Free The Mysterious Death of Miss Jane Austen by Lindsay Ashford Page A

Marguerite had the same warm smile as her mother. I thought how very different these women were from the servants at Godmersham. It was as if Henry’s affability had rubbed off on them, in the same way that Elizabeth’s discontentedness seemed to settle on those who served her.
    When the daughter discovered that I had spent the past few weeks with Jane, she sat down next to me, eager for news of her. “You must tell her that we miss her very much. She has not come to London this year. Will she visit on her way back to Bath, do you think?” Before I could reply there was a faint rumble from the street outside. “Is that Madame?” Marie Marguerite and her mother were on their feet in an instant.
    I stayed where I was, listening to the conversation, all spoken in French, that drifted to me from the hall. From her voice I would have supposed Eliza to be much younger than she was. She was in good humor, pleased at having found someone to repair her harp quickly and delighted with a new Mameluk cap she had purchased from a milliner in the Strand. I heard Madame Bigeon tell her that Henry was back from Godmersham. Then she was informed of my presence in the house and the reason for my visit to London. There was a moment of silence.
    “You say she is here to see a doctor? About her eyes?” There was no mistaking the note of suspicion in Eliza’s voice. I shrank back in my chair, apprehensive of what might be going through her head.
    “Yes, Madame. She is a great friend of Miss Jane’s, you know; they have been writing a play together.”
    “A friend of Jane’s?” I heard the brightness return. “She must take tea with me. And will you tell Monsieur Halavant that I will not be dining at home this evening—I ran into the Comtesse d’Antraigues in town and she begged me to accompany her to the Albany. Did Henry say whether he would be here this evening?” This question was put in an even manner, with no hint of emotion, as if it was a matter of no great importance to her if her husband came home or not. I didn’t hear Madame Bigeon’s reply, nor could I see if she had nodded or shaken her head. I wondered whether I would be Henry’s dinner partner that night. For all his good humor and lively talk, the thought of it made me uneasy. I felt as a goldfish must feel, swimming in a bowl as a cat approaches. I hoped that he would stay away and leave me to dine alone. Eliza took tea in the upstairs drawing room, a place of breathtaking elegance that ran the whole length of the first floor. Its overall effect was of unbounded treasure: there were gold clocks and candelabra, glittering chandeliers and gleaming statuary. Rich tapestries and huge gilded mirrors hung from the walls, while the ceiling was painted with scenes of clouds and cherubs. There were ottomans piled with richly embroidered cushions and oyster-colored lambrequins hung at the windows. The arms and legs of chairs glinted with more gold leaf, reminding me of the joke of Henry’s that Jane had repeated.
    Eliza looked perfectly at home in these dazzling surroundings. She rose to greet me as Marie Marguerite ushered me in, holding out her hands to clasp mine. She was easily recognizable as the girl in the portrait despite the twenty years that had elapsed since it was painted. Her eyes, though darker than Jane’s, gave away the Austen connection: they had that same lively, mischievous look I had seen so many times in the past few weeks. But her frame was very different: standing side by side I guessed that Jane would be head and shoulders taller than her cousin. Eliza’s hands in mine were like rabbit paws in cabbage leaves.
    My apprehension at meeting her was quickly dispelled by her easy manner. She plied me with questions about myself, but did it in such a way as not to appear intrusive, only interested and concerned. When I told her that I had obtained work as a governess after the death of both my parents, she shook her head sympathetically. She said that