Jane and the Barque of Frailty (23 page)

I left her propped up on her pillows, reading her French novel in perfect enjoyment; and walked alone through the brightening morning to church.

The Tilsons caught me up on my way, all of them handsome and virtuous; and I saw that Fanny wore a decidedly fetching straw hat in the jockey style—not unlike the one I had admired on Julia Radcliffe’s bright curls. It seemed the entire world must conspire to remind me of the sordid, when I had trained my thoughts to a more elevated plane.

“Your sister does not accompany you?” Fanny enquired, in a repressive tone. “I should not admit to surprise—I have often found her observance to be wanting, and have imputed it to the irregular nature of her upbringing. One cannot live out one’s girlhood in India and France, among such abandoned persons as Nabobs and Bourbons, without receiving quite improper notions of what is due to the spiritual realm.”

“I am sorry to say that most of Eliza’s notions are improper,” I tranquilly agreed, “which is why she is invariably such excellent company! But this morning her cold persists in troubling her; I am charged by my brother with taking the utmost care for her health, and could not permit her to put her foot out of doors. However bright the sunshine, the air is not so warm as one would like.”

“And your brother, I collect, has quitted Hans Town for Oxford this morning? You will not reproach me, Miss Austen, for confessing how much I deplore Sunday travel; it has not been the habit of my family. But there is a carelessness to Town life that may encourage the lapse of every observance, even among persons one must generally regard as unimpeachable; the business of this world is accorded more weight than the business of the next; and in our hurry to pursue a monetary gain, we very nearly lose our eternal souls! James is to join your brother at the Blue Boar tomorrow—but I could not be easy in my mind, should he have travelled today.”

I ought not to have found anything objectionable in this speech, which expressed sentiments no different than my sister Cassandra had voiced on numerous occasions—being nearly as grave in her attitudes as Fanny Tilson—but my companion’s air of complaisance worked strangely upon me. I desired nothing more than to discompose her this morning, and prick her smug self-regard.

“That is a ravishing hat, Mrs. Tilson! I wonder if you obtained it at Cocotte’s?”

“No, indeed!” she exclaimed, staring. “I do not think I have ever ventured within a hundred yards of that establishment—nor do I know of any respectable woman who has done so.”

We walked on in silence, Fanny’s face averted. Then she said, with an air of offering an olive branch: “This straw was made for me by a very competent girl in Hans Town, Miss Austen—and if you should be desirous of examining her wares, I should be happy to accompany you at any hour. I may assure you that her workmanship is good, and her prices not exorbitant. Perhaps Mrs. Henry Austen would care to join us?”

“Thank you,” I returned, with a resurgence of humility, and a vow to say nothing further for the remainder of the morning. I am all too prone—particularly under the intoxicating influence of springtime—to allow my wretched tongue to run away with me, and offend the most worthy of persons with my levity. The forbearance of a Fanny Tilson must ever serve as salt in the wounds of one less marked by goodness than she.

V
IRTUE WAS REWARDED IN THIS CASE, AS VIRTUE SO
rarely is—with the surprising pleasure of a visit from a gentleman caller. I had returned but an hour to Sloane Street when Mr. Sylvester Chizzlewit’s card was sent into the drawing-room.

“Delightful,” Eliza murmured. “He looks so well against the scarlet hangings, don’t you agree, Jane? One should always have a decorative young man about the room, and well-bred if one may contrive it; it lends so much tone to the display. Show him in, Manon! And bring the decanters, if you please. I do not care if it is Sunday; I am sure the Good Lord was in spirits, too, on his day of rest.”

I said nothing of this deplorable want of respect, acquired no doubt among Bourbons and Nabobs, and rose to greet Mr. Chizzlewit.

While Manon remained in the room, he said everything that was indifferent and proper, in one paying a Sunday call; enquired after Eliza’s health; offered a pretty compliment on the style of my gown; and declared that there was nothing, after all, like April in England. When the door had closed behind the maid, however, he turned immediately to business. “I have seen Charles Malverley,” he said, “and must congratulate myself on having renewed those ties which a few years’ absence on his part, and hard work on mine, had very nearly extinguished!”

“Well done, Mr. Chizzlewit. And how did you find your old friend?”

“Much altered. He was used to be a carefree youth—more concerned with the niceties of dress and appearance than I should like, and an aspirant to Mr. Brummell’s mantle, among the Dandy Set— but now he is grown grave and troubled. There is a want of openness which I might have imputed to the difference in our stations, and a disinclination to renew the acquaintance, had he not gladly accepted my invitation to dine this evening, in my rooms; we are to play at picquet afterwards, and I expect my pockets shall be wholly to let by dawn.”

“Then you were unable, in your first meeting, to divine any particulars of the Princess’s business?” Eliza enquired.

“It was not the place to do so—we met at Jackson’s Saloon, where Malverley was sparring. I knew him to be in the habit of taking lessons from Gentleman Jackson, and contrived to visit the premises at a convenient hour. I may have expressed myself as being sensible of the cares lately placed upon him—and suggested that a bit of diversion among friends might prove beneficial—but beyond that, I could not go.”

“Naturally. He did not suspect you encountered him by design?” I asked.

“I should not think so. Charles is not the sort to suspicion an old acquaintance. I shall have more to report on the morrow, to be sure.”

“In the course of your dinner, Mr. Chizzlewit,” I said, “endeavour to learn whether Mr. Malverley prevaricated, when he claimed never to have seen a letter from Princess Tscholikova at Castlereagh’s house. It would be well to sound the fellow on his lordship’s habits, too—as both gentlemen are far too closed-mouthed regarding Castlereagh’s movements during the hours before the Princess’s murder.”

“I shall do my utmost,” the solicitor replied. “You persist in regarding Lord Castlereagh as the guilty party?”

“There is a simplicity to the notion I find appealing,” I agreed. “He possesses, after all, the motive for murder—the opportunity to effect it—and the stubborn persistence in denying all knowledge of the act! When a gentleman will not say where he has been, there is usually good cause for silence!”

“But that cause is rarely murder,” Mr. Chizzlewit returned.

“I keep an open mind,” I assured him, “and one replete with enough suspicion to tar most of London. I shall not hesitate to act, when the alternative is injustice.”

Beside me, Eliza shivered, and reached for her handkerchief.

“I trust you have interviewed your friend, Mrs. Austen?” the solicitor enquired. “The French Countess?”

“Indeed, Mr. Chizzlewit.” My sister revived in sudden animation. “And most affecting, I found it too! I am sure you will acquit Anne of any wrongdoing when you have heard the whole—”

Anticipating a recital as lengthy as yesterday’s, I said abruptly, “The Comtesse claims a member of the Muslin Company gave her the jewels—as recompense for having stolen her husband.”

“Indeed!” Sylvester Chizzlewit was hard put not to smile. “And the name of the bit of muslin in question?”

“Julia Radcliffe. Are you at all acquainted with her?”

“Miss Austen!” he cried. “Such a question! I do not know how to answer you!”

“She is a fixture in Harriette Wilson’s salon, I believe, or perhaps she rules over one of her own—my intelligence is imperfect on that score, I confess. I merely wondered, Mr. Chizzlewit, if you had found occasion to pay the salon a call.”

“Since you put it so unblushingly—then yes, Miss Austen, I have,” he returned.

Eliza clapped her hands. “Do tell us what it was like!”

He shifted slightly in his chair; the first sign of discomfort he had allowed himself to betray. “Very much of a piece with a gentleman’s club—save that the focus of admiration and interest were the ladies present, all of whom conducted themselves with a passable degree of propriety. You will know that those who collect around Harriette Wilson are many of them quite wellborn … tho’ fallen in their standing due to a variety of youthful indiscretions. Miss Radcliffe is one of these.”

“And what is your opinion of her?” I asked.

“She is ravishing—a diamond of the first water,” he replied. “The difference in her situation, from what it ought to be, must trouble anyone who knows her.”

“Except those, apparently, whose first duty it should be to protect her,” I observed. “Her family.”

“As I am ignorant of the particulars of her folly, I cannot undertake to judge.” Mr. Chizzlewit met my gaze squarely. “She is the object of general admiration; a shifting party of gentlemen—many of them among the highest in the land—collect around her, and tho’ most bestow expensive tributes, she has allowed no one to become her sole protector. I know for a fact that any number have offered Miss Radcliffe carte blanche—and she refuses to take it up.
²
There are conjectures as to her reasons, of course— some would have it she remains faithful in her heart to a dead lover, others that she is angling for a title willing to offer marriage—but her independence has only increased her desirability.” The solicitor frowned. “To figure as the receiver of stolen goods— if indeed she apprehended that they were stolen— and to convey them, with malicious intent, to an innocent victim of her toils—is a piece of villainy I should like to think impossible.”

“I agree. There is a dignity in her carriage—a sweetness of expression unmarred by her traffick with the world—that must impress the observer with a belief in her goodness. I cannot make it out at all. I believe I shall have to pay Miss Radcliffe a call.”

“Pay her a call!” Eliza cried, scandalised. “Jane, you would never venture to such a den of iniquity! Only think if you were found out! I should not be able to look your mother in the face—and only conceive how lowering to reflect that in this instance, she would be justified in her poor opinion of me!”

“You speak as tho’ you are already acquainted with Miss Radcliffe,” Mr. Chizzlewit said.

“We have chanced to meet some once or twice. She was first raised as an object of interest with the Comte d’Entraigues—it is Julia Radcliffe he is said to wish to marry, when once he obtains his divorce.”

Mr. Chizzlewit’s countenance changed colour. “That old roué! It does not bear thinking of! Why, the girl is young enough to be his daughter—”

He rose, and took an agitated turn about the room.

“I understand she is but seventeen. But recollect what the Comtesse has told us: Miss Radcliffe pressed the jewels upon her as recompense. It would appear that she has made her decision—and means to seek a respectable alliance, even at the price of d’Entraigues.”

“Impossible!” Mr. Chizzlewit spat.

I shrugged, as tho’ indifferent to his contempt. “Then perhaps she merely intends to use d’Entraigues to secure the interest of another. Miss Radcliffe’s name is frequently linked to Mr. George Canning’s. But my sister assures me that Canning is unlikely to desert his wife and children—however much amusement he may find in salons of Harriette Wilson’s type.”

“Canning’s eldest son is lame,” the solicitor observed, “and Canning and his wife are both devoted to the boy. He would not so wound his family—and there are considerations of public office—”

“Then Miss Radcliffe deludes herself. Her affections, nonetheless, may be ardent and real—and thus could be used to villainous ends, when urged by an unscrupulous man. Mr. Canning has at times been described to me this way.”

“Unscrupulous?” Mr. Chizzlewit’s brow furrowed. “It is not a word I should apply. Bold in his ambitions, yes—implacable in his hatreds—but there is nothing in his career one may point to, as being less than honourable—”

“Even his efforts to unseat Lord Castlereagh, behind that gentleman’s back?”

Mr. Chizzlewit laughed. “Oh, well— If you would speak of politics!”

“Do not the laws of honour apply, in the House of Commons and Lords? I was assured that was why Lord Castlereagh felt no compunction in challenging his enemy to a duel—and humiliating him before the world. He did but defend his honour. It has been suggested to me that Mr. Canning, in fact, was so reduced in his public stature that he has an interest in revenge—and that in Princess Tscholikova he found his tool.”

The solicitor was standing near Eliza’s fireplace; he thrust his hands in his pockets, and turned his head to stare broodingly into the flames. I said nothing further, allowing him time for thought.

“You would have it that Canning deliberately created an aura of scandal around Castlereagh, through the publication of the Princess’s letters, and her subsequent appearance of suicide,” he said at length. “For that to be true, the Princess must have been in his power—or intimate to a degree we cannot have understood. How else can he have obtained what was private correspondence?”

“She refers to Canning at least once in her journal, which I have had occasion to read. She also mentions Julia Radcliffe—and is determined, but two days before her death, to warn the girl. I use the word because the Princess chose it.”

“Warn Miss Radcliffe? Against whom? I find the notion fantastic!” Mr. Chizzlewit cried. “Could Canning have both Tscholikova and Miss Radcliffe in keeping? And if the Princess was as deep in love with Castlereagh as her letters suggest—how should she have come to entertain Canning’s schemes? She must have known him for his lordship’s enemy.”

“You go too swiftly, Mr. Chizzlewit, in assuming that Mr. Canning is the sort to show his hand! What if he were to employ an intermediary—a gentleman long known to Princess Tscholikova, one she has reason to trust? A man known equally well to Julia Radcliffe … and a man Canning has often employed before?”