Why was it necessary for a Russian princess to die in so sordid a way? And whose hand had held the knife that cut her throat?
“What you say interests me greatly,” I told Manon.
“Like a vignette from a novel, is it not?” she said.
I WAS COLLECTED FROM THE BREAKFAST PARLOUR BY a sister so divinely habited as to appear every inch the Countess, from her spencer of willow green embroidered with cream knots, to her upturned poke bonnet. Gloves were on her hands, half-boots on her feet, and a reticule dangled from one arm. Eliza held a square package wrapped in brown paper; she did not quite meet Henry’s gaze as she said, “I cannot waste another moment, my love, before returning this wretched soup tureen to Mr. Wedgwood’s establishment; I declare I was miserable last evening, for being unable to place it in a position of honour on the supper table. It must and shall be repaired.”
“Eh?” Henry replied, glancing up from his morning newspaper. “Ah, yes — the tureen. Very proper you should attend to it yourself, Eliza; I daresay Madame Bigeon has much to do this morning, in clearing the household of last evening’s effects. But is your cold improved enough to permit of going out? Are you wise to expose yourself to the ill-effects of this spring wind? I had expected you to keep to your room this morning, and had quite resolved to dine at my club, rather than incommode the weary household.”
“Dine at your club by all means,” Eliza said hurriedly. “Jane and I shall step round to Ludgate Hill, and feel no compunction as to the hour of our return. We may content ourselves with the remains of last evening’s supper, and perhaps some cold chicken.”
“But does Mr. Wedgwood’s shop lie in Ludgate Hill?” Henry enquired, rather puzzled. “I had thought it to be in St. James’s.”
“To be sure,” Eliza amended, her gaze fixed on the Turkey carpet. “I am forever confusing the two. Come along, Jane.”
My brother opened his mouth in bewilderment, but I silenced him with a look. Eliza’s eyes were feverish and her nose quite red, but I knew her determination of old. Had the heavy box not already apprised me of the nature of our errand, her slip of the tongue confirmed it: We were bound for the elegant premises of Rundell & Bridge, jewellers to His Majesty the Regent and other sordid characters — to haggle over an opera singer’s baubles.
LUDGATE HILL WAS USED TO BE THE SITE OF ONE of the City’s ancient gates, before these were demolished to ease the passage between the tradesmen’s square mile of London and the gentry’s fashionable quarter. Here the ways are narrower than in the neighbourhood of Hyde Park, and the hired hack that served as our conveyance was jostled by carters and draught horses. The City, as it is known, is not a part of Town the Comtesse de Feuillide is accustomed to frequent; but the pollution necessarily derived from such quarters is as nothing to the privilege of entering Mr. Rundell’s select establishment.
“He is a spare little man,” Eliza said as we jostled over the cobbles in our coach, “much ridiculed as a miser, who rose from the merest silversmith’s apprentice to the foremost goldsmith of our day. Do not expect a gentleman’s manners, Jane — but pray treat him with absolute courtesy. He has the Regent’s ear. I have it on excellent authority that Rundell provides His Majesty with the diamond settings for the Royal portraits — which you must know Prinny bestows upon each of his mistresses, at the outset of an affaire.”
“Does His Majesty consider his image a form of payment?” I enquired drily.
Eliza’s nose wrinkled. “His flirts are always gently-born, Jane, and possessed of husbands capable of franking their households. I should not call it payment. The Regent himself refers to Rundell’s confections as trinkets — and is forever showering his female acquaintance with jewels, even those among them who are entirely respectable. It is his way, you see. He is rather like an overgrown child, delighting in the distribution of presents.”
Overgrown is a kindness in Eliza; for the Regent is immensely fat, so gross indeed that he may no longer mount his horses. But something in her tone — half-awed, half-indulgent — brought to mind James Tilson’s confidences of last evening, and his anxiety at Henry’s reckless loans.
“Are you intimate with the Regent, Eliza? I cannot like the connexion. His way of life — indeed, that of the circle he supports — is utterly dissolute.”
My sister gave a shrill little laugh. “Now you are the country cousin, Jane! To be sure the Prince is wont to gamble, as are all the members of the Carlton House Set, and their morals are not too nice; but where the hand is lavish and the taste of the very best, there will always be a need for funds. Funds are precisely what a banker provides, my dear. Old Thomas Coutts made a fortune in backing the highest names in the land — and I have advised Henry to take Coutts for his model.”
“But Henry cannot command a particle of Coutts’s resources,” I exclaimed. “To urge him to lend to Coutts’s extent is to goad Henry to ruin!”
“One must start somewhere,” Eliza observed reasonably. “Coutts was not born to an easy competence, of that you may be sure — and no more was Henry. Indeed, none of you Austens have a farthing between you — else you would not be making such a push for independence, Jane, in the publication of your novel! Are we all of us to settle for uneasy penury, when with a bit of speculation we might be comfortable?”
“My brother Edward does not live in penury,” I objected, “nor does he speculate.”
“No. Edward lives on a fortune he could never have looked to claim,” she retorted sharply. “I do not speak of your Kentish Knights, and their bequests; we cannot all be so fortunate.[6] Moreover, Edward has been very willing to place several thousands of his own funds in Henry’s bank — and I hope I am not an ungrateful creature. But we must make a push, Jane, to secure a nobler patronage — or Austen, Maunde & Tilson will never be more than a paymaster to an assortment of militia. That was Henry’s introduction to the banking business, and very fine it was — but it must not be his end also.”
I could not agree with Eliza — my heart misgave me when I thought of James Tilson’s warning, and his numerous cares; but knowing less than nothing of my brother’s affairs, or finance in general, I hesitated to voice too decided an opinion. I resolved to sound Henry on the subject when the next opportunity for privacy offered.
“I think, Jane, that you had better take charge of this parcel,” Eliza suggested. “It would look well for us if you entered upon the scene as the owner of the jewels from the outset. I suppose your literary talent extends to the concoction of fibs?”
What else, in short, is literature?
“I shall present these pieces as the spoils of Stoneleigh,” I told her. “You will recollect that my cousin, Mr. Thomas Leigh, inherited Stoneleigh Abbey from Lady Mary Leigh when she died some years ago; and being a widower, and quite childless, it should not be wonderful if he were to give Lady Mary’s jewels to his nearest relations. Having no occasion to wear such showy finery, the Austen ladies — being of a practical turn — determined to find what price the jewels might fetch; and you, our worldly friend, were good enough to consider of Rundell & Bridge.”
Eliza weighed this confection of lies with a pretty air of judiciousness. “Your Leighs are all descended, are they not, from a sister of the first Duke of Chandos? I think it should serve. But recollect, Jane, that in the telling of falsehoods, simplicity is all.”
6
Jane’s elder brother, Edward, was adopted by his distant cousin, Thomas Knight, who bequeathed extensive estates in Kent and Hampshire to Edward. —