Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Barque of Frailty

“I have it on excellent authority that her star is on the wane,” I said. “Julia Radcliffe has supplanted her.”

“Now you would speak of Canning’s latest flirt,” Henry said.

“Mr. Canning should never be adjudged cold, then, by his fellows?”

“Far from it. No less exalted a personage than Princess Caroline was once the object of Canning’s gallantry, if you will believe; and tho’ he is spoken of as a devoted husband and father, his family does not reside in London. [8] Princess Caroline of Brunswick was the estranged wife of the Prince Regent, later George IV. — Editor’s note . The eldest son is sickly, and must be often in the care of a particular physician; Mrs. Canning is quite a slave to her child, and neglects her husband. Canning was used to be met with often at Harriette Wilson’s — and I understand it was she who introduced Julia Radcliffe to his society.”

“Eliza would have it that Radcliffe is beloved of the Comte d’Entraigues.”

“Indeed?” Henry stared at me in some amusement. “Canning and d’Entraigues were once great friends — tho’ I do not see them go about together so often now that Canning is out of government. Perhaps the Barque of Frailty has come between them.”

“Princess Tscholikova was also acquainted with d’Entraigues,” I mused, “for his wife told us as much; but I cannot see how that is to the point.”

“None of this highly diverting gossip will have anything to say to the murder — self-achieved or otherwise — of the Princess,” Henry observed. “You had better seek for your information in Bow Street, Jane.”

“And yet — the rumour surrounding a man may reveal so much of his character,” I returned. “I am endeavouring to make Castlereagh’s out. He is, after all, at the centre of this business. If all you say of his lordship’s probity and coldness is correct — then the idea of his entanglement with the Princess is absurd. But there on his doorstep she was found! Can this be Canning’s revenge, perhaps? Having been worsted in a duel, did he think to ruin Lord Castlereagh with scandal — and sacrifice the Princess to his ends?”

Henry snorted. “George Canning’s ambitions are everywhere known, Jane — but not even Canning would risk hanging in the service of such a cause. You indulge the worst sort of lady’s fancy, and make of a gentleman an ogre.”

“I wish it were more the fashion for ladies to study politics, Henry,” I said despondently. “I am persuaded the answer to the Princess’s death lies there— with the powerful men surrounding her — and yet the web of faction is so tangled, I cannot see how.”

“You are missing Lord Harold, Jane.” My brother slipped my hand through his arm, and led me further into the gallery. “What do you think of that portrait? I cannot admire a likeness taken in watercolour; I am all for Mr. Lawrence, and his oils.”

Thursday, 25 April 1811, cont.

HENRY HAD SPARED MORE THAN AN HOUR FROM his banking concern to guide me through the exhibition, which being newly mounted, was the object of the Polite World’s interest for a fleeting time; so numerous were the patrons, that I confess I was nearly crushed in navigating the narrower passages. Picturesque landscapes, and vignettes of the sea; portraits of beauty and youth — they each had something to recommend them; but in truth my attention was equally held by the personages I saw everywhere around me. In a Hampshire village as intimate as Chawton, the society is unvarying; its delights are to be found in the small but telling transformations of personal character over time. In London, however, the richness and variety of the spectacle — in dress, equipages, retinues, and remarks — is an endless enticement to the ear and eye. I could not divide my time equally between the gallery walls and the opulent crowd milling about me; and so at length professed myself exhausted, and ready to quit the place.

Henry saw me safely into a hackney cab, being intent upon his offices in Henrietta Street; and tho’ the day was advancing, and I was a little tired, and considering of the last few pages of my book yet to be proofed, I let down the window of the coach and directed the driver in an entirely opposite direction to Hans Town.

“Pray convey me to the chambers of Mr. Bartholomew Chizzlewit,” I told him, “in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

Henry was correct. I was missing Lord Harold.

I FIRST MADE THE REDOUBTABLE CHIZZLEWIT’S acquaintance nearly two years ago, in the cottage at Chawton which is now my home. Mr. Chizzlewit had journeyed from London for the sole purpose of putting into my hands a strange and enduring legacy: the private papers, correspondence, and journals of Lord Harold Trowbridge, second son of the fifth Duke of Wilborough: intriguer, man-about-town, and government spy. The Gentleman Rogue, as I was wont to call him, had long been an acquaintance of mine — having fallen in my way some years before, at the home of a friend newly-widowed and beset by unpleasantness.

Lord Harold progressed from an object of suspicion to one of profound attachment; his virtues being almost indistinguishable from his vices, his character one of iron tempered by great sorrow, his scruples unexacting as to means and almost wholly taken up with ends — he was, in short, the agent of my instruction in the ways of the Great World, and the most cherished friend of my heart. He was killed by a Buonapartist agent some three years ago; and I have not yet learned to supply his loss. But his papers, when I have the time and means to consult them, are a great comfort to me — reviving, for a little, the impression of his voice and mind, in the very signature of his hand.

They are also, I may add, a dangerous repository of intelligence, which any number of personages might do violence to obtain. There is enough matter stored in Lord Harold’s Bengal chest to end careers, induce violent hystericks, urge divorce or pistols at dawn — and having encountered the murderous effect of his lordship’s legacy in my own quiet Chawton, I resolved to despatch the chest to the security of Bartholomew Chizzlewit, who had served as his lordship’s solicitor almost from the cradle. Mr. Chizzlewit accommodated me with alacrity, and refused all my attempts at payment — remarking, in his enigmatic way, that it was a privilege to serve one who had merited his lordship’s trust, there being so few yet surviving in the world.

I drew a veil over my face — as behooved a lady reckless enough to consult the Law quite unattended even by her abigail — and paid off the driver at the door of the chambers. The rain had dwindled to a fine mist, but the aspect of the day was lowering and gloomy; Eliza would be dozing over her French novel, and never remark upon my absence. I was impatient beyond reason to settle down with a lamp, the panelled oak door thrust to behind me, and reach once more for the beloved wraith I had glimpsed by that Derbyshire brook only this morning.

A clerk, dressed all in black, suspended his quill as I entered the chambers. These were sensibly, if not richly, furnished with mahogany bookshelves and high tables laden with ledgers; a fire burned merrily in the open hearth; and the scent of cloves, heated by the flames, laced the air. There was no sign of the footmen in green livery who had attended the solicitor in all his state, at his descent upon Hampshire; but perhaps they were employed in Chizzlewit’s domestic establishment.

“How may I be of service, ma’am?” the clerk enquired.

“Miss Jane Austen, if you please, to see Mr. Chizzlewit.”

The fellow’s eyes ran from my bonnet to my boots. The coloured muslin I had chosen for the British Gallery was newly made up, a prize won of this trip to London; but I had been long enough in Town to learn that I presented a neat but hardly dazzling appearance. The usual run of the chambers’ patrons were of the cream of nobility, and quite above my touch. The clerk was not impressed.