Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

“Indeed. Had I joined my life to Mr. Bigg-Wither's, the alliance must be brief; for I would certainly have died of insomnia before the week's end.”

My design was to provoke laughter, but in truth, my decision to reject Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither of Manydown Park a mere four-and-twenty hours after accepting him — to the joy of my dear friends, his sisters — has caused me great pain and mortification. He is heir to extensive estates in Hampshire, and his position and fortune would be thought a conquest for any lady, particularly one such as myself, whose means are so unequal to his, and whose first bloom of youth is gone. Despite these claims against my person, Mr. Bigg-Wither had fixed upon me as the companion of his future life almost from the moment I entered Manydown House a few weeks ago. In short, his proposal was quite gratifying, coming as it did without even the pretence of courtship. In a fit of gratitude — nay, I must and shall be honest — in a fit of vanity , I accepted him.

But he is six years my junior, an awkward, gloomy fellow burdened with a pronounced stutter; and all his consequence could not make of him a different man. As I would assuredly attempt to reform what nature had disposed Harris Bigg-Wither to be , I could only do him harm by accepting him. My instinct for self-preservation, my belief that marriage without love is the worst form of hypocrisy, gave me strength after a sleepless night to inform him of my error in encouraging his attentions, and to assure him that I was the woman least likely to bring him felicity in the married state. I departed Manydown not an hour later, in great despondency, certain that I had lost not only a suitor, but some part of my dearest acquaintance.

“And now you are come to Scargrave to forget your cares in a whirlwind of frivolity,” Isobel said, casting off her pensive air and reaching again for my hand.” We shall make certain that you do. I shall find some young man to dance attendance upon you, to flatter you and turn your head, and send Harris Bigg-Wither and his stutter to the nether reaches of your conscience.”

“Nay, Isobel,” I protested, “do not cause yourself the trouble to search further. I believe Lieutenant Hearst will amply serve my purpose. He has good looks and charm without the slightest suggestion of better feeling, and he possesses not a penny he may call his own. He shall do very well for a portionless clergyman's daughter: We may expect him to ruin me and then depart for a noble death before Buonaparte's cannon, at which point I shall throw myself in the millpond and be renowned in wine and song. Has Scargrave a millpond, Isobel?”

“Take care, Jane,” my friend said, struggling to be serious; “Tom Hearst is a pleasant enough rogue, but capable of great harm for all that. I would wish him less thrown in the way of my cousin Fanny, for he has so far made her forget herself as to appear a perfect wanton, on occasion — and nothing, as you know, is further from her character.”

“Assuredly,” I said, with less than perfect confidence in Fanny's character; “but enough of my cares, Isobel.” I surveyed my friend, who looked every inch the countess, from the ropes of pearls entwined in her dark red hair to the fashionable slimness of her gown's bodice. I had seen just such a cut to a neckline only once before — in an illustration of Buonaparte's consort, Josephine, from a London journal. Isobel appeared born to wear it. But as I studied her countenance, I was grieved to see marks of strain about her lovely eyes — as though she, the least likely of all my acquaintance, had slept poorly of late. Perhaps the adoption of her husband's station in life had proved too great a burden.

“What of you, Isobel,” I asked gently, “these three months married?”

“I? What may I possibly say of myself?” She spoke with more effort at gaiety than I should have thought necessary. “I am as you see me: an old married woman, whose adventures must be things of the past.”

“You appear very well.”

“I am glad to hear it,” she said, as a shadow came over her features, “for I exert myself to that end. I would not have my husband think other than that I am happy; and so my energies are directed.”

“Isobel—” I was seized with a sudden apprehension.

“Whatever can be the matter? You possess the essence of happiness as well as its outward form, assuredly?”

But she appeared insensible of my words, absorbed as she was in some activity on the nether side of the ballroom. “Jane!” she whispered, clutching at my arm, her features whitening and her brown eyes grown suddenly large. “He is here. He has had the insolence to appear in my home, in the first days of my return, and without my invitation. Unless it be that Frederick—”She turned in search of her husband, who had vanished from sight. Swift as a bird, her countenance regained its composure and her eyes fixed once more on her first object. “Good God, will I never be free of him?”

I followed the direction of her gaze and saw with foreboding the face that had inspired such fear. He was a tall man of indeterminate age, and thin, in the manner of one who is much out-of-doors in pursuit of frequent exercise. His face was tanned, his appearance elegant, and his carriage easy as he paced the margin of the room, hands clasped behind his back and eyes roving through the crowd. I knew with certainty that it was Isobel he sought, and my immediate instinct was to shelter her from his sight. There was something in the gentleman's aspect — the hooded eyes under a sharp brow, the sweep of silver hair, the long scar that bisected one tanned cheek — that inspired fear. This was a man too much in command of himself; and such an one must always strive to command all the world.

“But who is he?” I asked my friend in a whisper, as though his ears might penetrate even our sheltered alcove.

“He is Lord Harold Trowbridge,” Isobel replied, her fingers pinching my arm painfully, “the Duke of Wilborough's brother. He is intent upon purchasing Crosswinds, my father's estate in the Barbadoes, which has suffered sad reversals in recent years. He gives me no peace, by day or by night.”

“I believe he has seen us,” I said, my heart quickening, as the restless dark eyes came to rest on Isobel. A slow smile curled at the corners of Lord Harold's thin mouth, and with the most gracious ease he made his way across the room to where we sat. There could be no flight; the wall was to our backs, and he was before us.

“Countess.” He bowed low over Isobel's hand. “It gives me such pleasure to welcome you to your new home.”

“I fear the duty must be reversed, Lord Harold,” Isobel said, with an effort at a smile; “and that / must welcome you. I have also the honour of presenting you to my dear friend, Miss Austen, of Bath.”

“The honour is mine,” Lord Harold said, with a penetrating look and a bow in my direction.

“And have you found everything to your comfort?” Isobel enquired.

“Indeed,” he assured her, “I arrived but an hour ago from London, at Lord Scargrave's invitation, and have been settled comfortably by Mrs. Hodges.”

At my friend's expression of surprise, I judged she had not anticipated that the man would be taking up residence; but his insolence was equal even to this.

“I confess, I should not have missed such an occasion for the world,” Lord Harold continued. “To see a lady so happily and advantageously married must be a joy to those who rank her security among their dearest concerns.” His voice, though low and refined, bore a note of mockery that was lost neither on Isobel nor myself.

“I rejoice to hear it,” Isobel told him, rising as if to depart, “for it is some time since I believed my security to be the very last of your concerns.” The words were abrupt and forced, a shock to my ears; but Trowbridge appeared unmoved. His tall form, fixed before us as steadily as a tree, prevented Isobel from passing in a most ungentlemanly manner.