I assented, and entered the darkened hut, which was filled with smoke; the unglazed windows were covered with oiled cloth, and only heightened the murkiness of the atmosphere. The child I had seen by the door was hiding under the table; another sat in a corner, worrying a lock of its hair; and I perceived Jenny to be yet again in a certain condition. The lot of women is indeed a cruel one — either die an old maid, reviled and unprovided, or die of hard work and childbed, both too liberally bestowed.
“You've come from the big house,” she said. “It's not often a lady seeks out the farm.”
“I am presently staying at the Manor,” I replied, “and though it appears I have been walking for pleasure, in fact I am come to speak with you.”
She looked her surprise, and was at a loss; and so provided a chair that I might more comfortably explain myself.
“Mrs. Barlow, I have sought you out of instinct rather than clear purpose,” I began, taking the proffered seat, “and I hope that in speaking with you, I may know better how you are to help me. You are, of course, aware of the death of Lord Scargrave?”
“Yes, God be praised,” she said quickly, and half under her breath.
“And why should such a death be cause for thankfulness?” I asked.
“He were an awful wicked man, the Earl,” Jenny answered, “awful wicked. I have reason to know it.”
“That is very strong language, certainly.” I paused to survey Jenny Barlow's countenance, but she did not look the sort of girl to strike out blindly, from malice or an envy of her betters. “Has Lord Scargrave had cause to injure you, my dear?” I enquired, feeling a sudden conviction of its truth.
“Hurtin’ was as natural to him as breathin,” At that she fell silent, and from the way she glanced furtively around the hut, seemed to regret having said as much; I did not probe her further, but advanced on another tack.
“The night of the Earl's death,” I told her, “I had occasion to overhear Mr. George Hearst pronounce the name of Rosie Ketch. I understand that she is your sister. Is Mr: Hearst known to you?”
“That he is, and a truer man never lived.”
Such fervour, for the melancholy ecclesiastic! I remembered the vigour of George Hearst's words, when speaking to his uncle about Rosie Ketch; and wondered at such a dour young man in the role of lady's champion. It was a role better played by his gallant brother. Jenny Barlow turned her head at a disturbance by the doon Her eyes widened in alarm.
“‘Ere, what's ‘is?” demanded a burly fellow, leaning heavily in the doorway. “Somebody from tha Maner? Well, we wants nothin’ of the likes of you, I warrant. Be off with ye!”
“No, Ted!” Jenny Barlow cried, “the lady is but resting along her way. She meant no ‘arm.”
Ted Barlow, for so I divined him to be, reeled toward his wife, the pungent scent of barley and hops preceding him, and cuffed her a stiff blow to the side of her head. I confess I could not repress a sharp cry at the injustice of it, but the lout paid me no heed, so intent was he upon the poor creature in his power.
“Mixin’ wit’ the quality, are ye? And look where ‘at's got you afore!” He swept a beefy hand toward his children, who cowered away from him. “A passel of brats, and no bread for the table. That's for quality,” he said, and spat upon the floor.
I deemed it wise at this juncture to depart, but paused at the hut's jamb long enough to seek Jenny Barlow's eye. “If you should need me, Mrs. Barlow,” I said, “simply ask the way to Miss Austen.”
I RETURNED ALONG THE SNOWY LANE IN SOME PERTURBATION, and with the leisure of three miles to give it full compass. That the late Lord Scargrave had marred the young girl's life in some way, and that her husband still harboured a bitter grudge, was evident. I considered it no less likely that her sister Rosie was encompassed in Jenny Barlow's cares. How the harm had been effected remained a mystery; tho’ I was just enough apprised of the ways of the world to think it possible the Earl had forced his attentions upon his milkmaid. There are precedents in history for it enough. I must wait, however, for the bestowing of Jenny's confidence; given time and further thought, the girl may resolve to seek me out, and unburden herself willingly.
I was but a few hundred yards from the paddock where I had ridden Lady Bess the previous afternoon; and at a nicker from the fence, I turned and saw her lovely chestnut nose stretched towards me appealingly.
“I have no sugar; Bess,” I warned as I approached, “nor yet a piece of apple. But if you like, I shall rub your nose, and promise to visit on the morrow.”
The mare bent her nostrils to my gloved hand, and I stood there some moments, scratching the short hairs between her ears and along the bridge of her face, marvelling at the liquid depths of her enormous eyes. It was then that a movement beyond her withers surprised me; I looked up, and caught sight of a bonneted head ducking into a shed to the left of the far paddock gate, on the nether side of the wintry field from where I stood. The lady's pelisse was of a rich cherry, frogged round with black braid, and of a style to be worn by only one person — Fanny Delahoussaye! Perhaps she had come to ride, the better to win the Lieutenant's heart.
Lady Bess blew out a gusty breath, impatient for attention, and at that moment Fanny reappeared, unconscious of my presence, and slipped back through the gate towards the house. Her entire aspect declared her errand a furtive one.
There was no gate in the fence before me — just the one, well around the field. I looked about to see that I was unobserved, swiftly mounted the lower rail, and swung myself, skirts and all, over the fence to stand beside a surprised Lady Bess. Then I set off across the snow-crusted grass, holding my hem above my ankles, the horse trotting alongside in evident enjoyment of the lark.
It was a small outbuilding, no more than a storage shed for hay, really, and possessed of nothing in itself that might appeal to Fanny Delahoussaye. I bent my head to peer inside, and saw immediately what she had left — a small leather pouch tied with a string. I picked it up, and from the weight and jingle knew the purse to contain a quantity of coins.
Fanny, leaving money for an unknown? How very singular. She was not the sort to engage in eccentric philanthropy, of an anonymous kind; more the reverse. Was this a payment for services — of a sort better unpublished in the light of day? There was no note, no sign of the intended recipient; and I did not like to open the pouch itself. I set it back upon the straw in some perplexity. It must remain another mystery, to be resolved another day.
UPON REGAINING THE GREAT HOUSE, I WAS CAUGHT UP in a whirl of maids and footmen toing and froing; a strange carriage was at the door, with a coat of arms upon it, and baggage was being stowed behind I entered the house in haste, fumbling at the strings of my bonnet, and was in time to see Isobel exiting the Earl's study.
I was not, however, allowed to rejoice in her presence, fully dressed in her sombre widow's weeds and becomingly coiffed; for from her expression, the Countess was in great tumult of mind.
“My dear,” I cried, all concern for her distress, “whatever can be the matter?”
She halted in the chill hall, the only still figure in the midst of her servants. Then, with neither a word nor a look, she brushed past me for the stairs.
“Isobel—” I began, but she continued silently on her way, never heeding me. I turned towards the library door in consternation. What could Fitzroy Payne have done to so destroy my friend?
But it was not the Earl who was the agent of Isobel's misery. Lord Harold was within, standing by the fire with a cigar and a glass of Port. One look at his face told me he had triumphed finally in his relentless pursuit of Isobel's Barbadoes plantations; Crosswinds was hers no more. I understood, now, the flurry about the coach drawn up to the door. Having gained his object, Harold Trowbridge had no further use for Scargrave.