Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

“ — And mad as Bedlam into the bargain,” added Lord Swithin. “I confess I was not sorry to see her quit our house almost as soon as she entered it — having gained a foothold, she might have stayed all summer.”

“ — Forcing us to flee delightfully to the Lakes,” his wife murmured, with one of her sidelong glances. “But no matter. Having seen Caro plunge after him into the sea, Byron will wish nothing more to do with boats or sailing for a time, and has probably already bolted back to St. James’s.”

“You believe that he knew her ladyship, then?” Henry demanded. “ — That Lord Byron did not mistake her clothing and appearance for that of a boy, and sailed on in ignorance as tho’ the merest stranger had hailed him?”

“Certainly he knew his pursuer for Caroline Lamb,” Swithin replied, “and was willing to let her try her strength against the sea. Lord Byron knows her ladyship to be indestructible. Little Mania , he calls her; and claims she haunts his very dreams, like a virago. One can hardly blame him for coldness; anything else should be read by Caro as encouragement.”

“But I cannot forgive his lordship’s total indifference,” I protested. “To push resolutely forward, while the poor creature was o’erwhelmed by the waves — suggests a cold-heartedness of which no poet ought to be capable.”

“You would have Byron stand by the spirit of what he writes?” Mona enquired, as the bell was rung for dinner.

“A poet ought to be all sensibility — else he should better engage in political speeches, which nobody bothers to believe. Lord Byron’s verse offers every range of emotion — ardour, violence, the bitterest loss — but his behaviour yesterday betrays a coldness of inhuman proportions.”

“Caro Lamb is inhuman in her proportions,” Swithin corrected. “No girl can be so thin, and yet survive; I am with Byron — and believe her to be a walking Wraith.”

“Charles!” his wife cried. “Confess that you admired her, in her first Season! Indeed, I understood you nearly offered for her!”

“A pitiable ploy, my darling, to pique your interest. You were decidedly averse to my suit in those days.”

Desdemona pursed her lips to prevent herself from laughing; for indeed, she had treated poor Swithin abominably when she was but eighteen.

“Caro Lamb’s persistence should drive any man mad,” the Earl concluded. “Moreover, it suggests a passion for self-abasement — and that cannot be admired. She is like a dog that craves to be whipped, and is forever kicked instead. Had George saved her from drowning, as I did, he should never be rid of her!”

“Then let us hope Caro does not transfer her affections to you, ” Desdemona said teasingly, “out of bottomless gratitude.”

“If she does, my darling, you have my hearty consent to toss her back into the sea!”

“Charles, you are the greatest beast in nature. Is he not, Mr. Austen?”

The Countess, despite her words, was gazing at her husband with immense good humour. She slipped her arm through Henry’s. “I think I shall allow you to escort me into dinner!”

MONDAY, 10 MAY 1813

BRIGHTON, CONT.

STRAINS OF MUSIC DRIFTED FROM THE ASSEMBLY ROOMS as we mounted the Castle’s stairs, and the entry was crowded with young ladies in white muslin, gentlemen in satin knee breeches, and duennas of imposing gravity determined to protect the virtue of their charges. We were to part from the Earl and his lady at the Assembly Room doors, where the Swithins intended to form a part of the glittering throng; and as Henry and I turned from the brightly-lit room — hundreds of candles being illuminated in chandeliers suspended from the lofty ceiling — I was greeted in a barely audible accent by my young acquaintance, Miss Catherine Twining.

She looked all the youthfulness of her fifteen years, a slight figure beside the imposing height and breadth of her father, the General; the white muslin she wore made her skin appear sallow; but her dark hair and eyes were as lovely as ever. Only a natural flush to her cheeks and an appearance of joy common to one of the Season’s first Assemblies, were utterly lacking — Catherine, I perceived, was not in spirits this evening.

I begged the honour of making her known to our friends — performed the introduction of Earl and Countess, to Catherine’s pleased confusion; and joined my thanks to Lady Swithin for our delightful evening, with my brother Henry’s.

“I shall call upon you first thing, my dear Miss Austen, to give you an account of the ball,” Desdemona promised, twinkling; and then her lord swept her into the Rooms, which were as full as they could hold.

“How very fashionable the Countess is, and how very kind the Earl,” Catherine Twining breathed. “He looks most truly the gentleman.”

She may have compared him to the unfavourable memory of Lord Byron; or perhaps to that of her more determined suitor — for a second glance at the crowd mounting the stairs behind General Twining revealed Mr. Hendred Smalls. He formed a third in the Twining party, and had no doubt already claimed several of Catherine’s dances.

She made so bold, however, as to renew our acquaintance; pressed her father to acknowledge my brother Henry; extended the honour to Mr. Hendred Smalls, who bared his unfortunate teeth; and concluded breathlessly, in a lowered voice meant for my ears alone, “Oh, Miss Austen, are you indeed attending? Might I hope to speak with you in the interval between dances? For you must know, I am all of a quake!”

“My state of mourning prevents me entirely from joining the Assembly; but I shall sadly miss your society, Miss Twining.” And I confess I did regret retiring to my bedchamber; the music was infectious, my foot was tapping out a reel. “What has occurred, my dear, to discompose you so?”

“ He is here!” she breathed. “Do but glance through the doors, and you shall espy him leaning against a column, for all the world as tho’ he were not in the habit of abducting unwilling females! I had thought him returned for good to London! Am I never to be free of his society?”

“Lord Byron shall hardly attempt to seduce you in the middle of a ball.” I was amused despite myself. But Miss Twining was too agitated for ill-applied humour.

“Oh, Miss Austen, do you think it possible he has published my shame to all of Brighton? Am I entirely exposed? Is it likely I shall enter the Assembly, only to be cut dead by all my acquaintance?”

“Hush, my child!” I glanced with a casual air through the doorway. As the sumptuously-dressed throng shifted and parted before my dazzled eyes, I caught a glimpse of a classic profile, a sweep of dark curls, a snowy cravat carelessly tied. Lord Byron leaned negligently against the wall, his lame right foot crossed over his left, one hand tucked into the breast of his coat. A branch of candles, flickering in the great room’s draughts, threw his face half in shadow — as romantical a picture as any poet could desire. As I watched, he leaned to whisper in the ear of another gentleman — a tall, thin exquisite with receding hair. Both men smiled.

“His lordship is engrossed in conversation, and it does not appear that anyone has cut him dead,” I observed.

“That is only Mr. Scrope Davies, who has been intimate with Byron for ages,” Catherine retorted. “I am sure he is already in possession of every detail — indeed, it was probably his cravat I choked on in my misery; Mr. Davies is a dandy , you know, and ruins a score of freshly-ironed cravats each morning, before his valet declares the last to be perfection.”