Jane Rubino - Lady Vernon and Her Daughter: A Novel of Jane Austen’s Lady Susan

It is a universal ambition to persuade as many people as possible of one’s understanding, intelligence, and wit without having to cultivate any of them. In the case of Sir James Martin, however, it was quite the reverse: his education had been thorough and his understanding was sound, but an easy assurance and lively good humor had given rise to the impression of frivolity, and he did not trouble himself to contradict it.

His wit and complacency allowed him to keep up a steady stream of pleasantries at the dinner table. Lady Vernon was too angry with her cousin to speak to him, and Miss Vernon, who was afraid that any interest in her cousin’s conversation would be seen as a confirmation of their betrothal, was silent as well. Reginald spoke when he could not avoid it, and Mrs. Vernon, after pronouncing that the curried rabbit had turned out remarkably well, observed that the season for sport was quite at an end and that she was afraid there was little else to tempt Sir James to stay with them for very long.

Sir James smiled and replied, “My affection for this part of the world is fixed on something more prepossessing than sport. But I will not intrude upon your routine—none of your engagements need be altered on my account.”

Mrs. Vernon assured him that they did nothing and went nowhere. “But do not stand on ceremony, sir. You have acquaintances in this part of the country who will want a share of your company. Do not put us above them. Spend as much time as you like with them. We will not be offended.”

Sir James thanked her with an emphasis that provoked Lady Vernon to smile in spite of herself. “I will be happy to renew my acquaintance in this part of the world. But I am happier, of course, to see my cousins, and in such good looks, for which I must give you and Mr. Vernon credit. Your particular attentions to them seem to have offset the melancholy sensations that must attend any visit to the home that was lost to them in such a cruel fashion.”

“‘Cruel’?” cried Vernon. “Do you say that my sister and niece have been cruelly treated?”

Sir James was surprised at his vehemence and calmly replied, “Perhaps I should not have said ‘cruel.’ I should have said ‘unfortunate’—as the fortunes of those who survive such a loss are wont to decline.”

Vernon murmured something about accidents and how terrible it was when they resulted in a loss, how painful it was for them to be discussed at all.

Sir James apologized and changed the subject. “I honor your delicacy, Mrs. Vernon, for doing so little with Churchill Manor. There were, no doubt, many alterations you wished to make, and to leave it so unchanged must be a great comfort to my cousins.”

“And yet,” declared Reginald, “Miss Vernon remarked only this morning how very much changed she found it to be.”

“She would find it so,” Sir James replied, directing an affectionate smile toward his young cousin. “Freddie is naturally observant—nothing escapes her notice.”

“There is nothing to notice,” stammered Vernon. “Some changes in the household staff … the rooms are much the same … nothing whatsoever … !”

“Indeed,” said his wife. “One cannot do everything. It is troublesome to know what ought to be done at all.”

“I quite agree with you—it is troublesome, at least, to know what must be done at once and what can wait until one is more settled. And yet there have been some alterations that my young cousin must feel deeply. There had been a portrait of Sir Frederick in the gallery. It had been done when he was a very young man—not much older than Freddie, I believe. To remove a portrait might not seem a great change, but it is only natural that the absence of such a comforting fixture must impress my young cousin very deeply.”

“We were compelled to … it was necessary to make a place for my wife’s grandfather,” said Vernon uneasily.

“Undoubtedly. There is nothing like family feeling! That portrait now, of my cousins, was done when Freddie was only three years old,” Sir James continued, pointing to a likeness of mother and daughter that hung upon the wall opposite Vernon. “It gave Sir Frederick a great deal of pleasure to look upon it when he sat in the chair that you now occupy, but it cannot inspire the same feeling in you. If I may be so bold as to suggest it, the portrait of Sir Frederick would go handsomely in its place. But perhaps you have already chosen another place for your brother’s likeness.”

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Vernon chimed in. “It was put away in one of the attics.”

Sir James was astonished. He had always known that Vernon’s affection for Sir Frederick went no deeper than his enjoyment of the superior society of Churchill Manor and Portland Place, and the ease with which “my elder brother, Sir Frederick Vernon” got men of fortune to open their pocketbooks. Yet to remove his portrait from its rightful place among his forebears, a place moreover where it had hung for nearly thirty years, was more than indifference—there was something cruel about it.

The subject kindled Reginald’s curiosity and he began to ask many questions about the age of the portrait and who had been the artist, and determining how far the dust and dampness of an attic might have injured the canvas. “The portrait of a former master must have its place,” he declared. “That likeness of Lady Vernon and Miss Vernon is very pleasing, but you cannot have any particular attachment to it, Charles. May I not carry it to town and leave it with Lady Vernon’s housekeeper at Portland Place, and then you may hang Sir Frederick’s portrait here in the dining room if there is no place for it in the gallery? You would not object to that, Catherine?”

Mrs. Vernon was not at all unhappy to get rid of any likeness of Lady Vernon and declared that she could make no objection, and as Vernon’s dumbfounded silence was taken for consent, the matter was considered settled.

When the ladies removed to the drawing room, the children joined them and remained until the gentlemen appeared. They insisted that they would go to the nursery with nobody but their cousin Freddie, and Miss Vernon consented to take them upstairs.

Lady Vernon took out some embroidery while Mrs. Vernon poured tea and coffee and then sat down to look at the pages of a book. Sir James took a chair beside his cousin, and under the pretext of examining her handiwork, he said in a low voice, “Vernon does not appear to be very comfortable in his new situation.”

“He does not want you here.”

“Oh, nobody wants me here,” Sir James persisted. “Except Mother, who is always glad to have me anywhere but where she is. But you are his brother’s widow and entitled to a greater respect. To banish Frederick’s portrait shows a wanton indifference to his brother’s memory and to what is due to you and to Churchill.”

Lady Vernon kept her eyes on her work. “James, I beg you to remember that we are both guests in my brother’s house, and that Frederica and I are dependent upon his goodwill. We were not left so rich that we can take offense from those who take us in.”

“If he does not wish you to take offense, he should not give it.”

“Hush, James, they will hear you.”

Sir James moderated his tone. “They would not be so likely to hear our conversation if they had any of their own. See how young deCourcy looks in our direction. He believes that I plead with you for Freddie’s hand. Let us have some fun with him, shall we?” he asked, and began to entertain his cousin with the latest London gossip in which “settlement” and “engagement” and “nuptials” were audible above their murmurs. 

Sir James Martin’s nature, which he had taken some pains to conceal beneath a guise of frivolity, was one of keen perception and kindness of heart. When he was provoked, however, a propensity for mischief asserted itself. Though there was not a hint of malice in his nature, he was often as likely to do more damage from an act of caprice than another might do from outright cruelty, and this was never more evident than in the havoc wrought from his conduct on the following morning.

 He rose with the memory of his cousins’ reserve, Vernon’s agitation, and Reginald’s resentment fresh in his mind, and he had an overwhelming desire to tease them all. Taking a sheet of paper, he began to write a brief note, his penmanship a creditable imitation of Frederica’s straightforward and elegant hand.

             Dear Sir,

             I hope you will excuse this liberty, but I am forced upon it by great distress, or I should be ashamed to trouble you. I am forbidden from ever speaking to my uncle or aunt on the subject. In applying to you, I do perhaps attend only to the letter and not the spirit of Mama’s commands, but if you do not take my part, I know of no other way in the world of helping myself.

             I am very miserable about Sir James Martin. I have always disliked him and thought him to be silly, impertinent, and disagreeable, and now that I know how earnestly our marriage is contemplated, I cannot bear him. I would rather work for my bread than marry him. If you will have the unspeakable great kindness of taking my part with Mama, and prevailing upon her to give Sir James an absolute refusal, I shall be more than obliged to you.

             I do not know how to apologize enough for this letter, and I am aware how dreadfully angry it will make everybody at Churchill, but I must run the risk.