Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [49]
“You find this singular, my lord?”
“Singular? It is insupportable!”
“But she is lost to grief!”
“And at such a time, I should be her first comfort! But she appears rather to wish me at the ends of the earth!”
I knew not how to answer his confusion; for to say what I believed—that Isobel's profound grief was mingled with a sense of guilt and shame where Fitzroy Payne was concerned—should only cause him further pain. And it was just possible—Isobel having kept from her beloved all knowledge of the maid Marguerite's blackmailing missives—that the Countess desired to shield Fitzroy from her worry. That Isobel had taken the maid's words to heart, and begun to fear the grey-hared lord, I thrust aside as unlikely.
“Perhaps the Countess will be more herself with time,” I said lamely.
“But what if she is not, Miss Austen? What if my uncle's death has caused in her some reversal of feeling? It is just such a fear as this that robs my nights of sleep.”
Such honesty of sentiment, before myself—with whom he is acquainted only imperfectly—could not but win my active benevolence on Fitzroy Payne's behalf.
“Lord Scargrave,” I said, “the Countess has borne more than any lady of her tender years and experience should be expected to endure. Consider her disappointed passion for yourself—the strength required to overcome it—the melancholy resignation to a marriage of convenience—and now the sudden loss of a husband she revered at least as she might a father. It is not to be wondered that she seeks comfort in solitude. I should rather wonder at her doing anything else.”
“That may be true,” Fitzroy Payne said, composing himself with better grace. “But I would ask you, Miss Austen, to bend your efforts to improving Isobel's spirits. She is too much alone. Persuade her to walk with you, if the weather be fine; talk to her of subjects far from this unhappy house. And if it be possible to plead my cause—to speak warmly on my behalf—”
“Then know that I shall do all that is in my power, Lord Scargrave,” I assured him without hesitation.
“Blessed woman!” Fitzroy Payne cried, his gratitude in his looks; and so he left me.
I could not be idle when so much anxiety was active on Isobel's part; I hastened to her room, and found her very low.
“My dear,” I said, placing a wrap about her shoulders as she sat by the fire, her face pensive and her hair undone, “you are not dressed! And your tea is undrunk! Has Daisy failed to attend you?”
“Oh, Jane,” my friend sighed, “Daisy cannot attend to an illness of the spirit! Of what interest is dress to me? I cannot assume a different self, by assuming a different gown. I should rather remain here, in the quiet of my room, and repent of all my sins.”
“Come, come,” I chided her. “You should better congratulate yourself for having survived so many tests of character, with such grace and fortitude.”
“Neither word can apply to me.” Isobel thrust off the wrap and rose from her chair. “I have dishonoured a man who would have moved heaven and earth to make me happy.”
“Isobel! Such harshness, and so illogically applied! In your sorrow, you are unjust. Let your friend, who knows better your worth, remind you who you are.”
“Do not flatter me, Jane,” she said brusquely, holding out a hand as if to impede my passage. “I have nothing to offer in return but the shame of a woman who has acted as she should not.”
“Of what can you be speaking?” The depth of her guilt was as I had surmised. I must needs exert myself. “Nothing that you have recounted could dishonour Frederick. You esteemed him as your husband, and whatever your feelings for another, your behaviour has been such as no one can reproach.”
She put her hands to her face, hiding it from my sight; her voice, when it came, trembled with emotion. “I cannot banish the maid's words from my mind, Jane. Marguerite saw rightly. We killed my husband, Fitzroy and I—and our guilt could be no greater if we had poisoned him outright, as the maid claims.”
A horror