Page 10 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)

CHAPTER TEN

“Is Neddy returned?” Back at Rowling, Jane is impatient to confide in her brother. However distressing it will prove, she must tell him about the conversation she overheard in Mr. Furley’s office. They have a month to prevail on Mrs. Knight not to disregard her late husband’s wishes by bestowing all her wealth on an imposter. Eleanor is not an exotic princess and, like her father, Jane gives no credence to the belief that people can be possessed by demons—unless wickedness and a will to deceive count as evil sprites.

The most likely story is that she is a runaway servant determined to avoid being denounced as a vagrant. She may even have fallen into prostitution, if the horrible note from Captain Fairbairn is anything to go by. Perhaps Eleanor’s (if that is her real name) former employers were in trade, and that was where she picked up the bizarre foreign phrases. Her manufactured tongue, combined with her approximations of native costumes, may have been enough to convince the Wilmots and even Mrs. Knight of her provenance initially, but such naive attempts at deception cannot be sustained. Mrs. Knight is a well-travelled woman who is fluent in French. A few discreet enquiries by Neddy should cause Eleanor’s story to collapse as easily as a house of cards.

“I believe he’s here somewhere. Or, at the least, not far off.” Elizabeth reclines on the nursery sofa, reading to the children from a book of fables as Kitty rubs her swollen feet. Fanny crouches over her mother’s shoulder to see the illustrations, while Georgy sucks his thumb and rests with his eyes closed against her distended stomach.

“I must talk to him immediately. I’m afraid you’re correct in your suspicions about the motives of Mrs. Knight’s house guest.” Jane stops short of revealing the full extent of Eleanor’s schemes. “But fear not, I’m confident Ned and I can return his mother to her senses.”

“Obviously I’m correct. Did you think for a moment I wouldn’t be?” Elizabeth yawns. “I heard Edward tell Roger he was taking Conker for a drill. I tried to get him to take Ted, but he didn’t hear me call …”

On cue, Ted romps through the nursery on his hobbyhorse. Alice thunders after him, shaking the house as she admonishes her charge.

“Is that so?” Jane glances out of the window. Conker’s spotted body lopes past the pond, disappearing behind the drooping branches of a weeping willow. If Conker is in the garden, Neddy cannot have gone far. She will catch him when he returns for his dog. “Tell me, how long has Grace been in service at Godmersham Park?”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Knight’s maidservant, Grace. How long has she been in her employ?”

“I don’t know. It’s difficult keeping track of one’s own household. I can’t be expected to manage my mother-in-law’s as well.”

Jane looks to Kitty, who is staring rather intently at the ball of Elizabeth’s foot. “Might you know, Kitty?”

“Over ten years, miss.” Kitty blushes. “She’s my second cousin. If you remember, ma’am, I came to Rowling on Mrs. Knight’s recommendation. Grace asked for her assistance in finding me a place.”

“We can assume Grace is loyal to Mrs. Knight, then?”

Elizabeth straightens. “Why? Do you believe the servants are in league with the girl?”

“Not at all.” Jane shakes her head vehemently. She doesn’t want to be responsible for any false accusations. She has no proof Grace is conspiring with Eleanor, only that she does not appear to be working against her. “But she might prove a useful ally. Grace was left in charge of the girl while Mrs. Knight and I travelled to Canterbury.”

“Then you were granted a private interview with Mrs. Knight. Please tell me you took the opportunity to remind her of her obligations towards her son.”

“I …” Jane hesitates, she will not destroy Elizabeth’s equilibrium by telling her about Mrs. Knight’s instructions to her lawyer. Especially as she truly believes, if they work together, she and Neddy can easily expose Eleanor’s true identity and foil her plot to steal Mrs. Knight’s estates. “I certainly endeavoured to.”

“And do you think your words made any impression?”

Mrs. Knight’s rebuke echoes in Jane’s aching head. Who are you, Miss Austen, but a young lady of little experience and no consequence? “She was certainly struck by what I had to say.”

“Excellent. I admit I had my doubts about entrusting you with such a delicate commission, Jane, but it sounds as though you met with some success. Did you find something suitable for your new gown to be made up in while you were in town?”

“I did, yes. I bought some Indian muslin for only five shillings a yard.”

“Muslin? I said silk. Are you sure it’s fine enough?”

“Mrs. Knight said it was, and it meant I could afford to spend the rest of my allowance on a new pocketbook from the stationer on the high street.” Jane is already regretting this purchase. At eight shillings, it was quite expensive, and it was by no means a necessity as she has plenty of pages left to record her daily habits in her current book. She really should have bought some plain paper instead. If she continues to work on The Sisters at the pace she progressed this afternoon, she will exhaust her supply.

Elizabeth sniffs. “Don’t take her advice. Not unless you wish to attend the ball as one of Queen Charlotte’s ladies-in-waiting. When can Mrs. Green expect the muslin to arrive?”

“Actually, Mrs. Knight insisted I leave it with her dressmaker, since we were calling on her anyway.”

“Her dressmaker? I didn’t know she still had one. Tell me, Jane, how many identical black silk mantuas does one woman need?” Elizabeth laughs at her own joke while Jane experiences a pang on behalf of the widow. Mrs. Knight’s outmoded clothing is a symptom of her broken heart. She has not dispensed with her mourning attire or re-entered society as she continues to grieve the loss of her late husband. Unfortunately, her miserable isolation has left her vulnerable to manipulation. By taking Eleanor to her breast, she must be trying to fill the void left by the death of her great love. Jane must help her to see that Neddy and his young family should be her rightful solace.

“She seemed a very capable seamstress, and I saw several smart-looking young ladies leaving her premises.”

“I certainly hope you’re right.” Elizabeth rubs at her breast, grimacing.

“Are you well?”

“Perfectly so. My dinner is repeating on me, that’s all.”

“I should have brought you some of the nuns’ peppermint lozenges.”

“Nuns?” Elizabeth quirks an eyebrow.

Too late, Jane sees she has strayed into another thorny topic. She has no desire to break Mrs. Knight’s confidence—she is still smarting from her last rebuke. However, it was her overly generous payment for the convent’s produce that Jane swore to keep secret, not the existence of the makeshift nunnery. After all, everyone in the vicinity of Godmersham Park must know who Mrs. Knight’s tenants are. “The Benedictine sisters who are lodging at Briar Farm.”

Elizabeth shrieks, sitting bolt upright. Fanny wobbles, threatening to tip off the sofa, while Georgy lands face first in the newly vacant space behind his mother. “Are you telling me Mrs. Knight has let valuable farmland to the Roman Catholic Church?”

Jane rushes to comfort Georgy, whose face is as red as his mother’s. “Um, yes.”

“I bet that scheming wretch is one of them. They’ll have sent her to convert her to Rome. The next thing we know, she’ll have ripped up Mr. Knight’s will and transferred the whole estate to the Pope.”

“Whatever else she is, the girl is not a nun.” Jane recalls Captain Fairbairn’s horrid turn of phrase. Eleanor cannot be one of the sisters in disguise. She is Irish, not French, and of humble birth. “Mrs. Knight is simply being charitable in letting the sisters dwell in one of her vacant premises. They lost their home in the insurrection in France, and they’ve suffered tremendously.”

Elizabeth presses the heel of her hand against her breastbone. “They’re French? That’s even worse. They’ll be spies, out to incite sedition ahead of Bonaparte’s landing.”

Despite her best intentions, Jane appears to have added rather than taken away from Elizabeth’s concerns. “They’re trying to escape the Terror of the new regime, not import it.”

“There won’t be a penny left by the time she thinks of us. We have to stop this madness!”

“Beth, endeavour to remain calm.”

Elizbeth stands, rubbing her lower back frantically. “I knew I should have gone myself. One cannot entrust a child with a woman’s job.”

Jane turns to Kitty, who stares open-mouthed at the sudden commotion. “Could you possibly bring your mistress some tea?”

“Not tea. It prevents me from sleeping if taken this late in the day. Bring me port.” Elizabeth dismisses her maid before grasping Jane’s hands between her own. “Go and find Edward immediately. Make him swear he’ll speak to his mother. He must remind her of her late husband’s promise. Now, before it’s too late, and we’re all impoverished for the sake of that hussy.”

“I will. Please, try not to upset yourself.”

“Upset myself ? It’s not me, Jane. It’s all these vultures, closing in before she’s even dead. There’ll be nothing left by the time they’ve picked over her bones.”

“That will never happen. I give you my word.” Jane leads Elizabeth back to the sofa, pressing her to take a seat. She was right not to reveal Mrs. Knight’s intentions to her sister-in-law. If a harmless community of nuns taking refuge at Briar Farm is enough to provoke such a fit, how much further would the knowledge of Mrs. Knight’s conversation with her lawyer distress her? Elizabeth is already unwell, and Jane is meant to be ensuring she is protected at this precarious time for mother and baby.

“Here, miss.” Kitty returns, handing a glass of port to Jane, who passes it straight to Elizabeth. They both watch as she swallows it, then pauses to take a breath.

“Why do you remain? I said go, Jane. Quickly!”

Outside, Jane chases her brother’s shadow along the brick path. All around her, the roses are in full bloom, their heads too heavy for their sap-filled stems to hold upright. Instead, they loll about, like drunkards at the end of a supper party, enjoying themselves far too much to admit they have had their fill and must retire to bed. A chestnut arbour, covered with tangled vines of old man’s beard, marks the end of the garden. As Jane approaches, a latch clicks and Conker’s brown-and-white rear dashes through the open gate. Neddy is taking the dog out, albeit far later than he pretended to. She almost calls for him to wait when an unfamiliar voice silences her: “That’s what I keep telling you, sir. She’s lost to us now.”

“But you must at least attempt to recover her,” replies Neddy.

Jane sidesteps into the arbour, peeking around the vines, like a curtain, to see her brother standing toe-to-toe with a man in the lane. The stranger’s face is half obscured by a knitted hat, pulled low over his brow. Conker sits, begging, at the feet of his wide-legged trousers. It’s easy to tell why. Even from a distance of ten feet, the man reeks of fish. “I can’t, sir, it’s impossible.”

Neddy removes his tall-crowned hat, raking his fingers through his golden curls. “No, Spooner. Tell me it’s not too late, that you can get her back.”

“It’s no good pleading with me, sir. She ’s claimed her now, and that’s it.” Spooner spits on the dusty ground. Ever since Jane arrived, she’s watched the inhabitants of Kent defer to Neddy as a grand gentleman, but this man treats him with ill-disguised contempt.

“You cannot allow the Infanta to remain where she is. You’ll ruin me.”

They are speaking of Eleanor. Does this ruffian know where she came from? Is that why Neddy has arranged to meet him? There can be no other reason. He is a coarse, low fellow, dirty and gross. Just looking at him makes the hairs on Jane’s arms rise. And what does Neddy mean she will ruin him if she remains at Godmersham Park? Does he already suspect Mrs. Knight’s plans to cut him out? Jane’s feet compel her to flee, dash back to the house and pretend she has not overheard such a troubling conversation, but her body is a dead weight and her ears strain for the truth. She pulls back the foliage to continue to observe her brother unseen.

The man leers. “I’ll procure you another. That will satisfy you, I’m sure. If you’ll advance me a portion of the fee—”

“Another? What good would that do?” Neddy smacks his palm against his head. “Damnation, this is my punishment for straying. I knew something terrible was bound to happen if I gave in to temptation and used her.”

Neddy used her? Jane recoils, dropping the vines. After growing up in a house of schoolboys, she is familiar with the various ways in which men refer to relations with the female sex when they believe no polite ears are listening. Surely no brother of hers would degrade himself by breaking his marriage vows or sink so low as to pay for another’s favours. And yet Neddy certainly takes every opportunity to escape his wife’s close observation, and Jane cannot deny the disharmony between him and Elizabeth. Such licentious habits would account for the extra night away from home when he retrieved Jane from Dartford. It could also explain the breach between Neddy and Mrs. Knight. If his mother suspects he has fallen prey to vice, she may well be angry enough to disavow her late husband’s intentions of making Neddy heir.

Spooner wipes his dirty palms on his trousers. “I’ll find you a perfect beauty, just like her. As soon as you grant me the funds.”

“No. I will not accept it. You must retrieve the Infanta. ”

“I can’t,” Spooner replies, twisting his weathered face. Black bristles cover his jaw.

“You must. You’re not listening to me.” Neddy takes a step even closer to him, so they are almost nose to nose.

“No, sir. You’re not listening to me. Advance me the money, or I’ll …” He puffs his chest, until their bodies are touching. Spooner is a head shorter than Jane’s brother, but his wiry frame looks powerful all the same.

“Or you’ll what?”

“Or I shall keep your secrets no longer. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your wife to know—”

A scuffle breaks out. Neddy’s hat falls to the ground as both men push and shove against each other at once. “How dare you threaten me?” Neddy grabs Spooner by the throat. “You will not breathe a word about my association with the Infanta to anyone. Do you hear?”

Should Jane do something to help rid Neddy of this odious man? No: as Neddy lifts Spooner by the collar of his peacoat, it is clear her brother is equal to his brutishness. And, after her discovery, Jane is in no mood to assist him. Conker barks, startling Jane by appearing at her side. The dog tugs at her dress with his teeth, willing her to break up the fight. She pushes his nose away, but his barking grows more insistent. When she looks up, Neddy has released Spooner and is retrieving his hat. His face is white: he is as stunned as Jane by the ferocity of his own violence.

Spooner staggers backwards, rubbing his neck. “Aye, sir. And I think you’re finally beginning to hear me.”

Jane darts into the garden with Conker yapping at her heels. She must away, before the dog reveals her presence. It is bad enough to be burdened with the knowledge of her brother’s transgressions, but she cannot face him knowing she has found him out. Her skirts swish with her quick steps, brushing the lavender and disturbing the bees. Their angry buzz fills her ears as she scurries along.

“Jane.” Neddy’s footsteps beat up the brick path behind her. “Were you looking for me?”

She glances backwards, without meeting his eye. “I … I was just taking some air.”

He jogs along until he is at her side, spots of colour rising in his cheeks. “That was one of the shepherds. Come to grumble, as usual.”

Inside, Jane’s head is screaming that Neddy is a liar. Spooner is not a shepherd. He is a purveyor of debauchery who intended to extort money from her brother in return for his silence over his guilty connection to Eleanor. Instead of confronting Neddy on his many lies, Jane dips her chin and lets him pass. She came into Kent believing she could strengthen the bond between herself and her most distant brother, but she has been as sorely duped by Neddy’s charm as the Wilmots and Mrs. Knight were by Eleanor’s ridiculous antics. Jane was a fool to think she and Neddy could work together to save his inheritance when all this time he has been hiding the truth from her. If the exchange with Spooner was innocent, there would be no reason for him to lie. He stoops to pet Conker, lifting his handsome Austen features to smile at her benevolently. His shape is so familiar, yet his character is a complete mystery. It has been more than a decade since the siblings lived under the same roof. Neddy was raised in a different world, to an alternative moral compass. Jane’s flesh crawls as she realises she does not know this man at all. 3. Letter to Cassandra Austen

Rowling Farm, Tuesday, 20 June 1797 My dearest Cassandra, It is almost a fortnight since I left Steventon and still you have not written. I would never have volunteered to travel to Rowling in your stead if I’d known you intended to be such an indolent correspondent. If you cannot bring yourself to pick up a pen, ask James to scribe for you. I would cheerfully wade through ten thousand of his dreary couplets for one line of your sweet voice. I cannot bear to lose your confidences at a time when I am losing confidence in all around me. I have never been so utterly adrift—sister to a brother who is little more than a stranger, forced to observe Mrs. Knight paying court to a destitute wretch out to steal her fortune, and trying my utmost to have the girl expelled as a trickster while my sister-in-law seeks just as eagerly to unburden herself of me. Tomorrow evening we are to attend the Goodnestone Midsummer Ball. Under the scrutiny of Kent’s most distinguished society, I shall be looking for proof as to where Mrs. Knight’s infanta truly came from and fathoming how I may prevent her from ruining our family, and all our future hopes. Help me, Cassy. I am in dire need of your guidance if I am to navigate these perilous waters and arrive safely at the truth. Yours ever faithfully, J.A. P.S. If the reason for your hesitation in writing is a fear of inciting disillusionment within my breast at my own compositions, you needn’t be so abashed. As favourable as my trifles may ever be regarded, I have long since reconciled myself to the knowledge that you are the finest comic writer of the present age. Miss Austen Rev. Mr. Austen’s Deane Hants