Journal entry, later that day

WE WERE ASSEMBLED FOR TEA IN THE GREAT SCARGRAVE drawing-room when Cobblestone, the stooped and aged Scargrave butler, announced Sir William. Despite Isobel's anxious looks, I was relieved to observe that his visit was taken as nothing out of the ordinary way by the other members of the family.

“He is come, I suppose, to offer condolence,” said Fitzroy Payne.

“And to secure his position with the new Earl, no doubt,” threw in Tom Hearst, as Cobblestone withdrew. The Lieutenant stabbed viciously with a poker at a log burning too slowly for his taste, and sent up a shower of sparks. “These petty local justices are all of a piece. Keep firm hold on their sinecures, eat heartily of mutton and ale at the local fetes, and concern themselves little with matters beyond their purses.”

“A failing they hold in common with the petty local gentry,” came a sepulchral voice in reply.

All eyes turned to Mr. George Hearst, sunk in his armchair in the farthest corner of the room, a volume of Fordyce's Sermons open upon his knee. “We cannot expect the men we appoint to govern us, to be better than ourselves. Did Sir William not curry favour at the Manor, it should be a miracle; for assuredly, brother, you and I have been attempting it all our lives.”

“I think you mistake, cousin,” cried the new Earl, with becoming energy. “Sir William is late of the King's Bench [19], a barrister known for his perspicacity; and though Scargrave Close may offer little to challenge his wits after London's broad humanity, he is no less careful of his office, for all that.” Fitzroy Payne turned to Lord Harold Trowbridge, who sat apart in a high-backed wing chair, watching all that occurred with the lidded eyes of a hawk. “I believe you have reason to fear Sir William's wits, Lord Harold. You encountered him more than once when he was in the Exchequer, did you not?”

A slow smile spread across the narrow, dark face. “He has had his moments of good fortune. At my expense. And I have had mine, at his.”

“A barrister in retirement! But this is capital!” the Lieutenant exclaimed. “My fellows at the Cock and Bull had best look to their pints, and find another place to carouse, now a prop of the law is come to Scargrave!”

“If Sir William serves to moderate even your dissipation, Tom, we may count his presence a blessing,” George Hearst rejoined. A painful pause threatened to silence us all; but I dare say Mr. Spinoza entertained the notion of Fanny Delahoussaye when he declared that nature abhors a vacuum. She rose to the defence of her favourite with more haste than discretion.

“The Bar, of all professions, must be declared the most vulgar,” she avowed, with a look for Tom Hearst in his blue coat. “In physick we may detect a nobler calling, despite its trappings of trade, in the saving of lives; the Church is redeemed by the sanctity of its purpose; and the military life, of course, is to be preferred above all others for its bravery and fortitude.”

Miss Fanny's pretty speech was interrupted here by a contemptuous snort from her mother, who cast a venomous look at Tom Hearst. The Lieutenant merely grinned at Madame, and bowed in her daughter's direction.

“But how are we to praise the Bar?” Miss Delahoussaye continued, undaunted. “A nasty meddling in the concerns of debtors, cutthroats, and swindlers, the lowest form of society, for a fee one must pretend not to take by sending the bill through one's solicitors![20] I should not marry a barrister for anything in the world!”

“And he, my dear,” Lord Harold said from his corner, “would certainly be ill-advised to marry you.’“

Sir William Reynolds was shown in upon the heels of this curt remark. The new Earl he greeted first, as befit the highest peer in the room; then he turned to the Countess with a bow. Lord Harold Trowbridge he offered but a nod, tho’ if he recalled the moments the duke's son had won at his expense, Sir William's face gave no sign. When he had made his courtesies to the Delahoussayes and the Hearsts, I rose to greet him with my hand extended, and said with real pleasure, “Sir William! What good fortune that we should meet again, after so many years!”

“Miss Austen, to be sure!” The smile that suffused his merry old face was like a ray of sun in that mordant atmosphere. “A pleasure for which I could not have hoped! And how is your dear father?”

“Very well, sir, when last we met. I shall be pleased to send him equally good news of yourself.”

“You are acquainted with Sir William, Miss Austen?” the Earl broke in, with wonder.

“Indeed, my lord, since I was a child.”

“I was at Oxford with her father;” the good man said, his face beaming, “and stood godparent to one of her brothers. How is the rascal?”

“Charles is faring well in his naval career, though Frank, his elder, continues to outstrip him.”

“As he should! As he should!” Sir William exclaimed, and smiled all around until, recollecting the reason for his presence in a house of mourning, he assumed a more becoming gravity.

Sir William Reynolds is that mixture of quick parts and good humour, unabashed affection and deceptive shrewdness, that makes for a candid and invigorating acquaintance. He had left his practice at the Bar and his clerks at the King's Bench some five months past, upon receiving his knighthood, and had settled in Scargrave Close to enjoy his remaining years, much as my father had chosen the retreat of Bath. The honour of his elevation had done little to impair his easy manners; Sir William was not the sort to adopt a false pride, but rather a heightened civility, a useful quality in his current duties as justice of the peace. That his good sense might make short work of Isobel's trouble, I was completely assured.

“My very deepest and most sincere condolences, my lady,” Sir William said, with a bow to my friend.

“Thank you, Sir William.” Isobel's hand went to her throat, a gesture that has become familiar. I feared for a moment that she might faint, and would have moved to her aid; but Fitzroy Payne was before me. In an instant he placed a chair at her disposal, with a tender look that betrayed all his concern. For; indeed, Isobel is a changed woman entirely.

The Countess bears the marks of extreme fatigue upon her countenance, the result not merely of this morning's melancholy duties but of broken repose. In Marguerite's absence, she will suffer no one to do up her hair, and so the pretty ringlets that once graced her brow are now severely drawn back. Her mourning dress proclaims itself as last worn in respect of her late father, it being some three years out of fashion; she has neither time nor inclination to consult a mantua-maker for anything new. With her fixed pallor and eyes reddened from weeping, my friend is far from lovely; except that there might be a sort of loveliness in her pitiable desolation.

“You are very good, Sir William, to venture out in the snow on the late Earl's behalf,” Fitzroy Payne said, in an effort, I thought, to fill an awkward pause. I felt all my apprehension at his remark, knowing that Sir William was present by Isobel's invitation, and undoubtedly wondering at its cause.

“Do you find Scargrave Close a congenial place, Sir William?” I broke in, somewhat desperately.

A hint of amusement suffused the old barrister's face as he inclined his head in my direction. “Most congenial, Miss Austen, most congenial. The late Earl was a man of probity and discipline, and the surrounding country reveals his hand. You face a difficult task, Lord Scargrave, in assuming your uncle's duties.”

“Well do I know it, sir,” Fitzroy Payne replied feelingly, his dark gaze turned inward, “and I had thought to enjoy long years of study before assuming the role. Not the least of my regrets at my uncle's death is the knowledge that all chance for learning is past, however imperfect my present abilities.”