Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

“I have not learned to look that far beyond the present moment,” he said thoughtfully. “Much remains to be resolved.”

It was then I remembered — if Fitzroy Payne hanged, George Hearst should become the Earl. What a burden this wife should then be felt! For he should be barred from seeking a suitable partner to his new estate, of fortune and standing in the peerage, and must acknowledge Rosie's babe as his heir. I understood, now, his inveterate melancholy; George Hearst's was a fate that seemed ever destined to turn awry.

I RETURNED TO PORTMAN SQUARE IN SOME PERPLEXITY OF thought. I had learned much in recent days of the private lives of Fanny Delahoussaye and George Hearst — had ever a great family been so determined in bastardy? — but nothing that proved useful, on the face of it, to Isobel's cause. The trial was to take place on the ninth of January, making it less than six days that remained to us. More than my circumspect probing was required, if the Countess's innocence was to be shown; and I felt impatience, of a sudden, for the return of Mr. Cranley from Pall Mall, and such assistance as the valet Danson could offer.

5 January 1803

IT WAS NOT MR. CRANLEY I WAS TO SEE IN THE SCARGRAVE House drawing-room the following morning, however, but my dear Eliza — and with her, brother Henry, only recently become a banker after a turn with the Oxfordshire militia.

“Jane, Jane!” he cried, embracing me heartily; “I understand you have run away from brother James and his scolding wife these several weeks, and got yourself into worse scandal than before! A broken engagement, and now a murder trial? What shall people say? That Miss Jane Austen is become an Adventuress, and is not to be seen in polite society?”

“Nonsense, Henry,” Eliza said briskly; “Jane but seizes her chance for amusement when it is offered, as ever you would do; there is very little to choose between you, but your sex and the freedom it apportions to one and not the other. Were you not both possessed of lively spirits and unconventional tastes, I should have spurned the Austens entirely, and be still resident in France, toying tenderly with one of Buonaparte's generals.”

“Indeed, I shall not berate you,” Henry said, with a glance for his lively wife from those large grey eyes, so like my own; “I have ever trusted Jane to find her way out of scrapes as readily as she finds her way in. But the price of my approval is a full disclosure, my dear,” he told me, taking my arm, “for I intend to dine out on the strength of your particulars for a fortnight at least. All London is agog with the Scargrave story, and information is as gold.”

And so I told my brother of the murders, and the fate of the Countess and the present Earl — all that Eliza had heard on the way to Wilborough House — and something of Mr. Cranley besides. Of George Hearst and Rosie, or Fanny Delahoussaye's secret, I said nothing. Until such time as disclosure were necessary, I saw no kindness in publicity.

“But, Henry,” I concluded, “there is much that you might do to aid the Countess, did you have the inclination.”

“Unless you wish me to scale the walls of Newgate with my old militia companions, and spirit her out of the country, I fail to see in what manner I might be of service.”

“You are a banker , Henry.” I looked Eliza's way, and was treated to a rolling of the eyes at her husband's stupidity. “You must be acquainted with certain gentlemen of finance — those entrusted with the concerns of each in this household. I am confident that Sir William Reynolds intends to call Fitzroy Payne's banker to the Bar, in order to show that the new Earl is desperately in need of funds. But others intimate with Scargrave might be equally pressed.”

“Almost certainly,” my brother said thoughtfully. “Do you but give me their names, Jane, and I shall make discreet enquiries about the Club.” He rose, still in thought, and went in search of his greatcoat.

“And now, my dear,” Eliza said, when the drawing-room door had closed behind my brother, “Henry is off to business, and you and I are at leisure. What scheme have you devised for our amusement today?” Her long-sleeved velvet dress, of a rich red hue and trimmed in matching bugle beads, was equally suited to a visit to Wilborough House or a turn through Hyde Park in an open carriage, where she might nod to all her acquaintance. I surveyed her gown, and longed to seize the opportunity of my time in London to stroll with my sister Eliza among the shops; but I reminded myself that Isobel was all too deprived of similar delights, and that I must be about the business of her salvation.

“Eliza,” I replied, “I should be very much surprised if you were not acquainted with someone attached to the Royal Horse Guards.”

“The Blues? But of course.” She fluttered a hand endowed, this morning, with a shockingly great ruby. “Colonel Buchanan is terribly fond of me, you know — and thought he should have had me, did he not already possess a wife.”

“We must renew your acquaintance,” I told her; smiling.

Eliza returned my good humour, so much at my brother's expense. “It needs no renewing, I assure you,” she confided. “I spoke with the Colonel only last week, at Mrs. Fitzhugh's.”

“Then you must call upon him today,” I declared, “and carry me with you. He has a person in his regiment of whom I should dearly love to know more.”

“LIEUTENANT THOMAS HEARST? — COLONEL BUCHANAN said, turning with the sherry decanter in one hand and my glass in the other; “what possible interest, my dear Comtesse de Feuillide, could you have in such a scapegrace?”

We were established in the cosy sitting-room of the Horse Guards’ commander, in the shadow of Buckingham Palace, and surrounded on every side by leather-bound books, sabres in sheaths upon the wall, and some very good oils of horseflesh the Colonel had ridden in battle. He had swiftly set aside some matters pertaining to his men, in order to receive us without delay; and so my faith in Eliza was as eve rewarded.

The cavalryman offered me a glass with a short nod, and turned to fetch Eliza's. Colonel Buchanan was, as his name suggests, a Scot. With his bandy legs and greying red hair, he reminded me for all the world of the old cock at Steventon, who ran crowing about the farmyard with such importance that Cook soon lost patience and put him in the soup kettle. But I feared I should be overcome with mirth, did I pursue the comparison; and so drank my sherry with head demurely bent.

“I have heard such conflicting tales about the Lieutenant,” Eliza said, sipping at her glass, her eyes sparkling, “and of late he has been much talked of in connexion with a friend of my dear Miss Austen's. Discretion forbids me from saying more. But when Jane told me of her fears for her friend, I thought immediately of you!” She fluttered her eyelashes in Colonel Buchanan's direction. “For no one should be more forthright — no one be less likely to stand on ceremony in such a delicate matter — than my dear Colonel Buchanan.”

The Colonel was not too much of a soldier to dislike a little flattery. He grunted and threw himself into a chair, his booted legs extended before him and one hand thrust into his uniform jacket. With a glance for Eliza, he tossed back the contents of his sherry glass and set it on the table with a decided ring.

“So Tom Hearst has learned to prey upon young ladies of society, has he?” the cavalryman said. “That is no more than I should expect of him.”

“My dear Colonel — my dear William ” — this, with a laying of Eliza's dark lashes against her creamy cheek — ”if you knew of anything that should counsel against a marriage — if such a union should in your eyes be imprudent — I know you would not hesitate to trust Miss Austen with your full confidence.”