Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Barque of Frailty

“What exactly did he say?”

“God, her throat! is what I chiefly recall; and, the poor creature, to use herself so vilely! He shuddered like a child in the grip of nightmare — and seemed deeply affected by the memory. It was all I could do to calm him.”

“Then I collect, in such a fit of hysteria, you could get little more of sense from him?”

Mr. Chizzlewit grimaced. “Very little. But I would swear to it that Malverley was astonished to discover the corpse in Berkeley Square. His aspect last evening was not that of guilt, but of misery and regret. The death was perhaps more deeply felt, for having burst upon him like a shell.”

“I see. You explain it very well. What did you then?”

“I called for ale and coffee, a judicious mixture of which will invariably set the brandy-drinker to rights; and a little after three o’clock, he toddled home towards the Albany. He would have walked, but that I insisted on putting him into a hackney.”

“The Albany?” I repeated, much struck.

“Yes. Any number of single gentlemen lodge there — you must know it: the old Duke of Albany’s pile, converted to some seventy apartments, just off Piccadilly.”

“Indeed I do! My brother Henry kept a branch of his bank there some years ago, before moving to Henrietta Street. It is possible Malverley referred to his rooms at the inquest. But the Albany! It is just—” I stopped short, considering.

“Go on,” he said.

“I, too, dined out last evening — and one of the party was the young Comte d’Entraigues, Monsieur Julien. He professes to have seen the Princess Tscholikova some hours before her death, standing alone in the middle of the Albany’s courtyard. He lodges there himself, and says he witnessed the lady’s arrival from an upper storey window.”

“Good God! Then you think she went in search of Malverley? But why?”

“To plead his intercession with Lord Castlereagh, perhaps? Malverley admitted to a glancing social acquaintance with the lady.” I paused. “But we are too previous. As you say, some seventy gentlemen lodge in the Albany — including young d’Entraigues. We cannot assume it was Malverley she sought.”

“Not without we know more — whether there was indeed a connexion between my friend and the Princess.”

“That alone might account for his sense of horror at finding her dead … ” I raised my eyes and met Sylvester Chizzlewit’s. “Of one connexion, however, I would know a good deal more. A something exists between Julien d’Entraigues and Charles Malverley; I am certain of it.”

Mr. Chizzlewit frowned. “What would you imply?”

“The young Count spoke of your friend in such terms, last night, that I should judge he hated him,” I said.

Monday, 29 April 1811, cont.

WE SPENT A QUIET MORNING AFTER MR. CHIZZLEWIT departed on his various errands of intrigue and mercy. I completed the work of proofing Egerton’s pages; practised for an hour upon Eliza’s pianoforte; and embroidered a set of handkerchiefs I have been working for Henry, while sitting at Eliza’s bedside. By one o’clock she was quite bored with her novel, had run through her frivolous periodicals; consumed a bowl of Madame Bigeon’s sustaining broth, and was sleepy enough to close her eyes for an hour. I drew the silk draperies and saw her comfortably disposed with a pillow behind her back.

“Do not be doing anything I should not like,” she warned as I crept to the door. “And do not, I beg of you, embark on any adventure so exciting that I should mourn to have missed it! I will be on my feet tomorrow, Jane.”

She was an endearing, if slightly comic figure, with her head wrapped in Haden’s neat bandage, and a lace confection perched rakishly over the whole.

“May I write to Henry, and assure him of your safety?”

“On no account are you to send him the least word of what has occurred,” she forbid sharply. “He would post back from Oxford on the instant — and then where should we be?”

“—Forced to divulge the whole, which I may say I cannot think an unalloyed evil.”

“That is because you have had the good sense to remain unmarried! I should never hear the end of Henry’s reproaches, should he learn of my folly in brokering Anne’s jewels. He should believe me a creature sunk in deceit, Jane — one who must always prowl on the sly, behind his back — and that I cannot bear; for if one is to be judged very nearly a criminal, it ought to be for indiscretions of one’s own. One therefore may claim all the pleasure, as well as the pain, of a misdeed. But to figure as reprehensible in Henry’s eyes on account of that … that French opera dancer … I can’t and won’t do it!”

“Eliza! — When Henry is the kindest man alive? And loves you so entirely? How can you utter such falsehoods?”

She drew a square of linen from the sleeve of her nightdress, and mopped lugubriously at her eyes. “It is his very kindness that makes everything worse! Go away, dear Jane, before you cut up all my peace!”

RUSSELL SQUARE IS A SECTION OF NEW-BUILT HOUSES, north of the genteel part of Town, thrown up by the architect Mr. Burton on the ruins of the Duke of Bedford’s pile — which was pulled down some ten years since, to make way for a great clearing of the land, and the raising of a row of houses adorned by Ionic columns, which Mr. Burton dearly loves. Indeed, construction yet continues on a section of the square, and is not likely to be concluded for several years; the whole vicinity is so raw and fresh as to fairly squeak with pain. Bedford Square is to the west, and the Foundling Hospital to the east; and in general, Eliza should declare the situation ineligible, without one is a mushroom or a cit. [27] Cit was an abbreviation of citizen and designated a person engaged in trade in the City, or square mile of merchant London east of the genteel neighborhoods bordering Hyde Park. Mushroom designated a cit who aspired to the upper classes, either through conspicuous consumption or marriage with the gentry; like mushrooms, such people were viewed as unattractive social growths who sprang up overnight. — Editor’s note .

In this marginal locale, the beautiful Julia Radcliffe leased a house: an entire house, for the enjoyment and display of a daring seventeen-year-old; furnished up and decorated in the latest style, full of green and gold satin and rosewood tables. I was moved to wonder at the largesse which had established the whole, and discount the rumour that would have Miss Radcliffe refusing carte blanche from a host of suitors; someone had certainly put down a good deal of blunt to trick the Barque of Frailty out in stile. If Sylvester Chizzlewit had not furnished me with the address, I should have believed myself mistook when I was shown by the housekeeper into the small anteroom reserved for callers on the ground floor. I had not troubled to veil myself, as Eliza would have urged; both anteroom and square were respectable in the extreme, with the sort of emphatic rectitude common to families in trade. Miss Radcliffe, I must suppose, was merely a merchant of another order; her charms being synonymous with her wares.

A good fire burned in the grate, with a settee drawn up to it; I warmed my hands an instant, for spring had forgot its carefree airs of Sunday, and turned chill once more. A gilt pier glass in the Adam style held reign over a marquetry console; I studied my reflection in the glass, and thought how hagged I looked, now that I have twice Miss Radcliffe’s years in my dish. The sound of a woman’s laughter, and a man’s low voice, drifted from the drawing-room above. I deserted the fire and glanced instead in the porcelain bowl that held pride of place in the middle of the console. It held calling cards.