Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

I impose upon you only in this, Miss Austen: to ask that you look after Fanny. She has told me of your knowledge of our sad circumstance. She has her fortune, which, should it escape the clutches of her despicable mother, should preserve her against too great a calumny; but it must be preserved from Madame at all cost. I trust in your goodness.

Farewell, my dear Jane; in your hands, had we met sooner, I might yet have salvaged honour. But we are neither of us to blame for the vagaries of Fate.

I remain, etc.,

Lt. Thomas Hearst

“Damnable coward!” I exclaimed, forgetting myself in my anger, and employing such terms as my sailor brothers might, when similarly pressed; “he has killed himself rather than learn that he is cashiered. A ridiculous waste of a young life — and for what? Honour. The concerns of men are past all understanding!” In great perturbation of spirit, I crumpled the letter in my palm and turned away from Eliza and Mr. Cranley, my boots ringing upon the marble of Scargrave's entryway.

“But does he admit to murdering the Earl and the maid?” Eliza persisted.

“The suicide smacks strongly of the presumption,” Mr. Cranley said.

I hastened to disabuse him. “The Lieutenant never mentions the murders, or any part he might have played on behalf of another; and with his death, all hope of further elucidation in that quarter must be finished.” Of Tom Hearst's tender words for myself, I said nothing; I had not yet learned to comprehend them. “Though we may feel as strongly persuaded as ever of his motives, his opportunity, and his guilt, we shall never have proof.”

“We might yet present his end as a part of our defence,” Mr. Cranley said, with evident hope.

“It is a pity.” Eliza's cherry mouth was pursed, and she tapped her lips with an elegant finger. “Since he planned to end his life, the poor man might readily have taken the blame, and allowed the others to go free. There is a certain selfishness about the act, would not you agree, Jane?”

“All suicide is selfish,” I said, distractedly, “it is only a question of degree. I fear poor Fanny will feel it most strongly.”

“Miss Delahoussaye — was she—” Mr. Cranley began, and then faltered, blushing crimson.

“She was not formally engaged,” I said carefully, “but I believe she had reached a certain understanding with the young man.”

“From her grief, I had assumed as much,” the barrister said, his face crestfallen; “there is no answer to such anguish.”

“You may find, Mr. Cranley,” I said, not unkindly, “that where Miss Delahoussaye is concerned, time is your friend.”

5 January 1803, cont.

WHEN ELIZA HAD MADE HER ADIEUX , I BADE MR. CRANLEY wait for me in the study, and returned with some hesitation to the Delahoussayes. Fanny and Madame were the centre of a hovering group, encompassed of Simmons, the butler, and two of the upper housemaids, who held steaming basins and compresses at the ready. But at my entrance, poor Fanny raised a streaming face, and breaking from her mother's embrace, extended her hand. “Oh, Miss Austen!” she cried, as she gripped my fingers in hers, “is not this dreadful news? No one but you can know how dreadful!”

“I am sure you excite yourself unnecessarily, Fanny,” Madame said, with ringing disapproval. “Tom Hearst is hardly worth such a display, as he has shown in his manner of departing this life. Did I not fear to upset you further, I should rejoice at this news.”

Fanny's only answer was a redoubled expression of grief, and Madame raised her hands in consternation.

“And from this, Miss Austen, we may learn the value of novels,” she said, to my mystification, “for only from the produce of such cheap pens as the novel-publishers employ, could my daughter have learned to indulge such an unfortunate sensibility. She is all romantic airs, and no sense; but perhaps, now that the Lieutenant's unwholesome influence is removed, we might hope for an improvement in time.”

“And did the Lieutenant read novels , Madame?” I enquired in exasperation, and bent to bestow my interest on a more worthy subject. Poor Fanny clung pitifully to me, and quite stained my grey wool gown with the force of her tears; her mother snorted in contempt, and rose without another word.

“I can do nothing with her, Miss Austen,” she said, forcing a passage through the maids; “perhaps you shall have better luck. I shall be in my room, if Fanny returns to her senses.”

I patted the poor creature's back, and spoke such soothing nonsense as succeeds in quieting a child, and instructed the servants and their basins to depart. Presently Fanny's lamentations subsided, with a hiccup and a sniff, and she wiped her plump fingers across her eyes.

“Whatever shall I do?” she said, in a breaking whisper. “I fear; Miss Austen, that with Tom dead, I am truly lost!”

Seeing in her blue eyes that a fresh cloud threatened to burst, I determined to speak briskly, and offer the only help I knew. “We shall make the best of events, Fanny my dear; and hope in Isobel's speedy release. With the Countess restored to freedom, you shall have a support before your mother, and can divulge to her the entirety of your wrongs. Do not scruple to lay them at Tom Hearst's door; he has imposed upon you most disturbingly, and must bear the guilt for his deeds, however dead he might be. But say nothing to Madame at present, and trust in Isobel's excellent understanding, whenever she is returned to us. Something shall be devised for your comfort, and the preservation of your reputation.” I assessed the fullness about her stomach. “The interlude at the mantua-maker's you survived without discovery?”

Fanny nodded disconsolately. “I am to have some lovely things, Miss Austen, though they are in black.” Her eyes welled anew. “And though Tom shall never admire me the more!”

I SAW FANNY SAFELY TO HER ROOM, AND BADE HER TO REST if she might; and then in some distraction, I sought the patient Mr. Cranley below.

“Mr. Cranley!” I cried, as he started from a brown study at my entrance, “was there ever a truer gentleman? And was he ever treated to a house in greater disarray? But share with me your news.”

He drew forward a chair without preamble. “I have obtained from Danson the Earl's correspondence. With it should be a list of letters sent on certain dates, with the names of their recipients — for Lord Scargrave is most meticulous in accounting for his postage debts,” the barrister added, as an afterthought. [43] Postage was actually an expensive item in the nineteenth century, as letters were billed according to how many miles they traveled. No envelopes were used — the sheet of paper was folded and sealed with wax — and a letter comprised of two sheets of paper was billed double. Most important, the recipient paid the postage, not the sender; and so Lord Scargrave's meticulous accounts may be taken as evidence of his scrupulousness in keeping track of his debts. — Editor's note. “Do I ask too much, Miss Austen, or may I beg your assistance in the task? I should like to have a witness to whatever I may find.”

“I shall bend myself to your will, Mr. Cranley,” I assured him.

“The Earl's letters are kept locked in this portable desk.” Mr. Cranley crossed the room to a small wooden cabinet, whose lid folded back to reveal a writing surface suitable for one's lap. “Danson allowed me to carry it hither.”

There were nineteen letters in all, written carefully in a strong, even hand, and dating from the day of the ball at Scargrave — a day that might have occurred in a different lifetime. That they were solely letters of business, we readily perceived; and from a hasty comparison of the Earl's list and his extant drafts, we learned immediately that one more letter had been sent than the little desk now contained.