Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [129]
My legs were as water, and the trembling of my hands so severe, that I fear I appeared to wave to the assembly as I held my left palm high and swore to tell the truth, so help me God. Whenever I am forced to speak or perform in public—at the pianoforte, in particular—my cheeks and throat are overcome with a brilliant rash; I had worn my high-necked gown of deep brown wool on purpose, but must declare it to have failed in its office. Sir William, when he spoke, meant to be kind; I could hear it in the tone of his voice, and cursed him mentally. From his careful speech, the lords who should pass judgement upon Isobel and Fitzroy Payne would surely think me a ninny—and dismiss the worth of any evidence I might give to Mr. Cranley on the morrow.
I stated my name and that I was a spinster of Bath.
“You are a great friend to the Countess, are you not?”
“As I am to you, sir,” I replied.
“And you arrived at Scargrave Manor on the very eve of the Earl's death.”
“I did.”
“For what purpose, pray?” Sir William's eyebrows were drawn down to his nose, as though all such visits to Scargrave must be suspect.
“I was to attend a ball in honour of the Countess's marriage, and stay some weeks,” I said, with an effort to throw my voice the length of the chamber. From the number of white hairs and befuddled looks among the assembled peerage, however, I doubted that even the clangour of the Final Judgment should disturb their peace.
“And how did her ladyship's spirits appear on the evening in question?”
I hesitated, and looked to Isobel. Her hands gripped the railing of the accused's box painfully, and her face was studiously averted from Fitzroy Payne's. A greater picture of dignity I could not find in the room, nor one to so tear at the heart. But my friend was deathly pale; and I feared she might faint.
“The Countess was very animated,” I told Sir William, “as any young bride might be—opening the dance with her husband, partaking of the food he brought for her, and circulating among her guests to receive their best wishes. I had never seen her ladyship in better health, nor more beautiful”—I hesitated an instant, summoning my courage, and stared Sir William full in the face—”until, that is, Lord Harold Trowbridge appeared, and cast a cloud over her enjoyment.”
Sir William started, and narrowed his eyes. “Please keep to the question, Miss Austen,” he said.
“So I have done, sir,” I protested. “You enquired as to her ladyship's spirits; and one cannot properly mark the decline in them upon meeting Lord Harold—so severe a decline, indeed, that she was forced to quit the room a few moments—unless one comprehends how elevated they were at the evening's commencement.”
A short, ruby-faced gentleman sporting a silk robe with four bars of ermine on his shoulder—the robe of a Duke—shot up from the peers’ bench with a choleric splutter. “Damme, Reynolds, find out what the woman would say! I'll not have Harry maligned before the entire Gallery!”
The very Duke of Wilborough, poor Bertie by name. My words at least had affected Trowbridge's brother. I shifted my eyes along the ranks of the spectators’ gallery and found the one I sought; Trowbridge himself, his dark, narrow face utterly composed, and his unreadable eyes intent upon mine. I quailed, and looked away, appalled at what I might have done. But Isobel's life was in the balance; and if I must cause a riot in the House of Lords to free her, I should do so with equanimity.
The Lord High Steward called for order, with a look of dudgeon and a scowl in my direction; he then ordered Sir William to question me further regarding Lord Harold Trowbridge.
A brief smile twitched at the corners of Sir William's mouth; for an instant, it seemed, he applauded