Page 26 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Several weeks later, Jane stands beside the washstand in Neddy and Elizabeth’s bedroom, folding and refolding squares of muslin to be used as clouts. At least, it feels as if it is several weeks later. According to Eliza’s timepiece, only ninety minutes have passed. Already Jane is desperate to escape the cloying room. Despite the mild summer night, all the windows are closed and the velvet curtains are drawn tight. The fire burns as furiously as a blacksmith’s forge, catching motes of dust and transforming them into crackling flashes of light. In preparation for expelling the baby, Elizabeth’s body has been expunging every other substance it contains. Consequently, the air is thick with pungent odours. Jane faces the wall, catching only glimpses of the action in the reflection of the looking glass above Elizabeth’s dressing-table.

The expectant mother is stripped to her shift, resting face down on her elbows and knees on the mattress of the four-poster bed. She has been very vocal, shouting directions and asking questions. Now she is quiet, apart from the occasional wail. The midwife, a local woman with large hands and muscular forearms, is not overly concerned that the baby appears to be arriving more than a fortnight before it was anticipated. Between her, Elizabeth and Eliza, they have agreed not to call for Dr. Wilmot if they can avoid doing so. His interventions are far from welcome and, as Elizabeth protested, she managed perfectly well with the assistance of the midwife alone on the previous three occasions she gave birth. Jane dares not point out that Elizabeth’s pregnancy has already proved so much more trying this time. The others will know what they are about. This is not, and Jane hopes never will be, her domain.

Elizabeth grows very still and begins emitting a low humming sound. Her dark hair is slick against her forehead and her cheeks are red as she pants into the pillow. It is as if she has entered a trance, utterly consumed by pain. She is barely recognizable as Jane’s proud, dignified sister-in-law. Eliza sits on a stool beside the bed, dipping a cloth into a pail of iced water and using it to dab Elizabeth’s forehead. The midwife stands guard over her lower extremities. Occasionally, she climbs onto the bed and lifts Elizabeth’s shift, kneeling behind her to get a better look at proceedings.

Jane sorely regrets failing to make explicit enquiries to Cassandra as to what exactly she was supposed to do at this moment. In fact, she bitterly regrets volunteering to come at all. It might have benefited Cassandra to be forced to continue with her commitments. Occupation is the best cure for melancholia. If she’d been denied the liberty to nourish her grief, it might not have consumed her so completely. Or it might not have made a jot of difference. Right now, Jane does not care. She would feed her beloved sister piece by piece to a pack of hungry wolves if it meant she could get out of this veritable torture chamber. If Elizabeth was in her right mind, there is no way she would want Jane, of all people, to witness her debasement. She crams herself further into the corner, attempting to remove herself body and mind from the action.

“I could fit ten fingers up there,” says the midwife, proudly. “Won’t be long now.”

Jane’s shoulders jerk forward as she cups both hands over her mouth.

Eliza wrings a damp cloth between both hands. “Go and fetch some brandy, will you, Jane?”

Light-headed, Jane dashes for the door. “Will a glass do, or should I bring the bottle?”

“I don’t know.” Eliza appraises her coolly. “How much will it take for you to regain command of yourself, and provide some actual assistance?”

Despite the offence, Jane flees without hesitation. She thumps downstairs, giddy at being excused. She is so faint that her knees threaten to buckle. She pictures herself sliding to a heap at the bottom of the staircase in her haste to put as much distance as possible between herself and the birthing room.

In the hall, thick blue clouds of smoke waft from the cracks around the door to Neddy’s study. From within, her brothers let out twin guffaws, reawakening Jane’s dormant fury. To the devil with Elizabeth’s proclamation that she must not intrude on a gentleman’s private space. Jane does not even bother to knock before she flings open the door. Her vision takes a moment to adjust. In the gloom, Neddy reclines behind his desk with his chair tipped back at a perilous angle as he balances one booted foot on the leather-topped surface. Henry, with more respect for the opulent furniture, lounges on a small sofa beside the fire. Both men peer at her quizzically through bloodshot eyes. They are as drunk as a pair of His Majesty’s tars granted shore leave for the night.

“Oh, I see.” Jane casts a disdainful eye over them both. “It’s all very well for you two, making merry while we women get on with the unpleasant business.”

“Has the little fellow arrived?” Neddy sweeps his foot to the floor.

“Not yet.”

“But Beth’s well? Things are progressing as expected?”

“Yes.” Jane grips the back of the sofa, leaning all her weight on it. “According to the midwife, things are coming along swimmingly.”

“Then why are you down here?” Henry removes the cheroot from his lips and puffs out a great cloud of smoke.

Jane wafts away the fumes as she perches on the arm of the sofa. “Eliza sent me to fetch some brandy.”

Neddy jumps up and rushes towards the mahogany cabinet. The key is still in the lock. He grabs a dusty bottle and pours a generous measure into a tumbler, before handing it to Jane. “Beth usually prefers port.”

“It’s not for her.” Jane swings a foot back and forth as she swallows the brandy in one gulp.

“So we see.” Henry raises an eyebrow.

“By God, it’s a barbaric business.” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand as she holds out the glass for a refill. “How can you stand to put her through it, Ned? How can anyone stand it?”

“It’ll be worth it. You’ll see.” Neddy takes the glass obediently.

“What do Mother and Father always say? There’s no greater blessing.” Henry pats Jane’s knee. From his doe-eyed expression, it’s clear he’s savouring the prospect of having his own children. With Eliza. What formidable beings they will be, imbued with both Henry’s and Eliza’s charm. Will the world ever be ready for such a terrifying breed of creatures?

Neddy places a fresh glass of brandy in Jane’s palm, closing her hands around it to prevent her from smashing his best crystal. She tries to sip it slowly, hoping the taste of apples and dried oak rolling across her tongue will still it from voicing what is really on her mind. Her nerves are screaming at her to challenge Neddy on his reckless behaviour once and for all. “What were you up to, before I burst in on you?”

“Merely attempting to keep ourselves occupied.” Neddy shrugs. “Don’t go thinking it’s not an ordeal for the father too, Jane.”

Her fingers squeeze the glass. How dare Neddy describe waiting as an “ordeal” compared to the torment Elizabeth is submitting herself to?

“Perhaps you could read to us?” says Henry.

“I’m so agitated I couldn’t apply my mind to a list of laundry.” Besides, Neddy has declined to hear Jane’s work so many times that the prospect of forcing it on him now is humiliating. The only people who are prepared to listen to her stories in East Kent are Mrs. Knight and Agnes. And even then she is never sure if Mrs. Knight has made it to the end of the first sentence before dropping off.

“Has she read Catherine for you yet?” asks Henry. “I’m convinced she modelled the hero after me.”

“Only his most irritating attributes,” replies Jane.

“Is Catherine the one with the dreadful American lady?” Neddy scratches the back of his head. Trust him to find Mrs. Johnson’s colonial roots more offensive than Lady Susan’s scandalous antics.

“No, she’s come a long way since then. Father esteemed First Impressions so highly that he submitted it to the bookseller, Thomas Cadell.”

Jane almost slides off the arm of the sofa. As far as she knows, First Impressions has never left her side. “He did not.”

“He did.” Henry grins. “He put it in the post as soon as he waved you adieu at Dartford.”

“But I have it here, with me.”

“Do you? Or do you have the title page and a sheaf of fresh paper?”

Jane runs to the parlour, where First Impressions remains propped up against the sideboard. She tears at the ribbon, flicking through the subsequent pages, they are all blank. Her heart beats furiously at the prospect of a crowd of stuffy old men in London poring over her work. She did not write it with them in mind. She doubts they will understand her characters, let alone sympathize with their actions. And yet … She holds it to her chest as she races back to Henry. “Has Father heard back? Is Cadell going to publish it?”

“It was a no, I’m afraid. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it, he didn’t even read it. He sent it back by return of post.”

“Oh.” Jane slumps onto the sofa beside him, confused as to whether she’s more relieved or disappointed that Thomas Cadell, the famously selective bookseller, will not be reading her manuscript. It was kind of her father to believe her work worthy of his notice, yet she is mortified by Mr. Austen’s audacity. Fancy having the nerve to offer First Impressions to Frances Burney’s publisher. “Why didn’t Papa tell me he was planning to submit it?”

Henry rests an arm on the back of the sofa. “He probably didn’t want you to get your hopes up, in case of having them dashed.”

“Then why are you telling her?” asks Neddy.

“Because I think she should raise them even higher.”

“It’s not even finished yet. I’m confident I can improve it.” As with all her compositions, Jane had laboured hard over First Impressions, and was well satisfied with the draft before she put it aside. But with time, her previous work is losing its lustre. Especially as lately she has wished to toy with an entirely new style. As Agnes believed was already the case, she resolves to use this fresh supply of paper to immerse herself within her characters, committing their every thought and feeling to the page. Not having to rely solely on letters will carry the added advantage of allowing her to reunite the sisters. Contriving excuses to separate them so that they could correspond was becoming tiresome, as they so clearly belong together.

“That’s the spirit. You mustn’t lose heart.” Henry tickles the soft flesh above her knee with his finger and thumb. “We’ll make an authoress of you yet. You’ve always been the clever one.”

Jane stares into the bottom of her glass, looking for trouble. “No, I’m not. James is the clever one.”

“Ah, no. You’re mistaken there. James is the firstborn. He doesn’t have to be clever because Mother and Father believe all that he does is perfect regardless.”

A smile tugs at Jane’s lips. It’s a blessed relief to have Henry back at her side. “Cassandra is the kind one.”

Henry shoots her a rueful grin. “I’m the naughty one.”

Neddy’s features turn dour. “And I’m the one they sold.”

Jane’s blood roars in her ears. “How dare you, of all people, say that?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Neddy tips his port down his throat. “They sent me packing at the first opportunity. Run along, Ned. Take care to make yourself agreeable. Don’t ever forget that the hopes and dreams of your entire family rest upon your shoulders.”

Jane has fought so hard not to let this anger overtake her. But now every muscle in her body quivers with indignation. She cannot sit back and listen to Neddy describe himself as a victim. Not while Elizabeth is labouring in agony, and Agnes’s peace is irrevocably shattered. “Our parents saw an opportunity for their son to get on in life. As much as it pained them, they did it for you, Ned. You, who received every advantage. So how can you, of all people, have the gall to compare your adoption by the gentle, kindhearted Knights to … to …”

“To what?” Neddy’s eyes widen with every furious word she utters. Meanwhile, Henry’s attention switches between his brother and sister, with the horrified expression of a man watching two bare-knuckle pugilists trade blows.

The room is silent and still as several awful seconds pass. If Jane reveals what she knows, everything will change. She risks banishing herself from Neddy and his family forever. Even her own parents could disown her for exposing him. And yet there is a rage inside Jane that cannot be quashed. “To the way you bought and sold Agnes?”

Henry draws a sharp breath while Neddy blinks, his face as inscrutable as one of her blank pages.

“It’s no use playing the innocent with me.” Jane jabs a finger in the air. Neddy does not even have the integrity to own his sins. “I overheard you talking to her bully.”

“Jane.” Neddy’s cheroot is sticking to his lower lip. “What in God’s name are you speaking of ?”

“Don’t you dare try to refute it. I heard everything you said to that despicable man. It was a few days after I arrived. You were in the lane, at the back of the garden.”

All the colour drains from Neddy’s cheeks. “You did?”

Jane stands tall. She has said her piece now. She may as well press her point. “Feeling sorry for yourself, because you could no longer use the Infanta. ”

“What’s going on?” Henry’s voice is low and tense.

“The Infanta. That’s what Agnes, the poor wretch Mrs. Knight has taken pity on, calls herself.”

“God’s bollocks, Jane.” Neddy shoots up so quickly, his chair topples over. “What are you talking about? The Infanta is a ship. The Infanta de Castilla. ”

Jane sways, caught off guard. “A ship.”

“Yes. A bloody ship. Went down off the coast of Harty, almost a month ago.”

This cannot be right. Every word of Neddy and Fairbairn’s conversation is singed on Jane’s brain. She cannot have misconstrued him. “You said she was a perfect beauty?”

“She was … A fifty-five-foot cutter. Room for twelve or fourteen guns. Frank or Charles would have been proud to command her, I’m sure.”

Jane replays every line of the conversation in her head. Neither of the men mentioned a ship, not once. What was it that had made her so certain they were referring to Agnes? “But you told that villain he must recover her. You can’t recover a ship, not after it has sunk in open water.”

“I know. But I was so desperate I didn’t care if it was impossible or not. She was carrying my cargo. I’ve never laid a finger on Agnes. I never even saw her before Mother took her in. The closest I’ve ever been to her was when we met her at Crundale. Why on earth would you think I was referring to her?”

Despite all her previous conviction, Jane is fast shrinking into the Turkey rug. “ La Infanta de Castilla is how Eleanor introduced herself. Infanta is akin to ‘princess’ in Spanish.”

“Is it?” Neddy creases his brow. “I thought it meant ‘child’? You know, like infant?”

Jane shakes her head in disbelief. “No. Besides, La Infanta de Castilla was Queen Eleanor. She married King Edward I. Did you really not make the connection?” She looks to Henry for reassurance, but his bemused features tell her he is just as lost on the path of her tenuous reasoning.

“No, Jane.” Neddy’s voice ricochets off the walls. “I know you were always clamouring to get into Father’s schoolroom but I was desperate to get out.”

“B-but you said losing her must be your punishment for straying.” She stamps one foot as her voice turns into a whine.

Neddy scrapes his palm over his face. “From the law, not my wife. I attempted to use the Infanta to send a portion of my wool to the Continent to avoid paying excise duty. But the damned ship sank and now I’m worse off than ever.”

“Your wool?”

“Yes, Jane. My wool. I do run a sheep farm here, in case you haven’t noticed. These new taxes are ridiculous. I know we have a responsibility to contribute to the war chest, but how is an honest man meant to make a living when Parliament insists on skimming off every bit of profit and more besides?”

Jane and Henry exchange a glance of mutual horror. Neddy, the Austens’ most revered child and magistrate for the county, is a common smuggler.

“Don’t you dare look at me like that, either of you.” Neddy’s countenance turns puce. “I’ve a growing family to support. And you never concerned yourself with where the money would come from when I offered to pay Georgy’s legal fees. Did you?”

Chastened, Jane’s cheeks blaze with shame. He is right. The Austens are so used to taking handouts from Neddy, they never think twice about whether he can afford them. He takes a sip of port, slamming the glass on the desk and wiping his mouth. “I’d already committed to taking the extra acreage from Sir William. I thought I’d reserved enough in savings for the first year’s rent but, after settling the final bill from that bloodsucking lawyer, there wasn’t enough left. I needed to find a way to cover the discrepancy quickly. And you honestly thought I was being unfaithful to Beth? Jesus Christ, Jane. What kind of man do you think I am?”

At that very moment Jane’s guardian angel, in the form of Eliza, pokes her head around the door, saving her from having to answer. “Goodness me, what’s going on in here? I thought your new son had a pair of lungs on him. It’s clear where he gets them from.”

In an instant, all the tension in Neddy’s taut frame evaporates and his usual colour is restored. “My—my new son? I have another son?”

“Yes.” Eliza beams. “Would you like to meet him? Mother and baby are ready to receive you now.”

Neddy bounds for the door. As he passes Jane, he shoots her the darkest of looks, causing her to tremble. “We’ll discuss this matter later.”