Page 12 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jane steers Mrs. Wilmot towards a sofa in the tearoom, shielded from view by an arrangement of parlour ferns in Japanese vases. She pauses for a few moments, checking her companion is not going to pass out, then sends for a cup of tea, sweetened with plenty of sugar. “There,” she plants the saucer between Mrs. Wilmot’s trembling hands, “that should restore you.” The two women sit quietly by the long windows, watching the guests arrive. Outside, the glowing sun recedes over the flat Kent horizon, leaving a grey chill in its path. Jane senses Mrs. Wilmot is content in her company and may need little prompting to share her doubts about Eleanor’s origins. The doctor may see only what he wishes to, but his wife is more attuned to the thoughts and feelings of others. When the lady’s breath has finally steadied, Jane asks, “Was it your idea, to take Eleanor in?”

“Me? Goodness, no! The doctor never listens to me.” Mrs. Wilmot titters mirthlessly. “He was confident Spain would reward him with his own weight in silver for her recovery.”

“But it was you who paused to help her initially, as you were walking along the promenade?”

Mrs. Wilmot takes slow, thoughtful sips of her tea. Her gloves slip down her arms to reveal bandages on both, indicating she has been recently bled. “I did. It was clear she’d been mistreated, and if one forsaken woman cannot turn to another for aid, from whom can she expect such protection and regard?”

“That was very charitable of you. Whatever the girl may reveal herself to be, you made the only Christian choice in offering her your assistance. For I believe you suspect, as I do, that her tale is false?”

Mrs. Wilmot smiles knowingly. “It would seem rather … far-fetched.”

“Her Spanish, for one thing, is a little …”

“Inconsistent?” Despite her physical frailty, Mrs. Wilmot’s wits are as sharp as pins.

Jane softens, relieved to have found a confidante. “Exactly.”

“Don’t think too poorly of my husband. He’s not ignorant, only bewitched by the opportunity he believed the girl represented. I’m afraid he’s grown to dislike the practice of physic, especially now his apprentice, my cousin Dr. Storer, looks set to eclipse him with his various contraptions. A foreign princess, with all her strange habits, would have made a lucrative specimen for him to exhibit.”

Could Eleanor have recognised the desire to escape his profession in Dr. Wilmot and concocted her ruse on the spot to exploit it? “She deliberately set out to captivate the doctor, then?”

Mrs. Wilmot presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Not exactly. She was barely capable of uttering a word when we first discovered her. There she was, poor child, stumbling along in her wet things. Her lips and fingers were blue, and she was shivering so violently that I feared her teeth would crack.”

Jane is circumspect. She assumed the entirety of Eleanor’s account would prove false. “She was definitely in the water, then? That part of her story is true?”

“I believe she was.” Mrs. Wilmot tips her head to the side, appraising Jane. “You seem to be a sympathetic young lady so I will tell you, in confidence, I cannot attest to how she came to be there. Whether it was an accident, or she entered the waves of her own volition, I do not know.”

“Oh …” Jane catches Mrs. Wilmot’s meaning. Could Eleanor, prior to being taken up by the Wilmots and then Mrs. Knight, have been so destitute that she submerged herself with the intention of ending her suffering? If Jane is right, and Eleanor is a runaway servant sunk into prostitution, her existence may have become intolerable. Self-murder is a crime against the King and, worse, a sin against the Almighty, but that does not make its siren call any less appealing. The threat of having one’s property confiscated after one’s death, as well as being damned for all eternity, has done nothing to curb the craze for taking one’s life in a fit of romantic passion after the style of Young Werther—a most unfortunate literary hero who made the mistake of believing the best cure for disappointed love was to discharge a pistol at one’s brain.

“When my husband assumed she’d fallen overboard, I didn’t want to suggest otherwise … It wouldn’t have ended well for the poor girl if I had. She’d likely have been thrown into gaol, and I do not see how that would have encouraged her to act with more regard to her life. By the time we reached the Riding Officer, she’d drawn quite a crowd. I suspect most merely wanted a glimpse of a woman in her shift. That was when she started up with her babbling. I wondered if she’d hit her head, and it had affected her speech. Or perhaps she had suffered an apoplexy. That happens sometimes, you know.”

“I do.” Jane nods, thinking of how Georgy is bewildered for days after his fits. Eleanor’s behaviour may be confounding but, unlike Georgy after one of his seizures, she does not seem confused. And Jane already knows there are times when she can present a different, more rational countenance.

“But after the lascar gave his account, my husband grew so animated I could hardly contradict him in front of so many people.”

“That’s the part of Eleanor’s story I find the most inexplicable. I don’t believe a lascar would be any more likely to understand her than you or I. But what reason would he have to lie? Unless they planned the entire feint between them to take advantage of your good nature.”

Mrs. Wilmot frowns, a small crease appearing in her forehead. “Sincerely, I do not think so. We’ve heard nothing from him since. And Eleanor was initially reluctant to come away with us. It took some persuading on my husband’s part. He can be quite forceful,” she lowers her voice, “when he believes he is justified in being so.”

If Eleanor set out to hoodwink the Wilmots, it makes no sense that she would resist their hospitality. “So it was the lascar, rather than Eleanor, who explained she’d been kidnapped and had escaped a shipwreck.”

“Yes, it was.”

Perhaps Mrs. Wilmot is correct and Eleanor was confused after her trial in the water—at least temporarily. It could have been the lascar, motivated by pity rather than anything more sinister, who claimed she was of notable birth as a way of entreating the respectable couple to take care of her. “And was it also he who first suggested she was a princess?”

“Oh, no. That was the one phrase we all recognised.” Mrs. Wilmot turns to face Jane, eyes widening behind her spectacles. “It’s why my husband refused to let her go. If she’d been an ordinary girl, I’ve no doubt he would have taken her straight to the poorhouse. ‘ Soy la Infanta de Castilla. ’ She kept repeating it and pointing to herself, then out to sea, over and over again.”

The Infanta . Jane grows weary. This is not a terrible misunderstanding. Neddy really is involved with whatever ordeal Eleanor has been through.

“But when we got her home, she became even more uncooperative. I tried to impress upon her that it would be better for her if she kept quiet and went along with the doctor’s treatments, but she would not listen. Then my cousin arrived, and the way he proposed to deal with her unruly behaviour was barbaric. That is why I sent for Mrs. Knight.”

“ You sent for Mrs. Knight? I thought she just happened to be visiting.”

“Oh, my dear, you should have noticed that lady never goes anywhere unless she absolutely must. And now I rather fear what I have begun …” Mrs. Wilmot exhales, her slight frame sagging into her chair.

“Why Mrs. Knight?” Jane asks, wondering if Eleanor could have known about the Wilmots’ connection to the widow before she appealed to them for help. If so, perhaps she thwarted the couple’s attempts to accommodate her in favour of a greater prize. “Please think very carefully. Was there any way Eleanor could have put into your head the idea of calling for her specifically?”

“Eleanor? No.” Mrs. Wilmot stares directly at Jane. “It was simply that before she was widowed, and my health deserted me, Mrs. Knight was forever calling for my assistance in organizing the poor relief. I hoped she might know of somewhere more compassionate that might take Eleanor in. I never intended for her to be deceived. And I certainly never meant to cause any difficulties between her and her son, if that’s what is driving your concern?”

Jane rests a hand on Mrs. Wilmot’s arm. She has stopped trembling, but her frame is birdlike and Jane is overcome with sympathy for the trials she must face in living with her brutish husband. “It was very kind of you to offer succour to Eleanor, whatever her motives may turn out to be. As for Mrs. Knight, I promise I’ll do everything I can to help her arrive at the truth.”

“Jane!” Elizabeth’s furious face pokes through the leafy palms. “What are you doing hiding behind here? You’re supposed to be opening the ball. It’s getting late.”

Jane startles, returning her hand to her own lap. “But I haven’t a partner. Can someone else do it?”

“No.” Elizabeth pulls her to standing. Jane lets herself be drawn along, reasoning she has learnt all she can from the Wilmots. The interview has thrown up as many questions as it has answers. If Eleanor is engaged in a deliberate ploy to extort money from Mrs. Knight by posing as a beleaguered princess, why was she initially so reluctant to accept the Wilmots’ invitation and how did she contrive to be transferred to the widow?

“I’ve spent weeks managing the arrangements for this ball,” Elizabeth continues. “I’ll not let some young lady I have no association with steal the advantage. Come along, I’ve found you a replacement. We didn’t think he was going to make it, but the darling boy decided to surprise us.”

As they reach the ballroom, an extremely fashionable young man with mischievous dark brown eyes attracts Jane’s notice. The points on his starched collar reach his sharp cheekbones, and his buff breeches are so tight across his lean thighs, Jane presumes he must have been sewn into them. He is the perfect dandy, swept straight from the cobbles of Bond Street. He should be running with the Prince of Wales, not dallying with the spinsters of Kent.

“Which one is he on my list?” Jane murmurs.

“He’s not. Strictly off limits, I’m afraid. Excellent family, but he’s a younger son. The third living, far too low in the pecking order for you. And there’s an unmarried sister yet to be dispensed with. No, he’ll need to marry his fortune. But I don’t think that will be a problem. Do you?”

Jane is inclined to agree. It is always the way. The more attractive they are, the poorer they turn out to be. The young gentleman tucks a hand inside his blue-black frock coat to retrieve a silver snuff box. In a practised motion, he tips a tiny portion of tobacco onto the back of his hand before inhaling it. She is pleased to see that, apart from being an obvious profligate, he has at least one other unforgivable flaw: the odour of tobacco combined with his foppery should be enough to keep her heart safely buried in its shallow grave.

Elizabeth leans closer, her rosewater perfume filling Jane’s nostrils. “He’s far too young and flighty to know his own mind. Only nineteen, would you believe, despite the size of him. He’s still up at Oxford and yet to settle on a profession. Don’t take a word he says seriously, but you have my permission to monopolize him for the first two dances.”

“Are you sure it’s wise for him to dance in those breeches?” Jane eyes the seam along his inner thigh, wondering if his tailor thought to reinforce it against splitting.

“Two dances. And absolutely no flirting.”

“All right. But it’s only fair to warn you that I didn’t pack a needle and thread in my reticule.”

“I’m in earnest, Jane. After that, you must promise to relinquish him, and seek out the gentlemen who are on your list. I’ll be off home to bed once you get started, so you’ll have to rely on Edward for assistance. Don’t squander this opportunity. A young lady only comes out into society once. From this point onwards, your desirability can only depreciate.”

Jane nods, feeling like a fast-wilting lettuce but sensing Elizabeth will not release her hand to make the introduction until she does so. They cross the final few steps, to where the young gentleman is standing beside Sir William. The unfortunate baronet is still being harangued on both sides by medical advice.

“Miss Austen, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.” The dandy sweeps into an elegant bow, then proffers his arm to Jane. “It would, indeed, be the highest honour if you would condescend to grant me the first two dances.” With his dark colouring and lithe limbs, he’s like a long stick of liquorice. Unfortunately Jane has long held a partiality for liquorice.

“With pleasure, sir.” She curtsies, making a mental note to be on her guard. Now is the time to employ her island defences—let her cliffs soar and her battlements tower. Never again will she make the mistake of looking upon an attractive young man as a harmless creature.

Elizabeth smiles proudly. “May I present Mr. Brook-Edward Bridges.”

“He’s your younger brother?” Jane replies, but Mr. Bridges is already leading her insistently towards the area marked for dancing. He raises his free hand towards Henrietta, still stationed at the pianoforte, and clicks his thumb and forefinger together. “Enough of that funeral dirge, Hen. Play us a quadrille or let the professionals take over.”

Henrietta flushes, and Jane knows she should be mortified on her behalf, rather than thrilled when the musicians take advantage of her stunned silence to strike up with their bows. Mr. Bridges propels Jane into the centre of the chalk rose. Her skirts fan out around her, as he twists her into an allemande. She searches for some witty remark, to seize back some semblance of control. “I didn’t realise you were expected at home, Mr. Bridges.”

“It was a last-minute decision. And I insist you call me Brook.”

“I most certainly will not.”

“Why? We’re practically family.” He raises one highly flirtatious eyebrow. “Are we not?”

Jane forces her mouth into a straight line, determined not to betray her amusement at his impertinence. “I was told you were spending the summer with friends in the Scottish Highlands.” Three other couples join them in making a square. Even Henrietta has recovered from her smart and is standing up with Mr. Blackall.

Mr. Bridges greets his sister and her partner, then turns back to Jane. “I am. But I couldn’t cross Hadrian’s Wall without saying goodbye to my nearest and dearest. What if I get lost in the wilderness and never make it back? And I could hardly miss the opportunity to admire the Austens’ brightest star.”

“Well, you’re out of luck there. My brother, Captain Henry Austen, isn’t due in Kent until mid-August.”

Mr. Bridges lowers his voice to a rich baritone. “You know very well I’m alluding to yourself. Your lively mind—not to mention your charming countenance—is legendary around these parts.”

Despite herself, Jane grows warm. “Is it? I rather thought Elizabeth found me infuriating.”

He leans close, tickling her ear with his tobacco-spiced breath. “She does. Which means I’m all the more inclined to find you delightful.”

Jane lets out a peal of laughter. Mr. Bridges is a fully seasoned flirt. Under his corrupting influence, she suffers a temporary amnesia. When he suggests a third, and then a fourth dance, she forsakes her promise to Elizabeth and concedes readily—with no thought to propriety, lists of potential husbands or even witnesses to Eleanor’s discovery. It is not until her limbs grow heavy and her feet throb from pounding the parquet flooring in her silk slippers that she realizes, for a few blissful hours, she has completely forgotten all her cares. Her concentrated attempts to master the Baker’s Wife and other cotillions popular in Kent had left no room for thoughts of the Austens’ benefactor surrendering her wealth to an impostor. Jane had even forgot about her sister languishing on the precipice of despair in Hampshire. But when the sun emerges across the hop fields of Kent, and the unflinching daylight forces her to look at Neddy, she soon remembers his infidelities and her vow to prove his illicit association with Mrs. Knight’s foreign princess.