Jane and the Wandering Eye (13 page)

“Amidst much contradiction, abuse, and bestowing of oaths—and a remarkable expense of coin, I might add—something of no little worth. One of the chairmen—a broad Irishman who stood well back in the crowd attending the end of my mother’s rout—claims to have seen something to our advantage. He will have it that an open carriage attempted to pass through Laura Place in the wee hours of Wednesday morning; and after hesitating some moments, the driver was forced to descend to the horses’ heads, and back his pair the length of the street. The chairmen closest to Her Grace’s door were unlikely to have observed the debacle—which accounts for the ignorance of the men I questioned in Stall Street.”

“An open carriage? But it snowed!”

“And so the chairmen observed. It must have been, they affirmed, a party caught out late by the weather—a party that had not considered of snow, when they undertook to drive about the countryside in a curricle. But as they were happily in possession of a wealth of blankets, in which one passenger at least, was effectively cocooned, we may congratulate them on having sustained no very great evil.”

“Our murderer!” I exclaimed. “He had only to drop from the Dowager’s window to the open carriage, while the driver was abusing the chairmen—and conceal himself among the lap robes within. Did the chairmen remark the driver’s face?”

“He was heavily muffled against the snow, as should not be extraordinary. But he did approach their stand, and exhort them in the foulest language to clear a passage; which engaged their attention so thoroughly, they could say nothing of the equipage’s passenger.”

“And the curricle itself?”

“Indistinct in every respect. No coat of arms, no device upon its doors—a common black carriage, such as might be offered for hire at one of the inns.”

“And so it might, indeed,” I thoughtfully replied. We walked on some moments in silence, and then I added, “Did the murderer depart the anteroom by the open window, my affection for the cunning passage must be entirely at an end. I think, Lord Harold, that we should examine it thoroughly at the nearest opportunity, the better to dismiss its claims upon our attention.”

“It shall be done directly we have consulted with your Mr. Cosway, my dear. I should have attended to it before, but that I believed the passage already searched by Mr. Wilberforce Elliot.”

“I cannot be easy in my mind, regarding Mr. Elliot’s searches,” I replied firmly; but further speculation was at an end. We had achieved our object.

Mr. Richard Cosway had taken up his abode in no less than the foremost residence of Camden Place—that distinguished by the broad central pediment and coat of arms of the Marquis of Camden. The artist’s taste, as Eliza had assured me, was exquisite in this as in all things.

We mounted the steps, pulled the bell, and were speedily admitted to the foyer, which was dominated by a spiral stair ascending to the drawing-room. A footman in sky-blue livery, and possessed of the chilliest countenance, received Lord Harold’s card together with Eliza’s hasty scrawl, and made his stately progress towards the first floor.

I profited from the interval in surveying my surroundings—and found them unlike anything I had encountered to date. Even so humble a space as this entry was marked by the hand of the collector. What appeared to be excellent Flemish tapestries of considerable age depended from the ceiling, the richness of their hues fired by the light of the clerestory windows. Two chairs, carved and gilded as thrones, offered the weary their damasked laps; and at their feet lay a veritable tide of Turkey carpet, its design at once intricate and bewildering. Surely the house had been hired furnished? Or had Mr. Cosway seen fit to travel with his belongings, like an Oriental potentate?

“Mr. Cosway is at home,” the footman told us with a bow. Lord Harold inclined his head, I took up my reticule, and we followed the man above.

The drawing-room itself was more akin to enchantment than anything in my experience—Mr. Mozart’s seraglio come vividly to life. Everywhere about were scattered small ivory cabinets and mosaic tables inlaid with curious stones, their feet carved in the form of fantastic animals. Groups of ottomans, upholstered in the richest damask, were set off by Japanese screens; a profusion of Persian rugs ran the length of the marble floor; and poised for appreciation and display were choice bronzes, artists’ models in wax and terra-cotta, specimens of antique Sevres, Blue Mandar, Nankin and Dresden china. I blinked, and turned about in wonder—and caught at the last the amused smile of the painter himself, as comfortable as a monkey in a jungle of his own making. Richard Cosway was half-hidden by a suit of armour, but a flash of sunlight revealed a waistcoat of cerise and yellow to my eye, as surely as exotic plumage betrays an elusive bird.

“Lord Harold,” he said, coming forward with a bow, “and the delightful Miss Austen.” He was so diminutive a
figure, and possessed of such awkward features, as to seem almost a gargoyle stepped down from the piers of Winchester; but I made him a courtesy, and took the hand he extended in greeting. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“The pleasure is entirely mine, sir,” I replied. “You are very good to receive us on so little notice, and we are sensible of the charge upon your time.”

“The notice of the Comtesse de Feuillide—forgive me, of Mrs. Henry Austen—is hardly little,” he assured me with becoming grace. “She is one of the few women of fashion who retains both her understanding and her heart—and is thus to be prized as the rarest porcelain.”

“I see you value her as I do.”

He inclined his head, and gestured towards two of the formidable chairs. “My deepest sympathies, Lord Harold, at your nephew’s present misfortunes. Shocking how little the authorities are to be trusted in a matter of this kind! But, however, all earthly authority must give way to a Higher Power in a very little time, as I have presumed to instruct His Royal Highness. All mortal concerns are fleeting, when the world is near its end.”

Lord Harold glanced enquiringly at me, then bowed to the painter and seated himself without a word.

“The Comtesse suggests, Miss Austen, that you are desirous of having your likeness taken in miniature; and knowing that such is my primary avocation, you have sought my talents and advice.”

“Indeed, sir, I fear that she has imposed upon you,” I said hastily. “It is not the matter of my own portrait, but another’s, on which we have come.”

One eyebrow was suffered to rise, and the great man settled himself upon an ottoman, his splendid coattails arranged behind. I observed he had chosen his seat with care, to accommodate his short legs; for they should have
dangled from the height of the chair upon which I perched.

“Pray tell me how I may be of service.”

Lord Harold withdrew the small paper parcel from his coat and set it on a table close at hand. “We had hoped, Mr. Cosway, that you might recognise this piece—or perhaps, its subject.”

The slight foolishness of expression instantly fled. It was replaced by an appearance of the most intense interest. Cosway undid the paper, and drawing forth a quizzing glass, examined its contents minutely.

“Yes,” he mused, “a lovely thing, to be sure. Probably a woman’s eye—you will remark the delicacy of the brow, the excessive length of the lashes, and the provocative glance. I should think it is a French piece.”

“French?”

“Observe the hazing around the portrait’s edge—the suggestion of the eye’s suspension in a cloud of mist. It might almost seem to float, like an image in a dream. I devised the style when I painted Mrs. Fitzherbert’s eye for His Royal Highness, of course; but it has long since been abandoned among English painters for a more realistic representation. It is usual, now, to frame the eye in a curl of hair, or to suggest the bridge of the nose.”

“Might not it be an older portrait?” Lord Harold enquired. “Executed in the ‘eighties or ‘nineties, perhaps?”

“Such things were not quite the fashion then,” Mr. Cosway mused, “for I only painted Mrs. Fitzherbert’s eye in 1790. Had the portrait dated from so early a period, I should have recognised it instantly as one of my own. Engleheart adopted the practice, of course, and turned it almost from art to commerce—
anyone
might have an Engleheart eye for the asking—but he is often given to working in enamel, and this is clearly done in watercolours, and painted on ivory. Besides, Engleheart
paints in a far more realistic style, and signs the obverse with the initials G.E.”

“So enquiry in that quarter would avail us nothing,” I said in some disappointment.

The painter shook his head. “May I enquire, my lord, how you came by the item?”

“Upon the death of its owner,” Lord Harold replied, without a blush; and indeed, his words were not very far from the truth. “I thought it possible that the lady whose eye is here represented would wish to know of the gentleman’s demise; and that in returning it to its subject I might attempt to perform some final service on behalf of my friend. Miss Austen was so kind as to suggest an appeal to yourself, who must be acclaimed the acknowledged expert in such things.”

“And this
friend
conveyed to you nothing of the portrait’s history before his death?”

“He did not. It came to me, as it were, in all the silence of the tomb.”

“A pity. We may suppose that the gentleman preferred to shroud the circumstances of the portrait’s commission in mystery. That is not uncommon, my lord, I may assure you, with miniatures of this sort. They were devised as tokens for illicit lovers, and many a possessor has gone to his grave with the name of the subject sealed upon his lips. Pray forgive me—I risk a gross impertinence—but why should you struggle to betray the grave’s confidence?”

“My friend died suddenly, in the flower of his youth, and I am certain that he would not have wished his beloved to go unremarked at his passing. A legacy, perhaps, conveyed anonymously—I feel it incumbent upon me to do
something.”

“Though your nephew’s affairs are so sadly entangled at present?” Mr. Cosway’s protuberant eyes were fixed steadily upon Lord Harold’s face. “It is singular that so
active a benevolence, on behalf of another wholly unconnected to your misfortunes, should possess you at such a time.”

“And now I believe, sir, that you
do
risk impertinence,” Lord Harold replied evenly.

“It is very probable. But I cannot think you approach me with any degree of frankness, my lord, and every kind of deceit is my abhorrence. Good day to you—and to you, Miss Austen. My compliments to the Comtesse.”

“Mr. Cosway—” I sprang up, a most beseeching expression upon my face. “Do permit me to speak a word, I beg. Lord Harold is perhaps too discreet. But I may inform you that a greater knowledge of the portrait’s particulars, might swifty avert his nephew’s misery.”

“I thought it possible,” Mr. Cosway replied, and smiled faintly. “But I cannot like the want of confidence his lordship betrays.”

“Your pardon, Mr. Cosway,” Lord Harold managed, with a quelling glance for myself; “I spoke perhaps too hastily.”

There was a lengthy pause, in which the painter took up the miniature once more and examined it narrowly. At length, however, he set it aside, and folded his hands upon his knee.

“I should like to propose a method of enquiry, my lord.”

“Pray do so at once.”

“My wife, Maria, of whom you may have heard—”

“And who has not? She is very nearly as celebrated an artist as yourself,” Lord Harold acknowledged.

Mr. Cosway bowed. “My wife, Maria, is presently resident in France—and acquainted with the principal painters of the Emperor’s circle. Though she makes her home in Lyons, I know that she is often in the capital, and might readily make enquiries regarding your portrait.
She might first locate the hand that captured the likeness—and from him, the name of the subject.”

“I am afraid it is beyond my power to part with the pendant,” Lord Harold said, frowning. “Affairs are too delicate to risk its seizure, through some misadventure of war.”

“But you need not give it up for longer than the space of an hour,” Mr. Cosway cried. “I shall sketch the piece, front and back; shade the whole in watercolours—and we may have the sending of it by the next packet that serves!”

Lord Harold paused to reflect; but Mr. Cosway’s enthusiasm was at a considerable pitch. He hastened to support his first inspiration with another.

“You are intimate in Government circles, my lord. It is everywhere acknowledged among the fashionable of the
ton
that none may move heaven and earth so easily as Lord Harold Trowbridge—and the insertion of a letter in the mail pouch of a secret craft, such as plies the Channel in defiance of blockades and shot, should be the matter of a moment, for one of your influence!”
⁷

“Your notion has considerable merit, Cosway,” Lord Harold replied, rising to his feet, “and I believe I shall avail myself of it. I shall call for the portrait in exactly one hour, and receive from your hands the coloured sketch, along with a letter of explanation intended for your wife—and may I ask, my good sir, whether His Majesty’s Government might offer any favour to the lady in return? Papers of safe conduct for a voyage to England, perhaps?”

“I shall extend the offer to her with pleasure and gratitude,”
Mr. Cosway said; but a sadness suffused his ugly countenance, and I did not believe that his Maria should find safe conduct necessary. “It is much to think that she shall have news of home with all despatch! I have been sadly vexed by the trials of the foreign post—and so we serve each other a turn, my lord. I shall expect you in an hour!”

He rang for the footman, and bowed us to the door; and I departed Camden Place with a heightened respect for Mr. Richard Cosway. For any man may possess a heart, and the most wounded sensibility, though he parade like a peacock and grin like a monkey.