Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

“Unfortunate,” my mother sighed, “but we cannot be having everything. It is enough, perhaps, that she has the opportunity to be seen . One may meet with so many Eligibles in Brighton, I am sure — and though Jane is long since on the shelf, you cannot deny that her complexion improves with exposure to salt air!”

On this happy thought, my mother retired to her bedchamber, while I thanked Henry prettily, if somewhat archly, for the treat he meant to bestow.

“Save your breath for Manon,” he advised. “If that woman is to be credited, there is only one right manner of folding and packing gowns — and she will be busy with your trunk and silver paper the better part of the night.”

I left him to recruit his strength with the remains of a pie, while I hurried above-stairs, certain that nothing like silver paper was to be found in Chawton Cottage — to discover my bedchamber strewn with the stuff, and Manon up to her elbows in my meagre wardrobe.

7 MAY 1813

THE CASTLE INN, ON THE STEYNE, BRIGHTON

I WAS TO LEARN WITH MORTIFYING SWIFTNESS THAT I OWN nothing fashionable enough for the display of Brighton; indeed, in our dusky clothes, Henry and I appear little better than a pair of crows flapping about this expanse of frivolous and sunlit shingle—but more on the vexatious subject of dress later. Having arisen at the first cock-crow, with a mizzle on the air, we bundled ourselves into the hired chaise and made with all possible haste to London, sparing only half an hour for our nuncheon at the White Lion in Guildford. Manon was the most anxious of us all to get on—having put Hampshire to her back, she could not be quit of the country soon enough. It was with an exclamation of incomprehensible Gallic relief that she alighted at last from our chaise, a mere nine hours and five days since she had escaped the confines of her adoptive city; and swept without a backwards glance across the Sloane Street threshold. We did not see her again that evening.

She was present, however, to wish us well on our journey south the following morning—for Henry is incapable, I find, of resting long in the house where Eliza breathed her last, and nothing would do but that we must press on for Brighton immediately after breakfast. The journey being to be achieved in a curricle and pair, the sensation of air about the face was so delightful when the top was put down, just past Westminster Bridge where we gained the New Road, that I declared I should never wish to travel again in any sort of closed conveyance.

“—Until you are bound for Godmersham one wretched, chill November, and ready to sell your soul for a pan of coals at your feet and a glass of hot lemonade,” my brother unkindly observed.

We were to change horses thrice, at Croydon, Horley, and Cuckfield. The Chequers Inn at Horley saw us arrived a mere three hours after we had quitted London, and it was not above half-past two when our third flagging team was claimed by the ostlers at Cuckfield. The King’s Head is an easy, genteel establishment accustomed to the crush of visitors descending upon the seaside in the month of May; the landlord, one Puffitt, was at the door in his white apron, ready to offer Henry a tankard and myself anything I should require, while our team was changed for the last time.

I quitted the curricle, glad of the opportunity to ease my limbs, and began to pick my way through the mud of the yard. I had worn stout boots for the road, and was glad of my foresight; it had rained in the night, and the ground was uneven. I reached out a hand to steady myself against the cream-coloured body of a magnificent travelling chaise, bearing a crest I could not recognise upon its door; the owner had quitted it for refreshment in the inn, and the traces were already free of its team. As I touched the chaise, it rocked slightly, and a faint moan emanated from within.

I paused, and looked about. The tone of voice was female, and rather young; surely no one had abandoned a child , and possibly unwell at that, to the ostlers’ indifferent care?

No one spared me a look; I leaned closer to the chaise, and said low and clear, “Are you all right? Do you require assistance?”

The moan was repeated, louder and more urgently than before—a stifled sound, as though the girl would speak volumes if only she might.

“Henry!” I called out. My brother had advanced halfway to the innkeeper’s smiling form; he was nodding, and saying a word—the request for porter, perhaps. He turned and searched for my figure. I beckoned to him, and with a frowning look he made his way back across the churned expanse of yard.

“What is it, Jane? Surely you have not allowed a bit of mud to stop you!”

“There is a child trapped in this chaise,” I declared.

His brows rose in surprize. “Are you certain?”

A third moan, more strident if possible than the last, and a thumping sound, as tho’ a booted foot had been thrust against the door.

“Good God!” my brother said blankly. “We must enquire of the chaise’s owner, I suppose. He will have gone into the inn.”

“Are you mad ?” I reached up for the door handle. “The owner is undoubtedly kidnapping an innocent girl! Would you deliver her completely into his power?”

The chaise sprang open as neatly as a jewel box.

“Jane,” Henry objected. “Do you not think …?”

“Nonsense.” The steps were as yet let down; I mounted them, and peered within.

A girl of perhaps fifteen, dark-haired and doe-eyed, was sprawled on the forward seat in a state of considerable dishevelment. Her wrists were bound before her, with what appeared to be a gentleman’s cravat. A second length of linen was folded and tied around her mouth in a manner painful to observe. She stared at me imploringly, and made the same pitiful moan.

“Help me, Henry,” I demanded, and drew off my gloves, the better to untie the knots that bound her hands. I made swift work of it—I was always adept at untangling skeins—and chafed her reddened wrists. She was already struggling to her feet, bent upon exiting the chaise as quick as might be, regardless of the gag about her mouth. She spared no thought for the bonnet and gloves abandoned on the seat beside her—she moved as tho’ all the imps of Hell were at her heels.

I helped her into Henry’s arms, then gathered her reticule and discarded belongings. Henry eased the sodden cravat from her head; being Henry, he paid infinite care to her tangled curls, unwilling to incommode the poor child further.

“Oh, pray,” she whispered hoarsely when once the offending gag was removed, “hide me! Hide me quickly, before he returns!”

I grasped her elbow and would have instantly conveyed her to the curricle, but that my brother impeded my path. “Before who returns, Miss …?”

“Twining,” she replied, a bit more strongly now. “Catherine Twining. I have been abducted all against my will, and should have ended in wretched ruin had you not intervened, kind sir. Pray, do not deliver me back again into his hands!”

“No one shall hurt you,” I soothed, “only you must tell us how you came here. Only then may we know how best to help.”

Henry’s colder eye had sought my own while the girl spoke; and without a word being said, I apprehended his meaning—there were some who might convey a rebellious child, blessed with a petulant temper, to her relations in another town in just such a manner—or send her off to a hated Seminary for Young Ladies in the care of a servant, now gone to fetch lemonade—with her hands bound. Much as we might abhor such methods, it was not within our province to interfere. We were nothing to Miss Twining, and her governance could not be our business.