; and the two ran off without a word of explanation, quite impervious to my exclamations of outrage and dismay. Where was the link boy, with his flaring lamp?[58] The darkness enshrouding the chair was absolute, and in sudden, sharp fear, I fumbled at the door.

It was then I perceived a figure looming over me — and my breath caught hard within my throat.

“There now, ma’am, hand us your reticule, or we’ll be forced to find it — and we’ve ways of looking you won’t much like.” A most ruffianly-appearing fellow stared down at me in the darkness, his face partially obscured by a handkerchief. “You shouldn’t ought to travel when the night’s without the moon, miss. Mortal dangerous it is.”

I sank back into the chair, finding in its low-ceilinged space a hint of reassurance and protection, and saw that a second man, bearded and muffled to defy detection, had taken up position by the first. The chair had been abandoned in an alley — no doubt through the thieves’ collusion with the dastardly chairmen — and the place was unfamiliar to my eyes. In such darkness, however, all of Bath might be disguised. I briefly considered screaming in a bid for assistance — surely the streets must as yet be populous — but recollected the habit of the most common footpad, of carrying a knife or a club. And so I handed the thieves my reticule without complaint.

They were a curious pair — hulking and sturdy as farming hands, but dressed in the ape of fashion. Had I passed them on the street, and never heard them speak, I might have taken them for gentlemen, indeed — and could hardly believe their raiment won from the profits of petty stealing. The first man untied the strings of my little purse and probed within.

The second man peered through the doorway, and I quailed at the rage in his eyes. They were singular, indeed, as though the Devil’s mark was upon him — for even in the gloom I could discern that one eye was light, and the other dark. Where had I seen a similar pair before? But I lacked time for all reflection — for to my extreme terror, he reached a hand to the collar of my pelisse, and the hand held a knife.

I rapped his knuckles sharply with my fan and screamed aloud at the full pitch of my lungs. The ruffian seized me by the shoulders, and endeavoured to bring the knife to my very throat — when his hand was stilled by the blessed sound of running feet careening around a corner.

With an oath and a slam of a fist to the sedan chair’s roof, my assailant dashed back into the darkened alley. His companion followed hard at his heels. And it was then I remembered where last I had seen him — he was Smythe, the labourer from the Theatre Royal. I screamed again, and thrust myself out of the chair and into the arms of a burly fellow in the blue uniform and peaked cap of the chairmen — and recoiled in horror, as from a nightmare too quickly renewed.[59]

“Now, miss,” the man said comfortingly, “what’s the to-do?”

“I was abandoned in this place by some of your brethren, and set upon by thieves,” I managed. “Pray to call the constable.”

He turned and hallooed to some confederates, who dashed off in pursuit of my assailants; and trembling in every limb, I was conducted through a growing crowd to the safety of a coaching inn.

It was another hour before I achieved the stoop of Green Park Buildings, however, having been sent home in a hack chaise at the constable’s expense. I had lost my reticule and such coin as I possessed to my dedicated footpads. The constable had dutifully noted the abandonment of the chair, the seizing of my purse, and my description of a man with parti-coloured eyes, who I thought was named Smythe, and very likely to be found in Orchard Street. He was content to believe the incident one of common theft — but I knew otherwise. It was nothing less than my murder that Smythe had attempted tonight; and that he was sent by the same person responsible for Richard Portal’s death, I felt certain.

The question that remained, however, was why?

MY FATHER WAS SITTING UP WITH AN ANXIOUS FACE, HIS candle nearly guttered and a volume of Grandison open on his lap. “Jane!” he cried, as I entered the sitting-room. “It is nearly one o’clock! The dancing cannot have been so excessively prolonged.”

“No, Father, it was not,” I wearily replied, and laid my bonnet upon the Pembroke table. “I have been waylaid and robbed in the neighbourhood of Westgate Buildings.”

“Robbed? — But were you then walking alone? And how came you near Westgate Buildings?”

“I was not so foolish as to venture entirely alone into the streets on a night without moon.” My voice was cross, but I had perhaps had too much of questioning. “I can only think the chairmen were in league with the thieves, for they brought me to that insalubrious neighbourhood and abandoned me to my fate.”

My father said not another word, but enfolded me in his frail arms. We are almost of a height, he and I; and through the flannel of his dressing-gown, I could discern the light, rapid beating of his heart. “I fear for you, Jane,” he said at last. “This is uncommon, indeed, for Bath at Christmastide, and the close of a respectable evening’s entertainment. It would not have to do, I suppose, with a certain gentleman we all choose to despise?”

“I assure you it does not, Father,” I untruthfully replied; but no further words could I utter.

“Very well.” His looks were grave, and I detected a want of his usual confidence. He might almost have disbelieved me. “But you are not to summon a chair again, Jane, unless in the company of a larger party.”

“I may safely promise you never to do so.”

He bent to kiss the crown of my head in the gentlest fashion possible. “I am sorry for you, indeed, my dear. You will say nothing of this affair to your mother, I beg. Her fancies run quite wild enough, without the fodder of fact to lend them strength.”

SLEEP WAS LONG IN COMING WHEN AT LAST I SOUGHT MY bed, and my dreams were racked with fear — so that I recoiled insensible from knives that pressed against my neck, and should have cried aloud, but for the choking length of pendant chain that twined around my throat. A glittering bauble hung almost to my knees, ringed about with pearls; and as I watched, its smouldering eye turned from blue to brown and back again — unblinking all the while.

I awoke in a shuddering torment, to find the dawn creeping at my window.

I took my father’s excellent advice, and when at breakfast my mother condescended to enquire about my final hour in the Lower Rooms, I talked only of indifferent tea. She was satisfied with this, and soon abandoned us for the writing desk in her bedchamber, and a long-neglected correspondence. My father, however, lingered over his coffee and rolls, and seemed in no hurry to seek acquaintance in the Pump Room.

I flushed, and set down my teacup. “How despicable!”

“You do not find it diverting, Jane?” my father cried with false astonishment. “We may then suppose naïveté, rather than a dangerous taste, to be foremost in your character — and I shall convey the news to the editors of the Chronicle without delay. All of Bath is sure to be impatient for our reply.”

I hastened to my father’s side and snatched the paper from his unprotesting hands. “But this is abominable!”

“It is no more than you should have expected, I am sure,” said Cassandra from her place by the fire. But her eyes, when they met mine, held no triumph. “One cannot engage in public display without drawing the notice of the most impertinent and voluble of gossips.”

“Am I to be denied, then, the common right of privacy with regard to my personal affairs?” I retorted hotly.

“I believe you forfeited it wwhen you undertook to receive Lord Harold,” my sister replied.

“Cannot you put an end to the acquaintance, my dear?” my father protested. “The present publicity alone must convince your friend that he may only do you harm with his attentions; and no honourable man would require further explanation. You cannot desire so much notoriety, I am certain.”

I hesitated, for the warmest sensibility has always warred with reason in my character, and the impulse was strong to champion Lord Harold at the expense of my reputation. But in deference to my father, I said nothing of the outrage bubbling in my breast, or of the regard I felt for the gentleman’s character. I took refuge, instead, in prevarication.

“For my part, I have always believed Lord Harold merely hoped I might strengthen my friendship with his niece, Lady Desdemona — who lacks a broad acquaintance in Bath, and must feel her brother’s present misfortunes most acutely. I believe, moreover, that Lord Harold is much attached to another, and henceforth is likely to further his interest with the lady.”

“Indeed, Jane? But what is this? Jilted by the Gentleman Rogue?” my father cried. “Pray to fetch my paper and pen. The Chronicle must know of it immediately!”

I attempted a smile at his unfortunate raillery; but an oppression of spirits must defeat the effort.

“My poor Jane,” Cassandra murmured. She set aside her napkin and gazed at me with pity. “I feel for the disappointment of your hopes. But considering Lord Harold’s character, we could not have hoped for better. For is it not to be preferred, that his falseness and levity be revealed in the present hour, than discovered far later, when a greater damage had been done?”

A comforting thought, indeed.

“I am sure I shall learn to see the matter as you do, Cassandra,” I replied; but the words came only with effort.

I COULD NOT REFLECT UPON THE PREVIOUS EVENING’S MISADVENTURE without the greatest trepidation; there was no one to whom I might confide my distress, other than Lord Harold; and yet the sly calculation of the Bath Chronicle had rendered comfort in that quarter suspect. I stood some moments before the looking-glass, to study my throat with the most acute eye, and imagine the descent of a blade — and all attempt at composure remained well beyond my reach. And so, a few hours after the Chronicle had been burnt in the sitting-room grate for the deception of my mother, I set out on foot to Dash’s Riding School. Lord Harold had said that Lady Desdemona would ride there; and perhaps he might make one of the party. I could think of nothing so calculated for the relief of my mind, than the relation of the whole to that gentleman.

My heart was heavy, however, and I moved as though under the scrutiny of all Bath. An absurd emotion, of course — did even half the citizens I encountered along my route peruse the morning papers, only a handful were likely to have read the speculative column, and none of them were familiar with my face — but a blow had been struck, all the same, and I laboured under the wound.

Cassandra had barely uttered a word, when I had declared my intention of walking into Montpellier Row, where the riding school is situated; but the diffidence of my speech, regarding my intention to remain on terms of intimacy with Lady Desdemona despite her uncle’s probable defection, could not disguise my true misery. In my father’s eyes I read the reflection of my sister’s doubts; and the disapproval of the entire household must weigh heavily upon me. It is the Austens’ considered opinion that I am entirely lost to Lord Harold Trowbridge, and that my character now hangs in the balance; at the advanced age of nearly nine-and-twenty, I have consented to play the fool, and serve as pawn in the designs of the great. In vain have I pled the cause of friendship, and the lamentable misfortune of Simon, Lord Kinsfell. These are weighed as nothing in the scales of feminine virtue, which have clearly tipped in the direction of impropriety, subterfuge, and deceit.

And so to Dash’s I have gone, with lowered spirits and a fading courage; for we are never so confident in our activity, as when we move with the certainty of the world’s approbation — nor so dragging of feet, as when the contempt of the beloved is foremost in our minds.

“MISS AUSTEN!” THE DOWAGER DUCHESS EXTENDED A gloved hand and smiled up at me from her chair. “How delightful to see you again! I see we may claim one friend at least!”

“The honour is mine, Your Grace,” I replied, and pressed the offered hand. “Miss Wren. You are well, I trust?”

“As you find me, Miss Austen.” She bobbed a curtsey, but did not trouble to smile. “I do fear the onset of an inflammation of the lungs — it is ever a danger at this time of year, is it not? — though I should never complain, when dearest Mona is bent upon her little pleasures.”

I turned to gaze at the riders circling within the ring, and presently located a fresh-faced lady in a dark blue habit. “How well she looks!” I exclaimed involuntarily.

“Like a general advancing upon the field,” the Duchess agreed. “The soutache and braid are cunning, are they not? I had the design of her habit myself. And the hat is a perfection!”

The article thus described was a shako with feathers, and completed Lady Desdemona’s air of having emerged triumphant from the battlefield; her cheeks were bright, and her eyes sparkled, as she gazed up into the face of the officer riding beside her. I recognised her partner from the Lower Rooms.

“Is that Colonel Easton I see, Your Grace?”

“The Earl of Northcote’s second son. A well-bred, gentleman-like fellow enough, and quite martyred to my Mona.”

“He is very handsome.”

“—and possesses not a farthing to his name,” Miss Wren sniffed.

“You exaggerate, my dear Wren,” the Duchess countered. “He has an excellent commission, and the pay of a colonel’s rank — a thousand pounds a year, at least. He lives in very easy circumstances.”

“Or would, did he learn to abhor the gaming tables,” Miss Wren retorted acidly. “But he is nothing compared to Lord Swithin. Mona’s fortune should be entirely thrown away on such a fellow — and he cannot even offer her a title!”

The topic, I judged, had been canvassed before; but it was allowed to dwindle away, at the advance of two very fine ladies, habited to ride. Their hair was golden, their smiles complacent; and they might as readily have been a pair of china dolls, for all the animation I observed.

“The Lady Louisa Fortescue! And Lady Augusta, too! I am happy to see you.” The Dowager spoke with an amiable nod. “You do not yet brave the ring, I see.”

“We merely await the appearance of our brother, Your Grace; but could not delay another moment in offering our deepest sympathies regarding the misfortunes that have plagued your household.” The elder Fortescue arranged her features in a poor display of sincerity. “Our brother has told us of the stupidity of the local magistrate. We were excessively miserable! For what is the kingdom coming to, if an heir to a dukedom may be summarily thrown into gaol? When, I beg, may we expect Lord Kinsfell to be restored to the bosom of his family?”

“Presently, we have reason to hope. And is the Earl of Swithin to ride today as well?”

“We should not consider it without him,” the younger girl cried, with a look for her sister. “I cannot think it would be proper.”

“Your delicacy does you credit, I am sure,” Miss Wren interjected. “I could wish that all young ladies might conduct themselves so becomingly.”

The Earl’s sisters bestowed upon Wren their condescending smiles, and sank with a languid air into some chairs at the Duchess’s side.

“You are not, I think, acquainted with Miss Austen.” Her Grace turned her affectionate looks my way. “Lady Louisa and Lady Augusta Fortescue — Miss Jane Austen, Lady Desdemona’s particular friend.”

“Indeed?” the elder said, with an appearance of interest. “And are you visiting, then, in Laura Place, Miss Austen?”

“I am so fortunate as to call Bath my home, Lady Louisa.”

“Ah. And what part of Bath?”

“My family resides in Green Park Buildings.”

“Green Park—” She turned and glanced significantly at her sister. “And are you, perchance, a clergyman’s daughter?”

My traitorous cheeks grew hot. So the Chronicle was read in the Earl’s household, at least. But the Dowager Duchess’s smooth intercession saved me the trouble of replying.

“How long do you intend to remain in Bath, Lady Louisa?” Her Grace enquired.

The Earl’s sister shrugged, with all the indolent charm of a lady educated privately and at great expense. “As long as it pleases Charles. We come and go entirely at his command, Your Grace, for he must have the society of ladies to lend his establishments elegance.”

“But of course,” the Duchess replied. “You were lately, I believe, in London?”

“We came down on Thursday, at our brother’s request. Charles sent for us from Bristol, you know, having business there earlier in the week — and when the intelligence of Lord Kinsfell’s misfortunes reached his ears, nothing would suit but that he should journey to Bath immediately. And so we were required to join him, at great trouble to ourselves, and very little notice.”

My senses were all alerted at this intelligence. The Earl of Swithin, so near to Bath as Bristol, at the time of Mr. Portal’s murder?

“The Earl’s attention and concern for the Wilborough family does him credit,” Miss Wren observed, beaming. “So thoughtful of every particular!”

“I am sure that consideration had little to do with it,” Lady Augusta supplied, “for Charles is a very heedless fellow, and never acts without consulting his own wishes first. Poor Mona will suffer from it, by and by — but I own I shall be glad to give up my place to Charles’s wife! It is quite tedious to be always dancing attendance upon a brother. Only think! I might have gone to any number of balls in such a season, had I been allowed to remain in London; but here I am, forced to rusticate in Bath, and all because some actor must get himself killed! It is quite provoking.”

“It is too bad of you, Augusta!” her elder sister cried, “for you were complaining only last week that London was dreadfully thin, and pining for a change.”

The clatter of a horse’s hoofs drew all our attention to the ring, and the interesting revelations of the Fortescue ladies were at an end.

“Good morning, Miss Austen!” Lady Desdemona cried, drawing up before the rail. “Louisa — Augusta — how droll to find you here! May I have the honour of presenting Colonel Easton?”

He was a ruddy-faced young man of perhaps thirty, with bright red hair and an expression of cheerful good temper in his brown eyes that was immediately pleasing. An air of capability and strength surrounded his person; but I shuddered to consider him at twenty paces from the Earl of Swithin’s duelling pistol. The ruthlessness of the one must make short work of the other.

“Lady Louisa Fortescue, Lady Augusta Fortescue, Miss Jane Austen — Colonel George Easton.”

That he knew to whom the Fortescues were related, was entirely evident from the subtle transformation of the Colonel’s expression; but he was nothing if not a gentleman, and merely inclined his head in salutation. His right arm was as yet in a sling, while his left managed the reins of his mount. “Forgive me, ladies, for my rudeness in retaining my headgear, but a trifling injury—”

“Say nothing of it, Colonel, I beg,” I replied for my part, and curtseyed.

Lady Louisa inclined her golden head. “We have known Colonel Easton this age,” she said, “though he pretended not to notice us in Bath Street the other day. Thursday morning, was it not, Augusta? We were only just arrived.”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am — had I perceived the honour of your presence in Bath Street, I should surely have attended you; but it was impossible. I arrived in Bath only yesterday.”

“And had not even stopped to secure a room, before paying your respects in Laura Place,” observed the Dowager. “Such gallantry!”

“Why, I declare, Colonel Easton,” Augusta Fortescue cried. She had been surveying his visage most intently. “You have quite shaved off your whiskers — and they were so very handsome, too! I might never have known you! But you will remark, Louisa, that it cannot have been Colonel Easton Thursday in Bath Street. For that gentleman possessed whiskers — and the Colonel’s are quite gone.”

The Colonel coloured, and made some slight remark of deprecation — the fashion being now for clean-shaven faces — himself a slave to ladies’ good opinion.

“You are on leave for the Christmas holiday, Colonel?” I enquired.

“A few days only, to my despair.” This, with a glance for Lady Desdemona. “But every minute is as gold stored up against the poverty of winter.”

She blushed, and covered her emotion in leaning down to caress her horse’s mane. “Colonel Easton has expressed a desire to visit Simon, Grandmère — and I believe I shall attend him to the gaol.”

“My lady!” Miss Wren cried out in horror, and looked all her agony at the Fortescue sisters. “It is not to be thought of!”

“Is there any small item for Kinny’s comfort you should wish me to convey, Your Grace?” Lady Desdemona continued hurriedly.

The Dowager did not answer her for the space of a heartbeat. Then she smiled. “Send Simon my dearest love, of course — and my belief in his courage. He shall not remain there long.”

“No,” Lady Desdemona said thoughtfully, “for Uncle says he is to be conveyed to Ilchester on Monday.”

“You cannot condone such a foolish notion, Your Grace,” Miss Wren protested. “I am sure you cannot! For the daughter of the Duke of Wilborough, to be seen in such a place!”

“If the heir to the Duke of Wilborough is already in residence, I cannot believe it makes one whit of difference,” Lady Desdemona retorted, flaring. “Besides, I shall have Miss Austen as chaperone. Shan’t I, Miss Austen?”

“But of course,” I stammered.

“And with Easton to attend us, there cannot be the slightest objection. We shall travel in his phaeton, and go entirely unremarked. I am quite determined, Wren.” She wheeled her horse with grace and dexterity. “I tarry only to stable my mount, Miss Austen!”

With a smile and a bow, the Colonel cantered off at her heels.

“Only fancy, Louisa,” Augusta Fortescue remarked. “Dash Easton dancing attendance on Mona again. And without his whiskers, too! What will Charles say?”

It was unfortunate, I thought, that the Earl arrived too late for such a display; but his sisters had lost not a syllable of the conversation.