Chapter Four
BYRON WAS INVITED to luncheon by Mrs. Austen. After all, it would have been impolite to do otherwise, since he was there and clearly hungry.
But then the Austen women gathered together in the hallway outside of the sitting room, Byron shut up there alone with the biscuit crumbs, and discussed, in low voices, what must be done about him.
“He can’t stay here, obviously,” said Mrs. Austen. “We certainly can’t have him as an overnight guest.”
“Yes, we have to get rid of him,” said Jane.
“Oh, Jane, that is not the way I would put it,” said Mrs. Austen.
“I don’t think he’s going to leave,” said Cassandra. “He seems rather adept at making himself at home. Did you see how he ate all of the biscuits?”
“You are quite preoccupied with biscuits for someone who didn’t even want any biscuits made up,” said Jane.
“Perhaps,” said Cassandra. “But the fact remains, he is not going to go willingly.”
“We must be delicate about this, of course,” said Mrs. Austen. “We cannot force him to go. We cannot indicate in any way that we wish him to leave. That would be most incredibly rude, after all.”
“I think,” said Jane, “we must simply be plain with him. This man, after all, is very likely a murderer. He is, at any rate, a philanderer who makes off with other men’s wives and wakes in the bed of another woman the next day, and I don’t see why we entertain him at all.”
“Well,” said Cassandra, “he is a baron.”
“True,” said Jane, shoulders slumping.
“What if we simply do as he asks and help him clear his name?” said Mrs. Austen.
“I don’t think it will work,” said Jane. “Even if we lie to everyone and say he was here, they will know he wasn’t, considering they found him in Miss Seward’s bedchamber.”
“Yes, I don’t know if it can be that easy,” said Cassandra.
“But if we did lie for his sake, and it got him out of the house,” said Mrs. Austen, “it would be expedient. I’m not saying it would be right or good or moral, I suppose, but it would be understandable why we have done so, I think. Sometimes, one must make compromises in order to achieve comfort.”
“Why would we have Lord Byron staying with us?” said Jane. “I tell you, it’s a preposterous lie and no one is going to believe it.”
“Perhaps not,” said Mrs. Austen, furrowing her brow. “What are we to do, then?”
“Well, another way to clear his name would be to discover who actually killed Miss Seward,” said Cassandra.
“It was obviously him,” said Jane. “He practically admitted it, after all.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Austen. “If that is the case, we are having a murderer here for luncheon today. That doesn’t seem very proper, I don’t think.”
“Maybe he didn’t do it, though,” said Cassandra.
“I don’t see how there would be any way to know one way or the other,” said Jane. “Here is what we shall do. After luncheon, I shall take him aside and I shall be gentle, but firm, when I tell him he must find somewhere else to go.”
“Jane,” said Mrs. Austen. “You cannot do that.”
BUT AT LUNCHEON, Byron, who ate with great appetite, said, between bites, “I’ve been giving this all quite a bit of thought, and it occurs to me that you’re really less help than I might have thought in the beginning.
I suppose I came here only because you were the only people I knew in this part of the country.
But whatever mad idea I had in my head for you to say I was here during the murder, I don’t think it will work.
So, after luncheon, I shall take my leave of you. ”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Austen, “so soon. How disappointing. However, you must do as you think is right, and we shall not stand in your way.”
“Indeed not,” said Cassandra.
“I am sorry about all the biscuits,” said Byron. His gaze sought out Jane’s.
Jane, however, found herself feeling strangely about the idea of Byron simply up and leaving. She did not wish him to stay, of course, but she supposed the novelty of his being here had been diverting. “What are you going to do? Go back to London?”
“I suppose,” he said.
“What about Miss Seward?” said Jane.
“Horrible thing,” said Byron, bringing a forkful of food to his mouth.
“Well, did you kill her?” said Jane.
“Obviously not,” said Byron, “and it would be better if we knew who had done it, so that person could be brought to justice. But seeing as I have only a patchy memory of last night—”
“Other people might have a less patchy memory,” said Jane. “Other people in the tavern might have seen what happened.”
“Could have, I suppose,” agreed Byron.
“We could go and talk to them,” said Jane.
“Jane,” said Cassandra, shaking her head.
Jane winced. “Yes, actually, what am I saying? You must go back to London, of course, and we must drop the entire subject.” She cleared her throat. “I am ever so busy with my book, after all.”
“Oh, a new book?” said Byron. “What’s this one called? Pomp and Propriety?”
She sighed heavily. “Just because I am writing a book doesn’t mean I’m going to publish it, you know.”
AFTER LUNCHEON, BYRON went on his way.
They had been obliged to send their servants to town to get word to have Byron’s horse brought from the stables in the inn. It was brought, saddled and bridled, and Byron climbed into the saddle and waved his goodbyes and that was that.
Jane had sort of wondered if the inn would deny sending the horse, claiming that Byron was a murderer who shouldn’t be allowed to escape, but it seemed there had been no issues on that score.
And now, it was all over.
Which was good, truly, because Jane didn’t need that kind of a headache in her life.
She went back upstairs to the manuscript she had been obliged to abandon earlier in the day and gazed down at it. She was in the process of rewriting all of it out of letters and it was sort of grueling. She liked the idea of the story. It was a good joke to her, she thought.
It was the story about a woman who meets a positively wretched and awful man, who insults her, and then somehow ends up falling in love with him anyway. Jane thought that was delightful.
Also, she liked the commentary on how things might seem fair but be foul deep down. She had another character in the book, Mr. Wickham, who seemed quite amiable, but was truly a scoundrel.
She found herself contemplating Lord Byron himself, who seemed like a positively wretched and awful man.
Yes, she thought, but this is nothing the same. Mr. Darcy is a completely different sort of man. He is too proper and too exacting and Lord Byron is none of these things. Lord Byron is the exact sort of man I dislike. He’s a womanizing blackguard.
She could not write, that was the way of it, however.
She decided she must go on a walk.
At the door, Cassandra called to ask after her, and Jane said she was going to take a turn about the grounds, not going far, and that she should be back in but twenty minutes, and Cassandra waved her off.
But once Jane was free of the house, she found herself walking on the path to town, all two miles of it.
She went into the tavern that Miss Seward owned. Jane had never been in there. It wasn’t the sort of place a woman like her tended to venture. She was surprised that it was open, and she was even more surprised that it wasn’t empty.
Lord Byron was inside, looking up at the ceiling, an expression of consternation on his face.
“You,” she said.
He lowered his gaze, saw her, and his features broke into a smile. “Miss Jane!”
“Miss Austen will do. My sister is not here,” said Jane, moving closer to him. “You are meant to have gone back to London.”
“Yes, by and by, I shall make it there, I am certain,” said Byron. “It’s only that what you said today at luncheon, about going to ask others what they saw, it struck me. I thought I might try it.”
“Truly? I didn’t think you would care one way or the other,” she said.
“Well, as I said, once everyone thinks I have been out in the country, strangling strumpets—”
“She wasn’t a strumpet,” said Jane.
“Strangling tavern owners,” he said, “it will be a stain on my good name and it will create all sorts of problems for me. I doubt I shall be strung up, but I suppose it’s possible.
They could go through the local magistrate, who might make some kind of fuss, and I suppose I could face legal troubles. ”
“You aren’t going to hang through the proper channels,” said Jane. “That would never happen to a man like you.”
“Likely not,” agreed Byron.
“You really could go and walk away from it and it would be as if it never happened.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I didn’t do it, you know. I don’t know if you’ve ever been accused of doing something you didn’t do. It’s a very singularly bad feeling.”
Jane had, of course. Not of murder, but she’d had her fair share of childhood blames that were not hers to take, in school especially. She knew what he meant. “And you are the sort who simply can’t abide the singular bad feeling, is that it?”
“I don’t know if you’ve realized this about me, but I feel bad feelings rather strongly,” he said. “I feel good feelings strongly too, of course, but that is balanced by my experience of sheer misery.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I know, you are mocking me.” He shrugged. “I’m used to that.”
“I’m not mocking you, my lord, I swear it to you. I simply cannot see why—” But then Jane broke off, because a figure appeared in the doorway of the tavern.
She and Byron were in the main area, where there were a number of round wooden tables, each with chairs gathered about them, dotting the floor here and there. Light filtered in through the windows, but at night, the place would be lit by numerous sconces on the walls and several hanging lamps.
The figure was Mr. Hardy. He looked them over. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Mr. Hardy!” said Jane, going over to him. “Terribly sorry to just barge here like this. I suppose you must be quite out of sorts over what’s happened to poor Anne. I knew you two were very close.”