12 December 1804, cont.
THE EARL OF SWITHIN, IN CONVERSE WITH MR. HUGH Conyngham! Were they, then, acquainted? And was it the actor alone who had drawn Lord Swithin in such haste to the Pump Room?
I stood as though rooted to the broad plank floor, transfixed by a shaft of wintry light. It fell directly upon the Earl’s fair head, as though in benediction, and revealed him as a gentleman not above the middle height, but powerful in his frame and general air of address — a commanding figure, much hardened by sport and exercise, and tailored to within an inch of its life. Lord Swithin’s countenance might be said to be handsome, for there was not an ill-made feature in it, but for the coldness that lurked in his bright blue gaze and the suggestion of bitterness about the mouth. This was not a man to be lightly crossed — and I could not wonder that Lady Desdemona had fled to Bath, rather than brook the tide of rage occasioned by her refusal.
“Jane!” Eliza hissed. “Pray turn your eyes away from his lordship, or we shall both be detected in the grossest vulgarity!”
But I was insensible of Eliza’s anxious looks, so compelling were the Earl and his interlocutor. With heads drawn close together and a flow of speech that suggested some urgency of matter, the two men must be canvassing the murder in Laura Place.
“Eliza,” I murmured, “is the Earl likely to recollect your acquaintance, so many years since in Bengal?”
“I should think not,” she replied stoutly. “It was his mother, you know, who called upon mine. I do not think he was even born before we quitted India entirely.”
“That is very well. Let us stroll about the room with as unconscious an air as possible.”
“We may attempt the stroll, Jane, but should abandon the unconscious air at the outset. You are not equal to it, darling girl. You have not the necessary schooling in deception.”
“Fiddlesticks,” I whispered viciously. “Speak to me of something diverting.”
“I have heard,” Eliza attempted immediately, “that though the Earl of Swithin’s title is of ancient pedigree, his considerable fortune has been amassed through trade.”
“You shall not horrify me, my dear. I am no respecter of snobbish distinction. He retains the claims of a gentleman.”
“But perhaps the nature of his trading may surprise you. The Earl is given to running opium, no less, out of Bengal to China, and using private ships to do it. He learned the habit of his father, and since that gentleman’s demise has greatly increased the activity. Henry heard the tale only last week, while lunching at Boodle’s.”[29]
“The Earl? An opium trader? I may hardly credit it!”
Eliza’s dark eyes glinted deliciously. “Do not sound so astonished, my dearest Jane. You must know that the Honourable Company has long employed opium as an antidote to tea.[30] We import so very much of that leaf, and can sell little to advantage in China; our debt in trade — or its imbalance, as Henry might put it — for many years bid fair to sink us; the kingdom bled bullion as from an open wound; but matters of late have righted themselves, and all on account of the Chinese taste for opium. Such men as the Earl must receive our thanks, however much the Government officially abhors their activity. And so the world turns round—we import tea from China; China imports opium from India; and India imports woolens from Manchester! Admirable, is it not, how the yearnings and vices of the multitude provide Lord Swithin with a dashing carriage and four?”
“Admirable or otherwise, it cannot be very agreeable to claim the opium trade as occupation,” I observed. “I wonder whether His Grace the Duke of Wilborough is cognizant of the Earl’s activity?”
We had progressed very nearly to a position opposite the Visitors’ Book, where the Earl and the actor were as yet engrossed. I halted in our promenade, and turned my back upon the pair. Their voices drifted very faintly to my ears — a word or two only. “Continue conversing, Eliza, I beg — but speak of lace, or the price of muslin, in as audible a tone as you may manage.”
Of all things required, my sister was equal to this; and she prated on happily about the number of flounces so necessary to a fashionable gown for evening, and the appearance of epaulettes, in deference to the heightened military style inevitable in such a climate, while I endeavoured to overlisten our neighbours’ conversation. It was the Earl’s voice, acute and low, I first discerned.
“… must have the letters.”
“I tell you they are not …” (indistinguishable words) “… and … is most disagreeable at present. I cannot assure your lordship … influence with her.”
“Then I must see her myself.”
“That would … unwise. I cannot answer …”
“… is due to me! I have wasted … a hands-breadth to the gallows!”
“… time.”
“I have had enough of your time! Time has brought me only grief and vexation, sir!” This last was very nearly shouted, so that the enraged Earl was rewarded with the shocked glance of several in the Pump Room; and after an exasperated sigh, he lowered his voice once more. The next words were almost inaudible.
“… expect you to … method of securing my …”
Had I truly heard it aright? Securing what — the Earl’s freedom? His reputation? His interest?
His letters?
“… well. Good day, my lord.”
“Good day.” All private business concluded, the Earl achieved a more civil tone. “And remember me to your sister, Conyngham. I shall be in attendance at Orchard Street tomorrow.”
The actor bowed; the Earl received his deference with a faint air of irritation; and so they parted. Lord Swithin quitted the Pump Room by the door immediately opposite the Visitors’ Book, apparently intent upon returning to the White Hart. Hugh Conyngham plunged towards the opposite end of the vast hall. There was an expression of anxiety and despair upon his countenance I could not like.
“I must leave you, Eliza,” I said. “Forgive me. My compliments and best love to Henry — we hope to see you this evening in Green Park Buildings to drink tea, if you are not otherwise engaged.”
“What have you heard, Jane?” Eliza enquired with penetration.
“I hardly know. Everything — or nothing. Who can say?”
“Jane—” My sister reached a hand to my arm, restraining me when I would depart. “Had you not better leave such things to the magistrate, Mr. Elliot?”
“I do not understand you, Eliza,” I retorted.
“And as for tea—”
The Henry Austens were to attend the concert that evening in the Upper Rooms — a recitation of love songs in the Italian by Mrs. Billington[31] — and Eliza was pressing in her invitation that Cassandra and I should make an addition to the party. Though I may accomplish a Scotch air on the pianoforte with pleasure, I am in the general way no friend to music. Singing, I own, induces a tedium that may be relieved only by a thorough review of one’s neighbour’s attire and conversation. And for the present, all thought of love songs, Italian or otherwise, must be banished by the interesting notion of the Earl and the actor united in intrigue.
But I promised Eliza most faithfully to propose the scheme to my sister — and with a kiss to her cheek, ran thankfully away.
IN COMPARATIVE SOLITUDE I PASSED THROUGH QUEEN Square, where the first golden glow of an unfashionably early dinner hour now shone through the modest windows. My mother will persist in hankering after the square — it was the most select address that Bath afforded, in her girlhood — but the narrowness of the rooms will never do for so large a party as ours. She must be content with a weekly visit to the Queen’s chapel, where we hear divine service of a Sunday, and a passage through its park when business draws her to that part of town. We are treated, however, to a daily recitation of Queen Square’s advantages, and must allow it to be superior to every other location in Bath if we are to achieve any domestic peace.
I thrust my mother from my mind in the present instance, however, and saw again in memory the Earl of Swithin. What could such a man — of so lofty an establishment, and so recently descended upon the town — have to say to Hugh Conyngham? Who, however admirable his skill as a thespian, is as yet a provincial player, without birth or connexions to recommend him? I had expected to hear Richard Portal’s name, or at the very least Lord Kinsfell’s — and yet the two had spoken only of letters. Whose? And who was the mysterious she?
Maria Conyngham?
The actress’s magnificent form limned itself on the paving-stones at my feet, like an enchantress materialising out of the common snow and dirt; and I knew her immediately for a woman any man might die to possess. Maria Conyngham had fire, beauty, and all the spirit to be expected in one untrammelled by society’s conventions. I should not find it remarkable if her charms had ensnared a legion heretofore unknown to me — not least amongst them, the redoubtable Earl.
And then I sighed. Upon reflection, I should never be privileged to learn the truth — for my part in the drama must surely be at an end. With the Earl come in haste to Bath, and Lord Harold not far behind, any office I might have fulfilled, as silent duenna to Lady Desdemona, should be for naught. The unfortunate girl would be sent away to London, as soon as attention could be spared her, while the efforts of her relations should be turned to the vindication of the heir. The charge of murder brought against Simon, Lord Kinsfell, must throw his sister’s private troubles entirely into the shade.
And so it was in no very great humour that I pulled the bell of No. 27, in Green Park Buildings, and awaited the advent of Mary, the housemaid. She opened to my summons before the last peals had entirely died away.
“Ooh, miss,” she said, with a look of mingled terror and awe, “there’s a gentleman here as is that grand. He’s been waiting on you above a half-hour.”
“In the sitting-room, Mary?”
“Yes, miss. In the Reverend’s chair.”
I hastened upstairs to my visitor’s relief, and found none other than Lord Harold Trowbridge, standing erect and silent before the window, his back turned to the room. My poor father gazed at him helplessly, while my mother — in full flood upon the subject of actors and their pugilism — ran on unabated.
“Sir!” I burst out. “This is indeed an honour!”
He turned, one eyebrow raised, and bowed. “Miss Austen. The honour is entirely mine.”
The gravity of his tone might have impressed me less, had it not been wed to an equal command of countenance. Lord Harold was in no mood for civilities or folly — and I determined upon the removal of my mother from the room as swiftly as convention might allow.
“Jane, my dear,” my father said, “your mother and I have been expecting you this half-hour, as we assured Lord Harold. What can have occasioned so protracted an absence?”
“Only a Pump Room acquaintance of Eliza’s, Father,” I replied, my eyes on the Gentleman Rogue. “And a general buzz of gossip concerning a new arrival. The Earl of Swithin has come to Bath. Only fancy!”
“The Earl of Swithin? And what is the Earl of Swithin to us, pray? Come, come, Mrs. Austen.” My father rose slowly from a stiff-backed chair at some remove from the fire—not his usual seat. “If we are to have a whiff of air before Cook sets the dinner bell to ringing, we must away!”
“I am certain we have not time enough,” my mother objected, “and that I shall catch a chill. Moreover, the gloom is not prepossessing. We shall stumble over ourselves, in attempting the pavement.”
“That is always the way with December, my dear, but I must have my exercise. Mr. Bowen is most insistent.”
At this, my mother submitted, for my father’s health has been indifferent of late, to our great anxiety, and the surgeon — Mr. Bowen — is punctilious on the matter of a daily airing.
Lord Harold bowed to them both, and I heard the sitting-room door click behind them with palpable relief.
“These are comfortable lodgings,” he said, with a glance about the room.
“Indeed. Although a trifle damp — in the kitchen and offices particularly.”[32]
“You have been here how long?”
“A few months only — since our return from Lyme.”
“Ah, yes. Lyme.” The barest suggestion of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “It is in my power to inform you, Miss Austen, that our friends reached America in safety. They have taken up residence in the state of New York.”
A rush of feeling welled suddenly within me, and as swiftly died away. Geoffrey Sidmouth and his cousins might as well be on the moon, for any likelihood I should ever have of seeing them again.[33]
“That is excellent news, indeed,” I managed, and felt my cheeks to burn.
“But you cannot rejoice in it as you might,” Lord Harold said gently, “having occasion to regret the acquaintance — or perhaps, the gentleman. I comprehend.”
I averted my eyes in some embarrassment. “Will you not sit down, sir?”
“No — I thank you. I have been sitting already too long today.”
“You journeyed from London.”
“As swiftly as a coach-and-four might carry me. I am arrived but a few hours.” He clasped his hands behind his back and turned from the window to the fire. Lord Harold might always have been called a well-made man — he is tall enough, with the leanness born of exercise, and a shrewdness of countenance that becomes the more engaging the longer one is acquainted with it. His silver locks are worn as negligently as the scar from a sabre cut that travels across one cheek, and though he commands fully five-and-forty years of age, the youthfulness of his demeanour has always cast the sum into doubt. But as I studied his lordship’s form, dark against the blazing hearth, I perceived a subtle transformation. If it were possible for a man to age a twelvemonth in but a quarter of that time, then Lord Harold had assuredly done so.
Since our last meeting — on the rainswept Charmouth shingle of a September dawn — the Gentleman Rogue had acquired a weary set to his shoulders, and his aquiline features were drawn with something akin to pain. His lordship’s hooded grey eyes, though cold and unblinking when in contemplation of evil, were wont to brim with amusement as well; but now they seemed quite devoid of emotion altogether. These subtle changes might be ascribed, I supposed, to the distress occasioned by his nephew Kinsfell’s misadventures. There was a severity in Lord Harold’s looks, however, that called to mind the ascetic — or the penitent. It was as though his lordship nursed a private grief, or suffered from infinite regret. As I surveyed him thus, he reached for the irons and prodded viciously at the fire — a betrayal of the unease within. A restless distraction held him in its grip; the evident desire to be doing something. I must not presume upon his patience with trifling pleasantries; the greatest despatch was in order. I seated myself upon the settee.
“If you have spared an hour to pay this call, sir,” I began, “I can only assume it is with a view to learning what I might tell you of events in Laura Place last evening. But let me first offer my heartfelt expression of concern for your family, and the terrible misfortunes they have endured.”
A smile flickered briefly over the narrow face. “My thanks, Miss Austen. I have indeed come to your door in the hopes of learning something to my nephew’s advantage. I know you too well to fear that any part of this unfortunate affair is likely to have escaped your attention. But first — you must tell me. Is it true? Is Swithin indeed come to Bath?”
“I regret to say that I have not the pleasure of acquaintance with his lordship. But if he travels in style, with the device of a snarling tiger upon his ebony coach—”
“He does. You have seen him yourself?”
“I have seen a tall, well-made man with fair hair and a haughty expression on his noble brow, a gentleman of taste and a decided air of refinement, to whom every eye in the room is turned as a matter of course. He is accustomed, I should judge, to the power of doing as he likes; and employs it frequently.”
“That is the man,” Lord Harold said with satisfaction. “But how has Swithin learned so swiftly of our misfortune? And what does he mean by coming here? He abhors Bath. There is nothing to interest him in this quarter. Except—” The silver head bent slightly in thought, and after an instant, Lord Harold wheeled around. “He means to bring my niece to a stand.”
“Does he? And will he achieve it?”
“I cannot undertake to say. But there is no man like Swithin for forcing a point. My niece, Lady Desdemona, has gone so far as to reject him; she has thwarted his ambition; she has spit in his eye, and all the world has seen it. He is not the sort of man to take such behaviour lightly. He means to break her.”
The casual grimness of his tone caused my heart to sink.
“But you will not allow it!” I rejoined stoutly. “You must be seen to object.”
“I object to everything that appears as undue influence over those I hold most dear. Rest assured, Miss Austen — I would not have Mona thrown away.” He settled himself in my father’s chair and gazed broodingly into the flames. “Now let us have the entire history. Tell me all you know.”
And so I launched into the neatest summary of the Duchess’s rout that I could manage, a summary entirely free of conjecture or surmise. And when I had done, Lord Harold was silent for several moments together.
“You have no notion as to the cause of the dispute between my nephew and Mr. Portal?” he enquired at last.
“None. Although I assumed it was the result of some insult, in word or action. Lord Kinsfell referred to Portal as a blackguard, I believe.”
“That might cover all manner of offence — from cheating at cards to coarseness towards a lady. I shall have to force the admission from Simon myself — though it will prove a piece of work.”
“Cannot Lady Desdemona enlighten you?”
“Alas, it is impossible. She merely attempted to part the two, when their behaviour grew too reckless, and was served with some very rough treatment herself, I understand.”
“Mr. Portal’s behaviour did seem to offend her. She quitted the room in tears. But I cannot believe her distress the cause of a murderous attack on the part of Lord Kinsfell, as Mr. Elliot fain would do.”
“But consider the oddity of the attack!” Lord Harold countered. “If any desired the end of Richard Portal, why not draw the knife in the darkness of a random alley? There are an hundred places where such a deed might be done — the foetid rooms of a public house, or the shadow of Westgate Buildings, or the banks of the Avon itself.[34] Why choose a duchess’s drawingroom? — Unless the knife was drawn in a moment, on the spur of anger and drink. I begin to see it as Mr. Wilberforce Elliot might; and should have taken up my nephew without a second thought.”
“But if Portal was murdered with deliberation — and with deliberation in the Duchess’s household — then the killer must find a purpose in publicity,” I observed. “He may mean your nephew to take the blame. Or he may hope, Lord Harold, that your niece will suffer in the knowledge of her favourite’s end.”
There was a silence. “Lord Swithin,” Trowbridge said.
“The thought has occurred to me.”
“You think him so consumed by jealousy and pique, Miss Austen, as to plan his rival’s murder? And under Mona’s very nose?”
“Is the notion so incredible?”
“He was far from Bath.”
“And he is the sort of man who might summon a legion to do his bidding — from any distance this side of the sea!”
“But would he resort to murder?” Lord Harold rejoined. “I cannot believe it. It is far more in Swithin’s style to call a rival out — and cripple him for life. A masked stabbing would not be at all the thing.”
“And yet,” I persisted, “I observed him today at the Pump Room, barely a quarter-hour after his arrival, already in conference with Hugh Conyngham.”
“The actor? I comprehend, now, Swithin’s early intelligence of the murder. I did not know his lordship claimed acquaintance among the company of the Theatre Royal.”
“The Earl was most intent upon his conversation with Conyngham — and I overheard a little of it. It seems that the actor was charged with a duty towards Lord Swithin, concerning the retrieval of some letters. The Earl was quite put out at Conyngham’s failure to fulfil his commission — and declared he was within a handsbreadth to the gallows! Singular words, are they not?”
Lord Harold sat very still. Firelight flickered off his sharp features. “And what would you say, Miss Austen — was Lady Desdemona in love with Mr. Portal? Enough to occasion Swithin’s alarm?”
“In love? I confess I cannot tell! She consented to dance with him gladly enough — but I did not remark any particular sign of affection. Had you enquired of Maria Conyngham …” I hesitated.
“Yes?”
“She appeared as destroyed by Portal’s death as any woman might possibly be.”
“I see. That is, perhaps, no more than I should have expected. I had understood her to be attached to the man. A motive for murder, perhaps, did he turn his affections elsewhere.”
To Lady Desdemona, for example. “Does Her Grace know nothing of your niece’s regard for Mr. Portal?”
Lord Harold shook his head. “My mother considered the manager an acquaintance of long standing. She had no idea of a presumption to Desdemona’s hand. Of far greater import, in Her Grace’s estimation, was the friendship Portal so recently formed with my nephew”
“But I thought Lord Kinsfell held Portal in contempt!”
“Thus ends many an unequal friendship.”
“So this public display of poor feeling was quite out of the ordinary way.”
Lord Harold rose and began to pace before the fire. “As was the manager’s violent end. I propose we consider of events in a rational manner. It is possible to divine a jealous motive for both Swithin and Miss Conyngham to commit this murder — a motive that depends upon my niece’s affections. Others may exist, for parties unknown. But how was the deed effected?”
“At least two possibilities are open to us, my lord. Firstly, that Richard Portal was stabbed by a person who fled through the anteroom window.”
Lord Harold shook his head. “It is a precipitous fall.”
“Agreed. But I have been turning over the matter in my mind. Were there a conveyance beneath the window — a common waggon, and filled with hay — might not an intruder leap from house to street, and suffer nothing in the fall?”
“If the waggon were allowed to stand but a little, and to look unremarkable in its delay.”
“An altercation with the chairmen, perhaps, who rendered Laura Place all but impassable that night, in attendance upon the Duchess’s guests. The constable did not enquire whether a carter had come to the point of fisticuffs. He merely asked if any had observed a cloaked figure leap from the window.”
“That is true. I will enquire among the various stands of chairmen in the city. But you mentioned two possibilities, Miss Austen — pray continue.”
“Portal’s murderer may have vanished through the anteroom passage, and left the window ajar as a ruse. He had only to return, then, to the drawing-room, and discover the body in company with the rest of us.”
“Then the murderer might be anyone. There were an hundred guests last night, I believe.”
“But some dozens fled before the constables’ arrival, and of those who remained, but a few are worthy of consideration. I would posit, my lord, that the murderer might be found among the company of the Theatre Royal — or among the intimates of the Conynghams.”
“How is such an assertion possible?”
“Have you considered the nature of the killing? A stabbing, and in the midst of Hugh Conyngham’s declamation from Macbeth, describing the same? It bears a sinister aspect. ’If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well / It were done quickly …’”
“So my mother is willing to believe,” Lord Harold admitted, with the ghost of amusement. “She found in the scene a grisly example of life in the imitation of art; and such things must always impress her, who has confused them these seventy years.”
“The speech may have served as signal, to a henchman among the guests; and thus we have only to study the players for the penetration of the affair.”
“But is Mr. Elliot, the magistrate, likely to agree?” Lord Harold mused. “What think you of Mr. Elliot, by the by?”
“I found Mr. Elliot a disturbing blend of parts. He is burdened with an unfortunate want of tact, and a superfluity of wit; he is disgusting in his manners and person — but his mind is shrewd enough. I would judge him to be lazy, and amoral, and devoid of even the faintest degree of respect for the peerage; and I would watch him within an inch of his life. Your nephew’s may depend upon it.”
Lord Harold’s brows lifted satirically. “Harsh counsel, my dear Miss Austen — but not, I think, formed of the thin air of conjecture, nor motivated by untoward malice. I know your penetration of old. No charlatan may deceive, nor sycophant charm, your wits from out your head. Little of a human nature eludes your admirable penetration. Indeed, to solicit your opinion of the man has been almost my first object in calling at Green Park Buildings. I shall approach Mr. Elliot with the utmost circumspection, and thank you for your pains to set me on my guard.”
I considered of the Gentleman Rogue and the bearish magistrate, and concluded that despite their apparent differences, Lord Harold and Mr. Elliot might well deal famously with one another. They should each delight in the game of confusing and astounding the other. “You are as yet unacquainted with the magistrate, I perceive?”
Lord Harold inclined his head. “I regret that I have not yet had the pleasure — though I might have forced myself upon his attention this morning. Mr. Elliot was within the household upon my arrival, engaged in an examination of Lord Kinsfell’s private papers. He thinks to find some sign of guilt, I suppose, amidst a drawer of unpaid bills.”
“And your opinion of his intentions towards the Marquis?”
Lord Harold shrugged. “I have formed none to disagree with yours in any respect; but I pay no very great attention to magistrates in general. Mr. Elliot’s task is simple: He does not need to discover Portal’s murderer, but only to make a case against my nephew. If the truth is to be found, it is unlikely to be at Mr. Elliot’s undertaking.”[35]
“Have you seen Lord Kinsfell, my lord?” I might almost have looked upon the Marquis himself, I thought, in gazing at his uncle; but for the differences of age, the two were remarkably alike in form and countenance. When last I saw Lord Kinsfell, however — borne away to gaol in all the inelegant discomfort of his Knight’s apparel — the outrage of his sensibilities was writ full upon his face. Lord Harold, I surmised, should never betray a like emotion, even were he kneeling before the block in London Tower. His lordship wore inscrutability as other men might their court dress, assuming it when occasion demanded.
“I went directly to the gaol upon my arrival in Bath,” he replied. “Simon will not remain there long — the inquest is to be held on Friday, the conclusion of which must be beyond question; and he will then be conveyed to Ilchester, to await the Assizes.”
An inquest. But of course. I knew too much of the painful rectitude of coroners’ juries to believe them capable of imagination regarding events. Once such simple men as the coroner should summon were told that Lord Kinsfell was found standing over Mr. Portal’s body with a knife in his hand, they must return a verdict of wilful murder against him.
“And how are the Marquis’s spirits?”
“Too low, I fear. He was much sunk in melancholy and despair, and was arrayed, as yet, in the garb of a knight. My first object upon returning to Laura Place, was to charge a servant with an exchange of clothes.” Lord Harold turned abruptly to his greatcoat, and fished among its pockets. “And now we come to the chief of this murder’s oddities, Miss Austen. Pray attend to what I am about to show you.”
He drew forth a small object wrapped in brown paper, and laid it in my lap. “Open it, if you please.”
I undid the parcel with eager hands. And there, winking dully in the candle-flame, was the portrait of an eye — dark grey, heavily-lashed, and fully as arresting as the roguish ornament my dear Eliza had borne about her neck. It was an oblong pendant the size of a guinea, strung on a fine gold chain, and quite surrounded by seed pearls — beautiful, and undoubtedly costly. I lifted the thing and dangled it before the candle, at a loss for explanation. The eye returned my regard, as stormy in its expression as paint and art could make it.
“My nephew tells me he found this resting on Portal’s breast, quite near his wound, as though left by his murderer in silent witness. Simon hung it undetected about his own neck, and succeeded thus in bearing it away to the gaol.”
“But why did he not leave it for Mr. Elliot to discover?” I exclaimed. “For surely this miniature can have nothing to do with Lord Kinsfell! Indeed, its existence might divert suspicion from his head!”
“I cannot offer an explanation.” Lord Harold’s voice was heavy. “But I surmise that Kinsfell has not told us all. No more intelligence of the portrait or its meaning could I wring from his lips, than the plea that it be prevented from falling into the magistrate’s hands — and from this, I must assume he would shield another, to whom the portrait points. He consented to place it in my keeping solely out of fear of its discovery while he remains in gaol.”
“And does he expect you to shield that person also? Or are you at liberty to solicit the magistrate, where Lord Kinsfell would not?”
“Having failed to entrust the eye to Mr. Elliot then, we cannot with impunity reveal it now,” Lord Harold said thoughtfully. “Mr. Elliot would be forgiven for believing it a foolish fabrication, and accord it no more significance than the anteroom’s open window. No, Miss Austen — if we are to fathom the portrait’s significance, we must do so ourselves.”
“Only consider, my lord, the wonder that its disappearance must have caused,” I murmured. “Our murderer expected the portrait to be revealed — to point, perhaps, to the incrimination of another. But not a sign of the bauble has the magistrate seen!”
“Then we may hope the villain’s anxiety will force his hand,” Lord Harold replied with quiet satisfaction.
I turned the portrait again before the candle-flame, and felt the movement of the eye’s gaze as though it were alive. “It is a lovely thing, and must be dearly bought. I should think it far beyond the means of most.”
“The setting is very fine, the pearls are good; and the portrait itself is excellent. I have known Mr. George Engleheart to charge upwards of twenty-five guineas for a similar likeness — and that would never encompass the jeweller’s bill. Such a bauble would indeed be well beyond the reach of the common run. It is to Engleheart in London I must go, Miss Austen — for I believe he keeps a log-book of his commissions; and if this pendant fell from his brush, he will have recorded the identity of its subject. Such knowledge should be as gold, in revealing the meaning of Portal’s death.”
“Stay!” I cried, and sprang to my feet. “Of what use is London, when the foremost painter of such miniatures is already come to Bath?”
Lord Harold surveyed me narrowly. “Of whom would you speak?”
“Mr. Richard Cosway! I made his acquaintance this very morning, while promenading in the Pump Room. He intends a visit of some duration — three months, I believe. I have only to enquire of my sister Eliza, and his direction is known!”
“Capital. We shall call upon him tomorrow — let us say, at two o’clock. Have you leisure enough to pay the call?”
“My time is at your disposal, my lord.”
“That is very well, Miss Austen, for I would beg another favour of you. There is an additional visit I feel compelled to make.”
Lord Harold sat down beside me and reached for my hand. The intimacy of the gesture quite took my breath, and I fear my fingers trembled in his grip. He said, “We must go to the Theatre Royal, as soon as ever may be. I expect the magistrate to search Mr. Portal’s lodgings, but I do not think he will soon consider the manager’s offices at the theatre itself. A perusal of Portal’s private papers might tell us much.”
“His papers?” I said with a frown. “Surely there can be no occasion for such an abuse of privacy.”
“I have known a good deal of blackmail, my dear Miss Austen,” Lord Harold said drily, “and I cannot help but observe the marks of its effect throughout this unfortunate history.”
“Blackmail!” I cried, freeing my fingers from his grasp.
“I sense it everywhere in Richard Portal’s sad end. Lord Swithin’s anxiety regarding some letters, overheard by yourself in the Pump Room; Lord Kinsfell’s argument with Portal, and his assertion that the man was a blackguard; his own reluctance to speak fully of events that evening; and now, the curious portrait, returned like a bad penny to Portal’s breast. Blackmail, Miss Austen — as plainly as such dark arts may be seen!”
“I confess I had not an idea of it,” I said.
“You must understand that the practice is familiar to me through long association. I have employed it myself,” Lord Harold said equably, “when no other tool would serve; and have been in turn the object of necessitous importuning — a mad decision on the blackmailer’s part, for never was there a fellow with so little regard for public opinion, or so great a contempt for its deserts, as Harold Trowbridge.”
“A more hardened object I cannot conceive.” I was amused despite the gravity of his words.
“But tempting, regardless.” He jumped up and began to turn restlessly before the fire. “I have, in the past, acted in ways that may be judged reprehensible. I have sacrificed the reputations of my confederates, my mistresses, my dearest friends, in pursuit of those ends that have, to my mind alone, required such sacrifice. I have cared nothing, in short, for how my character is judged — except as regards one particular: That I am held in trust and esteem by certain men in high Government circles. It is as lifeblood to me, in ensuring the continuance of that activity which — alone among the pursuits of my life — is capable of stirring my interest, and of relieving the unutterable tedium of my existence.” At this, something of animation enlivened Lord Harold’s tone; but it was the animation of coldest anger. “Should any man attempt to queer my relations with the Crown, or with the very small number of men who direct its concerns, I should be entirely at his mercy. That, to date, has never occurred; and I pray God it never shall. I could not answer for myself in the eventuality.”
One glimpse of his set features was enough, and I averted my gaze. Lord Harold overset — Lord Harold denied his life’s blood of peril and intrigue — was Lord Harold divided from his very soul. I should not like to be within twenty paces of any man who attempted it.
“But my familiarity with the blackmailer’s art has at least taught me this,” he continued. “Among those who can profess no stern disregard for public views or public morals, it is the aptest means of persuasion. More lives have been ruined — more spirits broken — from a fear of idle gossip and report, than are numbered on Napoleon’s battlefields, Miss Austen. Portal’s death may be the result of a similar campaign.”
And if it were, I thought, the tide of scandal should reach even so far as a ducal household. “I comprehend your meaning, my lord. I shall be happy to assist you by whatever means are within my power.”
He reached for his hat, and smoothed its fine wool brim. “Will you do me the very great honour of attending the theatre tomorrow evening, Miss Austen, in the Wilborough box?”
“With pleasure,” I replied.
“It will require — forgive me — a certain subterfuge on your part.”
“I am at your service, my lord.”
“You will understand that any in the Trowbridge family must be known among the company. Even had Simon not been taken up in Portal’s death, our intimacy with the Conynghams — our attention to the Theatre Royal — must make us too familiar; and at present a tide of ill-feeling is directed against us all. But as for yourself—”
“Of course. What would you have me do?”
“I intend a visit to the wings upon the play’s conclusion. It is my hope that you might then create a small diversion — a faint, a mishap, something along the female line — that should draw the attention of the principal parties.”
“And in the flurry, you shall investigate the manager’s rooms?”
“Exactly.”
I bowed my head to disguise a tide of mirth. “I have always dreamed of performing in the Theatre Royal, Lord Harold. To tread the boards was the dearest ambition of my vanished girlhood. I may hope to do you credit.”
“You have never failed me yet. It will be something merely to parade you in the box.”
There was a grimness to his tone I readily understood. All of Bath must be hoping for a glimpse of the notorious Trowbridges, so deeply and publicly embroiled in a violent murder; and the appearance of the Earl of Swithin in Bath must only fan the flames of speculation. “You hope, then, to show the scandal-mongers your bravest face?”
“And damn their eyes.”
“Sir!” I cried. It has not been my province to know much of swearing, however I may subject my creatures to it.[36]
“Tut, tut, my dear Miss Austen — do not grow missish on me, after all we have sustained!” Trowbridge seized his greatcoat and gloves. “Expect me tomorrow at two, about the interrogation of Mr. Cosway!”
This was (and remains) an exclusive men’s club. — Editor’s note.
Eliza refers to the Honourable East India Company. The private trading consortium effectively ruled India throughout the eighteenth and part of the nineteenth centuries. Her birth in India and ties to Warren Hastings, the most influential and effective governor the company had ever appointed, probably account for her knowledge of its trade. — Editor’s note.
Elizabeth Billington (1768–1818) was a celebrated soprano of Austen’s day, who usually appeared in Bath at concerts conducted by Vincenzo Rauzzini (died 1810). Despite her disclaimers, Austen attended these concerts often, as is evidenced in her letters. They were generally held on Wednesday evenings, so as not to conflict with the theater on Tuesdays and Thursdays, or the Assemblies on Mondays and Fridays. — Editor’s note.
Green Park Buildings was newly built at the time of the Austens’ lease, and known for the high water table at its foundation; Jane herself rejected lodgings here as unsuitable in 1801, when her family first removed to Bath, but the high cost of their first home at No. 4 Sydney Place forced an eventual change. — Editor’s note.
Jane’s encounter with Geoffrey Sidmouth is detailed in the second Austen journal, Jane and the Man of the Cloth. (New York: Bantam Books, 1997.) — Editor’s note.
Westgate Buildings is best known as the home of Anne Elliot’s school friend, Mrs. Smith, in Persuasion. It was by 1804 considered an unhealthy and dangerous neighborhood, fronting the River Avon; rats, pickpockets, and prostitutes frequented it, and it would be ravaged by cholera in the 1830s. — Editor’s note.
The criminal justice system of Austen’s time was somewhat cruder than our own. Defendants charged with capital crimes were presumed guilty until proven innocent. — Editor’s note.
Here Jane may be thinking of Catherine Morland, in Northanger Abbey, a clergyman’s daughter much incommoded by a suitor’s swearing; or of Mary Crawford, an admiral’s niece in Mansfield Park, whose glancing familiarity with adultery, naval sodomy, and a sailor’s tongue is designed to shock her less sophisticated country circle. — Editor’s note.