Jane stuffed even more meat in her mouth to keep herself from making noise. She could not believe the things the men were saying to each other.
“Right, then,” said Byron. “So, you didn’t see her last night. You would not have climbed a ladder up into her bedroom window?”
“What?” said Beaumont.
“Yes, it’s quite curious. We found a ladder there, the window open.”
“So someone climbed up there, beat her to death, and then climbed back out?” said Beaumont.
“We don’t know,” said Byron. “And she wasn’t beaten to death. There aren’t any marks on her body.”
“No marks?” said Beaumont.
Jane realized they had just up and left without getting any information from the surgeon, assuming that Mr. Hardy had even summoned him. She wasn’t pleased with herself. She would normally not have been distracted from that, but Byron was distracting, she found. She made a noise in the back of her throat, one of regret.
Beaumont turned to her in horror, as if he had just now remembered she was there. “Miss Austen, about, erm, Miss Seward and me, when I was young—”
“I shan’t repeat this, Mr. Beaumont,” said Jane. “I honestly wish I hadn’t heard any of it. It’s appalling.”
Beaumont drew himself up. “Now, see here, I was quite young, and I had made no promises to anyone at that point, and she was quite amenable, and I don’t see what’s so appalling about it.”
“Oh, don’t you.” Jane set down her knife and fork and fixed him with a glare. This was a point in time when she should probably endeavor not to be so sharp, not to point out the follies of humanity within Beaumont himself. This was definitely a time. She drew in a breath.
“I don’t!” Beaumont said, nodding for emphasis.
“Well, there you are, then.” Jane let out the breath, noisily, and picked her utensils up. She began to saw at her meat.
“I don’t suppose you’d enlighten me,” said Beaumont.
Keep your counsel, Jane,she urged herself.Keep it to yourself. Do not say anything, not a thing, be quiet.“Well, it’s the whole bit with the wild filly business, I suppose, in the end. I am often simply horrified by the way men see us.”
“I would never speak of you that way, Miss Austen, to be clear,” said Beaumont. “You are nothing like a wild filly.”
“Thank you for that,” said Jane, faintly sarcastic. “I hesitate to ask what I would be seen as. In fact, do not tell me. To be clear, it is that you see a woman like an animal.”
“Oh, I don’t mean it like that,” said Beaumont. “It’s just a turn of phrase. We compare men to animals all the time.”
“Mmm, do we? Service animals?” said Jane. “Animals that we keep domesticated on our properties, saddled, bridled, pulling carriages, doing duties, that sort of thing? Is that what we compare men to?”
Beaumont inclined his head. “I suppose I see your point. But that was precisely what was admirable about Annie, you see? That she would not be domesticated.”
“Yes, but that is not why you wanted her. You did not, in fact, want her. There’s a certain sort of woman that men want, and she is a creature who is moldable, biddable, and made entirely for service, and then there’s the rest of us.”Drat, Jane, why did you say that aloud?
Byron chuckled. “This is why I like Miss Austen. Her book, you know, the one about the four women shuffled off into nowhere because they aren’t of use to any men, the one about the women who can’t get any assistance of any kind until some men come along and wish to marry them, it’s quite cutting, in the end, I think. Most of it goes right over everyone’s head, but—”
“You have read it,” said Jane, looking at him.
“No, Caro just talked incessantly about it,” said Byron, smirking at her.
“Anyway, I certainly haven’t written a book,” said Jane. “Or at least, I haven’t published one.”
“Certainly not,” said Byron.
“This, my lord, is why I can’t see why anyone would think you were good at keeping secrets,” said Jane.
“Perhaps you are more of a wild filly than I might have thought,” said Beaumont.
Jane gave him a positively horrified look. “Do take that back.”
