Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor (40 page)

Sir William was prohibited from calling Isobel as a witness; and the only other persons capable of asserting that she had been alone with her husband on the evening of his death were themselves dead. On this point, the magistrate could merely expostulate to the assembled lords, having permission to read the relevant testimony from the written record of the inquest. That only the Countess had survived the night, he said, should make his case. He then called Dr. Pettigrew.

The poor young man was sworn; stated his true name and place of birth, and was duly noted to be a physician who had attended the seventh Earl some three years, and at his death bed. Dr. Pettigrew gave his evidence much as he had at the inquest, and was allowed to stand down; at which point he was followed by Dr. Percival Grant, who testified that the seeds shown to the assembled peers by Sir William were indeed Barbadoes nuts, a toxic poison commonly used as a physick and purgative by the natives of Isobel's birthplace. It was then that I was called.

My legs were as water, and the trembling of my hands so severe, that I fear I appeared to wave to the assembly as I held my left palm high and swore to tell the truth, so help me God. Whenever I am forced to speak or perform in public—at the pianoforte, in particular—my cheeks and throat are overcome with a brilliant rash; I had worn my high-necked gown of deep brown wool on purpose, but must declare it to have failed in its office. Sir William, when he spoke, meant to be kind; I could hear it in the tone of his voice, and cursed him mentally. From his careful speech, the lords who should pass judgement upon Isobel and Fitzroy Payne would surely think me a ninny—and dismiss the worth of any evidence I might give to Mr. Cranley on the morrow.

I stated my name and that I was a spinster of Bath.

“You are a great friend to the Countess, are you not?”

“As I am to you, sir,” I replied.

“And you arrived at Scargrave Manor on the very eve of the Earl's death.”

“I did.”

“For what purpose, pray?” Sir William's eyebrows were drawn down to his nose, as though all such visits to Scargrave must be suspect.

“I was to attend a ball in honour of the Countess's marriage, and stay some weeks,” I said, with an effort to throw my voice the length of the chamber. From the number of white hairs and befuddled looks among the assembled peerage, however, I doubted that even the clangour of the Final Judgment should disturb their peace.

“And how did her ladyship's spirits appear on the evening in question?”

I hesitated, and looked to Isobel. Her hands gripped the railing of the accused's box painfully, and her face was studiously averted from Fitzroy Payne's. A greater picture of dignity I could not find in the room, nor one to so tear at the heart. But my friend was deathly pale; and I feared she might faint.

“The Countess was very animated,” I told Sir William, “as any young bride might be—opening the dance with her husband, partaking of the food he brought for her, and circulating among her guests to receive their best wishes. I had never seen her ladyship in better health, nor more beautiful”—I hesitated an instant, summoning my courage, and stared Sir William full in the face—”until, that is, Lord Harold Trowbridge appeared, and cast a cloud over her enjoyment.”

Sir William started, and narrowed his eyes. “Please keep to the question, Miss Austen,” he said.

“So I have done, sir,” I protested. “You enquired as to her ladyship's spirits; and one cannot properly mark the decline in them upon meeting Lord Harold—so severe a decline, indeed, that she was forced to quit the room a few moments—unless one comprehends how elevated they were at the evening's commencement.”

A short, ruby-faced gentleman sporting a silk robe with four bars of ermine on his shoulder—the robe of a Duke—shot up from the peers’ bench with a choleric splutter. “Damme, Reynolds, find out what the woman would say! I'll not have Harry maligned before the entire Gallery!”

The very Duke of Wilborough, poor Bertie by name. My words at least had affected Trowbridge's brother. I shifted my eyes along the ranks of the spectators’ gallery and found the one I sought; Trowbridge himself, his dark, narrow face utterly composed, and his unreadable eyes intent upon mine. I quailed, and looked away, appalled at what I might have done. But Isobel's life was in the balance; and if I must cause a riot in the House of Lords to free her, I should do so with equanimity.

The Lord High Steward called for order, with a look of dudgeon and a scowl in my direction; he then ordered Sir William to question me further regarding Lord Harold Trowbridge.

A brief smile twitched at the corners of Sir William's mouth; for an instant, it seemed, he applauded my bravery.

“Miss Austen, were you present at the encounter between Lord Harold and Lady Scargrave?”

“I was.”

“And what did you observe?”

“Lord Harold pressed the Countess closely regarding a matter of business, and ignored her request that he should better wait until the morrow. He then being called to the Earl's library, she was freed of him; but the episode cost her dearly in composure.”

“And after Lord Harold's departure, did her ladyship remark upon the scene?”

“She did. She said that Lord Harold had hounded her to the ends of the earth, and that she should never be free of him.” Another splutter from the peers’ bench, which I ignored. “Following the Earl's death, in great despondency, the Countess laid the entire matter before me—for without the Earl, she should be ever more prey to Lord Harold, and her husband's loss was accordingly a severe blow.”

“Miss Austen,” Sir William said warningly, “pray confine yourself to facts, and leave judgment for the assembly.”

“Yes, Sir William.”

My old friend turned towards the Lord High Steward. “I would request a recess, my lord, in order to call Lord Harold Trowbridge, and present him as a witness at the Bar. It is best to have
his
story regarding matters between himself and the Countess, rather than Miss Austen's.”

“So it shall be,” the Lord High Steward pronounced, letting fall his gavel; and I was allowed to step down—Sir William having failed to reach any of the matters for which my testimony was required—that of the finding of Isobel's handkerchief, or the maid's body, or indeed the scrap of foolscap overwritten by Fitzroy Payne's hand.

“
YOU HAVE TAKEN A GREAT RISK, MISS AUSTEN,” MR
. Cranley said gravely, as he handed me a cup of tea in the witnesses’ anteroom; “for we cannot know what Lord Harold Trowbridge shall say at the Bar, and we are powerless to counter it. Nor can we show that any collusion existed between him and the maid—as we must, if we are to suggest he is responsible for the Earl's death.”

“I offer my apologies, Mr. Cranley,” I said humbly, sipping at the restorative liquid; “I confess I did not think that far beyond the moment. I merely wished to divert the assembly from consideration of Isobel's guilt.
You
know that Sir William is not obliged to present evidence that does not support his case; and I was determined to make it known that Isobel depended upon her husband's fortune, and was thus unlikely to have killed him, when at his death it must pass to his heir. But I was unable to say that much.”

“Sir William may as readily suggest that the heir's fortune should be Isobel's,” the barrister pointed out, “can he but introduce the notion that they were lovers.”

“And how should he do that? The maid alone knew; and the maid is dead.”

“AH of London suspects it; I have heard it myself, in three separate places, during the course of the past week. But all
that
is hearsay. Our greatest danger lies with yourself.”

“I shall never pronounce such a thing in public, even did I know it to be true!” I cried stoutly.

“Sir William might demand it of you, Miss Austen, when you are next at the Bar; and you
are
under oath.”

I saw then that I had a great deal to learn of the law, and wished heartily that one of my brothers was an adept at the profession; and vowed to be more careful in future. But I had little time to consider how virtuous that future should be—a bell was rung announcing that the proceedings should recommence, and we were obliged to find our seats once more within the House. I observed that Mr. Cranley settled himself in his with a worried frown; and regretted my unfettered tongue.

I soon put aside all thoughts of self, however, for the tall form of Lord Harold Trowbridge strode through the assembly's ranks, under escort of the Court. He moved with his usual athletic grace, an ease that never deserted him; and kept his face to the front of the room. Upon arriving at the witness box, however, he found my eyes, and held my gaze with an expression of amusement. He seemed to feel only delight in my efforts to heighten his notoriety.

The Lord High Steward called us both to attention.

Sir William cleared his throat, and glanced at his notes. I knew he bore Harold Trowbridge little affection, and wondered how my old friend felt, turning to such a man from need. “Did you, Lord Harold, speak with the Countess of Scargrave in the presence of her friend Miss Austen, on the night of the Earl's death?”

“I did.”

“Would you describe the nature of the interview?”

“It was a business matter,” Trowbridge said dismissively.

Sir William frowned. “A matter for the Countess, and not her husband?”

“As the property I sought to purchase was entirely the Countess's, it was solely her consent that was necessary.”

“And how did her ladyship respond?”

“She very nearly showed me the door,” Trowbridge said, with a thin smile.

“The Countess was not amenable to your proposals?”

“The Countess has long been opposed to them.”

I felt my spirits begin to lift with hope. Perhaps even Lord Harold would speak the truth, when under oath. I glanced at Isobel, and saw that her eyes were fixed upon her enemy as if in a trance; Fitzroy Payne stared at nothing, his thoughts apparently elsewhere.

“And why is that, Lord Harold?” Sir William said.

“Because she does not wish to turn over her property.”

“And what property is that?”

“The property I wished to purchase.”

He is relishing this fool's errand, I thought, gazing at Trowbridge's heavy-lidded eyes; he says no more nor less than he must, and will drive Sir William mad before he lets slip anything that is damaging to himself. But my old friend the magistrate leaned forward keenly, his eyes fixed on the witness's face, as he posed the next question.

“Lord Harold, was the
Earl
equally opposed to your aims for his wife's property?”

“He was not,” Trowbridge said.

I started in my seat, all amazement. A deliberate falsehood! I looked for Isobel, and saw her sway where she sat.

“His lordship wished to complete the sale?”

“The Earl's object was in every way aligned with my own,” the rogue calmly replied; and at that, I heard Isobel gasp. As I watched, she slipped from her stool in a dead faint; it was as I thought—the strain had been too great to bear.

A murmur arose from the assembly, and Sir William halted before Lord Harold, his questions suspended. Fitzroy Payne leapt to his feet, all solicitude for the Countess's distress; and this, too, should be noted by the assembled peers. He was restrained by the Clerk, and Isobel righted; her wrists were chafed, and smelling salts administered, and she very shortly opened her eyes; but so ill was her appearance, that the Lord High Steward ordered her conveyed from the room, and the proceedings adjourned for the day.

“WHAT CAN BE HIS GAME?”
I
QUERIED MR. CRANLEY—NOT
for the first time, as I turned back and forth before the drawing-room fire at Scargrave House. We were alone, and wasting away the hours remaining until dinner with little appetite. Fanny Delahoussaye seemed much fatigued from her parade before the House of Lords, and had gone above to rest, to Mr. Cranley's disappointment. Madame had no reason to seek my company—if anything, she avoided it, since our contretemps of a few days before. But I had no time to spare for the sensibilities of Delahoussayes.

“Trowbridge has deliberately lied before the Bar,” I declared to the barrister, “and should be cited for perjury!” My tone betrayed my indignation, which was considerable. That I felt responsible for the rogue's appearance at all, I need not underline; and my guilt and remorse only heightened my desire to shake Trowbridge's grin from his insolent face.

“But how are we to prove perjury?” Mr. Cranley asked reasonably. “We have only the word of the Countess that her husband was bent upon fighting Lord Harold. Trowbridge knows as much, and feels secure in his deceit. He may say anything he likes, while the Countess but looks on and faints.”

“There is not a man more despicable,” I retorted bitterly, and threw myself into a chair with less than my usual grace. “Having dispatched Isobel's husband—her sole defender—Trowbridge would send her to the gallows, the better to win the property he cannot gain by any other means!”

“There is still Madame's consent,” Mr. Cranley pointed out. “But perhaps Trowbridge shall kill her as well.”

“That is hardly necessary—at Isobel's death, the property shall pass to Fanny, and as the sole trustee, Madame may turn it over to Lord Harold as she wishes. She shall free herself of an incumbrance, and think no more of Crosswinds.”

“But she must know that the late Earl's intentions were not as Trowbridge would suggest,” Mr. Cranley mused. “Perhaps I shall call her to the Bar when I have my day in Court, and make her declare the Earl opposed to Trowbridge's schemes.”

“And now
you
would expose us to risk,” I told him. “We cannot know whether Madame has fallen in with Lord Harold or not. For assuredly she has visited Wilborough House. Her consent may already have been won; and fearing to alienate her business partner, she may publicly deny all knowledge of the late Earl's views.”

“I fear you are right,” Mr. Cranley said, as he rose with a heavy sigh; “and now, Miss Austen, I must bid you
adieu.
Tomorrow comes early, and we have a difficult day before us; I must prepare late into the night, in the event that I am called upon to present the defence.” The barrister's face was very weary; and in his countenance I read a little of my own despair.