Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

“i must say, jane, that it looks very bad for your poor Lieutenant,” Eliza declared, as Henry's carriage rattled towards Portman Square, “very bad, indeed. I know that look of Colonel Buchanan's too well. He is intent upon making of the man an example, and satisfying his sense of order. The Colonel shall never control gambling, nor yet the duels that often result; but he shall make his officers remember Tom Hearst, and hesitate, perhaps, before they roll the dice.”

“I care little for all that,” I replied, with some truth. “My mind is sadly tormented with a dangerous possibility. By the time he had arrived at Scargrave, Tom Hearst was surely driven to believe his entire life hung in the balance — his commission, his possible marriage to Fanny, and his honour. That beloved possession of every officer. Would he have poisoned his uncle to preserve it? And implicate the Earl's heirs, the better to ensure that his brother George succeeded to a fortune? With Fitzroy gone — and remember. Lieutenant Hearst bore his cousin a grudge, according to the Colonel — he might eventually improve his fortunes, and win Madame Delahoussaye's consent for Fanny and her thirty thousand pounds. With George Hearst the new Earl, Tom should not want for greater means to satisfy his debts. And his corps should hesitate to drum out the brother of a peer, in a manner they should not scruple to cashier the poor relative of a clergyman.”

I paused, my eyes upon the rain that had commenced to fall beyond the carriage windows; a lady arrayed in plum sarcenet, with a feathered bonnet to match, raced at a hectic pace along the pavement, her sunshade raised in but poor defence of the weather. I feared the splashing of our carriage wheels should make a fearful business of her handsome boots. “It is in every way horrible, Eliza, and only too plausible.”

“But how should Hearst have effected it?”

“Through his batman, Jack Lewis,” I replied, turning my gaze to the scenery within the carriage. “He had made the acquaintance of the maid the previous summer, and given her a locket; in visiting Scargrave this winter it was only too likely that the acquaintance should be renewed. The Lieutenant might have persuaded his man to give the girl the nuts, with the express purpose of placing them in the Earl's tray. He may even have played upon Marguerite — offering her something she valued, in return for betraying her mistress. Certainly she wrote those letters accusing Isobel and Fitzroy Payne with some other aim than blackmail; Sir William could not comprehend why she never asked for money. But her reward was not to come from the Countess, and it was not in the form of silver. Marriage to the batman, perhaps, and safe passage to the Barbadoes?”

“But he killed her instead.”

“She knew too much, Eliza. And so he slit her throat while she waited, as she thought, for her lover — Jack Lewis. But it was the Lieutenant who arrived at the hayrick that morning, the Lieutenant who did the deed; and it was Jack who retrieved the maid's things. Tom Hearst knew he could trust to Lewis's silence; you saw how terrified the man was of being tied to the maid's death.”

“It is surprising he is even yet alive,” Eliza said thoughtfully.

“Lieutenant Hearst told me once that he owed the man his life; and even he — with his precious sense of honour — may feel an obligation in such a case. It is in every way convincing, do not you agree?”

“Jane, what shall you do?”

“I shall send for Mr. Cranley at once. Perhaps he shall be able to force an admission from the fellow; for in truth, Eliza, we have not a shred of proof.”

We were arrived in Portman Square, and Eliza's coachman had pulled up before the doors of Scargrave House. “Will you come in, Eliza, and take some refreshment?” I asked her.

“I confess that I should hate to miss the denouement ,” she replied excitedly, “if you can bear my company another hour, Jane.”

“It shall be my only prop. I move henceforth in enemy territory, my dear.”

She bade her carriage wait, and we ascended to the door; only to be greeted upon our entrance to the hall with a loud wailing and such a hullabaloo as may hardly be credited. Maids were everywhere dispatched at a run, and so distracted by the weight of their errands, that they could not stop for explanation; but the sounds of lamentation issued from the drawing-room, and it was thence we hastened.

It was Mr. Cranley I espied first, as I opened the door, standing by the mantel in an attitude of helpless bewilderment; Madame Delahoussaye was seated on the settee before him, her arms around her daughter. Fanny was prostrate with grief. Her blond curls were in disarray about her face, and her eyes were quite ugly with weeping.

“Whatever can be the matter?” I cried, heedless of my duty to Eliza at such a moment.

Madame raised her head, and shook it briefly, an injunction against further enquiry; and with evident relief, Mr. Cranley crossed to the door and escorted us back into the hall.

“I fear I am the agent of Miss Delahoussaye's distress,” he told us, “but there was no one else to bring the news, and hear it they must.”

“What news?” I enquired, with no little foreboding.

“Of Lieutenant Hearst,” the barrister said, and hesitated. “I have only just told his brother. There has been — a tragedy.”

“He is not — injured?” I said.

“I am afraid that he is dead.”

Eliza's horrified looks mirrored my own. “But how ?” I cried.

“He shot himself,” Mr. Cranley said, “this morning, in the middle of Hyde Park.”

MR. CRANLEY, IT APPEARED, HAD BEEN SUMMONED TO A meeting with Lieutenant Hearst by messenger that very morning, and had arrived at the appointed hour and spot to find the gentleman asprawl in a park chair, blood streaming from a great wound in his temple.

“And there is no possibility that he was murdered? You are certain that he ended his own life?” I asked.

“Quite certain,” the barrister replied.”A pauper living in the Park had taken shelter under a neighbouring bush, and saw him do the deed.”

“And so you were summoned with the sole purpose of making the discovery.”

“And of retrieving this,” Mr. Cranley said, producing a plain piece of paper sealed with red wax. “It bears your name, Miss Austen.”

I took the letter from him, my fingers trembling slightly at the sight of the firm, careless hand that had written my name, and now should write no more. “But whatever can he have to say to me?”

“Perhaps it is a confession,” Eliza suggested.

I loosened the wax and unfolded the stiff paper.

St. James, London,

4 January 1803

My dear Miss Austen—

Or rather, my dear Jane — for so I shall always think of you, remembering moments too precious to let slip even in this last midnight of my mortal life. Were I granted one final hour of happiness, I should wish myself back at Scargrave House — leaning in the doorway of my room, waiting for some sight of you in the moonlight, with your hair tumbled about your face. It was so little time ago, and yet a life apart, for all that. I shall never, now, have the opportunity to pursue an acquaintance that might have been profitable to us both — but I forget. You were denied me long before, and by my own cursed conduct.

The men who hold sway over my future are to publish their determination on the morrow. I have learned already from one of their company that the terms are unfavourable to my continued prosperity, the maintenance of my reputation, and, perhaps most important, my claims to honour. With no fortune, and no consideration likely to be granted in future to one with a tarnished name — and furthermore, with Fanny Delahoussaye to consider — I have determined to tread the only honourable path remaining to a gentleman. Were I a rogue, I should book passage on a sure ship, and adventure my fate in a distant land; but I am only a soldier, after all, for whom duty is as a god.