By Stephanie Barron
The restorative energy of the sea brings Jane Austen and her cherished brother Henry, to Brighton after Henry’s spouse is misplaced to an extended ailment. however the crowded, glittering lodge is way from peaceable, specially while the dead physique of a pretty younger society leave out is came across within the bedchamber of none except George Gordon—otherwise referred to as Lord Byron. As a poet and a seducer of ladies, Byron has carved out a surprising attractiveness for himself—but not anyone might ever accuse him of being in a position to homicide. Now it falls to Jane to pursue this perplexing research and notice simply how “mad, undesirable, and unsafe to grasp” Byron actually is. and he or she needs to achieve this with no falling sufferer to the captivating versifier’s mythical air of secrecy, lest she, too, turn into a cautionary instance for the a while.
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Sample text
The upright and devout would urge me to believe in a deathbed conversion -- some softening of her pagan heart, as the life sped out of her -- but I am too well acquainted with the little Comtesse. I regret nothing, Jane, she would wish me to know. Regret nothing. Not the madcap days in Marie Antoinette's train, or the careless disregard for reputation and finances, the husband lost to the guillotine; not the dashing promenades in Hyde Park with a score of beaux dazzled by her wicked dark eyes. Her dead son she might yearn for -- wasted from birth by too many ills -- but even Hastings could never figure as cause for regret.
Henry burst out, worn beyond bearing. " 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.
No sooner was Manon settled in a chair, with a bit of needlework to pass the time, than she must be jumping up and shifting the pillows for my mother's back; or helping Mademoiselle Cassandra with the gathering of the new peas; or busying herself in the kitchen about the boiling of the tea. I spent our first Chawton morning following her anxiously about, and urging her to leave such cares to others, that she might take a refreshing turn in the garden, where the syringa is in bloom -- but she would have none of it.