Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Barque of Frailty

I left Chizzlewit, and recruited Eliza — who parted from Lord Moira with what seemed like regret.

“My dear,” I consoled her, “only reflect how you shall be in whoops, when next you encounter the Earl in the Park! Nothing else may possibly have come of it, you know.”

“I do realise the truth of what you say, Jane, but only conceive how delicious it is to be engaged in flirtation again! I felt myself quite twenty years younger! I do believe he was on the point of offering me carte blanche! And not the slightest chance that I should be discovered by dear Henry!”

“Eliza, only succeed in bringing your old friend the Comte d’Entraigues to the little anteroom at the end of the hall — in twenty minutes’ time — and you may return to the Earl with my blessing,” I promised.

I FOUND JULIA RADCLIFFE ESTABLISHED ON A STIFF-backed chair in the supper room, surrounded by her acquaintance. She was nearly impossible to approach. Julien d’Entraigues stood behind her chair, and at a motion of her finger, bent low; something she said, sent him immediately from her side. I saw my chance, and contrived to put myself in the young Count’s way.

“Pardon,” he murmured, and would have stepped around me, but that I returned his word with a hurried phrase.

“Julien! Are you not to play this evening? Have I only to call the tune?”

He stopped short, and stared at me, frowning.

“I do not apprehend … ” he said; then, “Miss Austen?”

“The same. Do not ask what I cannot answer, I implore you — but bring Miss Radcliffe to the anteroom at the end of the passage as swiftly as may be contrived. My life — and hers — depend upon it, monsieur le comte!”

Wednesday, 1 May 1811, cont.

THE DIM FIGURE OF A COUPLE, ENTWINED ON THE settee against the wall of the anteroom, brought me up short when I would have entered — but I perceived at a glance the pair were unknown to me. It was essential that they should be forced from the room, and so, on the spur of imagination, I reeled a little as tho’ drunk, and muttered, “Lord! My head! If I do not get a little air soon, I am sure I shall be sick!”

I had only to press my hand against my mouth, and choke a little, for the two to beat a hasty retreat — at which point I swiftly closed the double doors.

The room was such as any respectable inn might offer, as private accommodation for a member of the Quality: the sort of parlour that should be hired for dining, by a gentleman in Town on a matter of business. It offered a round deal table and the aforementioned settee by way of furnishing; but there was also a hearth in which a fire was burning, and a window, draped in tarnished silk. I went to this window, and lifted the drapery from its place, to reveal — as I had expected — one William Skroggs, Bow Street Runner.

“Miss Austen.” He saluted me with a leer.

“You encountered no difficulty in entering the premises?” I enquired.

“None.” The contempt of his tone must suggest that no Runner should be barred from as respectable an amusement as the Cyprians Ball. “But if you mean for me to stand all hours behind a smoky curtain, while light o’ loves plies their trades under my very nose—”

“Do be quiet,” I said crossly. “I have done the better part of your work for you. Someone is coming.”

I hid myself behind the opposite drapery, the far edge drawn sufficiently back for me to observe the centre of the room, and waited for the door to open.

As I had suspected, Charles Malverley was first to enter the room, followed by Sylvester Chizzlewit, who took up a position by the doors.

“—for the same reason, I collect, that you would bring me here,” Malverley was saying carelessly as he entered. He held a wine glass in his hand, and the beauty of his countenance was flushed. “I must thank you for your solicitude — my tortured heart is warmed by your amiable concerns — and there is at least this to applaud: You have thrown women my way, rather than the boys old Castlereagh is partial to. The man studied too much of the Greeks, during his time at Eton.”

“Some of these girls are devilish pretty,” Chizzlewit observed mildly, “and High Flyers too. I wonder you aren’t susceptible. Has no lady ever touched your heart?”

“Lady?” Malverley returned contemptuously. “There is not a lady among the lot, thank Heaven! I have had my fill of your ladies. Give me a Barque any day, and I’ll sail her straight into harbour! The Muslin Company! Long may they prosper, and empty men’s purses!” He raised his glass in a mocking toast.

I wondered whether Chizzlewit had divined what he must do — whether my terse missive of the morning had been explicit enough. But I should not have doubted him; he was ever his grandfather’s heir. “Not all of these women are lowborn,” he said reasonably. “Miss Radcliffe, for example. Family’s devilish high in the instep. Some sort of relation of yours, is she not?”

For an instant, I feared Malverley might strike his friend. He stood rigid, his hands clenching about his wine glass so that the frail crystal stem snapped.

“I ought to draw your cork,” he said evenly as he tossed the shards of glass into the fire, “or demand satisfaction for such an insult, Sylvester — but we’ll agree that you’re foxed, and have no idea what you’re saying. Don’t ever mention that jade’s name in my presence, damn you.”

Chizzlewit reached behind him, and thrust open the door into the passage. Julia Radcliffe was outlined in candlelight, divinely fair and effortlessly tempting.

“Why should he not mention my name, Charles?” she enquired, her voice low. “Why should it be my name that distresses you so, when it was you who sullied it?”

“I!” he retorted, his countenance flaming. “Look at yourself, Julia! Always desperate to excite admiration — tormenting decent men with your looks, your bearing, your refusal to submit — but now the whole world knows you for what you are — what you always were: a whore. You may cut me direct in the middle of Hyde Park — you may refuse me admittance to Russell Square — you may flaunt your wares before every rogue in London — but the world should never reproach me for serving you a lesson. The world knows me to be right — for disciplining you, for teaching you conduct — for breaking you to bridle—”

The nastiness of the words was like a lash. I found that I had closed my eyes tight, so as to avoid the spectre of Malverley’s face, unmanned by passion, violent with hatred. But a sound brought my eyes flying open again. Julien, Comte d’Entraigues, stood between Julia Radcliffe and Charles Malverley with his hereditary sword unsheathed — and the point was at Malverley’s throat.

“Put it away, my son,” said a lazy voice behind him.

Chizzlewit moved to one side of the door, and Emmanuel d’Entraigues entered the room. Eliza was with him, her mask discarded.

“Mon dieu, ”Julien whispered. “These Austens!”

“I have nothing more to say to you,” Julia Radcliffe told Malverley. “You have insulted me in every possible way, from the first moment of our acquaintance. I say nothing of the outrage you visited upon my person; of the deplorable want of feeling and all decency you then exhibited, and forever after. In my infancy I knew you for a man to be feared— one whose honour is as hollow as his title. The world shall soon know you for a blackguard.”

“Fine words, Julia,” Malverley said, “but my world does not regard the calumnies of a doxy! You can do nothing to me!”

“I might accuse you of murder,” she returned quietly.