Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [77]
At the last, Fitzroy Payne was himself called to the chair; and asked of his whereabouts on the morning in question; he could say only that he had been abroad at eight o'clock for an early ride on his horse, had roamed throughout the Park, and had met with no one; that when he returned to the stables, it was eleven o'clock, and he learned the news of the maid's murder. When asked whether he had ever communicated by letter with Marguerite, the Earl replied firmly in the negative, and declared that a common forger had grossly imposed upon us all.
With that, Mr. Bott cleared his throat and turned his spectacles upon the dozen men who formed the jury. “My good sirs,” the coroner told them, “we have come to the close of the evidence you must consider. A hard duty is now before you. If you believe the late Earl to have died of dyspepsia, you must return a verdict of death by natural causes. If you consider the maid to have been killed somehow, but are uncertain as to whether this was murder and if so, at whose hand, you must return a verdict of death by misadventure.”
Mr. Bott paused, and glared at the assembled villagers with severity. “If, however, you believe the Earl to have been murdered, and feel with certainty and conviction that you may name the hand that has effected his demise, you must return a charge of wilful murder against that person. The same is true in the maid's case. Leave us now, and bring to your deliberations consideration and care. God bless you.”
The jury filed away, eyes grim and faces averted from the Scargrave household; and in a matter of moments had returned, with a verdict of death by wilful murder—against Isobel in the case of the late Earl, and against Fitzroy Payne in the case of Marguerite.
AND SO THE GREAT HOUSE IS HUSHED THIS EVENING, IN all the awareness of doom. Several stout fellows stand watch before the Manor's doors, lest the Countess or the Earl conceive the reckless notion to flee. Sir William has allowed them to remain under house arrest this night, until their removal tomorrow for a special session of the Assizes, and then to London, where they will await trial by a jury of their peers. And as Fitzroy and Isobel are members of the peerage—he by birth, and she by marriage—their trial is to be in the House of Lords, a spectacle rare in the annals of England's criminal history.
The household and I are to follow in their train, to take up abode in the Earl's Town house; even if I would be gone now to Bath, my duty as a friend forbids it, for Isobel will not hear of me deserting her in this, her most mortal hour. Indeed, she has charged me with a burden I scarce know how to fulfil.
“Discover the truth, my dear Jane,” she pressed me, her brown eyes dry and her carriage unbent, as she prepared to be shut up in her rooms. “It is beyond my power to do so. As God is my witness, I am innocent of my husband's death. Sir William is unmoved, and the townsfolk easily led; but your penetration, your understanding, must be my only hope. Do not fail me, Jane!”
28 December 1802
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I AWOKE THIS MORNING TO THE RATTLE OF THE UPPER house maid laying the fire—a comforting sound, suggestive of other winter mornings retrieved from the memory of childhood, when the certainty of a good breakfast before a blazing hearth awaited one downstairs, and duties no more onerous than the reading of a lesson filled up the morning. I felt a sharp longing for Cassandra, and intimate conversation in our dressing gowns—and for Steventon, the home of my youth abandoned these eighteen months. Tho’ Hampshire is often derided for its ugly chalk cliffs and quiet farmland, I cannot think Derbyshire's crags more lovely, nor the gardens of Hertfordshire to have a greater claim on my affections. It was partly from homesickness that I once entertained the notion of marriage to Harris Bigg-Wither—for an alliance with his considerable fortune and Hampshire estates would have