Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

“Good God!” Desdemona said blankly. “And he chose Jane’s chaise for his seductions? The man’s insolence knows no bounds! I shall have to suppress the fact—tho’ it may already be all over Brighton.”

The fact of the abduction did not appear to outrage her ladyship nearly as much as the bad ton his lordship betrayed; there was little that could shock Lord Harold’s niece.

“I do not think anyone but the Twining family, and ourselves, is aware of it,” I assured her. “Lady Oxford may remain in ignorance—but I cannot think it wise. There may be worse shocks in store, if Lord Byron is charged with murder.”

She looked at me speculatively. “What sort of girl was Miss Twining?”

“I should have said that she was no different from every other young lady of respectable birth and gentle rearing. She was diffident, shy, easily imposed upon—” I might, at this juncture, have disclosed my encounter with George Hanger in the Pavilion Saturday, but doubt as to what I had actually seen, stopped my mouth. “Her appearance of goodness, I thought, was entirely genuine. And she was afraid of Byron—she dreaded a meeting with him. Indeed, only last evening, she begged me to remain with her.”

“And now you berate yourself for having failed to do so.” Desdemona reached impulsively for my hand. “My dear Miss Austen— you were not her parent. You were not her chaperon. Having saved her once from a predator’s clutches, you cannot always have been her protector. What of the girl’s family?”

“There is a General Twining—Mrs. Alleyn had much that was ill to say of his character—and a brother in the 10th Hussars, lost in the Peninsula.” I hesitated. “My lady, to what end do these questions tend?”

She chose her words with care. “You are aware, I think, that Lady Oxford is my friend—Swithin would not have me call her so, to be sure, as she is regarded askance by almost everyone of consequence in the ton , on account of her sad tendency to seek consolation outside her marriage.”

“And yet you brave the Earl’s displeasure?” I interjected, curiously. “This is being a loyal friend indeed!”

“The Countess is a clever woman, and unafraid to appear the bluestocking before her friends; it is for this reason so many gentlemen seek her company—she possesses a well-informed mind. Have you any notion, Miss Austen, how rare a powerful understanding is, among women of Fashion? It is insupportably dull, I assure you, to spend all one’s days among creatures who talk of nothing but dress, and children, and the gifts their husbands have lately showered upon their mistresses! I prize Lady Oxford for her courage in living life as she chuses, without entirely affronting the Polite World, as Caro Lamb must perpetually do; and if Swithin fears her ladyship’s example—so much the better for me,” she added with a droll glint in her eye. “Anxiety keeps the Earl attentive; and that is saying a good deal.”

We had wandered from the subject of Catherine Twining, and the Countess recognised it. She took up the reins of conversation with a brisk twitch. “I do not need to tell you that Lady Oxford is in love with Lord Byron. Indeed, a degree of affection subsists between them that would make any risk to his life or reputation a matter of extreme anxiety to the Countess.”

A degree of affection subsists between them … and yet he had been obsessed with Catherine to the point of madness. How to explain it? Was Lady Oxford deceived, or was Byron the sort who must seduce every creature he encountered?

“That can be nothing to me,” I said, tho’ the words felt thick and ungracious on my tongue. “I am acquainted with neither the Countess nor the poet; my bond, slight as it was, lay with the unfortunate victim, and my sympathies must be entirely devoted to her cause.”

“I do understand,” Desdemona said with swift warmth. She squeezed my hand. “Indeed, I expected no less—and honour you for your sentiments. Which is why I craved your society this evening; I cannot help recalling, Miss Austen, how brilliantly you acted in the matter of my brother Kinsfell’s being mistakenly taken up for murder—and how deftly you then penetrated the motives of those who would have seen him unjustly hanged.” [18] The Countess refers here to events set down in Austen’s third journal of her detective adventures, Jane and the Wandering Eye. — Editor’s note.

“It was your uncle’s brilliance that prevailed on that occasion, not mine.”

A bold statement and a painful one in such a house, with all that remained of the past lying unspoken between us; and for an instant, Desdemona stiffened. “We will not speak of my uncle , I beg.”

She had loved Lord Harold like a daughter—or perhaps, their natures being so alike, more as a companion in adventure. When he was killed, I must believe she blamed me—for tho’ present, I was entirely unable to avert the deed, or save him from the mortal effect of his wounds. I had fully expected to be petitioned for the details of the Rogue’s final hour; but thus far, her ladyship had not asked for them. I guessed it was a form of Wilborough pride—and the fear of opening old wounds. I waited all the same for the moment when Desdemona’s desire should overcome her dignity.

“Are you suggesting that I ought to exert my energies to clear Lord Byron’s name?” I demanded. “—Given that gentleman’s extraordinary history, I doubt any woman could do so.”

Desdemona’s countenance eased. “You are annihilatingly frank, are you not? I care nothing for Byron myself; it is merely the fashion, you know, to swoon over his verses. I find him boorish and ungentlemanly; which is to say that he has never made the slightest push to engage my attention. Naturally I must regard him as my enemy! But with Lady Oxford it is otherwise; and I should not be most truly the friend I profess, did I not endeavour to help where help was wanted.”

“What is your honest opinion of Lord Byron’s mind?” I asked. “I spoke to him only once—in Cuckfield—and he was not then master enough of himself to know what he said. But you, who have seen him a good deal … would you regard him as entirely sound?”

“Are you asking whether he is mad?”

I made a diffident gesture with my hand. “I had wondered, indeed, whether he was perfectly sane. His behaviour of late has been most unsteady. Even in his writings there is much that is violent. It is of a piece, you know, with Romantical poetry, to be driven to the brink of murder—by thwarted love.”

“Caro Lamb would certainly think so! I am sure she is wishing it were she , and not poor Miss Twining, who was dropped like a sacrifice in Byron’s bed last night.”

The words, however farcical, were too close to truth for comfort. Her ladyship seemed to feel it; there was the briefest uneasiness between us; and then Desdemona attempted a recovery.

“Such stuff may be exotic , and feed the rage for all things Oriental that the Regent himself is so wild about—but it is not to my taste at all! I vastly prefer a good novel, about people such as one knows, and circumstances one may comprehend—something delightful and brimming with excellent conversation! I adored Pride and Prejudice —has it come in your way, by the by?”

“It has , yes— indeed , I was so happy as to look into it this winter,” I stuttered, feeling my countenance flush as tho’ her ladyship had let slip an indecency; and then, reverting to safer subjects, “But if you do not care for Byron, how can you be so solicitous for his welfare—?”

“It is all Lady Oxford. She sent me such a letter by Express this evening—the courier drew rein at our door just as the dinner bell was rung. I do not scruple to say, Miss Austen, that her ladyship is wild with fear that Byron will be hanged. ”