Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

The race course set out by the late Duke of Queensberry and various Royals mad for horseflesh—the Regent chief among them—traverses a rolling saddle of Down-land. There is a neat little stand erected for the use of spectators, but the majority of those present—gentlemen, in the main—preferred to sit their mounts or stand in ranks along the turns of the course, which is irregular and demanding as it cuts through the hills. [19] Jane would appear to be describing what we should term a steeplechase; a race derived from the gentlemanly habit of riding to hounds at a punishing pace, rather than a flat course designed solely for speed. — Editor’s note.

Desdemona pulled up her phaeton alongside a curricle, which I observed to contain Mr. Hodge and a companion—the redoubtable Mrs. Alleyn, who was looking very pert in a deep rose spencer and green sunshade. She hailed us smartly and complimented Mona on her courage, in sporting so dashing an equipage.

“I am accustomed to drive myself everywhere, you know,” Mona returned indifferently; “and Swithin is too wise to oppose me. Mrs. Alleyn, may I have the honour of presenting the Countess of Oxford?”

The lady’s brown eyes widened at being made the familiar of so notorious a personage; but she accepted the honour with good grace, inclined her head sweetly; and recovered herself a little in gazing out at the general scene. I smiled to myself as I watched: the jaunty Mrs. Alleyn might stile herself a prize in Brighton; but she had not yet encountered a ship of Lady Oxford’s draught.

“How do the odds run at present, Hodge?” Mona enquired.

If any gentleman were likely to know the state of the betting, it should be Hodge; he embarked on a fluent discourse regarding the points of the various horses and the weight of their riders; the variability of one animal’s response to dry turf, versus another’s liking for mud; the possibility of Lord Wyncourt’s gelding being a trifle touched in the wind; and the excellent action of Lord Swithin’s horse, which was called by the lovely name of China Trade. From which we concluded that the Earl’s entry was a high favourite.

“Then put it all on the nag for me, Hodge,” Lady Oxford said gaily, tossing him a silken purse that clinked delightfully with coins. “You know I cannot approach the bookmen.”

“Your servant,” Hodge said with a bow, and sprang down from his curricle, quite deserting Mrs. Alleyn. I might have shifted my place to supply her want of a companion—but that I observed her eagle eye already fixed on an elegant sporting figure making its way on horseback to the curricle’s side: Sir John Stevenson. He tipped his hat, acknowledged his old acquaintance Lady Oxford, and soon made Mrs. Alleyn the grateful recipient of his exclusive attentions.

“Did Byron say whether he intended the race-meeting?” Lady Oxford asked carelessly of Desdemona.

There was a pregnant silence, both Mona and I being well aware that Byron’s determined drinking must make all exertion impossible; but then some imp in the Countess’s soul encouraged her to declare, “I do not recollect. Jane—Miss Austen—may have heard him mention it, however … they were much in conversation.…”

“I cannot say,” I stuttered, as some memory of that engrossing tête-à-tête obtruded. He had penetrated the secret of my authorship. Stripped me naked with a single look. And called me a writer greater than himself.… “Indeed, we spoke so briefly—the merest nothings … but were I pressed, I should imagine his lordship too greatly fatigued by the labours of his morning, to venture out-of-doors so soon after the inquest. And then, too, there is the undesirability of drawing notice—”

“Whatever do you mean?” Lady Oxford retorted coolly. “Byron adores drawing notice. It is as life-blood to the man.”

“But I do not think his Bow Street Runner should advise it.”

Lady Oxford turned her head to frown at me a little. “Are you suggesting he means to skulk within doors , from fear of the rabble? His innocence has been declared!”

“I beg your pardon—say rather that his guilt has been doubted . Until some other is charged with the murder of Catherine Twining, the general feeling against his lordship remains high.”

Her ladyship emitted a brittle little laugh. “I collect you are entirely unacquainted with Lord Byron’s character, Miss Austen; and it is as well that I have remembered the fact, else I should resent your picture of the gentleman—for it is the picture of a coward . Good God! He can hardly have known the chit who drowned—a brazen piece who thought nothing of wandering the shingle at the dead of night, and got herself tossed like a sack of flour into a stranger’s bed—”

Understanding shot through my brain with the clarity of a lightning-bolt. I glanced swiftly at Desdemona, whose countenance was alive with anxiety. She gave the barest shake of the head in my direction; it was true, then: Lady Oxford had no notion of her lover’s passion for another.

“I had understood, ” Mona said breathlessly, “that the two had met some once or twice.”

An exclamation of annoyance escaped Lady Oxford’s lips. “Very probably! The better part of the known world has thrown itself at poor George’s head! If you only knew , Miss Austen, the throngs of ladies desperate for his lordship’s notice!—The stratagems and schemes to which they resort, without the slightest regard for their own dignity! Did I not possess a keen delight in the absurd , I should be reduced to tears by the folly of their display! But his lordship remains insensible to all!”

“Not quite all,” came a whisper from somewhere beside us.

A shiver ran up my spine, as tho’ an incorporeal spirit and not a human form had spoken.

Lady Caroline Lamb had condescended to join the race-meeting.

WEDNESDAY, 12 MAY 1813

BRIGHTON, CONT.

SHE WAS MOUNTED ON A LEGGY BLACK COLT, PERHAPS three years of age, with a strong Arab nose and a venomous look—culled from the Regent’s stables, no doubt. I may say that she had an excellent seat, and became it to admiration in her Prussian blue riding habit, cut as severely as tho’ Weston had fashioned it for the Marquis of Wellington, with a stiff, high collar and narrow sleeves. The colt was restive, snorting and tossing its head, but she paid it no heed, her tiny hands in their doeskin gloves grasping the reins with ease.

“Lady Caroline,” Desdemona murmured. “How delightful. I hope you are entirely recovered from your misadventure on the shingle?”

But Caro Lamb ignored her. Her queer, light eyes were fixed entirely on Lady Oxford, and as I watched, a smile quirked at her mouth—not with malice, but with the threat of uncontrollable laughter.

“Poor Aspasia! Did you believe his lies? Did you truly think he never met that wretched girl?”

“Go away, Caroline,” her ladyship spat. “I have nothing at all to say to you.”

The smile widened. “What fools we women are! I have an idea of the two of you, in your Herefordshire idyll; your complacent and stupid husband absent for weeks at a time; the fireside in January, the hectic conversation over books—laughing until you died at how easily you had rid yourselves of me, wretched little Caro Lamb, with her broken heart and hysteric looks—How nobly poor William stands by her! And you , believing all his lies, believing when he claimed he had never had a lover quite as rich as you, content to think a callow youth of four-and-twenty fascinated by your worldliness … for he, who is older in his bitterness than recorded time , is too adept at playing the callow youth.… Telling yourself that it was right and just he should worship a woman whose teeth are almost all dropt out!—A woman, moreover, taken in love by so many others that she has long since given up reckoning the countless pokes she’s suffered in the night—”