Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

The Countess halted before her late husband's portrait and gazed upward in contrition. “I betrayed you, Frederick, if only in my heart; but in my heart, I have already died for it.”

I felt behind me for some support, overcome by the breadth of her apprehensions, and found it in her bedpost. I leaned against it with relief. “I fear that you are sadly mistaken, my dear, and will regret these words with time. Bite them back, I beseech you — recall them if you can — before they lodge too bitterly in your heart.”

Isobel gazed at me with feverish eyes. “Tell me, Jane! Tell me why you place your trust in Fitzroy, when your friend's is all blasted. Has he worked his charms upon you , while Isobel mourned for Frederick?”

“You know it to be impossible!” I exclaimed. “As impossible for one of his honour, as the murder of which you would now accuse him! Isobel, Isobel — were Fitzroy Payne capable of planning such a deed, he should never have left his note on the maid's person. He should be a fool to incriminate himself so publicly. The maid's true murderer would have us think otherwise; but I feel certain of the note's falseness.”

Isobel brushed by me with a strangled laugh. “I know his hand, Jane. Too often have I received it, in words of love as false as Fitzroy's character. No, my friend,” the Countess said, calmer now, “I will not share your foolish hopes. For where I am going, hope itself is more foolish still.”

28 December 1802, cont.

I LEFT ISOBEL ALONE, THOUGH I FELT A SICK HORROR AT her despair; and tried to ease my unhappy spirits in preparation for our London journey. In the midst of directing Martha about the packing, I was surprised by a gentle knock upon the chamber door. It opened to reveal Mrs. Hodges, an expression of anxiety on her features; and from her next words, I judged it to be the fear of committing an unwonted impropriety.

“I'm that sorry to disturb you, Miss Austen, and if you've not time for Jenny Barlow, I'll be pleased to tell her so. I cannot think what she can be about, seeking a lady at the kitchen garden door, and not to be put off by the news as you were leaving, but stubborn as a mule about having her say. I've left her in the butler's pantry, but will send her about her business at the least word.”

“Indeed, do not, Mrs. Hodges!” I cried. “You did right in seeking me out. Have her come to the little sitting-room directly, and I shall wait upon her there.”

The good woman did as she was told, though not without surprise; and giving some last direction to Martha, I hastened below.

Jenny Barlow looked less at ease, though frankly more suited, in the grandeur of even the little sitting-room, than she had appeared in her own smoke-filled hut; her golden hair looked well against the gilt of the picture frames, her eyes picked out the cornflower of the carpet, and, indeed, she might have posed forever; the very soul of a Dresden shepherdess, had I not disturbed her stillness.

“You're that good, miss, to see me, as I can never properly thank you for;” she said.

“Considering that you have undoubtedly defied your husband in coming to me, Mrs. Barlow, it is I who must consider myself the obliged,” I replied. I thought of seating myself and her; but foresaw the distress she might feel at adopting ease in such a room; she should perch on the corner of a chair; concerned lest her nankeen gown dirty its silk, and her anguish at being treated as her betters would forestall all conversation. I remained standing.

“Have you something to tell me?” I enquired gently.

“Yes — that is, no, ma'am.” She looked her distress and doubt of mind, then drew courage with her breath. “It's a favour as I would ask of you.”

“A favour?”

“Not on my own account, really, but on account o’ my poor sister Rosie, ma'am. Have you sisters of your own?”

“I have one sister;” I replied, “who is dearer to me than any in the world. How may I help you, Mrs. Barlow, that your husband cannot?”

“Ted won't have the knowing of Rosie,” she said in a low voice, “on account o* her trouble.”

“Her trouble? She is — to have a child, then?”

Jenny Barlow looked at me swiftly, then dropped her eyes to her own condition, which was increasingly apparent. “She's only seventeen, miss. Same as me when I had my first. But Ted stood by me, while Rosie … ‘tis a terrible misfortune for the girl.”

“She is not lodged here?”

Jenny shook her head. “She's gone off to London, as the Earl would have it. I've not heard word of her these many months; she never learned to read nor write, and the postage is that dear I couldn't send by her anyways. But you go to London today, I hear; and might have the seeing of her, did you take the trouble.”

“I should be glad to, Mrs. Barlow,” I assured her warmly, “and I will send word to you as to your sister's condition at the nearest opportunity. I take it,” I said uncertainly, “that you did learn your letters?”

She nodded. “Pa would have me do so. But Ma died of the having of Rosie, and he placed the pore mite with a woman here at Scargrave when he went into service elsewhere. She was that neglected in her schooling.”

“Let me know then where she is lodged,” I said, “and I shall do my best to seek her out.”

The young woman gave me the address — a not unrespectable street in South London — and consented to take my hand in farewell.

I know little more about Jenny Barlow's fate than I did at our last meeting by her own hearth, but judged it unwise to press her as to its particulars; she has the natural reticence of a born lady, and in the face of such dignity further enquiry would be in very poor taste. That I might hope to learn more of her history from her sister, is a possibility that did not escape me; and if I harbour such a stratagem, I hope it may not flavour too strongly of deceit towards such an unfortunate girl.

I saw Jenny to the housekeeper's rooms, where she was received with an air of doubt by Mrs. Hodges; and returned swiftly to the resolution of my packing. We were to leave just after the noon hour; and I intended yet to walk into Scargrave Close in search of Lizzy Scratch.

THE DAY WAS FINE AND CRISP WITH A LIGHT LAYER OF NEW-fallen snow whitening the road as I made my way into the village. I should spend the greater part of the afternoon in a carriage bound for London, but my legs at least should not feel cramped; and my heart rose with the exercise. The sound of an approaching horse and gig made me turn, and I espied Sir William Reynolds's equipage bent upon my way. That he had noticed me as readily, I discerned by the gig's slowing to a halt by my side.

“Miss Austen!” he cried. “I should have thought you engaged in packing!”

“I make such a sad muddle of it, that I determined to leave it to the kindness of a housemaid,” I replied. “Are you already under way for the Assizes, then?”

“I mean only to stop at the Cock and Bull, and then shall be turned towards the post road,” Sir William answered. He eyed my pelisse, which I must confess is very much worn. “I take it you have a similar object. Would you care to ride?”

“Indeed, sir,” I said, intent that he should not divine my errand, “I relish the prospect of a walk; and so late in the season, one must seize fine weather when it offers.”

“It brings the roses to your cheeks,” he said fondly, though with misplaced gallantry; I have ever been possessed of a redness in the face, to my horror as a young girl and my grudging resignation as a woman. But I took the compliment in the spirit it was meant; returned his nod, and watched him on his way.