Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron

“When was the foal born?” I asked.

“Ten minutes past two, by the stable clock, and thank the good Lord for it—the foal would’ve been dead if she’d taken much longer.”

I gazed at the delicate ribs, rising and falling with blessed air. While the foal drew her first breath, Catherine Twining drew her last. It was a bitter conjunction.

“And afterwards? When the mare and foal were comfortable?”

“I stood outside and looked at the stars for a bit,” he answered, “then went to my bed. There were but a few hours till dawn, and foal or no, I’m expected at my work by six o’clock.”

“Did anyone else cross the Pavilion grounds while you looked at the stars?” I asked.

“Nobody but the Colonel.”

“McMahon?” Mona said quickly.

He shook his head. “Colonel Hanger. He’s an odd one, and no mistake. Never sleeps, playing cards until all hours, or striding about the grounds as tho’ all the imps of Satan be after ’im. Many’s the time he’s sat down on a barrel with Mr. Davy—he’s the Head Groom—day or night, to talk of horseflesh or race-meetings or such hunts as he’s had. But Mr. Davy was gone to bed. There was only me to talk to the Colonel that night.”

“And did Colonel Hanger stay long?” I murmured, to keep the flow of reminiscence unstinted.

The mare had abandoned Mona and was prodding Jem’s shoulder with her nose. He poured the bran mash carefully into a feedbag, and strapped it to her head before speaking again.

“At first I thought he’d met with an accident, so wild did he look—tramping into the stable block with his boots and pantaloons soaked to the knees. But then I saw as how he was grinning, so all was well. Colonel Hanger , I says, you gave me quite a turn . He clapped me on the shoulder and laughed out loud, as tho’ he’d just won a packet at hazard or cards; and then he gave me a sovereign. To celebrate the safe delivery of the foal, he said.”

His boots and pantaloons soaked to the knees .

“Was it raining that night?” I asked pensively. “I cannot quite remember.”

“No, ma’am. He’d fallen into the sea, he said, while walking along the Marine Parade after the Assembly. Lucky for him the tide was well out. He was foxed, I suppose—but the cold water soon put him to rights.”

Mona and I had gone very still. I do not think either of us moved a muscle for an instant, or bothered even to breathe. The tide was well out . No one had even thought to remark upon the tides, at the hour of Catherine’s death. I had dismissed Caro Lamb, even, as unable to brave the water. But Catherine’s killer had walked out to Byron’s yacht, and fetched the hammock, with only a shallow depth to concern him.

“What did the Colonel want here in the stables?” I asked, as casually as possible. “Surely he did not mean to ride at such an hour?”

Jem grinned. “No, ma’am. Not that night—tho’ I’ve known him to gallop the Downs in pitch black before, and a wonder it is that either the Colonel or the horse came home. No—it was a large needle Old Hanger wanted, such as we use on the horse blankets—a needle and good, strong thread.”

FRIDAY, 14 MAY 1813

BRIGHTON, CONT.

“OH, WHAT I WOULD NOT GIVE FOR LORD HAROLD AT THIS moment,” I said to Mona, compound of frustration and despair. “ He should have known what sort of man Colonel Hanger is, and how he must be worked on!”

We had thanked Jem for his interesting conversation with a shilling pressed into his palm, and an unspoken hope that he did not share our interview with Colonel Hanger—lest his life enjoy a very brief duration. I suspected, however, that without the posing of pertinent questions, Jem’s knowledge should remain locked in the stables; he was not the sort to offer intelligence unsolicited.

“To be sure Uncle was acquainted with Hanger,” Mona said with a visible shudder. “They were both second sons, you know, and that is apt to make for fellow-feeling—tho’ I do not think you could find two more dis similar men the length and breadth of England! I confess I cannot see my uncle emerging from the sea at dead of night, and requesting a needle and thread from the undergroom, so that he might sew up a dead body.”

“But that is just the point, Mona. I can, ” I retorted. “And it is for that reason I wish devoutly he were with us still! There is nobody I should rely upon more to confront a villain. Lord Harold may have been the consummate gentleman, but he was capable of thinking like a rogue—and therefore, outwitted the worst of them.”

She studied me with an oddly arrested look. “You were often in danger when you were with him, were you not? It was not all a pleasant turn around the Park?”

“Your uncle was an agent of the Crown,” I said, taken aback. “I cannot recall that it was ever a pleasant turn around the Park. But what is that to the point? I am not Lord Harold, and I shall be reduced to a quaking jelly by a man of Colonel Hanger’s kidney; I knew it from the first moment I saw him, intent upon ravishing poor Catherine in the Regent’s conservatory. The fellow is evil, Mona.”

At her exclamation, I supplied the history of our entertainment at the Pavilion, and the Colonel’s readiness to draw Henry’s cork, or challenge him to a duel. She listened acutely, evidencing neither shock nor dismay.

“It is everywhere known, of course, that Hanger used to engage in very rum behaviour—procuring women for Prinny when they were both thirty years younger,” she observed. “It was he who helped to make the illegal marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert, poor lady—only think of having such a man as witness to one’s wedding! And I do not doubt he has pulled Prinny out of countless scrapes that, were they made publick, should have greatly tarnished his honour. But I cannot think even Hanger should be fool enough to prey upon a child of fifteen, of good family—and drown her when she fought him, Jane.”

“Someone certainly did so—and if not Hanger, then who ? Recollect what the undergroom saw, Mona—and what he gave Hanger.”

“Very well,” Mona rejoined, with her habitual air of calm amidst lunacy, “let us go and ask the villainous Colonel what use he found for needle and thread.”

I stared at her.

“I have known George Hanger this age, ” she said impatiently. “I shall simply send in my card at the Regent’s front door, and enquire whether the Colonel is at home to visitors. If he remains as rapacious for a glimpse of the fair sex as you say, he is unlikely to send us away unanswered.”

Her confidence was cool enough to suggest her uncle, after all; and thus I followed her without a murmur from the stable yard to the Pavilion’s entry. But George Hanger was not at home; he had gone, so we were informed, to play hazard at Raggett’s Club, and none could say when he was expected back again. [23] Hazard was a form of gambling with dice that led eventually to the present game of shooting craps. — Editor’s note.

It was impossible for any lady to penetrate the sacred fastness of Raggett’s; we should have to wait for the Colonel to return the Countess of Swithin’s call.

“It is a pity he prefers dice over cards,” Mona said thoughtfully as we achieved the Steyne, “else we might have set Swithin upon him. I can do nothing about that however, until we meet at dinner—and I am able to tell him all. No doubt he will think of something; I believe Swithin managed fellows of Hanger’s ilk with great success, when he was about the opium trade in China.”