Part 21 (2/2)
But one that for thy crime must fall, The youngest, most beloved of all, Shall bless thee with a father's father's name- name- That word shall wrap thy heart in Flame!
”Ah,” Byron said acidly. ”The Giaour. It is an excellent tale, is it not? So replete with exotic detail-so vivid with Attic life! All of London shall read it, and exclaim at the barbarous customs that obtain in the East!”
”And in Brighton,” I supplied.
”Exactly so, Miss Austen. And now-if you will forgive me-I stand in need of whiskey.” He made as if to limp past us, but Henry seized him by the arm.
”You cannot quit this place, Byron,” he said wonderingly. ”Are you out of your senses? The entire town is raised against you!”
”If the entire town entire town wishes to speak with me, I shall be at Davies's house,” the poet said wearily. ”In the meanwhile, you might offer the wishes to speak with me, I shall be at Davies's house,” the poet said wearily. ”In the meanwhile, you might offer the entire town entire town the General's last letter.” the General's last letter.”
He shook off my brother's hand, and pushed his way through the open door.
We let him go.
Then we glanced at each other and walked side by side towards the faint light spilling from the back room.
General Twining was in dress uniform, seated at his writing desk as tho' sleeping, his head resting on his arms; but a pool of dark blood flowing from one temple shattered the illusion of dreaming peace. His eyes were open, and dreadfully fixed; their last sight, I must suppose, had been the portrait of a young officer of the 10th Hussars that hung over the mantelpiece-his son and heir, Richard, killed in the Peninsula.
”Observe, Jane.” Henry reached for a folded sheet of hot-pressed paper, which had been sealed with wax and the General's ring. ”It is inscribed to Sir Harding Cross.”
”His confession, no doubt.” Another sheet had lain beneath it-and this hand I recognised. It was Byron's.
Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, But his shall be a redder grave; Her spirit pointed well the steel Which taught that felon heart to feel.
I watched my time, I leagued with these, The traitor in his turn to seize; My wrath is wreaked, the deed is done, And now I go,-but go alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Corsair SAt.u.r.dAY, 15 M MAY 1813 1813.
BRIGHTON, CONT.
HENRY INSISTED UPON REMAINING WITH G GENERAL T TWINING'S body, the letter replaced in its position on the desk, while I walked swiftly back in the direction of Marine Parade in order to rouse the Earl of Swithin's household. It was for Charles Swithin, we thought, to inform Sir Harding Cross that his case of murder was done-so that the magistrate might have the reading of Twining's sealed letter before anyone else should find it. That it had been dictated to the General by Lord Byron, and probably at gun point, I never doubted; whether his lords.h.i.+p or the General's hand eventually despatched the pistol's ball into the General's brain, I do not care to consider over-long. The duelling pistol was the General's own-and antique enough to have accounted for the death of his wife's lover, nearly fifteen years since. It was found on the floor near the General's chair; and coupled with the confessional letter, was enough for Old HardCross to proclaim the death self-murder, and to acquit Lord Byron of any charges in the drowning of Catherine Twining. As for Byron's part in the General's scandalous end-so far as Sir Harding knew, his lords.h.i.+p had never been more than body, the letter replaced in its position on the desk, while I walked swiftly back in the direction of Marine Parade in order to rouse the Earl of Swithin's household. It was for Charles Swithin, we thought, to inform Sir Harding Cross that his case of murder was done-so that the magistrate might have the reading of Twining's sealed letter before anyone else should find it. That it had been dictated to the General by Lord Byron, and probably at gun point, I never doubted; whether his lords.h.i.+p or the General's hand eventually despatched the pistol's ball into the General's brain, I do not care to consider over-long. The duelling pistol was the General's own-and antique enough to have accounted for the death of his wife's lover, nearly fifteen years since. It was found on the floor near the General's chair; and coupled with the confessional letter, was enough for Old HardCross to proclaim the death self-murder, and to acquit Lord Byron of any charges in the drowning of Catherine Twining. As for Byron's part in the General's scandalous end-so far as Sir Harding knew, his lords.h.i.+p had never been more than near near the place, having repaired to his friend Mr. Davies's lodgings the very instant his amorous page effected his release from Brighton Camp. the place, having repaired to his friend Mr. Davies's lodgings the very instant his amorous page effected his release from Brighton Camp.
When the contents of the General's letter were related to me the following morning, over a late breakfast at No. 21, Marine Parade, they were much as I had suspected: The General confessed to having drowned his daughter in a fit of drunken rage. After Captain the Viscount Morley knocked him senseless outside the Pavilion's doors, the General had regained his wits in time to observe Lord Byron entering the Pavilion. When Catherine exited a few moments later, in evident agitation, her father had followed her out of the courtyard. He had confronted her on the Steyne with his suspicions-that she had disgraced herself like a common trollop with Lord Byron. He then informed her, with evident glee, that her indiscretions should never dishonour her father again-that he had agreed that very night to give her hand in marriage to Mr. Hendred Smalls. In return, Catherine declared that her heart already belonged to Captain Morley-and that she should rather be dead rather be dead than marry anyone else. than marry anyone else.
It was this honest expression of feeling that inflamed the General against his own flesh and blood. In his right mind, of course, he might only have struck the girl, and carried her home to live out a miserable existence confined to her rooms. In his drunken state, however, he was deaf to all reason. He had declared that she should have her dearest wish-and dragged her towards the s.h.i.+ngle, where he thrust her head beneath the waves.
It was a dreadful history; and I suspect that the General's old friend, Colonel Hanger-in having plied his former comrade with Port that night-bears much of the responsibility for Catherine's death. I am certain it was indeed Hanger, discovering the corpse in one of his solitary midnight strolls, who hit upon the excellent joke of sewing Catherine Twining into a shroud formed of the Giaour Giaour's hammock-and deposited Catherine in what he a.s.sumed to be Byron's bed.
The Colonel, of course, cannot be accused, approached, or touched-he remains the Regent's friend, and enjoys a Royal protection. But I confess I hate the very sight of him.
What might have been the General's sentiments the following morning, when he awoke to a brain restored from drink, a full sense of the horror of his crime, and the intelligence that his daughter's remains had been discovered in such such circ.u.mstances, can only be guessed at; his confessional letter is silent upon all points. His cowardice, however, in allowing another man to bear the brunt of suspicion and guilt, to the very threshold of the gibbet, must acquit the world of the slightest impulse towards sympathy. circ.u.mstances, can only be guessed at; his confessional letter is silent upon all points. His cowardice, however, in allowing another man to bear the brunt of suspicion and guilt, to the very threshold of the gibbet, must acquit the world of the slightest impulse towards sympathy.
”I must say, Jane, that you are very poorly repaid for all your efforts on Lady Oxford's behalf,” Mona observed as she crumbled a roll and sipped at her tea, ”for she left Brighton last night before Byron's escape was even heard of; and never thought to thank you. I am ashamed of Jane Harley, I confess; tho' in truth I cannot blame blame her. Lord Byron would try a saint.” her. Lord Byron would try a saint.”
”Then let us hope Lady Oxford exerts her considerable energies in sailing past Gibraltar,” I replied, ”and that Lord Byron is left to enslave another lady with his verse and his caprice.” If I felt a slight wistfulness at failing to bid the poet adieu adieu, I ruthlessly suppressed it. I did not approve Lord Byron, I should never judge his character as worthy of respect-but it is something, indeed, to have won the esteem of such a writer. I shall not judge myself too too harshly for exulting in his privileged knowledge-or his flattering regard. harshly for exulting in his privileged knowledge-or his flattering regard.
”If Lady Oxford does not know how to repay Jane's exertions,” my brother interjected, ”I certainly do do. You came here for the restorative powers of Brighton; and thus far, have enjoyed none of them. Tomorrow you shall bathe in the sea, with the aid of a dipper and a machine-”
I confess I squeaked squeaked at this, from both pleasure and dread. at this, from both pleasure and dread.
”-but today, you will spend the whole morning at Madame La Fanchette's, in purchasing a modish gown in any colour but but black. There remains a quant.i.ty of winnings that must be spent.” black. There remains a quant.i.ty of winnings that must be spent.”
Lady Swithin clapped her hands, and I jumped up to hug my brother; he truly is such an excellent excellent Henry. Henry.
SILK THE COLOUR OF WINE, LORD H HAROLD'S GHOST HAD urged; an opinion seconded by Mr. Forth, the redoubtable Master of Brighton, who had gone so far as to name the wine urged; an opinion seconded by Mr. Forth, the redoubtable Master of Brighton, who had gone so far as to name the wine claret claret. Madame La Fanchette possessed no less than three bolts of a suitable shade-one a sarcenet, one a French twill, and the last a silk so gloriously rich I might fancy myself a figure in the Regent's Chinese gallery, as precious an objet d'art objet d'art as the porcelains he collected. My practical soul counseled the selection of French twill-as serviceable as it was fas.h.i.+onable; I reluctantly weighed the claims of stout sarcenet; but another voice-neither Lord Harold's nor Mr. Forth's-whispered me as the porcelains he collected. My practical soul counseled the selection of French twill-as serviceable as it was fas.h.i.+onable; I reluctantly weighed the claims of stout sarcenet; but another voice-neither Lord Harold's nor Mr. Forth's-whispered me nay nay.
Let it be the taffeta, my dearest Jane.
And I caught a s.n.a.t.c.h of laughter tinkling as bells, remote and beguiling as birdsong.
Eliza. She was with me still, and I was returned on the instant to Sloane Street, her soul flying away from me without a backwards look. My eyes p.r.i.c.ked at unexpected tears, despite the blandishments of Madame La Fanchette, the furls of cloth sliding between my gloved fingers, the dulcet chatter of Lady Swithin as she turned the plates of a fas.h.i.+on magazine. My breath drew in on a sob, quickly stifled.
Forgive, the b.u.t.terfly shade murmured. You know what Byron is. You felt it, I am sure. The response, so involuntary, of every nerve. A woman might sell her soul for such an instant of glory You know what Byron is. You felt it, I am sure. The response, so involuntary, of every nerve. A woman might sell her soul for such an instant of glory.
Of course I had felt it.
Regret. Regret.
Forgive.
Of course you are forgiven, Eliza-and never forgotten. Never.
”Jane?” Mona said gently. ”Are you unwell?”
I blinked back my tears, and fumbled in my reticule for one of Manon's black-edged kerchiefs. It was Mona, however, who handed me her own-embroidered with the flouris.h.i.+ng script of entwined initials, Wilborough and Swithin.
”In all this bustle of murder and accusation,” she said softly, ”I had almost forgot you were mourning.”
I smiled at her. How extraordinary it was that I should find again this acquaintance of long ago, this connexion unlooked for to my roguish lord; how extraordinary that in Eliza's pa.s.sing, I should discover a friend friend.
”I believe,” I said firmly, ”that I shall take the claret-coloured silk. A ball-gown with demi-train, in the very latest mode, Madame-and a headdress to match.”
Eliza should have countenanced no less.
It was as we were leaving Madame La Fanchette's some three hours later-I, smug in the knowledge of having ordered a becoming gown for evening wear, Mona in possession of a very very fetching carriage dress that should become her das.h.i.+ng perch phaeton to perfection-that we espied Lady Caroline Lamb, bound for the New Road. fetching carriage dress that should become her das.h.i.+ng perch phaeton to perfection-that we espied Lady Caroline Lamb, bound for the New Road.
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