Страница 4 из 57
The Comtesse, as I have said, was not to be of our party that evening. Eliza had solicited her old friend for the honour of her song, but A
I hastily stowed the pages of my book beneath a circulating novel that lay discarded on the drawing-room table, and rose to greet the visitor.
“Mes chères amies,” the Comtesse sang out as she sailed into the room, a swansdown muff negligently disposed on one arm, “what dreadful weather you have for your evening, non? It comes on to rain! You will be fortunate indeed if half your guests venture out into the streets! And my dear Eliza, how swollen and red your nose!”
I foresaw a similar vein of conversation, richly mined by the Comtesse’s malice; and being unable to explain Eliza’s attachment to A
“Eliza is decidedly unwell,” I observed, “and ought to be laid down upon her bed, with hot lemonade and sticking plaster. Indeed, I was just upon the point of quitting the house for the apothecary. You will forgive me, Countess, if I go about my errand … ”
“But of course,” the lady said earnestly, her gloved claw clasping my fingers. “It is always the office of the spinster sister, non, to sacrifice herself to her wretched family? You are admirably suited to the role, my dear Jane. You will darn the socks to perfection, and nurse other people’s children without a thought for yourself. Run along while I amuse la pauvre Eliza with every sort of scandalous nonsense.”
If I did not utter a retort that should set the harpy’s ears to flaming, I may say it was from a sense of what I owed my brother Henry: those precious typeset pages carefully concealed beneath an overturned book. He is the most excellent of brothers, Henry — however many dubious females he may admit into his house.
I DID NOT HAVE FAR TO SEEK FOR MR. HADEN, THE apothecary and surgeon, as his shop was directly next to Henry’s home — at No. 62 Sloane Street. I might have despatched my errand with alacrity, had I been desirous of returning to the Comtesse d’Entraigues and her repellant conversation; but I had been within doors all day, and fretted at my confinement. For nearly two years now I have been accustomed to walking the lanes of Chawton, in mire or dust, in pursuit of the post, or acquaintance, or the broader delights of neighbouring Alton. I rejoice in the daily revelations of the garden in such a season as this: the tentative spurt of sunshine; the first daffodils waving in the stiff breeze; the inadvertent torrents; the appearance of the bluebells. London, with its fashionable throng, its noise and dirt, its persistent and impenetrable fogs, its rackety business of carriages and midnight hours, is a type of enjoyment to which one must be schooled. I might in youth have relished the heady excitement of money and power that is here everywhere on parade; but in my more sober years — in the fullness of my womanhood — I ca
A brisk walk was required — a filling of the lungs, even if it be with sulphurous air — and so I ventured across Sloane Street into the pretty little wilderness of Cadogan Place, where nursemaids sat in careful watch over their infant charges, who played at battledore and shuttlecock upon the greening lawn.[4] Hans Town, as this village on the edge of the city is called, is by no means a fashionable abode, being fully a quarter hour’s brisk walk west of Hyde Park; but it will do for such gentlemen of business as my banker brother Henry, for hopeful families of second sons, who regard the country air as more healthful than that of the city generally; and for those shabby-genteel members of the ton whose fortunes have been gambled away. We are a heterogeneous lot, part pretension, part vulgarity; but I ca
I was swinging with energy along the gravel path, when a “Good morning, Miss Austen” rang brightly in my ear, to be seconded by a chorus of little voices; and I turned to find Mrs. James Tilson some ten paces behind me, with her maid and a collection of children bestowed about her, bent upon their exercise.
“Fa
Frances Tilson is the wife of my brother’s chief banking partner in London, Mr. James Tilson, and the mistress of just such an household as is everywhere to be found in Hans Town. A boy of twelve is presently away at school; but no less than seven daughters fill the drawing-room in Hans Place, the youngest not above a year of age. Mrs. Tilson’s excellent sense and tolerable understanding make her an attractive companion for these walks about the square, while her children — in small doses — provide amusement. Eliza will say that Fa
“But of course we shall not fail,” Fa
Squeals of delight greeted these words, and as we fell in together, and began to pace the gravel path, I observed, “It is as well, perhaps, that you have some frivolity to distract your thoughts. You have lost a neighbour, I understand.”
“I do not care to speak of it,” Fa
I considered of the Princess, lonely and friendless as I had observed her the previous evening, her throat slit and her body cast upon the streets; and thought her death totally at variance with a life of privilege and indulgence. I apprehended that Fa
“Her body has been returned to the house,” Fa
4
This part of the fashionable West End is now Cadogan Square. Hans Town was named for Sir Hans Sloane, whose daughter married the first Earl of Cadogan in the 1770s, uniting the two families’ estates. Architect Henry Holland leased the area and built the original brick houses, many of which were altered in subsequent centuries. — Editor’s note.