Jane and The Wandering Eye

Chapter 17 God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen

19 December 1804, cont.

“I SEE HOW IT IS, YOU BLACKGUARD,” HUGH CONYNGHAM told the Colonel bitterly. He was bent over his insensible sister, the Dowager’s vinaigrette in his hand. “These riddles are easy enough to comprehend. You have betrayed us to the agent of our ruin, and all attempt at prevarication must be as so much hemlock — a release, perhaps, but hardly happy!”

Easton struggled to his feet, but was quickly overpowered by the Earl and Mr. Elliot. “I, betray you?” the Colonel cried. “That is a fanciful tale, when your jade of a sister has already divulged the whole to Trowbridge! She has been parading about on his arm this week or more. Enquire how much he pays for her charms, I beg — for I am beyond all caring!”

“Perhaps you will explain how the same man came by that curst portrait,” Conyngham retorted hotly, “if not at your hand! For it was you who had the keeping of the eye, not Maria. I gave it to you the night of the Dowager’s rout!”

“That is a lie!”

“A lie? You would deny the whole? Reprehensible coward!”

Mr. Conyngham might have continued in recrimination, had his sister not come to her senses at that moment; and so it was Lord Harold who satisfied the curious.

“The pendant was found by my nephew, Lord Kinsfell, and hidden within his clothes at the moment he was seized for Portal’s murder,” he coolly said. “I must congratulate Simon on his perspicacity; for this single act has proved the undoing of those who would have seen him hang.”

“But, Uncle,” Lady Desdemona said faintly, “how could you possibly have known the murderer was Easton?”

“I did not know, my dear Mona,” he replied, “but the suspicion has been growing upon me. I told Miss Austen only this morning that appearances are everything; and she replied, even, perhaps, when they are meant to deceive. I must credit my excellent friend with starting the notion of Easton’s guilt, for he was the sole person among us whose appearance had greatly altered in recent weeks, and I found that fact intriguing. Once started upon the trail, I proceeded rapidly to its end — for one aspect of this murder has puzzled me from the start, and Easton answered the purpose admirably.” He wheeled about and faced us as implacably as a judge. “Why was the murder committed in Her Graces household?”

“Why, indeed?” the Duchess echoed.

“To throw blame and ruin upon Easton’s enemies. Mr. Portal — or Mr. Thomas Lawrence, the intended victim — might have been killed as readily elsewhere. But the murder was designed to despatch several birds at a single stone. To implicate Swithin — whose attentions to my niece had threatened the murderer’s suit — and possibly Lord Kinsfell, whose interest in the murderer’s mistress had outraged his reason.”

“Miss Conyngham? Easton’s mistress?” I cried; and remembered, of a sudden, the figure I had glimpsed on Pulteney Bridge, in conversation with the colonel’s phaeton. Mrs. Grimsby, he had called her — but the familiar grace of her carriage and form had been entirely Maria Conyngham’s.

Lord Harold looked to the lady. “Well, my dear?”

Maria’s wonderful head came up, as regal as Cleopatra’s. “I will not deny it.”

He bowed. “You retain one claim to honour, at least. I suspected Easton only lately, Mona. I fear that for the better part of this sad affair, my suspicions were turned against Lord Swithin — as they were intended to do. For it was Swithin’s device that was found in the anteroom passage — found, most curiously, after the night of the murder, when Mr. Elliot had summarily searched it. I reflected on that point at length, and thought it too curious for plausibility. Colonel Easton had visited Mona on Friday, just before I searched the passage myself; and it was Colonel Easton who dropped the tiger behind the door.”

I started up at this. “But the tiger belongs in the Fortescue family!”

“So it does — and was lost by the present Earl, I think, in a game of cards or some other wager. Am I correct, Swithin?”

“You are, my lord. At Carlton House, a twelvemonth ago at least.”

“And did you lose it to Easton?”

“No — but I would imagine the man who won it, did not possess it long. He is notoriously unlucky at games of chance, and must soon have given up the brooch to another.”

“The Colonel was certainly in possession of it a few months back, when a man calling himself Mr. Smith — a bearded fellow of some bearing — pawned the object in Cheapside. Easton redeemed it only a few weeks ago — just after the affair of honour, in which you injured his right arm. We may conclude that his desire for revenge, and his incipient plan, dates from that unhappy event. It was fought in respect of Miss Conyngham, was it not?”

Swithin inclined his head. “Easton believed me to have designs upon the lady — but I assured him that whatever my past attentions might have been, my heart was now engaged by another. He called me a blackguard and a liar. I could not allow such accusations to rest.”

“Your sisters thought they had seen the Colonel in Bath Street on Thursday, but were later confused by his clean-shaven appearance.” Lord Harold looked to me. “Did Pierrot sport whiskers, Miss Austen?”

The image of a burly, bearded figure of motley in converse with a scarlet Medusa rose before my eyes.

“Easton!” Lady Desdemona cried. “It was you!”

Throughout this explanation, Colonel Easton had stood mute and white-faced in the magistrate’s grip; but now he burst out with venom, “You shall never prove it, Trowbridge!”

“I do not have to,” Lord Harold replied easily. “For that is Mr. Elliot’s task.”

AND SO OUR MISBEGOTTEN PARLOUR GAME WAS AT LAST come to an end.

“Despicable man,” Maria Conyngham whispered, as she passed before Lord Harold’s gaze. “I shall damn you from my grave.”

He inclined his head with exquisite grace; and at Mr. Elliot’s behest, the lady quitted the room. But I observed Lord Harold’s eyelids to flicker as he watched her go, and his countenance become even more inscrutable; and read in these the extent of his self-loathing.

His mother observed as well, and understood; but the Duchess said nothing — merely reached for his hand.

“Well, my dear Jane — here’s a to-do,” my Uncle Perrot mused in a whisper. “It will be all over Bath on the morrow; and what I shall say to your aunt, I cannot think!”

“Lay the whole at my feet, my dear,” I advised him, “for she has quite despaired of my character these three years at least.”

Monday,

24 December 1804

Christmas Eve

TIME PASSED; LORD KINSFELL WAS RELEASED, AND RETURNED to the bosom of his family. The spectacular fall of the interesting Conynghams was a three-days’ wonder, and Eliza’s account of it much solicited in the Pump Room. My mother soon forgot her younger daughter’s scandalous taste for blood in a more consuming anxiety for her son’s financial well-being — and grew seriously vexed when no commissions for Henry materialised from my intimacy with the Wilborough family. I cast about for solace — and found it in the unlikely form of the Leigh-Perrots. For, as I told my mother, the very evening of the infamous Rauzzini concert my uncle had excessively valued Henry’s sage advice regarding the ‘Change.

“Then it is fortunate, indeed, Jane, that you took him up on the concert scheme, for I am sure he should not have thought of Henry and Eliza otherwise — and I know it was a sacrifice for yourself, disliking music of that kind. You were always a good sort of open-hearted girl. Cassandra is nothing to you.” She busied herself about her work a moment, humming fitfully in snatches of disconnected song, and presently warmed once more to her subject.

“Perhaps now your uncle may place some funds at Henry’s disposal — for Lord knows he has enough lying about at Scarlets, and even here at Paragon, to keep your brother in commissions a twelvemonth. I cannot think what he contrives to do with it all — for my sister Perrot hardly spends a farthing. She is of a saving nature, is sister Perrot — very saving indeed, and the housekeeping is the worse for it. The soused pig tasted decidedly ill the evening of her card party, and I could not find that she had even so trifling a confection as a seed-cake about her. The claret was tolerable, however — but I suppose that Mr. Perrot is vigilant about the laying-down of his cellar. No, Jane, you did not suffer at all in your sacrifice of the card party — and your willingness to oblige your uncle did you credit in his eyes, I am sure. Perhaps there may be a legacy in it, by and by.”

I left her happy in scheming how the various Austens might best contrive to exploit their more comfortably situated relations, and trusted that the patronage of the ducal family might never be mentioned again.

ONE SENSATION WAS SWIFTLY SUCCEEDED BY ANOTHER, AND the murder of Richard Portal gave way to news of far happier moment, with the announcement of Lady Desdemona Trowbridge’s betrothal to the Earl of Swithin. The gossips of the Pump Room would have it the redoubtable Earl had once fought a murderer at pistol-point in defense of the lady’s honour — but in support of so broad a claim, even Eliza very wisely said nothing.

“Jane,” my sister Cassandra said, as I lingered over the notice in the Bath Chronicle, “the post is come. You have a great letter from James. Is it not singular, indeed? For he never writes to you, if he can help it. I cannot think what he has found to say — and at considerable length, too.”

I jumped up from the sitting-room table and turned eagerly to the packet she held in her hands. “This is despatch, indeed! I must admire my brother the more, when that spirit of industry and rectitude — so generally tedious in his person — may contribute at last to satisfying my concerns. I expect this to contain news of Ashe.”

Cassandra stood very still, and a change came over her countenance. “Jane, there is a something you have not disclosed, that is troubling you deeply. I am certain of it. You have been comporting yourself in the strangest manner — most unlike yourself, indeed — from the moment we learned of Madam Lefroy’s death.”

I settled myself once more at the table, James’s letter slack in my hands. “And should you expect me to behave as myself, in the midst of so dreadful a grief?”

“As yourself in mourning, perhaps. But instead you go about like a lady of the ton, embarked upon her first Season! Madam Lefroy is all but forgot — and then, this?”

“Poor brother James! He would be no end offended to hear you speak so of his letters!”

“Do not sport with me, Jane.” Dear Cassandra’s voice held an unaccustomed ferocity. “I have always been privileged to share your smallest cares, as you have shared mine; but of late I must feel that you are entirely closed to me.” She sat down beside me and reached for my hand. “Your behaviour pains me, I will not deny. I esteemed Madam Lefroy as much as did you, and her death has quite destroyed my peace. You are not alone in your melancholy. Or perhaps you have not observed the torment of our dearest father? It galled him so to be unfitted by poor health for the journey to Ashe. But he was told that all travel must be impossible, with the delicate state of the lungs — Mr. Bowen feared an imflammation, it seems — and so Father was frustrated in his desire to show some small respect of friends cherished the better part of a lifetime. It is not fair in you, Jane — it is most unkind — to exclude your family from your counsels, and turn instead to strangers.”

“And is James, then, become a stranger?”

Cassandra sighed. “You know that I do not speak of James.”

I took up the letter and broke open the seal. There were two full sheets, quite written through and crossed.

I set down the letter with hands that would tremble. Smythe had been in Overton; and Madam’s horse had been frighted by a shot from the hedgerow at Overton Hill’s summit. James could tell me nothing of dates; but I remembered Lord Harold’s opinion of coincidence, and knew that though I should never possess what Mr. Elliot should describe as proof, I had learned the name of Anne Lefroy’s murderer.

Nothing should be simpler, than the achievement of the deed. Smythe had only to conceal himself in the hedgerow for the purpose, and fire a gun lent to him by Hugh Conyngham. For the precarious seat of ladies forced to ride side-saddle was everywhere acknowledged — and Madam’s ruin was certain. He might as readily have pointed the gun at her heart.

“What a commendable letter, Jane,” Cassandra observed, “in its closing passages, particularly. I can never like my brother’s style or sentiments — he has grown too pompous with the advance of years, and his preferment in his profession — but his concern for your reputation is quite honestly expressed. He might have been altogether a different man, perhaps, if — that is to say—” Her voice trailed abruptly away.

“Altogether different, had Anne survived,” I finished for her. We had all of us loved the elegant and well-bred Anne; her character was steady, her understanding excellent. And though we could not like Mary Lloyd half so well, our affection for her sister Martha would generally make us silent upon the subject.

“Can you not confide in me, Jane, the reason for your attention to Madam Lefroy’s passing?”

I avoided my sister’s eye. “There is nothing very extraordinary in it, surely? We must all of us feel the most lively interest on the subject.”

“I cannot dismiss it soon enough. To dwell upon such matters is intolerable, and quite unlike your usual activity. You do not brood, Jane. I am quite confounded at the impulse that should solicit such a letter.”

“You must not importune me, Cassandra,” I replied. “We all of us have different ways of grieving, and of making our last farewells. And now I think I should like to walk a little in the Crescent, and take a breath of air. Would you consent to accompany me, my dear?”

• • •

WE SAT DOWN TO AN EARLY DINNER, AS IS USUAL WITH the Austens; but a pull of the bell not long thereafter brought a note addressed to myself, and in Lord Harold’s crabbed hand. I was summoned to drink the season’s cheer and Lady Desdemona’s health, in Laura Place at eight o’clock.

“Tea!” my mother exclaimed. “Had they considered you this morning, it might as well have been dinner. This is no very great honour, Jane, in being left so late — and on Christmas Eve, too! They have been disappointed in another of their party, I expect, and require your presence now merely to make up a table of cards. You had much better decline the invitation — for it will not do to seem grateful for so small a consideration.”

“Indeed, ma’am, I am sure you mistake,” I calmly replied. “At her time in life, the Duchess has no very great love of distinction; and being formerly of less than the first rank herself, is more inclined to show interest than disdain for ladies with modest prospects. I would be gratified to drink her tea, I assure you.”

“Oh, well — if you must throw yourself in his lordship’s way, it cannot be helped, I suppose,” my mother replied with an appearance of indifference. “Only tea! However, they may desire you to remain for supper, Jane, and I will not have you sitting down with a duchess in your brown cambric. Run along and exchange your gown for another, my dear, and do not neglect to leave off your cap. Mary will dress your hair.”

IT WAS A SELECT AND EVEN ELEGANT PARTY THAT GATHERED in Laura Place this evening — the Duchess seated in comfortable intimacy with Lord Harold, while Lady Desdemona provoked the Earl and her brother to rueful laughter at the opposite end of the room. Miss Wren held down the middle part, established over her fringe— and at first I feared I should fall victim to her desire for a confidante, and learn every syllable of the abuse she must suffer, now Mona was to go away, and leave Miss Wren quite at the Dowager’s mercy — but at length, the young lady herself condescended to open the pianoforte, and required Miss Wren to turn the pages. Lady Desdemona commenced a Scotch air, her sweet voice swelling with pathos; and as if drawn by an invisible chord, the Earl moved close to the instrument to gaze upon his beloved.

“You will recollect, Jane, that I said I would not have my Mona thrown away,” Lord Harold observed as he came to stand by my side. “I cannot now think any other man so deserving of her. My sources tell me that Swithin has entirely left off the opium trade, by the by, and indeed, has spent the better part of the years since his father’s death, in extricating the family fortunes from that dubious business.” A glint of amusement flickered in his hooded gaze, then vanished abruptly. “He is a ruthless fellow, but he has a character of iron; and men of that stamp are rare enough in any age. Mona is quite resigned to the Colonel’s infamy, happy in her brother’s release — and looks only to the future.”

“But you, however, cannot,” I said.

A swift look, as swiftly averted. “No,” Trowbridge replied. “I have had news this evening, my dear Jane, that must weigh heavily upon me. Maria Conyngham is dead.”

“Dead!”

“She hanged herself at Ilchester — tore the flounces from her gown, it seems, and wound them into a noose. Her brother is said to be mad with grief, and screaming vengeance on my head.”

We were silent a moment; and in the confusion of my thoughts I heard Lady Desdemona’s voice — simple, pure, and joyous without reckoning. “You cannot feel yourself responsible, my lord,” I told Lord Harold, “for what Hugh Conyngham has done. The ruin of his sister’s life, and his own, was inspired by his lust for vengeance against Mr. Lawrence; and had he never been moved to violence — had he allowed Maria Siddons to rest in her grave — his sister might yet be treading the boards in Bristol this evening.”

“I wonder, Jane,” Lord Harold mused. “I wonder. When I consider the Colonel, willing to risk everything to murder such a man — I cannot believe the plotting to be entirely Conyngham’s. Easton would not have lifted a finger for him. But for Maria Conyngham, he would have done much — even married a lady he did not love, in order to keep them both in fortune. No — the revenge against Mr. Lawrence was planned, I believe, by Maria alone; and now she has cheated even her brother, and left him to shoulder the blame.”

“So much of ruin, for a girl already gone three years to her grave, and a man not worth speaking of,” I mused.

“I imagine Maria Siddons would be gratified, did she know of it. She was, like Miss Conyngham, a creature formed for vengeance; and if Mr. Lawrence’s peace has been even a little disturbed by the threat to his person, she will be dancing tonight in heaven.”

“And what of the portrait, my lord? Maria Siddons’s malevolent eye?”

“It shall be returned, of course, to her mother — though I must admit to the temptation of tossing it in the river. Such ill-fortuned baubles should be entombed with their subjects.”

“—Excepting, perhaps, Mr. Lawrence’s sketch of Maria Conyngham?”

Lord Harold’s eyes failed to meet my own. I had observed him to secure the impassioned likeness within his coat the morning of our visit to the painter’s rooms, and I must suppose his lordship to retain it still; but I could hardly expect him to declare as much. Impertinence is usually met by Lord Harold with an impenetrable silence, as I had occasion to know; and the present instance would not warrant an exception.

He sighed, and reached for my cup of tea. “This is hardly Christmas cheer, my dear. I shall fetch you some claret.”

“My lord—”

He turned, and lifted an eyebrow.

“You must learn to endure it. As I have learned to endure Madam’s death,” I said softly.

“I shall, Jane. I shall — as the hangman submits to his calling; with revulsion, and anxiety, until the grave is filled. It is a dreadful presumption to serve in judgement on one’s fellow men. It is to play a little at God — and though I have been accused of such a score of times before, I only now admit to approaching it.”

“When justice is done, you may sleep in peace.”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “And until then, I believe I shall go away for a time.”

I knew better than to enquire his direction.

THE HOUR OF MIDNIGHT STRUCK; LADY DESDEMONA THREW wide the drawing-room casements, and looked down into the street below. “Look, Grandmère! The Waits are come!” Her glowing face turned affectionately to Lord Kinsfell. “How happy I am, dear Kinny, that you are with us to hear them sing!”

The Dowager cried out to Jenkins to conduct the Waits hither; and they very soon assembled before the drawing-room fire, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with cold. They were a rag-tag group of common folk, dressed for warmth rather than style, some of them no more than children — but the sound of their singing, when once they commenced, had the power to lift the heart. The very soul of Old England, rife with Yule logs and roasting mutton, good fellowship and love. I thought of Anne Lefroy, divided forever from her comfortable hearth, the table surrounded by children, and shivered with a sudden chill.

God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing ye dismay …

I lifted my voice, and sang aloud with the rest.