The Mysterious Death of Miss Jane Austen (5 page)

“It is a new pleasure that makes one so strong and happy,” Henry said, chuckling as we rumbled through the streets of London. “I’m sure the air in heaven must be made of this stuff, Miss Sharp.” He was eager to hear my opinion of the latest developments in the realms of science and medicine, and soon we were engaged in a most energetic debate. I was fighting myself all the way, mindful of Jane’s warning; he was a man I knew I should not allow myself to admire, but his eloquence and enthusiasm were hard to resist.

Before I knew it there were shops and people and houses flashing past the window. I had not been to London since my parents died and in the first few years of the new century things were changing rapidly. Everything was brighter, busier and noisier than I remembered it; some of the young women looked almost naked, with gowns cut low on their bosoms and made of a fabric so fine you could see their legs when the sun was behind them. And the men preened like peacocks in their gay coats and pantaloons, wispy curls arranged just so on their foreheads. I felt like a drowsy animal poking its head into sunlight after a long hibernation. It was an assault upon my senses, painful yet intoxicating.

I was glad when the horses headed for Westminster Bridge, for London Bridge would have taken us very close to Maiden Lane. I wondered if Edward had told his brother anything of my circumstances before I came to Godmersham. It was possible he had heard it by some other means—the men of science Henry mixed with were just the sort to frequent my father’s shop.

The carriage clattered to a halt a good mile west of the river at number sixteen, Michael’s Place. It was in a row of elegant, newly built houses in the village of Brompton. Steps led up to a red-painted front door with a shiny lion’s head knocker. The windows were veiled with fine lace panels and as I stepped onto the cobbles I saw a pair of bright black eyes peering through a gap, the lace draped like a spaniel’s ears on either side of them. I wondered if this was Madame Bigeon.

The owner of the eyes turned out not to be a woman at all; it was Monsieur Halavant, Henry’s French chef, who looked me up and down in much the same way that my mistress had done with Jane when she arrived at Godmersham. He was a strange little man, not much taller than Fanny, with a thin mustache and a blue kerchief knotted around his neck. It struck me as rather an extravagance to have a chef in a place of this size. I wondered how Henry had made his money, coming, as he did, from a modest background with none of the inherited wealth his brother Edward enjoyed.

Monsieur Halavant turned his back on me while he conversed in French with his master. He seemed agitated, his hands working like pitchforks, and I couldn’t catch all that he said. It seemed that Eliza had gone into town to find a man who repaired harps; hers had a broken string and needed urgent repair for a musical evening she was giving the next week. Henry looked unsurprised to hear of her absence and showed me into the parlor.

“Madame Bigeon will be with you shortly.” He stepped into the room behind me and when I glanced back at him he smiled at the expression on my face. The whole room seemed to shiver and sway. Rainbows of light slid over the fat limbs of plaster cherubs and snaked around the smooth columns of marble jardinières; mirrors caught the colors and tossed them back at the walls and the ceiling. A huge chandelier was the cause of the illusion, its cut glass prisms catching the sun’s rays as they streamed through the window.

“A pretty thing, isn’t it?” Henry reached up to the chandelier and tapped it, sending the rainbow rays into a frantic dance. “It’s designed to intensify the light and cut down on the cost of candles.” His arm brushed my shoulder as he lowered it. “Sorry, Miss Sharp—how clumsy of me!” His face was so near and the light so bright that I could see spots of gold in the muddy green of his irises. Something strange happened in that moment. My mind took flight and alighted at Godmersham, came to roost inside Elizabeth’s head. I was seeing him as she would have seen him that night on the staircase—if it
was
her. I was that close, close enough to slip my arm around his waist. How would that feel, I wondered? How was it
supposed
to feel when a woman touched a man in that way?

“Will you excuse me?” Henry’s voice broke the spell. “Monsieur Halavant requires fresh fish for a dish he is preparing and as my wife has taken the carriage he must go to market in my brother’s.” With a little bow he made for the door, closing it behind him. I stood there in a sort of daze for a moment. Then I moved to the window and peered through the lace panel. I thought that Henry was simply going outside to instruct the coachman, but to my surprise, he jumped into the carriage with the chef. As it disappeared around a corner, I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see a stout, olive-skinned woman with silver hair tucked into her cap.

“Madame Bigeon?” I moved away from the window, embarrassed that she had seen me peering after Henry.

She dropped me a little curtsey. I wondered if she knew that I was merely a governess and not a proper guest. Feeling my color rise, I bent over my valise and pulled out the letter that Jane had asked me to pass on. I thought it would be polite to address her in her native tongue and she seemed delighted by this, despite my poor accent. Seizing the letter with a warm glance she took my valise and said that I should make myself comfortable in my room while she set out some food for me.

The chamber she gave me was dominated by a huge bed with an ornate carved headboard, its coverlet of lavender silk. It was at the back of the house and its window gave a view across open fields. Over the bed was a portrait. It showed a plump baby with blond curls sitting on the lap of a beautiful, fairylike girl whose pale wig contrasted oddly with her dark brown eyes.

“Is that your mistress and her son?” I asked.

She nodded, pressing her lips together.

“It’s a very fine portrait, isn’t it?” I smiled, but she looked away from me, out of the window to the sheep that grazed the gentle, rolling fields.

“He was such a beautiful child.” She said it in a voice so low that I could barely make out the words. I hesitated before replying, working out from what Jane had told me that Eliza’s child must now be around twenty years old. I wondered where he was now.

“We all miss him terribly.” Madame Bigeon turned her face back to me and I saw that there were tears in her eyes. “He suffered more than any child should. The doctor said it was a mercy when God took him. But my poor mistress…” She trailed off, wringing her hands. “She cannot bear to have this painting hanging in a place where she would see it.”

“I am so sorry,” I said, fumbling for the right words. “I didn’t know…”

She shook her head and put out her hands, sweeping the air. “My mistress doesn’t talk about it,” she said, “and nor does Monsieur Henry. He was a wonderful father to the boy—and there are not many men who would take on a child with such afflictions. It is such a tragedy that she could not have another child.” She blinked and drew in her breath. “Please come downstairs when you are ready,” she said. “Do you like buttered shrimps?”

I stared at her stupidly for a moment, still taking it all in.

“They are small shellfish,” she went on. “Have you tried them? They are very good to eat with new bread.”

“Oh… yes,” I mumbled, nodding vigorously for fear she would think me ungrateful. I had not tasted shrimp since I was a child. The memory of it conjured up picnics with my parents on Hampstead Heath.

She smiled at my eager face. “I will have it ready for you in five minutes.” I listened to her footsteps fade away to nothing as she went down the stairs. I found myself unable to move, transfixed by the eyes of Eliza. She looked so delicate, almost transparent, next to the pink-cheeked baby on her knee; I thought it sad and strange that this healthy-looking little boy had passed away while she still lived. I wondered what lay behind Madame Bigeon’s words; had there been a miscarriage or a stillbirth? Was there a second, failed pregnancy with her first husband, the comte, before he went to the guillotine? Had Henry married her knowing that there would be no children? It seemed unlikely, given his undisguised affection for his nephews and nieces. More probable, I thought, that he had given up hope as the years rolled by.

I stepped closer to the painting to read what was written on the small gold-colored plaque mounted on the frame:
Eliza, Comtesse de Feuillide and her son, Hastings. Painted for Warren Hastings, Governor General of India, by John Hoppner.

I ran my finger under the name of the patron, whispering it to myself. I knew of Warren Hastings, as every person in England capable of reading a newspaper knew of him; he had made a vast fortune in India from timber and carpets and opium and had very nearly lost it all when he was accused of a multitude of crimes against the people he had governed. His trial had provided more of a spectacle than anything on offer in the theaters, with crowds gathering before the sun was up to queue for it. His accusers had been some of the most eminent parliamentarians in England. Against the likes of Edmund Burke, John Sheridan and Charles Fox he seemed to stand no chance. But to the amazement of everyone, the case had eventually been thrown out of court. According to the papers, he now lived in somewhat reduced circumstances in a country residence in Gloucestershire.

I wondered why Warren Hastings had commissioned a painting of Henry’s wife and stepson. Apparently the child had been named for him, which suggested that he was a relative. Jane had told me that Eliza’s mother was the sister of her late father, Reverend Austen, so the connection must be on the other side. To have such a wealthy and influential man in the family must surely have enhanced Eliza’s prospects. Had his influence helped bring about the match with the French count? If so, I wondered if he had played any part in Eliza’s choice of a second husband.

A distant voice from down below made me jump back from the portrait. Madame Bigeon was calling me. I hurried downstairs, my head bursting with questions.

The housekeeper was chuckling to herself as she set down the plate of buttered shrimps. She begged my pardon, saying that Jane’s letter had caused her such amusement that she could not think of it without wanting to laugh. “What a wonderful time she has been having with you in Kent,” she said. “It will do her good—she has been so unhappy since her father died. And she tells me that you have been looking after little Anna as well as Fanny.”

“Yes,” I began, “Anna was with us for a—” Before I could finish the sentence she was off again.

“Ah, poor Anna,” she sighed. “Her new mother is very mean to her, I think. Have you met her?” I shook my head, thinking that she was very free with her opinions. There had been several Frenchmen amongst my father’s clients, but none as bold as this lady. “Mary Austen is a very jealous woman,” she went on. “Do you know, she will not allow my mistress to accompany Monsieur Henry when he visits them in Steventon? And do you know the reason why?”

I shook my head, but I doubt if she noticed, so intent was she on telling me.

“It is because she is the second choice. When Anna’s mother died, her father wanted to marry my mistress, but she turned him down. She said she could not imagine herself as the wife of a country parson!” She rolled her eyes, as if the very thought was quite insane. “So now James Austen has a scold for a wife. Not only is my mistress banned from their house, her name must never be mentioned, Monsieur Henry says. Imagine how difficult that must be for him, when he goes to visit!”

“Does he go there often?” I asked, with a sudden presentiment of dread.

“Quite often,” she replied. “He has plans to open a branch of his bank nearby.”

Seeing my blank look she chuckled again. “Did you not know? That is where he is now, not in Hampshire—at the bank he has in town.”

I nodded silently. So that was where Henry’s money came from. As I tucked into my buttered shrimps I wondered how he had come by the means to start such a business. Had Edward helped him out? This seemed unlikely, given his apparent reluctance to spend even trifling amounts on clothes for Jane and Cassandra. I decided that the money must have come from Eliza’s side of the family. That would explain why two Austen brothers had vied for her hand in marriage.

“It is an amazingly clever thing, to run a bank,” I ventured. “Your mistress must be very happy to have made such a match—her parents too, I should think.”

Madame Bigeon gave a little sigh and rubbed her hands on her apron. “I wish that poor Madame Hancock had lived to see the day,” she said. “She was the very best of mothers—and it was not easy for her, being left a widow so early.”

“Oh?” I said, “Eliza’s father is dead too?”

“Yes,” she replied, “it is a great pity. She hardly knew him at all because his business kept him far away. But she is lucky to have a godfather, a very kind and generous man, Monsieur Hastings. He was a great friend of her parents when they lived in India. She named the child after him, you know, because he has none of his own.”

I turned my face to the shrimps to consider this. The Governor General was Eliza’s godfather then, not a relative, and India was the connection. By “generous,” I assumed that Madame Bigeon was alluding to money. Henry’s wife was becoming more intriguing than ever. I wondered when she would return from her errand and whether I would have the chance to meet her.
Goodness, what a busybody you are turning into!
I heard my mother’s voice, as clear as if she had been sitting at the table beside me. I suppose I was poking my nose in further than I should, taking advantage of the garrulousness of Henry’s housekeeper. The fact was that I couldn’t help myself. Two years at Godmersham, almost starved of adult society, had turned me into a glutton for every morsel I could gather from the lives of others. I felt like Arabella in
The
Female
Quixote
, locked in a castle with only books to give color to her life.

Before I could probe any further, though, a face appeared around the door. It was a woman of about my own age, very similar in features to Madame Bigeon.

“This is my daughter, Marie Marguerite.” The housekeeper beckoned her into the room. Marie Marguerite had the same warm smile as her mother. I thought how very different these women were from the servants at Godmersham. It was as if Henry’s affability had rubbed off on them, in the same way that Elizabeth’s discontentedness seemed to settle on those who served her.

When the daughter discovered that I had spent the past few weeks with Jane, she sat down next to me, eager for news of her. “You must tell her that we miss her very much. She has not come to London this year. Will she visit on her way back to Bath, do you think?” Before I could reply there was a faint rumble from the street outside. “Is that Madame?” Marie Marguerite and her mother were on their feet in an instant.

I stayed where I was, listening to the conversation, all spoken in French, that drifted to me from the hall. From her voice I would have supposed Eliza to be much younger than she was. She was in good humor, pleased at having found someone to repair her harp quickly and delighted with a new Mameluk cap she had purchased from a milliner in the Strand. I heard Madame Bigeon tell her that Henry was back from Godmersham. Then she was informed of my presence in the house and the reason for my visit to London. There was a moment of silence.

“You say she is here to see a doctor? About her eyes?” There was no mistaking the note of suspicion in Eliza’s voice. I shrank back in my chair, apprehensive of what might be going through her head.

“Yes, Madame. She is a great friend of Miss Jane’s, you know; they have been writing a play together.”

“A friend of Jane’s?” I heard the brightness return. “She must take tea with me. And will you tell Monsieur Halavant that I will not be dining at home this evening—I ran into the Comtesse d’Antraigues in town and she begged me to accompany her to the Albany. Did Henry say whether he would be here this evening?” This question was put in an even manner, with no hint of emotion, as if it was a matter of no great importance to her if her husband came home or not. I didn’t hear Madame Bigeon’s reply, nor could I see if she had nodded or shaken her head. I wondered whether I would be Henry’s dinner partner that night. For all his good humor and lively talk, the thought of it made me uneasy. I felt as a goldfish must feel, swimming in a bowl as a cat approaches. I hoped that he would stay away and leave me to dine alone. Eliza took tea in the upstairs drawing room, a place of breathtaking elegance that ran the whole length of the first floor. Its overall effect was of unbounded treasure: there were gold clocks and candelabra, glittering chandeliers and gleaming statuary. Rich tapestries and huge gilded mirrors hung from the walls, while the ceiling was painted with scenes of clouds and cherubs. There were ottomans piled with richly embroidered cushions and oyster-colored lambrequins hung at the windows. The arms and legs of chairs glinted with more gold leaf, reminding me of the joke of Henry’s that Jane had repeated.

Eliza looked perfectly at home in these dazzling surroundings. She rose to greet me as Marie Marguerite ushered me in, holding out her hands to clasp mine. She was easily recognizable as the girl in the portrait despite the twenty years that had elapsed since it was painted. Her eyes, though darker than Jane’s, gave away the Austen connection: they had that same lively, mischievous look I had seen so many times in the past few weeks. But her frame was very different: standing side by side I guessed that Jane would be head and shoulders taller than her cousin. Eliza’s hands in mine were like rabbit paws in cabbage leaves.

My apprehension at meeting her was quickly dispelled by her easy manner. She plied me with questions about myself, but did it in such a way as not to appear intrusive, only interested and concerned. When I told her that I had obtained work as a governess after the death of both my parents, she shook her head sympathetically. She said that never a day passed when she did not mourn her own mother, who had been her wisest counselor, best helpmate, and dearest friend.

She didn’t mention her father but went straight into talk of Jane’s papa, the Reverend Austen, who, she said, had so resembled her own mother in features that it had given her much comfort to look upon him after her passing. “Is Jane very much distressed, still?” she asked. “She covers it well in her letters, but I fear the loss of him has cut very deep with her. Henry seems much less affected; he has a bright spirit that cannot be dimmed for long.” She smiled as she said it, but I thought it a weary smile.

“I think that she was quite afflicted when she arrived at Godmersham,” I replied, remembering her brimming eyes when she greeted her brother. “But I hope that the country air and the change of scene have had a good effect on her state of mind.” As the words came out of my mouth I thought that this remark was not quite true; for the benefits of the visit to Godmersham had surely been eclipsed by what I suspected Jane had seen on the night of the ball. Perhaps Eliza saw something of this in my face, for her next question was about Henry.

“Has my husband been enjoying himself in Kent?” she asked. “I believe he was attending the Canterbury races?”

I reached for my teacup, mumbling a reply into it, so concerned was I that my expression would give me away.

“What was that?” she went on. “A ball, you said?”

“Er… there were… two, actually…” I faltered, waiting for her countenance to change.

To my surprise she let out a peal of laughter. “Two balls! Trust Henry to make the most of an opportunity! He would have been in good company, I suppose, with all the military men stationed thereabouts. He was a soldier, once you know.”

I said that I did not know and she told me how he had confounded his family by running off to join the militia when he was still at Oxford, studying to be a clergyman. “It is amusing, isn’t it?” she said, noticing the upward movement of my eyebrows. “The idea of Henry standing up in a pulpit giving sermons! He is much better, I think, at talking people into parting with their money…” She trailed off with a mischievous look that creased the corners of her eyes.

I remembered Madame Bigeon’s scornful dismissal of the marriage proposal by the older brother, James. I wondered if Henry had given up the church in his quest to win Eliza.

“Tell me,” she went on. “How is the new baby? Henry says she has the Austen mouth, so perhaps she is talking already?” That impish smile again. If she had any inkling of the thing I had lain awake fretting about, she was very adept at hiding it.

“She is a little young for that yet,” I replied, returning her smile, “although her brothers and sisters never cease coaxing her.”

“What a busy household it must be! I must confess I sometimes lose count of them. What is it now—four daughters and five sons? Am I right?”

I nodded and she shook her head, as if the thought of so many children made her dizzy. “I suppose there will be another on the way before long,” she went on, “and that will make ten—a good, round number, don’t you think?” She said it with a wry glance that could have meant something or nothing.

“A good, round number, yes,” I agreed. I had very nearly said something about the family’s luck in not having lost a single child thus far, but, remembering Eliza’s loss, I held my tongue.

“I have never known the joy of a brother or a sister,” she said. “Henry is very fortunate in that regard. He loves to visit Edward at Godmersham. Do you know, he has even written a poem about it?”

“A poem?” I said brightly. “Well, it is a very beautiful place.”

“Yes.” She nodded slowly. “He calls it ‘The Temple of Delights.’”

I swallowed a mouthful of tea so quickly that it went down the wrong way. When I looked up, she was staring at me with what looked like a mixture of concern and amusement. “Are you all right, Miss Sharp?” she asked. “Is the tea a little too hot for you?”

She had set the trap and I had fallen right into it. Now I struggled to get myself out. Jane, or rather the memory of her, came to my rescue.

“I beg your pardon, Madame,” I said, “but your mention of the poem brought to mind something I had quite forgotten.” Slipping my hand into my pocket I brought forth Jane’s letter to her cousin. “It was most remiss of me,” I went on, handing it to her. “I should have delivered it earlier.” At that moment Marie Marguerite appeared to clear the tea things and my audience was over.

“I hope you will not mind eating with
Maman
and me tonight,” she said as she led me downstairs. “Monsieur Henry has brought two gentlemen home to dine with him.” I did not mind. After the encounter with Eliza, I felt like a bone unearthed by a couple of dogs, gnawed on by each in turn for the marrow it might yield. I wondered how Jane felt when she came here. A brother married to a cousin could be quite delightful, I imagined, with all the easy familiarity of a close family circle. But this did not appear to be a conventional marriage. Eliza was clearly no biddable wife. She seemed to be the mistress of herself, free from the burden of childbearing and wealthy enough to do as she pleased, with a husband whose presence or absence did not greatly disturb the rhythm of her life. What did Jane make of this partnership? What would a writer make of it? Were the characters in
The
Watsons
based on members of her own family? Was that why she had become despondent about the book and decided to give it up?

That evening I spent a comfortable few hours with Madame Bigeon and her daughter, talking mostly of Jane and the things she liked to do when she visited London.

“Have you heard her play the pianoforte?” the housekeeper asked.

“Oh yes,” I replied “She is much in demand in the evenings at Godmersham.”

“Last time she was here Madame held a soirée—and what an evening it was!” She threw up her hands, turning to her daughter. “How many musicians did we have, Marie Marguerite? Was it five singers and three harpists or the other way about?”

“No,
Maman
, it was three singers, a pianist, and a harpist. You should have seen the drawing room that night, Miss Sharp. The chimney piece was lit with a hundred tiny lanterns and there were flowers everywhere. We had so many guests—sixty-six of them, I counted—that they spilled out onto the landing and into the rooms upstairs. Monsieur Hastings came, of course, and when he heard how much Jane had enjoyed it, he invited her to accompany him and his wife to the opera the next night.” She arched her eyebrows. “He has his own box, you know.”