Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

Maria Fitzherbert . Unfortunate woman! I could not consider her without a lurch of the heart — for I had made the acquaintance of the Regent’s true wife, the twice-widowed and Catholic beauty who, even in her twilight years, remained devoted to the memory of the Prince for whom she had sacrificed reputation, respectability, and the best years of her youth. I knew such truths of that lady — how she had borne the Prince a son, and been forced to give the child up; nay, how she had acquiesced in sending the boy out of the Kingdom , unacknowledged by his legitimate family, and given over to the kindness of strangers, across the Atlantic in America.

I had never spoken of these things to Henry; I had been sworn to secrecy; and besides, they formed a part of my own life too painful to contemplate. It was Maria Fitzherbert who had watched with me, as the one man I wholly loved — Lord Harold Trowbridge — drew his final, shuddering breath. It must be impossible to hear her name without the face of the Gentleman Rogue hovering just out of reach, in my mind’s eye. [5] Jane recalls events recorded earlier in the journal account subsequently published as Jane and the Ghosts of Netley . — Editor’s note.

How perfectly marvellous his lordship should appear against this backdrop of sea and Fashion, this playing-field of the Privileged, striding towards us in his impeccably tailored black coat, careless under the gaze of the most lofty — for he was a duke’s son, after all, and no one conveyed such excellent ton , for all his dubious reputation, as Lord Harold.

I do not like to see you in mourning, Jane , the Rogue’s voice murmured in my ear. Black does not suit you. You should go forever dressed in silk the colour of wine .

“Are you feeling faint, Jane? Is the wind too chill for your liking?” Henry asked in concern.

I shook my head, and rallied with an effort. “You have proved the perfect antidote,” I told him. “When I exclaim at Brighton’s perfection, you recall me to the rottenness at its core. I cannot like the Regent; indeed, when I consider his lack of gallantry towards the fairer sex, I could almost hate him. The Prince is no model for his subjects, and I must assume that Brighton has taken its likeness from its patron — a glorious exterior, wrapped about a hollow shell!”

“Enjoyable enough for a fortnight, despite all that,” Henry remarked comfortably. “Do not become missish , Jane, when you may command a suite of rooms at the Castle! Now — you have not answered my question. I am at your disposal for at least the next ten days. What do you crave, for your dissipation?”

“Nothing very scandalous. I should like to walk each morning, Henry, and fill my lungs with the tang of salt air, so that I might remember it in August when the drone of bees is soporific in Chawton. I should like to make a trial of the waters, by hiring a bathing machine and taking a dip in the sea. I should like you to drive me along the Lewes road, so that I might have a glimpse of the 10th Hussars at Brighton Camp — I am sure that Lydia Bennet would wish me to see a place of which I have invented so much! I desire to attend the Brighton Races. I should like to dance at the Assemblies — but such a thing is not to be thought of, in our state of mourning; visit this Pavilion, for which it seems we have all paid so much; and take out a subscription at Donaldson’s Circulating Library.”

“The Library we might manage,” Henry said dubiously, “but as for an invitation to the Pavilion — I confess that may prove to be above even my touch, Jane.”

“I do not expect you to secure it,” I retorted indifferently. “I shall undertake to do so myself. Lord Moira is an intimate of the Regent’s; and when his flowers arrived in respect of Eliza, the missive bore his direction at the Pavilion. He is even now in residence. He shall not forget us, I am sure.”

Henry looked impressed.

“But should his lordship fail me,” I continued, “I shall learn to be content with reading. The Circulating Library is certain to have the latest publications. Perhaps even Lord Byron has been scribbling something — provided Lady Oxford accords him sufficient liberty.”

“Could not Miss Twining supply the intelligence?”

“I should never distress her by alluding to his lordship, Henry!” I scolded. “But Miss Twining assures me that all the most respectable persons in Brighton may be found at Donaldson’s. The ladies display their gowns, and the gentlemen consult the London newspapers, and members of both sexes play cards there of an evening. It would not do to be a stranger to Donaldson’s. Besides, I wish to see how often my book is in request. If the Fashionables of Brighton do not constantly solicit the privilege of reading Pride and Prejudice , I shall find no good in them at all — even if Lord Byron is the writer most commonly claimed by the town.”

“Again, Lord Byron! That gentleman has certainly seized your fancy!”

“Gentleman?” I repeated, astonished. “—Merely because he claims a title? He is no gentleman , Henry, and well you know it! But I confess Lord Byron has seized my fancy. I should like to make his acquaintance, and tell him in the strongest possible language my opinion of his Turkish treatment of Catherine Twining!”

“The fellow is a common blackguard, for all he is a lord,” my brother returned. “One has only to consult his past conduct. I do not regard his current inamorata — Lady Oxford is an established woman of the world, and entirely mistress of what she is about; but consider Lady Caroline Lamb! And her unfortunate husband! There one may justly say that hatred for the tender sex, as much as love, has animated Lord Byron.”

My brother’s intimacy with the Great, tho’ it sprang from his banking trade rather than privileged birth, had made me familiar with the names and histories of the gossiping ton . I had even seen Lady Caroline Lamb some once or twice during my sojourns in London; Eliza had been on nodding terms with her ladyship. Caroline Ponsonby was born the Earl of Bessborough’s only daughter; her mother, Lady Bessborough, formed a vital part of the Devonshire House Set; her aunt, Georgiana, was Devonshire’s first Duchess. I was once acquainted with the Cavendish family, during a precious interval in Derbyshire some years ago, when Lord Harold — an intimate of Chatsworth — introduced me to the family’s notice. Caro, as she was called, had grown up in the chaotic and amorous atmosphere of that great Whig establishment, and had emerged as one of its chief eccentrics. Brilliant and charming in conversation, faerie-like in her figure, outrageous in her behaviour, Caro Ponsonby was apostrophised the Sprite by her gallant admirers and took London by storm in her first Season, when she was but seventeen. William Lamb, heir to Viscount Melbourne, married her two years later; and for nearly a decade now had endured her tantrums and scenes. Tho’ Caro screamed hysterics at their wedding, tore her gown in a passion, and was carried fainting from the room, this was considered nothing out of the ordinary Devonshire way — and so William and his Caro determined to be happy. They read Great Works together all day, that Caro might complete her education, and went into Society all night; dressed their pages in a livery of crimson and chocolate; and once sent Caro to the dinner table, naked beneath a chafing dish, as amusement for her relations and friends. A notable Whig orator, William Lamb stood for Parliament and was rumoured for a Cabinet post — until George Gordon, Lord Byron, burst upon the scene with Childe Harold last year.

His lordship has said that he awoke upon the day of his poem’s publication to discover that he was famous. Certainly no one has shot from obscurity to fame as swiftly before. The street outside his lodgings was blocked with fashionable carriages delivering endless invitations; publick riots broke out whenever his lordship walked abroad. It was inevitable, in such a general fever of admiration, that Caro Lamb must pursue him. Byron’s looks and verse alike were calculated to inflame her wild imagination; all decorum and propriety forgot, she committed every publick folly — riding openly with him in Hyde Park; entertaining him at Melbourne House, where he mounted to her rooms by a back stair; loitering outside the doors of gentlemen’s clubs in the livery of a page. She was said to have entered his rooms by the upper-storey windows, a feat only a monkey might have performed. And like a monkey, she grew a dreaded nuisance on Lord Byron’s back.