Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor (10 page)

“Do you find Scargrave Close a congenial place, Sir William?” I broke in, somewhat desperately.

A hint of amusement suffused the old barrister's face as he inclined his head in my direction. “Most congenial, Miss Austen, most congenial. The late Earl was a man of probity and discipline, and the surrounding country reveals his hand. You face a difficult task, Lord Scargrave, in assuming your uncle's duties.”

“Well do I know it, sir,” Fitzroy Payne replied feelingly, his dark gaze turned inward, “and I had thought to enjoy long years of study before assuming the role. Not the least of my regrets at my uncle's death is the knowledge that all chance for learning is past, however imperfect my present abilities.”

“Man is ever overtaken by Death like a child by sleep—too soon, and with much lamenting,” George Hearst broke in. His spectral voice, emanating from a chair by the fire, fell upon my ears with all the heaviness of the grave. “We are formed from regret, and with regret we ever leave this earthly life.”

Fanny Delahoussaye rolled her eyes, for Tom Hearst's benefit, and at that gentleman's answering grin, she abruptly put aside her needlework and abandoned her chair. “I feel a trifle indisposed, Mamma,” she announced, with the most angelic of smiles and a curtsey for Isobel; “I believe I shall go to my room.”

“Fanny,” Madame Delahoussaye said, with a touch of warning in her tone, “Sir William has only just arrived. You forget yourself, my dear.”

“Indeed, I do not. Did I forget myself, I might remain in Sir William's company for hours, Mamma,” Fanny said plaintively. “It is because I
cannot
forget myself that I must bid Sir William
adieu.”

“I should think a walk in the Park might improve your spirits,” Lieutenant Hearst observed.

“I am certain that it should.” Fanny turned without further ado and hastened from the drawing-room.

“Fanny—” Madame set down her needlework, her eyes on Tom Hearst, who had thrust himself away from the hearth.

“Do not disturb yourself, dear Madame,*’ the Lieutenant said, bending gallantly over her hand. “I shall make certain your daughter comes to no harm.”

“But it snows!” Madame Delahoussaye cried, Sir William forgotten. She snatched her hand from Tom Hearst's with a baleful look and hastened after Fanny.

The Lieutenant threw back his head and laughed aloud, much to Fitzroy Payne's dismay and, to judge by his countenance, Lord Harold Trowbridge's amusement.
That
gentleman had set aside his London journal, the better to observe Tom Hearst's tricks. But he rose now in Madame Delahoussaye's wake, and clapped the Lieutenant on the shoulder.

“You had much better play at cards with me, my good fellow,” Trowbridge told him. “Leave the chit to her mamma.”

“I must offer my apologies, Sir William,” Fitzroy Payne said, with a heightened gravity, as Trowbridge and the Lieutenant bowed and turned towards the hall. “I fear our household is in some disarray. The Earl's passing has made us all unlike ourselves.”

“Or perhaps,” George Hearst observed from his corner, “more truly
like
ourselves?” He closed his book and rose, of a mind to follow his brother. “I fear; Sir William, that Death has forced us all to reckon with mortality. And so you find us as we shall probably face our graves—with determined frivolity, indifferent tempers, and general regret.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Sir William replied. “I had always aspired to meet my Maker armed with a comfortably full stomach and a good night's rest.”

My old friend's good humour was lost upon Mr. Hearst.

“Then you would indeed be fortunate,” he gravely observed, “and in a measure but rarely accorded your fellows. I am sure my uncle wished for the same—with the added thought that Death, however inevitable, was better met on a more distant day. You see how little his hopes availed him. Not all the power and wealth the Earl of Scargrave might summon, could command him another hour of life.”

“Assuredly,” Sir William said, with an uneasy glance for the Countess. Isobel's brown eyes looked overly-large in her white face, and they were fixed dreadfully upon Mr. Hearst. “You have undoubtedly profited by your uncle's example.”

“The Earl loved to instruct, Sir William, however little his pupils warranted the lesson.” This last was spoken with an edge of bitterness, and George Hearst's mouth set into a hard line. I thought, as I gazed at him, how little he resembled his brother; where the Lieutenant's eyes were wont to dance, Mr. Hearst's were hollow; and the excellent moulding of the cavalryman's features was turned harsh and angular in the ecclesiastic's. An expression of abstraction swept over his face as I studied it, and with the briefest of nods for us all, Mr. Hearst left the drawing-room. Sir William expelled a heavy sigh, as though shifting a burdensome weight, and turned to Lord Scargrave with a smile.

“Well, my lord, if the spectre of Death has shown us
your
truest self, we may rest easy in the stewardship of the earldom. For in your own case, Lord Payne—or should I say, Lord Scargrave—only an increase in your usual sense, estimable self-restraint, and good breeding is evident. Rarely has a gentleman conducted himself with such dignity, in the midst of so much—distraction.”

Fitzroy Payne merely inclined his head, but I silently applauded my old friend; he had perfectly described the newly-titled Earl. The more I observe of Isobel's lover, the more I must commend him. Fitzroy Payne chose to suffer in silence rather than dishonour his uncle; and the strength of character required cannot fail to move me. I set aside all questions as to the
propriety
of his caring for Isobel in the first place; it is enough to know that he mastered the feeling when it proved most necessary, to the preservation of her honour as well as his own.

With the Earl departed this life, however and Isobel free—but all such thoughts must await Sir William's better understanding. A blackmailer is still at large, and the faintest air of scandal can blight a thousand tender hopes.

“Ah, a pot of tea,” Sir William said, as the footman, Fetters, appeared, bearing a tray before him; “exactly what an old man requires to throw off the chill.” He bent himself to his saucer, and all conversation ceased.

“Lord—Scargrave,” Fetters said to Fitzroy Payne, “I am asked by Mr. Cobblestone to tell you as the solicitors are come.”

“Again? And on the very day of my uncle's service? It is not to be borne.”

“I have put them in the libr'y, milord. “

“Very well, Fetters. I shall attend them presently.” Fitzroy Payne looked to Isobel for comfort, but my friend's eyes were on the fire, and if she had registered aught of the previous conversation, I should judge it a miracle.

The new Earl bowed to Sir William and silently withdrew; and at the closing of the door, Isobel started and looked about her.

“I fear I have presumed upon your attention, my lady,” Sir William said, and rose from his chair. “It is unjust to tax the patience of so much sorrow. Please accept my apologies and my
adieux”

“Indeed, Sir William, you do not presume. It is I who must be faulted for calling you here so precipitately, and then lacking the courage to speak.”

“Is there some trouble in train, my lady?”

Isobel's beautiful eyes fixed upon the magistrate's shrewd ones, and she studied his countenance thoughtfully. Then she turned to me without a word in reply. “Jane,” she said, “I would speak with you.”

I followed her into the hall, where lately her husband's body had lain; the scent of dying flowers and beeswax hung heavy in the air.

“Since you are so well acquainted with the magistrate,” Isobel began, in a nervous accent, “could not
you
impart to him some sense of what has occurred? I should feel easier in my mind if one who knew his character were to speak with him; for I confess he is a stranger to me, Jane.”

“But of course, Isobel,” I said, reaching for her hand. I was shocked to find it remarkably chill. “I shall make a show of returning with him to Scargrave Close in his carriage, the better to pay my respects to Lady Reynolds.”

“Oh, Jane!” Isobel cried, her eyes filling with tears, “and in such weather!” She cast her gaze upon the window's bleak prospect of snow. “You are very good to me.”

“How is it possible to be otherwise?” I replied, and squeezed her cold fingers affectionately. “Do not trouble about a little wind and wet, Isobel. You may consider the matter as settled.”

EVENTS FELL OUT AS I HAD DESIGNED, AND WE WERE NOT
three minutes under way in Sir William's comfortable chariot, the snow still falling softly about the lanterns that had been lit against the gathering dark, when he cleared his throat and embarked upon a subject of pressing concern to us both.

“Now, my Jane, perhaps you may tell me why the Countess summoned an old man out in such weather, and then escaped to her room with barely a word? I should almost believe her note of yesterday a subterfuge of your own, for renewing old acquaintance!”

“Indeed, sir, there was a darker purpose, and though I intend no dishonour to Lady Reynolds in avowing it, I should not be calling at your home this evening were I not charged with revealing it.”

“Ah! The matter gains in interest,” the magistrate said, his satisfaction in his voice. “Speak!”

I handed him the maid Marguerite's piece of foolscap, and let the ill-written words speak in my stead.

Sir William rummaged among the pockets of his greatcoat for some spectacles, and took a moment to settle them on his nose. In the darkness of the chariot's interior, his eyes strained to make sense of the handwriting. “Very curious,” he said, after several moments’ silent perusal. “When was this received?”

“Yesterday.”

“Have you an idea of the author?”

“We believe it to be Isobel's maid, a Creole girl by the name of Marguerite. She has decamped, and cannot be found, though Isobel sent some trusty fellows in pursuit when her absence was discovered last night.”

“And so the Countess is become afraid,” Sir William said slowly, “that the evil tongue of rumour is unleashed upon the land. A nasty business for one so shortly married.”

“Or so recently widowed. She feels it most acutely,” I said, “and would have a stop to such vicious talk.”

“There are two accusations contained herein,” Sir William said bemusedly, “that she has taken a lover among the peerage, and that she has done away with her husband, with or without her lover's help. One would think there could hardly have been time for all that—she's not many days returned from her wedding trip, I believe?”

“But a fortnight.”

“And so the gentleman must have been in her acquaintance before the wedding, and thrown in her way once again upon her return. There cannot be many such fellows in Scargrave, beyond the family itself.” And with this last, Sir William appeared to have heard the sense of his words for the first time, and was lost in painful speculation. There was but one lord among the Scargrave family now that the Seventh Earl was dead, and so the magistrate took Marguerite's meaning.

“Dear, dear,” Sir William said, turning his gaze once more upon the note, “this
does
put a rather nasty complexion upon it.”

“Marguerite would have us look to a lord, but does not tell us which,” I said. “She might as well intend Lord Harold as Lord Payne.”

“Lord Scargrave, you mean; for so we must call him, from this day forward. But tell me of Trowbridge—is he a near acquaintance of the late Earl?”

“A very recent acquaintance, I believe.”

“And yet he remains in the household, when all but those with a special claim on the affections of the family, such as yourself, should long since have left. It is like a man of his cheek.”

“It is very singular,” I said, with feeling; I could see no reason for Trowbridge's continued presence at Scargrave, and found him a burden on the entire household.

“Indeed,” said Sir William. “But Trowbridge is a singular fellow. More than once he has pulled the wool over the Crown's eyes in the matter of some sugar duties on his West Indies imports. When last I heard, he was backing opium runners trading for tea in the South China Sea. I should not have thought to find him in Scargrave, and at such a time; I have long thought death to be the only thing the man fears. And what do you surmise is his motive for such indelicacy?”

“I had understood him to be awaiting the Countess's disposition of some business matters.”

“So it is the
Countess
who is acquainted with Lord Harold. And as a business partner, too. That
does
give one pause.”

“I believe the term
partner
to be inaccurately applied, Sir William,” I said sharply. “Lord Harold merely seeks the Countess's interest, but he is very far from securing it.”

Sir William peered at me narrowly, but deigned not to comment. He tapped the poisonous letter and pursed his lips. “If Lord Harold is the man, we must ask what the maid might know of her mistress's business. A great deal, or a very little, depending upon the character of the maid. What think you, Jane?”

“That Marguerite has formed a tissue of lies,” I replied, with more stoutness than I felt. A clergyman's daughter may use wit at times, and candour whenever possible, but conscious deceit is more likely to fail her.

“And to what purpose?”

“With the intent of extorting payment for her silence.”

“I see no request for sovereigns here,” Sir William said.

“I should be very much surprised if that does not appear in the next letter.”

“The one I am intended to receive?”

“So we are told.”

“Not a very intelligent course, surely? For / cannot be expected to pay her.”

“She is a very foolish girl,” I finished lamely.

“Aha. So you say,” the magistrate muttered dubiously, and folded the paper away in his waistcoat. “You were present at the Earl's death, I believe?”

“Not at the moment of his passing, but I observed some part of his illness.”

“And what did you conclude?”

I hesitated, and the pause revealed me as less certain of matters than I would wish.