Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Barque of Frailty

I awoke with a start, seared with thwarted yearning, and the dissatisfied knowledge that I should have preferred to walk forever in that enigmatic presence. He had offered no word; the beloved voice was silenced. I stared out despondently through the bed-curtains at the windowpanes streaming with rain. There would be no walks in the Park this morning, no rejoicing in the fresh sprays of lilac; this was a day for the nursing of colds, for books by the fire and the industry of the needle — for bemused scavenging in the lumber-rooms of memory.

The clatter of carriage wheels in Sloane Street below — unusual for the early hour — then drew my attention: a train of vehicles, of the most sombre black, was wending its way east. The second equipage bore a device on its door that was tantalisingly familiar — a gryphon’s head chained to an eagle’s, in red and gold. I knit my brows, endeavouring to recall where I had seen it before; and at that moment the carriages came to a halt. The lead horses stamped fretfully, coats steaming in the rain; a sleek black head was thrust out of the magnificent travelling coach, and a question barked in a foreign tongue. Something guttural and exotic in the consonants — it must, it could only be, Russian. Princess Tscholikova’s family had descended upon London at last.

The harsh words achieved their effect; the train of carriages slowly turned the corner into Hans Place. Would this potentate of the steppes bury his dead Princess with all possible speed? Or would he demand a full enquiry into the nature of her death?

And why did I persist in believing the suicide was false — a bit of theatre for the credulous ton?

Theatre. The Theatre Royal, where the Princess had sat, elegant and composed, her countenance earnest as she gazed at Lord Castlereagh’s box. But a few hours before her bloody end at his lordship’s door, the woman I’d seen was hardly on the brink of madness. I did not think she had ever been. I pulled the bed-curtains closed, and went back to sleep.

“HENRY,” I SAID AS WE HASTENED UP THE STEPS OF the British Gallery a few hours later, intent upon the watercolour exhibition, “what do the members of your club say, regarding Princess Tscholikova’s death? How does the betting run — for or against Castlereagh, and murder?”

“We do not have the kind of betting book you should find at White’s, Jane,” my brother tolerantly replied; it is Henry’s great virtue that nothing I may say will ever shock him. “Nor does it approach what you should discover at Brooks’s. Your Lord Harold was a member of both clubs, I believe — but such company will always be far above my touch. The members are more careful of their blunt when they have earned it themselves. All the same, I have laid ten pounds upon the outcome’s being suicide — and know the odds to be rising steadily in my favour.”

“Had I ten pounds to wager, I should challenge you,” I instantly replied. “I had no notion you were such a pigeon for the plucking, Henry! There has been no mention of a weapon in the papers; and if none was found, depend upon it, the Princess was killed by another’s hand. It remains only to determine whether Castlereagh’s was that hand.”

“By no means,” Henry countered, as we paused before a delightful picture of the sea that my Naval brothers should have roundly abused, for its ignorance of the properties of both warfare and nature. “It is probable that the coroner charged with the lady’s inquest prefers to keep the particulars of the case to himself, until such time as the panel is assembled.”

“When is the inquest to be called? I have seen no mention of it in the papers.”

“Ah! In this you will find the true worth of the clubman,” Henry replied with satisfaction. “Tho’ it was thought the affair would be hastily managed — a verdict easily returned — there was some little delay, I collect, at the request of the Princess’s family. A representative desired to be present; a brother, I believe. The inquest is called for ten o’clock tomorrow morning — in the publick house next to the Bow Street magistracy. Any number of bets ride upon the outcome; most of your Pall Mall loungers will be crammed into the room.”

“Would you escort me there, Henry?”

“Good Lord, Jane!” he cried, startled. “I cannot think it proper. However many panels you may have seen in recent years, they are as nothing to a Bow Street affair.”

“But the magistracy is only a step from your bank! You know you will never resist the temptation to look in upon the proceedings.”

“What has that to say to your presence?”

“Do not play propriety with me, Henry,” I told him warningly. “I am no more broken to saddle than Eliza. If you do not agree to escort me to Bow Street, I shall walk the whole way by myself.”

Henry stopped still in the middle of the gallery, the stream of visitors flowing around us like rainwater round a pebble. “Jane, I cannot think you a victim of vulgar curiosity. Why does the lady’s self-murder trouble you so?”

“I cannot credit it.”

“—Tho’ she was a stranger to you? Tho’ you are entirely unacquainted with her history, her morals, her character?”

“I might learn more of all three from the coroner’s inquest,” I observed.

Henry lifted his hands in amazement. “A formality, merely! The whole business cannot demand above an hour — and will conclude as it began, with the judgement of suicide!”

“You do not credit Lord Moira’s opinion? — That the lady was killed by another, and Castlereagh must certainly fall under suspicion?”

“I do not. The Earl is a Whig, Jane, and should wish calamity upon all Tories even had the Princess never been born.”

I strolled towards a depiction of Attic ruins. “Tell me about Lord Castlereagh. What sort of man is he?”

“Respected by many, but loved by few. A cold fellow of decision and despatch, but pig-headed by all accounts and incapable of compromise. Lord Castlereagh must and shall be judged correct, in all his dealings, and will brook no criticism. Such a man may command well enough in the field — but may swiftly bring disaster on his government colleagues at home.”

“You describe the arbiter of policy, Henry. I would learn more of Robert Stewart, the man. What are his passions? His attachments? His loyalties?”

My brother hesitated. “I cannot rightly say. I am hardly intimate with his lordship; I know only what I read of him in the papers, and what Eliza may tell me. She is a little acquainted with Lady Castlereagh, who is forever throwing open the house on Berkeley Square to all the world.”

“Has he any children?”

“None.”

“Perhaps there is no love between the lord and his lady.”

“I cannot undertake to say. The marriage has endured for many years, and no breath of scandal has attached itself to the principals — until the Morning Post chose to publish the Princess Tscholikova’s private correspondence. Indeed, had she written to anyone other than his lordship — George Canning, perhaps, or another Tory member — I might have been less surprised. It is a part of Castlereagh’s coldness to find little of beauty in any woman. He prefers the society of gentlemen.”

“What! He does not frequent the Muslin Company?”

“Jane!” Henry replied, with an expression of distaste. “What has Eliza been teaching you?”

“Nothing I did not already know.”

“To my knowledge, Castlereagh is singularly disinterested in women of that order.”

“—And our Henry is all astonishment! Is a Barque of Frailty so necessary to a gentleman’s comfort?”

“In one way, at least: the company such a woman attracts is vital to any man of policy. You can have no notion, Jane, of the gentlemen who assemble in Harriette Wilson’s salon each evening — both Whigs and Tories may be found there. Lady Cowper’s drawing-rooms — or Lady Castlereagh’s — are as nothing to it. Some of the most powerful movers in the Kingdom meet at Harriette Wilson’s feet; and I do not scruple to say that more decisions of moment are taken in her company than in the House of Lords. One is neither Whig nor Tory in Miss Wilson’s circle; one merely worships at the altar of the divine Harriette.”