Eliza was already in transports over a quantity of satin ball gloves offered at a shockingly cheap price, and I left her to the business of turning over the fingers, and exclaiming at the fineness of seams, and went in search of my sister’s green crewel. I had an idea of her heart’s desire: a length of Irish linen, worked with embroidered knots or flowers in a deep, mossy green, that should feel like the breath of spring when she wore it — or perhaps a bolt of muslin cloth lately shipped from Madras, with figures of exotic birds or flowers in a similar hue. Cassandra is in general so little inclined to the pursuit of fashion, that I must credit my unexpected fortune in having secured a publisher for my book, and being treated to six weeks in London at the height of the Season, to having inspired her with a vaulting ambition. In her mind she envisioned the sort of delights that had been denied us for the better part of our girlhood — the frivolity of women of means. She had an idea of the Canterbury

Races in August, in the company of our elegant brother Edward — Cassandra arrayed in a dashing gown that everyone should admire, and know instantly for the work of a London modiste. I was to be the agent of fulfilling her dream. She asked so little of me in the general way that I felt I could not do otherwise than execute this small commission. My sister and I have reached the age when the pleasures of dress must compensate for the lack of other blessings — such as deep, abiding love — that will not fall in our way again.

I had succeeded in discovering the Irish linen, and was fingering its weave somewhat doubtfully, when a cool voice enquired at my elbow, “Miss … Austen, is it not? May I enquire whether your poor ankle is quite recovered?”

It was Julia Radcliffe.

The Barque of Frailty wore a gown of pale blue muslin, arrayed with a quantity of pin tucks drawn up close about the throat — an elegant, modest, and wholly becoming gown for a slip of a girl, as she undoubtedly was. A straw jockey bonnet was perched on her golden curls, and her hands bore gloves of York tan; the whole afforded a picture of perfection that betrayed nothing of her calling. I could well believe what Eliza had told me — that Julia Radcliffe had been reared in one of the first families, and despite the events that had led to her being cast off, she retained an elegance of person that owed everything to breeding and taste. Her maid stood a few yards behind her, quietly supporting a quantity of purchases — Miss Radcliffe was certainly on the point of quitting the linendraper’s.

“Thank you,” I stammered. “You are very good to enquire — the ankle is perfectly mended. Lord Moira was very chivalrous, was he not, in insisting I should be borne immediately from the gravel? I am sure that I suffered no further indisposition solely because of his care.”

“Lord Moira is all politeness,” Miss Radcliffe returned, with a gleam of laughter in her looks. “A lady has only to fall at his feet for him to lift her up with pleasure! I am glad you did not incur a lasting injury. And now I am going to test your good will further, and betray that I am well aware that odious man is dogging your footsteps. May I aid you in any way?”

I looked all my surprise. Was it possible she referred to Henry? And had he abandoned his position in the street?

“Perhaps you are unaware of it,” Miss Radcliffe amended. “He is somewhere behind me, taking great care to appear invisible — and thus must draw excessive attention to himself. Bow Street Runners invariably do.”

Bow Street Runners.

My cheeks flaming with colour, I glanced around Miss Radcliffe. There were so few gentlemen dotted among the crowd of women that the Runner’s round black hat and scarred visage were instantly perceptible. Bill Skroggs.

He was turning over a set of fashion plates displayed on a gilt stand, as tho’ intent upon securing the latest kick of the mode — but as I stared at him, aghast, his gaze rose to meet mine. He must have read my consternation in my looks, for a slow smile o’erspread his countenance, and he raised his hat with savage amiability.

“I shall not press you to disclose why that scoundrel makes you the object of his chivalry,” Miss Radcliffe said evenly, “but should you ever require assistance, Miss Austen, you may be assured of mine. He has earned an implacable hatred.”

She nodded, and would have passed on without another word — but the suggestion of pride in her carriage, the fear of being rebuffed by an outraged and respectable woman, urged me to call after her, “Miss Radcliffe!”

She turned.

I was tempted to ask how Skroggs had made her his enemy — but found I could not presume so far on acquaintance.

“That is a very fetching hat,” I said lamely. “May I know where you obtained it?”

“At Mademoiselle Cocotte’s,” she replied, a dimple showing, “but you should be shockingly out of place there, I am afraid. You would do better to mention the style at Mirton’s. They will have what will suit you, there. Good day, Miss Austen.”

Bill Skroggs was not alone in following Miss Radcliffe’s passage from Grafton House — she could not fail to command the attention and envy of many wholly unknown to her — but I profited from the Runner’s momentary inattention to myself to put as much distance between us as possible.

Eliza had abandoned the gloves for a selection of swansdown trimmings.

“Only look, Jane! Three shillings per ell! I must and will have a quantity. It would do very well to trim a new pelisse — if I could have one made … ”

“The counters are too crowded, Eliza, and consider of Henry! We must abandon our errand and return at a better hour.”

“Perhaps you are right.” She sighed. “I am all too often prey to a kind of madness that overcomes me in this place — and find myself returned home with packets of goods for which I have not the least use! But oh, Jane! Feel the softness of this paisley shawl— and quite reasonably priced too! I saw just such another in Bond Street for nearly fifty guineas, and here they want only ten! Conceive of the saving!”

“Henry, Eliza,” I said firmly, and steered her through the throng to the door. I did not attempt to determine if Bill Skroggs was in pursuit; the mere fact of his presence in Grafton House informed me that he was spying upon us — and intended that we should know it. The Runner hoped to haunt our dreams, and so torment our waking hours that we must scatter like pheasants before a beater. I had too much pride to betray to the man that I was, indeed, frightened — that I met his appearance in this comfortable place with the deepest dismay. My energy was now bent upon shielding my brother from all knowledge of how we were pursued. Bill Skroggs should not cut up Henry’s peace — or Eliza’s — if I could help it.

Chapter 20

The Frustrate Heart

Saturday, 27 April 1811, cont.

“SHE IS COME,” MADAME BIGEON SAID CALMLY AS she closed the kitchen door and returned to her chair by the fire. “Manon has shown her to the saloon. We have now only to wait. The tea, it is hot enough, yes?”

“Quite hot,” I returned in a whisper, “but pray, Madame, hush!”

The housekeeper had established me at the oak work table with a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits, the better to fend off anxiety while we endured the Comtesse d’Entraigues’s interview. We had barely returned from our expedition to Grafton House— Henry grumbling that it had proved to be a fool’s errand — before the hour of the Frenchwoman’s visit was upon us; and my brother was very glad to hie himself off to his club immediately, maintaining that he had some letters of business to write, that could only be undertaken in the sanctity of the Members’ Room.

The kitchen door was quietly opened, and Manon slipped within, bearing the Princess Tscholikova’s journal beneath her arm. “I am to bring them sherry,” she observed sotto voce, “and then busy myself about the hall, so as to be close at hand if la comtesse grows ugly in her manner.”