Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [95]
I RETURNED TO SCARGRAVE HOUSE TO FIND FANNY DELA-houssaye and her mother entertaining a young gentleman by the name of Cranley—a barrister, no less, but suffered to pollute Fanny's presence in deference to his new duties, they being the defence of Isobel and Fitzroy Payne. He rose with alacrity at my appearance, and bowed low over my hand; a fellow possessed of a cheerful and open countenance, and the aspect of a gentleman.
“I understand you are intimate these many years with my honoured opponent,” he said to me.
“Sir William Reynolds? He has long been a friend to the Austen family.”
“And an enemy to every hapless criminal before the Bar,” Cranley rejoined with spirit. “Though Miss Delahoussaye offers it as her opinion that he is, perhaps, now past his best efforts.”
I saw with impatience the sheep-like look of admiration he cast Fanny's way; she had wasted no time in enslaving the poor man to her charms. She was dressed this afternoon in a gown I confess I coveted—black and white striped silk, with braided frogs. When I had expressed my admiration, however, she had declared it to be hopelessly out of fashion and suitable only for wearing before the family. I did not dare think what her opinion of my own attire might be, and forbore to praise her finery the more.
“I should never underestimate Sir William,” I told the barrister, as Fanny coloured and looked conscious; “even at less than his best, he is decidedly very good. But that is not what you would hear, Mr. Cranley, and I should speak more to the purpose. Tell me what you would know.”
“Does Sir William believe himself secure in her ladyship's guilt?”
I settled myself in a chair by the hearth—the carriage ride from Wilborough House had been quite cold—and removed my gloves and bonnet, handing them to the maid who waited by my side. “As secure as he need be,” I told the barrister. “You know that he must only prove a case in the minds of the assembled peerage, to see the Countess hang.”
“Indeed,” he replied, commencing to pace before the fire; a well-made young man, with the quickness of his wits readily upon his face. “Her ladyship is damned by the evidence. Only the maid might have saved her—by admitting guilt, or throwing it upon another—and the maid is dead.”
“This would seem to be Sir William's happiest point,” I observed. “For he would have it that the Countess dispatched Fitzroy Payne to slit Marguerite's throat, precisely because she could incriminate her mistress.”
“I have been to see the Countess in her cell,” Cranley told me.
Fanny shuddered audibly, and her mother cast her an anxious look.
“Mr Cranley,” Madame said reprovingly, “should not you conduct your business with a gentleman of the family? Such words are not for the ears of young ladies gently bred.”
The barrister immediately looked his remorse, and allowed as it was true; but I intervened with decided purpose.
“Being both less gently bred, and less youthful, than Miss Delahoussaye,” I said, “I should dearly love to discuss the Countess's case.” Madame looked her outrage, and summoned her daughter with a gesture; and so the ladies departed, and left me in command of the room.
“How was she?” I asked Cranley, when the doors had closed upon them.
“As might be expected,” he replied, with becoming solicitude. “Her ladyship is in the lowest of spirits and possessed of little hope; and nearly driven mad by the disreputable conditions in which she is lodged. The Earl bears it somewhat better; but he is a gentleman in any case, and would face any misfortune with as much equanimity as he might the greatest blessing.”
“A more accurate description of Fitzroy Payne I should not have managed myself. You have captured his essence.”
The young barrister regarded me sombrely. “You are convinced of his good faith in denying these charges?”
“I am.
“I would that the Countess were equally sanguine.”
“I know that she doubts the Earl,” I began, in a faltering accent.
“Doubt’ is hardly the word to describe her feelings. I should say the Countess is convinced