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Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron: Being A Jane Austen Mystery, by Stephanie Barron
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The restorative power of the ocean brings Jane Austen and her beloved brother Henry, to Brighton after Henry’s wife is lost to a long illness. But the crowded, glittering resort is far from peaceful, especially when the lifeless body of a beautiful young society miss is discovered in the bedchamber of none other than George Gordon—otherwise known as Lord Byron. As a poet and a seducer of women, Byron has carved out a shocking reputation for himself—but no one would ever accuse him of being capable of murder. Now it falls to Jane to pursue this puzzling investigation and discover just how “mad, bad, and dangerous to know” Byron truly is. And she must do so without falling victim to the charming versifier’s legendary charisma, lest she, too, become a cautionary example for the ages.
- Sales Rank: #707604 in Books
- Brand: Brand: Bantam
- Published on: 2010-09-28
- Released on: 2010-09-28
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.00" h x .70" w x 5.60" l, .58 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 339 pages
- Used Book in Good Condition
From Booklist
In her tenth Jane Austen Mystery, Barron introduces her novelist heroine to the poet Lord Byron, who is famously regarded as being “mad, bad, and dangerous to know.” Not surprisingly, then, when a beautiful young woman, who has rejected the poet’s unwanted advances, is murdered, the Romantic rakehell is the chief suspect. Ah, but could he have, in truth, perpetrated the foul deed? Fans of the series will not be a bit surprised to learn that Jane is determined to find out. As always, Barron does an excellent job of capturing Austen’s first-person voice, and she gives lavish attention, as well, to period detail. Perhaps too lavish in this case, since the book is slow paced, and there is often more attention to atmosphere than to mystery. Barron’s many fans will not be particularly bothered by this fact, however, and will be delighted to learn—in an appended Q & A with the author—that an eleventh installment in the series is already underway. --Michael Cart
About the Author
Stephanie Barron is the author of nine bestselling Jane Austen mysteries. She lives near Denver, Colorado.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Summons from London 25 April 1813 Sloane Street, London
Mr. Wordsworth or Sir Walter Scott should never struggle, as I do, to describe Spring in Chawton: the delight of slipping on one's bonnet, in the fresh, new hour before breakfast, and securing about one's shoulders the faded pelisse of jaconet that has served one so nobly for countless Aprils past; of walking alone into the morning, as birdsong and tugging breezes swell about one's head; of the catch in one's throat at the glimpse of a fox, hurrying home to her kits waiting curled and warm in the den beneath the Park's great oaks. Spring--in all its rains and clinging mud, its sharp green scents full-blown on the nose, and a newborn foal in the pasture below the Great House!
And in this glorious season, too, a splendid change has come upon the little Hampshire village I call my own--for my elder brother, the rich and distinguished Mr. Edward Austen Knight, as he and all his numerous progeny must now stile themselves, having acceded to his benefactor's surname as well as his estates in Kent and Hampshire--has descended in state upon Chawton Great House, with his full retinue of trusted servants, under-gardeners, grooms, coachmen, and what I am pleased to call Edward's Harem: a hopeful clutch of motherless daughters, most too young to marry and still at home.
Edward intends to spend the better part of the summer in the antiquated pile that once was let to our dear neighbours, the Middletons, Mr. John Middleton having determined to give up the place when his treaty was run. While the Austen Knights idle away June and July in Hampshire, their principal seat--Godmersham Park, in Kent--will submit to refurbishment, the interiors having grown sadly shabby without Edward's late wife's care. It is quite a treat to have one's relations--and all the elegancies of table, coach, and society--but a stone's throw from one's door; and I spun many happy webs for myself that bright April morning, as I walked through the meadows, and listened to the song of a blackbird hidden somewhere in the hedgerow. Edward's eldest daughter, Fanny, is full twenty years old--and although a trifle subdued for my taste, and possessed of starched notions quite appalling in one so young, she must be adjudged a welcome addition to the Cottage circle, whenever she may venture through the village in search of trifles and laughter. It was possible, I thought, that Martha Lloyd and I between us might be of use to poor dear Fanny, in enlarging her spirit and mind--or at the very least, her capacity for wit. There is nothing so quelling in a young woman, I find, as a want of humour; but much must be forgiven the girl--she was thrust too young into the rôle of Mother, when Elizabeth died. Fanny cannot have been more than fifteen, then; and at twenty, must feel already as though she has lived two lifetimes, in managing her father's household. She is certain to find Chawton unutterably dull, however; the Assemblies in Alton are not such as she has been used to, in the elegant Kentish circle she frequents. Was there, I wondered, any young man in the neighbourhood capable of engaging her interest?
Considering and discarding the various scions of local families as I walked amidst the dew-laden grass, I was full of pleasurable schemes that dreadful morning. Once Fanny was dismissed as too dear a prize for Alton's youth, my mind revolved the various attractions of an altogether different cut of gentleman--one Henry Crawford: for I have reached a most delicious point in the writing of my third novel, which is to be called Mansfield Park, when I must decide whether another Fanny (a sober and rather humourless young woman entirely of my own invention, though not quite my niece) is to make the roguish creature the Happiest of Men, or cast him into the Depths of Misery at a single word.
I had turned towards home after a brisk half-hour of exercise and rambling thought; when all at once it was as though a cloud moved swiftly across the sun, and my pleasure in the day was blotted out. The very air felt chill. I stopped short a good thirty paces from the Cottage door, a feeling of deepest dread in my heart--and for why? Only that a handsome chestnut hack was tethered to the post in the lane, one I recognised as my nephew Edward's mount. Why should a morning call, even one paid so unfashionably before breakfast, have the power to stop my heart?
I ran the final distance to the door.
My brother's eldest son and heir was standing before the fire, dressed not for hacking about the countryside in buckskins and boots, but for Town; his cravat meticulously tied, shirt points terrifyingly starched; a striped waistcoat trimly buttoned over primrose-coloured pantaloons. An Oxford lad of nearly nineteen, he had stiled himself a Corinthian of the First Stare; and it was this unwonted grandeur, as well as the expression of scared dignity on his young countenance, that informed me my heart had not erred. Disaster was in the air.
"What is it?" I whispered.
Cassandra came to me then, and enfolded me in her arms.
"An Express from Henry, to the Great House," she said.
"Has she gone?" I faltered. "And none of us aware?"
Edward cleared his throat. "Not quite gone, Aunt. But failing, Uncle Henry says. She is asking for you, I believe. Father says you are to travel up to London as soon as may be--in his chaise--and I am to bear you company."
"Edward!" I stared at him. "I am sure you should much rather be hunting rabbits on such a fine morning."
"So I should, ma'am," he stammered, "but under the circumstances--no exertion too great--should consider it an honour--wish most earnestly that you will accept my escort." He bowed stiffly, his face flushing with embarrassment. "Not the thing, you know--lady travelling entirely alone. Might very well be offered an intolerable insult. Besides, m'father commands it."
Edward, whom I cared for and cajoled so many years since, when his own mother died--to be offering me escort! I understood, then, the punctiliousness of his manner and dress. My nephew was representing his House--and paying off a debt of gratitude. I should be churlish to protest further; and besides, the hour was already advancing.
I uttered not another word, but dashed upstairs to throw what swift provision I could into a carpet bag. My beloved Eliza, Comtesse de Feuillide, wife of Mr. Henry Austen of Sloane Street--was dying. It seemed far too bitter a truth for Spring.
When did she first apprehend her mortal sickness, I wondered for the thousandth time as the chaise jolted and swayed over the Hog's-back an hour later?* Was it so early as my descent on London some two years since, for the proofing of the typeset pages of Sense and Sensibility? She suffered then, as I recall, from a trifling cold, and took to her bed on the strength of it; but surely that was a deliberate indulgence, to avoid the necessity of attending Divine Service of a particular Sunday?
Eliza was never very fond of Divine Service; she had seen too much of Sin, to place her faith in either repentance or redemption; and she felt certain that the clergy were the very last sort of men to lecture their brethren--indeed, she declared the whole pious enterprise an essay in hypocrisy. Eliza preferred to live her life and leave her neighbours to live theirs, without the benefit of unwanted advice or inspection; and on the whole, I confess I admire her philosophy. There is a great deal of disinterested benevolence in it.
If not April of 1811, then, the illness came upon Eliza soon after: a mass in the breast, that grew until it might almost have formed another--with tenderness, increasing pain, and suppuration. She had watched over her mother's dying of the selfsame malady, years since. She recognised the Enemy.
My incorrigible Eliza. My gallant friend. A word for gentlemen of high courage--but courage she brought to this final battle, knowing full well she would never triumph. The summer months of 1812 she spent in travel--relished two weeks in the sea air of Ramsgate in October--wished me joy of Pride and Prejudice's sale to Mr. Egerton in November (which met with decided success at its publication this winter among the Fashionables of the ton!)--and by Christmas was rapidly declining.
And Henry?
I might have said that he has not the mind for Affliction; he is too busy; too active; too sanguine. All the increasing cares of banking--my Naval brother Frank being now a partner in Henry's concern--and the activity necessary to a gentleman in the prime of his life, must inevitably attach Henry to the world. Add to this, that Eliza is fully ten years my brother's senior, and that the gradual progression of the disease has offered an interval for resignation and acceptance--and we may apprehend the steadiness with which Henry meets his impending loss. And yet--his summons to me surely augurs an unquiet mind, a soul in need of comfort. To part with such a companion as Eliza! --Who, though she gave him no child, brought him endless cheer and laughter from the first day he met her, as a boy of fifteen, when she descended à la comtesse on the Steventon parsonage, and dazzled us all within an inch of our lives.
"I believe Uncle Henry intends to give up Sloane Street," Edward observed as we rolled into Bagshot. "He claims he cannot bear to meet with my aunt's memory at every stair and corner."
"Better to remove from London, then," I managed, my throat constricted, "for Eliza shall haunt every bit of it."
I have known the journey from Chawton to run full twelve hours, when leisure permitted; but we were to have no dawdling nuncheon, no walking before the coachman in admiration of April flowers, no pause for fine views as we descended the final stage into the Metropolis. Barely eight hours elapsed from the moment I bade farewell to Cassandra at the Cottage door, until I found myself alighting in Sloane Street.
We met the surgeon, Mr. Haden, on the threshold--Madame Bigeon being on the point of ushering the good man out, as we ushered ourselves within--and paused, despite a scattering of rain, to learn his opinion.
"I fear she is sinking, Miss Austen," he informed me sombrely. "A matter of hours must decide it. I have left a quantity of laudanum--you are to give her twenty drops, in a glass of warm water, as she requires it."
"But Eliza detests laudanum!" I cried. "I have known her dreams to be frightful under its influence."
"Her agony will be the more extreme without it." The surgeon doffed his hat to Edward and me, and stepped past us to the street.
"Mademoiselle Jane!" Mme. Bigeon's elderly voice quavered on the greeting; she gave way that we might enter the hall, her black eyes filled with tears. "At last you are come! I feared--but it is not too late. She sleeps much, yes, but she will wake for you, mon Dieu! Come to her at once!"
With unaccustomed familiarity--such is the strength of feeling in the face of Eternity--the old Frenchwoman grasped my hand and drew me swiftly up the stairs. I could not stay even to loose my bonnet strings; and that I should be aware of such a nothing on the point of seeing Eliza, must be an enduring reproach. I am ashamed to own it.
Mme. Bigeon hesitated before the bedchamber door; it was ajar, so that I could just glimpse the outline of the bedstead, my brother Henry dozing in a straight-backed chair set up against the wall; and the silhouette of Mme. Marie Perigord--the old woman's daughter and Eliza's dresser, her constant reminder of all the glories of France that are gone beyond recall. Manon, as she is called, was seated near the bed, her sharp-featured face thrown into relief by the flame of a single candle; in her hand was a small bowl.
And beyond--
Eliza.
Her eyes were closed, her breathing heavy; a few damp locks of hair escaped from her white cap. There was a peculiar odour on the air--a sweet, sickly smell that emanated from the open wound in her breast, and the great tumor lying malevolently there; no amount of warm compresses or fresh linen could blot out the taint.
I crept softly to the bedside, young Edward hesitating behind me.
Manon rose and drew back her chair. "Monsieur--mademoiselle . . . I cannot persuade her to take any of the broth. And it is Maman's best broth, made from a pullet. Five hours it has been simmering on the stove--"
"Hush," Henry muttered, as he jerked awake. My brother's dazed eyes met mine through the shuttered gloom. "Ah--Jane! You are come at last!"
He rose, and pulled me close; the stale odour of a closed room, and clothes too infrequently exchanged, clung about his person. Henry--who is the nearest example of a Dandy the Austens may claim--had been neglecting himself.
"Praise God you came in time," he whispered.
"Mademoiselle!" Manon tugged impatiently at my sleeve. "Perhaps you will try? Perhaps she will take some broth from you, hein?"
"What does it matter?" Henry burst out, worn beyond bearing.
"But she must keep up her strength!" the maid protested.
Pointless to observe that strength would avail her mistress nothing, now.
Manon's face crumpled into a terrible grimace and she began, painfully, to weep, turning away from the awkward crowd of Austens as though we had caught her at something shameful. Mme. Bigeon swept her daughter out of the room, murmuring softly in her native tongue, half-scolding. I had an idea of the maid's high pitch of nerves, waiting in that darkened chamber through all the hours of a night and day as her mistress's life slowly ebbed, ears pricked for the sound of a particular set of horses halting in the street below. How like Eliza to hold on to the last, as though she knew I was hastening towards her!
But was she even aware of my presence?
"Dearest," Henry whispered, bending over Eliza. "Here is Jane arrived from Chawton."
Her eyelids flickered; the clouded gaze fixed for an instant on my brother's face, unseeing. How great a change was come upon that sprite, that eager, winning countenance! And how helpless I felt, unable to save her, to forestall the dreaded end!
I took up the bowl of broth and the silver spoon still warm from Manon's hand, leaned close to my dying cousin, and whispered, "Come, my darling, and try a little--to please your Jane."
* The Hog's-back is a narrow ridge that runs between Farnham and Guildford; the road traveled by the Austens on their journey to London ran along the summit and offered excellent views of some six counties. --Editor's note.
Most helpful customer reviews
19 of 19 people found the following review helpful.
Jane Austen, Detective is back on the case and in peak form
By Laurel Ann
One thinks of Jane Austen as a retiring spinster who writes secretly, prefers her privacy and enjoys quiet walks in the Hampshire countryside. Instead, she has applied her intuitive skills of astute observation and deductive reasoning to solve crime in Stephanie Barron's Austen inspired mystery series. It is an ingenious paradox that would make even Gilbert and Sullivan green with envy. The perfect pairing of the unlikely with the obvious that happens occasionally in great fiction by authors clever enough to pick up on the connection and run with it.
JANE AUSTEN AND THE MADNESS OF LORD BYRON marks Stephanie Barron's tenth novel in the best-selling JANE AUSTEN MYSTERY series. For fourteen years, and to much acclaim, she has channeled our Jane beyond her quiet family circle into sleuthing adventures with lords, ladies and murderers. Cleverly crafted, this historical detective series incorporates actual events from Jane Austen's life with historical facts from her time all woven together into mysteries that of course, only our brilliant Jane can solve.
It is the spring of 1813. Jane is home at Chawton Cottage "pondering the thorny question of Henry Crawford" in her new novel MANSFIELD PARK and glowing in the recent favorable reception of PRIDE AND PREJUDICE. Bad news calls her to London where her brother Henry's wife Eliza, the Comtesse de Feuillde, is gravely ill. With her passing, Jane and Henry decide to seek the solace and restorative powers of the seaside selecting Brighton, "the most breathtaking and outrageous resort of the present age" for a holiday excursion.
At a coaching Inn along the way they rescue Catherine Twining, a young society Miss found bound and gagged in the coach of George Gordon, the 6th Baron of Byron, aka Lord Byron, the notorious mad, bad and dangerous to know poet. Miffed by their thwart of her abduction, Byron regretfully surrenders his prize to Jane and Henry who return her to her father General Twining in Brighton. He is furious and quick to fault his fifteen year-old daughter. Jane and Henry are appalled at his temper and concerned for her welfare.
Settled into a suite of rooms at the luxurious Castle Inn, Jane and Henry enjoy walks on the Promenade, fine dining on lobster patties and champagne at Donaldson's and a trip to the local circulating library where Jane is curious to see how often the "Fashionables of Brighton" solicit the privilege of reading PRIDE AND PREJUDICE! Even though Jane loathes the dissipated Prince Regent, she and Henry attend a party at his opulent home the Marine Pavilion. In the crush of the soirée, Jane again rescues Miss Twining from another seducer.
Later at an Assembly dance attended by much of Brighton's bon ton, Lord Byron reappears stalked by his spurned amour, "the mad as Bedlam" Lady Caroline Lamb. Even though the room is filled with beautiful ladies he only has eyes for Miss Twining and aggressively pursues her. The next morning, Jane and Henry are shocked to learn that the lifeless body of a young lady found in Byron's bed was their naïve new friend Miss Catherine Twining! The facts against Byron are very incriminating. Curiously, the intemperate poet is nowhere to be found and all of Brighton ready to condemn him.
'Henry grasped my arm and turned me firmly back along the way we had come. "Jane," he said bracingly, "we require a revival of your formidable spirit - one I have not seen in nearly two years. You must take up the role of Divine Fury. You must penetrate this killer's motives, and expose him to the world."' page 119
And so the game is afoot and the investigation begins...
It is great to have Jane Austen, Detective back on the case and in peak form. Fans of the series will be captivated by her skill at unraveling the crime, and the unindoctrinated totally charmed. The mystery was detailed and quite intriguing, swimming in red herrings and gossipy supposition. Pairing the nefarious Lord Byron with our impertinent parson's daughter was just so delightfully "sick and wicked." Their scenes together were the most memorable and I was pleased to see our outspoken Jane give as good as she got, and then some. Readers who enjoy a good parody and want to take this couple one step further should investigate their vampire version in JANE BITES BACK.
Barron continues to prove that she is an Incomparable, the most accomplished writer in the genre today rivaling Georgette Heyer in Regency history and Austen in her own backyard. Happily readers will not have to wait another four years for the next novel in the series. Bantam is publishing JANE AND THE CANTERBURY TALE next year with a firm commitment of more to follow. Huzzah!
Laurel Ann, Austenprose
8 of 8 people found the following review helpful.
Jane lives!
By Dana Stabenow
And so does Byron in this tenth novel in the Jane Austen series by Stephanie Barron. On their way to Brighton, Jane and her brother Henry rescue a fainting beauty from the fell clutches of Lord Byron, who has conceived a passion for the one woman in England able to resist his fatal allure. When the beauty is murdered, Byron falls under suspicion and Jane of course ferrets out the truth.
Barron makes England's Regency era come alive in the period detail, and the characters, especially the sullen, sexy Lord Byron and the fey, feckless Lady Caroline Lamb fairly leap off the page. For Austenites there is much to enjoy in Jane's mental segues into Mansfield Park, the current work under construction:
I cannot like my poor Fanny, tho' her scruples are such as must command respect; I believe I shall spare the darling Henry such a cross, and bestow the lady upon her cousin Edmund -- who has earned her as a penance, for her utter lack of humour.
There are echoes of many of Austen's characters in the characters inhabiting Brighton during Jane's investigation, among them Mr. Forth, the Master of Ceremonies in the Assembly Rooms at Marine Parade, who will bring the character of Anne Elliot's father irresistibly to mind. At the time this novel is set, Pride and Prejudice has been published to much acclaim, and while with one exception the author's identity is still only that of "A Lady," we enjoy her fans' praise as much as she does.
Crime fiction fans will love Jane's businesslike investigation, too. In a time where physical evidence amounted to the body, eyewitness testimony is essential, and the list of questions that must be asked Jane draws up to begin with are pithy and very much to the point, and by listing them she and the reader come to a better understanding of the murder and what kind of a murderer she is looking for. Her interview of a drunken Byron is riveting, Jane really has a tiger by the tail, and at the end of the novel you will be convinced beyond all shadow of a doubt that he was indeed "mad, bad and dangerous to know."
7 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
Poetic License
By RCM
Unlike some writers who have capitalized on Jane Austen and her plotlines, Stephanie Barron's mystery series pays homage to one of the most beloved authors of all times. Fashioning Jane as a sleuth in mysteries works quite well, for fans can easily imagine the author trying to solve these puzzles. Barron creates new stories that fall into line with events in Austen's life by using the author's letters and diaries and a wealth of historical research to make each plot seem plausible. The result is always enjoyable and such is the case with the tenth book in the series, "Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron".
After the death of Jane's beloved sister-in-law Eliza, Jane convinces her widowed brother Henry to travel to Brighton in search of rest and relaxation. Yet rest is hardly to be found, especially when while in transit to the resort town they rescue a young girl from the clutches of Lord Byron, finding her bound and gagged in his carriage with the poet intent on an elopement. From that moment on, Jane is leery of Byron and forms an attachment to the young girl, one Catherine Twining, who seems to have a knack for getting herself into dangerous situations. But when Catherine's body is found murdered in Lord Byron's chamber, Jane isn't convinced that the poet is the murderer, although she may be convinced that he is rather mad. At the behest of her friend Mona, niece to Lord Harold, Jane tries to uncover the truth behind Catherine's murder and just happens upon a slew of characters who could have killed the young innocent, for their are many people who had motives to kill - especially, perhaps, one of Byron's scorned and crazed lovers.
Barron does a commendable job of combining real historical events and personages with a fictional story. While it is not known that Austen and Byron ever met each other, or that Austen ever traveled to Brighton, there is enough circumstantial evidence to believe it is a possibility. Certainly Barron takes great license here with Byron's story (since he was never arrested for murder), but she does paint a vivid picture of the enigmatic poet, beloved and hated by many. The pace is sometimes slowed down by too much exposition and the mystery is fairly easy to solve. However, "Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron" is an enjoyable read. For anyone who wishes that there were more original works by Austen herself, these lost "journals" are wonderful wish fulfillment.
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