Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [60]
2. As noted elsewhere, Ann Radcliffe, who wrote The Mysteries of Udolpho, and Charlotte Smith, author of Ethelinde, were two authors Jane Austen read, although they were also practitioners of the Gothic formulas she sometimes lampooned for their unnatural characters.—Editor's note.
24 December 1802, cont.
˜
SOME HOURS LATER, WHEN SIR WILLIAM REYNOLDS HAD been summoned and had seen all there was to be seen in that terrible shed, Marguerite's poor body was borne away to the Manor by some stout fellows of the home farm. She was placed upon the oak settle in the butler's pantry, a sheet covering her still form, and Mrs. Hodges set about making her body decent—though how the housekeeper retained the use of her wits, in the midst of the furore the maid's murder created, I cannot think. The Scargrave household was in the throes of Christmas preparation, despite its deep mourning; and a partly-stuffed goose, its neck hanging at an unfortunate angle, was Marguerite's companion in death.
I sat before the fire in the drawing-room, quite alone, for at the news of Marguerite's sad end, Fitzroy Payne had offered his assistance to Sir William, while Isobel had hastened to the side of Mrs. Hodges. Their duties fulfilled, the Earl and the Countess had then retired to their respective sanctuaries—Payne to the library, and Isobel to her room. Fanny Delahoussaye, being a fashionable miss, had fallen into fits upon hearing of Marguerite's discovery; her mother even now attended her above stairs, with a basin of gruel and pursed lips, while Fanny played the victim. Mr. George Hearst was gone to London, on some errand of a private nature—it was for this he had retained the mighty Balthasar—while Lieutenant Hearst, summoned from the cottage at the body's discovery, had decamped to hit billiard balls in the smoking room.
My thoughts were disturbed by Cobblestone the butler, who flung wide the sitting-room door. The poor man's countenance was ashen; the appearance of a corpse in his pantry had routed his spirits entirely. Behind him stood my good friend Sir William Reynolds, and at the sight of his benign white head, I felt all the force of my late misadventure rush upon me. My eyes filled with tears.
“Miss Austen,” Sir William said, hastening to my side, “my poor, dear Jane.” He took my hand in his leathery old grasp and patted it gently. “Since it was your unfortunate lot to discover the murdered maid, my dear. I had hoped to speak with you at some length. But you must tell me whether your nerves can bear it.”
I managed a smile. “My nerves have benefitted from quiet and contemplation, Sir William. Several hours’ distance from events have brought some peace of mind.”
“I rejoice to hear it,” he said, pulling a chair close to the fire, “for I fear I must return you to your unhappy experiences of the morning. What took you to the paddock in the first place?”
I told him of my apprenticeship in riding, and my determination to bridle the horse alone; of Lady Bess's hesitation at the gate, and the mare's horror of that end of the field.
“And there was no outward sign of anything amiss?”
Without a word, I handed him the scrap of fabric I had found by the paddock gate.
“A handkerchief?” he said quizzically.
“It bears Isobel's initials.”
“So I observe. The C is for her maiden name?”
“Collins,” I said. “Her father was English, her mother a Creole by the name of Delahoussaye.”
“Ah, yes—related, no doubt, to the impertinent miss who would have nothing to do with barristers,” he said. “But of what import is the handkerchief?”
“I found it by the paddock gate, before I discovered the maid,” I told him. “And though it pains me to avow it, the article cannot have been there long. We must declare it to have fallen once the snow had ceased—well after supper last evening. But it was not frozen, as it might have been had it lain out all night; nor yet was it soaked through, as any fabric lying on melting snow should be. I put its appearance at very