Was I even now in peril, by virtue of what I had already read?

I revolved what little of Lord Harold’s history I had perused. There were anecdotes of Warren Hastings; an old scandal of early love and a hasty duel; the animus between Lord Harold and one man — the Viscount St. Eustace — and his friendship for another, the Earl of Holbrook. A vague suggestion of activity on behalf of noble French émigrés during the Reign of Terror, and Lord Harold’s dedication to the salvation of a few; and the mention of Geoffrey Sidmouth, whom I had known myself in Lyme Regis some years before, and remembered with poignant affection. And then there was the Frenchwoman named Hélène, whom the Rogue first met while en route from India to England in 1785. But I had found no firm indication as to the father of Hélène’s child, to whom he later referred. It was possible, I supposed, that Julian Thrace might claim to be the woman’s son. But as to his paternity? Had Thrace been sired by her affianced husband, the Viscount St. Eustace? Or by wild Freddy Vansittart, smitten on the Punjab?

Or Lord Harold himself?

At that thought, I stopped dead in the middle of the High. And saw again in my mind’s eye the lazy beauty of Thrace’s face. It bore not the slightest resemblance to Lord Harold’s sharp features; but neither did it resemble Lady Imogen Vansittart’s. And the Rogue, I felt sure, was the sort of man who should always know his sons. The truth was somewhere in Lord Harold’s papers. That the chest was seized on the very night I had dined with the intimates of Stonings, must cause me to believe that one of them — Lady Imogen, or Thrace himself — had long been aware of the danger Lord Harold’s writings posed. One of them had hired Old Philmore and his nephew.

“Jane,” my brother Henry said with a frown as I entered his rooms at No. 10, “it has been as I predicted. Julian Thrace has had the poor taste to stop here on his way to Sherborne St. John, and require of me a loan. ”

“Lady Imogen’s Devil in the cards?” I enquired. “How much is demanded for the preservation of the Beau’s honour?”

“All of five hundred pounds! — To be issued in notes backed by gold in my London branch! The effrontery of the fellow, Jane, to presume on such a slight social acquaintance! But what else, after all, has Thrace ever done?”

“You are a banker, Henry — and I must suppose a gaming debt contracted in a gentleman’s household is a pressing affair, that must be paid with despatch. Particularly when one is living cheek by jowl with the lady demanding payment.”

“He might have offered her his vowels,” Henry retorted crossly, “and applied to friends in London for the whole.[19] I cannot be easy in my mind regarding Thrace’s security for any sum advanced to him, despite the Earl’s apparent regard, and all the frenzy of activity in rebuilding Stonings.”

“Perhaps you shall be easier once you have visited the place.”

My brother merely stared.

“We are all invited to picnic there tomorrow — yourself expressly desired by Major Spence, who should like to interrogate you regarding the Vyne hunt, Henry.”

“But I had meant to return to London in the morning!”

“Poor sport, Henry! Consider the heat and stink of Town in such a season; and then, you know, nobody worth your notice is likely to be there.”

“No more they are,” he replied thoughtfully, “but Eliza is sure to have my head if I desert her in all the packing. We intended our removal for the end of July, you know — in time to join our friends in Scotland for the shooting months.”

“August is weeks away,” I said equably, “and if you stay in Hampshire, you might assist me in the treasure hunt.”

“Not the rubies, Jane?”

“Mamma will have discovered those before the month is out,” I told him dismissively. “No, Henry — it is Lord Harold’s papers I mean to find. I am convinced they are even now well hidden at Stonings.”

7 July 1809, cont.

It was a pleasant thing indeed to find dinner on the table at my return — a roasted capon, a bit of white fish Sally had got by proxy from Alton, and beans from Libby Cuttle’s garden—“her being that ashamed of herself, ma’am, when I told her how respectable you all were, and how good to me.” I guessed that the inclusion in our household of a Chawton girl born and bred, with all the hundred ties of obligation and habit that knit her close to the surrounding country, must prove a decided advantage. Sally Mitchell was worth ten times the notice of a Mr. Middleton, in being related to the dairy man, the sheep farmer on her mother’s side, and the fellow who mended tools from his cart each Wednesday; and to crown all, we should not be reduced to stratagems and subterfuge in order to buy bread from the baker each morning. Even Cassandra had interrogated the new housemaid and was satisfied — “for she is not unintelligent, and will prove a useful set of hands in the stillroom, Jane — which you must know I intend to establish as soon as Martha Lloyd is arrived from Kintbury. And I find Sally is not at all incommoded by dogs, which is an excellent thing, as Link means to learn all about the stillroom — don’t you, you cunning scamp?”

The stillroom meant Cassandra’s orange wine; I should have to profit from my association with the Great in the days remaining to me before Martha’s return, and drink deep of the claret they offered.

Henry sat down with us in the dining parlour, and we had just enough chairs for four disposed around the table. Tonight was our first evening spent entirely en famille since our arrival, and the first in many days that Cassandra had enjoyed in her own abode. For ten months she had been resident at Godmersham — and I had almost despaired of my sister’s ever returning, in the belief that Neddie must grow so dependant upon her as to regard her as another of his innumerable possessions. I had broached the subject only once in Kent, during my visit there the previous month; but Cassandra had averted her eyes, and after a little hesitation observed, “Dear Fanny is quite a woman, now. It cannot be a comfortable thing, to see her aunt sitting always in her mother’s place, and taking precedence. I flatter myself I have been useful among the little children — but with the boys soon to be returned to Winchester, and Fanny grown so capable. I cannot feel I am needed, Jane.”

That truth must be a sorrow to Cassandra, who has made a kind of life from devoting herself to her brothers, as tho’ the selflessness of her quiet ways must in some wise justify her having remained single when Tom Fowle died. We must each of us in our own way earn the keep we require of our brothers’ pockets.

“There is this comfort at least,” she concluded now. “Frank’s Mary must be confined at any moment — and I shall be much in demand at Rose Cottage in Lenton Street, once the second child is arrived. How fortunate that we are not above a mile from her door!”

My sister is exceptionally good, and accepts the cruel injustice of her lot without complaint or reversion to the hopes of former days; but with advancing age, I have observed Cassandra’s tendency to take pride in her very sublimation to the uses of others. I cannot admire it; it is too much like martyrdom. For my part, I have never been one to submit readily to denial.

“I wish that Mr. Thrace had been more exact in his intelligence regarding the necklace,” my mother mused pensively as she stabbed a chicken thigh with her fork. “I have devoted quite three hours to turning over the earth in the back garden, and have only blisters on my palms to show for it, Jane.”

“We must beg some cuttings from Miss Beckford’s garden at the Great House, Mamma, and have you plant while you dig,” I suggested. “Only this morning, she promised me a syringa and a plum sapling.”