Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave Manor

Sir William frowned. “A matter for the Countess, and not her husband?”

“As the property I sought to purchase was entirely the Countess's, it was solely her consent that was necessary.”

“And how did her ladyship respond?”

“She very nearly showed me the door,” Trowbridge said, with a thin smile.

“The Countess was not amenable to your proposals?”

“The Countess has long been opposed to them.”

I felt my spirits begin to lift with hope. Perhaps even Lord Harold would speak the truth, when under oath. I glanced at Isobel, and saw that her eyes were fixed upon her enemy as if in a trance; Fitzroy Payne stared at nothing, his thoughts apparently elsewhere.

“And why is that, Lord Harold?” Sir William said.

“Because she does not wish to turn over her property.”

“And what property is that?”

“The property I wished to purchase.”

He is relishing this fool's errand, I thought, gazing at Trowbridge's heavy-lidded eyes; he says no more nor less than he must, and will drive Sir William mad before he lets slip anything that is damaging to himself. But my old friend the magistrate leaned forward keenly, his eyes fixed on the witness's face, as he posed the next question.

“Lord Harold, was the Earl equally opposed to your aims for his wife's property?”

“He was not,” Trowbridge said.

I started in my seat, all amazement. A deliberate falsehood! I looked for Isobel, and saw her sway where she sat.

“His lordship wished to complete the sale?”

“The Earl's object was in every way aligned with my own,” the rogue calmly replied; and at that, I heard Isobel gasp. As I watched, she slipped from her stool in a dead faint; it was as I thought — the strain had been too great to bear.

A murmur arose from the assembly, and Sir William halted before Lord Harold, his questions suspended. Fitzroy Payne leapt to his feet, all solicitude for the Countess's distress; and this, too, should be noted by the assembled peers. He was restrained by the Clerk, and Isobel righted; her wrists were chafed, and smelling salts administered, and she very shortly opened her eyes; but so ill was her appearance, that the Lord High Steward ordered her conveyed from the room, and the proceedings adjourned for the day.

“WHAT CAN BE HIS GAME?” I QUERIED MR. CRANLEY — NOT for the first time, as I turned back and forth before the drawing-room fire at Scargrave House. We were alone, and wasting away the hours remaining until dinner with little appetite. Fanny Delahoussaye seemed much fatigued from her parade before the House of Lords, and had gone above to rest, to Mr. Cranley's disappointment. Madame had no reason to seek my company — if anything, she avoided it, since our contretemps of a few days before. But I had no time to spare for the sensibilities of Delahoussayes.

“Trowbridge has deliberately lied before the Bar,” I declared to the barrister, “and should be cited for perjury!” My tone betrayed my indignation, which was considerable. That I felt responsible for the rogue's appearance at all, I need not underline; and my guilt and remorse only heightened my desire to shake Trowbridge's grin from his insolent face.

“But how are we to prove perjury?” Mr. Cranley asked reasonably. “We have only the word of the Countess that her husband was bent upon fighting Lord Harold. Trowbridge knows as much, and feels secure in his deceit. He may say anything he likes, while the Countess but looks on and faints.”

“There is not a man more despicable,” I retorted bitterly, and threw myself into a chair with less than my usual grace. “Having dispatched Isobel's husband — her sole defender — Trowbridge would send her to the gallows, the better to win the property he cannot gain by any other means!”

“There is still Madame's consent,” Mr. Cranley pointed out. “But perhaps Trowbridge shall kill her as well.”

“That is hardly necessary — at Isobel's death, the property shall pass to Fanny, and as the sole trustee, Madame may turn it over to Lord Harold as she wishes. She shall free herself of an incumbrance, and think no more of Crosswinds.”

“But she must know that the late Earl's intentions were not as Trowbridge would suggest,” Mr. Cranley mused. “Perhaps I shall call her to the Bar when I have my day in Court, and make her declare the Earl opposed to Trowbridge's schemes.”

“And now you would expose us to risk,” I told him. “We cannot know whether Madame has fallen in with Lord Harold or not. For assuredly she has visited Wilborough House. Her consent may already have been won; and fearing to alienate her business partner, she may publicly deny all knowledge of the late Earl's views.”

“I fear you are right,” Mr. Cranley said, as he rose with a heavy sigh; “and now, Miss Austen, I must bid you adieu. Tomorrow comes early, and we have a difficult day before us; I must prepare late into the night, in the event that I am called upon to present the defence.” The barrister's face was very weary; and in his countenance I read a little of my own despair.

“Have we any hope?” I said, faltering.

He hesitated, his eyes upon my face. “There is always hope. Did I not believe that, I should have quit the Bar altogether, and long before this.”

“Do not coddle me, Mr. Cranley; I am not a child.”

“Very well,” he rejoined. “There is very little hope, Miss Austen. But even that is reason to persevere.”

IT WAS A POOR SORT OF EVENING IN PORTMAN SQUARE; I dined with Mr. George Hearst — who is sunk in more than his usual melancholy in the wake of his brother's suicide — and the Delahoussayes. All were silent but for Fanny, who had heard herself admired at her seat in the Gallery, and could not contain herself; for the author of the compliment was a marquess, and the silly girl valued the opinion in a fashion commensurate with his rank. Did she earn the glances of a duke or two on the morrow, I should be forced to take my meals in my room.

When we had left Mr. Hearst to his solitary Port and his lonely cigar, and repaired, as ladies must, to take tea in the sitting-room, Fanny declared herself a trifle indisposed — as well she might be, with the burden I knew she carried — and tripped gaily to her room, visions of peers in ermine-trimmed robes no doubt lighting her way to bed. I seated myself over some needlework, the better to marshal my thoughts; for I had formed a dangerous resolution at dinner, and should never have a better opportunity to act upon it.

“Madame,” I said.

She looked up from her book with a coldness that must give one pause. “Yes, Miss Austen?”

“Have you any views as to today's events?”

Madame Delahoussaye's lips compressed and she returned to her book. “I do not think too little can be said upon the subject.”

“That is indeed unfortunate,” I rejoined, “for I had hoped you might shed some light on Lord Harold's extraordinary behaviour.”

“What can I know of Lord Harold that you do not? From your surprising display upon the witness stand, I should have thought you the man's intimate these several months at least.”

“What can you mean, Madame?”

The covers of her-volume came, together, with a snap. “That you had no business embroiling such a man in this affair,” Madame Delahoussaye declared, “and that your impudence is far beyond your station, my girl.” She rose with alacrity, as though to depart.

“But Lord Harold is embroiled in it of himself,” I said, feigning bewilderment.

“So you would have it.” Madame crossed to the sitting-room door and laid her hand upon the knob.

I sat back in my chair and surveyed such haste with amusement. “I wonder at your defending a man of whom you profess to know nothing, Madame.”