Sylvester Chizzlewit threw up his hands; Eliza had recourse to her vinaigrette; and so we three parted for the remainder of our precious day — each of us bent upon securing the confidence of some one of those we suspected.

Chapter 15

A Calculated Misstep

Friday, 26 April 1811, cont.

WHEN MANON HAD CLOSED THE DOOR ON MR. Chizzlewit, she turned resolutely and said, “He is too young, that one. It is to be setting un enfant against the likes of ces salopards of Bow Street, yes? But if you will not have Monsieur Henri to know—”

“Monsieur Henri is bound for Oxford on Sunday,” I replied, “and cannot be troubled with this business. That young man is a solicitor — and naturally I should wish to consult with him, when under threat of the Law.”

The maid lifted her shoulders in that most Gallic of gestures. “Do not talk to me of the Law! Do you know they have had poor Druschka to that inn in Covent Garden, and made her answer their questions? Bah!”

“You would mean the inquest? Indeed, I heard her testimony myself. I cannot recall, however, that she was forced to an indiscretion—”

“It is the judgement she cannot abide! Suicide! And Prince Pirov — the dead one’s so-Russian brother — has enjoined Druschka to silence; not a question, not a protest, may she utter in his hearing. She told me the whole, not an hour after the household was returned from the Brown Bear.” Manon glanced at me under her eyelashes. “We have taken to meeting, vous savez, in Cadogan Place, for our exercise.”

“Have you, indeed?” I regarded Manon with interest. “Would Druschka take flight if I were to accompany you — on your exercise tomorrow?”

The French maid folded her hands. “But no. What she desires is justice — and I have told her my mistress desires it too.”

FROM HENRY’S DESCRIPTION, ONE WOULD THINK that Francis Rawdon Hastings, the second Earl of Moira, was an engaging buck of the first stare, slap up to the echo, and alive upon every suit. In truth he is a man of nearly sixty years of age, sadly given to corpulence, lacking in most of his teeth and hair — and is notable mainly for having survived such bosom-bows as Charles James Fox and my own Lord Harold. He is the indifferent father of a son and heir — the indifferent owner of a series of estates, all heavily mortgaged — and lives in contented alienation from his wife. It did not require Henry’s circumspection to inform me that the Earl was in the habit of supporting a different High Flyer each Season — for what man of position and birth should do less, when convention required of him no more?

And indeed, when we came upon the Earl after a quarter-hour’s desultory ramble along Hyde Park’s gravel, it was to discover his blood chestnuts fretting at their bits, and his lordship pulled up near a woodland path of primroses in full flower. He was beaming down with avuncular fondness at a blushing picture of beauty — none other than the celebrated courtesan, Julia Radcliffe, whose matched greys were apparently languishing in their stables. The divine Julia had adopted a parasol, the better to twirl with indolence, and pursued her demure way in the company of Harriette Wilson. I had an idea of the two Barques sailing regally against the Park’s current of respectable humanity, the better to stare the male half of the Fashionable World full in the face — and perhaps to be taken up in a curricle or two.

“There is the Earl now!” I declared brightly.

“But he is engaged,” Henry said.

Poor Henry — always so solicitous of his sister’s morals, and to such little purpose. He secured my hand — which was drawn through his arm — and would have dragged me past the blood chestnuts without a word of salutation to his lordship.

“Fiddlestick,” I muttered. “It is only a bit of the Muslin Company. If he is a gentleman, he will bid them adieu.”

“But if I wish to be taken for a gentleman,” my brother muttered in return, “I should never carry my sister into the orbit of such a pair! You cannot know who they are, Jane. Walk on.”

There was nothing to be done — my brother’s scruples were too severe — and thus I was forced to rely on a woman’s ingenuity. I gave a little lurch, and a soft cry, half broken-off — and sank to the ground as gracefully as my brother’s grip would allow.

“Henry!” I cried in failing accents. “My ankle! Oh, pray that it may not be broken!”

He gave me a darkling look, but bent immediately to examine the offending foot — and in another moment, I was surrounded by exactly the interesting party whose notice I had hoped to excite.

“Are you unwell?” Harriette Wilson enquired, without the least ceremony. “May we be of assistance?”

I do not suppose she can have been much above five-and-twenty; an intriguing creature whose looks were neither classic nor regular — but whose countenance was suffused with good humour and mischief. Her eyes snapped, her dimples were numerous; but I think I may say without prejudice that her bloom had begun to go off. I had known of Harriette Wilson’s fame nearly eight years before, when in her teens she had figured as the mistress of our Hampshire neighbour, Lord Craven — who bored her so dreadfully, she abandoned him for Frederick Lamb; but the intervening years of high living and late hours had sadly ravaged her complexion.[17]  She was looking hagged, not to put too fine a point upon it — and the paint she employed to supplement Nature, contrasted painfully with Julia Radcliffe’s unblemished youth.

“My ankle,” I said soulfully. “I turned my boot upon the gravel — just there — and felt the most tiresome spurt of pain. Pray do not concern yourself — my brother, Mr. Austen, shall do all that is necessary—”

“Austen?” exclaimed Lord Moira, giving his reins to his tyger, and easing his bulk from the curricle. “So it is, to be sure — your servant, Mr. Austen — and you have quite the look of him, my dear, quite the look of your excellent brother.”

“It does not appear to be badly bruised,” Miss Wilson observed, gathering up her jonquil muslin to crouch in the dust of the carriageway, “but ankles are treacherous, are they not? I once turned mine, while strolling along the Steyne in Brighton, and was forced to enlist the aid of Prinny.”[18]  Her black eyes sparkled suddenly with mischief. “In point of truth, I had not entirely turned my foot — but I did so long to see the interior of the Pavilion! Very naughty of me, was it not?”

“But then, you are the naughtiest of creatures,” Julia Radcliffe volunteered, in a voice that held all the soft caress of finest silk. “You have all our concern and interest, ma’am — but I think perhaps we are de trop in such company. Come along, Harriette!”

Lord Moira lifted his hat to the two Cyprians as they swayed off down the gravel under a single parasol, then said, with delightful perspicacity, “You must be in considerable discomfort, ma’am. May I have the honour of conveying you to your brother’s house — or anywhere else in the Kingdom?”

I glanced at Henry, who was looking less anxious than resigned. “You are too good, sir. But the indisposition is very trifling — I am sure that if my brother will lend me his support—”

Henry lifted me to my feet and said, “Lord Moira, I do not think you met my sister in Sloane Street on Tuesday last — may I introduce Miss Jane Austen to your acquaintance?”

“Pleasure.” The gentleman bowed over my glove with an audible creak of his stays, while I hung on Henry’s arm and endeavoured to look wan.

“My sister is on a visit to London, sir, of several weeks’ duration,” Henry persisted.

“Indeed? And how do you find the Metropolis, Miss Austen?”