Part 15 (1/2)
”Lord, no,” she replied. ”He and Trowbridge have been over in Paris nearly a fortnight, about some wretched business with the West Indies trade. I begged off at the last moment-can't abide Buonaparte, you know, nor that slattern he calls his wife. Intelligence is not not her strong suit, and her taste in clothes-” her strong suit, and her taste in clothes-”
”How adventurous of His Grace,” Eliza broke in. ”Very few of his countrymen should risk a trip to France, when hostilities have been suspended so little time.” time.”3 ”I am of your opinion, and told the Duke the same. 'If that upstart invades while you are away, my dear,' I said to Bertie, 'you shall be thrown in prison, and I shall retire to the country.' Of what worth is a concession to trade with the French Indies, when the word of the dictator cannot be trusted? They should content themselves with trading among good English subjects alone. Buonaparte has tried to strangle the flow of British goods, but he shall not prevail while we hold our colonies in the Caribbean.”
”How refres.h.i.+ng to hear politics discussed by a lady,” Eliza murmured, with an ecstatic look; ”and how I envy your husband's chance to visit once more that unhappy country! It will live forever in my memory as the most poignant, and beloved, epoch of my past.” She looked down at her gloves, and managed a tear; the d.u.c.h.ess was instantly all sympathy.
”How could I be so cruel as to remind you of such horrors! Forgive me, my dear-and you, too, Miss Austen.”
”And so Lord Harold went directly from Scargrave to Paris,” I said. ”He cannot, then, have learned of the Countess's recent misfortune.”
”Indeed, not,” the d.u.c.h.ess said, ”but I shall write to Bertie directly. Neither he nor Trowbridge would wish to miss the event, of such importance to the peerage.”
”I fear; d.u.c.h.ess, that we must leave you now,” Eliza said tearfully, as though overcome by bitter memories of the past; ”but we have so so enjoyed our little visit.” She rose in a manner that suffered no protest, extended her exquisitely gloved hand, and turned for the door, myself in her wake. enjoyed our little visit.” She rose in a manner that suffered no protest, extended her exquisitely gloved hand, and turned for the door, myself in her wake.
Behind us, the d.u.c.h.ess rang a bell, and at the door's silent opening, we were pleased to find a footman waiting to conduct us to the street. Without a guide, I am sure that even Eliza should have wandered lost about the corridors, surveyed by Wilborough ancestors scowling from their frames.
Once freed of the oppressive rooms, with their weight of conscious elegance, my cousin breathed a sigh of relief. ”Poor Honoria is is an unfortunate old frump,” Eliza said, mounting the carriage step in a swirl of green silk, ”but she told us what we desired to learn.” an unfortunate old frump,” Eliza said, mounting the carriage step in a swirl of green silk, ”but she told us what we desired to learn.”
”And in exchange, we may expect her to trample Isobel's name in all the best houses,” I rejoined. ”I must suppose it impossible that Lord Harold murdered the maid, however, as he was clearly abroad at the time; and so must look to others for the Countess's relief.”
”It is not beyond belief, you know, that Trowbridge dispatched a cutthroat in his employ,” Eliza mused, smoothing her shawl as the coachman shut the carriage door behind us. ”A man of his power and means could do so from anywhere in the realm, at any moment.”
”Possible, but unlikely,” I said thoughtfully. ”He should then have to trust to the man's secrecy until his own return from Paris, and trust is a quality quite foreign to Lord Harold's nature. I think 1 must consider others as more likely.” I turned to her with renewed concern. ”Eliza, does the memory of France pain you so much?”
”I shall never cease thanking Fate for throwing France my way,” she said, as the carriage wheels began to roll. ”By going to the guillotine, the Comte did more for my future than he can possibly have appreciated. He has saved me from many a bore in recent years, and so his death was not entirely entirely without purpose.” without purpose.”
I RETURNED TO SCARGRAVE HOUSE TO FIND f.a.n.n.y DELA RETURNED TO SCARGRAVE HOUSE TO FIND f.a.n.n.y DELA-houssaye and her mother entertaining a young gentleman by the name of Cranley-a barrister, no less, but suffered to pollute f.a.n.n.y'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 f.a.n.n.y'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 fas.h.i.+on and suitable only for wearing before the family. I did not dare think think what her opinion of my own attire might be, and forbore to praise her finery the more. 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 ladys.h.i.+p'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 a.s.sembled 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 ladys.h.i.+p is d.a.m.ned 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 because she could incriminate her mistress.” she could incriminate her mistress.”
”I have been to see the Countess in her cell,” Cranley told me.
f.a.n.n.y shuddered audibly, and her mother cast her an anxious look.
”Mr Cranley,” Madame said reprovingly, ”should not you conduct your business with a gentleman gentleman of the family? Such words are not for the ears of young ladies gently bred.” 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 ladys.h.i.+p 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 of his lords.h.i.+p's guilt.”
”That is Trowbridge's doing,” I replied, with discomposure. ”He has worked to divide them at the moment they most require support, for the mere pleasure of seeing their ruin.”
”Trowbridge? Lord Lord Harold Trowbridge?” Cranley was all amazement. ”How can he be involved in this?” Harold Trowbridge?” Cranley was all amazement. ”How can he be involved in this?”
”Wherever evil is done, he appears like a sort of mascot.”
”But how has he worked upon the Countess?”
I began to tick off the scoundrel's methods upon my fingers for Cranley's edification. ”He has informed the Countess of the new Earl's insolvency, and of his dissipation-in ways that to her have been convincing. Fitzroy Payne is in want of money, and she now now sees his indebtedness as a motive for murder; worse still, she believes him to have deliberately incriminated sees his indebtedness as a motive for murder; worse still, she believes him to have deliberately incriminated herself in herself in both the killings. She had hoped the Earl would use the power of his considerable fortune to defend her Barbadoes estates against the predatory intent of Trowbridge himself-but in this she has been bitterly disappointed. Fitzroy Payne has no fortune to lend. And finally, Mr. Cranley, Lord Harold has revealed to her the existence of Payne's mistress.” both the killings. She had hoped the Earl would use the power of his considerable fortune to defend her Barbadoes estates against the predatory intent of Trowbridge himself-but in this she has been bitterly disappointed. Fitzroy Payne has no fortune to lend. And finally, Mr. Cranley, Lord Harold has revealed to her the existence of Payne's mistress.”
Cranley's countenance was puzzled. ”And why should such a woman concern the Countess?”
I hesitated. ”My dear sir,” I said, ”as an intimate to all our affairs, you cannot be kept in the dark. And you shall hear it soon enough in London's drawing-rooms, I fear. The Countess believed herself the beloved of Fitzroy Payne, while still her husband's wife; and though she a.s.sures me that no impropriety of action occurred between them, the impropriety of such sensibility sensibility shall convince the public of it in very little time.” shall convince the public of it in very little time.”
”This is a bad business,” Cranley groaned, his hands on the mantel and his head hung towards the fire; ”as bad as ever it could be. Neither of them has a witness to their actions at the time of the maid's death; the Countess was alone in her rooms, while the Earl was walking about the Park, as he freely said. Neither can explain how the handkerchief came to be near the body or the sc.r.a.p of paper on it. And now Lady Scargrave is so mistrustful as to cast suspicion on every one of the present Earl's actions.”
”My poor Isobel,” I said slowly; ”all her faith is blasted.”
”Certainly not her faith in you,” the barrister replied, brightening somewhat. ”She charged me to share my counsel with Miss Austen, in the belief that I should benefit from the same.”
”I wonder at her confidence,” I replied. ”But for me-had I destroyed the note and secreted the handkerchief-the Countess and Fitzroy Payne might yet be at liberty. She has every reason to hate me.”
”I doubt she should have escaped suspicion in any case,” he rejoined, ”when Sir William is so fiercely opposed to her cause.”
Indeed, Isobel's life seemed destined for misery. ”What do you intend to do?” I asked Mr. Cranley.