Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [103]
I confess to a quickening of my pulse. “And did Lieutenant Hearst obtain his interview?”
“I cannot make out whether he did, but it cannot signify now. Isobel is past all consent, and cannot plague us any longer. But it is Mamma I think of; and I cannot believe she will see reason until the marriage is made.”
“I cannot stand in lieu of either, Miss Delahoussaye, if it is consent you seek.”
“But here is the point, Miss Austen. Tom will have us marry as soon as possible—he is wild to get me, I own. And now we are in mourning, and the trial is soon to happen—I declare I am almost distracted! For how am I to marry when the whole world is set against it?”
I confessed that even my age and experience had failed to teach me ways to circumvent such convention; but I ventured the opinion that a marriage within six weeks of the trial might not be considered ill, if it were conducted quietly and without undue pomp. At this Fanny seemed reassured, and professed her unshakable intent of waiting for Lieutenant Hearst until they could hir away to Gretna Green.
Having had time to absorb this news, along with its implicit warning against such things as kisses in the moonlight, I was possessed of a new thought.
“The maid Marguerite knew of your plans, did she not?” I enquired.
Miss Fanny started, and all the delicate colour of her soft complexion drained from her face. “She never told you!” she cried in protest.
I adopted an all-encompassing wisdom as my best deceit.
“But of course,” I said. “You did not think your secret died with her?”
At this, Fanny's breath quickened and the tears started to her eyes; she sat down upon a stone bench and was quite overcome. I suffered from some perplexity—for I had referred to nothing more than a planned elopement, the fact of which she had just imparted. Such distress could hardly spring from this. The secret, then, was of far greater import; and it behooved me to learn it. I sat down at her side and placed an arm about her shoulders.
“You need not pay me to keep your confidence, Fanny,” I told her. “J do not expect a bag of coins by the hay-shed door.”
She lifted her pretty face, tear-stained and miserable, and stared at me wildly. “But you understand, then, why we must be married as soon as ever,” she said. “In very little time, my gowns shall hardly fit. Already Marguerite has had to let out the seams; and she tried to ruin me for her knowledge. Now Mamma would have us at the warehouses for our mourning, and I must have a gown for the House of Lords, and if I stand before a seamstress, she is sure to know in an instant!”
I perceived, at last, the trouble. “When is the child to be born?” I asked her.
Fanny shrugged helplessly. “How should I know? I have no experience of these things. I only know that my corset does not fit, and that my seams are bursting, and that I have felt decidedly unwell these past few weeks. Marguerite said my time should not come until July at least. But she may have been lying.” A pair of drowned blue eyes sought my own. “Deceit and self-interest were ever Marguerite's way, Miss Austen.” Fanny's voice held unaccustomed bitterness.
“You met with the Lieutenant while still in London,” I mused. “After Isobel's marriage—while she travelled abroad.”
“It was better that she be ignorant of our concerns,” Fanny replied, her eyes downcast. “She did not approve of my meeting Tom.”
And with good reason, I thought, remembering the click of Fanny's door several nights past; had the Lieutenant entered her room, even as he parted from me? His conduct was in every way infamous. And here, assuredly, was a powerful motive for murdering the maid and dropping Isobel's kerchief; by these vile actions, Fanny's blackmailer should be dispatched, and her guardian silenced. But what of the damning note in Fitzroy Payne's hand?
Poor Fanny was in no state to be further interrogated; I patted her shoulder, said a few words,