Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

Was the sober young Earl the sort to dally with a lady's maid, and think no more of it than he might a morning's ride to the hounds? Many a woman has attempted to place her foot upon the neck of a man she loved in vain, or hated for just cause, whether that neck be stations above her or no. When I considered Fitzroy Payne, however, I could not imagine him causing such injury. What I have seen of that gentleman's conduct is irreproachable. His temper is always held in check, despite the absurdities of his nearest relations; his words reveal nothing but a fine understanding and the exercise of good sense. In general, Fitzroy Payne is so far removed from what is base in human nature, that I should think him guilty of the grossest duplicity, were I to discover him prey to vice. But I must needs discover it, if vice there be. Marguerite should surely have good cause for revenge against Isobel if she felt herself ill-used by Payne.

And if the maid's motive is nothing less than a desire to expose murder?

Such a powerful aim would seem necessary to drive a girl of the islands from the security of Scargrave in the midst of an English winter. If this be the force that moves her, then it cannot be denied that she believes murder to have been done. It is but a moment's leap to say that Marguerite is convinced Frederick was dispatched by his wife's hand, in concert with Payne's — and her anonymous letters are written from the purest of motives.

If the maid's desire is to expose Isobel, rather than blackmail her, then my faith in my friend might be profoundly shaken. But I am not so lightly possessed of friendship. Marguerite must be in error, however firmly she believes herself in the right; and my object now must be to put my finger upon the killer.

I raised my head and sniffed the wintry air, revelling in its power to clear my senses. The disposition of Isobel's trouble seemed, in that instant, to be the subject of only a few hours. I drove my hands more deeply into my muff, the better to warm them, and took up the matter once more.

If not Fitzroy Payne, if not Isobel — then whom? The villain must be an intimate of the household, and was hardly likely to be a servant; another member of the family, or Lord Harold, was all that remained to me.

Harold Trowbridge I could readily cast in the role of murderer. He had the resolve, the ruthless aspect, and the motivation — for the late Earl had stood between him and his acknowledged goal, the acquisition (at a pittance) of Isobel's West Indies estates. Intent that Trowbridge should not secure her birthright, the Countess had implored her husband's protection; and by all appearances, the late Earl had been empowered and inspired to settle all her financial troubles. In favour of Lord Harold's guilt, I noted that Frederick's death occurred the very night of Trowbridge's arrival at Scargrave — the night that gentleman was summoned to the Earl's library for an interview, the conduct of which we knew nothing. Had it provoked Trowbridge to such violence that he poisoned the Earl's wine — drained to the dregs but a few moments before poor Frederick's fatal indisposition?

Yet, I reminded myself, I had no proof that Trowbridge in fact met with the Earl the night of the ball — the interview I myself overheard was between the Earl and Mr. George Hearst. Nor could I assert that Trowbridge possessed any poison, nor that he had administered it; and he was certainly not the man to let slip anything to his disadvantage.

In fairness to the scoundrel, however, I should as readily consider the motivations of others. It was but an instant's work to turn from a purported interview in the Earl's library to the one I had in fact overheard — an interview marked, by the evidence of my own ears, with intimations of violence. George Hearst had not parted from his uncle on friendly terms. Indeed, it was clear that the embittered nephew had sought Frederick's support for some scheme, had not received it, and had been enraged as a result.

You have driven me to my utmost extremity, and I know how it is that I must act , George Hearst had cried, or words to that effect. Much could be made of such sentiments, did we discover the Earl was murdered. But despite my recent effort at interrogation, I had not an idea what Mr. Hearst's affair was about. Holy Orders, perhaps, or worse yet, money — for we are ever driven to extremes by lack of funds, and pressure of obligation; I have reason to feel the force of that argument myself. Yet I distinctly recall Mr. Hearst mentioning a woman that night — Ruby? Rosamund? Rosie. Rosie it had been.

I must endeavour to learn more about Rosie, the better to weigh the strength of Mr. Hearst's outrage against his frankness during our walk in the Park.

As I sat engrossed in my thoughts, the sound of feet rapidly coursing through the snow fell upon my ears, and I looked up to see Lieutenant Hearst, his smart blue uniform the most vivid spot in all that grey landscape.

“And so I have found you at last,” he cried, approaching my seat with alacrity. “I had feared you returned this morning to Bath. But my heart rises to learn that you have not deserted us quite yet.” He peered at me closely, his banter trailing away. “Miss Austen, I declare, you look as though you had seen a ghost.”

“Is the entire household arrayed against me?” I muttered crossly, and stood up, dusting off my skirts. “Can not a woman lose sleep of nights, without exciting the concern of her entire acquaintance?”

Tom Hearst's handsome face was instantly contrite. “I beg your pardon,” he said hastily. “I meant no harm.”

“Oh, Lieutenant — the apology must be mine,” I said, recovering myself. “One consequence of broken sleep is assuredly diminished civility.”

“So you did have a disturbed night.”

“It is only the First Earl,” I replied, attempting humour. “He treads the boards nightly in my dreams, mourning the late Lord Scargrave.”

Rather than laughing as I expected, Tom Hearst looked pensive. “I would that I might believe you to speak in jest,” he said gravely, holding my eyes, “but I saw him once myself, while yet a child, before my dear mother died. This is not a household for peaceful dreams, I fear.” Then he slapped his thigh and assumed his customary grin. “Come for a short ride on Lady Bess. The air will do you good.”

“Indeed, I am no horsewoman,” I said with a smile. “My father lacked the resources to furnish us with mounts when we were children, and I must confess to some trepidation at the prospect of assuming the art at my advanced age.”

“Nonsense!” The Lieutenant tucked my arm firmly under his own and led me back up the path. “I shall do everything in my power to render the experience so delightful, Miss Austen, and your trust so well-placed, that you shall hesitate to refuse me anything in future.”

“And have you been taught to fear the refusal of young ladies, Lieutenant?” I enquired archly.

He has a very satiric eye. “Taught so well, Miss Austen, that I have made it a rule never to plead for that which I am not certain of desiring,” he replied, “and so it may seem to some young ladies”—at this, he glanced upwards at the second-storey window where Fanny Delahoussaye's profile was clearly limned, bent over her work—”that I never will ask.”

LADY BESS PROVED TO BE A GENTLE MOUNT, AND WHEN taken at a walk, her stride was so little disturbing as to quell even my violent fears of being unseated. Lieutenant Hearst spent some time walking before me, his hand on the bridle, and his own horse blowing contentedly at my side; but after a little, he thought it wise to rest by the hedgerow in conversation, and I was glad enough to dismount while Lady Bess nosed at the snow.