Page 27 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Upstairs in her boudoir, Elizabeth is resurrected. She reclines gracefully, eyes bright and features placid, on a bank of snow-white pillows. The midwife must have helped her change into a crisp cap and dressing-gown, and her hair is neatly brushed away from her face, plaited in a long dark coil. Cradled in her arms is the most beautiful, vulnerable, and terrifying creature Jane has ever laid eyes on. A tiny cherub, with a squashed round face, pink cheeks and enormous blue-grey eyes, which seem to take in everything and nothing all at once. The baby yawns, exhausted from the effort of battling his way into the world. As he does, he stretches his wrinkled hands. His tiny fingernails look as soft as butter.

Neddy perches beside Elizabeth, one arm slung around her shoulders in a proprietary manner as they gaze down at their newborn son. Henry and Eliza sit at the bedside, hands clasped as they occasionally break from admiring each other to glance in the baby’s general direction. Jane hovers at the foot of the bed, unsure of her place in this rejuvenated family. How will Neddy ever find it in himself to forgive her? Her heart sags at the thought that this new nephew may never lisp her name. Who will teach him how to make a paper ship if Jane is barred from Rowling? Cassandra’s efforts always sink. What if, after news of her ghastly accusation arrives at Steventon, Jane is expelled from the rectory? Where would she go? No one will marry her now, not even Dr. Storer. She has severed the one connection who guaranteed her security. She will have to become a governess—forced to labour day and night to improve the stubborn minds of children she is not even related to. How will she bear it? Maybe she should find herself a bawd instead.

She must not jest. Not even inside her own head. Her jokes are unfunny and vile. And, like everything else she does, bound to expose her to contempt and ridicule. What did she think she was doing? She should have had faith in her brother from the start, not allowed her suspicion to fester until it turned into a canker. She thought she was being prudent in keeping her theories to herself. Instead, she has been misled by the arrogance of her own convictions. Mrs. Knight is right—she is nothing but a foolish young lady of little experience and no consequence. Nobody appointed her as Agnes’s saviour. Why would they, when Jane does not even have the means to take command of her own life?

Henry leans towards the bed, placing one hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “You’ll have to find a name for the little fellow.”

“We’ve already discussed it,” Elizabeth murmurs, without taking her eyes off the babe. “With your permission, we’d like to call him Henry.”

“After me?” Henry sits taller, beaming at Eliza. She squeezes his hand, her own eyes glittering with pride.

Jane presses her palms flat against her abdomen to prevent herself from making a display of her distress. How many girls would Elizabeth have to birth before one was baptized “Jane”? After what she’s just done, it would take an infinite number. Why would anyone want to curse their offspring by naming them after her? Forget her needlework, her turn on the pianoforte, or even her compositions, Jane’s major accomplishment is taking a bad situation and making it a thousand times worse. Mrs. Knight commanded her to act as a friend to Agnes, no more. Has she even done that? Biddy has not replied to her note, and Jane is no closer to helping her to safety. After Neddy’s revelation, she feels further away from the truth than ever. Jane travelled to Rowling to act as envoy from the Steventon Austens. Instead, she’s created an irreparable rift in the family, and done everything she can to heap scorn upon her own head by accusing everyone’s favourite brother of whoring.

Yet she was justified in her belief that Neddy was hiding something. Jane may have been wildly mistaken in what it was, but some veracity was buried among her awful suspicions. Neddy has been overly secretive these last few weeks, lying to his wife and under the power of an unscrupulous villain. Jane must persevere—force him to confess what he knows and atone for his crimes by arresting the captain. If Neddy merely dealt with Fairbairn to transport his wool, he will not know about his connection to Agnes. Neither can he know that the reason the Infanta sank, and all of her crew, plus the other women and girls on board, lost their lives was the captain’s recklessness. Jane prays she has not left it too late to tell him and enlist his help. Every day she hesitated, she has made it less likely that the authorities will be able to trace the old man from the inn to stand as witness. She drifts away from the bed, towards the window, determined not to ruin the tender moment by breaking down into sobs at what a fool she has been in thinking she could manage this situation alone.

From outside, horses’ hoofs clatter and carriage wheels turn over the gravel. Jane hooks a finger around the velvet curtain, lifting it from the glass. It is past midnight, well beyond the hour for receiving visitors. Yet Mrs. Knight’s distinctive coach is parked in the drive. Armand barks a few words to Roger and the man goes running towards the stables.

Jane’s stomach tightens. Why is Mrs. Knight here? She has never deigned to visit Rowling in all the time Jane has been in Kent. Armand opens the carriage door, and hands down his mistress with another woman. Jane presses her face to the window, hoping to see Agnes. Perhaps the girl will have returned to herself long enough to give Neddy a first-hand account of the shipwreck and he will arrest Captain Fairbairn immediately. But Jane can tell from the second woman’s dress and demeanour that it is Grace, not Agnes, who is Mrs. Knight’s companion. Armand shepherds both women inside the house, without waiting for any third female to appear. Jane drops the curtain and steps backwards, colliding with Henry. He frowns at her, as if Jane might be able to provide an explanation as to why the notoriously reclusive widow is making house calls in the early hours of the morning.

Footsteps thump up the stairs and Alice pokes her head around the door. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, sir.” She pants, breathless from the sudden exertion. “But Mrs. Knight has arrived.”

Neddy peers at her, as if not fully comprehending. “Mother? At Rowling?”

Alice only nods.

“She’s probably heard about little Henry.” Neddy presses a kiss to Elizabeth’s temple before he stands. “Come to congratulate us. You sleep now, darling.”

But Jane knows full well the baby’s arrival cannot be the reason Mrs. Knight is here. Like any sensible woman, Mrs. Knight gave clear instructions that she was not to be notified of Elizabeth’s lying-in until the event was over, mother and baby out of danger. Enough time has not passed for a messenger to make his way from Rowling to Godmersham and back.

The midwife takes the tightly swaddled bundle from his mother’s arms. Elizabeth yawns, almost as widely as her new son. “I am rather tired.”

Eliza pats her hand. “Would you like me to remain? I could fetch us some caudle.”

“No, no. You go. You can all go now.” Elizabeth closes her eyes. “Thank you for your assistance, Eliza.”

She does not thank Jane. And why should she? Jane is as useless as a left-footed spinster at a public assembly. She follows Neddy down the stairs, eager to find out what’s occurred but wanting to fade into the background so that her brother might forget she is there. In the entrance hall, Mrs. Knight wrings her hands. She and Grace are still in their bonnets and capes, anxiously standing beside the dying fire rather than allowing themselves to be shown into the parlour. Armand lurks in the shadowy alcove, blunderbuss glinting in the candlelight.

“Neddy,” Mrs. Knight rushes to him, collapsing into his arms, “I’m so sorry to trouble you.”

“Not at all, Mother.” He steers her towards the wooden bench, but she does not sit. “How did you know Elizabeth had been brought to bed already?”

“I didn’t. Are she and the baby well?”

“Perfectly so. But why are you here?”

“It’s Agnes.” Mrs. Knight sobs. “The man claiming to be her guardian came to the house, demanding she be returned to him. And the poor lamb … She was so frightened. She ran away before I could stop her.”

“Agnes’s guardian had the audacity to present himself at Godmersham?” Neddy lowers his brow, seeming as incredulous as he is furious. “Uninvited?”

“It’s worse than that, Ned.” Mrs. Knight grips one of his big hands between both of hers. “He’s armed and accompanied by a whole gang of brigands. They’re scouring the park, intent on capturing her!”

Jane falters, reaching for the newel post for support, while Eliza dashes towards Neddy’s study. Jane cannot blame her for wishing to flee. She lost her first husband to the Terror in France and almost lost her own life in the Mount Street Riot. The prospect of mob violence following her here, to Kent, must be terrifying. Henry chases after her.

Mrs. Knight presses her eyes closed, drawing a ragged breath. “Forgive me, I didn’t want to burden you with this. Not now, when Elizabeth needs you. But Agnes’s guardian is a dastardly villain. He’s known all around these parts.”

Neddy’s face turns hard as flint. “What’s his name, Mother?”

“It’s Mr. Spooner. He’s one of those ruffians from the Sea Salter Company.” As Jane suspected, Fairbairn has used an alias to claim Agnes. “I can’t let him take her, Neddy. He’s already subjected her to the most despicable form of abuse.”

Neddy’s eyes flick to Jane. Clearly he is only now realizing the enormity of her accusations against him. She stumbles backwards, overwhelmed with guilt and shame at her stupidity. If she had confessed everything she had learnt in Whitstable and asked for Neddy’s help sooner, Mrs. Knight would have been spared this invasion and Agnes would be safe.

“I swear, Mother.” Neddy sets his mouth in a thin line. “He’ll rue the day.”

Armand steps forward. “I took the liberty of rousing your men, sir.” If Armand was colluding with Fairbairn, he would not have come to seek help. Unless he is deliberately leading her brother into danger.

Grace clings to her mistress. “Mr. Penlington is attempting to secure the house. But if they try to enter, he won’t be able to hold them off for long.”

Neddy takes a sharp breath. “I’ll fetch my guns.”

“Here.” Eliza stands in the doorway to Neddy’s study, grasping the enormous rifles, previously displayed above the fireplace. The barrels are so long they reach her earlobes. Jane underestimated Eliza. She went to raid the arsenal, not cower in fear. Behind her, Henry has attired himself in his full militia uniform, complete with sabre, and is loading shot into a satchel.

Neddy throws on a hunting jacket and takes the rifles from Eliza. “Let’s away.”

“Stop!” Jane screams, her panic getting the better of her. She will not let Neddy go into battle against a horde of blackguards without being party to the full extent of their wickedness. “Spooner is more determined than you know. He’s been harassing Mrs. Knight by letter, using the name Captain Fairbairn and vowing to kill anyone who stands between him and Agnes. He must have an accomplice familiar with the park.”

“Is this true, Mother?”

Mrs. Knight places a hand to her throat. “I have received some vile notes, but I had no notion they were connected to the man claiming to be Agnes’s guardian.”

“It’s him, I’m sure of it. He’s a cold-blooded killer. It’s his fault the Infanta sank. An old man I met in Dartford witnessed the tragedy. It was the captain’s negligence, not an act of God, that caused the ship to capsize. Agnes is the only other survivor. That’s why he’s so desperate to snatch her. Her testimony would see him hanged.”

“And you’re telling me this now? ” Neddy shakes his head, incredulous at her idiocy.

“We should call in the dragoons,” says Henry. “There’s a garrison at Canterbury.”

Neddy gives a curt nod. “Send a groom with a message, certainly, but I’ll not wait for them.”

Eliza grabs Henry’s hand as he passes. “Come back to me,” she says, voice breathy. He pauses to kiss her full on the mouth before the three men spill out into the night. Once they have left, Eliza takes Mrs. Knight’s free arm. “Let’s get you settled by the fire, ma’am. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

Mrs. Knight grips her wrist. “Tell me about the baby …”

“Little Henry? He’s a poppet.”

“Another boy? Oh, we are blessed. And what a charming name.”

“Yes, I certainly think so …”

Between Grace and Eliza, Mrs. Knight is led into the parlour. But instead of joining them, Jane walks in the opposite direction through the open door. The cries of working men and horses’ hoofs are calling her out into the moonlight. A dozen boys and men run to and fro across the gravel driveway, preparing to defend Godmersham Park. Neddy’s carriage horses look far too dainty to enter the fray, yet they are saddled alongside the commonest draught horse in his stable. All of the riders, Jane is sickened to see, are armed with pistols or clubs tied to their belts. Armand piles pitchforks inside the coach and orders Neddy’s shepherds onto the rumble seat. Even in this chaos, he will not risk spoiling the upholstery. Roger holds two enormous hunters steady for her brothers. Neddy climbs onto his but as Henry is about to do the same his gaze meets Jane’s. He rushes towards her, resting his hands on her shoulders and bearing his weight down on her. “Stay here,” he says, in a peremptory tone she imagines he usually reserves for his lesser soldiers.

“Where else would I go?” Jane lays a hand across her chest. Her heart is beating to a gallop. She could hardly grab a rifle and leap into the saddle to help save Agnes, however much she wants to.

“Nowhere.” Henry’s lip twitches. “That’s what I said, stay here. Where you’re safe and can’t get yourself into any further trouble.”

Perplexed as to why he should think it necessary to compel her to remain, Jane stands paralysed as Henry dashes for his horse. All of the men leave in a cloud of dust and enraged masculinity. Conker brushes past her skirts and darts out onto the road, barking furiously at being left behind. Despite wearing only her slippers, Jane sprints after him, yelling for the stupid dog to return. The animal’s misguided loyalty will get him killed if he tries to keep in step with the horses all the way to Godmersham. A hundred yards along the drive, she catches up with him, howling to the waning moon at the indignity of being left behind when there’s a hunt afoot. She crouches beside him, rubbing both hands over his velvet ears and nuzzling his neck for comfort. The night is still, and bright, and Jane has never felt more insignificant, both she and the dog deemed utterly unfit for this fight. And yet the very fact that Henry warned her to “stay there” implies there might be somewhere she could go to assist in preserving Agnes. If only Jane could intuit where it is.