Page 5 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)

CHAPTER FIVE

Jane finds herself in a large, square chamber. Red damask clothes the walls and velvet curtains the deep windows, obscuring the parkland. Two figures sit in the furthest corner—a distance of at least twenty feet away. Jane must squint to make them out clearly in the dim light. In the near two decades since Jane was last in her company, Mrs. Knight has aged into the archetype of a grieving widow in her sombre black mantua and veil. Her companion, meanwhile, looks to have stepped straight out of an illustration from Cook’s voyages. Neither woman rises to greet her. She hesitates, wishing she had found an excuse to accompany Neddy on his inspection of the estate, before forcing herself to take extra care as she crosses the slippery parquet flooring. By appearing before the latest in their line of benefactors, Jane is holding up not just herself but her entire family for inspection. It is not only incumbent upon her to restore Neddy to Mrs. Knight’s good graces: Jane’s parents will be furious if she fails to make a favourable impression on her own account.

“Miss Austen, I presume?” Mrs. Knight wafts a lace fan over her severe features. Her dark mane may be streaked with silver and her lively eyes grown cold, but she is still recognizable as the glamorous creature from Jane’s youth. A mourning brooch of woven hair surrounded by pearls is pinned to her bosom.

“Yes, ma’am.” Jane bobs a curtsy, but she is too distracted by Mrs. Knight’s more flamboyant house guest to retain her gaze.

The girl, no older than herself, sits with her chin high, her back ramrod straight. With her coppery red hair, she reminds Jane of an oil painting she once saw of the shrewd, calculating Queen Elizabeth. Her hands rest, upturned, on the arms of her chair, as if waiting to be passed her orb and sceptre. She casts her russet brown gaze over Jane, nostrils flickering with disdain, eyes unblinking in her freckled countenance. Her entire demeanour is one of aggressive haughtiness. But now that Jane is closer, she can see her cape is actually a quilt, and her headdress is fashioned from a linen pillowcase, some ribbon and three peacock feathers. No wonder the bird looked so disgruntled.

At a loss for how to greet the stranger, Jane places one foot at an angle to the other and bends low into a demure curtsy. “Your Royal Highness.”

Mrs. Knight makes slow claps, causing the heavy jewels on her fingers to sparkle. “Very droll. I was warned you considered yourself a wit. My house guest, Eleanor, does not require you to adhere to protocol while she resides with me.”

“She doesn’t?” Still, Jane cannot tear her eyes from the girl. Eleanor certainly possesses the arrogance of a princess. Despite Jane’s deferential greeting, she refuses to acknowledge her presence. What mischief is she up to?

“Was that my son, storming about the hall? I hoped he’d grown out of such infantile behaviour by now.”

“It was Neddy, yes, ma’am. He was most looking forward to seeing you.”

“If that’s the case, instruct him to return on Thursday. He can accompany me to Canterbury. I have a great many errands to run, and shall be in need of someone to carry my purchases.” Mrs. Knight’s lips purse, as if she’d bitten into a rather sour quince when expecting a nice juicy apple. While Jane is relieved Neddy’s mother has requested his presence, she cannot help noticing that, yet again, she has relegated him to the position of a servant. “I can never remember, are you the Miss Austen who paints or the one who plays the pianoforte most indifferently?”

Jane looks about for a seat, wondering who’s been defaming her musical abilities. It must have been her sister-in-law. While she may not have been fortunate enough to receive instruction from court musicians, as Elizabeth did, Jane is more than proficient, and she practises every day when she’s at home. She perches on the edge of a chintz sofa. “I’m afraid I’m the musician, and I also compose my own stories. My elder sister, Cassandra, is the artist. She was meant to come, but …” The memory of Cassandra clutching the tear-stained letter from Mr. Fowle’s devastated family stops the words in Jane’s throat.

The sisters had been lying on the grassy slope at the back of the rectory, avoiding their mother and her never-ending list of domestic duties for them to complete. As soon as their father’s horse came clip-clopping along the lane, Cassandra scrambled to greet him. Mr. Austen had been to Basingstoke and had promised to call at the Wheatsheaf inn to collect the mail on his way home. Cassandra had been expecting news of her fiancé every day for weeks, but no letters had arrived. Jane went back to dozing in the spring sunshine, daydreaming her way through her next story, when the most appalling noise came from inside the rectory. Her first thought was that a fox had got itself trapped in the pantry. But when she rushed inside, there was Cassandra on her knees, bent double. The crumpled letter, with its horrid black seal, was still in her hand, while Mr. Austen, his face ghostly, looked on.

Jane blinks away the threat of tears. “Well, she’s indisposed at the moment.”

“I know the true purpose of your visit, Miss Austen.” Mrs. Knight glares at her.

The sofa is so low Jane is forced to crouch before the other women. “Do you? If so, pray can you tell me? I thought I was coming to help with the children, but it seems my sister-in-law intends to arrange a bride auction on my behalf.”

Mrs. Knight recoils. “How old are you?”

“One-and-twenty.” Jane braces herself to be told she should be married already and therefore should show more gratitude for Elizabeth’s efforts to find her a husband.

“You speak your mind very freely, for one so young.”

“I do apologize.” Jane twists her hands in her lap. She dearly wants to be agreeable, but it is most distracting trying to converse with Mrs. Knight while they both ignore the strange woman sitting beside her, festooned in peacock feathers. “Sincerely, I don’t mean to offend . I have all these words, and they tend to come tumbling out. Especially when I’m ill at ease.”

“You’re here because Neddy fears I’m entering my second childhood.”

“He would never dare make such a presumption …” Jane cannot let the gulf between her brother and his benefactress widen any further than it already has. She has promised to act as Elizabeth’s emissary and she will do whatever it takes to find out the truth of the girl’s story but, above all, she must act in a manner deferential to Mrs. Knight. “Neddy has the greatest respect and regard for you. Indeed, all our fam—”

Mrs. Knight flicks her fan, silencing Jane as the door to the entrance hall opens. A vaguely familiar maid, holding a silver tray laden with what smells like coffee, crosses the room.

“Here, Grace.” Mrs. Knight makes a pile of small, leather-bound books on the mahogany side table to clear a space. As Grace unloads the items, Mrs. Knight eyes a folded leaf of paper beside the pot. Instantly, all colour drains from her pinched features. “That’s not another already?”

Grace’s features turn wan. “I’m afraid so, ma’am. Mr. Penlington found it on the front step.”

“Is it …” Mrs. Knight trails off, stroking her neck.

“Like the last? Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to say it is.” The maid stands, clutching the now-empty silver tray to her chest so tightly her knuckles are white. “Shall I leave it here for you?”

“No! I don’t want the dreaded thing anywhere near me. Take it away at once. I’ll deal with it later.” Mrs. Knight flicks her wrist, as if she could shoo the note from her table like a stray dog. She glances briefly at Eleanor but the princess keeps her eyes trained on Jane. Whatever the mysterious note entails, Eleanor will not let it distract her from taunting Jane and her family. Indeed she shoots Jane the kind of filthy look, which, if they were really in high society, would signify she had been cut from the bon ton forever.

“As you wish, mistress.” Grace curtsies before dropping the note onto the tray, equally unwilling to touch it. Jane is desperate to ask what kind of message could have upset Mrs. Knight and her maid so, but Mrs. Knight’s demeanour tells her she would be expelled with a flea in her ear if she dared to ask outright. Perhaps Grace will reveal more if Jane can engage her in conversation.

Mrs. Knight takes a moment to recover as the maid departs before fixing her attention back to Jane. “As I was saying, Miss Austen, I know why Neddy’s sent you here, but there’s really no need—”

Without warning, Eleanor jumps to her feet, opens her small, round mouth and a stream of babble flies out. “ Si, si …

Lieto di conoscerti. Fijar con listones la escotilla. Merci beaucoup. ” Jane stares up at the girl in astonishment. She does not speak much Spanish, but her father taught her French and a smattering of Italian, and she is pretty sure Eleanor just combined all three. Mrs. Knight reaches out a hand and places it gently over the girl’s wrist. Eleanor peers down at her, indignant. “ Soy la Infanta de Castilla. ”

“The Infanta of Castille?” asks Jane. “I thought Neddy said the princess hailed from the Canary Islands?”

“Do take some refreshment.” Mrs. Knight releases Eleanor to pour three cups. The girl sits heavily beside her, shaking out her cloak and huffing at the closed door.

Enquiring into Mrs. Knight’s private correspondence may overstep the bounds of propriety, but surely it is only polite to converse as to how she formed the acquaintance of her house guest. “I’m most eager to hear more about how the princess came to be under your protection. If that’s not too impertinent to ask? I’ve heard rumours of a terrible tragedy taking place at sea.” Jane reaches for the tongs and has almost selected the perfect-sized lump of sugar to sweeten her coffee, when Eleanor dumps her cup directly onto the table, splashing steaming liquid onto the polished surface, snatches the bowl and deposits the entire contents in her saucer.

Jane’s hand is frozen, tongs poised over the empty bowl. She looks to Mrs. Knight for a reaction, but instead the widow remains focused on Jane as she speaks. “I believe these rituals are conducted quite differently where my guest hails from.”

“So I see,” says Jane, as Eleanor licks her finger and rolls it across her saucer of sugar, coating it in delicious crystals, then sticks it into her mouth. When she withdraws it, she flicks it against the inside of her cheek to make a popping sound. This is done with such a dignified air that Jane could almost believe it is how all ladies of quality take their afternoon refreshments, and she is simply not well bred enough to be familiar with the custom. “Which is?”

Mrs. Knight frowns. “Why don’t you read to us, Miss Austen?”

“Oh … If you’d like me to, I can.” Jane reaches for the small leather-bound tomes on the coffee table. If she’s not mistaken, among them is a copy of Letters for Literary Ladies.

“Not those. I can read my own books whenever I please.” Mrs. Knight raps Jane’s hand with her closed fan. “One of your compositions.”

“Mine?” Jane clutches her hand to her breast. It was only a light tap, but it stung and made her start.

“Yes, yours. I remember your father boasting that your stories could be quite amusing.”

“Did he really?” Jane shouldn’t be surprised. Mr. Austen has always been her greatest admirer, but being so far from home and all those who appreciate her talent has eroded her confidence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring any of my work with me today. But I could next time. If you’d really like me to?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t in earnest.”

“Then I shall.” Jane sits back in her seat, cheered by the prospect of an audience and already wondering which of her compositions would be most favourable to Mrs. Knight. First Impressions is by far the most complex work she’s ever written; her father says he prefers it to everything in his library. But the Bennet family, with their constant lament at not having a son to continue the entail of their estate, might be a bit too near the mark. On the surface, Catherine is too silly, and Jane wouldn’t want the widow to conflate herself with her most whimsical heroine. No, as unfinished as the manuscript is, it will have to be The Sisters.

This might even turn out for the best, as the Misses Dashwood are most in need of her attention. Without Cassandra there to reflect Jane’s words back at her, the story remains a puzzle. She began with the intention of contrasting their characters: the elder Miss Dashwood is a woman of sense, while her younger sister succumbs too readily to the fluctuating tides of her emotions. Alas, in its current form, Jane fears the work veers towards a medieval morality play rather than a subtle exploration of human nature.

She forces down her unsweetened coffee while making her resolution. Jane’s vanity is not so robust as to preclude her from suspecting Mrs. Knight’s motivation in asking her to read was to distract her from Eleanor’s antics but, with so much on her mind, she almost forgets to observe the girl. That is, until Eleanor plucks the jug from the table, holds it aloft and pours a rivulet of cream directly into her mouth.

Mrs. Knight rests her forehead in one hand. “You may call again.”

“Thank you. That is most hospitable of you,” says Jane, without tearing her eyes from Eleanor. How is it possible she has not spilt a single drop? The jug must be twelve inches from her mouth. “I shall very much look forward to it.”

“Good day to you, Miss Austen. My coachman will see you back to Rowling.”

“Oh, very well.” Jane jumps up, belatedly realizing she is being dismissed. “Good day to you, Mrs. Knight.” Still no wiser as to how to address Eleanor, Jane walks backwards to the door, bowing every few steps until her bottom collides with the knob. Mrs. Knight has declared her guest does not require Jane to stand on ceremony, but “Miss Eleanor” feels far too familiar. Perhaps the princess’s self-styled title would feel less of an insult to both Jane and Eleanor’s dignity. “ Infanta .”

All the cream finished, Eleanor smacks her lips together. “ Cambia tu rumbo a estribor. Buona note. ”

“Quite,” replies Jane, as she reaches behind herself, fumbling for the handle to let herself out.

Once Jane is in the sanctity of the entrance hall, she takes a deep breath to regain her composure. She has witnessed enough to agree Elizabeth and Neddy’s fears are well founded. Mrs. Knight’s house guest is a spurious interloper. Eleanor’s bizarre behaviour would be enough to arouse suspicion, but her costume is ridiculous and it is obvious she speaks no more Spanish than Jane. Her ruse is so preposterous as to offend the comprehension of any intelligent person.

The real question is why a woman as intelligent as Mrs. Knight cannot see this for herself. What hold does the girl have over her that she would invite Eleanor to share her home and place her comfort above that of her son and daughter-in-law? Jane’s only consolation is that she has been invited to return. Through a few well-placed hints, she might open Mrs. Knight’s eyes to Eleanor’s mendacity.

There are no servants to be seen, and the marble floor keeps the hall wonderfully cool. Her nerves calmer, Jane moves to check her reflection in the surface of a silver tray left on a marble pedestal. A folded leaf of hot-pressed paper sits abandoned on it. Jane’s throat catches as she realizes it is the same note that Mrs. Knight refused to read. There is no seal and no postmark, indicating it was delivered by hand. How curious that Mrs. Knight should be so disgusted by a message from a near acquaintance. Jane’s fingers hover towards it. Before she can stop herself, she has flicked open the page. In contrast to the excellent-quality materials, the handwriting is crude and clumsy—not at all appropriate for the correspondent of a great lady. Large, spidery letters, blotted with black ink, spell out just a few words. The whore’s feet run to evil, whosoever harbours her shall know no peace. Turn her out or I will deliver her to judgement myself. Capt. Fairbairn

Jane whips away her hand, as if she’d grasped the handle of a kettle straight from the stove. No wonder Mrs. Knight didn’t want to read it. How dare this Captain Fairbairn write such profanity and have the gall to present it at the very entrance of Godmersham Park? Another? This is not the first disgusting note Mrs. Knight has received. Jane closes her eyes, shaking her head to dispel the image of the obscene scrawl from her mind. Who is Captain Fairbairn and what does he know about Eleanor’s history? Could he be party to the girl’s true nature and whatever devious plans she has to defraud Mrs. Knight? His method is despicable and his words are beyond coarse, but his missive is clearly intended as a warning. Has Mrs. Knight told Neddy? Or the authorities? If Neddy’s benefactress is embroiled in a nefarious affair, Jane must do what she can to extract her from it. Quickly, before she places herself—or, more crucially, Neddy’s inheritance and the Austens’ future happiness—in danger.