Page 15 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
While Jane bitterly laments her inability to dissuade Mrs. Knight from incinerating the captain’s latest missive, she remains determined to obtain a specimen of Neddy’s paper to compare with it. She very much hopes to be mistaken, and that the paper will not match, but a piece of physical evidence linking Neddy to Mrs. Knight’s nefarious correspondent would lend weight to her suspicion that his diabolical behaviour is in part to blame for his predicament and allow her to confront him outright.
When he disappears, the next evening, on some flimsy excuse pertaining to a few unruly members of his flock straying on his neighbour’s land, she finds his study locked as usual. But through her own masterful act of cunning, Jane has already obtained the key. She began by asking Alice for access to the mysterious room. When the maid replied, as expected, that it was always kept locked owing to her master storing his firearms in there, Jane mused aloud if she should ask Kitty for it: as the upper servant, surely Kitty would be given greater dominion over the house than Alice. Shortly afterwards, to Jane’s great satisfaction, Alice found she was able to produce the key.
As soon as Elizabeth can be persuaded to rest, Jane takes the opportunity to enter. Unlike Mr. Austen’s library, which is the beating heart of Steventon rectory, Neddy’s study seems to belong to a separate house. It even smells different—of stale tobacco and neglect. His guns, two enormous, long-barrelled rifles, take pride of place over the mantel. Hunting scenes line the walls; excited beagles and slain stags are depicted in watercolours. Surprisingly few volumes occupy the glass-fronted mahogany bookcase. She heads for the leather-topped desk, spotting a small pile of letter-writing paper already cut to size. Her hand moves instinctively towards it, gently caressing the smooth texture. It is certainly the same style, but the watermark will render it distinctive beyond all doubt.
“What are you doing in here?” Elizabeth, who clearly lied about intending to rest, throws the door wide open. “It should be locked. Who gave you the key?”
“Susan.” Jane would rather not inform on Alice for having provided her with the means of entry, especially as it was Jane’s own deviousness that had put her up to it.
“Which one?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t say.”
“Then I shall have words with both. A gentleman’s study is his private domain. Women and children are not permitted.”
“My father never barred me from his.”
Elizabeth flushes. “Well, he should have. Perhaps then you wouldn’t be so … so …”
“Articulate?” supplies Jane.
“Come out at once. There’s nothing to concern you in here.”
Jane’s fingers hover over the stack. If she can purloin just one sheet, she’ll be able to hold it to the light and see the mark. “I was seeking paper. I’ve almost depleted my own supply, and I didn’t think Neddy would begrudge me some of his.” As Jane is already sorely aware of how Elizabeth resents her, indeed resents all the Austens, for sponging off Neddy, it pains her greatly to use this excuse. But it is unthinkable to admit she is searching for evidence that Neddy is guilty of harassing his mother under a false identity.
“Can’t you use the pocketbook you bought in Canterbury?”
“Not for my composition.” Jane is genuinely horrified at this suggestion. She needs a blank sheet to draft her manuscripts as she delights in filling every part of the space herself, crossing out mistakes and squeezing new lines between existing ones. A page torn from a pocketbook, decorated with scrolls and illustrations along the margins, would not do at all. She picks up a clean sheet in protest. “The pocketbook is too pretty. I can’t bring myself to despoil it.”
“Then I shall give you some of mine. Edward does not like to have his belongings disturbed.” Elizabeth forcibly removes the ill-gotten paper from Jane’s hand, returning it to the stack before guiding her towards the door.
Jane wants to resist, but she can hardly continue to trespass in Neddy’s study now that his wife has discovered her. “Oh, no, Beth, that’s too kind. Just a leaf of Neddy’s would do …”
“Come and sit down with me for a moment.” Elizabeth turns into the hall. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
“Is it Cassy?” Jane’s heart lurches as she hurries after Elizabeth, all thoughts of paper discarded. Every day that Jane’s beloved sister does not write, she lives in fear of receiving the news that Cassandra has managed to starve herself to death, or found some other, more violent, means to end her agony.
Elizabeth locks the door behind them, pocketing the key, which Jane had foolishly left in the lock. “No. You read your brother’s letter. Cassandra is adjusting to her loss. She shows every sign of rallying soon.”
Jane had read James’s letter, or most of it, aloud to the family over breakfast—in which he assured them Cassandra was responding to her grief with “all due propriety.” Therefore, Jane knows her brother is lying and Cassandra must be worse than ever. At least she can rely on Mary to tell her the truth. She writes that Jane mustn’t worry as she has hidden the kitchen knives, and removed the sashes from Cassandra’s wardrobe. That Mary felt the need to take these precautions only sends Jane into a paroxysm of concern for her beloved sister. Oh, God, she must remind Mary to lock away the laudanum too.
In an uncharacteristic act of tenderness, Elizabeth wraps an arm around Jane’s shoulders. “I do hope your sister will be recovered in time for next year’s ball. She’s such a favourite here, you know.”
“So you’ve told me, several times.” Jane does not need reminding that Elizabeth would far rather Cassandra was her companion, while Jane remained in Hampshire. If Cassandra’s life had not been so devastated, Jane would much prefer that arrangement too.
“I don’t mean to imply you’re not. It’s just that Cassy is so beautiful, and so sweet-tempered. It will be much easier getting her a husband.”
“Beth! She’s only just lost her fiancé.”
“I know. But, as I said, she’ll rally. And with my help, I can foresee she’ll go on to win a much greater prize.”
“How can you say that?” Jane is run through with grief on her sister’s behalf. “You know how devoted to each other she and Mr. Fowle were.”
“I do, but with no money on her side and only a curacy to support them on his, you cannot deny the match was ill-fated from the start.”
“They would have been happy.”
“They would have been poor. Even with the Shropshire living Lord Craven promised, every passing year would have seen the arrival of another child, which would have stretched them beyond their means. Cassandra would have had to be a very clever mistress of economy to survive.” Elizabeth’s face is grave. “Both of you must take this unhappy event as a sign to consider your futures carefully. I know you don’t like to discuss it, but your father won’t live forever.”
It takes an enormous effort for Jane to swallow her rebuke. She cannot argue with Elizabeth’s reasoning as to poor Mr. Fowle’s prospects or her father’s mortality, but it demonstrates Elizabeth’s lack of empathy. “You need not worry about Cassandra. Mr. Fowle bequeathed her a legacy.”
“He did? What a noble young man he was. Do you know if it’s a fixed sum or an annuity that must be surrendered upon marriage?”
Jane relies on her vexed features to inform Elizabeth that she will not supply the answer. It was the only part of James’s letter that Jane could not bear to read aloud for fear of losing all composure. Without telling anyone, Mr. Fowle had seen a lawyer before he set sail for the West Indies and made out a will leaving everything he had, a legacy of one thousand pounds, to Cassandra. Invested wisely in government bonds, the inheritance will yield an income of up to forty pounds per annum. Not enough to live on, but it will give Cassandra some independence and means she need not worry quite so much about becoming a burden to Mr. and Mrs. Austen in their old age. Jane’s sister is effectively a widow, without enjoying one precious moment of marriage to the man she loved.
“I’m afraid the bad news pertains to Mr. Blackall,” Elizabeth eventually concedes. “He will not be able to escort you to the coast tomorrow, after all.”
“Why not? Is he dead?”
“No, Jane. He’s been called away on parish business.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Isn’t it?” Elizabeth scowls, as if wanting to chastise Jane on her flippancy but not being quite fast enough to pin it down. “Especially as I had managed to persuade Edward to allow Mr. Blackall to convey you there in his phaeton. The one benefit of him insisting on retaining that ghastly open carriage was that I could wave you both off without a chaperone. But not to worry, you’ll see Mr. Blackall on Sunday at evensong in Crundale.”
“Evensong? But we’ll have attended the morning service at Holy Cross. Is that not devotion enough for you?”
“Under normal circumstances, yes, but as no other gentleman took your fancy at the ball, I insist you give Mr. Blackall another examination.” Elizabeth brushes a crumb from her fichu. “Better still, give Crundale Parsonage an examination. It really is very handsome. With the addition of a portico, it might even be made elegant.”
“But I don’t like Mr. Blackall. Twenty porticoes could not make his character any more compatible with mine.”
“Ah, but that doesn’t matter as the gentleman in question has professed to a liking for you. ”
“How can he say he likes me? The fool! He doesn’t know the first thing about me.”
“Perhaps that’s part of the attraction.”
Jane refuses to be defeated. She needs to get to the coast and speak to the Riding Officer. Now that she was witnessed Eleanor’s bouts of instability, she is even more certain that someone from Whitstable will know who she is. Such behaviour cannot be hidden and, whether working as servant or harlot, she is bound to have developed a reputation as ungovernable. “Can Roger take me instead? I wouldn’t want the new baby to run short of clouts due to my suitor’s lack in dedication.”
“There’s no need. My brother has volunteered to escort you.”
“Sir William?” Jane can hardly imagine the baronet putting himself out for her. He’s already expressed his disapproval of any unnecessary travel. An afternoon in his company is the last thing she needs. How could she make it all the way to the coast and back without admonishing him on his selfishness in enclosing the estate? Never mind the sheer idiocy of leaving mantraps lying around for innocent passers-by to walk into.
“No, my younger brother.”
Despite herself, Jane’s spirits rise. Why is her dancing partner still in Kent? He was meant to begin his journey to the Scottish Highlands on the morning after the ball. Could his delayed departure have anything to do with seeking to further his acquaintance with her? They had spent a most agreeable evening together. The knowledge that he would be gone as soon as the sun rose had allowed Jane to let down her inhibitions in a manner she could not have done with any serious prospect. “Mr. Bridges is still here? I thought he was planning to remain only the night.”
“So did I. But he called while you were at Godmersham, not long after I’d received Mr. Blackall’s note, and insisted on offering himself as a replacement.” From Elizabeth’s sour expression, Jane can tell she had tried her best to convince her brother his services were not required.
“That’s very obliging of him.”
“He’ll be here, in his gig, bright and early tomorrow morning.”
Jane sets off up the staircase, lest Elizabeth senses her pleasure at the prospect of Mr. Bridges arguing for her company. “Then I’d better rest.”
“But, Jane …”
“Yes?”
“About my brother. Do remember he’s out of bounds, won’t you?”
“Naturally.” Jane sways her hips in victory as she ascends. It is extremely flattering to think Mr. Bridges might have altered his plans for her, and even more satisfying to watch Elizabeth’s attempts at matchmaking ricochet. But she must not, in all good conscience, allow herself to develop an appetite for forbidden fruit. As Mrs. Austen warns, the sweeter the temptation, the more acrid the regret.