Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [119]
“Whatever shall I do?” she said, in a breaking whisper. “I fear; Miss Austen, that with Tom dead, I am truly lost!”
Seeing in her blue eyes that a fresh cloud threatened to burst, I determined to speak briskly, and offer the only help I knew. “We shall make the best of events, Fanny my dear; and hope in Isobel's speedy release. With the Countess restored to freedom, you shall have a support before your mother, and can divulge to her the entirety of your wrongs. Do not scruple to lay them at Tom Hearst's door; he has imposed upon you most disturbingly, and must bear the guilt for his deeds, however dead he might be. But say nothing to Madame at present, and trust in Isobel's excellent understanding, whenever she is returned to us. Something shall be devised for your comfort, and the preservation of your reputation.” I assessed the fullness about her stomach. “The interlude at the mantua-maker's you survived without discovery?”
Fanny nodded disconsolately. “I am to have some lovely things, Miss Austen, though they are in black.” Her eyes welled anew. “And though Tom shall never admire me the more!”
I SAW FANNY SAFELY TO HER ROOM, AND BADE HER TO REST if she might; and then in some distraction, I sought the patient Mr. Cranley below.
“Mr. Cranley!” I cried, as he started from a brown study at my entrance, “was there ever a truer gentleman? And was he ever treated to a house in greater disarray? But share with me your news.”
He drew forward a chair without preamble. “I have obtained from Danson the Earl's correspondence. With it should be a list of letters sent on certain dates, with the names of their recipients—for Lord Scargrave is most meticulous in accounting for his postage debts,” the barrister added, as an afterthought.1 “Do I ask too much, Miss Austen, or may I beg your assistance in the task? I should like to have a witness to whatever I may find.”
“I shall bend myself to your will, Mr. Cranley,” I assured him.
“The Earl's letters are kept locked in this portable desk.” Mr. Cranley crossed the room to a small wooden cabinet, whose lid folded back to reveal a writing surface suitable for one's lap. “Danson allowed me to carry it hither.”
There were nineteen letters in all, written carefully in a strong, even hand, and dating from the day of the ball at Scargrave—a day that might have occurred in a different lifetime. That they were solely letters of business, we readily perceived; and from a hasty comparison of the Earl's list and his extant drafts, we learned immediately that one more letter had been sent than the little desk now contained.
“Capital!” Mr. Cranley cried; “it is as you thought, Miss Austen. A draft was written during one of those difficult days following the late Earl's demise; it was copied, and mailed; and before Lord Scargrave's man had time to file it with the other papers that evening, it was seized and used to form the note found on the maid Marguerite.”
“Or the draft may simply have been discarded,” I warned, feeling some restraint was necessary; “one may not always conform to habit or rule.”
We set to comparing the drafts to the Earl's list, and saw that the missing letter was one of several sent to his solicitors, in Bond Street; it but required a glance from Mr. Cranley to his watch, and a call for a hackney carriage, and we were on our way to their door.
MAYHEW, MAYHEW & CRABB WAS A RESPECTABLE ESTABLISHMENT, as befit men of business who cater to the peerage; the plate secured to the deep green door was of brass, and the marble stoop was well scrubbed. Upon seeing the firm's name so declared, I remembered with a start Isobel's last injunction before leaving the Manor—that I deliver her testament to one Hezekiah Mayhew. I had tarried in doing so, in the hope that all such matters might be deferred some decades, once Isobel's freedom was secured; but now that we stood