Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

“Miss Austen. You look well.”

“Thank you, my lord. I feel quite renewed by my excellent rest.” I would that I could have returned his compliment, but in truth, he appeared remarkably ill.

“I fear that sleep is an indulgence I must deny myself for the present — my uncle's affairs demand all my attention.” The Earl took a seat and waved away the servant's proffered teapot. “Coffee for me, Fetters, and some fresh rashers.”

“Yes, milord.”

At the footman's departure, Fitzroy Payne cast a glance over his shoulder and leaned across the table. “I must congratulate myself, Miss Austen, upon finding you quite alone. I would speak with you on a matter of some delicacy.”

I set down my toast and touched a serviette to my lips. “I am all attention, Lord Scargrave.”

The Earl hesitated at my use of his uncle's title, and then gave me a rare smile. It had the power to utterly transform his face; from being rather a grave gentleman, possessed of sobriety unwonted in one so young, he was turned a convivial and charming fellow. I felt for an instant what it must have been to walk the streets of May-fair in his company, all those summer months ago, and understood a little of Isobel's trouble.

“I have observed your attentions to the Countess,” Fitzroy Payne began. “Though her present misfortunes are heavy, indeed, they must be counted as somewhat relieved by her enjoyment of such friendship.”

I inclined my head. “Those who know Isobel's goodness cannot help but love her.”

“Would that it were otherwise,” he murmured, undoubtedly for his own ears. Then, collecting himself, he gazed at me with the greatest earnestness. “You have noted, I assume, my preoccupation with my late uncle's affairs. It has denied me the opportunity I should otherwise have taken, of pursuing your acquaintance. So good a friend to Isobel should not remain a stranger to myself.”

“Perhaps we may better understand one another in an easier time,” I said gently. “I should never reproach you for attending to that which demands your care and attention, Lord Scargrave. You have been graciousness itself when thrown in my way.”

“When thrown in your way” he rejoined, with a gleam of amusement; “how poorly I have behaved to a guest beneath my roof! What would my fellows at White's [26] White's was perhaps the most exclusive gentlemen's club in London during Austen's time. It is a sign of Fitzroy Payne's social status and his place among a fashionable set that he is a member there. — Editor's note. say of me now, did they observe my manners? But it cannot be helped. I must presume upon short acquaintance, and beg of you your good offices.”

“If I may be of service to you in some matter, my lord, I would gladly know it.”

“I ask not for myself, but for one who is dear — to us both.”

This was a sort of frankness; for that he meant Isobel, I could not doubt, and by admitting to me — even in so delicate a manner — the depth of his own feeling for his late uncle's wife, the Earl honoured me with his confidence, indeed.

The sudden return of the footman, Fetters, with coffeepot and fresh rashers in hand, precluded further speech on the subject; but the Earl's breakfast once served, the man was dismissed. At Fetters's closing the breakfast room door discreetly behind him, I felt myself free to address the Earl's anxiety once more.

“What eager concern for Isobel has robbed you of your sleep, Lord Scargrave?”

His slate-coloured eyes held a surprising humility, and in their depths I read a grudging acknowledgement of my penetration. “You speak the truth, Miss Austen. I would spend less time wakeful at my uncle's affairs, were my sleep undisturbed by anxiety for the Countess.”

“And is Lord Harold the author of your demons, Lord Scargrave? For I confess, that where that gentleman is concerned, I may offer no assistance. He confounds me utterly.”

“To say utterly is perhaps an exaggeration. Miss Austen of Bath is never confounded utterly,” Fitzroy Payne said with gentle raillery. “No, Miss Austen — with Lord Harold I feel myself an equal. There is little the man would do to the Countess that I cannot forestall. It is Isobel herself who is the source of my anxiety.” The Earl hesitated, as if choosing his words. “I do not know how deeply you are admitted to her confidence—”

“Suffice it to say that I know as much regarding her affection for yourself, as it was possible for her to convey to another person,” I said quietly.

A wave of embarrassment overcame his face; but he quickly mastered it, and went on with greater ease. “Then you know that we two have achieved that level of intimacy which can admit of few impediments.”

“So I should imagine.”

“And yet, not a word beyond the common conventions of the household have I had from the Countess since my uncle's death. She deals with me as with a stranger.” The Earl slapped the table with the palm of his hand, and abruptly thrust himself out of his chair, commencing to pace about the room.

“You find this singular, my lord?”

“Singular? It is insupportable!”

“But she is lost to grief!”

“And at such a time, I should be her first comfort! But she appears rather to wish me at the ends of the earth!”

I knew not how to answer his confusion; for to say what I believed — that Isobel's profound grief was mingled with a sense of guilt and shame where Fitzroy Payne was concerned — should only cause him further pain. And it was just possible — Isobel having kept from her beloved all knowledge of the maid Marguerite's blackmailing missives — that the Countess desired to shield Fitzroy from her worry. That Isobel had taken the maid's words to heart, and begun to fear the grey-hared lord , I thrust aside as unlikely.

“Perhaps the Countess will be more herself with time,” I said lamely.

“But what if she is not , Miss Austen? What if my uncle's death has caused in her some reversal of feeling? It is just such a fear as this that robs my nights of sleep.”

Such honesty of sentiment, before myself — with whom he is acquainted only imperfectly — could not but win my active benevolence on Fitzroy Payne's behalf.

“Lord Scargrave,” I said, “the Countess has borne more than any lady of her tender years and experience should be expected to endure. Consider her disappointed passion for yourself — the strength required to overcome it — the melancholy resignation to a marriage of convenience — and now the sudden loss of a husband she revered at least as she might a father. It is not to be wondered that she seeks comfort in solitude. I should rather wonder at her doing anything else.”

“That may be true,” Fitzroy Payne said, composing himself with better grace. “But I would ask you, Miss Austen, to bend your efforts to improving Isobel's spirits. She is too much alone. Persuade her to walk with you, if the weather be fine; talk to her of subjects far from this unhappy house. And if it be possible to plead my cause — to speak warmly on my behalf—”

“Then know that I shall do all that is in my power, Lord Scargrave,” I assured him without hesitation.

“Blessed woman!” Fitzroy Payne cried, his gratitude in his looks; and so he left me.

I could not be idle when so much anxiety was active on Isobel's part; I hastened to her room, and found her very low.

“My dear,” I said, placing a wrap about her shoulders as she sat by the fire, her face pensive and her hair undone, “you are not dressed! And your tea is undrunk! Has Daisy failed to attend you?”

“Oh, Jane,” my friend sighed, “Daisy cannot attend to an illness of the spirit! Of what interest is dress to me? I cannot assume a different self, by assuming a different gown. I should rather remain here, in the quiet of my room, and repent of all my sins.”