“Thank you, my dear,” Isobel said when I had finished, and folding the heavy sheet, she placed it in my hands. “It is yours, now, for safekeeping. Do you take it to my solicitor^ Mr. Hezekiah Mayhew of Bond Street, at the first opportunity.”

“My darling girl,” I said, deeply affected, “it cannot yet be time for such despair! Much may occur before this paper is wanted.”

“It is best to prepare for the worst, Jane, since the worst is all that is left to me. Unhappy Isobel! God be praised that Frederick's eyes are closed! The horror, did he see me so reduced to infamy — and by one that he had loved,” she cried, her hands clutching at her hair in distraction. “Faithless Fitzroy! Blackest of men, who can wear such a noble face!”

“Isobel.” I reached for her tearing fingers and held them firmly in my own. “How can you speak so? The Earl's fate is as desperate as yours, and he suffers it with like innocence. Surely you do not believe otherwise?”

“I saw the note myself, Jane,” my friend said contemptuously. “I saw what he had written, I saw it was in his hand. You found it yourself on poor Marguerite's mangled body. Do not you see what he has done? The maid was right all the while. Fitzroy is my husband's murderer. Fitzroy was discovered by Marguerite, who endeavoured to make his treachery known. And Fitzroy ensured that the maid should speak no more.”

“Do not believe it, Isobel,” I cried.

“Are you mad, Jane?” The Countess rose restlessly from her desk and commenced pacing before the fire. “What else would you have me believe? That I am guilty of their deaths myself? You need not assay the longer. Know that I feel as guilty as though my very hands extinguished their lives. It was my blind partiality for Fitzroy — my vanity, my desire for admiration, my weakness in the face of passion — that encouraged him in evil. He saw my fatuous trust, and he used it to his ends. / was the one intended for blame in Frederick's death, while he took all my husband's wealth. But Marguerite confounded Lord Scargrave's plans, by keeping his deadly letter on her person.”

The Countess halted before her late husband's portrait and gazed upward in contrition. “I betrayed you, Frederick, if only in my heart; but in my heart, I have already died for it.”

I felt behind me for some support, overcome by the breadth of her apprehensions, and found it in her bedpost. I leaned against it with relief. “I fear that you are sadly mistaken, my dear, and will regret these words with time. Bite them back, I beseech you — recall them if you can — before they lodge too bitterly in your heart.”

Isobel gazed at me with feverish eyes. “Tell me, Jane! Tell me why you place your trust in Fitzroy, when your friend's is all blasted. Has he worked his charms upon you, while Isobel mourned for Frederick?”

“You know it to be impossible!” I exclaimed. “As impossible for one of his honour, as the murder of which you would now accuse him! Isobel, Isobel — were Fitzroy Payne capable of planning such a deed, he should never have left his note on the maid's person. He should be a fool to incriminate himself so publicly. The maid's true murderer would have us think otherwise; but I feel certain of the note's falseness.”

Isobel brushed by me with a strangled laugh. “I know his hand, Jane. Too often have I received it, in words of love as false as Fitzroy's character. No, my friend,” the Countess said, calmer now, “I will not share your foolish hopes. For where I am going, hope itself is more foolish still.”

28 December 1802, cont.

I LEFT ISOBEL ALONE, THOUGH I FELT A SICK HORROR AT her despair; and tried to ease my unhappy spirits in preparation for our London journey. In the midst of directing Martha about the packing, I was surprised by a gentle knock upon the chamber door. It opened to reveal Mrs. Hodges, an expression of anxiety on her features; and from her next words, I judged it to be the fear of committing an unwonted impropriety.

“I'm that sorry to disturb you, Miss Austen, and if you've not time for Jenny Barlow, I'll be pleased to tell her so. I cannot think what she can be about, seeking a lady at the kitchen garden door, and not to be put off by the news as you were leaving, but stubborn as a mule about having her say. I've left her in the butler's pantry, but will send her about her business at the least word.”

“Indeed, do not, Mrs. Hodges!” I cried. “You did right in seeking me out. Have her come to the little sitting-room directly, and I shall wait upon her there.”

The good woman did as she was told, though not without surprise; and giving some last direction to Martha, I hastened below.

Jenny Barlow looked less at ease, though frankly more suited, in the grandeur of even the little sitting-room, than she had appeared in her own smoke-filled hut; her golden hair looked well against the gilt of the picture frames, her eyes picked out the cornflower of the carpet, and, indeed, she might have posed forever; the very soul of a Dresden shepherdess, had I not disturbed her stillness.

“You're that good, miss, to see me, as I can never properly thank you for;” she said.

“Considering that you have undoubtedly defied your husband in coming to me, Mrs. Barlow, it is I who must consider myself the obliged,” I replied. I thought of seating myself and her; but foresaw the distress she might feel at adopting ease in such a room; she should perch on the corner of a chair; concerned lest her nankeen gown dirty its silk, and her anguish at being treated as her betters would forestall all conversation. I remained standing.

“Have you something to tell me?” I enquired gently.

“Yes — that is, no, ma'am.” She looked her distress and doubt of mind, then drew courage with her breath. “It's a favour as I would ask of you.”

“A favour?”

“Not on my own account, really, but on account o’ my poor sister Rosie, ma'am. Have you sisters of your own?”

“I have one sister;” I replied, “who is dearer to me than any in the world. How may I help you, Mrs. Barlow, that your husband cannot?”

“Ted won't have the knowing of Rosie,” she said in a low voice, “on account o* her trouble.”

“Her trouble? She is — to have a child, then?”

Jenny Barlow looked at me swiftly, then dropped her eyes to her own condition, which was increasingly apparent. “She's only seventeen, miss. Same as me when I had my first. But Ted stood by me, while Rosie … ‘tis a terrible misfortune for the girl.”

“She is not lodged here?”

Jenny shook her head. “She's gone off to London, as the Earl would have it. I've not heard word of her these many months; she never learned to read nor write, and the postage is that dear I couldn't send by her anyways. But you go to London today, I hear; and might have the seeing of her, did you take the trouble.”

“I should be glad to, Mrs. Barlow,” I assured her warmly, “and I will send word to you as to your sister's condition at the nearest opportunity. I take it,” I said uncertainly, “that you did learn your letters?”

She nodded. “Pa would have me do so. But Ma died of the having of Rosie, and he placed the pore mite with a woman here at Scargrave when he went into service elsewhere. She was that neglected in her schooling.”

“Let me know then where she is lodged,” I said, “and I shall do my best to seek her out.”

The young woman gave me the address — a not unrespectable street in South London — and consented to take my hand in farewell.

I know little more about Jenny Barlow's fate than I did at our last meeting by her own hearth, but judged it unwise to press her as to its particulars; she has the natural reticence of a born lady, and in the face of such dignity further enquiry would be in very poor taste. That I might hope to learn more of her history from her sister, is a possibility that did not escape me; and if I harbour such a stratagem, I hope it may not flavour too strongly of deceit towards such an unfortunate girl.