Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [25]
My friend's hand found mine and grasped it tightly. “Have you ever felt, Jane, a crushing sadness while at the same time experiencing a heady euphoria?”
I could only shake my head, unwilling to share my own poor fortune.
“Then you have never been in love,” Isobel said decidedly, “and you did right not to accept Mr. Bigg-Wither.”
“But what was the outcome, my dear?” I persisted. “Did you never consider a full disclosure to Lord Scargrave?”
“No, Jane. That could not be. We declared our love, canvassed our mutual honour and the esteem we owed the Earl, and came to a tortured resignation. I could not destroy Fitzroy by dishonouring his uncle—as destroy him I should. To do so would bring misery upon all in the Earl's household, and burden the purer emotions we felt with regret and recrimination.”
“But how could you go forward?” I cried, all amazement.
Isobel looked her confusion. “I know that you should not have done so, dear Jane. With your strength and sense, you should have broken off the engagement and retired from the scene.” She hesitated, as though her next words caused her pain. “But I had Crosswinds to consider, and all that Lord Scargrave had vouched he would do. For the sake of my father's memory, I determined that I could not choose otherwise than to marry the Earl.”
“And Lord Payne? What of him?”
“We deemed it best to part company until the fateful day was achieved. Fitzroy offered the Earl some excuse, and fled to the country. I was married not two weeks later, toured the Continent for some three months, and returned to Scargrave for the Christmas holiday.”
“I wonder how you bore it,” I said.
“Did not you see the change?” Isobel burst out. “You, who are my dearest friend in the world—did not you discern that I was in the throes of some great trouble?”
“I did not, Isobel,” I replied, wondering at my own stupidity. “I thought you only a trifle wearied by the duties of your new station. And that is for the best, my dear—for if I did not discern it, you may be assured your husband was equally in the dark.”
“How terrible,” the Countess murmured, “that one should find the ignorance of a husband to be a blessing.”
“And so you had not met again, the Viscount and yourself, until the night of the ball?” I resumed.
She shook her head. “It was for this I begged your presence on the occasion, my dear Jane. I dearly needed the strength of a friend beside me at such an hour. That Fitzroy came at all was necessary to the duty he owed his uncle; to have stayed away would have seemed strange: But he did not meet me with composure. And I believe his feelings are as unabated by the passage of a few months, as I know my own to be.”
“Isobel,” I began, and rose to stand before the fire with the maid's crumpled letter in my hand, “we must consider what we are to do. Marguerite claims she will go to the magistrate; we have determined to lay the business before him ourselves, and so prevent her the element of surprise. To contain the affair, this would seem the only course. But what then? Do you disclose what you must to Sir William regarding your feeling for Fitzroy?”
Isobel started from her chaise, cheeks scarlet and eyes ablaze with indignation. “It is impossible! In every respect, impossible!”
“You will dissimulate, then?”
“I shall regard the suggestion as of a piece with the rest of the maid's nonsense—no more to be believed than her accusation of murder,” she retorted, with spirit.
“To what, then, do we ascribe her motive? That must be our question.” I stopped beneath the Earl's portrait and regarded it thoughtfully. “We must tell Sir William we believe Marguerite capable of blackmail; that she wishes to frighten you into paying for her silence. A paltry art from a paltry maid. He must see the sense of it.”
Isobel moved swiftly to her desk in search of pen and paper. “Of course, Jane.