Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Barque of Frailty

The housekeeper had gone to report my name to her mistress, and request the favour of an interview— but from the sound of conversation above, I could not doubt Miss Radcliffe would deny herself. I turned over the cards in the bowl idly, awaiting the housekeeper’s return. The Honourable George Ponsonby, one said; Horace Beckford, another; Lord Luttrell’s card was there, and Frederick Bentinck’s. All men of fashion— including George Brummell. And at the bottom, as tho’ left a few days previous, a card that must stop me cold.

Julien, it read in delicate black lettering, Comte d’Entraigues.

Did the son worship at Miss Radcliffe’s altar, no less than the father? Or had Julien come on some errand of his père’s?

“Miss Austen,” Julia Radcliffe said.

She regarded me from the doorway, as elegant in her appearance as ever; her dress being straw-coloured silk, with a worked bodice — hardly morning wear, but I must suppose that Miss Radcliffe’s mornings were vastly different than my own.

I made her a courtesy. “I do not disturb you?”

“Only a little,” she returned with frankness. “I have a surfeit of visitors today — several are even now upstairs. But I have ordered refreshment to be sent in to them, and may spare you a few moments. Pray, let us sit down. Has that odious Bill Skroggs been haunting you again?”

She was studiously free of artifice or reserve; and for so much I ought to be thankful. No time would be wasted in meaningless pleasantries.

“I believe it was his colleague, Mr. Black, who shadowed my movements this morning,” I answered calmly, “but I did not come to speak to you of that.

Miss Radcliffe, am I correct in believing that Princess Tscholikova called at this house a few days before her death?”

“She did.” The girl’s countenance did not change. “Were you at all acquainted with her?”

“I was not — but Bill Skroggs chuses to believe I am responsible for her death. A great quantity of precious stones belonging to the Princess were placed in my keeping; and by a series of circumstances, were revealed to the Magistracy in Bow Street as having been stolen. I am now suspected of their theft — and worse.”

Miss Radcliffe rose abruptly from the settee and moved to the hearth. Her composure was absolute, but for this sudden shift; she stood immobile, as tho’ desirous only of warming herself at the flame.

“Does my communication surprise you at all?”

She smiled faintly. “No, indeed. I have been waiting for some further intelligence of what I may only describe as a mystery, Miss Austen — but hardly looked for enlightenment from this quarter. How did the jewels come into your keeping?”

I was sensible that the girl was entirely mistress of herself, and governed by a profound caution. She intended to learn more than she revealed; and for all her frankness of manner, it must be my lot to fence with her, as two potentates might navigate a treaty.

“Before I tell you — may I know the substance of the Princess’s errand in this household?”

“She wished to pay a call.” Julia Radcliffe sank back onto the settee, her posture upright and watchful. “I must observe that you have done the same, and on as slight an acquaintance.”

“You were known to one another, however?”

“By name only. I had never spoken to Tscholikova before in my life, tho’ I had often noticed her at the opera, and similar places. Tell me, Miss Austen — why are you come?”

“Because the threat of the gallows hangs over me.”

“And what have I to do with that?”

The coldness of the remark gave me pause. “Much, I must imagine. I have been told the jewels were in your keeping, before they passed into … mine.”

“Have you, indeed?” A look of incredulity lit her perfect features. “Then I have been betrayed by one whose discretion I believed to be infallible.”

“The Comtesse d’Entraigues?”

The expression of shock drained from her countenance; composure was once more regained. “Ah. The Comtesse … and what did she tell you?”

“Surely you may surmise!”

“I hardly know of what that creature is capable. I should like to have the recital whole, from your lips.”

I shrugged, aware that in giving way to her request, I accorded her the ascendancy in our battle. “You must forgive me if I offend your sensibilities— if I tread too closely on matters of an intensely private nature — but the pressure of events, and Mr.

Skroggs’s attention, are very great, and must urge me to be explicit.”

“I prefer plain dealing.”

“Very well. Anne de St.-Huberti informed me that she had come to Russell Square to beg you to renounce her husband; that she feared the loss of her household and security, under the threat of divorce; and that by way of recompense for your conquest of the Comte, you pressed upon her Tscholikova’s jewels.”

“ I pressed them upon her?” Julia Radcliffe’s delicate brows rose. “I see. Then there is very little point in my denying it.”

The swiftness of the admission convinced me, as outcry or argument would not have done, that she lied. Julia Radcliffe had accepted the Comtesse’s claims as a matter of policy — a tactical choice, rather than an admission of guilt.

“Miss Radcliffe,” I demanded, “did Princess Tscholikova place her jewels in your keeping when she called here, several days before her death?”

“She must have done so. The Comtesse d’Entraigues would have it I gave the jewels to her— and for that to be true, I must have received them from the Princess … ”

Her tone was almost one of amusement. I studied her visage searchingly.

“If I am to escape the threat of hanging,” I said slowly, “it will be chiefly through the implication of guilt in others — Bill Skroggs will have his prey. I should not like to think it is you, Miss Radcliffe, I am coursing into his jaws.”

A silence fell between us.

“I must consider all you have said.” She rose gracefully, her countenance betraying nothing. “I cannot possibly know what may be told — what I may… in short, I must consult with another. If you would be so good as to give me your direction—”

“I am staying with my brother, Mr. Henry Austen, of No. 64 Sloane Street, Hans Town.”

“Very well. I shall call upon you at the earliest possible moment, Miss Austen. At present, however, I am sadly neglecting my guests.”

She bobbed a curtsey; I returned it; and then Julia Radcliffe was gone.

I HAD THE LENGTH OF MY JOURNEY HOME TO REFLECT upon all that had passed. I was not, in the event, entirely downcast: I had learned that Miss Radcliffe had indeed seen the Princess before her death; that she was aware of the existence of the jewels — for she had betrayed no surprise or curiosity when they were mentioned — and that there was some other she would shield, consult, and protect. For all that she had revealed so little, I felt I must be nearer my object. I had played my trump card: the threat of pursuit from Bill Skroggs — a man whom at Grafton House she had owned she hated. I had merely to wait for Miss Radcliffe to return my call — and such a well-behaved, gently-reared girl was unlikely to neglect the exertion.

Tuesday, 30 April 1811

SHE CAME TO ME TODAY, FAR SOONER THAN I HAD expected, and such a show of breeding must be imputed to her Radcliffe rearing.

I woke early to the muffled hallooing that invariably connotes a London fog, and the magnified clatter of horses’ hooves, carriage wheels, carters’ drays and peddlers’ screeching; the chill of yesterday had brought with it rain, which gurgled in the gutters. So dim was the light — or so great my exhaustion from the previous night’s broken rest — that I had overslept myself, and discovered by the bells that it was full nine o’clock. Manon had crept in on cat’s paws and made up the fire; but I should have to ring for my morning tea. I rose, and reached for my dressing gown — when the sound of a horse’s terrified neigh brought me to the window.