Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

And so Isobel's aunt, Madame Delahoussaye, and her daughter Fanny, prove my sole society. I doubt that such a felicitous term, so laden with the promise of good conversation, mutual warmth, and general elegance, has ever been so wantonly applied. Three women confined by weather, over needlework and books in which they can have little interest, with a dead earl lying in state beyond the sitting-room door! It is not to be borne for many hours together.

Madame Hortense Delahoussaye is the sister of Isobel's mother, these many years deceased, and a native like her of the Indies. Madame has made her life business the social launching of her two girls, as she calls them — meaning her daughter Fanny and her orphaned niece Isobel. She talks enough for a household; we may perhaps impute her husband's demise these two years past to a surfeit of his lady's conversation. I should listen to it with better grace if her manners were equal to her niece's; but Madame Delahoussaye's pride in her station has been too strongly felt. When I appeared at Isobel's side at the commencement of the ball, the aunt swiftly took the measure of my gown; learned that my father is a clergyman; and thereafter reserved her brilliance for others more obviously favoured by fortune.

Far from feeling too great an oppression at her niece's tragic loss, Madame Delahoussaye has busied herself since the Earl's death in sending orders to her favourite London warehouses, in preparation for the household's adoption of mourning; she is wearing even now the gown that graced her late husband's twelvemonth [12] It was customary for ladies to adopt dark mourning clothes for varying periods of time at the death of family members — at least a year upon the death of a husband or child, and as little as six weeks for more distant relations. — Editor's note. , but is rather put out at its decided lack of fashion. She frequently delivers her opinions — that the Earl should have kept to the lemon-water she prescribed for his health; that the fees to the London physician had better have been saved; and that Isobel should quit Scargrave for Town as soon as the funeral is done — the better to bring Fanny her Season of enjoyment, for the poor child is not growing any younger.

From Fanny's marriage prospects, Madame inevitably turns to the latest style of mourning in France — a nation which, I feel compelled to point out, has had ample scope for study in the art under Buonaparte. Any observation of an historic or political nature must be lost on Madame Delahoussaye and her daughter, however; their heads are formed neither for penetrating discourse nor serious debate. Miss Fanny attends to her mother's recommendations with the greatest care, and is forever engaged in the drawing up of lists, which must be designed to keep a multitude of milliners in goose-and-pudding for the coming year. Lacking their funds and their instinct for elegance in the midst of sorrow, I must content myself for the nonce with whatever grey muslin be in my possession; and for my part, there all attempt at mourning shall end.

I should do Fanny Delahoussaye an injustice if I did not set down that she styles herself very fine, indeed. Having spent hours poring over the pages of Le Beau Monde [13] Le Beau Monde was simply one of the fashionable journals avidly read by members of select Georgian society; its fashion plates presented the latest in ladies’ and gentlemen's clothing. — Editor's note. , she is never seen in anything less than the most breathlessly current of gowns. Though given to riotous colour in her evening dress, she prefers a young lady's natural choice for day — white muslin or lawn — in the knowledge that it renders her pink-and-gold perfection even more angelic. And since pictures of perfection make me sick and wicked, I have resolved to thrust my own white lawn to the side for the duration of my Scargrave stay. Such an invitation to comparison between myself and Miss Delahoussaye must be invidious.

Born like Isobei in the Indies, though schooled in London, Fanny's chief business at nineteen appears to be the getting of a husband. She and her mother must needs be at cross purposes in this: Madame Delahoussaye favours the newly-titled Earl, Fitzroy Payne, as any mother should do, while Fanny displays a clearer preference for the penniless scapegrace Tom Hearst. Whether she is likely or able to captivate either gentleman is never laid open to question; it is assumed that her loveliness will conquer. I cannot be so sanguine. Fanny's pretty gowns and her fortune aside, she looks very much like any other young woman with a quantity of yellow hair, vacant eyes, and an expanse of exposed bosom. She inclines her head with exquisite grace, but fails to utter a sensible word; such an excess of elegance can only be imputed to the most fashionable of finishing schools. No doubt she speaks Italian and is highly accomplished — in the art of painting screens, making fringe, and standing before the mantua-maker [14] Mantua-maker is a Georgian term for dressmaker, after the mantua, a type of gown worn in the eighteenth century. It gradually fell out of use, to be replaced by the French modiste , and eventually by dressmaker. — Editor's note. .

I dare say that my words are peevish and cross — and I recognise my demon, jealousy. To have Fanny Delahoussaye's fortune and looks, and hone of my own sense and wit, would be an unbearable exchange; but when I see her ready assumption of marriage, her effortless reaching towards that estate, I must own that I should like to stand in her place for a few hours together. I cannot know what it is to be beautiful and possessed of easy means; my conquests have ever been made against the better instincts of the men in my acquaintance, a tribute to my lively mind and good humour. But what woman is willing to accept such a victory as this, unmarried as I remain, in the face of good looks and fortune?

Later that day

I HAD NOT BEEN IN THE SITTING-ROOM AN HOUR WHEN a footman appeared with a summons from Isobel. I hastened to her side.

“Dear Jane!” my friend cried, reaching a white hand to me from her chaise longue; “I begged you to remain at Scargrave, only to desert you for the comfort of solitude. I fear I have made a sad hostess.”

I glanced around Isobel's bedchamber in some surprise; in this room, at least, Scargrave's musty ghosts were banished. In anticipation of his bride, the Earl had refurbished the apartment with elegance and taste; its furniture was light and pleasing, fresh paper graced the walls, a fire burned brightly in the grate, and the image of Frederick, Lord Scargrave, gazed down upon his wife from a gilt frame above the mantel. A book and a saucer of tea stood companionably on a table at Isobel's side; all was quiet and order. I understood, now, her unwillingness to appear in the chilly rooms below. But the comfort of her boudoir had done little to raise her spirits; indeed, an unaccustomed languor spoke from every limb, and by her ravaged looks, I knew sleep had escaped her these few nights past.

“Never could I reproach you in such an hour” I said, dropping to the floor at her side. “Do not trouble yourself about me. Your nearest relations have been at pains to ensure my comfort. But tell me, Isobel, how may I be of service to you? May anyone hope to relieve such melancholy as this?”

“Jane, do not tempt me to thrust aside my sorrow,” the Countess replied bitterly. “It is the last honour his wife may offer poor unfortunate Frederick.” She turned her eyes upon the hearth, her red hair undone and hanging in a curtain about her face, and suffered in silence a moment. Then she sought my hand with her own and gripped it fiercely. “But to melancholy, dearest Jane, I fear I must add a greater burden. And in this, I fondly hope, you may indeed be of service.”