Read Online Jane and the Barque of Frailty by Stephanie Barron - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephanie Barron
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claim,” she retorted sharply. “I do not speak of your Kentish Knights, and their bequests; we cannot all be so fortunate. 1 Moreover, Edward has been very willing to place several thousands of his own funds in Henry’s bank—and I hope I am not an ungrateful creature. But we must make a push, Jane, to secure a nobler patronage—or Austen, Maunde & Tilson will never be more than a paymaster to an assortment of militia. That was Henry’s introduction to the banking business, and very fine it was—but it must not be his end also.”
I could not agree with Eliza—my heart misgave me when I thought of James Tilson’s warning, and his numerous cares; but knowing less than nothing of my brother’s affairs, or finance in general, I hesitated to voice too decided an opinion. I resolved to sound Henry on the subject when the next opportunity for privacy offered.
“I think, Jane, that you had better take charge of this parcel,” Eliza suggested. “It would look well for us if you entered upon the scene as the owner of the jewels from the outset. I suppose your literary talent extends to the concoction of fibs?”
What else, in short, is literature?
“I shall present these pieces as the spoils of Stoneleigh,” I told her. “You will recollect that my cousin, Mr. Thomas Leigh, inherited Stoneleigh Abbey from Lady Mary Leigh when she died some years ago; and being a widower, and quite childless, it should not be wonderful if he were to give Lady Mary’s jewels to his nearest relations. Having no occasion to wear such showy finery, the Austen ladies— being of a practical turn—determined to find what price the jewels might fetch; and you, our worldly friend, were good enough to consider of Rundell & Bridge.”
Eliza weighed this confection of lies with a pretty air of judiciousness. “Your Leighs are all descended, are they not, from a sister of the first Duke of Chandos? I think it should serve. But recollect, Jane, that in the telling of falsehoods, simplicity is all.”
“I cannot claim your degree of experience,” I returned in Cassandra’s most prudish manner; and we achieved Ludgate Hill in silence.
I T WAS TOO EARLY AS YET FOR MOST LADIES TO BE abroad, and we were fortunate to find the shop barren of custom when we descended from the hack. One cannot be too careful, when bartering valuables, to go unobserved by one’s acquaintance—lest rumours spread as swift as contagion. The jeweller’s door was opened by a liveried footman, and Eliza swept into the room with all the éclat of a grande dame, glancing imperiously about as tho’ an Unknown had offended her. I followed with the large box in my hands, more in the role of paid companion than sister of the bosom; my mouth was dry and my heart pounding.
The room was narrow and long, lit by oil lamps suspended from the ceiling; display tables lined with velvet were set against the walls. A few gilt chairs were arranged near these, to accommodate selection; and a neat clerk in a dark blue coat and buff breeches stood alertly at the far end of the shop. When we failed to glance to either side, ignoring the settings of miniatures, the eye portraits cunningly lapped in draperies, the parures of emeralds and diamonds, or the amethyst bracelets that are everywhere the mode—this person came forward immediately and bowed.
“May I be of service, ma’am?”
“Pray present my card to Mr. Rundell,” Eliza replied briskly. “We wish to speak with him privately.”
She had barely concluded the words when a door at the rear of the shop opened, and a white head was thrust out. A pair of bold blue eyes, aloof and calculating, swept over us, missing nothing of the significance of the parcel I held.
“Comtesse,” the apparition said, “good day to ye. Will ye be so good as to step back?”
Eliza inclined her head, motioned for me to go before, and the quiet elegance of the premises was exchanged for a spare room graced only by a desk and a strong oil lamp,
I could not agree with Eliza—my heart misgave me when I thought of James Tilson’s warning, and his numerous cares; but knowing less than nothing of my brother’s affairs, or finance in general, I hesitated to voice too decided an opinion. I resolved to sound Henry on the subject when the next opportunity for privacy offered.
“I think, Jane, that you had better take charge of this parcel,” Eliza suggested. “It would look well for us if you entered upon the scene as the owner of the jewels from the outset. I suppose your literary talent extends to the concoction of fibs?”
What else, in short, is literature?
“I shall present these pieces as the spoils of Stoneleigh,” I told her. “You will recollect that my cousin, Mr. Thomas Leigh, inherited Stoneleigh Abbey from Lady Mary Leigh when she died some years ago; and being a widower, and quite childless, it should not be wonderful if he were to give Lady Mary’s jewels to his nearest relations. Having no occasion to wear such showy finery, the Austen ladies— being of a practical turn—determined to find what price the jewels might fetch; and you, our worldly friend, were good enough to consider of Rundell & Bridge.”
Eliza weighed this confection of lies with a pretty air of judiciousness. “Your Leighs are all descended, are they not, from a sister of the first Duke of Chandos? I think it should serve. But recollect, Jane, that in the telling of falsehoods, simplicity is all.”
“I cannot claim your degree of experience,” I returned in Cassandra’s most prudish manner; and we achieved Ludgate Hill in silence.
I T WAS TOO EARLY AS YET FOR MOST LADIES TO BE abroad, and we were fortunate to find the shop barren of custom when we descended from the hack. One cannot be too careful, when bartering valuables, to go unobserved by one’s acquaintance—lest rumours spread as swift as contagion. The jeweller’s door was opened by a liveried footman, and Eliza swept into the room with all the éclat of a grande dame, glancing imperiously about as tho’ an Unknown had offended her. I followed with the large box in my hands, more in the role of paid companion than sister of the bosom; my mouth was dry and my heart pounding.
The room was narrow and long, lit by oil lamps suspended from the ceiling; display tables lined with velvet were set against the walls. A few gilt chairs were arranged near these, to accommodate selection; and a neat clerk in a dark blue coat and buff breeches stood alertly at the far end of the shop. When we failed to glance to either side, ignoring the settings of miniatures, the eye portraits cunningly lapped in draperies, the parures of emeralds and diamonds, or the amethyst bracelets that are everywhere the mode—this person came forward immediately and bowed.
“May I be of service, ma’am?”
“Pray present my card to Mr. Rundell,” Eliza replied briskly. “We wish to speak with him privately.”
She had barely concluded the words when a door at the rear of the shop opened, and a white head was thrust out. A pair of bold blue eyes, aloof and calculating, swept over us, missing nothing of the significance of the parcel I held.
“Comtesse,” the apparition said, “good day to ye. Will ye be so good as to step back?”
Eliza inclined her head, motioned for me to go before, and the quiet elegance of the premises was exchanged for a spare room graced only by a desk and a strong oil lamp,
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