Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [26]
“Propriety would argue the same.”
“So it shall be.”
“Isobel—” I began, and then hesitated. Why disturb further what was already disturbed beyond imagining?
“Jane?”
“You are certain in your mind that your husband died of natural causes?”
“Why should I not be?”
“Why, indeed?”
1. It is unclear from the text of which former suitor Jane is thinking. Because these manuscripts were intended as private journals, occasional passages exist where Jane is clearly “talking to herself.”—Editor's note.
15 December 1802
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MY DEAREST CASSANDRA—
You asked that I write you once Lord Scargrave was in the ground, and tell you of the particulars.
The day dawned stormy and soon commenced to snow quite hard, so that we were bundled into closed chariots for the journey to the Reverend Samuels's service in the little church of Scargrave Close. The Reverend is an elderly man, of pinched and nearsighted appearance; he looks to be consumptive and not a little wandering in his wits, as he more than once addressed the deceased by his father's name, and on one occasion by his brother's, both of whom have preceded the Earl from this life. The poor health of the celebrant and his vague demeanour explain why his society is not sought at Scargrave; they bode well for the rapidity with which George Hearst may succeed to the living, if matters are disposed in the Earl's will as Mr. Hearst has reason to hope.
There was, as can be imagined, little remarkable in the good Reverend's eulogy. It was a solemn recitation of the Earl's worldly passage that might have been taken from the account of a London journal, rather than any intimate knowledge of Lord Scargrave's character. I find that there is nothing sadder than such a ceremony, when it is marked by indifference and ignorance of its subject. Better to be celebrated by those whom one has known and loved, than dispatched by a relative stranger, of incongenial habits and temperament, with whom one has passed no more than the trivialities of social necessity. But such was the Earl of Scargrave's fate.
As is the custom, however, only the gentlemen of the family walked behind the carriage bearing his body to the great Scargrave tomb, where his first Countess already lies slumbering; and given the heavy fall of snow, I profess for once having been pleased with the lot accorded my sex. The women repaired to the Manor, there to indulge in that excess of grief considered necessary in any lady of delicacy and breeding; knowing my delicacy, and still more my breeding, you need not be told that few tears fell from my eye. I confess to a period of contemplative silence, however, during which I reflected upon the suddenness of the Earl's passage from this life, and the upcoming interview with Sir William Reynolds—yes, Sir William Reynolds, our dear friend of old, who has traded London for Hertfordshire upon his retirement, and is now turned the local magistrate.
You have from me the particulars of the maid Marguerite's letter in my last,1 though if I refrained from conveying with perfect frankness all that Isobel discussed that day, you must forgive me. What I heard, I heard in confidence, and there the matter ends. Suffice it to say that we look forward this afternoon to presenting a blackmailer's mark to a man of the law, and have hopes that our actions may stem unfortunate rumour.
I fear that Christmas at Scargrave will be a grim affair, and could wish myself returned to Bath and my beloved sister, were it not for the comfort Isobel seems to draw from my presence.
I send you my love, and ask that you convey it as well to my father and mother.
Yours very affectionately,
J.A.
Journal entry, later that day
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WE WERE ASSEMBLED FOR TEA IN THE GREAT SCARGRAVE drawing-room when Cobblestone, the stooped and aged Scargrave butler, announced Sir William. Despite Isobel's anxious looks, I was relieved to observe that his visit was taken as nothing