Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Barque of Frailty

“I have heard, Miss Radcliffe, that neither have you succumbed to the charms of a particular suitor— but prefer to maintain an interesting independence.”

She flushed. “If, by that remark, you would suggest that I deliberately play off one man against another, in order to enflame the ardour of each, it is a gross misrepresentation of my life and circumstances.”

“I did not mean to imply a calculation I am persuaded you should never employ,” I returned gently. “I would merely point out that rather than seeking the protection of one, you have found a kind of safety in the numbers that flock to your door.”

Miss Radcliffe studied her gloved hands. “The Princess believed me on the point of contracting just such a tie of obligation with a man whom she had reason to fear herself, and whom she believed should certainly be the ruin of me. His name is Emmanuel, Comte d’Entraigues.”

“I am a little acquainted with the Comte.”

“She related a part of her private history, as pertained to the Count, that must convince any woman of sense that he is not a man to be trusted. Her motivation, as she claimed, was to prevent my life from being blasted as hers had been.”

“The episode in Vienna, I collect?”

Miss Radcliffe inclined her head. “I apprehend that a liaison of passion, on the Princess’s side, was perverted on the Comte’s to one of political utility.”

“I see. Pray go on.”

“I assured La Tscholikova that others had succeeded in determining the sordid nature of my fate before ever I knew the Comte d’Entraigues, and that her energy — as well as her presumption — were wasted.”

The blandness of this statement must send a chill through my soul. “In short, the rumour of divorce — which so acted upon the Comtesse d’Entraigues — had come to Princess Tscholikova’s ears as well?”

“I must suppose it to be so. I have never intended to marry the Comte d’Entraigues — the respectability of the institution and the position such a tie might convey, being insufficient recompense for the gentleman’s age, manners, and vicious habits. But the Princess felt it necessary to urge me from the prospect, and despite my assurances, would not be satisfied. She said she had endeavoured to borrow a remarkable sum — several thousands of pounds— from a banker of her acquaintance, so that she might secure my safety and her own departure from London at a single stroke; but in the event, her banker had failed her. Therefore, she proposed to press upon me a considerable treasure, in the form of her jewels, to preserve me against want — as she said — and thus against the Comte’s appeal. When I consider how little fortune d’Entraigues may command, I own I find her earnestness risible. I refused the contents of her velvet roll—”

“It was the roll she would have given you — not a porcelain box?” I interrupted.

A veil of incomprehension moved across Miss Radcliffe’s brow. “I saw no porcelain box.”

“Very well. Pray continue.”

“I refused the gift, and assured her I had no need of such charity.” Miss Radcliffe’s chin rose. “Tho’ my family chuses to cut all connexion, Miss Austen, and does not deign to recognise that I share the name of Radcliffe, you will know that I possess a little competence — a small but adequate income — through my mother’s family. It came to me upon her death. My father and brothers cannot strip me of that sum, however much they should wish to do so; indeed, it represents the foundation of that independence you profess to admire.”

“Then why—?”

“Why do I pursue a career as reckless as it is reprehensible?” The perfect composure broke a little. “Perhaps I possess a vaulting ambition. Perhaps I am a creature of greed. Perhaps I merely wish to throw that craving for respectability, which my family sets beyond all other feelings, in the face of those who wish me to submit to it. But in any case — I did not accept the Princess’s jewels. When she had left me, however, I discovered the velvet roll thrust down among the seat cushions of my drawing-room sopha.”

“Ah.” I sighed. “I begin to understand.”

“I was promised at Harriette Wilson’s that evening — she collects a certain party of gentlemen and ladies around her most Sundays — and so I caught up the roll as I quitted the house, intending to return it to Hans Place at the first opportunity. But while at Miss Wilson’s, I encountered the Comte d’Entraigues — and a spirit of mischief provoked me to entrust my errand to him.” The blue eyes began to dance. “I thought that if the Princess were to receive her jewels from the hand of the very man she had intended to thwart, she might be discouraged in that spirit of interference which sent her headlong to my door—”

I studied the youthful face poised before me, and wondered at the truths its serenity of expression concealed. “And so you would have me believe it was the

Comte who miscarried his charge — and gave the jewels to his wife?”

Julia Radcliffe shrugged. “I cannot say how it was. I may only tell you how the velvet roll entered my hands — and how it left them again. What occurred after, others must supply. The jewels certainly were never returned to Hans Place.”

“No. They came instead, by degrees, to me.”

Miss Radcliffe had owned there were others she refused to expose; others whose well-being must be injured by any communication of hers. The memory of a certain calling card, engraved with the name of Julien d’Entraigues, rose in my mind. What if she preferred the beautiful young man to his father? There was but two years’ difference in the young people’s ages; how natural that the dazzling Bird of Paradise, well-bred but forever fallen in reputation, should be drawn to the impoverished young Count— with his passion for music, his ruined estates, his air of suppressed desperation? What if the Princess Tscholikova’s jewels had meant freedom from want forever, for Julien d’Entraigues? And the possibility of a different life, for Miss Radcliffe? The two might have made their futures anywhere. I could imagine the Barque meeting Julien at Harriette Wilson’s, and pressing upon him the key to his fortune — but how, then, had the Comtesse brought them to Eliza’s door, with her raddled tale of divorce and recompense?

“I have trespassed on your goodness too long,” Miss Radcliffe said, rising.

“Not at all.”

There was a frailty to her figure that must burn the sight of any who regarded her; I wished that she had partaken of the macaroons. Impulsively, I said, “Before you go — I have no right to enquire of you— save the interested concern of one who must sincerely wish you well — can you not endeavour, with time, to heal the breach between yourself and your family? Surely, if you possess independence of means, there can be no loss of face in extending an olive branch. Is not a quiet retreat in solitude, preferable to the risks you undoubtedly invite, in your present mode of life?”

She stared at me, her impassive countenance a shade of remotest marble.

“When I was but fourteen years old, Miss Austen,” she said in a voice low with passion, “I was forced to intimacy with a cousin some eight years my senior. I resisted, for I had always regarded him with terror and revulsion; but I was as a fly beneath his hand — crushed. When I went to my father in pain and shame — my mother being then dead some years — he regarded me with horror. I do not think he was able to look me in the face from that day forward; some flaw in me had invited my rape. My father and his cousin — whose son my attacker was — agreed that at all costs the affair should be suppressed; I must and should be married to my predator. Can you have an idea of it? To be chained, my whole life long, to one I regarded with loathing? I should rather have died—”