Chapter 14

A Drawing-Room Cabal

Friday, 26 April 1811, cont.

THO’ ALL THE WORLD HAD BEEN PRESENT AT THE Princess’s inquest, Lord Moira was not — and the gentleman’s failure to appear was felt to be a vexation.

“I cannot be certain the Earl has breakfasted,” Henry said diffidently as we quitted the Bear, “and should hesitate to call in Brook Street at such an hour.”

“But it is nearly noon!”

Henry glanced at me pityingly. “You do not know the habits of the Carlton House Set. Besides, Jane — I am the man’s banker, not his intimate. I am in the habit of meeting him here in Henrietta Street — not in his drawing-room, of a spring morning.”

“It is essential I should speak with him, Henry.”

“Indeed?” There was mockery in his tone; he thought me a vulgar dabbler in Princess Tscholikova’s misery.

“And not only under the impulse of curiosity,” I persisted. “Recollect that Lord Harold’s bequest charged me with drawing up his memoirs! Lord Moira was his lordship’s friend — admitted to his confidence — cognizant of the intrigues of Whiggish life. It must be expected that I should wish to canvass the past with one who apprehended so much of Lord Harold’s world.”

“I suppose we might send the Earl a line.” Henry’s very stride suggested doubt. “But I cannot entirely depend upon him answering such a note — or indeed, failing to mislay it! It is Moira’s custom to forget much of what he ought to remember, I dare swear.”

“—Such as his obligations, in the matter of debt?”

“He should never fail to pay a debt of honour — one contracted in deep play. Such sums are the first to be satisfied among men of the Earl’s cut. It is their tailors and tradesmen who are obliged to wait.”

“And their bankers? I will not require you to disclose the exact figure, Henry — but how deeply is his lordship beholden to Austen, Maunde and Tilson?”

My brother attempted an air of amusement. “A very trifling amount, I assure you. But this is unbecoming, Jane, to nose so deep into a gentleman’s pocket! Or do you hope to gain the upper hand by such knowledge, and have the Earl entirely in your power?”

“The Earl may ride deep into Dun Territory for all

I care — but you may not,” I returned.[14]  “James Tilson is anxious, Henry. He has many burdens to consider — and less affection for the Great than you or Eliza.”

“I should never fail Tilson — tho’ his circumspection does grow tiresome. You must believe me, Jane, when I say that all such anxiety is misplaced! To speak only of Lord Moira — his credit is unimpeachable. His lordship has the ear of the Prince Regent. He was a member of the Ministry of All Talents, and has twice since refused posts in Cabinet.[15]  If His Royal Highness holds the Earl in trust, why should not I? What greater surety can a banker demand, than the friendship and esteem of the highest Influence in the Kingdom?”

If I considered privately of the staggering nature of the Regent’s debts — how he had been pressed to appeal to Parliament for the satisfaction of them, upon the occasion of his marriage — how the pub-lick cost of so expensive an Influence had surpassed some six hundred thousand pounds to date, over and above an annuity of sixty thousand pounds he had been granted as Prince of Wales, and the still larger income for which he hinted continuously, now that he was made Regent — I said nothing of my doubts to Henry. It is not for Jane, who must scrape and contrive on a mere fifty pounds per annum, to question a banker’s calculation of the odds.[16]

“I must believe that the best and simplest manner of forming an acquaintance with Lord Moira would be to throw myself in his way,” I mused. “What a pity I did not force the introduction at Eliza’s party! But he was surrounded by gentlemen — appeared generally to be holding court — and I did not like to put myself forward. What are his lordship’s habits, pray?”

Henry grimaced. “He prefers cards above everything — pound points at whist, naturally — tho’ his luck has been devilish out of late. And he may always be found tooling his curricle in the Park — likes to be seen to exercise his blood chestnuts, and thinks himself an excellent whip. He is nothing, mind, to your late lamented Lord Harold. Now there was a horseman!”

We had come to a halt before the door of Henry’s banking establishment, in Henrietta Street; here our ways must part. My brother, however, was in no hurry to be rid of me. “Such a string of hunters as were sold at Tatt’s, Jane, when his lordship stuck his spoon in the wall! His matched greys went to his nephew the marquis, I believe.”

This sudden glimpse of Town Life as the Rogue had led it — drives in the Park, no doubt with a string of females to equal his taste in horses, hunting parties in Leicestershire, mornings in a Belcher handkerchief among the members of the Four-in-Hand Club — was so vivid and painful as to bring a lump to my throat. I could not speak for a moment, then managed with tolerable composure: “At what hour would a fashionable gentleman of a certain age be likely to tool his chestnuts through the Park?”

“Let us say — four o’clock.”

“It will do very well. Are you at leisure to stroll with me at that hour, Henry? Or shall affairs of business claim you?”

“I am always at leisure,” he retorted as he hailed me a passing hackney, “to watch you embroil yourself in trouble, Jane.”

AS MY HIRED CONVEYANCE PULLED UP BEFORE NO. 64 Sloane Street a quarter-hour later, I was gratified to observe a gentleman in the act of descending the few steps to the flagway: Sylvester Chizzlewit, neat and elegant as a pin. He helped me alight — insisted upon paying off the jarvey — and offered his arm as tho’ the distance from street to threshold were too precarious for a lady to suffer unaided. The solicitor could not be more than seven-and-twenty, but his well-bred ease suggested a man long schooled in service to the ton. I felt an hundred years old.

“How fortunate that I was not a moment previous,” he murmured. “I should then have missed you, Miss Austen, and left only my card.”

I disposed of my pelisse and hat while Manon took Mr. Chizzlewit’s walking-stick, her eyes decorously cast down.

“Is Madame Henri at home to visitors?” I asked.

“I shall enquire.” Manon bobbed a curtsey; she was rarely so schooled in the rôle of servant, preferring to regard herself as a trusted lady’s companion. Perhaps some odour of the Law clung to the solicitor’s person, and urged her to appear the pattern-card of respectability.

I led Sylvester Chizzlewit into the front drawing-room, where the looking-glass Eliza had borrowed for her party still winked above the mantel. A fire burned in the grate, in defiance of spring. As Messrs. Skroggs and Black had left a palpable chill on the household, the crackling glow was comforting.

“Your haste in answering my plea is a mark of generosity I must regard with gratitude, Mr. Chizzlewit.”

“The tone of your missive, which I read but an hour ago in chambers, suggested that haste was vital,” he observed.

“Won’t you sit down?”

He waited for me to take one of Eliza’s Louis XV chairs, then disposed himself on a settee. “I collect you wish to discuss a matter of some delicacy.”

“As the affair concerns not only myself, but my nearest relations—”

I broke off as the drawing-room door opened to admit Eliza, unwontedly correct in a sober gown of grey Frenched twill. A square of lawn was clutched in her right hand, and her countenance bore all the marks of a sleepless night; but she was, as ever, remarkably handsome. At the sight of Mr. Chizzlewit’s elegant figure, her mouth formed a breathless O.