“Pish! I no more credit the notion than you do. It was here in Sloane Street, I think, that you remarked upon the singularity of her death — and how it must delight Lord Castlereagh’s enemies. You are a Whig, sir — one of the most highly-placed in the land — and can have no love for Lord Castlereagh’s politics. But you have served in government, and comprehend the intrigues of those who place power above all else — even country. Surely you might compose a list of Lord Castlereagh’s enemies?”
The Earl hesitated, his gaze focused on something beyond my visage; I believe he saw in memory a pantomime of the past, replete with images whose significance he only now apprehended. Then he bowed low, and said hurriedly, “You have given me to think, my dear. May I call upon you — send round a missive — hope to converse again of all we have discussed?”
“Certainly,” I answered, and curtseyed. “I should be honoured.”
It was enough to hope the Earl did not file my existence away, among his notes of hand and tradesmen’s duns.
Chapter 17
The Long Arm of the Tsar
Saturday, 27 April 1811
I WAS AWAKENED FROM MY SLUMBERS THIS MORNING by a gentle scratching at the bedchamber door, and having donned my dressing gown and hurried my feet into slippers, discovered Manon in the upper hall. She was neatly arrayed in her customary charcoal gown, but she wore a cloak of blue wool and a straw bonnet trimmed with a bunch of cherries. When I would have spoken, she held a gloved finger to her lips and glanced down the hall towards my brother’s room.
I motioned her within the bedchamber and closed the door.
“Druschka,” she whispered. “She walks in Cadogan Place. I observed her from the scullery window, all hunched and miserable, and saw that she glanced continually at this house. She wishes to share a confidence — I feel it! Will you accompany me?”
“Allow me five minutes,” I returned, “and I shall join you on the flagway.”
The maid nodded, and slipped like a shadow back into the hall. I splashed water from the ewer onto my face, donned a simple walking gown of sarcenet, brushed my chestnut hair into a knot, and chose a pair of stout half-boots of bottle-green jean. I lost precious time in the fastening of these, and was forced to snatch at the serviceable but sober bonnet that served my country walks in Chawton. I hastened below with a minimum of noise, and found Manon awaiting me in the front hall.
“I did not like to tarry on the flagway, lest Druschka espy me and wonder at my failure to join her,” she explained. “It is best, I think, if I approach her first; do you wait a few moments, mademoiselle, and then happen upon me as tho’ the meeting were a matter of chance.”
“Very well,” I said, and wished I had time enough for the brewing of tea in the interval.
Manon quitted the house, as was proper, by the servants’ entrance at the rear; and in a few moments I glimpsed her striding confidently towards the green. The clock on Eliza’s mantel chimed seven; the Russian woman had escaped from her quarters on Hans Place at an early hour. For an instant I considered of her present existence: surrounded by powerful men — Prince Pirov and his followers — who kept their own servants and undoubtedly regarded
Druschka as a pitiful old retainer, not worth the slightest consideration. Even her grief should be read as an offence — the Druschkas of the world were not allowed to feel. It was hardly wonderful that she sought comfort in solitary rambles.
Manon’s mother, Madame Bigeon, was audibly moving about the kitchen; I ventured towards that region of the house and saw to my relief that tea was already in the pot. Madame Bigeon poured me out a cup, and offered me bread and jam, which I gratefully accepted.
“I am going out for a walk,” I said brightly. “The weather is so very fine!” The old woman gave a brief nod of the head, and returned to preparing Eliza’s breakfast tray. Several fowls lay upon a scrubbed oak table, ready for the plucking, and the sight of their limp necks instantly recalled to mind the Princess Tscholikova. I averted my gaze, the bread and jam lodging uncomfortably in my throat, and made my way to the servants’ door.
THERE WERE TRADESMEN ENOUGH THE LENGTH OF Sloane Street, but Cadogan Place was empty of life. The children of Hans Town preferred eggs and toast in the nursery to the early chill of an April morning. I did not immediately discover Manon and her Russian acquaintance; but a brisk stroll the length of the square’s north and east sides revealed them to be established on a stone bench, all but hidden by greenery, their heads together in close conversation.
I pursued my solitary way as tho’ I had not observed them; but in drawing abreast of the pair, exclaimed, “What is this, Manon! Have you leave to desert your mistress at such an hour? You had better be building up the fires, and attending Madame Henri in her dressing room!”
Manon sprang to her feet as if conscious of her error, then bobbed a curtsey. “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle — indeed I beg it most earnestly — but I could not ignore such misery in one who may claim my friendship. You who are so wise — who possess the friends in high places — you cannot fail to pity poor Druschka, when you have heard all.”
“Druschka?” I repeated as I studied the Russian woman, whose eyes met mine unflinchingly. She rose from her seat, and stood humbly clutching a leather-bound book to her bosom as tho’ it were her dearest child. “You are the Princess Tscholikova’s maid, I think?”
The words required no translator.
“I was,” she said in her guttural way, then muttered a few hurried French words of farewell to Manon.
“Restez,” Manon commanded, and grasped the Russian’s arm. “If it is justice you seek, you must talk to Mademoiselle Austen. She, too, does not credit the tale of suicide; and for reasons of her own she has sought the advice of a lawyer, look you. A powerful man who might discover the truth. Mademoiselle will help you. But you must trust her. I will speak the words you cannot. It is understood?”
Druschka stiffened, and for an instant I feared she might bolt as swift as a hare across the open stretch of green, her precious book hurled to the winds. Then resolve seemed to break in her, and she sank down once more on the stone bench.
“Pray ask her, Manon, why her mistress was embarrassed for funds in the last days before her death.”
The question was put, and the answer came in a shrug. The Princess had never wanted for money before; her income was disbursed each quarter by her bankers, and in London this was the firm of Coutts. The sum was made over by her brother; the Princess’s husband did not utter her name aloud, tho’ he had certainly kept all the wealth she had brought to her marriage.
“Was the Princess a gamester?”
Druschka shook her head emphatically: No.
I glanced at Manon, perplexed; perhaps the rumour of indebtedness was unfounded. Yet the Princess had certainly sought my brother’s aid, and not her own banker’s. That surely bespoke a measure of desperation, or deceit. I attempted another approach.
“Was the Princess’s behaviour all that it should be, in the days leading up to her death?”
Manon translated the reply. “My lady was beside herself; she was nearly out of her mind. I have never seen her so. And when I asked her the reason, she would not confide in me. I knew, then, that the trouble was very bad. Hours and hours she spent at her desk, writing her letters — a madness in the paper and ink — and then I would find the ashes of what she had burned. None of them sent.”
I could not help but think of Lord Castlereagh, and the salacious correspondence published in the Morning Post. Was this the proof of all his lordship would deny?