She emitted a shriek, and pressed her hand in horror to her lips. “Dead? —The gentleman from Stonings is dead?”
“Gentleman?” I returned, my thoughts swiftly revolving.
“Did your husband say that he was hired by a gentleman?”
Too late, she saw her error. She stepped backwards, as tho’
in retreat. “He might have said something. I don’t know what. Not really.”
“A gentleman from Stonings wished the papers stolen?” It was not impossible, after all. We now knew that Julian Thrace had a taste for low company, and was much given to drinking with Dyer’s builders; I had found in this a ready explanation for Shafto French’s murder. But why not for the theft of the chest, as well? Thrace would have learned of Lord Harold’s bequest in much the way Lady Imogen knew of it, and was quick enough to apprehend the danger its contents might pose. He had ample knowledge of our invitation to dinner at the Great House, for he had been present at the very moment of Mr. Middleton’s issuance of it. He might all too easily have secured the services of Bertie Philmore on the night in question, and delayed our arrival home by his elaborate telling of fantastic anecdotes, and his prolonged losses at cards.
And yet — I had thought Lady Imogen so happy yesterday morning, as tho’ she possessed the key to her entire future. If Julian Thrace had been the one to seize the papers, how had she come by her certainty? He should have destroyed the evidence of his birth, and attempted to hide the truth from the Earl and all his household. The very last person Thrace should tell was surely Lady Imogen.
“If it is Mr. Thrace you would mean,” I said to Rosie Philmore, “I fear for Old Philmore’s life. Thrace has two murders already to his account, and is believed to have fled the country.”
The woman frowned. “I know of no Thrace, ma’am. ’Twas not of him my Bertie spoke. My man was hired by the master of Stonings — that Major Spence, what walks with a limp — to rob ye of your chest.”
Chapter 22
The Figure in the Night
9 July 1809, cont.
I related nothing of all I had learned among the cottage circle tonight, but allowed my sister to talk of the beauties of the surrounding country — in which she had walked a little with the dog Link, so that he might become acquainted with his neighbourhood. “It is full of dells and hills, Jane — a rolling, varied country quite unlike the flat monotony of Steventon in which we were raised—” I listened to a letter from Fanny, which had followed Cassandra on her journey from Kent, the post having no concern for the delays imposed by broken axle-trees and the ostlers at Brompton’s Bell. And I was made privy to all the minute concerns of Edward’s household, which Neddie should never bother relating and which Cassandra has not yet learned to give up: how the four youngest children — Charles, Louisa, Cassandra-Jane, and Brook-John — are as yet in the charge of Susannah Sackree, the beloved Caky of the nurserywing, while the elder girls — Lizzy and Marianne — are not to be sent away again to school, Marianne having most bitterly despised her exile from the rest of the family. The two eldest boys, Edward and George, are to return to Winchester in the autumn term, and then Fanny may well obtain some peace and quiet — a governess being to be hired for Lizzy and Marianne, a tutor for young Henry and William. Of the tutor in particular Cassandra had great hopes: he was a nephew of the Duke of Dorset, only lately having quitted Cambridge, and intended for the Church. She only hoped he should not fall in love with Fanny, as she is barely out— as such things may be determined in Kentish society. There could be no question of a real London Season for Fanny; Edward’s spirits were not up to the hiring of a house in Town.
“Good God,” I murmured. “And to think that poor Fanny is expected to manage all this! I wonder she could consent to part with you, Cass — despite the allurements of our six bedchambers and numerous outbuildings. Shall you miss Kent exceedingly?”
She flushed pink, and returned some small nothing regarding the insignificance of her own contribution, and the worth of Fanny’s talents. I recalled to mind a picture of Godmersham as I had myself left it only a short while ago — the elegance of its apartments, the plasterwork above the mantel in the entry hall, the marble floors, the pleasing aspect of the high downs behind the house. In the environs of Canterbury one meets with only the most liberal-minded and cultivated of friends; no Ann Prowtings or Miss Benns for Cassandra’s edification. Kent is the only place for happiness, after all; everybody is rich there, and my brother’s household not excepted. I must endeavour to remember that Cassandra’s spirits might be a trifle low in coming months, until she has grown accustomed once more to the simplicity of our arrangements.
My mother announced over our Sunday meal of buttered prawns and cold beef that she had quite given up her scheme of retrieving the Rubies of Chandernagar. Mr. Thrace’s guilt she had taken to heart, and regarded it as a sure sign of duplicity in everything the man had said; for how else must she account for the failure of her searches? Mr. Papillon’s sermon on the evils of avarice had proved no less salutary. She should not like the Companion of My Future Life — for so she persisted in regarding poor Mr. Papillon — to believe his prospective mother-in-law a hardened sinner. Then, too, she had happened to catch Sally Mitchell laughing with the baker’s boy about the eccentric habits of her mistress, and was most discomfited to find that she had broken three fingernails in digging.
We left her after dinner to all the pleasures of a hot bath in the washroom, and sat down to compose a few letters: Cassandra to Fanny, and I recounting what I could of Chawton events to my friend Martha Lloyd.
Thoughts of Charles Spence, however, could not help but intrude. I might sit by the Pembroke table, in the soft air of evening, and attempt to write in compact lines of the people we had met, and the alterations we had effected in the cottage; but the Major’s dark eyes must sketch themselves on the sheet of paper. His serious, earnest gaze — the dreadful pallor of his looks at Lady Imogen’s death — the fury of the man, as Thrace escaped — all must clamour for my attention. I had wondered before if Spence’s honour might be suborned by a woman of Lady Imogen’s power — if her bewitching charm and his desire for her affection might compel him to all manner of actions he should never undertake alone. I was now certain that they had.
Charles Spence could find no peculiar interest in Lord Harold Trowbridge’s papers, absent the interest of the woman he loved. Lady Imogen had bent him to her purpose — cajoled him, as a steward well-acquainted with the labouring class — to secure a pair of ruffians who might force their way into my house.
Had they also, I wondered, forced their way into Henry’s bank nearly a week ago?
Had the plan to find Lord Harold’s bequest been in train long before my arrival in Chawton? It was certain that Lady Imogen possessed an understanding of the chest’s contents for some months; she should have learned of their true nature from Desdemona, Countess Swithin, during the last London Season.[25]
Locating the chest itself, however, had demanded some time and exertion; no doubt Lady Imogen had recruited others besides Spence to the task. Who might her accomplices be?
I concluded my letter to Martha with a request that she bring some peony cuttings from her sister’s garden at Kintbury — and rose to take a restless turn about the room.
“What is it, Jane?” Cassandra asked.
“I hardly know.”
“You are thinking of our acquaintance in Sherborne St. John. Has there been no word yet of Mr. Thrace’s capture?”
25
The Season, a period of intense social activity among the Upper Ten Thousand of London society, ran generally for twelve weeks — from Easter through June, when the wealthy of Austen’s period departed for their country houses or Brighton.