Jane Austen Mysteries 08 Jane and His Lordship's Legacy by Stephanie Barron
Book: Jane Austen Mysteries 08 Jane and His Lordship's Legacy by Stephanie Barron
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Authors: Stephanie Barron
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beneath one's feet all that is beautiful and forever denied; to cut and maim as 46 ~ Stephanie Barron
one has been maimed. Last night, as I stood beneath the vaulted walk of the Palais de Justice, I saw the tumbrel go by: and in it a young girl with her hair shorn for the blade, her face as white as her cotton shift: Jouvel's daughter, with whom I danced the quadrille two summers ago at the chateau near Cluny. Her brother stood beside her: face stark and shadowed, an expression of rage about the lips--quite useless. A smear of shit on his brow where someone had insulted him. He was perhaps fifteen. At that age I thought of nothing but riding to hounds. They are both dead this morning--they were dead even as I watched them roll past, and stepped backwards against the archway's wall that they might not recognise me--
might not hope for a fleeting second in their own salvation.
The long brown hair is tossed like offal into the basket, her terrified gaze fixed on God or Hell--one and the same, for those who ride in the tumbrel. I could kill myself for failing to save them. I could place a pistol against my head and pull the trigger. All that stops me is my duty to the boy--
I slowly closed the book, my hands no longer steady.
He had given me much in this cavalier bequest: the key to a lifetime of agonies and dreams. I had believed that I under-stood his character--I had even thought that I loved him. But it was clear to me now that I had tasted only a draught of the deep waters that o'erwhelmed Lord Harold's life.
"Jane? Jane!"
My fingers clutched around the copybook, I gazed quickly through the henhouse door.
"Henry!" I cried. "Good God--where did you spring from?"
"Alton," my brother replied carelessly. "I keep a bank there, you know. What do you mean by sitting in the middle of a poul-try yard in your dressing gown at eight o'clock in the morning?"
y4141414141414141 t
Chapter 6
Coincidence, or Pattern?
5 July 1809, cont.
~
It is impossible to describe my astonishment at this sudden apparition of my brother, in a place that--although not wholly alien to him--was nonetheless the very last in which I ex-pected to find him. I had understood our Henry to be fixed with his wife, the aforementioned Eliza de Feuillide, at God-mersham with all our Kentish party; and failing Kent, I should have expected to learn that he and Eliza were returned to Lon-don, where they intended a removal to a new home in Sloane Street. Henry's banking concerns had fared so well of late, and his affluence was so obvious, that the affairs of the Alton branch of Austen, Gray & Vincent might suitably have been left in the hands of his partners for the duration of the summer months; and yet, here was Henry: large as life and impatient for his breakfast.
48 ~ Stephanie Barron
As I rose from the henhouse floor, he sauntered towards the chest. "Good Lord! Is this the Rogue's Treasure?"
"What do you know of it?" I demanded indignantly.
"Half of Alton is talking about this article, my dear; besides, Mamma told me the whole the moment I walked in the door."
"She is already awake?" I peered out at the sun. "I had no notion the morning was so advanced."
"The cask is undoubtedly from the Subcontinent, and must have been carved a hundred years ago at a pasha's orders,"
Henry murmured, ignoring me entirely. "Observe the figures cut into the teak!"
"They are most indecent," I said primly, "and I beg you will not draw them to Mamma's notice."
"I suppose his lordship must once have visited Bengal."
"I believe, Henry, that he lived there some years--and was in a position of some trust to your wife's benefactor, Mr.
Hastings."
"Lord Harold knew old Warren?" Henry's startled expres-sion was comical, as tho' Mr. Hastings was the preserve of the Austens alone, instead of a man who had encountered half the world and commanded the rest. "I shall have to tax him with the acquaintance when next we meet. He is getting on in years, Jane--must be
one has been maimed. Last night, as I stood beneath the vaulted walk of the Palais de Justice, I saw the tumbrel go by: and in it a young girl with her hair shorn for the blade, her face as white as her cotton shift: Jouvel's daughter, with whom I danced the quadrille two summers ago at the chateau near Cluny. Her brother stood beside her: face stark and shadowed, an expression of rage about the lips--quite useless. A smear of shit on his brow where someone had insulted him. He was perhaps fifteen. At that age I thought of nothing but riding to hounds. They are both dead this morning--they were dead even as I watched them roll past, and stepped backwards against the archway's wall that they might not recognise me--
might not hope for a fleeting second in their own salvation.
The long brown hair is tossed like offal into the basket, her terrified gaze fixed on God or Hell--one and the same, for those who ride in the tumbrel. I could kill myself for failing to save them. I could place a pistol against my head and pull the trigger. All that stops me is my duty to the boy--
I slowly closed the book, my hands no longer steady.
He had given me much in this cavalier bequest: the key to a lifetime of agonies and dreams. I had believed that I under-stood his character--I had even thought that I loved him. But it was clear to me now that I had tasted only a draught of the deep waters that o'erwhelmed Lord Harold's life.
"Jane? Jane!"
My fingers clutched around the copybook, I gazed quickly through the henhouse door.
"Henry!" I cried. "Good God--where did you spring from?"
"Alton," my brother replied carelessly. "I keep a bank there, you know. What do you mean by sitting in the middle of a poul-try yard in your dressing gown at eight o'clock in the morning?"
y4141414141414141 t
Chapter 6
Coincidence, or Pattern?
5 July 1809, cont.
~
It is impossible to describe my astonishment at this sudden apparition of my brother, in a place that--although not wholly alien to him--was nonetheless the very last in which I ex-pected to find him. I had understood our Henry to be fixed with his wife, the aforementioned Eliza de Feuillide, at God-mersham with all our Kentish party; and failing Kent, I should have expected to learn that he and Eliza were returned to Lon-don, where they intended a removal to a new home in Sloane Street. Henry's banking concerns had fared so well of late, and his affluence was so obvious, that the affairs of the Alton branch of Austen, Gray & Vincent might suitably have been left in the hands of his partners for the duration of the summer months; and yet, here was Henry: large as life and impatient for his breakfast.
48 ~ Stephanie Barron
As I rose from the henhouse floor, he sauntered towards the chest. "Good Lord! Is this the Rogue's Treasure?"
"What do you know of it?" I demanded indignantly.
"Half of Alton is talking about this article, my dear; besides, Mamma told me the whole the moment I walked in the door."
"She is already awake?" I peered out at the sun. "I had no notion the morning was so advanced."
"The cask is undoubtedly from the Subcontinent, and must have been carved a hundred years ago at a pasha's orders,"
Henry murmured, ignoring me entirely. "Observe the figures cut into the teak!"
"They are most indecent," I said primly, "and I beg you will not draw them to Mamma's notice."
"I suppose his lordship must once have visited Bengal."
"I believe, Henry, that he lived there some years--and was in a position of some trust to your wife's benefactor, Mr.
Hastings."
"Lord Harold knew old Warren?" Henry's startled expres-sion was comical, as tho' Mr. Hastings was the preserve of the Austens alone, instead of a man who had encountered half the world and commanded the rest. "I shall have to tax him with the acquaintance when next we meet. He is getting on in years, Jane--must be
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