“I confess that I should hate to miss the denouement,” she replied excitedly, “if you can bear my company another hour, Jane.”
“It shall be my only prop. I move henceforth in enemy territory, my dear.”
She bade her carriage wait, and we ascended to the door; only to be greeted upon our entrance to the hall with a loud wailing and such a hullabaloo as may hardly be credited. Maids were everywhere dispatched at a run, and so distracted by the weight of their errands, that they could not stop for explanation; but the sounds of lamentation issued from the drawing-room, and it was thence we hastened.
It was Mr. Cranley I espied first, as I opened the door, standing by the mantel in an attitude of helpless bewilderment; Madame Delahoussaye was seated on the settee before him, her arms around her daughter. Fanny was prostrate with grief. Her blond curls were in disarray about her face, and her eyes were quite ugly with weeping.
“Whatever can be the matter?” I cried, heedless of my duty to Eliza at such a moment.
Madame raised her head, and shook it briefly, an injunction against further enquiry; and with evident relief, Mr. Cranley crossed to the door and escorted us back into the hall.
“I fear I am the agent of Miss Delahoussaye's distress,” he told us, “but there was no one else to bring the news, and hear it they must.”
“What news?” I enquired, with no little foreboding.
“Of Lieutenant Hearst,” the barrister said, and hesitated. “I have only just told his brother. There has been — a tragedy.”
“He is not — injured?” I said.
“I am afraid that he is dead.”
Eliza's horrified looks mirrored my own. “But how?” I cried.
“He shot himself,” Mr. Cranley said, “this morning, in the middle of Hyde Park.”
MR. CRANLEY, IT APPEARED, HAD BEEN SUMMONED TO A meeting with Lieutenant Hearst by messenger that very morning, and had arrived at the appointed hour and spot to find the gentleman asprawl in a park chair, blood streaming from a great wound in his temple.
“And there is no possibility that he was murdered? You are certain that he ended his own life?” I asked.
“Quite certain,” the barrister replied.”A pauper living in the Park had taken shelter under a neighbouring bush, and saw him do the deed.”
“And so you were summoned with the sole purpose of making the discovery.”
“And of retrieving this,” Mr. Cranley said, producing a plain piece of paper sealed with red wax. “It bears your name, Miss Austen.”
I took the letter from him, my fingers trembling slightly at the sight of the firm, careless hand that had written my name, and now should write no more. “But whatever can he have to say to me?”
“Perhaps it is a confession,” Eliza suggested.
I loosened the wax and unfolded the stiff paper.
St. James, London,
4 January 1803
My dear Miss Austen—
Or rather, my dear Jane — for so I shall always think of you, remembering moments too precious to let slip even in this last midnight of my mortal life. Were I granted one final hour of happiness, I should wish myself back at Scargrave House — leaning in the doorway of my room, waiting for some sight of you in the moonlight, with your hair tumbled about your face. It was so little time ago, and yet a life apart, for all that. I shall never, now, have the opportunity to pursue an acquaintance that might have been profitable to us both — but I forget. You were denied me long before, and by my own cursed conduct.
The men who hold sway over my future are to publish their determination on the morrow. I have learned already from one of their company that the terms are unfavourable to my continued prosperity, the maintenance of my reputation, and, perhaps most important, my claims to honour. With no fortune, and no consideration likely to be granted in future to one with a tarnished name — and furthermore, with Fanny Delahoussaye to consider — I have determined to tread the only honourable path remaining to a gentleman. Were I a rogue, I should book passage on a sure ship, and adventure my fate in a distant land; but I am only a soldier, after all, for whom duty is as a god.
I impose upon you only in this, Miss Austen: to ask that you look after Fanny. She has told me of your knowledge of our sad circumstance. She has her fortune, which, should it escape the clutches of her despicable mother, should preserve her against too great a calumny; but it must be preserved from Madame at all cost. I trust in your goodness.
Farewell, my dear Jane; in your hands, had we met sooner, I might yet have salvaged honour. But we are neither of us to blame for the vagaries of Fate.
I remain, etc.,
Lt. Thomas Hearst
“Damnable coward!” I exclaimed, forgetting myself in my anger, and employing such terms as my sailor brothers might, when similarly pressed; “he has killed himself rather than learn that he is cashiered. A ridiculous waste of a young life — and for what? Honour. The concerns of men are past all understanding!” In great perturbation of spirit, I crumpled the letter in my palm and turned away from Eliza and Mr. Cranley, my boots ringing upon the marble of Scargrave's entryway.
“But does he admit to murdering the Earl and the maid?” Eliza persisted.
“The suicide smacks strongly of the presumption,” Mr. Cranley said.
I hastened to disabuse him. “The Lieutenant never mentions the murders, or any part he might have played on behalf of another; and with his death, all hope of further elucidation in that quarter must be finished.” Of Tom Hearst's tender words for myself, I said nothing; I had not yet learned to comprehend them. “Though we may feel as strongly persuaded as ever of his motives, his opportunity, and his guilt, we shall never have proof.”
“We might yet present his end as a part of our defence,” Mr. Cranley said, with evident hope.
“It is a pity.” Eliza's cherry mouth was pursed, and she tapped her lips with an elegant finger. “Since he planned to end his life, the poor man might readily have taken the blame, and allowed the others to go free. There is a certain selfishness about the act, would not you agree, Jane?”
“All suicide is selfish,” I said, distractedly, “it is only a question of degree. I fear poor Fanny will feel it most strongly.”
“Miss Delahoussaye — was she—” Mr. Cranley began, and then faltered, blushing crimson.
“She was not formally engaged,” I said carefully, “but I believe she had reached a certain understanding with the young man.”
“From her grief, I had assumed as much,” the barrister said, his face crestfallen; “there is no answer to such anguish.”
“You may find, Mr. Cranley,” I said, not unkindly, “that where Miss Delahoussaye is concerned, time is your friend.”