Jane and The Wandering Eye

Chapter 15 Portrait of a Witch

Wednesday,

19 December 1804

I DEVOTED AN HOUR AFTER BREAKFAST THIS MORNING TO MY correspondence — a long-delayed letter of condolence to Anne Lefroy’s daughter, Jemima, and a second note intended for my brother James’s eyes alone. In this I begged him, with the most acute sensibility, to relate by return of post every particular of Madam Lefroy’s death — not excepting the loose talk of the neighbourhood that had undoubtedly arisen, in the train of so hideous an accident. I went so far as to hint that he might satisfy my anxiety with an interrogation of the unfortunate groom. And at the last, I enquired whether he had chanced to encounter some gentlemen of my acquaintance in the neighbourhood of Overton — the actor, Hugh Conyngham, or his lackey, Smythe, a hulking, great fellow with one blue and one brown eye. I thought them likely to have gone into Hampshire, and would not wish them to suffer from a dearth of acquaintance.

Not even James could resist so patent an invitation to gossip.

Quite pleased with my efforts, I sealed the sheet with a wafer, inscribed the direction, and had only to await the collection of the post. I have never been so decidedly impatient for correspondence from my eldest brother in all my life — for we do not enjoy as happy an intimacy as I might wish. I must hope that the oddity of my beseeching him for news, should not utterly rouse his suspicions.

I SET OUT NOT LONG THEREAFTER FOR LAURA PLACE; BUT had only achieved Pulteney Bridge, when I espied the figure of a woman in conversation with someone in a phaeton drawn up near one of the shops that line its length. Something in her elegant figure, the remarkable carriage of her head, seemed familiar, but the lady was so heavily veiled, I could not make her features out. As I approached she turned away, and hurried off into the marketplace that runs along the river at that point; and I decided I must have been mistaken. My conviction was given considerable reinforcement as I drew up with the carriage itself — and was hailed by none other than Colonel Easton.

“Colonel!” I cried. “And a very good day to you. Are you intending to call in Laura Place?”

“I am, Miss Austen — and should have been there already, had not I chanced upon the wife of a fellow officer, Mrs. Grimsby, a most excellent young woman, indeed. Grimsby is presently called away to the North, and she is sadly without friends. All the world is abroad this morning, I may say! But I am happy to find you here. May I carry you to Lady Desdemona?”

With these words, the Colonel chanced to take the measure of my sombre gown and black gloves, and his bluff good humour immediately faded. “I say — I hope I don’t intrude unhandsomely — but have you recently sustained a loss, Miss Austen?”

“I regret that I have.”

“My deepest sympathies, ma’am. And in such a season!”

“You are very good, Colonel. I should be delighted to attend you to Laura Place.”

He jumped out with a glad smile, and showed me into the phaeton. “I had hoped to ride with Lady Desdemona this morning, but I learned to my regret that she was a trifle indisposed.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

He shook his head. “I fancy she’s only blue-devilled by Kinsfell’s entanglement. And that uncle of hers cannot be a comfort — Trowbridge is forever dangling after one woman or another. I saw him myself in Orchard Street only last night, in such a display! Most unbecoming, with the family’s fortunes at such a pass; but the fellow never had the least discretion.”

Colonel Easton’s tact might as readily have been suspect; but I assumed he had not yet adopted the habit of reading the Bath Chronicle. He handed me into his chaise, then stepped up himself as swiftly as his wounded right arm would allow; and in pleasantries on one side, and some absence of mind on the other, we soon achieved Laura Place.

“MISS AUSTEN!” LADY DESDEMONA CRIED, RISING FROM what had obviously been a most interesting tête-à-tête with the Earl of Swithin. His long legs were stretched indolently towards the fire, in so comfortable an attitude that he might have claimed the Dowager’s drawing-room as his own these many months; but at the sight of visitors the Earl propelled himself to his feet, and managed a bow.

Lady Desdemona’s colour was high, and her eyes sparkling; and if she cast a guilty glance Lord Swithin’s way, and looked too conscious when she met my gaze, I could not find it in me to reproach her.

“I am delighted to see you,” she said, her hand extended. “And Colonel Easton—”

Her warmth must falter at the Colonel’s advance, but she need not have discomposed her mind. Easton had only to observe his rival in possession of coveted ground, take stock of the force he might bring to bear, and determine upon a judicious retreat; and with the most correct of bows, and a wooden countenance, the Colonel declared himself sadly engaged among acquaintance in Rivers Street, and stopping only long enough to enquire after Mona’s health.

“I chanced upon Miss Austen at Pulteney Bridge, and was so happy as to be able to bring her hither; but having seen her to your door, my lady, I fear it is beyond my power to remain.”

“How unfortunate,” Lady Desdemona replied implausibly. “But we shall have the concert this evening.”

“Until then,” Colonel Easton murmured — and so she rang for the footman.

“What an excellent fellow Easton is, to be sure,” Lord Swithin observed, as the rattle of his carriage proclaimed him well upon his way. The Earl was decidedly dashing this morning, I thought, in yellow pantaloons and tasselled Hessians, polished to a fare-thee-well. “He is correct almost to a fault — though one could wish his arm less encumbered by that wretched sling. It must decidedly reduce the effect of his regimentals.”

“You are a beast, Swithin,” Lady Desdemona rejoined tardy. “Easton is everything that is admirable in a man — his character must be beyond reproach.”

“Yes — and he is the sort of man the whole world speaks well of, but no one remembers to speak with. But having bested him at twenty paces, my dear Mona, I should be foolish to attempt it a second time when his back is turned. Miss Austen, I am sure, would not approve; and for Miss Austen’s approval I live in daily hope.” The Earl accompanied this sally with an archly raised eyebrow, and despite my doubts regarding his character, I could not quite repress a smile.

“To laugh at a man when he is incapable of justification would seem a paltry art,” I observed, “but I see you have managed it in the same breath as you declare it to be unwarranted.”

“Cleverness will out, despite one’s better nature,” he said with a bow. “But enough of Easton. I like him even less clean-shaven, than I did when he disguised his fawning looks with whiskers. I understand, Miss Austen, from my sisters that they had the pleasure of meeting you at Dash’s Riding School on Sunday.”

I should hardly have expected the insipid Lady Louisa, or the pettish Lady Augusta, to have recalled the face of an insignificant Miss Austen, much less her name—but I inclined my head in acknowledgement of the Earl’s good breeding. “Yes, I was so fortunate as to make their ladyships’ acquaintance. They were — most gracious, indeed. Though perhaps a little fatigued, at having been summoned so unexpectedly to Bath.”

“It was very bad of you, Swithin, to throw all your sisters’ schemes for the season into upheaval,” Lady Desdemona said with an innocent air. “I cannot think what should draw you to Bristol — nor why, once determined upon Christmas in Bath, you gave your family so little notice.”

She was, I observed, decidedly a Trowbridge.

The Earl seemed to hesitate, and then plunged unwillingly into explanation. “As for Bristol, Mona — I had matters of business that could not be put off. Bristol has long been the seat of a wealth of trade, as no doubt you are aware — and though it pains me to admit vulgarity, my dear, a Venturer in trade I have, of necessity, become.” He arranged himself near the hearth, his gaze averted, as though drawn by the play of the flames. “As for Christmas in Bath — I had long determined to descend upon the place. I may date the decision from the moment of your having done so yourself, my dear Mona. I tarried in London some weeks after your departure, however, for the silencing of the gossips. Had I informed Augusta and Louisa of my intention, the news should have been all over Town in a thrice.” He turned then, and studied her with amusement. “I may be your devoted servant, my dear — quite lost to every consideration, and willing to undertake any humiliation in your train — but I have no wish for the world to observe it. A trifling fatigue on the part of my sisters was well worth the preservation, however fleeting, of my reputation.”

Lady Desdemona blushed, and avoided his eye. “Swithin, Swithin — what have I done to you?”

He said nothing for a moment, his countenance grown suddenly grave; then he reached for his elegant black hat. “What no other lady has managed, my dear; and therein lies the mystery of your charms. But perhaps you will find it in your heart to pity me, Mona — and allow me to escort you to Mr. Rauzzini’s concert this evening.”

“The concert! I had not thought — that is to say — I am to be escorted this evening by Colonel Easton.”

“A pity. Easton cannot appreciate an Italian love song as I do, nor hope to translate it so prettily. But I shall have the pleasure of seeing you, at least; and such things may sustain a man a fortnight, with care. Miss Austen, your servant—” The Earl bowed, and quitted the room not a moment later.

“What an extraordinary man,” I observed in puzzlement. “I cannot make him out at all. He has quite the air of command; and I might almost believe him to have walked a quarterdeck, in company with my naval brothers, than the more prosaic ground of Tattersall’s betting room.”

“Oh, Miss Austen!” Lady Desdemona cried, with a brilliant smile, “you are a caution! It is exactly that quality in Swithin that so outrages and enslaves me both! His air of command! Decidedly, it is his air of command! I shall be in agonies tonight on Easton’s arm.”

“You remain so sensible of the Earl’s regard,” I said carefully, “though your uncle believes him capable of the grossest deceit?”

“Whatever Uncle may choose to think — whatever, indeed, he may eventually prove — my heart will whisper that Swithin is honourable,” Lady Desdemona replied firmly.

I could not remonstrate, or argue — for I had myself been urged by a similar conviction, not so very long ago, in the matter of Geoffrey Sidmouth; and had I ignored the counsel of my heart, and followed solely the evidence of others, he might eventually have hanged.

“But I am forgetting!” Lady Desdemona cried, and hurried to the little desk at one corner of the room. “You have come to enquire of Uncle — and he charged me most earnestly not to delay a moment. He left this note for you.”

It held a few lines only — Lord Harold regretted the inconvenience, but he had been called out urgently on business — should be most happy if I might meet him at the Bear — Her Grace’s carriage to be called for the purpose — he remained my humble and devoted, etc.

A glance at the mantel clock betrayed my tardiness; I could not stay for the harnessing of the horses; and so with a hurried farewell, I found myself once more in the street, and hastening in the direction of the Pump Room.

• • •

THE BEAR IS THE SECOND OF BATH’S FOREMOST COACHING inns, with a broad yard fronting on Cheap Street intended for the regular accommodation of the London stages and the mail coach. The inn’s frenzied activity at certain hours may be readily observed from both the White Hart and the Colonnade opposite; and it is not uncommon for young ladies intent upon the Pump Room to be nearly overrun at Union Passage by gentlemen too inept to keep their spirited teams in check. I never can approach the Bear without witnessing a near disaster, or hearing screams and oaths uttered together with a desperate lack of concern for the public view.

To the Bear I proceeded through the dirty streets — a typical Bath rain having quite blasted the morning’s promise of sun, and occasioned my employment of a broad black umbrella pressed upon me by Lady Desdemona. I had set out in good time, but Lord Harold was there before me — leaning carelessly against the inn’s iron gates, adjusting his gloves. The Gentleman Rogue was very fine this morning in a bottle-green coat and fawn pantaloons, with a greatcoat over all; and he bowed as I approached, and pronounced me most punctual.

We were informed by the Bear’s landlady, a Mrs. Pope, that Mr. Lawrence was not at present within, but that she expected him returned at any moment, and would be happy if we condescended to await the painter’s arrival in comfort upstairs.

Upstairs we were duly shewn — to a parlour attached to several commodious rooms, one serving, by all appearances, as bedchamber, and the other as temporary studio. Here we found Mr. Lawrence’s assistant — Job Harnley by name, a lad of perhaps sixteen, who was awash in sweat and very red about the face. It seemed that Lawrence was set upon London at last — and would depart this evening in a post-chaise. Master Harnley was even now intent upon the stowing of his traps, and the arranging of his canvases; for though he should keep his rooms at the Bear in earnest of his return, there were clients in London whose demands necessitated the striking of the studio.

“Perhaps his brush with a band of ruffians has quite overset our Lawrence’s spirits,” Lord Harold murmured.

We assured the young man of our indifference to his continued labour, and charged him to proceed as though we were ourselves invisible; and sat some moments in silence, our eyes wandering the parlour’s walls. Here there were sketches of every size and description — half-lengths, full-lengths, and three-quarters — that seemed to leap from the canvas itself, as though intent upon three dimensions. There were heads in profile, heads resting upon arms or drooping in melancholy abstraction — and they captivated the heart and fixed the gaze immediately.

Lord Harold had once told me that when Lawrence painted women, he contrived to convert them to pieces of confection; and as I surveyed the examples mounted on the walls, I understood what he had meant. They were, in the main, fashionable ladies displayed to decided advantage, of no very great interest to any but their originals. But when Lawrence undertook to paint a man—here was movement, expression, energy, power. The eyes glowed, the lips curled in misery or disdain; the features — freed from the burden of vanity — worked with thought and emotion. To one, in particular, my gaze was often turned; and this was a head of Mrs. Siddons’s brother, John Philip Kemble. Did he play at Hamlet? Or perhaps Macbeth? Some creature surely tormented beyond reason. The ghastly features were mere suggestions — broad strokes of the brush; the neck and chest were naked still in the charcoal of their underpainting; but the agony stamped on the half-finished head was palpable in the extreme. I was moved and horrified at once. As an artist, Mr. Lawrence clearly thrilled to the passion of the theatre.

“Do you observe the sketch on the wall opposite?” Lord Harold said, breaking into my thoughts.

I followed the direction of his eyes.

“That is Mr. John Julius Angerstein, I believe — a highly influential merchant in Town. He has recently undertaken to reform Lloyd’s, the insurers, and is one of the most important collectors of Old Master paintings. In this he rivals the Prince of Wales, who has profited from the confusion in France to acquire the greatest paintings in Europe.”

“It is a noble head, indeed,” I observed, studying the sketch, “though hardly handsome. An honesty of expression — a forthright countenance — and the care of years of trial are stamped upon the features.”[75]

A crash from beyond the studio door, where poor Master Harnley laboured, suggested the overturning of an easel.

“I recollect your saying that Mr. Lawrence rarely painted a woman in the truest light — or at least, that his feminine portraits lack a certain vivid emotion he never denies his men,” I continued. “In viewing these, I comprehend your meaning. But I would direct your eye to the sketch of Mrs. Wolff. It is extraordinary, is it not?”

The portrait was as yet in charcoal on canvas, without a touch of paint; but the curve of her swan-like neck, and the aversion of her glance as she bent over a book, suggested an infinite silence and containment, as though she were a woman complete in herself.

“It is a classical pose,” Lord Harold observed. “Taken, I think, from Michelangelo. One of his Sibyls, perhaps. Lawrence has managed it superbly. You are acquainted with the lady?”[76]

“She is intimate with my sister Eliza. And also, I think, quite intimate with Mr. Lawrence. In fact, I should not be surprised to learn that it is to Mrs. Wolff, in Bladuds Buildings, that he is presently gone.”

“I see.” Lord Harold bent to leaf through a collection of drawings propped in a huddle against the wall, his lips pursed and his eyes narrowing at a few. Of a sudden, however, his gaze was arrested — and the stillness of his entire form, together with the slight tremble in his fingers, fixed my attention.

“My lord?”

He turned and handed me the portrait without a word. Maria Conyngham, if I did not greatly mistake — her beautiful face turned fully towards the viewer, and her long-limbed form arranged upon a divan. She wore a dressing-gown of filmiest gauze, and her hair was unloosed upon a pillow; the expression in her superb brown eyes was dreamy, wanton, half-expressed and half-realised. The face of a creature moved by passion, if not by love.

“It is an excellent likeness,” I observed hollowly. “Perhaps he intended her as Juliet. Mr. Lawrence delights, I understand, in portraying artists of the theatre in their greatest roles.”

“He has portrayed her as a courtesan,” said Lord Harold abruptly, and withdrew the portrait from my hands. “We might wonder when she sat for it. Or should I say—reclined?”

“Lord Harold—”

But his attention was already fled. He had set the revealing image aside and withdrawn another, his brows knit in a scowl. “And who is this, I wonder?”

It was the head of a girl — done in charcoal, with eyes like burning coals. They had been fixed on Lawrence with an expression of some intensity, but whether of love or hate I could not tell. A stormy creature, in any event, with a tangle of short curls about her face, a prominent nose, a pursed mouth, and the suggestion of a hectic flush upon her cheeks.

But most extraordinary of all was the vicious scrawl of red paint — stark and mortal as blood — smeared across the surface. It partly obscured the girl’s features, and rendered the whole slightly lunatic.

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but I would wish you didn’t bother with those things,” said Master Harnley in an anxious voice. We turned as one, and observed him in the doorway of the makeshift studio. “They didn’t ought to be there, in truth, being intended for the rubbish.”

“Mr. Lawrence is disposing of these?” Lord Harold enquired in some astonishment.

Harnley nodded. “So he told me himself this morning.”

“Then I wonder if you might tell us something about this one.” I displayed the image so violently defaced with red. “It is a striking countenance, is it not?”

Harnley’s young face darkened visibly. “That’s the witch what keeps him up of nights,” he muttered, and taking a step backwards, he crossed himself. “Always crying and plaguing him in his dreams. Draws her over and over, he does, to rid himself of her evil charms — but it’s no use. I’ve destroyed a dozen or more like that, and still she comes by night.”

I glanced at Lord Harold, chilled and perplexed at once.

“How very singular,” he said indifferently. “And Mrs. Pope admits the lady to Mr. Lawrence’s presence?”

“Admits her? Lord, sir — she’s been dead these six or seven year! That’s the youngest Miss Siddons, what Mr. Lawrence intended to marry.”

The parlour door was thrust open hard upon the heels of this extraordinary remark, and our three heads turned as one — to perceive none other than the painter himself, preceded by Mrs. Pope and her beaming face. The landlady brought with her a tray of tea and warm cakes whose heady scent quite filled the room; and as she set her burden down upon the table, and bustled about with napkins and cutlery, the unfortunate Harnley advanced upon his master. With a deft and silent movement observed only by myself, Lord Harold turned the drawings to the wall — though not all, I believe, for one at least was secreted in his coat.

“Miss Austen!” Thomas Lawrence cried, with an agitated look. “And Lord Harold Trowbridge, indeed! This is a pleasure quite unlooked-for, I assure you! Harnley will have informed you, I suspect, that we are called away this very evening — upon urgent business.” He was almost prostrate with the effect of his haste; and I observed the marks of his late misfortune everywhere about his person. Mr. Lawrence’s head was bound round with a neat linen bandage, one eye was purple, and his expressive lips were bruised and swollen. When he moved, it was with a hesitancy that suggested a cracked rib or collarbone. “We cannot delay an hour.”

“So we understand, sir,” Lord Harold replied with a bow, “and we should not presume upon your time were it not a matter of some gravity that brings us thither.”

Mr. Lawrence was all impatience. “If it is about Lady Desdemona’s portrait, I assure you it shall be attended to the moment she is returned to London. For though I may attempt a drawing with tolerable success at some remove from my studio, I cannot undertake a finished portrait anywhere but in Town.”

“I entirely comprehend. The matter on which we would consult is wholly unconcerned with my niece.”

Mr. Lawrence looked from Lord Harold to myself, and an expression of ennui overlaid his handsome countenance.

“Very well,” he replied, gesturing to the table, “I shall spare you a quarter-hour. Pour out the tea, Mrs. Pope, and then be so good as to leave us. I shall ring for you presently. Harnley, see to the stowing of my dunnage in the chaise, there’s a good fellow.”

The landlady bobbed her way to the door, in company with Master Harnley, and when they had gone, Mr. Lawrence settled himself at the table with a cup at his elbow. “How may I be of service?”

Lord Harold withdrew the eye portrait from his coat and placed it upon the table. “This, I believe, was done by your hand.”

An indrawn breath, and Mr. Lawrence turned white.

The painter reached out and dashed the stormy grey eye to the floor. “Where in God’s name did you find that thing?”

“You know it for your own?”

“Cursed be the day I painted it — yes,” he cried. “I have had neither peace nor happiness since Maria Siddons died; and if I had never met, nor believed myself to love her, I should be a better man today.”

“Maria Siddons?” I enquired eagerly. Was this, then, the Maria Richard Portal had named in his final agony — the Siddons girl beloved of Hugh Conyngham?

A swift glance from Lawrence, while Lord Harold stooped to retrieve the pendant. “The same. She was the younger of the Siddons daughters; and I was so foolish as to engage to marry her.”

Lord Harold sought the ruined sketch of the spectral lady, and held it up to the light. Even at the distance of several feet, I could perceive the likeness of the eyes.

“I must entreat you to tell me how you came by this thing,” Lawrence said again, with obvious trepidation. “I had thought it buried with her.”

Lord Harold turned. “It was found on the breast of a murdered man,” he replied, “who whispered Maria as he died. We may presume that whoever stabbed him, uttered the name with conviction as the blade went home. A killing of revenge, perhaps, but visited upon the wrong person. For it was you, Mr. Lawrence, the assassin intended to kill.”

“I?” The unfortunate painter looked all his bewilderment.

“You were dressed in the guise of a Harlequin at the Dowager Duchess’s rout, were you not?” I observed.

“I was,” Lawrence said, comprehension dawning, “and I shuddered when another, so similarly garbed, was murdered in that hideous fashion. I gather you were also present that unfortunate evening.”

“I was,” I replied; and saw again in memory Mr. Lawrence’s Red Harlequin, conversing with Madam Lefroy.

“Then I may tell you that I quitted the house before the constables arrived. But you cannot mean that Portal’s end was meant for me?” The horror of the truth overcame him, and he threw his head in his hands. “Then the attack upon my chair — the gang of ruffians — was occasioned by a far more malevolent purpose than I had supposed.”

“There can be no other satisfactory explanation.” Lord Harold set the eye portrait before Lawrence; but the painter started with revulsion, and thrust his chair from the table.

“This is madness!” he cried. “It cannot be otherwise. We are cruelly imposed upon — for I know this portrait to have been held as sacred by one who should never have given it up.”

Lord Harold’s eyebrow rose, and he glanced at me. “Pray explain yourself, Mr. Lawrence.”

The painter stabbed a finger in accusation at the offending miniature. “You must know that Maria was for many years plagued with the consumption that ultimately proved her ruin. I painted this portrait of Maria for her mother, Mrs. Siddons, who feared the girl’s sudden end. The great lady’s talents being so much in demand, and her family generally in want of funds — as who is not? — Mrs. Siddons was frequently burdened with engagements abroad. It was a comfort to carry some token of her daughter about her person.”

Lord Harold retrieved the miniature and turned it delicately in his fingers. “And while painting Maria’s grey eye — you fell in love with the lady?”

Lawrence shrugged and averted his gaze. “I was, at the time, pledged to Maria’s sister — Miss Sally Siddons, the elder of the two. But you will understand, my lord, that Sally was a gentle creature, of unassuming aspect and mildest disposition — her temper was unmoved by storms of passion. Maria was … utterly different.”

“Her gaze alone is smouldering,” I observed.

“It is. Or was.” Lawrence swallowed convulsively, his eyes averted from the pendant. “Maria was jealous of her sister — jealous of what she believed was Sally’s stronger constitution and happier fortune — and she set about to ruin her life.”

It was fortunate the young lady was prevented from any reply, I thought, since Mr. Lawrence saw fit to so abuse her in death. I could not like or approve him; but he was clearly never without torment — and in this, I deeply pitied him.

“Under the most desperate infatuation, I broke off my engagement to Sally, and caused there the greatest pain a lady may know,” he continued. “Within a very few months, however, I realised the folly of my impulse. I begged dear Sally to forgive me, and attempt to love me again; to Maria I explained the whole — but the result was most unsatisfactory. From disappointment or pique, Maria went into a decline from that day forward — and died not long thereafter.”

“How dreadful!” I whispered. “And was she very young?”

“But eighteen.” He was silent a moment, and touched the blazing pendant. “There was worse than mourning to come, however. For with her dying breath Maria exacted a promise of her sister, Sally — a sacred promise that must endure beyond the grave — never to unite her life with mine. And Sally agreed.”

“A formidable girl, indeed,” Lord Harold said drily, “like a figure from Greek tragedy.”

“I will confess I felt it to be so, when I learned the truth in a letter from my beloved. I was never to see Sally Siddons the more — and though I raved, and went nearly mad for a time; threatened suicide or murder or both — she stood firm in her resolution. Maria had exacted her promise, and to Maria at least Sally might be true.”

“She has never wavered?” I said, appalled.

“Never for an instant,” he retorted, with a bitter smile. “I threatened, I cajoled, I wounded her with silence and attentions to others, including even her childhood friend, Maria Conyngham — but never a word did I receive. And last year, in the full blush of summer, Sally followed her sister to the grave, a victim of the same infirmity. The physician who attended her believes that she contracted the disease while nursing the dying Maria.”[77]

We were silent some moments in horror. Mr. Lawrence’s head was sunk in his hands. But at last Lord Harold broke the stillness. “Tell me, Mr. Lawrence, of Miss Siddons’s childhood friend — Maria Conyngham,” he said. “You attempted to secure her affections?”

“Attempted — and succeeded,” the painter retorted with contempt.

“But surely you must have known that her brother was once in love with the younger Miss Siddons?” I cried.

“I did not,” Lawrence said, with faint surprise. “Maria Siddons would have it that she had never loved anyone before myself.”

“And perhaps, indeed, she did not,” I mused. “For certainly she gave up Hugh Conyngham without a pang. In the gentleman’s breast, however, there were stronger emotions.” I regarded the pendant eye portrait with mounting trepidation, as the murderous scheme declared itself in my mind. “Forgive me, Mr. Lawrence, for so invading your privacy — but can you tell us when you ended your attentions to Miss Conyngham?”

“The moment I learned of Sally’s death. In August, perhaps, of last year.”

Nearly eighteen months ago.

“And did she meet the affair’s end with composure?”

“Tolerably so. There was a period of recrimination — of tears and threats — but I am accustomed to these of old.” The first horror of revelation being now past, Mr. Lawrence smoothed his dishevelled locks with a hand that barely trembled. “I have recently vowed, Miss Austen, to pay my respects in future to married ladies alone; they are far steadier in their attachments, and demand of one a great deal less.”

Was Isabella Wolff, then, so retiring? I considered the turbanned beauty, and thought it rather unlikely. Mr. Lawrence’s callousness should have enraged me, had I not seen evidence of its extent throughout the conversation; but for an instant, at least, I understood the emotions that had moved the Conyngham pair. The torment of brother and sister — the desire for revenge so heated in the bosoms of both — had grown and festered with time. They had waited for the proper moment; had secured their positions in Bath; and had plotted the scene of Lawrence’s destruction, with the pendant eye as silent witness.

“You are aware, sir, that the Conynghams were raised in the bosom of the Siddons family,” I observed. “Is it so unlikely that certain of Mrs. Siddons’s possessions might have passed to Hugh or Maria?”

“With both of her daughters claimed by the grave, Mrs. Siddons might well regard the Conynghams as even dearer than before,” the painter replied with a shrug. “It should not be remarkable for the lady to convey some memento mori into their keeping.”

One thing only remained a puzzle. Given their intimacy with Richard Portal, how had the Conynghams mistaken one Harlequin for another?

“I wonder, Mr. Lawrence, whether you have recently received any communication from Miss Conyngham?” Lord Harold interposed.

“A single note, nothing more.” Lawrence stood up, and fished among a pile of papers scattered upon a table. “Harnley has made a poor job of packing, I see — but he is greatly distressed about the attack in Cheap Street a few nights ago, and should have bolted to London before this, had I not restrained him. Ah, yes — here it is.”

He held out an unsealed letter, crossed with a feminine hand. “Miss Conyngham required me most urgently to attend Her Grace’s rout,” he said, “so that we might converse privately. She was most pressing in her request that I should meet her in the little anteroom, while the attention of all was engrossed with her brother’s recital.” As he spoke the words, a look of comprehension came into his eyes. “The anteroom — but it cannot be that Maria—”

“And did you meet her there?”

“I did. But as soon as I entered the room, I perceived Miss Conyngham slipping behind a door in the corner opposite, and so I followed her there. She returned to the drawing-room by a back hallway, and I did the same, on the assumption that she no longer wished to speak with me.”

“And did you observe Mr. Portal in your passage through the room?”

“I did. He lay in a heavy slumber upon the settee.”

Lord Harold pocketed the actress’s letter, and retrieved the pendant. “Whatever Miss Conyngham’s duplicity or malice, they can be as nothing to yours, Mr. Lawrence. Were I even remotely attached to the lady, I should be compelled to demand satisfaction. Your behaviour to one in her circumstance and position is nothing short of outrage; though it is of a piece, I collect, with your general treatment of the fairer sex.”

He reached for his hat and gloves, intent upon taking leave of the painter. His hooded eyes were inscrutable as ever, but in his tone I detected an admirable command of anger.

“But it is of no account,” Trowbridge continued, as he escorted me to the door. “The lady has others to act in my stead. And much as I should like you to relate the whole to Mr. Wilberforce Elliot, the magistrate, I must undertake to speak on your behalf. Make for London with the greatest possible speed, by all means, Mr. Lawrence — for your life is not worth tuppence in Bath.”