Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [93]
1 January 1803, cont.
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WILBOROUGH HOUSE SITS IN ST. JAMES SQUARE, IN ALL the glory of grey stone and the lustre of its ancient name.1 That Eliza was acquainted with the Duchess of Wilborough, I had long known—it was my chief purpose in her recruitment, for her card, which bore still her French title of Comtesse de Feuillide, should readily gain acceptance where my own poor Miss Austen should languish in the entry-hall bowl. It was as I predicted—the austere fellows guarding either side of the door in livery and white wigs surveyed the grandeur of Eliza's emerald-green gown, tasselled turban, and ermine stole; bowed with a certain contained respect, and returned promptly to inform us that the Duchess was at home.
No one could resist Eliza. She was possessed, always, of the latest intelligence regarding one's acquaintance.
We were ushered up a broad stair and through lofty rooms done up in the fashion of Europe. Painted murals of fat cupids and slender nymphs adorned the ceilings, the walls were sheathed in boiserie, and precious Sevres vases filled every corner.
“Frightfully stuffy, my dear, like the Duchess's mind,” Eliza confided, and I expelled my breath in relief. She, at least, was not overawed.
Through enfiladed drawing-rooms, past set after set of tall doors that opened noiselessly at our approach—a score of footmen alone must be required for the delivery of the Duchess's callers; what she demands for a small dinner party, I cannot imagine. At last we were shown into an intimate lady's parlour, all gilt and white and silk-strewn chairs of the uncomfortable sort deemed necessary for the preservation of one's posture, and faced the Duchess of Wilborough herself. A little woman, of pinched and imperious countenance, who smiled creak-lly at the sight of Eliza.
“My dear,” the Duchess said, extending a limp hand, “so good of you to cheer a friend in her solitude.”
“Are you quite alone, then, Duchess?” Eliza enquired, her voice all concern, and bent to clasp the beringed fingers she was offered. “I have brought you my favourite sister,2 Miss Austen of Bath, only recently arrived in Town. She has been intimate these past weeks at Scargrave Manor; where I believe your dear brother recently visited as well.”
“Harry?” the Duchess said with some asperity; “I cannot pretend to know whose houses or whose beds Harry has visited last. But I am obliged to make your acquaintance, Miss Austen, and to see you none the worse for your recent encounter with my brother.”
All amazement at her vulgarity, I murmured something in reply, and took the seat the Duchess offered.
“Now,” she said, settling her hands comfortably, “you must tell me all you know of the scandal.”
“The scandal?” I said, affecting ignorance.”
“Regarding Scargrave's death,” she returned impatiently. “Is it true the young rogue who was his heir has been enjoying the favours of the Countess?”
It was plain that the Duchess felt complete frankness to be her reward for admitting me to the elevated circle of her acquaintance; and my discomfort must have shown on my face. I knew not what to say. Matters of such a delicate nature should not be tossed about for amusement; and yet, I had come for just this sort of information myself. Eliza rescued me.
“My dear cousin is an intimate friend of the lady,” she murmured, leaning forward to offer the full force of her charm; “and Your Grace cannot expect her to betray a confidence of so serious a nature. But I am under no such compunction; and I may relate that the Countess and the present Earl are even now locked away in Newgate prison. They were brought before the Assizes soon after Christmas, and remanded to the House of Lords for trial.”
“No!” the Duchess said, slapping