Page 14 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Despite Neddy’s protestations, Jane’s warning that he has been neglecting his mother must have found its mark: the next time she visits Mrs. Knight he will not be dissuaded from accompanying her. That is, until they arrive in the entrance hall of Godmersham Park and Penlington turns him aside to deal with estate matters that must be attended to urgently. Repairs to the perimeter wall have stalled again, due to a disagreement with the neighbouring squire over gaining access from the aforementioned’s land. Furthermore, in Kent as in Hampshire, the balance between drought and deluge is elusive. With the lack of rain, two of Mrs. Knight’s tenants have accused each other of diverting streams to the severe detriment of themselves. Neddy is tasked with resolving these disputes in a manner satisfactory to all parties but, most of all, to the benefit of Mrs. Knight.

As he stalks off, grumbling about the impossibility of meeting his mother’s demands without so much as being granted an audience, Grace shows Jane to the north drawing room. There she is given a warm welcome by the great lady’s excellent coffee, while Mrs. Knight curls her top lip and Eleanor turns her face to the wall, as if Jane is so far beneath her notice it would be a grievous insult to her pride if she were to acknowledge her presence. Ever since that one early slip in composure, Jane has watched the girl like a hawk and has even tried to coax her into conversation while Mrs. Knight dozes. But Eleanor either meets her enquiries with a haughty string of babble or ignores her as she acts out her bizarre tea rituals with all the dignity of the King’s Guard on parade. Perhaps Jane is being unfair in assuming it is entirely a malicious act. As Mrs. Wilmot said, a person’s speech can be affected by a blow to the head. Maybe, after trying to end her life and being tumbled in the waves, Eleanor really did sustain such an injury, which left her unable to remember who she was. But finding her way into the heart and home of the wealthiest woman in Kent and persuading her to part with her riches in reparation for having lost her own imaginary fortune, certainly implies masterful cunning and Jane is as determined as ever to uncover it.

When all avenues of conversation between Jane and Mrs. Knight are exhausted (and there aren’t many—the weather, the roads, the imminence of Elizabeth’s lying-in), Grace drags out the small mahogany table and hoists Jane’s writing box onto it. The maid’s exaggerated huffs and puffs suggest that, rather than being in league with Eleanor, she, too, is growing frustrated with Mrs. Knight’s decree that neither the footmen, nor the butler, nor even a stable boy attend her house guest. It must be galling to serve in a house where an imposter is raised so far above her station. The maid’s obvious displeasure gives Jane hope that her alarm will eventually outweigh her subservience, and that Grace will eventually respond to her persistent pleas that she shares her opinion on the credibility of Mrs. Knight’s foreign princess.

Heedless of the season, the enormous house is draughty. Jane sits on the low sofa, beside the stone fireplace, stifled by the enthusiastic flame flickering in the grate. Her spine aches as she pulls herself upright and throws her voice across the cavernous room, attempting a rousing performance of the Misses Dashwood’s early letters to each other. Between lines, she flicks her eyes to the two women, in their comfortable buttoned chairs, to check if they are listening. The slightest nod, from her hostess, would be enough to sustain the hope that she has not lost her gift to entertain. But very soon Mrs. Knight’s hooded eyes flicker closed as she rests her dainty feet on an embroidered footstool and begins to make light breathy snores. Beside her, Eleanor sits ramrod straight and fixes all her attention on the dust motes dancing in the middle distance.

Jane hunches over her writing box to read and reread the letters she has composed since she arrived at Rowling. They are terrible. The most conceited drivel she’s ever written. The elder Miss Dashwood is a haughty prig, while the younger, Marianne, is a brazen hussy. In her latest despatch, Marianne confides she wanders around the Devonshire countryside with no servant and no degree of caution. Why Marianne would confess this to her elder sister when she is bound to scold her, Jane does not know. Only that as Jane tells Cassandra everything, delighting in provoking her into ever more violent admonishments, Marianne must tell Miss Dashwood her secrets too. It starts to rain. Of course it does: anyone who has visited Devon will testify to the reason the hills are a renowned patchwork of green. Marianne falls, twisting her ankle. She is stranded a good way from home and without assistance. Too late, she realizes the folly of her actions.

Through the misty drizzle a tall, dark figure appears. A hunting rifle is slung over his shoulder, and two enormous black hounds sniff at his heels. Marianne’s limbs are seized with panic. He is coming towards her. He bends, scooping her into his arms. Marianne makes a futile attempt at resistance, flailing and kicking, but she is weak with cold and fear, and he is a hundred times stronger than she is—

“Argh!” Eleanor bolts from her chair. Her makeshift headdress and her gold quilt lie abandoned as she scuttles backwards across the floor.

Startled, Jane’s hand raps against her ink jar, toppling it. Black liquid pools across her pages. Without thinking, she throws onto it a handkerchief Cassandra embroidered, desperate to save at least some of her work. Instead, she spreads an even greater smear across the page and ruins the precious handkerchief. When Eleanor reaches the furthest corner, her retreat blocked by a sideboard, her placid features twist into a snarl and she hisses like a feral cat. Jane is frozen in disbelief. Is this outburst one of the hysterical fits the doctors referred to? Should she call the footmen to restrain Eleanor?

Mrs. Knight’s head snaps upright. “What? What did you do?”

“Me? Nothing …” Jane continues to dab at the mess, hoping at least to preserve the surface of Mrs. Knight’s polished mahogany table.

Across the room, Eleanor squeezes herself under a marble-topped sideboard, hosting a collection of porcelain creatures. Jane jumps to her feet, racing to remove the ornaments before she upsets them. As she approaches, Eleanor rears back, hissing even louder. What is the girl playing at? This is not a mere slip in composure, more of a wild departure from it. Such behaviour is hardly conducive to persuading Mrs. Knight she can be entrusted with her estate.

“Was it Penlington?” Mrs. Knight levers herself up from her chair with both arms. “I’ve warned him, time and again, not to come in here under any circumstance.”

“No. No one came in. I was just sitting there, quietly reading …”

“Eleanor, dear. Come out from under there. You’ll hurt yourself.” Mrs. Knight’s knees crack as she crouches. At the sight of her, Eleanor contorts herself into a ball. Her arched spine bumps the underside of the sideboard, wobbling the surface as she rests her face in her hands and whimpers. She is frightened—a danger only to herself. Or, very possibly, Mrs. Knight’s porcelain menagerie. Jane gathers the ornaments into a doily, transferring them to a card table.

A firm knock sounds at the door from the entrance hall.

Eleanor screams, forcing Jane and Mrs. Knight to start in unison.

“Stop! Don’t come in!” Mrs. Knight cries.

But it’s too late: Grace has already entered. Panicked by her mistress’s distress, she sends a silver tray clanging onto the floor. A folded piece of paper skids along the polished parquet. “Oh, no—is she at it again?” Grace stoops to pick up the note before hastening to join the women. “What was it this time? I told the gardener’s boy not to pass by the window, but he will not do as he’s bade.”

Mrs. Knight places a hand across her forehead. “Don’t blame him. It was Miss Austen.”

Jane gasps. It’s hardly fair to accuse her of causing the girl’s outburst. “I was simply reading aloud, as you asked me to.”

Grace gets down on all fours, shushing softly as she crawls towards the sideboard. Beneath it, Eleanor is making keening noises as she wraps her arms around herself and rocks back and forth. Her red hair falls over her face, like a curtain, hiding her features.

Mrs. Knight’s eyes dart to the white paper tucked into Grace’s bib. “That can’t be another, so soon after the last.”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am. Mr. Penlington found it on the front step.” Grace fishes out the letter, handing it to her mistress.

Once again, it is unsealed and there are no postmarks or stamps. Unlike one of Jane’s neat letters, which she arranges into a perfect envelope to protect her message from prying eyes, the paper is not even folded properly. She makes out a few spidery lines written within. Unwilling to confide in Elizabeth or Neddy, Jane has kept her ire on Mrs. Knight’s behalf close to her breast. Now, though, it is bursting forth. “That’s one of those dreadful missives from Captain Fairbairn. Isn’t it? How dare he? The wretched beast.”

Mrs. Knight fixes Jane with her steely glare, jaw tightening. “And how would you know anything about my correspondence with Captain Fairbairn, Miss Austen?”

“I … well …” Jane stammers, her skin prickling. She has revealed herself to be a dreadful sneak. “I was here when you received a note from him previously. It was sitting, half open, in the hall as I departed …”

“And your curious mind led you to pry into my private business, did it?”

“I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t have. It was very shabby of me. But the note wasn’t sealed, and the page was half open. I couldn’t prevent my eye from alighting on the obscene language. It was so shockingly vulgar. Who is he, this Captain Fairbairn? And how dare he send you such vile messages?”

“He’s nothing but a nasty coward who would rather hide behind his pen than reveal himself.” A flash of anger ignites Mrs. Knight’s countenance. “My steward has made some discreet enquiries as to his identity, but we are yet to ascertain the scoundrel’s whereabouts. He began harassing me as soon as I took in the poor girl.” She gestures towards the trembling Eleanor, limbs folded like a contortionist’s and trapped beneath the sideboard as Grace tries patiently to coax her out. “I suspect he did it to the Wilmots, too, and that was why the doctor let me take her. But I don’t like being told what to do. And at my time of life, in my station, I will not stand for it.”

Jane swallows. Is this the real reason Mrs. Knight has offered Eleanor her protection? Not because she believes her story about being kidnapped by pirates, but because she fears she is at threat from a vicious bully. If so, her intentions are laudable but handing over her fortune would seem rather a disproportionate act of charity. “You never believed for a moment that she was a Spanish princess, did you?”

“I’ve told you before, Miss Austen,” Mrs. Knight draws herself up to her full height, “I am not obliged to explain myself to you. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

On this occasion, Jane is determined not to be cowed. Mrs. Knight has invited a complete stranger, whose behaviour has proven entirely unpredictable, into her home and Jane has promised Elizabeth and Mrs. Wilmot that she will steer her towards sense. “But she’s not your responsibility. You don’t even know who, or what, she is. Not unless she’s told you anything more about where she came from.” Jane holds her breath, waiting to hear if guilt on behalf of her son’s behaviour is motivating Mrs. Knight’s benevolence.

“She’s a young woman in obvious distress without a friend in the world. And I can’t, in all good conscience, abandon her.” Mrs. Knight’s fingers brush the brooch pinned to the black silk of her bosom. “I know what it’s like to be utterly alone. It can drive a person to despair.”

Jane tries to sympathize but the sentiment sticks in her craw. Mrs. Knight is not alone: she has Neddy. She and her husband took Neddy and introduced him to the habits of wealth. If he is dissolute and expensive, it is because they made him so. None of Jane’s other brothers has wandered so far from her mother and father’s good principles. And now Mrs. Knight has a daughter-in-law in Elizabeth, and three cherubic grandchildren but a short carriage ride away at Rowling. If she is lonely, it is because she has chosen to absent herself from the company of her friends and family. At five-and-forty, Mrs. Knight is hardly a decrepit old woman. She is in no way infirm, and her official year of mourning has long since expired. There is no expectation on her to continue to avoid society.

Grace turns her face towards the ladies, breaking the tension. “Shall I fetch her some warm milk, ma’am? That seemed to settle her well enough last time.”

“That would be very helpful. Thank you, Grace.” Mrs. Knight walks towards the fireplace, resting her hand against the mantel. “And perhaps sherry for myself and Miss Austen.”

“Please.” Jane nods vigorously. She is in desperate need of something to steady her nerves.

Grace rises, dipping into a curtsy before withdrawing. From beneath the sideboard, Eleanor makes a whimpering sound. She may not pose a physical threat, but her behaviour is erratic and her mere presence at Godmersham Park is attracting undesirable attention that could place its inhabitants in danger. The realization that the captain has drawn so close makes her shiver. But Mrs. Knight merely screws the offending note into a ball, eyeing the fire as if she intends to feed it to the flames.

“Wait.” Jane rests a hand on her forearm. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

“Whatever for? It’ll be the same as the others. Full of vile accusations about Eleanor’s character, and threats about what the captain will do if I don’t give her up. But I shan’t let some villain browbeat me.”

While Jane admires the widow’s refusal to be intimidated, she fears her bullishness will leave her vulnerable. “There’s no postmark on the letters. The culprit must be delivering them by hand. Have you asked your servants if they have witnessed any strangers coming or going?”

“Of course I have,” Mrs. Knight snaps, irritation audible in her clipped tone. Whether it is directed at herself or the elusive Captain Fairbairn, Jane can no longer tell. “We have a constant watch on the gatehouse, and the gardener and his men patrol the park all day, but still the scoundrel manages to elude us.”

“That’s not enough. If he’s making threats against you, you must ensure you are protected at all times.”

“Believe me, I take the security of myself and my household very seriously indeed. Since the incident in the kitchen, Penlington ensures all the doors and windows are kept locked.”

“What incident?”

Mrs. Knight purses her lips, clearly vexed at betraying her own secrets. “It was nothing. My cook was adamant she’d bolted the kitchen door, but Armand was alerted by the sound of it crashing open in the night. He and several of the grooms came over from the coach house to investigate, but she had already discovered it and was in the process of securing it again. Armand insisted, quite rightly, on reporting it to me and carrying out a thorough search of the house. I’m afraid it caused some bad blood among the servants.”

Jane gasps. “The captain tried to break into the house?”

“I’m confident it wasn’t him. There was no obvious sign of an intruder—nothing was taken, and no note was left. It was probably a forgetful kitchen girl but, after all the furore, whoever was responsible is too afraid to come forward. Don’t you dare tell my son about this.”

“Why ever not?” Jane asks, her mouth suddenly dry. What does Mrs. Knight suspect about Neddy’s involvement in Eleanor’s past? And is it too late for her brother to restore his mother’s good opinion of him?

“Because he’ll fret. And, just now, he has enough on his mind. I’ve already burdened him with the running of the estate while I’m distracted. If Neddy knew someone was threatening me, he’d be here all day, every day, pacing the perimeter and determined not to sleep until he caught the blackguard. And I can’t allow him to do that. Not now, while Elizabeth needs him at her side. It wouldn’t be fair of me to deprive her of her husband. She’s so close to giving birth that the slightest shock could place her and the baby in danger.”

It is the same reason Jane will not confide to her sister-in-law the more disturbing details of what she has learnt through the course of her investigation. However much Elizabeth refuses to admit it, she grows more uncomfortable by the day. Childbirth is a perilous business. As soon as Mary knew she was breeding, she began collecting stories of dead mothers and their doomed offspring. Since Jane left Hampshire, Mary has written to inform her of two more such cases: a village woman, brought to bed of a baby boy far too early for him to survive longer than an hour outside his mother’s womb; and a lawyer’s wife from Basingstoke, who laboured for a week before she passed away without delivering the child. After she died, a surgeon cut her open and found the babe in a macerated state. Apparently, it had been dead for so long they could not even tell the sex.

“What about the authorities?” Jane asks. “You must set the local magistrate on this Captain Fairbairn immediately. He’ll know how to find him, and if a gentleman of rank was to warn him off, I’m sure he’d desist in this ghastly behaviour.”

Mrs. Knight exhales through her nostrils. “I cannot do that either, because Neddy is the magistrate.”

“I’m sorry. I did know that.” Jane gnaws her lip, berating herself for giving Mrs. Knight yet another reason to think her a fool. Even before Mr. Knight died, Neddy had taken over his duties as justice of the peace. “But what if Captain Fairbairn is telling the truth about Eleanor’s character? We don’t know who she is, or where she came from.”

“Do you think I’m susceptible to a corrupting influence, at my age? Besides, Eleanor needs my help, not my scorn.” Mrs. Knight gestures towards the table, beneath which the girl remains sobbing into the crook of her arm.

Grace creeps back into the room balancing two brimming glasses, and a delftware dish full of milk, on a silver tray. Eleanor peeps over her elbow and wipes her nose along the sleeve of her gown. As Jane and Mrs. Knight reach for their sherry, Grace places the dish of milk on the floor. “There, there. Drink up, miss. It’ll make you feel better.”

Eleanor crawls slowly towards it, until she has extracted herself from beneath the furniture, and laps the milk straight from the dish. She is either genuinely bewildered, or the most accomplished actress Jane has ever had the privilege to see perform. Gone is all her haughty dignity, replaced by a snivelling wreck.

Jane motions towards the note, still balled tight in Mrs. Knight’s hand. “May I read it?”

“Why? I’ve already told you, it’ll be nothing but black-hearted vitriol.”

“Because it might hold some clue as to the identity of the writer. Please.”

“I suppose it can’t hurt, not if you’ve already seen the other. But only if you swear you won’t breathe a word to my son. I mean it. I don’t want to burden Neddy, or Elizabeth, with this nasty business. At least, not until after the new baby has arrived safely.”

“I give you my word.” Jane nods. She has no intention of disturbing Elizabeth’s peace, and she has already tried confronting Neddy to no avail. Mrs. Knight relaxes her fist, allowing Jane to pluck the paper from her hand. She takes it to her writing box and spreads the damp page over the slope, smoothing the edges. Three lines of large, blotted handwriting are scrawled across the page. Heed my warning or ye shall face the sword of righteousness. Cast the whore out, for I will not stop to spill the blood of the innocent who stand between us. Capt. Fairbairn

Jane’s chest tightens, but she fights to keep her features impassive. While the contents of the message are highly disturbing, it is the means of its delivery that has caught her attention. There is something alarmingly familiar about the paper it is written on. Captain Fairbairn’s small white hot-pressed sheet bears a startling resemblance to her brother’s. Jane recalls Mrs. Knight’s reaction in the coach when she handed over Neddy’s message about the perimeter wall. Did she flinch because she noticed the similarity, too? Jane holds it to the light to get a better look at the watermark—it is an elaborate shield surrounding a post-horn with the initials BB underneath.

“Well?” Mrs. Knight stands over Jane, her shadow blocking the light.

Jane shakes her head, “Nothing but vitriol, as you warned. May I keep it?”

“Why?”

How can Jane explain she wants to retain the note to compare it to one of Neddy’s? Is sending threatening missives to frighten his mother and discredit the girl Neddy’s way of “handling the matter”? The captain’s untidy scrawl does not bring to mind her brother’s hand. All of the Austen boys use the same bold, cursive script, drilled into them by their father as children, but if Neddy is writing to his mother under an assumed identity, he is bound to disguise his pen. Jane cannot bear to think he would stoop so low, yet it is a strange coincidence that both notes should appear on the days he escorted her to Godmersham Park. “Because sometimes, if I keep turning over a piece of writing, it helps me to see something I missed before.”

“No, it’s too much of a risk. I can’t have Neddy stumbling across it.”

“I assure you, my writing box is private.” Jane motions towards the tiny brass key resting beside the Misses Dashwood’s letters. The box is the one area of her life over which she has complete dominion. When she is not working, the key is either in her pocket or hanging from the mirror on her dresser, meaning her papers are protected. Except for when she nearly lost the entire thing to the West Indies. Her body makes an involuntary shudder at the memory.

“I said no,” Mrs. Knight snatches the note. Jane opens her mouth to object, but before she can Mrs. Knight has tossed it onto the fire. The paper curls, blackening at the edges. Jane moves to the hearth as it dissolves to ash. There is no need for her to rush to copy out the words: she’ll remember them forever—she always does. It is the paper, with its distinctive watermark, she is keen to memorize as the clue that might help solve this mystery. Mrs. Knight may not be fooled by Eleanor’s claims to nobility, but she is clearly attached to the girl—which means she really does have the potential to divide Neddy from his mother and his inheritance. It is more imperative than ever for Jane to find out what is driving Eleanor’s strange antics. Quickly, before Mrs. Knight discovers Neddy’s dastardly behaviour and an irrecoverable breach occurs between them, casting all of the Austens into financial precariousness. 4. Letter to Cassandra Austen

Rowling Farm, Friday, 23 June 1797 My dearest Cassandra, Why do you not write? Is Mary neglecting to feed and water you, so that you are too weak to wield a pen? She can be ruthless in her pursuit of economy. If so, could you flag down a passing stagecoach and appeal to the driver’s compassion? Breathe on your bedroom window and trace a message asking for help? Hang your pink Persian petticoats out of the front door—I’ll send Father round to check. Which reminds me, can you ask him how much he receives per ounce for his wool? Neddy is worried he’s being fleeced. I have a hankering to travel to Whitstable, to interrogate the Riding Officer as to the provenance of Mrs. Knight’s house guest. Fortunately, owing to the subtle art of my own suggestiveness, my sister-in-law finds herself plagued by a relentless craving for fresh oysters and is in desperate need of more muslin for the new baby. She will resolve this dire state of affairs by sending me to the seaside in her stead. For reasons I shall not burden you with, I do not want Neddy to escort me. Therefore Beth proposes to place me under the watchful eye of the eligible Mr. Blackall, local clergyman and Kent’s foremost exorcist. I have a great deal of everybody’s love to give you, but am most anxious you should accept mine above all others. Yours truly, J.A. P.S. I refuse to travel with the witchfinder general. Since you will not stir yourself to provide your wayward younger sister with guidance as to the bounds of respectable behaviour, I shall purloin a pair of the stable boy’s breeches, lop off my curls, and beg a ride with a band of passing brigands. Miss Austen Rev. Mr. Austen’s Deane Hants