Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [132]
“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.”
She turned her head as rapidly as an adder. “It is not Lord Harold I would defend, Miss Austen, but my dear Isobel; and I fear