“That is just as well, Lord Harold,” I said clearly, “for your lack of finer feeling, of scruple and honour — of everything, in truth, that turns a man a gentleman — makes you the very last person I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.”

24 December 1802

A CONSTRAINT HAS FALLEN OVER OUR PARTY WITH LORD Harold's departure — an event so fervently desired, and yet in its achievement, offering little in the way of ease or peace. That his disclosures to Isobel have poisoned her feelings for Fitzroy Payne, I do not doubt; she encounters the new Earl with a determined coldness, and spends much of her days alone in her rooms, while he — cast down and grown even more unhappy — keeps to his library, his walks through the Park, and the comfort of his books.

Fitzroy Payne has often during these long hours, by a look or a word, seemed on the verge of requesting my counsel, but is prevented by his strong reserve. I may confess myself relieved at his hesitancy, for it is an interview I would at all costs avoid. He undoubtedly knows of Isobel's decision to turn over her estates to Lord Harold; but it is certain he did nothing to impede that gentleman's departure. And so I must judge him to have failed her when she most required aid.

With the Countess distracted and the new Earl little better, Scargrave Manor's habits of order might be expected to run awry; but Madame Delahoussaye has assumed her niece's role of chatelaine with admirable relish. She now vies with Mrs. Hodges for authority over the principal rooms, and sets about directing the housemaids at their work. When Fitzroy Payne happens to leave his refuge for his customary ramble, Madame descends upon the library and will suffer no one to assist her. Danson, the Earl's man, is banished thin-lipped and grim to the servants’ quarters, and a fearsome racket emanates from behind the library's closed doors. When Madame emerges, however, the Earl's papers have been tidied, his cigar ash disposed, and his letters neatly grouped in a pile for Danson to file away. A veritable war has ensued between the Earl's valet and his beloved's aunt; and I must declare Madame to be the winner in the majority of their engagements.

Fanny Delahoussaye continues to suffer from a poor stomach, though most afternoons she rallies enough to play at lottery tickets with Tom Hearst, when he is so inclined — and that is often, for it seems the atmosphere in the cottage down the lane is less than congenial. Mr. George Hearst looks decidedly morose, being lost in a brown study that lifts only when he is repeatedly addressed; hardly the sort of society the boisterous Lieutenant should choose. We are blest in that the moody ecclesiastic rarely darkens the Manor door; and his stupidity often sends his brother in desperation from the cottage.

Isobel's persistent sorrow makes me feel a useless friend, and I have wondered more than once whether I did right by staying on; but when I voiced my intention of returning to Bath in Fitzroy Payne's hearing, he started in dismay, and pressed me so urgently to remain — that I might endeavour to lift the Countess's spirits — that I could not in good conscience depart. Whatever Lord Scargrave's faults and vices may be, I can know nothing of them. He remains all that is honourable in my presence.

And since I must await the offer of the Scargrave carriage to convey me home, I am, more to the point, utterly without the means to leave.

With little of a cheering nature to excite my interest, and nothing further from the poisonous pen, I determined to profit by Lieutenant Hearst's knowledge and patience, and had three lessons on horseback during the course of last week. And so, the weather holding fine and steady this morning after several days of snow, I decided to seek some exercise, and betook myself to the stables in search of Lady Bess. I considered awaiting Lieutenant Hearst's company — but as I could not predict his plans with any certainty, and was loath to appear to seek his attention by sending to Scargrave Cottage, I settled it that I should make my way to the stables alone. I felt myself impatient to be away; and did a groom prove unable to accompany me, I had no little confidence in assaying to ride unattended.

I crossed the gravel of the stableyard, swept clean of snow, and encountered James, the chief boy.

“Miss Austen!” he exclaimed. “You be wantin’ Bess, I warrant?”

“I am,” I said, smiling, “unless she is otherwise engaged.”

“She's been turned into the near paddock,” James said, knitting his brows; “on account of the day being so fine. If you've but a moment, I'll fetch ‘er.”

And he was about to do so, when Mr. George Hearst appeared, looking as black as the memory of bad weather and with hardly a nod to me or a word of kindness for the groom.

“Fetch Balthasar as quick as you can, boy,” he said, and when James hesitated, gestured emphatically towards the stable door. “Be off with you.”

The groom cast me an apologetic look.

“And mind you bring him round to the main entrance,” George Hearst added, turning abruptly and walking in the direction of the great house.

What had inspired such haste and truculence, I could not think, and had half a mind to catch him up and enquire of his trouble. But there was something in Mr. Hearst's aspect that warned me off — a suggestion of an increase in his usual taciturnity, perhaps — and I remained where I stood. Few words enough had passed between us since our conversation in the lane the previous week; I half-surmised that the gentleman regretted of his frankness, and had resolved to avoid my company. So I deemed it best to seek the fields while he retained the Manor. After an instant, I followed James to the interior of the lofty-ceilinged stable, searching out his form in the dim light. The groom stood framed against a stall far down the row, where a great black head reared over the door of its box like a military statue of old. The very Balthasar.

“Do you wait another minute, Miss Austen, and I shall have Bess stamping to bear you,” the boy assured me.

“There is no need, James,” I said. “If you but give me her bridle and lead, I shall fetch her myself.”

“I don't know as it's a job for a lady” — he looked all his doubt — ”nor as you'll meet with much success, begging your pardon, miss.”

“As I must wait by the paddock, or wait by the stables, I would fain be of use; and it cannot hurt me to try. Do you take Balthasar to Mr. Hearst, James, and follow me to the fields. Then if the horse outwits me, your conscience may be salved by effecting my salvation.”

BESS WAS AMONG A SMALL GROUP OF HER FELLOW CREATURES clustered by the paddock's far rail. That the horses were intent upon remaining in their corner I readily observed; and wondered at so close a converse in so wide a space. Perhaps they missed the comfortable warmth of their boxes, and sought instead to make walls of one another. Whatever their purpose, it caused me to walk the length of the field in my boots, the snow coming up nearly to their tops. Gathering my courage, I clucked to Bess as Tom Hearst had taught me to do. To my delight, she came towards me obediently enough, and thrust her nose into the bridle, a perfect lady; I had but to snap on the halter and lead her to the paddock gate.

It was here that I encountered difficulty, and of so decided a turn that I was completely routed. For Bess would not approach the inoffensive gate, and, indeed, rolled her eyes and whinnied in such a violent fashion, backing onto her hind legs, that I lost my grip on the halter and was forced to watch in despair as she hurried herself back to the field's far corner. It was, by all accounts, inexplicable. That the mare had entered by the gate but a few hours earlier was evident, there being none other in the enclosure; but to approach it now was to her of all things the most distasteful.