Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [82]
The Countess halted before her late husband's portrait and gazed upward in contrition. “I betrayed you, Frederick, if only in my heart; but in my heart, I have already died for it.”
I felt behind me for some support, overcome by the breadth of her apprehensions, and found it in her bedpost. I leaned against it with relief. “I fear that you are sadly mistaken, my dear, and will regret these words with time. Bite them back, I beseech you—recall them if you can—before they lodge too bitterly in your heart.”
Isobel gazed at me with feverish eyes. “Tell me, Jane! Tell me why you place your trust in Fitzroy, when your friend's is all blasted. Has he worked his charms upon you, while Isobel mourned for Frederick?”
“You know it to be impossible!” I exclaimed. “As impossible for one of his honour, as the murder of which you would now accuse him! Isobel, Isobel—were Fitzroy Payne capable of planning such a deed, he should never have left his note on the maid's person. He should be a fool to incriminate himself so publicly. The maid's true murderer would have us think otherwise; but I feel certain of the note's falseness.”
Isobel brushed by me with a strangled laugh. “I know his hand, Jane. Too often have I received it, in words of love as false as Fitzroy's character. No, my friend,” the Countess said, calmer now, “I will not share your foolish hopes. For where I am going, hope itself is more foolish still.”
1. In 1801, George Austen, Jane's father passed his Steventon living (or parish appointment), its rectory, and most of its furnishings to his son James, a clergyman like himself, and moved with his wife and daughters to Bath.—Editor's note.
28 December 1802, cont.
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I LEFT ISOBEL ALONE, THOUGH I FELT A SICK HORROR AT her despair; and tried to ease my unhappy spirits in preparation for our London journey. In the midst of directing Martha about the packing, I was surprised by a gentle knock upon the chamber door. It opened to reveal Mrs. Hodges, an expression of anxiety on her features; and from her next words, I judged it to be the fear of committing an unwonted impropriety.
“I'm that sorry to disturb you, Miss Austen, and if you've not time for Jenny Barlow, I'll be pleased to tell her so. I cannot think what she can be about, seeking a lady at the kitchen garden door, and not to be put off by the news as you were leaving, but stubborn as a mule about having her say. I've left her in the butler's pantry, but will send her about her business at the least word.”
“Indeed, do not, Mrs. Hodges!” I cried. “You did right in seeking me out. Have her come to the little sitting-room directly, and I shall wait upon her there.”
The good woman did as she was told, though not without surprise; and giving some last direction to Martha, I hastened below.
Jenny Barlow looked less at ease, though frankly more suited, in the grandeur of even the little sitting-room, than she had appeared in her own smoke-filled hut; her golden hair looked well against the gilt of the picture frames, her eyes picked out the cornflower of the carpet, and, indeed, she might have posed forever; the very soul of a Dresden shepherdess, had I not disturbed her stillness.
“You're that good, miss, to see me, as I can never properly thank you for;” she said.
“Considering that you have undoubtedly defied your husband in coming to me, Mrs. Barlow, it is I who must consider myself the obliged,” I replied. I thought of seating myself and her; but foresaw the distress she might feel at adopting ease in such a room; she should perch on the corner of a chair; concerned lest her nankeen gown dirty its silk, and her anguish at being treated as her betters would forestall all conversation. I remained standing.
“Have you something to tell me?” I enquired gently.
“Yes—that is, no, ma'am.” She looked her distress and doubt of mind, then drew courage with her breath. “It's a favour as I would ask of you.”
“A favour?”
“Not on my own account, really, but on account o’ my poor sister Rosie,