Chapter Fourteen
“YES, BUT IT’S not really a tea,” said Cassandra. “It’s some exercise in madness that you and Byron have embarked upon. You aren’t really solving a murder. What you’re doing is having a bit of a lark finding out all the deepest and darkest hidden things about our neighbors.”
“It’s not a lark,” said Jane.
She and Cassandra were speaking in the sitting room that evening. Their mother was on the opposite side of the room, knitting, and she wasn’t looking up at them, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t listening to everything they were saying.
“Oh, but you don’t deny the rest of it?” said Cassandra.
“It does seem to be going that way, but neither of us set out to do such a thing,” said Jane. “It is only that when you attempt to uncover one secret, you end up uncovering quite a lot of other secrets, it seems. However, you must believe me, I would rather not know the things we have uncovered.”
Cassandra put her hands on her hips.
“I would not!” said Jane. “And you do not have to come along to Mrs. Ditterswith’s, of course. You can stay clear of it.”
“I think I shall,” said Cassandra.
Mrs. Austen spoke up. “I shall come along. I’d like a bit of time out of the house.”
“All right,” said Jane, smiling over at her mother. She turned back to Cassandra. “I don’t see why you’re so up in arms against it all of the sudden.”
“All of this, with that man, it does nothing but indulge the worst elements in a body,” said Cassandra. “Lord Byron is a demon in disguise, I think.”
Jane didn’t even argue with her.
“You think it, too,” said Cassandra. “But you do not care. You will simply do whatever it is that you wish with him. And I wonder how far it will all go.”
“Oh, Cassandra,” said Jane. “You worry far too much.”
WHEN JANE AND Mrs. Austen arrived at Mrs. Ditterswith’s for tea, they were surprised at how crowded it was.
The sitting room was simply packed with women from town.
There must have been twelve of them. They were all dressed in their best, like they were out to church on Sunday, and they were all silent as Jane and her mother walked in, but then, when they saw that Byron was not with them, they began to chatter amongst themselves.
Jane and her mother sat down on a couch at one side of the room, and Jane began to realize that all these women were talking about Byron.
Two women next to her were having a long conversation about poor Childe Harold.
“He has such melancholy, you know. It’s strange, because you might think that melancholy would put you off him, but somehow, it draws you in. He’s in need of some love, that is all, I think.”
“Oh, it is that exactly,” rejoined her companion. “That melancholy of his, it calls to me, in such a way.”
Both women burst out in giggles.
Well, then.
Jane wasn’t sure how much information they were going to get about Anne Seward at this tea, after all.
Surely, they didn’t want to delve into the woman’s secrets amongst so many, because these women would all go and repeat everything that was said here, to anyone and everyone.
On the other hand, perhaps it would be better to get the aggregate of everyone’s knowledge on Miss Seward, and if there were so many people here, they would be more likely to get all the rumors.
How to steer the conversation away from Lord Byron and his poem, however?
She was not sure.
Byron arrived only moments later, wearing a pale blue cravat unlike anything that Jane had ever seen, and he barely limped when he sat down next to Mrs. Ditterswith. If he noticed that he was the only man present in the room, he didn’t comment on it.
He must notice, thought Jane. However, he doesn’t seem to be a jot displeased over it.
“We were wondering if we could talk about your poetry,” said one of the women.
Byron grinned at her. “Oh, of course. I would be honored.” He looked out at the room.
“You are not all here because of me, are you? How positively flattering.” He gave the entire a room a smile that was not unlike the way he had been smiling at Jane yesterday when he had said that, Miss Austen, that, and she decided, right then and there, that she must remember that a part of her despised this man.
It was not all of her. No, overall, she liked him. He was, on the whole, a good and pleasant companion. But there was an element of him, a very awful element, and that element she did despise. She would need to keep that in mind, no matter how much of the time he charmed her.
All of the women began talking at once, and Byron laughed, and waved them down and said they must go more slowly, and he urged Mrs. Ditterswith to pour the tea, and that was quite a task for poor Mrs. Ditterswith, because there were so many people here.
As the hostess, it was Mrs. Ditterswith’s job to pour everyone’s tea and to ask how they liked it, and to dollop in the right amount of milk and sugar before handing it off. But then, usually, tea did not consist of fifteen people. It was usually a much smaller affair.
Mrs. Ditterswith, however, was not one to stand on ceremony, and so employed Byron’s assistance in getting tea out, and this became quite the spectacle, for all of the women wanted Byron to pour their tea and to put their sugar into it.
All of them were simply beside themselves when he handed the cup and saucer over.
Jane took hers from him with a tight-lipped smile, and he seemed to notice she was out of sorts and he found it amusing, which made her despise him even more.
Then, the conversation did turn to Byron’s dreadful poem.
“Who is Inez?” asked one of the women.
“It’s not an autobiography,” said Byron, laughing into his tea.
“But you must have felt something like that for a real woman to have written that,” exclaimed the asker.
“I have felt a number of things, oh, yes, over my short life,” said Byron, smiling at the woman.
Jane rolled her eyes.
“Is it hard to come up with such rhymes?” said one of the women.
Jane let out a guffaw. Truly? Really?
“Oh, no, it’s not hard at all,” said Byron.
“But there are so many of them, and the whole poem rhymes, every single stanza, and it goes on and on. There must be a thousand lines in the poem,” said the woman, effusive.
“It is just what one does when one writes poetry,” said Byron. “It might be difficult at first, but you get quite used to the process. You begin to think in rhyme, really.”
Jane rolled her eyes again.
This sort of thing went on for some time. The women pulled out various quotes from the poem and breathlessly talked about how well it was that Byron had turned the phrase, and Byron ate it all up, laughing and winking and drinking his tea.
And Jane was so annoyed by it all that she forgot all about steering the subject to Anne Seward, and instead sat there and seethed until Byron did it himself.
“You know, ladies, I could spend all day here listening to you sing my praises,” he said, “but I’m sure you’re aware that I tarry here in this town for a reason?”
“What is that reason?” said one of the women.
Byron turned to her, his expression changing to one of deep solemnity. “I remain here until I can clear my name. I was falsely accused of murder most foul, and now I shall not rest until I find the person who did the deed, for it was not me.”
All of the women in the room sighed, in unison.
Jane sighed, too, but for a different reason.
“You seem,” Byron continued, “like the most observant of ladies. You must know who it was who would have wished Miss Anne Seward dead.”
And then, it was silent.
All of the women exchanged glances, but no one said anything.
Mrs. Ditterswith spoke up. “Everyone liked Anne.”
“Yes, but did they?” said Byron. “For, you see, I’ve heard some rumors about Anne, about the way Anne was in her young womanhood? The word ‘wild’ was employed.”
The women began to whisper to each other.
“Well,” said Mrs. Ditterswith, “she did own a tavern.”
“So she did,” said Byron. “And there’s been some discussion that she had a lover. But we aren’t sure who it was.”
“Oh, it was Mr. Hardy,” said one of the women.
“We have heard that. He claims that isn’t true,” said Byron. “We’ve also heard it was Mr. Eves.”
“The owner of the inn?” said Mrs. Ditterswith.
“But he wanted the tavern shut down, did he not? When the original owner died, Mr. Seward, Mr. Eves was quite clear he wanted it sold and turned into something other than a tavern, and then, just now, when poor Anne died, he returned to his same tune. It doesn’t seem she’d welcome him into her bed if he kept saying those things. ”
“I agree,” said Byron. “I have said exactly that. But you’re saying, you don’t know? There were no rumors of any kind regarding this?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Ditterswith. “There were rumors about her and Mr. Beaumont, but that’s been years ago.”
“Yes, we heard about that, too,” said Byron.
“I don’t think you need us,” said Mrs. Ditterswith. “You seem to have rooted out secrets quite fine on your own.”
“Perhaps so,” said Byron. “But I do need you all, ever so very much. Why, you’ve been more than helpful to me today.”
Yes, helpful to your ego, thought Jane at him.
“YOUR JEALOUSY SHOULDN’T be such a lark, I must say, but I cannot help myself,” said Byron. “I find it ever such a diversion. Do make that face again, the one you were making during the entire tea.”
Jane was outside Mrs. Ditterswith’s house, and her mother was still inside, chatting with Mrs. Ditterswith, but Jane had known quite certainly that she must have some fresh air, and so, she had come outside and she was now gazing off at the buds on a nearby tree, engaging in a silent reverie, or, at least, she would have been if Byron himself had not followed her out here and begun to tease her mercilessly.
“You’re not making the face,” said Byron. “You’re ignoring me, but I am entirely convinced you can hear me.”