Free Jane and the Genius of the Place: Being the Fourth Jane Austen Mystery by Stephanie Barron

however—for shouting and josding in their hurry to be seen, the young Austens tumbled down the steps from the nursery. They had been left behind at the day's outing, as being either too junior or too indisposed—for litde Edward was troubled with a persistent cold, which refused to yield to all that the apothecary could advise. The others showed a dangerous inclination towards the same ailment, and with the commencement of their Michaelmas term looming, the older boys could not be too careful. 1 Lizzy had listened to the impassioned arguments of her children the previous night at bedtime. She had consulted with Mr. Green. And in the end, only Fanny—who might suffer a cold the autumn entire, and yet be schooled at home by Miss Sharpe—was permitted the treat of watching the Commodore run.
    “Sharpie! Auntjane!” the children cried in a tumult. “Is it true? Was a lady murdered at the races, and is Father to find it all out?”
    “Edward,” I said briskly—for Miss Sharpe appeared, if anything, worse for her journey than she had at its outset— “Miss Sharpe is greatly fatigued. Pray let her pass, and do not be plaguing her with your questions.”
    Anne Sharpe looked all her thanks, and pressed a hand to her brow. She had been more overpowered by events than any of us. I concluded that she suffered a headache more severe than Lizzy's direst imaginings, and ordered her to bed.
    “I am a litde fatigued,” she admitted. “Perhaps a short interval—before the children require their suppers—”
    “Sackree will see to the bread and milk,” I told her firmly. “Pray lie down for a while, Miss Sharpe. You look decidedly unwell.”
    “I must believe it to be the shock,” she said feebly. “That woman—”
    “So it is true!” Edward shouted triumphantly.
    I sank down on the bottom step and set my elegant top hat by my side. “Wherever did you hear such a tale, Edward?”
    “He had it from Cook,” said his brother George, hopping up and down on one foot, “—who had it from John Butcher, who met a man with the news on his way from the races.”
    “It was not John Butcher, but Samuel Joiner had the news, and fomet the man in the road,” young Elizabeth, a stout girl of five, broke in hotly.
    “That is what I said,” George retorted. “But—”
    “Do not pinch your brother, Eliza,” I attempted.
    “You did wo say it was so!” she insisted, “you said it was John Butcher. I heard the whole myself, while I was in the kitchen and Cook was in the yard. If you had gone for the pudding, Dordie, you would know it all, too.”
    “And why were you gone for pudding while Cook was in the yard?” asked Miss Sharpe—suddenly stern and much the pinker for it. “It is the accepted practise to take your pudding at meals, Miss Eliza, and not behind Cook's back.”
    Both culprits fell silent, their eyes on the ground. It was thus for Fanny to seize the triumphant moment.
    “Of course the story is true,” she said scornfully, “tho' neither John Butcher nor Samuel Joiner were within a mile of the race-meeting. I saw it all, Edward, and if you will come into the schoolroom, I shall tell you how it was.”
    The others fell back in awed silence—and little Eliza burst into tears.
    “Come along, children,” I said in exasperation. “We shall both tell you the tale. And afterwards, George, perhaps we may have a game of shutdecock. But you must be very quiet—for your mamma and Miss Sharpe are indisposed.”
    I smiled at the governess, and busded the children upstairs. But when I turned at the landing to glance at Anne Sharpe, she still stood with one hand on the rail, her thoughts quite fled and her pallor extreme.
    M Y DEAREST CASSANDRA , I WROTE, AS I SAT SOME HOURS later at my dressing table, in the solitary splendour of the Yellow Room—and then I hesitated, pen poised for the collection of my thoughts. The hour was late and the house entirely wrapped in slumber. I had opened a window against the still