Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Barque of Frailty

This last word Manon handed me in its French form, with a sort of flourish; the maid was warming to her tale, I knew, and enjoying the fairy nature of it. But I read the future in the young girl’s palpitating bosom — for indeed, she had failed them all, she who married well but without love, then slipped into the reckless affairs of youth when once the cage was opened …

I waited until the Russian maid had explained how she came to accompany her mistress, the sole comfort the girl could claim from a past swiftly stripped from her; how Evgenia had been courted for her wealth by the most powerful men in Russia; how she had fallen in love with an hussar, and seen him killed. When at length Druschka arrived at Prince Tscholikov and his appointment to Vienna— I held up my hand, and said to Manon, “Ask her for whom the Princess abandoned her husband. An

Austrian? Another Russian? Who was the cause of her mistress’s downfall?”

But Druschka surprised me again.

“The Tsar,” she spat. “C’est lui.”

“The Tsar was her lover?” I blinked in astonishment at Manon. “I have certainly heard that he is a very fine figure of a man — and full young for the lofty estate he claims — but surely… was he not in St. Petersburg?”

“Non et non et non,” the Russian woman protested in a frenzy of frustration. She then broke into such a torrent of French that I was forced to be patient, and await Manon’s translation.

“It would seem,” she said at length, “that the Princess was ordered to meet with a foreigner attached to the Viennese Court. The world assumed this man to be her lover — but she met with him only at the behest of her brother, Prince Pirov, who said it was the wish of the Tsar. Druschka does not know why the two met, or what they did together; her mistress would never speak of it. But her husband grew jealous; in the end he accused the Princess of adultery, and banished her from his house. She went first to Paris, and then to London. Now she is dead, and Prince Pirov — the brother — will hear nothing of murder. The Prince does not wish for justice. He wishes for obscurity, and silence, and shame. Druschka believes that this, too, is at the order of the Tsar. And she cannot rest.”

My mind was in a whirl; the intelligence was too incredible to apprehend all at once. If Druschka could be believed — if she had not merely formed a tissue of sense from a smattering of facts, interpreted as she chose — then what she described was a woman who had sacrificed her reputation, her honour, her place in society, and eventually her life — for reasons of state, and policy.

“Who was this foreigner, Druschka?” I asked. “The one the Princess knew in Vienna?”

“Le français,” the maid replied. “D’Entraigues.”

Saturday, 27 April 1811, cont.

AS PRINCESS TSCHOLIKOVA’S JOURNAL WAS WRITTEN in French, we agreed that Manon would be charged with reading it — my command of the tongue being hardly equal to a native’s. I urged the maid to pay particular attention to the last few weeks of the Princess’s existence, and to report what she gleaned from the entries with as much despatch as possible. Then Manon and I parted from Druschka with firm promises of support, and adjurations to say nothing of all she had disclosed. Druschka appeared to live in such terror of the long arm of the Tsar, that I felt assured of her silence.

Once returned to Sloane Street, I went in search of Eliza.

She was pirouetting before the mirrors in her dressing room, all thought of the gallows banished. Her cold had very nearly gone off, and her plump countenance was pink with satisfaction at a new gown — a bronze-green silk with a high ruffed collar— which showed off her dark eyes to perfection.

“I might wear topazes with this,” she mused, “or perhaps my garnet earrings. What do you think, Jane?”

“Eliza, have you written to your friend the Comtesse?”

My sister pouted at me in disappointment. “I fully apprehend that we are a day closer to the horrors threatened by those Bow Street men — but can we not spend the morning in pleasure rather than the pursuit of villains? This is dear Henry’s last day for a se’nnight! And if you are gloomy, Jane, he will fear the worst — and believe me in ill-health. He will be such a prey to anxiety that he will never leave for Oxford on the morrow, and we will be forced to go about this havey-cavey business in the most underhanded fashion. It is vital, my dear, that we appear gay to the point of dissipation! Fashion must be our subject — millinery and shopping our sole pursuits — so that Henry may trot off to Oxford on his hired mare without a backward look!”

“Are you aware, Eliza, that it was the Comte d’Entraigues who ruined Princess Tscholikova in Vienna — who disgraced her name and caused her husband to break with her forever?”

“No! Was it indeed? Were they lovers, then?”

“Or worse.”

Eliza blinked. “What could be worse?”

“Never mind that! You will agree that the association must place your friend’s possession of the Princess’s jewels in the most sinister light! Recollect the degree of hatred Anne de St.-Huberti exhibited towards the Princess at the theatre, on the very night of Tscholikova’s murder—”

Eliza sank onto the silken pouf drawn up near her dressing table. “That is unfortunate. I had cherished the hope that the entire business was the result of a misunderstanding … and how I shall have the courage to look Anne in the face now, I know not.”

“You have written to her, then?”

“She comes to me today. Four o’clock is the appointed hour — for you know Henry will certainly walk round to his club if Anne is to bear me company, and nothing could be better! I think, Jane, that you should absent yourself as well — for the poor creature is unlikely to admit her sins before the entire world!”

“Impossible, Eliza. I should return to find you lying in a pool of blood!”

“Nonsense,” she said briskly, as Manon entered the dressing room with a hot iron, intent upon curling her mistress’s hair. “If the Comtesse is not above doing violence to an old friend, who has only ever wished her well — I shall scream for Manon, and she shall send for those odious Runners immediately!”

However unremarkable her degree of sense, Eliza certainly did not lack for courage.

“I shall sit in the housekeeper’s room with Madame Bigeon,” I relented, “but do not ask me to remove myself further. With so much you must be content.”

“Very well, very well,” Eliza returned pettishly. “Now take yourself off to Henry! I am determined he shall suspect nothing of our trouble on this day — and if you betray me, Jane, I shall never forgive you!”

I FOUND MY BROTHER IN THE BREAKFAST PARLOUR, chair pushed back from the ruins of bacon, pert head buried in his newspapers.

“There is a letter for you,” he offered as I entered the room.

“Cassandra? She will be charging me again with the purchase of green crewels, no doubt, and enquiring after the success of Eliza’s party — my letter will have crossed hers in the post.”

“Green crewels?” Henry repeated, diverted from his reading.

“She has set her heart on seven yards of the stuff, to make up for a summer gown, and I spent all her money on coloured muslin instead! It will fall to pieces in the first wash, and I shall be forced to endure her reproaches for the remainder of the Season. I must drag you to Grafton House this morning, Henry, to buy what Cassandra prefers. [19] Grafton House sat on the corner of Grafton and New Bond streets, and was known to provide excellent millinery goods for bargain prices. As a result, hordes of respectable women thronged its counters, and the premises were so crowded that one might wait full half an hour to be served. Jane recounts one such expedition in company with Manon, during which she purchased bugle trimming, and silk stockings at twelve shillings the pair, in a letter to her sister, Cassandra, dated April 18, 1811. — Editor’s note . You may carry the parcels for me.”