The Mysterious Death of Miss Jane Austen (14 page)

Fanny, of course, wanted all the details about these dreadful establishments. She was only halted by the ring of the dinner bell, and even then she had difficulty keeping quiet long enough to eat the steaming palpatoon of pigeons with marrow pudding and apricot fritters set out before us.

“You must forgive her,” Cassandra whispered as she topped up my glass. “It is the first time she has traveled such a distance without her mother and she is overexcited. There is another baby on the way so Elizabeth has stayed at home.” I nodded silently. Jane had not mentioned a baby.
Perhaps
, I thought,
it
is
a
subject
still
too
painful
for
her
to
talk
about.

A little after eight o’clock, we set out for Sydney Gardens, leaving Mrs. Austen and Cassandra behind. “Neither one of them can stand the noise of fireworks,” Jane said as we walked down Trim Street. “I myself find it greatly preferable to the sound of singing, which, thankfully, will be over by the time we arrive. Why the organizers of these events insist on holding a concert first is beyond my understanding: you never heard such a caterwauling, such a scraping of strings and squeaking of reeds. Thankfully the gardens are very large, which is just as well for the poor souls caught unawares: it is just possible to get out of earshot without quitting the place entirely.” She stepped off the pavement to avoid a lamplighter, who was halfway up a ladder with his taper at the ready. “James and Mary said they would meet us on the bridge over the canal. They’re bringing Anna and James-Edward. Caroline is too young, of course.”

“I am grown taller than Anna now,” Fanny cut in, taking my arm as we crossed the river by the Pulteney Bridge. “And she is jealous because my mama is going to have another baby and hers will not.”

I set my gaze on the cobbles, fearful of catching Jane’s eye. “How exciting,” I said, trying to sound bright. “Another baby! I wonder what it will be this time?”

“Well, if it’s a girl she will be named Cassandra Jane, Papa says.” Fanny beamed up at her aunt. “That’s very pretty, don’t you think?”

How very telling, I thought: Cassandra Jane, not Jane Cassandra. It was a clear indication of the way the two sisters were regarded by Elizabeth.

“Look!” Fanny gasped, pointing down Pulteney Street. “Can you see the lights? Aren’t they amazing?” As we drew closer I could see that the trees were hung with hundreds of tiny lamps with orbs of colored glass that glittered like jewels among the foliage and blossom. Between the trees were strings of Chinese lanterns, glowing sunset-red against the darkening sky. Throngs of people were gathered in the gardens, their clothes and faces dappled with a rainbow of colors.

“I can’t see any sign of James,” Jane said as we approached the little bridge that spanned the canal. “Will you stay here with Fanny, while I go and look for them?”

We watched her disappear into the crowd, which was growing larger by the minute. “How do you like it at your great aunt Leigh-Perrot’s house?” I said, batting away an insect that had settled itself on Fanny’s bonnet.

“It’s all right, I suppose,” Fanny replied, pushing out her lower lip. “But Aunt L. P. spoils James-Edward to death. He is her favorite and she never tires of telling Anna and me that one day he will inherit all her money.”

“Oh?” I smiled. “And is this aunt very rich?”

“Not quite so rich as Papa, I think, but very nearly; they have a place in the country called Scarlets, which is nearly as big as Godmersham, but not so fine.”

“And how is it that young James-Edward will come into all this?” I asked, intrigued.

“Because Aunt and Uncle L. P. are very old and have no children.” Fanny spoke slowly and clearly, as if I was the child and she the adult. “Uncle L. P. is Grandmama Austen’s brother, so Uncle James, being her eldest, gets all the money when they die and he, of course, will leave it to his son.”

“Ah!” I nodded. “What a fortunate young fellow!” I couldn’t help thinking of Henry, growing up in the rectory at Steventon with the dawning knowledge that he had lost out badly in the lottery of life. If he had only been born first or second he need never have worried about money. Edward was rolling in it and James had the prospect of plenty to come—and before very long if Fanny’s assessment of the Leigh-Perrots’ advanced age was anything to go by.

“Oh, look!” Fanny cried. “There they are! Aunt Jane must have missed them.”

Coming through the crowds was a slight man in a coat with a collar so high it almost touched the brim of his black beaver hat. He held his head as if there was a bad smell beneath his nose and wielded his crystal-topped cane like a weapon. Behind him was Anna in a pink muslin frock with a tight-fitting bodice that showed off her burgeoning figure. She held the hand of a boy of about eight years old. As they grew closer I caught my breath, for the child looked like an exact miniature of Henry.

“Where is Aunt Mary?” Fanny demanded.

“Just coming,” Anna replied. “She stopped to buy some sweetmeats from a stall.”

“There she is!” The little boy turned and pointed to a figure in a pale, shimmering dress and black gauze cloak advancing across the bridge. Her bonnet shaded her features, but as she drew level with her husband, the light from a Chinese lantern cast a red glow over her face. I stared at Mary Austen in utter confusion. There was no mistaking the masculine nose and jaw and the pitted marks on her skin. It was the woman in the Pump Room—the woman I had seen with Henry.

There was an explosion of what sounded like gunfire from the canal bank below us. Plumes of jewel-colored sparks lit up the night sky. A flotilla of punts sent up fiery cascades that burst overhead with a fearsome crackle. There were cheers and sighs of awe as faces turned to the heavens. My thoughts were all disordered. Each soaring sky rocket, each fizzing Roman candle and whirling Catherine wheel was a merciful distraction. While the fireworks sparkled and spat, I was relieved of the burden of making polite conversation with Jane’s brother and his wife.

I stole a glance at them as the crowd
oohed
and
aahed
at a spurting, many-colored volcano. She had taken his arm and, although taller than him by an inch or more, he was reaching across with his other arm to grasp her wrist, as if offering protection from the raging firestorm. What had I been thinking of, to imagine that this woman was Henry’s latest
amour
? Was my judgment so awry that I saw flirtation where nothing more than familial friendship existed? What, after all, could be more natural than a man accompanying his sister-in-law to the Pump Room and keeping her amused while, perhaps, her husband took a warm bath next door?

My eyes fell on young James-Edward, who was jumping up and down to get a better view. Yes, he had a definite look of Henry: the same nose, the same eager, smiling countenance. He looked nothing like his father or his mother. But that was not so unusual, was it? I had come across it before, a child more closely resembling the brother or sister of one of its parents than either of the parents themselves.

As the firework display reached its finale, with a pergola of golden arrows arching across the canal, I determined to stop taking the least interest in anything involving Jane’s family, other than what politeness demanded.
Let
this
be
a
lesson
to
you
, I said to myself, thinking what a mercy it was that I had not told Jane of the encounter in the Pump Room.

“Good evening, Miss Sharp! I did not expect the pleasure of your company again!” The voice was behind me, so close it made me jump.

“Uncle Henry! I thought you weren’t coming!” It was Fanny who saw him first and darted around me to claim him before the others spotted him.

“Well, Fanny, I wasn’t going to—but when I heard that your dear old governess was come to town I thought I must come and pay my compliments.”

I couldn’t see his face, for I had not yet turned around. But I imagined him looking the picture of innocence as he said it.

I could not be certain what was in Henry’s mind that night. I suspected that he had come to get the measure of me, to judge whether I might be about to disclose something of the circumstances of my departure from Godmersham to his sister. He walked with us back to Trim Street, where Cass and Mrs. Austen were already in bed. Showing no inclination to leave, he stole the precious time I would have had alone with Jane. It wanted but half an hour till midnight when he offered to escort me back to the White Hart. I had intended to take a sedan, but he waved that idea away. To my relief Jane insisted on coming with us. I avoided his eye as we said our farewells, dreading what he might say to Jane on the way home. Would he give his version of events to forestall anything I might say?

The thought of this robbed me of sleep for many hours. It would be so easy for Henry to turn Jane against me. I knew just how persuasive he could be. He had all but convinced me of his innocence that night in the library at Godmersham. How much more willing Jane would be to swallow what he fed her? What sister would
not
want to believe that she had been wrong about such a thing?

I turned it over and over in my mind. I reminded myself that Henry could have done all this months ago if he had chosen to. Why wait until now to sabotage my friendship with Jane? Did he underestimate the strength of the bond between us? Did he think that once I had left Godmersham I would be out of the way forever?
Please
, I whispered,
don’t take her from me!
I don’t know who I was entreating—Henry or God above—but I prayed that night as I hadn’t done since my mother died.

When at last I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed not of Henry or Jane, but of Mary Austen. She was with her sister Martha in the house at Worthing, stirring a pot that hung over the fire. When Martha turned away, Mary dipped her finger in and smeared her lips crimson. They stretched wide open, revealing sharp, white teeth like a cat’s. I knew that she was saying something, but I couldn’t hear what it was. I had to guess the words from the shapes her lips were making. The painted mouth bunched into a tight red bud, slid out, then gaped wide.
Don’t tell Jane.
Again and again, she repeated the phrase, and each time her lips swelled in size, sucking me toward them. The moment I entered the dark cave beyond her teeth, I awoke with a start. The counterpane of burgundy damask had fallen over my face in the night and the sunshine piercing the curtains had set it all aglow. I threw it off and ran to the window, taking comfort in the sight of milkmaids and lamp snuffers going about their business.

The dream came back vividly as I sat before the looking glass, arranging my hair. The foxing on its silver surface gave me Mary Austen’s pock-marked skin. The reflection also held the pot of lip balm her sister had made for me. Without looking down, I reached for it and pulled off the lid. My finger touched the sticky red wax.
You
have
a
dangerous
imagination
. The voice in my head was as clear and alarming as the dream. I jumped to my feet, seized the little pot, and ran to the window. The catch was stiff, but I pulled with all my might. It gave with a shower of rust and I leaned out, hurling the pot as far as I could. It flew in an arc across the street and landed noiselessly in the still blue shallows of the river.

***

I was too agitated to eat breakfast that morning. My stomach lurched every time the head waiter came near our table because I saw him delivering letters to other guests and I convinced myself he had a note for me from Jane. If Henry had done what I feared, Jane would lose no time in canceling tonight’s rendezvous with me. She would, no doubt, be tactful and polite about terminating our friendship. Perhaps she would pretend to be ill and unable to admit any visitor to the house in Trim Street. This illness would persist for the whole week of my stay then, when I was safely back in Yorkshire, she would pack up for Southampton and neglect to inform me of her new address.

But by eleven o’clock that morning, no note had arrived. I began to relax a little and managed to drink the coffee served to us in the lounge. Mrs. Raike was reading the front page of the Bath paper aloud to me. She had gotten as far as the column that announced new arrivals to the town.

“Oh,” she said, pausing as she read out the names. “This man’s wife is a very dear friend of Miss Gowerton. They were out in India together. She has asked them to meet us in the Pump Room at midday.”

“Who is the man?” I asked.

“Warren Hastings.”

“Oh, is
he
come to Bath?” I said, unable to conceal my surprise.

“It will cause quite a stir, I am sure”—Mrs. Raike nodded—“but we must remember, he was acquitted from that bad business. There is no stain upon his character. Miss Gowerton assures me that no one speaks of it now.”

She had no idea, of course, that I had any knowledge of Mr. Hastings apart from what had been written in the newspapers. I thought of telling her that I had once met Eliza, his goddaughter, but decided it was too slight a connection to merit her attention. In any case, she had moved on to the subject of her dip in the warm bath, which she would take in half an hour’s time.

“I will take a sedan, I think, my dear. I know it is only a short distance, but at my age, one can’t be too careful. I should not like to catch cold when I come out.”

That seemed a most unlikely eventuality, for when I stepped outside to hail a chair the brightness of the day made me blink. There were so many new buildings in Bath, all made from the same white limestone, that when the sun shone upon them the effect was quite dazzling. I shaded my eyes and scanned the streets, half afraid of spotting Henry lurking in some shop doorway, ready to pounce. But there was no one about save the hawkers and carriers. I told myself that my fears about him were groundless, that he must realize I had nothing to gain and much to lose by telling Jane the real reason for my departure from Godmersham. And that being the case, why would he risk telling her himself?

My errand accomplished, I hurried back upstairs to make Mrs. Raike ready for her sedan. At a little before one o’clock she emerged from her sweating-in, all pink and smiling and ready for the rendezvous at the Pump Room. We spotted Miss Gowerton through one of the downstairs windows of the White Hart. She was standing on the steps beneath the colonnade, in conversation with a short, stout old gentleman whose coat buttons twinkled in the sun, and a woman in a bonnet for which at least half a dozen birds must have been sacrificed, so elaborately was it trimmed.

“Oh! They are come already! We must make haste!” Mrs. Raike almost tripped on her gown, so eager was she to meet the man whose life, a decade earlier, had been chewed up and spat out for public consumption. “They say the trial ruined him,” she whispered, as I took her arm to help her across the cobbles. “Miss Gowerton says it has taken him seven years to recover some measure of the fortune he once had. Of course, he was fabulously wealthy when he lived in India. They say that he bought his wife from a German baron on a boat to Madras!”

“Bought her?” I looked at her, astonished.

“That is what they say, yes, and Miss Gowerton does not deny it, though, of course, she would be the last person to spread rumors about her friend. Apparently, they met when this lady entered his cabins by accident. Then Mr. Hastings fell ill and she nursed him, staying at his bedside day and night. Before they reached Madras he was in love with her. So he summoned the husband, asked his price, and by the time they disembarked, the bargain was made.”

“And this lady is his wife still?” This bizarre tale of romance on the high seas was very much at odds with the description Jane had given, of the greedy old dame who talked with her mouth full and pinched Eliza’s servants black and blue.

“Indeed she is,” Mrs. Raike replied. “A strange way for a marriage to come about, I’m sure you are thinking, yet she has stuck to him through thick and thin.”

We were making our slow progress up the steps now and I could hardly wait to meet the woman with the aviary on her head. What must the young Eliza have made of her godfather’s strategy for finding a new wife, I wondered. Had she taken her cue from him in cooking up her plan to marry Henry?

“They had no children of their own,” Mrs. Raike went on, gripping me tightly as we took the last step. “He adopted her two boys and they say he already had a daughter from an affair with a married lady in India.”

“Really?” I guided her around the colonnade and through the doors.

“The child is still living, I believe, although of course, she is not a child any longer. Miss Gowerton says she married a French nobleman who went to the guillotine.”

With a shock of recognition I realized that she was talking about Eliza. I searched my memory for what Jane had said: something about Eliza’s mother being lucky to have a child because she had been married for many years when her daughter came along…

“It is a good thing you are so tall.” Mrs. Raike was craning her neck, trying to see over the heads of the crowds of people in the Pump Room. “Leave me in this chair and come back for me when you have found them.” I did as I was bid, although I had difficulty focusing on the sea of faces around me, so preoccupied was I with Mrs. Raike’s revelation.

After a while, I did spot Miss Gowerton and her companions sitting around a low table in one of the alcoves. I managed to convey my employer across the room without anyone treading on her poor feet and, as we drew near, Warren Hastings stood up with a little courtly bow. When he removed his hat, I saw that the top of his head was completely bald, with just a few wisps of white hair at the side. This, I thought, is a man quite devoid of vanity, a man who could hide his pate with a wig but chooses not to. His blue-gray eyes were heavily pouched and sat beneath a pair of bushy brows. He smiled a greeting, but there was a very wistful look about those eyes: not surprising, I supposed, for a man who had spent six long years on trial and seen his money guzzled by greedy lawyers.

His wife was the very opposite of what I had expected. From the distance of the inn it had been impossible to discern her features, but I now saw that despite her age, which must have been close to sixty, she was remarkably beautiful. Her hair, which peeped out from beneath the monstrous hat, was a rich auburn with not a strand of gray. She had wide slanting eyes of a striking emerald and high cheekbones in a face that bore very few wrinkles. Yet when she smiled it was a cold smile—a snake’s smile.

The introductions over, Mr. Hastings helped Mrs. Raike into a chair and pulled one out for me beside his own. The three older ladies fell into conversation immediately; Mrs. Hastings fanning herself with a set of feathers plucked from the same unfortunate creatures that adorned her hat. I sat there feeling very awkward in the presence of a man who was so well known but of whom I had just received the most scandalous intelligence. He must have sensed my unease, for he drew me into conversation with a smiling inquiry about my impressions of Bath, responding to everything that I said with a warmth and sincerity that seemed entirely genuine. Whatever he may or may not have done in the past, I thought, this is a man who has borne suffering and emerged the better for it.

We had moved on to the topic of the recent victory of the English fleet at St. Domingo when I spotted Henry Austen over his shoulder. He appeared to be alone this time. He turned toward us and I dipped my head, but it was too late. He was coming across the room. Obliged to dodge sideways by a group of elderly ladies who stepped into his path, he approached from a different angle and must have been very surprised indeed when he saw who it was that I conversed with.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hastings!” He covered it very well, pretending that it was the gentleman and his wife he had sought out in the first place. “And Miss Sharp! What a pleasure it is to see you again! I had no notion that you were acquainted.”

I felt myself color and my heart began to thud. I saw Mrs. Raike’s brow lift with the question I knew she must ask, if not now, then later. But she had no need, for Warren Hastings did it for her.

“My dear Austen!” he said, rising from his chair. “How is my sweet Betsy?”

I gathered in the course of the conversation that followed that it was Eliza he was referring to. Then he turned to me with a smile and said: “Now, tell me, Miss Sharp, how comes a lady of your intellect and refinement to be acquainted with a rapscallion like this?”

“We have met at Godmersham, sir,” Henry cut in before I could say a word. “Miss Sharp was governess to my brother Edward’s eldest girl.”

I was looking directly at him as he said this and I swear there was not the slightest hint of embarrassment in his countenance. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the plumes on Mrs. Hastings’s hat shift and shiver. She was whispering something in Miss Gowerton’s ear. A moment later, Henry bid us all
adieu
and disappeared into the crowd.

“So, Miss Sharp.” Mrs. Hastings snapped her fan shut and jabbed the air with it, narrowly missing Mrs. Raike’s left eye. “You have met Mrs. Henry Austen?” Her accent put me in mind of a small, growling dog.

“I… I have met her… once,” I stammered, aware of the eyes of all the company upon me. “I found her very charming and refined, a most elegant lady.” Mrs. Hastings’s eyes narrowed at this. I wondered what lay behind her inquiry. Was she party to the gossip Mrs. Raike had repeated? Was she jealous of Eliza’s place in her husband’s affections?

“She is an excellent hostess, is she not, Mr. Hastings?” She turned her snake smile on him and he nodded. “The last time we were there, Miss Sharp, we met another member of the Austen family, but it was not the one you worked for.” She emphasized the last two words as if to draw attention to my lowly status. “It was one of the sisters, wasn’t it?” She turned to him again. “What was her name?”

“It was Jane,” her husband replied. “Jane Austen. And we took her to the opera.”

“So we did!” Mrs. Hastings flung her fan open and began beating the air. “What a queer creature she was! I think she spent more time watching the people in the audience than the ones on the stage. On the hunt for a husband, I suppose, poor thing.” She gave me a smug look, the sort of look that only a woman who has had a surfeit of husbands could give.