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Chapter One:
Hampshire England, 11 December 1795
By moonlight, Jane hitches up the hem of her sprigged muslin gown and darts across a neatly scythed lawn. The fireworks are over, but the musky tang of gunpowder lingers in her throat. The din of a raucous crowd, shrieking with laughter, floats above the harmonious tones of a string quartet drifting from the black and white Tudor mansion behind her. It is ten o’clock in the evening and the ball has hardly begun. Jane, accompanied by two of her elder brothers, James and Henry, arrived less than an hour ago. Already, the finest society in all of Hampshire are half-cut and braying at each other over the melody.
As she traverses the manicured garden, Jane crouches behind each colossal tower of neatly clipped yew to check for onlookers. She is breathless, and her heart pounds at the ruinous prospect of being spotted. God forbid, she is caught sneaking away from the party to meet her secret lover. Her feet are cold, and damp is seeping through her shell-pink silk slippers. They are made for pirouetting on polished mahogany floors, not dashing across frosty grass.
Her breath turns to steam in the air. The bare branches of the laburnum reach out like the bony arms of a great skeleton. Her stomach quivers, and her long white limbs tingle, but she races on regardless. Tonight, she and her clever young man will come to their agreement. He will make her an offer of marriage. She is sure of it.
From within the glasshouse, flickering lamps illuminate the silhouettes of tropical fronds. As she places her gloved hand on the cold steel handle, a delicious shiver runs through her abdomen. Which words will Tom select for his purpose? My dearest Jane, you must allow me to tell you… Miss Austen, I offer myself to you… She must listen carefully and commit each phrase to memory. It could prove useful the next time one of her heroines receives a proposal.
She presses down gently on the handle, yet it creaks and the hinges groan as she opens the door. Inside, exotic orchids perfume the misty atmosphere. She raises a hand to her coiffure. Her maid coiled her chestnut hair into an elegant chignon, with ringlets framing her face. If her curls turn to frizz, her brothers will guess where she’s been, and report her antics to their mother.
“Mademoiselle.” A lean figure steps out from behind a desert pine. He is fair with distinguished features and dressed in an ivory swallow-tail coat with a starched linen collar and cravat.
The deep timbre of his voice dissolves Jane’s heart to molten lava and propels her body towards him. Pausing just out of his reach, she gazes upwards through fluttering eyelashes. “It was most wicked of you to make me come.”
His bright blue eyes sparkle and his mouth curls into a seductive smile. “You understood my message then?”
“I understand you perfectly, Monsieur Lefroy.” Jane’s gaze locks on his lips. They are soft, parted. Her own mouth moistens, and her breath quickens. She lets herself be gathered tight in his arms. His mouth hovers over hers, and she tips her head back to accept his kiss. She is almost, but not quite, as tall as he. Their relative statures are designed to aid their amour.
Glued together, they stumble into a row of shelves. Beside Jane, a terracotta pot tumbles and smashes at her feet. Dark earth spills across the clay floor tiles. She breaks free, stooping to pick up the tangle of roots and placing the plant carefully back inside its damaged pot.
Tom bends down onto one knee, cupping her face in his palm. Her heart thumps. Is this the moment he’ll propose? He directs her eyes back to his. “Leave the wretched weed, Jane. It doesn’t matter.”
The beating inside Jane’s chest returns to a regular rhythm, as she places the orchid back on the shelf beside its neighbours. “But I must, we’re guests – it’s only respectful.”
Tom kicks broken shards of terracotta beneath the cabinet with the toe of his dancing pump.
Jane fingers the tall stem, lined with papery chartreuse flowers, until the plant looks as if it was never disturbed. “Besides, someone will know we’ve been in here…”
Tom silences Jane with kisses. Slowly, he peels one silk glove down her arm and pulls it free.
Jane presses her naked palm to his, their fingers interlacing. Through half-closed eyes, she watches drops of condensation drip down the misted walls of the glasshouse and waits for the strings to strike up again. Her stomach clenches. “Wait. Something’s wrong. I can’t hear the music.”
She reaches for the nearest pane of glass, rubs a spot clear, and squints through. The doors of the great hall are open to the terrace. Guests are standing about, heads bent together. The dancefloor is clear.
Tom releases her, straightening. “You’re right, it’s too quiet. Sir John can’t be making the toast already? Not this early in the proceedings?”
Jane creases her brow. “I expect Mrs Rivers is refusing to wait any longer. She’ll be chomping at the bit to be congratulated on her daughter’s engagement. I’d better get back. James and Henry will be looking for me. I bet them half a crown, weeks ago now, that Sophy would be the one to snag Jonathan Harcourt.”
Tom’s shoulders sag in defeat. “You go ahead. I’ll follow.”
“We can meet again, afterwards?” Jane’s chest tightens.
She is reluctant to let the moment pass without she and Tom coming to a resolution about their future together. The glasshouse is the perfect setting for him to declare his love for her. Yet if her family discover she’s missing from the ball, she risks having her limited freedom curtailed even further. “Back here. As soon as the dancing strikes up again?”
Tom shoots her a rueful smile. “Go on then, give me a few moments to compose myself.”
Jane flushes as she turns towards the door, pressing her fingers over her lips to prevent herself from laughing.
“Wait!” He waves her white silk elbow-length glove at her.
Jane runs back into his arms, giggling freely. She’d look a fool returning to the ball with only one glove. Her brothers would be furious if they guessed she’d lost it in an amorous tryst with a young man so recently of her acquaintance. As much as James and Henry may approve of Tom, Jane is their little sister, and it’s their duty to guard her virtue. A lady’s reputation is her most precious asset. Especially a young lady like Jane, who has scant enough resources to recommend her.
She reclaims her stolen token, leaning in for one last kiss before heading out into the night. Tom may not have proposed, but from the look of wonder in his bright blue eyes and the passion in his rapturous kiss, Jane is certain of his most ardent affection for her.
Jane hesitates on the York flagstones laid across the threshold of Deane House. Beneath the gothic archway, the enormous, studded oak doors to the great hall are wedged open. Heat and light radiate from the crush of well-heeled guests inside. There are grass stains on Jane’s shell-pink silk slippers and along the hem of her best muslin gown.
Cass, Jane’s elder sister, to whom the gown officially belongs, will be livid. But Cass cannot reproach Jane for ruining her gown, or for her wanton behaviour with Tom in the glasshouse, as Cass is not here. In preparation for joining her new family, the Fowles, Cass is keeping Christmas in Kintbury with her fiancé.
Hence, Jane is playing fast and loose with her virtue to secure a fiancé of her own, lest she become the only one of the Austen’s eight grown-up children to remain stuck at Steventon rectory. She cannot imagine a fate worse than remaining a spinster all her life, and being forced to play nursemaid to her aging parents in their dotage. She fills her lungs with one last deep breath of cool night air and slides inside.
Beneath the high, vaulted oak ceiling of the Elizabethan hall, over thirty families mingle and murmur to each other. Heavy-lidded ladies whisper behind fans, while gentleman frown and shake their heads.
Jane’s stomach churns. Surely, they cannot have discovered her impropriety already. With her back to the tapestries, she sidesteps along the edge of the throng. Above her head, enormous torches, placed at lofty intervals, burn bright in their iron sconces. On the balcony, the musicians drink and chatter, their instruments silent and strewn across their silk laps.
Snatches of conversations float in the dense air. “An incident... Sir John called away …” .
Jane releases her breath and swallows to moisten her dry mouth. Something other than her own misdemeanour has disrupted the party; one of the guests will have knocked over the punch bowl or dropped an eyeglass in the soup tureen.
Sophy, the eldest of the Rivers sisters, sits on a sofa, staring at the dazzling white shoe roses on her slippers. Really, she could muster up a little more enthusiasm. What any of the Rivers girls, with their insipid beauty and twenty thousand pounds apiece, could have to frown about, Jane does not know. Especially Sophy – she has snared one of the most sought-after bachelors in the county and wears an ethereal robe embroidered with real gold thread.
Yet Sophy’s dark grey eyes are hard, and the corners of her mouth turn down. The widowed Mrs Rivers stands over her daughter, making up for Sophy’s moroseness by yapping loudly. The late Mr Rivers’s fortune was built on cotton, but his widow favours silk; she resplendent in silver satin and black sarsenet.
Across the hall, Jonathan Harcourt’s rangy frame is swallowed by the sturdy oak door to the main wing of the house. Perhaps he has changed his mind about attaching himself to the daughter of a brazen parvenu. Jonathan is only just returned from a grand tour of the continent. Jane likes him all the better for his having been away, but not so much that she wishes she was his choice of bride-to-be.
Both Jonathan and his elder brother Edwin were Jane’s father’s pupils and spent their early years living alongside her at Steventon rectory. It is the same problem with all the single gentlemen in Jane’s locality. Having seen far too much of them as schoolboys, she cannot quite bring herself to view any as potential lovers.
Her interest is only ever piqued by newcomers, such as the delectable Tom Lefroy. And perhaps Douglas Fitzgerald, the young clergyman-in-waiting who is having his ear chewed off by Mrs Rivers. The hall is crawling with clergymen, but none of them are quite like this one. He is the natural son of Mrs Rivers’ brother-in-law, Captain Jerry Rivers. Captain Rivers owns a plantation in Jamaica and has sent Mr Fitzgerald home to England to be educated. The young man is extremely tall and striking. He wears a silver peruke, with neat curls at either temple. The contrast with his deep brown complexion is mesmerising.
Jane will find James and Henry and reassure them her behaviour befits a young lady of her station. Then, as soon as Sir John has dealt with whatever incident has taken place, and the string quartet take up their bows, she will dash back to the glasshouse to hear Tom out and seal their deal. She smiles to herself as she snatches a crystal goblet of Madeira wine from a footman in burgundy livery. She takes a long sip, quenching her thirst. It is served warm, and tastes of orange peel and burnt sugar. James stands at the rear of the hall. He is tall, and lofty, dressed in his ecclesiastical apparel, with shoulder-length curls dusted in powder. His features are a distorted reflection of Jane’s own.
All the Austen siblings share the same bright hazel eyes, high forehead and long, straight nose, with a small mouth and full, pink lips. James is the eldest—an accident of birth he regards as divine providence.
“There you are!” James pushes his way through the sea of people towards her. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been searching for you everywhere.”
“I went looking for a fresh glass.” Jane lies, holding up the amber-coloured Madeira wine and swilling the liquid. “I didn’t want to be caught empty-handed when the speeches are made.”
James scrunches up his nose, rubbing the back of his long neck. “I’m not sure there are going to be any toasts now.”
“Why? Has Jonathan made a last-ditch attempt to escape the marriage noose?” Jane swigs her wine, savouring the infusion of warmth as the fortified alcohol stirs in her chest.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” James frowns. “Jonathan wouldn’t dare disappoint his parents so. Not after…”
Edwin. Five years previously, Jonathan’s elder brother, Edwin, was thrown from his new thoroughbred stallion on the eve of his marriage to the daughter of a duke. He died instantly, simultaneously breaking his neck and both his parent’s hearts. The tragedy heightened Lady Harcourt’s already nervous disposition. Even now, she grips tight to the arm of a footman, twisting her neck towards her guests so sharply that her monstrous, sky-high, coiffure wobbles like a well-set jelly.
“Where’s Henry?” Jane’s body cools as she glances around the crowded hall. If the incident is serious, Jane dearly hopes Henry is not caught up in it.
He should be easy to spot. Of those assembled, almost all the ladies are in pale-coloured gowns while the men wear dark blue or black cutaway coats. Only Tom bucks the trend in his frightful ivory swallow-tail coat, while Henry previously strutted around like a peacock in his scarlet regimentals.
James grimaces. “Last seen dancing with the amiable Mrs Chute.” Mrs Chute is six-and-twenty, with a lively character and a handsome countenance. She is recently married to a rich old man who shuns company and will not, therefore, be in attendance. It is infuriating that Henry does not have to guard his flirtations as closely as Jane does.
From across the room, Tom shoots Jane a rueful grin, making her breath catch in her throat. He must have slid inside the hall immediately after her.
Behind James, the door to the house swings open once again, and Mrs Twistleton, the Harcourt’s housekeeper, slinks through. In her black silk dress and white lace cuffs, she reminds Jane of the Austen’s best mouser – the smallest cat in the yard has black fur with white paws. She sits in the sun all day licking her paws and waiting for her next kill.
Mrs Twistleton’s almond-shaped eyes scan around the ballroom. Spotting the butler, she grabs his arm. His eyes bulge as she mouths a few words.
Jane slides her wrist through the crook of James’s elbow, suddenly grateful for the familiar shape of her brother beside her.
The butler swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat as he rings his brass bell. “Ladies and gentleman, is there a surgeon in attendance?” He calls out in a crisp high-pitched voice.
A gasp reverberates through the hall. The incident really must be serious if the household is requesting medical help. The local physician staggers up from his seat, red faced and swaying, before falling back hard on his well-padded bottom. Jane tuts. He’s clearly in his cups.
Mrs Twistleton raises herself onto her tiptoes to speak into the butler’s ear. He recoils. She raises her dark brows and nods.
He stares at her open-mouthed, before giving the bell another shake. “Do excuse me. Ladies and gentlemen, is there a… a clergyman present?”
Nervous laughter ripples over the crowd. Over half the men here are members of the clergy. Hampshire is overrun with them.
James spreads his arms wide, then lets them fall to his side. “I’d better go. Will you be all right?” He just so happens to be the man of the cloth standing in closest proximity to the servants.
“I’ll come with you.” Jane passes her half-empty goblet to a nearby footman. “Just to check it’s not Henry.”
James nods, before turning on his heel and heading for the door.
Jane’s heartbeat slows to a sluggish thump. She’ll make sure that Henry hasn’t got himself into any bother, then slip away. Hopefully, all is not lost, and Tom will have another opportunity to declare his intentions before the night is over. She tries to catch Tom’s eye before she leaves, but he turns his back to her as he is pressed into the milieu.
Jane reaches the entrance to the main wing of the house at exactly the same moment as Mr Fitzgerald. They bump shoulders. Mr Fitzgerald blinks his topaz coloured-eyes, before bowing from the waist to signify that she should proceed. Jane bobs a curtsey and steps through. Beeswax candles flicker in their brass sconces, throwing light and shadow over the oil portraits lining the walls. From within the paintings, generations of Harcourts stare as she passes. Jane recognises the same long face, beaked nose and pointy chin as the current title holder and his son. The housekeeper and Mr Fitzgerald’s footsteps echo close behind.
She emerges into the grand entrance hall. A weighty chain suspends a brass chandelier from the double-height ceiling. Hundreds of candles illuminate the oak panelling and the ornate carved staircase leading to the upper floors of the mansion.
Below it, Henry stands guard in front of a small door in the panelling. With his feet planted hip distance apart and his right-hand resting on the handle of his glinting sabre, he is resplendent in his officer’s finery. The double-breasted scarlet jacket shows off his tall figure, and the gold epaulettes sit well on his broad shoulders. In protest at the powder tax, he’s cut his chestnut locks short – giving himself a raffish air.
He looks so much like a tin soldier, Jane wants to laugh. “What’s happened?” she asks.
But Henry remains silent, his face uncharacteristically grim. He nods to Mrs Chute, who sits opposite on a blood-red damask sofa, crying into a handkerchief.
The pale gold ostrich feathers of Mrs Chute’s headdress bob and wave as she blows her nose. “I had no idea she was there. I almost tripped right over her.”
A housemaid kneels at Mrs Chute’s feet, waving a green glass bottle of smelling salts under her nose. Another younger maid stands by, with a mop dipped into a brass-rimmed bucket of soapy water. She is a small round girl, with broad features and a thick neck. Her pallor is ghostly, and she visibly trembles.
Jane places a hand to her throat. “Who was in there?”
“Damned if any of us know.” Sir John Harcourt stomps up and down the Turkey runner. Beneath the long sausage rolls of his dappled grey fat-bottomed peruke, his complexion is puce. He has always made an imposing figure, with his great belly and his flapping jowls. Tonight, he is especially threatening.
Henry steps aside. “I’m afraid we found a… well, a body.”
James pushes open the door. He baulks. Jane sidles up beside him, squinting into the room. It is a small closet. There is a ghastly metallic smell coming from inside, like a butcher’s shop. On the floor, from the light spilling in from the hallway, Jane can just make out a chintz patterned skirt. It is heavily stained with a dark substance. There are two brown lace-up shoes poking out from beneath it. They are ladies’ shoes, with a well-worn leather sole.
“I wouldn’t.” Henry places a hand on Jane’s upper arm, lightly restraining her.
Mr Fitzgerald scoots past with a taper. He may not yet have his Geneva collar, but the soon-to-be clergyman is most eager to perform his priestly duties. He kneels beside the skirt, throwing light into the cramped space.
Jane catches bile in the back of her throat.
It is a young woman, her arms flung wide, her pallor ashen and her features frozen in abject terror. Her mouth gapes, her glassy eyes stare blankly. Blood congeals at the enormous gash at her temple and puddles all around her on the floor.
“Dear, God.” Jane takes a step back, but she cannot tear her eyes away.
Mr Fitzgerald stoops, placing his ear to the woman’s chest, listening for her breath. After a few moments, he sits on his heels, frowning. He places two fingers to the woman’s neck, then shakes his head, and stretches his thumb and forefinger to shut her eyes.
He falters – her eyelids are stuck fast.
Withdrawing his hand, he bows his head and makes the sign of the cross.
A spark of recognition stirs, and Jane lets out a high-pitched scream. It is so unlike her, even she is shocked by it. Her knees buckle. She clings onto James’s lapels for support as she stares at the familiar face.
It must have been early October when Jane first saw the woman’s delicate features, for the chill was not yet in the air. Jane caught a ride to Basingstoke with Alethea Bigg. She stumbled across the milliner, Madame Renault, perched upon a wooden stool in the covered marketplace.
On a table covered with green baize cloth, she’d arranged a few straw hats and several delicate lace caps. Her clothes, while not fashionable, were neat and tidy. She wore a chintz round gown with a gold and pearl chain tucked into the bodice, and one of her own lace-trimmed caps over her dark hair. Jane considered buying a gift for Cass. Some of the caps were so fine, they’d make a pretty headdress for a bride.
But, as usual, Jane’s vanity overcame her good intentions. She bought herself one of the straw hats instead. She only meant to try the hat on for a lark, but she looked so very well in it. Jane tried to negotiate on the price by saying she didn’t think she’d brought enough and would have to come back for it another day.
Madame Renault shrugged, indifferent. In her broken English, she explained she spent most of her time working to order and only rented the stall when she had stock to spare. She couldn’t guarantee when, or even if, she would be back in Basingstoke. At a push, she might be persuaded to take a commission, if she had time.
Alethea thought the milliner arrogant, but Jane was so impressed by her confidence she paid her the full twelve shillings and sixpence. Evidently, Madame Renault knew the value of her artistry and trusted her handiwork to be in demand. How liberating to belong to a class of women who could take pride in their work.
The encounter leant Jane the audacity to imagine herself sitting behind a stall in the marketplace, with all her manuscripts neatly copied out, tied between marble boards and resting on green baize cloth.
Now, Jane places her fist in her mouth, biting back a sob as she stands transfixed by her brutally battered corpse.
James’s arms circle her waist. “Come away, Jane. Don’t upset yourself.”
“But I can’t. I know her.”
Everyone looks at Jane expectantly.
“Then who the devil is she?” Sir John thumps his fat fist on the mahogany sideboard. “And what’s she doing lying dead in my laundry closet?”
Jane slips out of James’s hold, stepping into the doorway to get a better look at the woman’s blood-splattered face. She must be certain before she says anything.
Mr Fitzgerald holds the taper beside the woman’s cheek, and Jane’s heart grows heavy. Everything has changed. The evening is no longer one of gaiety. She will not receive her romantic proposal or enjoy any more secret kisses with her lover in the glasshouse tonight. “Her name is Madame Renault. She’s a milliner – I bought a hat from her in Basingstoke market.”
Henry nods, as if this information tells him all he needs to know. “I’ve sent for the parish constable. The magistrate is expected anyway, for the ball.”
Mr Fitzgerald covers Madame Renault’s face with a blanket, tucking it around her shoulders with such care, as if it might keep her warm even after her passing.
James slides his arm around Jane’s shoulders, steering her towards the front door. “Come, let’s get you into the carriage and take you straight home. This has been a terrible shock, for all of us.”
Jane stumbles towards the door, craning her neck to take one last look at Madame Renault. A fresh wave of nausea comes over her at the pool of blood seeping into the blanket Mr Fitzgerald used to cover the young woman’s corpse. What kind of monster could have committed such a heinous crime?
