Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

by Stephanie Barron

  You are most unlike yourself, Jane, when that man is near, she had chided me once in Derbyshire. When admitted to his sphere, you grow discontented with your lot—and he is the very last gentleman on earth to improve it. By such attentions, he exposes you to the ridicule of the world for disappointed hopes, and himself to charges of caprice and instability.

  Cassandra is so thoroughly good—so determined to greet each day with an equal propriety of demeanour and ambition—that she invariably puts me to shame.

  And yet, I cannot see Lord Harold again without my whole heart opening—to him, and to the prospect of a far wider life than I have ever dreamt of enjoying.

  I drew forth a second sheet of foolscap and scrawled, for my own eyes alone:

  —If I am a wild beast I cannot help it—

  Then I threw both sheets of paper into the fire, and hurried downstairs to breakfast.

  “FOUR HOURS IN A CLOSED CARRIAGE WITH A GENTLEMAN of Lord Harold’s reputation—and you still have not received an offer of marriage?” my mother demanded as she sipped her tea from a saucer. “He should never have served you so ill, Jane, had your father been alive! Mr. George Austen, Fellow of St. John’s College and Rector of Steventon, should have made his lordship understand his duty quick enough! I ought to forbid Lord High-and-Mighty the house.”

  “Recollect, Mamma, that Lord Harold cannot be thinking of marriage at present. He is in mourning.”

  “As are you, my dear—as are we all! But one cannot bury oneself in the grave with the deceased! One must, after all, cling to life!”

  “More toast, ma’am?” Martha suggested.

  My mother selected a slice of beautifully browned bread from the plate that was offered. “I cannot think what the two of you find to talk about. Men are never much interested in the opinion of ladies—and his lordship, in the opinion of anyone but himself. It is not as though he calls for the sheer pleasure of gazing at your countenance—which you will admit, my dear, has grown rather coarse of late. You will not take my advice, and make use of Gowland’s Lotion, though Martha has found it infinitely beneficial. Do you not, Martha?”

  “Oh—certainly, ma’am. There is nothing to equal Gowland’s.”

  “Even our Mrs. Frank said, before she went off, ‘Only think, Mother Austen, how thankful I am for your recommendation of Gowland’s Lotion! See how it has entirely carried away my freckles!’”

  “Rubbish,” said a brusque voice from the breakfast room doorway, “Mary has never sported a freckle in her life—so do not be telling such shocking great fibs, Mamma, purely for the sake of bubble reputation.”

  My brother Frank strode cheerfully into the breakfast parlour amid exclamations of surprise.

  “Fly!” I cried, “my intelligence was correct! I was informed on Tuesday that you were not three days out of Portsmouth—and here you are in Southampton, the very day after!”

  “Who could possibly know so much of my business?”

  “Captain Strong, of the Windlass,” I replied.

  “Excellent fellow, Strong! But I made better time than he guessed, and put in at the Island yesterday morning. It was then I heard the sad news from Godmersham. I could not be passing so near your door, Mamma, without stopping to condole.”

  He looked very grave as he said this. Frank had spent a good deal of time in Edward’s company in recent years—indeed, he had passed the whole of his honeymoon at Godmersham—and must feel for his brother, and mourn the passing of Elizabeth, who was always so generous. But I knew that some part of his gravity was reserved wholly for his wife, and the trials of childbirth she must inevitably undergo. Little Mary, so fresh and pink and fair-haired in the first flush of marriage, had very nearly been carried off by the birth of her first child last April; and Frank was in no haste to repeat the experience.

  “You are wearing black gloves,” I observed. They looked oddly with his white pantaloons and second-best naval coat.

  “It was partly to obtain them that I journeyed up the Solent. Nothing so well-made is to be had in Portsmouth; they are all for economy there. Indeed, I carry a commission for Mary’s dressmaker at present—a woman lodged below in Bugle Street.”

  “Madame Clarisse?” Martha suggested.

  “Just so!”

  “It is a great comfort to see you once more at home, Frank,” my mother said plaintively, “for I do not count those dreadful lodgings you would take, as being a home. It seems a very great while since you went away.”

  As my brother had quitted Castle Square but a few weeks before, it was to be expected that Mrs. Austen should be made unhappy.

  “Mary is well, I suppose?” she added. “For my part, I should be very low, indeed, if left entirely without friends in the midst of an island, my husband at sea. But not all of us are possessed of congenial spirits—or a taste for society.”

  Frank’s brow darkened. Before he could hurl a biting retort, I said quickly, “What foresight you have shown, dear Fly, in making your removal—for you should have been forced to it in any case, by the flight of your mother and sisters! We have had a deal of news from Godmersham! In the midst of all his trouble—in the very depths of despair—our excellent brother has thought only of his family. Edward offers us a freehold, Frank, to be taken up this summer! He offers us two situations, in fact—and my mother has only to choose that which suits her.”

  “It is such a comfort to possess one child who understands his duty,” the lady murmured.

  “We were just canvassing the merits and weaknesses of our choice,” Martha threw in. “Perhaps you could offer an opinion, Captain? One cottage is in Kent, at a place called Wye; the other, in the village of Chawton.”

  “Go anyplace you like—provided you remain in Hampshire,” he declared warmly. “Chawton must be the preferred situation.”

  Martha blushed pink.

  “A complete removal of the household, at my advanced age, is painful to contemplate,” my mother mourned. “But beggars cannot be choosers. When I consider how happy we all were, only a month since! And now, so much has changed—”

  She rose with an air of oppression at this final remark, and swept towards the door.

  “I suppose you will wish your best love conveyed to Mary?” Frank called after her.

  “Whatever you think best, dear boy,” she returned in a failing accent, “—for you shall do as you please.”

  IT WAS AGREED THAT MARTHA AND I SHOULD WALK out with Frank into Bugle Street, she to complete some shopping, and I to consult with Madame Clarisse. We have all of us been forced to take some pains with our mourning—for though we intend to honour Lizzy’s loss, we are likely to be out of black clothes by the turn of the year.1 I have two gowns of bombazine and crepe, according to the fashion, but my clothes shall not impoverish me—for by having my black velvet pelisse fresh-lined with the turnings of my cloak, I shall avoid the expence of bespeaking a new one. I shall require nothing further than a pair of black gloves and some hair ribbons. It is pitiful to economise in the matter of Elizabeth’s observance—she who was always exquisitely dressed—but I so abhor the necessity of mourning, and the somber reflections to which black clothes invariably lead with each morning’s toilette, that I cannot bear to throw my money after the privilege of obtaining them. I feel certain that Elizabeth would not only understand, but applaud, my sentiments.

  “You know of the firing of Itchen Dockyard, and the destruction of the seventy-four?” I enquired of my brother as we quitted the house.

  “Naturally. I had the news as soon as I touched at the Island—your naval set can talk of nothing else.”

  “And do you credit the idea,” Martha asked, “that the act was deliberate? For my part, I cannot conceive of such wickedness! I am sure that we shall discover it was all an accident, in a very little while.”

  “The shipwright—old Dixon—did not cut his throat by accident.” Frank’s tone was caustic. “A finer fellow never lived—he would do anything to aid a fighting captain! And his swee
t ship, too—as neat a third-rate as one could wish. Dixon took me through her in July, before I set out for the Peninsula. Pressed his carronades on me, too, having learned that I could not beg or steal the same from Portsmouth yard.”

  “I met Mr. Dixon so recently as Monday,” I said. “He was all that was amiable, and asked to be remembered to yourself before he sent young Edward and George to look into the ship. They were quite taken with the naval life.”

  “Pshaw, Jane—those boys are cut to a gentleman’s jib. Too old to put to sea, besides; our brother ought to have tossed one of ‘em into my hold long since. Henry or William, now, might serve,” he added thoughtfully, with respect to my younger nephews. “I could take both of ‘em on the St. Alban’s without the slightest trouble. I shall endeavour to write to Godmersham with the offer.”

  “You are very good,” Martha told him. “It may serve as some recompense for all we owe your brother.”

  “But tell me, Frank,” I interrupted, “does the Navy have no idea who might wish to destroy the shipwright and his seventy-four?”

  My brother eyed me dubiously. “You take a rare interest, Jane. Is it because of having met old Dixon? Or is Mamma cutting up nasty—talking of the streets being unsafe, and no self-respecting woman likely to walk alone about town? How glad Mary shall be to have escaped such a coil!”

  “Is she not frightened at being alone?” Martha queried faintly.

  “There is nowhere safer for a lady than the Island! After Wednesday’s fires, all of Portsmouth is on the watch for mischief.”

  “And thus the blow shall probably come elsewhere,” I murmured.

  “I may say that the Admiralty has long feared such a cowardly turn,” Frank asserted. “It is said that the Emperor’s agents have gone to ground in the Channel ports, and await the proper moment to destroy our peace. When I landed my French prisoners at Spithead last month, and saw them conveyed into the hulks at anchor there—I heard talk of others, who formed no part of the surrendered troops, put ashore by night and intent upon all kinds of devilry.”

  Martha gave an involuntary squeak, and came to an abrupt halt on the paving. “I believe I shall just look into the poulterer’s, Jane. Captain Austen—I shall pray for your continued safety. Be so good as to send my compliments to your dear wife and child—”

  And without a backward glance, she made for the comparative safety of the shop’s interior.

  “If you are not careful,” I told my brother, “you will be inspiring nightmare in that dear creature’s mind! Is it possible that you carried off one of these foreign agents in the St. Alban’s?”

  “Not a stowaway,” he replied doubtfully, “but a rum cove enough. He came aboard at the request of General Dalrymple, and was ensured free passage on my ship—a great, tall fellow in a black cloak and cowl.”

  “How sinister you make him sound! Was he an Englishman, bound for home from Oporto?”

  Frank shook his head. “That was the very devil of it, Jane. I was assured the man was a Portugee—a friend and ally of our forces, who thought it best to put the Peninsula at his back. He may have spoke the tongue right enough, but I’ll swear the fellow was no Iberian.”

  “Did you learn his name?”

  “It was Silva, or some such—I cannot entirely recollect. A common enough handle, by all accounts, in that part of the world. I asked him to dine in my cabin one night, as should be only proper—and believe me when I tell you, Jane: the man spoke nothing but French!”

  Was it possible that the man Frank described was the very one I had observed Mrs. Challoner to meet in the Abbey ruins? To think that my own brother had given the Frenchman passage—an agent of the Monster’s, perhaps, who intended our ruin! But a black cloak was decidedly common. Perhaps I made a significance out of nothing—

  I glanced at Fly distractedly. “Where did this curious stranger of yours, the dubious Portugee, disembark from the St. Alban’s?”

  “Portsmouth—but I have an idea that he was bound for Brighton.”

  “Indeed? A curious destination. What attraction may a watering place hold, on the threshold of November?”

  “Only one.” Frank paused before Madame Clarisse’s door. “Our Senhor Silva bore a letter of introduction to no less a personage than Mrs. Fitzherbert.”

  “Mrs. Fitzherbert?”

  There could not be two ladies who bore that name. My brother’s mysterious passenger had intended to visit one of the most powerful women in the Kingdom: the beautiful and notorious Maria Fitzherbert, scion of a great and influential Catholic family, twice-widowed before she was thirty, stalwart of the Recusant Ascendancy—and mistress to the Prince of Wales.2 Some claimed that the Prince had actually married her in 1786, one of the many heedless acts of his youth—though such a union must be illegal. The heir to the throne of England should be barred from holding the crown, did he ally himself to a Catholic. In view of the animosity the rebellious Prince bore his father, King George III, this might be regarded as one of the union’s chief attractions.

  Mrs. Fitzherbert had spent the better part of her thirties as unofficial consort—but the Prince was notoriously free with both his affections and his purse, and want of funds drove him to seek an official union that might meet with public approval, and encourage Parliament to put paid to his enormous debts. He broke off his relations with his Catholic wife, and hurriedly wed his cousin, Caroline of Brunswick, in 1796—though some called it bigamy. This sanctioned union never thrived, and the royal spouses separated for good a mere three weeks after their wedding night. Mrs. Fitzherbert, meanwhile, retired to her establishment in Brighton—purchased by the Prince at public expence—and saw no more of the man she persisted in regarding as her lawful husband.

  Barely three years after his public union with Caroline of Brunswick, the Prince was once more hot in pursuit of the Catholic beauty, threatening that he should commit suicide, or waste into a decline, if she did not consent to a reunion. Entreated to return by no less a personage than the Queen herself, who hated the Princess of Wales and was consumed with anxiety for her son’s health, Mrs. Fitzherbert at last relented. The Times announced the reconciliation in July 1799, and though the lady continued to maintain a separate establishment, she has been generally inseparable from the Prince for the past nine years. The two spend the majority of their time in Brighton—which has become a centre of Fashion: the Prince at his Pavilion, and Mrs. Fitzherbert in her Egyptian-style house on the Steine.

  “Mrs. Fitzherbert, indeed,” I murmured. “I wonder—did she receive your Senhor Silva? And what could they find to talk about?”

  “What do you care?” Fly demanded impatiently. “The wind is deuced chill, Jane, and we are standing about on the pavement, when we might be comfortable with the modiste!”

  “I am merely surprised at the turn your story took. From your description of the cloaked devil, I expected to learn that he made straight for Southampton, in order to fire Mr. Dixon’s yard.”

  Frank threw back his head and laughed. “Your flights of fancy are beyond everything, Jane! Trust a woman to make a horrid novel of the slightest commonplace!”

  Chapter 12

  Pin Money

  29 October 1808, cont.

  MY BROTHER DID NOT STAY ABOVE TEN MINUTES with Madame Clarisse, for his wife’s commissions were of a trifling nature. I required a fitting of the second black gown I had bespoken, and the seamstress being occupied in the accommodation of another lady, who appeared so heavily with child that she might be confined at any moment, I was forced to bide my time. When Frank had concluded his business, and held me unaffectedly to his bosom, I charged him with carrying my best love to his hopeful family.

  “Shall we see you again in Castle Square before the St. Alban’s puts to sea?”

  “I cannot tell, Jane—I am at the disposal of the Admiralty, and must go where they will. But I shall make a push to bring Mary to you, if the trip can be managed.”

  He was about to open the modiste’s door when t
he office was performed by an elegantly-attired woman standing on the pavement outside the shop.

  Her gaze swept my brother’s figure from head to toe, and with an expression half of amusement, half of contempt, she stepped back to permit her mistress’s entrance.

  The creature sailed into the room without so much as a glance at my poor brother, who hastened to doff his tricornered hat. She wore a manteline à la Castilliane—a short cape of orange and purple velvet trimmed in spotted leopard, and fastened with a jeweled brooch at the right shoulder; her matching velvet hat was à la Diane. The broad brim of the latter swooped low over her eyes, and her dark auburn hair was knotted tightly at the nape of her neck—but I should never mistake the vision for anyone but Sophia Challoner.

  “Ah, ma’am—always a pleasure to see you!” cried Madame Clarisse, abandoning her burdened client and dropping fervently into a low curtsey. “What a picture you do make, to be sure! Silk velvet, I’ll be bound, and the plain white muslin train, as must be proper. Straight from La Belle Assemblée, or I miss my mark!”1

  “But, unfortunately, from last April’s number,” Mrs. Challoner replied tranquilly. “I am sadly behind the fashions in England, as you see—and must endeavour to make amends. I expect a party of guests at the Lodge in a few days, and should blush to appear in such disarray. I wonder, Madame Clarisse, if you might spare me an hour this morning?”

  “Oh—but of course—indeed, I can spare you any amount of time, Mrs. Challoner, for I am sure Mrs. Phillips”—with a careless wave at the expectant mother—“and Miss Austen will prove no very great charge upon my labours.”