Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Barque of Frailty

She paused, and pressed her hand to her mouth.

“So great was my parent’s insistence, that I required only a little time to know my cousin better, that I was powerless to withstand him. I agreed to see my cousin again. He chose to regard my pliancy as invitation to a second rape. I found myself, a few months past my fourteenth birthday, pregnant and unwed — the object of my father’s cordial hatred. My obdurate refusal to accept my cousin in marriage, he called undutiful; and gave my cousin orders to beat me with his hunting whip.”

“Good God,” I whispered.

“I fled at night to the home of my old nurse — who had removed some thirty miles distant from my family — and from thence I refused to be moved, until the child was brought to bear.” Her fingers clenched on her reticule. “My implacable dread of this man, my cousin, led to a breach between our families. He was sent away; and I, too, was denied all further admittance to my childhood home. In short, my name was struck from the Radcliffe rolls. I determined, at the age of fifteen, to fulfill the very worst assumptions of my life — to pursue a course so glittering, so heady, that no man should ever again have the power to disturb my peace or command my heart. I am certain of the evils attached to my situation, Miss Austen — but I am equally sure they will never approach those I suffered in the bosom of my family; and for this, I must be thankful.”

“Forgive me,” I said, and held out my hand.

She took it in her gloved one, and pressed it an instant. “Why? What sin have you committed?”

“—That of vulgar curiosity. I encroached on ground that must forever be private.”

“Not at all,” she returned. “You enquired because you care — and for that, I must always honour you, Miss Austen.”

I SAW JULIA RADCLIFFE INTO HER PHAETON — THE groom had been walking the horses some time — and watched her drive smartly away; and observed, with misgiving, the black-clad figure of Bill Skroggs loitering near the lamps of Cadogan Place.

Wednesday, 1 May 1811

“THERE IS NOTHING LIKE THE EXERTION OF DINING in Hans Place,” Eliza observed as we closed the door last night on Mr. James Tilson, who had escorted us from his home to ours, “to make me feel truly good, Jane — for if I were not, how should I possibly support the tedium of Fanny Tilson’s conversation?”

The engagement was less onerous than it might have been, had Fanny presided over her table alone; but Mr. Tilson being prevented from joining Henry in Oxford, due to an indisposition of three of the little girls, which tied him to London, the circle had gained in liveliness and interest. Eliza, however, could not be brought to own it; she had been placed at Fanny Tilson’s right hand.

“I confess I was very proud of you,” I said as I helped Eliza remove her hat. “You never once permitted yourself to gape, when she spoke so earnestly of her charitable works among the females held in Newgate prison. Indeed, I believe you posed your questions quite prettily. One might almost have believed your whole dependence hung upon the improvement of those unfortunate souls.”

“And I never betrayed the slightest hint that I might end in Newgate myself! I do think I carried it off tolerably well, Jane — even when she would discourse on the subject of ablutions, and the best methods of treating lice. You may say what you will of Mrs. Latouche and her Bluestocking daughter, but do admit they never bore one to tears! And Jane—” Eliza stared at me tragically. “Fanny is increasing again! As tho’ seven daughters were not more than enough to dispose of! And the last one as yet a babe in arms!”

“Perhaps her condition will keep her quietly at home for a period.”

“Then she will be less likely to detect us in our cells,” Eliza said decidedly, “when once we have been handed over to the warders. Tuesday is already gone! And we have but two days left before that dreadful man is to return on Friday!”

“I have the matter in hand, Eliza,” I told her gently. “Do not be troubling your head about it.”

“It is my head that is troubling me. It aches frightfully. I believe I shall go up to my room — if you will send Madame Bigeon with a glass of Henry’s brandy … ”

The Tilsons are abstemious folk; they do not regard claret or burgundy as contributing to the elegance of their table — particularly as such luxuries must still be got from France, through the intermediary of a Free Trader. [28] Free trader was a euphemism for a smuggler who brought cargoes from France under cover of darkness, thus avoiding importation duties. At this time, Napoleon’s Continental System — which forbade all trade with England on the part of France or its imperial satellites — still inhibited direct importation of a host of goods. — Editor’s note . Ladies are to be served with ratafia, or perhaps a small amount of Madeira; and Mr. Tilson was left in solitary state to nurse his decanter of port. I quite sympathised with Eliza’s desire for a snifter in the bedchamber.

I went towards the kitchen, and discovered Manon loitering in a passageway.

“Madame Henri requires a little brandy,” I told her.

“Oui, mademoiselle. On the instant. And you should know,” she added as she turned away, “that I spoke to Druschka this morning. The gentleman whom her mistress found occasion to visit at the Albany was the Earl of Tanborough’s son … one Charles Malverley—”

IT WAS OF MALVERLEY I WAS THINKING THIS MORNING, as I alighted from my hackney in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Sylvester Chizzlewit had summoned me to his door with a missive delivered by courier — an apology and an invitation at once, which I perused in silence over breakfast.

Mr. Chizzlewit could not undertake to bring his interlocutor to Sloane Street, in deference to Mrs. Austen’s delicate health; but if Miss Austen would deign to step round to Mr. Chizzlewit’s chambers, she might learn such intelligence as would shed light on the problem presently under consideration, and every accommodation would be made for her comfort …

On this occasion there was no confusion on the part of the clerks as to my merits or precedence among Mr. Chizzlewit’s clients. I was met in the doorway, relieved of my wrap, and escorted immediately to the private parlour where I had previously gone through Lord Harold’s papers. A fire burned brightly in the grate, tho’ the first of May had banished yesterday’s rain and the weather was fine. I stood near the warmth, and saw in memory Charles Malverley’s face as it had appeared in the publick room of the Brown Bear, Covent Garden.

The classic purity of his features — the beauty of his form — the impression he generally gave, of being one whom the gods favoured … could not the Earl’s son be the very object of Princess Tscholikova’s ardent passion? But he had denied her utterly in death. One might meet her often in certain circles, and perhaps exchange a few pleasantries, he had assured the coroner. I should never say that we were well acquainted.

Malverley had lied — or he had told the truth, and the Princess’s visits to the Albany were a blind for interests she held in another quarter. If the Earl’s son had deliberately uttered a falsehood, however … the construction to be placed upon such reserve could only be a guilty one.

I had remarked the pallor of his looks that morning, but also his extraordinary self-possession before the coroner’s panel. Little could dismay that well-bred gentleman; but then again, Mr. Whitpeace had not troubled to press Malverley too closely on his movements during the hours between one and five o’clock in the morning of Tuesday last. He claimed to have been at his desk during the small hours, diligently pursuing his employer’s interests; but what if he had gone home to the Albany — and found Princess Tscholikova waiting for him in the courtyard? Julien d’Entraigues had seen her there, and remarked upon the desolation of her countenance.