Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [78]
I burrowed deeper in the quilts as the maid lit her tinder. My person might be in Scargrave this morning, but my mind was upon home. When my father moved our family to Bath eighteen months ago, my conviction of Steventon's merits was only strengthened.1 Bath itself I find abhorrent, even as it fascinates—as is ever the case when I am surfeited with a certain kind of society. The sameness of the crowd in the Pump Room, though the faces themselves may change, is such as to weary; the endless parading, the restless nothingness of conversation, the crush of the public assemblies; the ennui of one's partners, generally stupid young men with little to recommend them; the insipidity of a crowd that comes for the sole purpose of being amused, and finds it an insult to exert itself towards that end. Not for anything in the world would I have chosen a pleasure place for a permanent home.
And the system of drains in the house at Sydney Place is not to be supported.
I cannot but wonder at my father having chosen such a town for his remaining years, and yearn still for my snug upstairs room in the rectory and die society of Madam Lefroy, my dearest Anne. To consider brother James and his poor Mary now in possession of all that was dear to me is a further source of displeasure; they cannot appreciate its merits as I, nor find the same delight in its simple comforts. They exist only to criticise. But I recollect; I myself have been criticising at great length, and must declare it to be a family failing.
I rose up on one elbow and peered around the bed-curtains. “Martha,” I said to the maid bent at the grate, “is anyone else yet abroad?”
“I can't rightly say, miss,” she declared, sitting back on her heels and brushing away a stray lock of black hair, “seein’ as those fellers are posted a'tall the doors. Took the kindlin’ from me and sent me abaht my business, they did, as though I'd ‘ave the savin’ of the Earl with a bit o’ tinder.”
“Events have taken a sad turn,” I commented.
“That they ‘ave, miss, and for nothin’ but Lizzy Scratch and her palaverin’ ways. That girl Margie was a bad ‘un, make no mistake, and she's sure to ‘ave met her end from ‘er fancy man as anything else. Least, that's what Mr. Cobblestone and Mrs. Hodges be sayin’ below stairs.”
“Did you know Marguerite very well?” I enquired curiously.
“Didn’ ‘ave time. She bahn't been ‘ere but a week or two ‘fore she quit the ‘ouse.” Martha stood up and dusted off her hands. “There now. That's burnin’ smartly. Jest you bide there in bed, miss, until the chill come off the room, and I'll fetch the tea.”
When she had gone, I lay back on the pillows and considered all that Lizzy Scratch had recounted the previous day. Marguerite's unknown man may also have been her murderer; certainly Sir William Reynolds believed so, and thought him found in the present Earl. That Fitzroy Payne was hardly likely to have made love to the Countess and her maid at one and the same time (particularly when I knew him possessed of a mistress in Town), was not an aspect to trouble Sir William. Perhaps he knew more than I of the habits of gentlemen.
It was equally possible, however that Marguerite's lover had nothing to do with the events at the Manor, and that fear of the law prevented the man from coming forward. Now that Fitzroy Payne had been charged, perhaps the unknown swain should breathe more easily, and consider acceding to an interview—could one but locate him.
“Martha,” I said, as the maid returned with tea-tray held high, “does Mrs. Hodges or Cobblestone know the identity of Marguerite's young man? I wonder that he did not come forward at the inquest.”
“That Man,” Martha said, implying the coroner Mr. Bott, “made out as if ‘twere the new Earl, Lord Payne as was, ‘ad goings-on with Margie. Ha! He'd as like ‘ave to do with Mrs. Hodges, and her sixty if she's a day. Lord Payne—Lord Scargrave, I mean—is that proud, he looks through us serving folk. He's called me Kate or Daisy as often as my Christian name.”
“Perhaps Marguerite had no young