Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [38]
“A curious child,” Sir William murmured, and looked at me. I read his intention in his eyes, and willed him not to ask of Isobel the true nature of her relations with Fitzroy Payne.
“Lady Scargrave,” he began, and then stopped, as though debating with himself. “Have you any reason to believe your husband's death was other than it seemed?”
“None whatsoever,” Isobel said. Her chin came up and her beautiful brown eyes met the magistrate's.
“You say this, recognising I in no way accuse you of having any hand in its achievement?”
“I know you could not believe it possible, sir; any more than I may believe an intimate of this household—servant or relation—capable of such monstrous evil.”
Sir William sighed gustily and turned his back upon the Countess, his brow furrowed and his hands clasped behind his back. He paced the full length of the room again before he suffered himself to reply.
“My lady,” he said, wheeling to face us in his best barrister's manner, “I cannot for the life of me say what is to be done. The girl is not to be found, and her defamation, it would appear, is but meant for an audience of one—myself. Your reputation remains untarnished in the surrounding country.”
“But how long may we presume upon the maid's restraint?” I broke in.
Sir William raised an eyebrow. “She says nothing in that note, my dear Miss Austen, about any more letters. I suggest we do little for the present beyond our efforts to locate the maid, and pray God that her malice withers of itself with time.”
“You are very good, Sir William.” Isobel rose and extended her hand. “I will trust my welfare completely to your care.”
“MY DEAR JANE,” SIR WILLIAM SAID BRISKLY, AS I WALKED with him to his carriage, “I would know the name and direction of the London physician. Have you any recollection?”
“He was a Philip Pettigrew,” I replied, “and I believe his offices were in Sloane Street. His fees should certainly support such an establishment.”
“Excellent! Excellent! You are a jewel among women, my dear.” And to my surprise, Sir William bent low to kiss my hand.
And so he was gone, on purposes and with intents he chose to keep to himself, but that I believe I divined nonetheless.
1. Austen's tone in this passage evokes the breathless morbidity of the Gothic novels that were quite popular in her day. Such authors as Ann Radcliffe and Charlotte Smith penned ghoulish tales intended to titillate and alarm their largely female audience. Though Austen often poked fun at such literature—Northanger Abbey is in part a spoof of these novels—she did read them, and on this night at least, appears to have been somewhat influenced by their powerful fantasies.—Editor's note.
16 December 1802, cont.
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THE COUNTESS HAVING RETIRED, AND THERE YET remaining several hours before I must dress for dinner, I bethought myself of exercise—prohibited heretofore by the heavy fall of snow—and donned my pelisse. With the aid of my pattens,1 my boots might escape complete ruination; but, in truth, I do not care a fig for the fate of my boots, when weighed against the claims of sanity. Another hour's confinement among Scargrave's grey walls, with Isobel's poor spirits and the Delahoussayes’ poor wits, should render me fit only to play the part of madwoman in one of Fanny Burney's novels.
I nodded to Fetters, the footman, and slipped through the heavy oak doors he drew back for my passage, feeling immaterial as a shade in the pale wintry sunlight. The air was fresh and sharp, and smelled bitingly of snow; we should have another fall before dawn, I surmised. I breathed deeply and felt a pressure ease within my chest; my sight cleared, and a pounding at the temples I had suffered for some hours began to recede. The world, however bleak I have found it in the last few weeks, must nonetheless be formed of goodness, if but a few moments in Nature's company may suffice to renew one's health and mental aspect.
The grand flight of steps that spilled before me had been swept