Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

“Indeed,” Mr. Hearst replied, his eyes upon the muddied path at our feet.

“I suppose you held the Earl in deep affection?” I persisted. At his expression of surprise, I added lamely, “It is just that I had so little opportunity to study his lordship's character — the Countess having married so recently, and the Earl departing his life almost upon the moment that I entered it.”

“And are you a student of character; Miss Austen?” Mr. Hearst enquired, avoiding the necessity of answering my question.

“Oh! But of course!” I exclaimed, with greater enthusiasm for the game than I felt; “is there anything more worth the study?”

“In my opinion, there is little that is less worthy of your penetration. The character of a man is formed for disappointment, I believe; the more one knows of one's fellow beings, the less one is inclined to cherish them — or oneself.”

“Mr Hearst! I am all amazement! Are these the sentiments of a man of the Church? You must seek to reform your views, if Holy Orders remain your object.”

“But perhaps it is my poor opinion of my fellows that spurs my aspirations heavenwards, Miss Austen.”

“I dare say,” I rejoined, “your contempt for the human condition leaving you no alternative. But it cannot serve to improve your parishioners’ lot. As a clergyman's daughter; I must advise you to choose the solitude of the cloister; Mr. Hearst, rather than the pulpit. Its lofty height cannot preserve you from the disaffection of your flock, if you offer them only scorn.”

“You think me ill-suited to the office?” he enquired, with an anxious look.

Rather than crush him entirely, I took refuge in a lady's prevarication. “I should never attempt to judge a gentleman's ambition,” I replied circumspectly.

Mr. Hearst appeared to hesitate, as if in debate with himself, and then stopped in the lane, the better to hold my attention. “That is, perhaps, an answer to my question, though not one I should wish to hear — for had you unreservedly believed me fitted for the Church, I believe you should as readily have affirmed it. I fear my uncle was of your opinion, Miss Austen. He told me I should make a sorry clergyman. He would not hear of Holy Orders, and urged me to take instead the part of gentleman farmer.”

“His lordship thwarted you deliberately?”

“He did,” Mr. Hearst replied. “My uncle believed I lacked what is essential for a man of the cloth.”

“That being, in the Earl's opinion?”

“Obedience. Humility. The Earl would have it that I suffer from pride, Miss Austen, out of all proportion to my station in life. Though how I could be expected to do otherwise—” At this, he broke off, and glanced around the expanse of Scargrave Park. I understood him all too well. He was of good birth — his mother the daughter of an earl — but utterly without an income capable of supporting such claims as family imposed. Neither freedom of will, nor freedom from dependence, should be his so long as he remained in Scargrave Cottage; and yet, how go elsewhere, on so little means? Pride, indeed, might be all that remained to such a man.

“And so you were subject to the Earl's whims,” I said, as we plodded on. Very little of the lane remained to be travelled, and if I were to learn anything to my advantage, I must press the case.

“To his continued security, I was and am,” Mr. Hearst replied heavily. “All that I have in the world, I owe to his goodness. If he wished me to play at overseer for the estate, then overseer I should be, however ill formed for the office.”

“How unfortunate was the Earl's lot,” I mused. “To have such power over others for happiness or despair. It might justly have made his dearest relations hate him.”

Mr. Hearst did not immediately respond to this sally, as though lost in consideration of its merits. Finally, however, with a sidelong glance from his hollow eyes, he said, “Hate may perhaps be too strong an emotion. But in my breast, at least, the Earl assuredly engendered ill feeling.”

“Did you quarrel with your uncle, Mr. Hearst?” I enquired boldly, though I hardly expected him to answer. Had he done the Earl some violence, he should be little likely to admit to the fact; and the very notion of discord would be one he must refute.

“At seven-and-twenty, Miss Austen, I am as you see me,” he replied, stopping before the Manor's steps. “Ill-suited to my enforced profession, thwarted in my hopes, resentful of my fellows more graced by fortune. Of course I quarrelled with my uncle. Why else should I feel such a depth of remorse at his passing? It is ever thus. We find the words to speak when all hope of converse is past.”

An unwonted frankness, perhaps — but lonely walks in winter's snows will sometimes urge a confidence. At the very least, Mr. Hearst's utter lack of dissembling suggested that the gentleman saw no utility in deceit.

“I am heartily sorry for you, Mr. Hearst,” I said slowly. “I, too, have known what it is to wish for an estate that my means would not allow. But perhaps the Earl thought better of his opinion, and provided in his will for your adoption of the clerical life.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Hearst said, glancing back down the lane towards his cottage, “but I shall not hope for it. He is more likely to have left Tom an additional sum for the squandering in a gaming-hell. It was ever my uncle's way to reward with as much blindness as he punished.” [24] A gaming-hell was the Georgian term for a gambling den. — Editor's note.

He bit back whatever bitterness had urged these words, and cast a penetrating glance in my direction, as though only just sensible that his thoughts had been shared with a lady, and a virtual stranger. Then, recollecting himself, as it seemed, Mr. Hearst bade me adieu , and trudged back along his way to the cottage.

A curious gentleman, the would-be ecclesiastic. In one respect only does he resemble his brother the Lieutenant: They both of them are wont to say more than discretion would advise — although not enough, in this instance, for my purposes. For though I had learned much about Mr. Hearst's animus towards his uncle, I still knew nothing at all about one particular argument — the night of the Earl's death, and in his library.

I WAS LOATH TO REENTER THE MANOR'S DARKENING HALLS; and so, snow or no, I betook myself to the shrubbery and made my way through its light drifts a little distance from the rear of the house, in an effort to organise my mind. Scargrave's gardeners had been before me; a footpath of sorts was dredged along the broad avenues and terraces.

The day that had dawned in storm was now graced by a thin sun; the long blue shadows of afternoon advanced before me like cheerful ghosts of last summer's growth, dancing past the withered flower borders and the stiff hedges to fall at the feet of a stone nymph, her cascade of water frozen in her urn. The brilliant winter landscape could not effect a similar elevation in my spirits, however; for I could not shake the apprehension that further trouble lay in wait for the intimates of Scargrave.

I chose a stone bench swept clean of snow, but fear-somely cold against my backside, for all that, and settled into my pelisse to mull over all that had occurred. I turned first to Sir William's interview.

That the maid Marguerite found no opportunity to turn a coin from the whole affair must baffle; for without mercenary motives, I was left with only two — the desire to mortally wound her mistress, and Fitzroy Payne into the bargain; or an honest attempt to bring foul murder to light. Neither made for happy consideration. If the former was Marguerite's motivation, it suggested some great wrong had been done to the creature that Isobel was loath to avow. Or perhaps Isobel was as yet ignorant of it, and Payne was guilty of the evil.