Jane and the Barque of Frailty (18 page)

“But then, you are the naughtiest of creatures,” Julia Radcliffe volunteered, in a voice that held all the soft caress of finest silk. “You have all our concern and interest, ma’am—but I think perhaps we are de trop in such company. Come along, Harriette!”

Lord Moira lifted his hat to the two Cyprians as they swayed off down the gravel under a single parasol, then said, with delightful perspicacity, “You must be in considerable discomfort, ma’am. May I have the honour of conveying you to your brother’s house—or anywhere else in the Kingdom?”

I glanced at Henry, who was looking less anxious than resigned. “You are too good, sir. But the indisposition is very trifling—I am sure that if my brother will lend me his support—”

Henry lifted me to my feet and said, “Lord Moira, I do not think you met my sister in Sloane Street on Tuesday last—may I introduce Miss Jane Austen to your acquaintance?”

“Pleasure.” The gentleman bowed over my glove with an audible creak of his stays, while I hung on Henry’s arm and endeavoured to look wan.

“My sister is on a visit to London, sir, of several weeks’ duration,” Henry persisted.

“Indeed? And how do you find the Metropolis, Miss Austen?”

“It is everything that is delightful, sir. My sister, the Comtesse de Feuillide, is unceasing in her efforts to amuse.”

“Little Eliza!” Moira’s eyes creased with fondness. “I remember her in her first youth, my dear—such a winsome child, and so pretty even in her widowhood. … It was quite a feat, you know, that your brother brought off, in persuading such a flower to be leg-shackled to him. But I perceive that you limp—decidedly you are lame in the right foot—and I cannot allow you to strain the joint further.”

“Perhaps a hackney … ” I demurred.

“Where is such a conveyance to be found, at this fashionable hour in the Park? No, no—I assure you, it is not the slightest trouble. I should be very happy— know my way to Sloane Street in the veritable dark—”

I smiled tremulously. “Thank you, my lord. I confess I should be better for the rest. And then I might release my brother—who has been unflagging in his escort, but most anxious to reach his club, for at least an hour past!”

“Jane—” Henry began indignantly.

“Do not apologise, my dear,” I assured him. “I know how tiresome females are to a man of affairs, such as yourself. But Lord Moira is all politeness—all consideration. I confess he recalls dear Lord Harold to mind!”

It was perhaps paltry of me to employ my love for the Rogue in such a mean service—but the idle chatter had its effect. The Earl halted in his steps, surveyed me acutely through his quizzing-glass, and said, “Not Lord Harold Trowbridge?”

“A very intimate friend, sir—and a sad loss. You were acquainted with him, I collect?”

“From our school days! By Jove! A friend of Harry’s! Not that half the world was not—but still, I should have thought … What a wonder the world is, hey? Let me help you to ascend—”

And thus I was established behind a pair of blood chestnuts to rival the very Highest Flyer’s.

¹
Jane refers obliquely to Harriette Wilson in a letter to her sister, Cassandra, dated Friday, February 9, 1801. Speaking of Eliza Lloyd Fowle, sister of the Austens’ beloved friend Martha Lloyd and sister-in-law of Thomas Fowle, to whom Cassandra was engaged prior to his untimely death, Jane notes: “Eliza has seen Lord Craven at Barton, & probably by this time at Kintbury, where he was expected for one day this week. —She found his manners very pleasing indeed. —The little matter of his having a Mistress now living with him at Ashdown Park, seems to be the only unpleasing circumstance about him.” It was this Lord Craven who carried off Cassandra’s fiancé, Tom Fowle, to the West Indies as his military chaplain in 1795—indirectly causing Fowle’s death of yellow fever in 1797.—
Editor’s note
.

²
“Prinny” was the nickname of the Prince of Wales, at this time the regent. In her memoirs, Harriette Wilson recounts her correspondence with the prince, in which he invited her to come to London so that he might look her over as a prospective mistress—at which she declined the trip as too expensive to waste on a mere possibility.—
Editor’s note
.

Chapter 16
A Comfortable Coze

Friday, 26 April 1811, cont.

∼

“I
WAS NEVER MORE ASTONISHED THAN WHEN
I learned of Harry’s death,” Lord Moira observed, as he gathered up the ribbons and flicked his whip-point over the leader’s ear. “I recollect exactly where I was at the time: entering a wager in Watier’s betting book. There was Henry Vassall—Lord Holland, you know—with his face whiter than the piece of paper he held in his hands, and the news of Harry’s death written on it. For a moment I thought old Holland had suffered a fit—whole family’s prone to apoplexy, that’s how his uncle Fox went—but no. ‘Harry’s gone,’ he said. And, ‘What, back to Oporto?’ I returned. ‘He’s been done to death by his valet,’ Holland said, ‘somewhere down near Portsmouth.’

And even then, my dear, I thought it the queerest turnout ever conceived for Harold Trowbridge. He was the sort of man one expected to die on the duelling ground—not at the hands of some deranged servant.”

For an instant, I could feel the Rogue’s hands tightening about my own, and the smooth butt of a pistol nestled in my palm. The targets had been placed in the courtyard of the Dolphin Inn, and the ostlers were watching; the meeting was intended for the following dawn. Lord Harold could snuff the flame of a candle with a single ball, he could nick the suit from a playing card at thirty paces; but I had never held a gun before, and should have dropped the thing but for his hand supporting mine.

“He was too fine a shot to end on the duelling ground,” I replied. “Treachery—not the defence of honour—was his undoing. Orlando was a Buonapartist spy.”

Lord Moira turned his chin to stare at me, a feat all the more remarkable for the height and stiffness of his collar-points. “How well did ye know Harry, Miss Austen?”

“I watched him die, Lord Moira.”

My companion uttered an ejaculation, and must have slackened his grip on the reins, for the blood chestnuts showed a disposition to bolt. The Earl was taken up with managing his high-bred cattle in all the confusion of a Hyde Park afternoon, and I was soon too breathless with fear and speed to do more than steel myself to the crash I felt must inevitably come— but after an interval, the whirl of scenery abated, and I unclenched my hands.

Lord Moira’s countenance was red and his lips were clamped tight on all the oaths he must have suppressed; but at length, the severity of expression relaxed, and he said, “Never tell me you’re the young woman to whom Harry left that extraordinary bequest?”

“If you would mean the collection of his papers— then yes, my lord, I am she.”

“Good God! And to think that Wilborough— Harry’s brother, the Duke—put up such a stink and fuss! He must never have set eyes upon you, my dear, for how he could think a slip of a female—”

Whatever he might have said, the Earl abruptly forestalled, his face growing if possible more crimson.

“—should be called a doxy? A jade? An unscrupulous vixen? I can well imagine the epithets His Grace might summon. And indeed, my lord, I cannot account for Lord Harold’s decision to place his most vital records in my keeping—other than that which he disclosed in a posthumous communication: He wished me to compose his memoirs.”

To my surprise, Lord Moira threw back his head and gave a bark of laughter. “His memoirs! In the hands of a delicately-nurtured lady! How rich! Only Harry could fob off such a bit of cajolery on the Great World! My dear Miss Austen—I long to read your account of all our dreadful pasts, indeed I do!”

I placed my gloved hand on the Earl’s coat sleeve. “It was my sincere hope,” I said earnestly, “that you would assist me in drafting the volume, through the explication of certain political matters I cannot comprehend at all. Tell me, sir—are you at all familiar with the bombardment of Copenhagen? Or the particulars of the Walcheren campaign?”

Lord Moira frowned. “What has any of that to do with Harry? He was in the Peninsula, surely, when the fool’s errand was mounted?”

“—By which, I collect, you would refer to Lord Castlereagh’s expedition.”

“Each of Castlereagh’s missteps is very like another,” the Earl returned brusquely. “A waste of time, men, and opportunity in the pursuit of a chimera! But I repeat: What had this to do with Harry?”

“It afforded him a good deal of anxiety at the time,” I said. “His journal entries for 1808 are replete with references to confusion at the highest levels— the need for arms and policy in Spain, and the diversion of both to the Baltic—disagreement between the intelligence he received of personal agents in Oporto, and that which was read by others in London—in short, an uneasiness and an apprehension of duplicity.”

“Harry had always a nose for the treacherous,” the Earl observed, “which is what makes his death such a confounded shame. But I misdoubt that anyone could divine the truth of Portland’s government, my dear—it was notable for its confusion.”

If his lordship expected me to be content with such pap, he was the more mistaken.

“Lord Harold refers directly to yourself in his private musings. Moira tells me of disputes between Canning and Castlereagh, and fears it will end badly, he wrote. From this I understood you were in some communication with Lord Harold … ?”

The Earl shot the Park gate with admirable precision, all his attention claimed. I did not press him for the moment, anxious lest we should be overturned— but when the curricle had achieved the relative order of the street, he said: “Do you know what it is to have two horses vying for pride of place in a team, Miss Austen? —Each one wishing to be leader?”

“I am no driver—but I think I may form an idea of the outcome.”

“A runaway gallop—broken traces—the lynchpin smashed and everyone in the carriage thrown into a ditch! That is what we very nearly had in government, while Harry was in Oporto.”

“Mr. Canning and Lord Castlereagh being the cattle in question?”

“Naturally. George Canning—who held the Foreign Office—was devilish jealous of the conduct of war in Spain, which ought to have been Castlereagh’s province as Minister of War. The two were forever despatching conflicting orders. They had each their own sources of intelligence, and would not admit the other’s to be worthy of consideration. They favoured different generals, and sent them on private errands all over the globe. At last Canning encouraged Portland and his fellow Cabinet members to support

Castlereagh’s misguided campaign in the Baltic—in the hope it would occupy the War Minister, if not explode in his face. As, indeed, it did. There is a good deal of petty cunning in Cabinet intrigue, Miss Austen—and a good deal of personal vengeance exacted in the name of national cause.”

“I thought, from Lord Harold’s words, that something more lay behind the jealousy and disputes,” I said. “A deliberate intent to confuse events and destroy the nation’s chances—from an ardent desire to see Buonaparte win … ”

Lord Moira’s hands clenched on the reins, and his chestnuts jibbed at the cut of the bit.

“But what you would suggest, Miss Austen … is that someone in government is guilty of treason!”

“Exactly,” I replied.

W
E WERE ARRIVED IN
S
LOANE
S
TREET WELL BEFORE
I succeeded in convincing my gallant Earl that such perfidy as deliberate sabotage was possible among honourable men. Indeed, I do not think I convinced him of it. Lord Moira was inclined to regret his confidences—his freedom with both speech and memory—and to regard me as an interfering woman. It was only as he helped me to step down from the curricle—and I declared my ankle already mended as a result of his solicitude—that he said, with a visible air of trouble, “I should not regard our conversation, Miss Austen, as of the slightest consequence—the merest exchange of trifling incident between mutual acquaintances of a very singular gentleman. How I wish we still had Harry among us! But alas—”

“Indeed,” I returned equably. “But allow me to confess, Lord Moira, that his lordship knew me for a close-mouthed creature of no mean understanding; else he should never have entrusted me with such a legacy, on the very point of death. I spoke to you, my lord, in the same spirit of trust I should have adopted in speaking to Lord Harold. The treason I intimated—”

I broke off, as the Earl glanced about us apprehensively, lest the child-strewn streets of Hans Town inform against him—“the treason I intimated, has in all probability continued unabated. Reflect that it has, in large measure, proved successful.”

“What? Tush! The case is entirely altered with the Regent come into power—”

“Lord Castlereagh’s desperate campaign in the north was foiled by lack of confidence,” I continued implacably, “yet it drew off men and arms that might better have combated the French in the Peninsula— thereby achieving a double blow against England’s hopes. But a few months later, two great minds— Castlereagh’s and Canning’s—were forced from governance and allowed to prey upon each other as the objects of frustrated ambition and policy. The Kingdom was the true victim of that duelling ground, when the two ministers met to defend their honour in the autumn of 1809. Neither has been returned to high office since, and policy has floundered. And now, as the Regent would take up his chance, and consider of appointing these two gentlemen once more—Lord Castlereagh’s reputation is besmirched by rumour and murder.”

“Princess Tscholikova.” Moira said it heavily, as tho’ the name were a curse. “But the coroner has declared that she killed herself!”

“Pish! I no more credit the notion than you do. It was here in Sloane Street, I think, that you remarked upon the singularity of her death—and how it must delight Lord Castlereagh’s enemies. You are a Whig, sir—one of the most highly-placed in the land—and can have no love for Lord Castlereagh’s politics. But you have served in government, and comprehend the intrigues of those who place power above all else—even country. Surely you might compose a list of Lord Castlereagh’s enemies?”