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East. With only three years separating them, Henry was the cousin to whom Jane had been closest in the years growing up at Holkham. She was as anguished as anyone in the family when news came that the two men had perished of the plague in Syria.

      In fact Fox Strangways survived. The two young men had entered a mosque in Aleppo disguised as Muslims, but foolishly neglected to remove their shoes. They were set upon and beaten by a mob who deeply resented the intrusion by Christians into their sacred place. The two Englishmen were then flung into a prison, where they languished in appalling conditions before diplomatic persuasion was able to effect their release. Their incarceration in a cell below ground with only a pinprick of light was at least cool during the worst of the day’s heat, but the prisoners were given the barest of rations, and water whose source was dubious. Sanitary arrangements were non-existent, and many of the inmates were ill.

      Their eventual release came too late for Henry Anson, who having contracted the plague was already a dying man. Strangways assisted him from the prison and they walked as far as a field on the outskirts of Aleppo, where Anson lay down, unable to move further. Strangways did what he could for his stricken friend, but Anson died before medical aid arrived. The manner of his death was rendered more horrible to all the family by virtue of its being in such a far-off place. Syria might have been on a different planet, so far removed from their lives was that alien country. More than a quarter of a century later Jane would stand at the site of Henry’s death, recalling her childhood friend.

      The tragic news at least effected a reunion between Jane and George when she went to pay a duty call on her Aunt Anson, who was staying at Holkham. The cousins had seen little of each other during the past months, for Felix was jealous of George.⁴⁰ He had no cause for jealousy, as Jane’s final poem to George Anson shows; it was written while she and her parents stayed at Holkham over Christmas, and he at his parents’ home in the neighbouring county.

      I’ll meet thee at sunset, but not by the bower

      Where with thee I’ve gathered love’s gory, torn flower,

      Since that would be only recalling to mind

      Bright visions of pleasures now left far behind.

      What tho’ the cold stoic proclaim it as mystery

      The feelings of youth are as lasting as history

      And the rays with which love has once lit up the heart

      May fade for a while but they cannot depart.

      Then come, but come not with the accent of love,

      I would not its echo reply from the groves

      Oh! Come as if all, save old friendships, were o’er

      And, – I’ll meet thee at sunset once more.⁴¹

      They were bound to each other now more by grief for Henry than by their child. For Arthur was undoubtedly George’s son and not Edward’s. Jane openly said so, as a friend wrote to a correspondent in the country:

      The other day Belfast was riding with Lady Ellenborough and said to her ‘Do you see much of your child?’ ‘No,’ was her answer. ‘It would grieve Felix if I was to see much of George’s child …!!! ‘⁴²

      Nine-month-old Arthur had been poorly with a respiratory complaint. In November he had been sent off to Brighton with his nursemaid and nanny for three months’ convalescence. His parents visited him in January and a month later, having been advised that her son was doing well, Jane decided to drive down and spend a night there before bringing the little boy home to Roehampton.

      She reserved a suite at the Norfolk Hotel, where she and Edward always stayed when in Brighton. Felix also reserved a room there. The opportunity to spend a night together was irresistible. The date was carefully chosen; Ellenborough’s day was fully committed to a parliamentary debate, and furthermore he had a dinner engagement that evening.

      On 6 February 1829, Jane travelled down to Brighton in a closed chaise, accompanied by her maid Anna Gove; Felix was only a short distance behind. The going was heavy on the unmade-up road because of the seasonal heavy rains, so it took longer than usual. By prior arrangement, the horses were changed at the halfway point and left at a livery stable for collection on the return journey.⁴³ Every mile of that journey took Jane inexorably closer to ultimate disaster.

       5 Assignation in Brighton 1829–1830

      Jane arrived at the Norfolk Hotel just as the winter light was fading at about five o’clock. She was shown to the suite of apartments in the east wing which she and her husband often used. Entrance from the main part of the hotel was by a private staircase which led nowhere else other than to some staff quarters. Arthur was brought to her and, as babies will, having not seen his mother for some weeks threw a tantrum. A little later Jane dashed off a quick note to Ellenborough at Roehampton:

      Brighton, Friday night

      [postmarked 7 February 1829]

      To Lord Ellenborough

      Connaught Place, London

      Dearest Oussey,

      I am just arrived, and will only write you one line as I am tired to death with my journey, the roads were so very heavy. I found Arthur looking really pretty – you may believe it if I say so – and appears to me much improved in strength, but he greeted me with such a howl!! We shall improve upon acquaintance.

      If you go to Mrs Hope’s tonight, have the thought to make my ’scuses to save me the trouble of writing them.

      The post is ringing –

      Good night, dearest

      Janet¹

      Felix arrived at the hotel between six and seven o’clock in a hired yellow-bodied chariot driven by a post-boy. He alighted from the coach carrying his cloak and a carpet-bag which bore his coat of arms and initials, and was shown to a room in the west wing. This room was approached by the centre stairway from the main hall of the hotel. Having settled in and had his luggage unpacked by a member of the hotel staff, he took dinner in his private sitting-room and as the waiter was clearing away he asked casually who else was staying in the hotel at this unseasonal time of year. He was told that Lady Ellenborough was in residence. ‘Is that the dowager Lady Ellenborough?’ the prince enquired. ‘No,’ was the answer. ‘It is the young Lady Ellenborough.’² The prince asked the waiter to take his card to the lady with his compliments.

      Within a short time the waiter returned to the prince with the message that the lady would be delighted if, after the prince had dined, he would take tea with her in her room. The waiter personally served tea to Lady Ellenborough and her guest and noted that they remained together until half-past ten, when the prince left to return to his sitting-room. Requesting the waiter to fetch a bedroom candle and light it, Felix said goodnight and went up to his bedroom.

      At about midnight the hall porter, Robert Hepple, who was sitting in his pantry awaiting the late return of a family who had gone out for the evening, heard someone coming down the main stairs. He walked across the hall foyer, which was illuminated by gas lighting, and saw the prince descending the stairs. As soon as the prince saw the porter, he retreated back up the stairs.

      Hepple was ‘anxious to know what a person at that time of night was wishing to do … and kept out of sight’ for a while. To ensure that he was not seen, he put out the light in his pantry. His vigil was not long. Within ten or fifteen minutes the prince, still wearing the ‘frock coat, trowsers and boots’ in which he had dined, softly descended the stairs, crossed the hall and went along the passage leading to the east wing’s private stairway.

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