It was the story about a woman who meets a positively wretched and awful man, who insults her, and then somehowends up falling in love with him anyway. Jane thought that was delightful.
Also, she liked the commentary on how things might seem fair but be foul deep down. She had another character in the book, Mr. Wickham, who seemed quite amiable, but was truly a scoundrel.
She found herself contemplating Lord Byron himself, who seemed like a positively wretched and awful man.
Yes,she thought,but this is nothing the same. Mr. Darcy is a completely different sort of man. He is too proper and too exacting and Lord Byron is none of these things. Lord Byron is the exact sort of man I dislike. He’s a womanizing blackguard.
She could not write, that was the way of it, however.
She decided she must go on a walk.
At the door, Cassandra called to ask after her, and Jane said she was going to take a turn about the grounds, not going far, and that she should be back in but twenty minutes, and Cassandra waved her off.
But once Jane was free of the house, she found herself walking on the path to town, all two miles of it.
She went into the tavern that Miss Seward owned. Jane had never been in there. It wasn’t the sort of place a woman like her tended to venture. She was surprised that it was open, and she was even more surprised that it wasn’t empty.
Lord Byron was inside, looking up at the ceiling, an expression of consternation on his face.
“You,” she said.
He lowered his gaze, saw her, and his features broke into a smile. “Miss Jane!”
“Miss Austen will do. My sister is not here,” said Jane, moving closer to him. “You are meant to have gone back to London.”
“Yes, by and by, I shall make it there, I am certain,” said Byron. “It’s only that what you said today at luncheon, about going to ask others what they saw, it struck me. I thought I might try it.”
“Truly? I didn’t think you would care one way or the other,” she said.
“Well, as I said, once everyone thinks I have been out in the country, strangling strumpets—”
“She wasn’t a strumpet,” said Jane.
“Strangling tavern owners,” he said, “it will be a stain on my good name and it will create all sorts of problems for me. I doubt I shall be strung up, but I suppose it’s possible. They could go through the local magistrate, who might make some kind of fuss, and I suppose I could face legal troubles.”
“You aren’t going to hang through the proper channels,” said Jane. “That would never happen to a man like you.”
“Likely not,” agreed Byron.
“You really could go and walk away from it and it would be as if it never happened.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I didn’t do it, you know. I don’t know if you’ve ever been accused of doing something you didn’t do. It’s a very singularly bad feeling.”
Jane had, of course. Not of murder, but she’d had her fair share of childhood blames that were not hers to take, in school especially. She knew what he meant. “And you are the sort who simply can’t abide the singular bad feeling, is that it?”
“I don’t know if you’ve realized this about me, but I feel bad feelings rather strongly,” he said. “I feel good feelings strongly too, of course, but that is balanced by my experience of sheer misery.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I know, you are mocking me.” He shrugged. “I’m used to that.”
“I’m not mocking you, my lord, I swear it to you. I simply cannot see why—” But then Jane broke off, because a figure appeared in the doorway of the tavern.
She and Byron were in the main area, where there were a number of round wooden tables, each with chairs gathered about them, dotting the floor here and there. Light filtered in through the windows, but at night, the place would be lit by numerous sconces on the walls and several hanging lamps.
The figure was Mr. Hardy. He looked them over. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Mr. Hardy!” said Jane, going over to him. “Terribly sorry to just barge here like this. I suppose you must be quite out of sorts over what’s happened to poor Anne. I knew you two were very close.”
