Page 9 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)
CHAPTER NINE
In the heavenly cool entrance hall of Godmersham Park, Jane appraises the version of Mrs. Knight immortalized in oils while the living, breathing subject of the portrait issues instructions to her servants. Is Jane imagining it, or is there a guarded aspect to the lady in the picture she had not noticed before? The young bride sits with her hands clasped awkwardly in her lap, gazing directly out of the frame. At the time of sitting, Mrs. Knight was only a few years older than Jane, yet her dark eyes and stern features betray a command beyond her youth and station. It’s as if she challenges the viewer to hold her gaze while scolding them for their impertinence in doing so. Like Jane, Mrs. Knight does not take kindly to being made the object of intense scrutiny. The beauty of her painted form may encourage admirers to linger, but her unflinching gaze soon hastens them away.
On entering the north drawing room, Jane is met with no such elegance or refinement: Eleanor stands in the centre, moving her body as if she is a sapling caught in a violent gale. Her arms flail, and the appropriated peacock feathers in her headdress flap, as she bends into a series of impossible postures.
“Ma’am.” Grace tucks her knitting behind her back, and stands to greet her mistress. The maid looks a sensible woman. How can she go about her work while Eleanor is intent on causing such mischief ?
“Grace, will you send for some refreshment? I’ve had a very tiresome day.” Mrs. Knight steps briskly across the room and takes her usual seat while Jane remains stupefied on the threshold. “What is it, Miss Austen? Have you never seen a young lady practise her dancing before? My house guest is engaging in the traditions of her people.”
Jane does not reply that even the remotest tribe would exert more grace and poise than Eleanor, who races across the room before continuing her wild gestures. Once again, she is reminded of the illustrations of Cook’s voyages. Is it possible Eleanor has seen these reproduced in the Lady’s Magazine and is attempting to imitate them? It would be a cunning trick to exploit high society’s craze for the exotic in order to extort their riches.
“Come, Eleanor, my dear. You must be fatigued by now.” Mrs. Knight gestures to the chair next to her. Eleanor obeys immediately, pressing countless kisses to the widow’s hand as she takes her place.
“How do you do, Infanta ?” Jane sits on the low sofa opposite. Eleanor merely sniffs in reply and continues to fawn over Mrs. Knight. She really is a saucy minx. While Jane cannot support Elizabeth’s design to banish her immediately to a house of correction, she is tempted to grab the girl by the shoulders and shake the truth out of her. However, Jane has already provoked Mrs. Knight several times today and must not even think of doing so again. Her investigation will be better served by remaining at the widow’s side, rather than being expelled from Godmersham Park for manhandling her guest.
After Grace returns with coffee and a selection of sweetmeats, Eleanor proceeds to jabber away in her made-up tongue. Mrs. Knight smiles and pats her hand, showing no sign of suspecting her of manufacturing gibberish despite what Jane now knows of her own proficiency in the French language. When Eleanor finally runs out of ill-remembered Continental phrases, Mrs. Knight turns to Jane. “Well, Miss Austen, I believe you promised to read to us. Or have you lugged that thing all the way from Rowling simply for me to admire it?” She nods to Grace, who drags the small mahogany table with Jane’s writing box resting on it before the sofa.
“As you wish, ma’am.” Unfamiliar nerves dance inside Jane’s frame as she unpacks her manuscript and reads hesitantly from The Sisters. Technically, as Jane’s distant cousin by marriage, Mrs. Knight is family, but Jane has never before read her work aloud to someone so remotely related or so ill-tempered. She is relieved rather than offended when, fifteen minutes into her performance, light snores drift from the direction of Mrs. Knight’s chair. Jane is hardly at her most riveting and it has been an exhausting day. She would be ready for a nap, too, if it wasn’t for the assistance of Godmersham’s exquisite coffee. Thankfully, Eleanor is so fascinated by the sweetmeats, she refrains from hogging the sugar bowl or putting on a spectacle with the cream jug.
Determined to make the most of this rare opportunity to work undisturbed, Jane continues to read aloud, alternating from each of the Misses Dashwood’s letters to one another. Mrs. Knight continues to slumber peacefully, Grace soon withdraws and, as Eleanor is utterly unaffected by anything Jane does, her inhibitions soon fade away. She reads each of the sisters’ voices as clearly as she hears them in her mind. The elder Miss Dashwood is low and measured, while the younger speaks in a faster, high-pitched tongue. Without an audience, Jane does not hesitate to pause and mark corrections, or repeat the same passage. She gets through several of the letters, striking out and writing over her earlier work, but she cannot help thinking that something is lacking from the story. Both Misses Dashwood are shallow creatures, caricatures rather than portraits.
It is late afternoon by the time Grace pops her head around the door. “The Rowling coachman is here for you, miss.”
“Thank you. Please tell him I’ll be there in just a moment.” Jane is relieved that Roger will be escorting her home, rather than Armand—who, after their morning’s excursion, must be as worn out as herself and Mrs. Knight, and therefore likely to be even surlier than usual. She continues to write until no more ink pours from the nib of her quill before scattering setting powder over the pages. When she finally looks up, Eleanor is bent forward, elbows resting on her knees, face cupped in her palms as waves of burnished copper hair cascade around her shoulders. Her quilt cape is discarded, along with her usual haughty posture, revealing a reed-thin figure in a plain morning gown, with sharp clavicles at the base of her throat.
“Goodness me! I didn’t know I had your attention.” Jane shudders at the realization that Eleanor has been watching her. Her task was to study the girl, but instead she has become the focus of Eleanor’s observations. What a sly creature—she must have been waiting for Mrs. Knight to fall asleep before relaxing her pretence.
“You are Jane?” The lilt of Eleanor’s voice betrays an Irish accent.
“That’s right. I’m Jane.” So, this is the girl behind the mask. Will Mrs. Knight rouse in time to see her true colours? The grand lady is reclined in her seat, eyes closed and the faintest hint of drool running from one corner of her mouth. Jane is sorely tempted to kick her awake. “And you are …?”
Eleanor stares at her, seeming not to comprehend that Jane has posed her a question. The door creaks as Grace enters, but Jane does not tear her eyes from the girl. She waits for her to flinch upright. Surely she will not want the servant to witness her slip in composure. If they reported her antics to Mrs. Knight, her ruse would be over. But Eleanor remains hunched. Without her regal bearing and silly costume, she looks younger, more sorrowful. Almost a different being altogether.
Jane determines to engage her in conversation. If her tone is brusque enough, Mrs. Knight might wake. “I hope you enjoyed my ramblings?”
“Your ramblings?” Eleanor’s forehead creases.
“Yes. If I’d realized you were listening, I would have made more of an effort to stick to the thread, instead of jumping about. It must have been quite bewildering for you.”
“No, it wasn’t bewildering at all.” Eleanor leans forward, a light shining in her russet brown eyes. Her accent distinguishes her as belonging to the lower orders. If she is not native to Kent, or even England, it would explain why no one has recognised her. She holds out a hand, as if to lay it over Jane’s, then withdraws it and stares down into her lap. “I fear … I fear I understand you perfectly.”
“Oh.” It seems Jane has at last found someone in Kent to appreciate her talent. What a shame it is the artful wench who is out to steal her brother’s inheritance.
Grace waits at Jane’s elbow. “Shall I help you with your box, miss?”
“There’s no need.” Jane looks from Grace to Eleanor, examining each for a reaction to the other, but Grace seems no more disconcerted by Eleanor’s switch in demeanour than Eleanor is to have her witness it. Even more frustrating, Mrs. Knight slumbers on. If only she would open her eyes or ears now. She would realise her infanta is no more than a doleful young Irish woman. Jane slams the lid of the box, hoping the sound might rouse her. “Well, I’m afraid I must leave you,” she says, as loudly as she can, but Mrs. Knight shows no sign of letting Jane disturb her peace. “Adieu.”
Grace, ignoring Jane’s instructions, lifts her writing box from the table. “It’s no bother.”
“You will come again.” Eleanor stares up at Jane as if she has only just made her acquaintance. “The others will let you, when it’s your turn.”
“You may depend upon it.” Jane attempts to make her farewell sound like a warning. What does she mean by “the others”? Now that Elizabeth is indisposed to travel, and both Neddy and Mr. Blackall are refused admittance, Godmersham Park is hardly inundated with callers.
“If you please, miss,” says Grace, labouring under the weight of Jane’s writing box.
“Did you mark that?” Jane whispers, as she follows the maid towards the exit.
Grace heaves the box onto her chest, trying to manoeuvre one hand free to turn the handle. “Mark what?”
“That?” Jane tips her head towards Eleanor as she opens the door for them. Across the drawing room, Eleanor returns her gaze, mournful eyes cutting right through Jane. “Mrs. Knight’s house guest—she completely disregarded her pretence of being a Spanish princess. She was even speaking to me in English, and she has an Irish accent. You must have noticed?”
Grace sighs heavily as she hands Jane’s box to a waiting footman in the entrance hall. “A good servant sees and hears only what her mistress wishes her to.”
“But you watch Eleanor all day—you were supervising her when we came in. Has this happened before? If so, why have you not informed Mrs. Knight?”
“I’m afraid I cannot help you, Miss Austen.” Grace bobs the briefest of curtsies before darting towards a servant’s staircase. How infuriating that she refuses to be drawn on the matter. Is Mrs. Knight’s maid colluding with the girl? Has Eleanor promised her a share of her spoils if she assists in her wicked scheme? Or is Grace afraid of disclosing Eleanor’s duplicity in fear of being executed as the messenger? If only Mrs. Knight had awoken in time to witness Eleanor’s revelation. But Jane refuses to be despondent. If Eleanor’s mask has slipped once, she is confident she can find a way to wrench it free again.