Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

“Separate property is, of necessity, comprised of assets,” Mr. Mayhew replied. “And as we know, assets may suddenly lose their value, against all expectation. Securities may plummet, banks and their holdings fail; and property — particularly property valued for the crops it produces — lose much of its value. Under the terms of the trust established at the death of the Countess's mother, Amelie Delahoussaye Collins, once Crosswinds is so reduced in value as to bring bankruptcy upon the trust, the trustees may consider the sale of the property itself to satisfy creditors.”

The solicitor shifted his considerable girth and reached for a clay pipe. Then eyeing me — it would not do to smoke before a lady — he returned it to its place upon the polished surface of his desk, with a soft sigh and an irritable frown. “And that is very nearly what has happened,” he said, for Mr. Cranley's benefit.

“Can the Countess's land be so lacking in value?” the barrister enquired.

“The land is not, but the crops it produces assuredly are,” Mr. Mayhew answered bluntly. “In ^he time of the Countess's father, John Collins, a decision was made to turn from sugar cultivation to coffee.” The large white eyebrows came down alarmingly, and Hezekiah Mayhew turned to enlighten me. “Coffee bushes, Miss Austen, take several years to mature; and if they are blighted in their youth — as these unfortunately were — they must be destroyed and replanted. Twice this happened to John Collins; and twice he sought additional capital to supplement his losses. When he finally produced a saleable crop, the world price had dropped due to a rise in production in Brazil; and Collins's beans were hardly worth the blood money he had paid to grow them. The revolts among the slave populations have caused great losses as well — in human capital, and in the destruction of crops and outbuildings by fire; the cost of rebuilding and replanting again required Mr. Collins to seek capital from investors, and at his death, his assets were found to be insufficient to satisfy his creditors. Although the property in trust remained so legally in the Countess's marriage settlement, it is an open question whether her trustees might not be prevailed upon to sell the property itself.” He sat back in his chair, which creaked in protest, his hands upon his watch chain.

“But the Countess herself may not do it?” Mr. Cranley pressed.

“She must have the agreement, in writing, of the trustees.”

“And who are these men?” I enquired, in an eager accent.

The parched old face creased into a smile. “I fear I misspoke, Miss Austen, from long habit,” the solicitor said. “There is only one trustee, and she is hardly male — an unusual circumstance, certainly, but reflective of the wishes of the Countess's family. They were originally French bankers, you know, who set up the first bank in Martinique, and they remained a clannish sort of set, never trusting their business to outsiders. As trustees — all family members — died, they could not be replaced; and so only one now remains, a woman and the Countess's aunt, Madame Hortense Delahoussaye.”

“And it is solely her permission, Mr. Mayhew, which Lord Harold must secure?”

“It is,” the solicitor gravely replied.

I leaned forward in my anxiety. “But he has not yet obtained it?”

Something of interest flickered in Hezekiah Mayhew's shrewd eyes. “Not to my knowledge,” he said. “With the Countess's fate hanging yet in the balance, it is probable Madame Delahoussaye will defer any business some little while.”

Assuredly she would, if I comprehended the character of Madame Delahoussaye. Her daughter; Fanny, should become the fortunate heir to Isobel's property, however encumbered by debt, in the event of Isobel's hanging for her husband's murder; and if the family pride in property remained as fierce as Mr. Mayhew believed, Madame might throw all the weight of her material resources behind discharging the debt, and restoring the plantations themselves. But why had she not offered Isobel similar support, in the Countess's dire need?

The seed of an idea was taking shape. I stood up in haste. Though the hour was late, every minute was as gold; we lacked but four days until the trial should commence in the House of Lords.

“Forgive me, Mr. Mayhew,” I said, with extended hand, “you have been kindness itself, and have greatly assisted our efforts; but Mr. Cranley and I have pressing business elsewhere that cannot wait. I am honoured to have met you, sir — and feel certain that with your penetration exercised on her behalf, the Countess shall escape the clutches of her enemies even still.”

“She is unlikely to require my support, Miss Austen,” Hezekiah Mayhew said dryly, “when your own is already hers.”

Mr. Cranley parted from me at the solicitor's door; having procured a hackney carriage for my return to Scargrave, and hastening himself to his chambers at Lincoln's Inn, the better to prepare his defence of my friends. It was but a few moments to Scargrave House, where I found Fanny as yet upstairs in a darkened room, and Madame Delahoussaye resting on the settee before the drawing-room fire.

“My dear Miss Austen,” Madame said, sitting up briskly at my appearance, “I could not think where you had gone — and the house all at sixes and sevens. If you intend to run about by yourself in this manner, it would be well if you were to tell Cook when you expect to return, so that dinner at least is not a matter for conjecture.”

“I was not alone, Madame,” I rejoined. “I was with Mr. Cranley, in a visit to the Scargrave solicitors.”

“With Mr. Cranley, ” Madame's expression dissolved in contempt, and she ran her eyes the length of my grey wool, as though it were transparent. “I suppose you have set your cap at him. He is not a bad sort of fellow, and quite suitable for one of your position in the world.”

I felt myself colour. Setting my cap at him, indeed. “That is an expression, Madame Delahoussaye, that I particularly abhor,” I cried, perhaps too warmly. “Its tendency is gross and illiberal, and if its construction could ever have been deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity. [45] Interestingly, Austen's dislike of this phrase resurfaces in her novel Sense and Sensibility , in which Marianne Dashwood uses almost identical language to upbraid Sir John Middleton, when he jests that she has “set her cap” at Willoughby. — Editor's note. I merely accompanied Mr. Cranley on a matter of business.”

I turned away, intending to dress for dinner, being unequal to the maintenance of my temper if I retained the room any longer; but Madame called after me.

“Business? What may a lady have to do with business , pray?”

I revolved slowly and regarded her before answering. “It is Madame who must answer that, and not I.”

Something of the sourness in her expression drained from her face, and was replaced by obvious caution. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Austen?”

“I had understood that business was a peculiar province of your own, Madame. Particularly the business of your family fortune.”

She started at this, and looked somewhat nettled; and seeing that she was for once deprived of speech, I determined to press my advantage.

“Mr. Cranley and I were only now informed of your interest in the Countess's affairs. It seems it is to you Isobel must look for financial protection.”

“I!” the good lady cried, her composure regained, “she can find no protection from me , I assure you.”

“That much is evident, from your disinterest in her troubles,” I said bitterly. “It is even possible she is past all such protection, in any case.”