“—Tho' I shall not take a chair next to Jane,” she insisted fretfully, “on account of the French; nor yet next to Mary, on account of the baby.”
“Dear ma'am!” cried Martha with hearty good humour. “We have divided you between us! May I enquire what has laid you low, since my going into Berkshire?”
“I cannot like winter” — my mother sighed — ”and I fear this shall be my last. Such dreadful spasms, Martha, in my side! Such flutterings at my heart! It is as much as I can do, to take a little tea and bread once each day; and with dear Cassandra gone, nobody pays me very much heed — tho' I am decidedly failing.”
As my mother was, if anything, in better looks now than she had been when Martha quitted Southampton for her sister's home in Berkshire, I could not blame my friend for her aspect of astonishment. The simple truth is that my mother is dreadfully bored in her present situation. She does not like being a guest in someone else's house, particularly if she must pay for the privilege; and the raptures of Frank and Mary's young married life are proving a trial. I have hopes of her amendment, however, when once we are established in our own home. A Castle Square entirely under her command, with Frank returned to sea and Mary at an utter loss as to the rearing of her infant, might give scope to my mother's ambitions. We might live to see her abandon her bed at last.
“Where is dear Frank?” my mother enquired. “Has he deserted the family table yet again?”
“A pressing matter of business,” I supplied, “has detained him. But he begged that I should make his excuses, and urge you all to partake of dinner without regard for his absence.”
Mary lifted her fork with alacrity. We should have another swoon before the evening was out.
“I do not blame dear Mary for the neglect I have endured, my mother assured Martha; “for she has her own indisposition to attend to — tho' for my part, I did not lie upon the sopha half so much for any child, and I bore no less than nine! But I could wish that Jane were more attentive. There is nothing very much to occupy her, now that Trowbridge fellow Is gone off again. A most unsteady, disagreeable man, Martha! Always flying about the Continent in carriages not his own, on business that must not be mentioned, at the behest of some unsavoury character such as the Prince of Wales. I never speak of Trowbridge, of course — but I shall always say he used my daughter remarkably ill. Were I Jane, I should die of a broken heart.”
Little Mary's eyes were very wide in her round face; her countenance was all pity and regret I suspected I had risen considerably in her estimation for having Suffered a Disappointment.
“How happy your return has made me, Martha!” my mother cried. “I might almost think myself restored to the Hampshire of old, with your dear, departed mamma and all my friends about me!”
“You are returned to Hampshire, madam,” I observed crossly. “It is some centuries now since Southampton formed one of the county's principal beauties. There is nothing wrong with you, as you very well know, that a little activity should not cure. You are too much indisposed. Fresh air is what you require.”
“I know that some have called you heartless, Jane, but I did not suspect you of cruelty.” My mother dabbed at her eyes with a square of lawn. “When I am gone, you shall consider — too late, alas! — how advisable were your words.”
“The joint,” Mrs. Davies announced, entering the room with admirable timeliness — and, “Here, my dear Mrs. Austen — pray sit by me!” cried Martha, with an anxious look for myself. “I am sure that I may coax you to take a little of mutton!”
And so we sat over a joint rather underdone, and debated with all the appearance of interest the minutest activity of Martha's Berkshire connexions. I heard more than enough of hunting, and the business of a country parish, to suffice for several dinners; laughed at Martha's pointed jokes, where Mary entirely failed to comprehend them; and listened for the sound of an express messenger's horse on the cobbles of East Street. The halloo and rap at the door came before we had done with the nuts.
Frank's voice was heard in the corridor — a clink of spurs and a horse's neigh; and in another instant, my brother was seated at table, intent upon the cooling joint.
“You're looking very well, Mamma. Descending for dinner agrees with you. May I serve you more of mutton?”
My mother closed her eyes and raised one hand in mute protest “It was very ill-turned,” she remarked. “I wonder how Mrs. Davies came to choose such a leg. She buys food on the cheap, I've no doubt, and saves the cost of our board.”
“But it was Jane—” stammered Mary, her cheeks flushing.
“Captain Austen, sir.”.
We turned as one to look at the parlour doorway, where Jenny, our housemaid, stood twisting her large hands in her apron. The girl made such a picture of guilt and regret that I was certain she had killed Mrs. Davies over some dispute in the scullery, and now meant to make a clean breast of it.
Frank set down his knife. His countenance had begun to show the harassed expression of a man desperate for victuals. “What is it, Jenny?”
She held out a card that had once been white, but was now grubby with over-fingering. “The officer did seem most urgent that I should give you this. But I was that taken up with the washing, and Mrs. Davies did want me to dress the mutton, on account of Miss Lloyd coming from such a distance, and the day being so dreadful. 'I'll just put this card in me pocket,' I says to myself, 'and give it to the Cap'n when I sees him—' “
Frank took the card and studied it with a scowl. Then his countenance changed.
“When did the Lieutenant call?”
Jenny looked all her misery. “Quarter past one o'clock, it must've been, while you and the Missus was out walking. I ca' remember the time, because the butcher had just called round with the mutton as Miss Austen bought special. I hope as I did no wrong—”
“That remains to be seen,” Frank said in clipped accents. He stuffed the card into his coat and rose from the table. “Forgive me, Mary — Mamma — ladies. I am called away and may not tarry.”
“But, dearest—” Mary protested. “You have had nothing since breakfast!”
Had Chessyre summoned him to his rooms at the Dolphin? Or did Frank hope to seek him there, and learn the purpose of the Lieutenant's call? My eyes sought my brother's face, but his countenance told me nothing. He was intent upon retrieving his cockade from the table by the door.
“A little cold meat upon my return shall do very well,” he said over his shoulder. “I beg you will not wait, but retire as usual. Forgive me.”
“But whatever is the matter?” Mary cried. “It is too unkind, to call you from your dinner! And a mere lieutenant, too. I wonder you regard it!”
The sound of the outer door closing must stand as reply.
Chapter 8
Mr. Chessyre Vanishes
Wednessday,
25 February 1807.
MY BROTHER DID NOT RETURN UNTIL THE EARLY HOURS of the morning. I knew of the length of his absence, from Mary's small movements about the boarding house — her stealthy descent of the main stairs by the light of a taper, not long after midnight; the occasional squeak of a poorly-oiled door hinge, as she peered unavailingly from the parlour out into the hall; and then her faint rap on my own door, rousing me instantly from the bedclothes. Her face was pale, her expression miserable, in the flickering light of her poor flame.
“May I come insane?”
“Of course.”
She slipped through the doorway, and the taper went out.
I groped for my candle in the darkness, then coaxed a flame from the embers of the fire. I set the light on the mantelpiece and turned to stare at Mary. Her thick hair hung in a plait down her back. Her shift was of pink flannel, and voluminous. One finger was lifted to her mouth; she was worrying at the nail with her teeth. Distracted with exhaustion and fear, she looked a disconsolate child up long past her bedtime. I took her hand and found it cold as death.
“He has not come home,” she muttered. “Nearly three o'clock
, and he has not come home! What if the worst has happened, Jane?”
Violence was not an unreasonable worry; a seaport overrun with sailors released from men o' war was not always the safest of habitations. We had often caught a faint echo of the revels at quayside — the drunken laughter and occasional shrieks, the explosions of breaking glass. But I trusted Frank to know how to defend himself. His uniform alone must demand respect of any fellow seaman.
“You should try to sleep, my dear,” I told Mary gently. “Frank shall come to no harm.”
“It is not harm I worry of, Jane,” she retorted bitterly. “Oh! That everyone would cease to treat me like a child! It has been many years since I enjoyed the privilege of innocence, I assure you. In my own home — in Ramsgate — I was accustomed to regard myself as quite the eldest of the family; my advice was sought, and my opinions respected. I know that I am not half so clever as you, nor half as kind as Cassandra — but I am not a simpleton!”
“My dear Mary!” I cried in return, “I have never regarded you as one! Gould my brother have loved a fool? It is only that you are a full ten years younger than myself, and younger still than your husband—”
“—and you are a decade junior to Martha Lloyd,” she returned impatiently, “yet you do not suffer her to treat you as anything but her equal in sense and experience. I am sure that it was always so, when you were but four years of age and she fourteen! You have never allowed anyone to regard your opinions as of little account, Jane. Confess that it is true — and accord me the same privilege you have always seized for yourself.”
“Very well.” I sank down upon the foot of my bed. “I shall tell you that you have every right to worry, and to remain sleepless. Frank's behaviour is abominable. He should have considered of your feelings, and sent a boy with a note, long since. You have my permission to scold him roundly when he reappears.”
“Scold him — Lord, how can I? He is only a man, and must behave as any man would.” She took a turn upon the carpet, unable to meet my eyes. “I simply expected— that is, I hoped … we have been so happy, despite the suddenness of this child — but he is restless, turned on shore. My mother warned me how it would be.”
“How what would be?” I enquired, bewildered.
”It is always the same with the Navy,” Mother said. 'They cannot keep their breeches on.' Those were her only words of congratulation, Jane, when I pledged myself to Frank.”
“Forgive me, Mary, but your mother is a fool.” I raised a hand to forestall her protests. “Frank may be a post captain, with all the glories and perfidies attendant upon that rank, and all the dubious practise of a lifetime spent at sea; but I would remind you that he was known in Ramsgate as the captain who knelt in church. Do not let the fears of the dark hours cloud your judgement Frank has hardly sought solace in another's arms.”
“Then why would not he disclose his business?”
I drew her down to sit beside me, and felt her trembling — with anger, or cold? The air in the room was quite chill, and I wished for the means to kindle a good fire; but that was several hours distant, at least. All Frank required to entirely lose patience with me, was that Mary should fall ill as the result of her night's walk. He should not hesitate to blame the French of Wool House, Cecilia Braggen, and Mr. Hill together. I must get her back to bed at any cost.
“Frank learned some distressing news while visiting in Portsmouth,” I began. If Mary's understanding demanded respect, and a degree of trust in keeping with her position, then I ought to accord her both. “A fellow captain, a man Frank has known from his earliest years in the service, is to appear before a court-martial Thursday on a charge of murder. Frank is seeking intelligence on his friend's behalf. He hopes to clear his colleague. It is nothing less than this honourable purpose that has drawn him from home tonight — and no strumpet's charms. You must endeavour to think better of him, Mary, than your mother does.”
“Court-martial? On a charge of murder?” Mary's brow cleared. “Surely you do not refer to Captain Seagrave?”
“I do,” I replied, astonished. “Has Frank told you of his misfortune?”
“Not a word. I was not aware that Frank was acquainted with Lucky Tom. But you must know that the Stella's engagement with the Manon is the talk of the Navy! I have heard of nothing else, all February. Mary Foote is never done speaking of it; but she is quite the Captain's warmest advocate, and must insist he could never kill an enemy in cold blood. She is one of the few naval wives who do?
“And what do the rest say?”
“As much, or as little, as any party of women with their husbands' interest to divide them.” Mary glanced at me sidelong. “Some are moved by malice, others by jealousy, and still others by satisfaction at seeing the Captain's luck turn.”
“You would imply, I imagine, that they dislike Seagrave's wife — and rejoice in her misfortune. Louisa Seagrave intimated as much, when I spoke with her Monday.”
“You met Mrs. Seagrave?' Mary's curiosity succeeded where all my words of comfort could not, in dispelling her anxiety for her husband. “She actually consented to receive you?”
“Is such behaviour so extraordinary in a naval wife?”
“Quite the contrary. But Louisa Seagrave has never comported herself as a matron of Portsmouth, nor sought the company of those who do. She has a reputation for oddity, Jane. Mary Foote declares that she is going mad.”
Mad. Was that the trouble I had glimpsed in the confectioner's shop — the trembling hands, the distracted air, the refuge sought in a medicinal draught? Was the brilliant Louisa Seagrave unsound in her mind?
“I wonder that Frank did not tell me of his friendship with the Captain,” Mary mused to herself. “He is grown so secretive this winter.”.
I hesitated. What could, and should, be revealed? Nothing of the possible posting to the frigate — for Frank seemed determined to refuse it, were Seagrave to hang. “He did not wish to disturb your thoughts, Mary, when you have so much else to occupy you. The move to Castle Square, the infant's arrival—”
“And this is naval business, and therefore the province of men,” she concluded resignedly. “Has it ever occurred to you to wonder, Jane, why men insist on taking the full burden of their work and families entirely upon themselves?”
“Recall, my dear, that Frank has spent the past twenty years in living solely for himself,” I replied gently. “He has been a solitary fellow, and the business of sharing a life is entirely new to him. Give him time. Once your husband is again at sea, you will be positively overwhelmed with the duties you are expected to undertake.”
“I suppose you are right. But it galls me to learn, Jane, that he is disturbed in spirit on behalf of his friend — and could not feel it right to confide in me.”
Choosing, instead, his sister, I thought, for the long passage down the Solent. Yes, I see how it is.
Mary looked me full in the face. “Does Frank believe that Seagrave will hang?”
“He is doing everything in his power to ensure the reverse.”
“Then he is the first of my acquaintance to do as much.”
“In what manner has Seagrave offended the Navy, to garner so considerable a contempt?” I asked her.
“He has taken more prizes than other men, and not solely among the French.” I caught the ghost of a smile in the darkness. “It is said that Tom Seagrave is one of those sailors, Jane, who cannot keep his breeches on — and the Service cannot forgive him for it. There is such a thing as too much luck.”
“I see,” I replied. And considered anew the reputed madness of Lucky Tom's wife.
FRANK WAS CERTAINLY RETURNED, AND IN ADMIRABLE frame, when I descended to the breakfast parlour before eight o'clock. He had shaved, and changed yesterday's shirt for a fresh; his uniform coat was brushed and his shoe buckles polished.
“Well?” I enquired from the doorway. “Did you discover the sinister lieutenant?”
“Neither hide nor hair,” he replied cheerfully. “The fe
llow has done a bunk. I regard Seagrave's innocence as accomplished, Jane — for you cannot have a charge of murder, nor yet a court-martial, without you call a witness; and I cannot find that Chessyre is in Hampshire.”
“Perhaps he has taken passage on an Indiaman,” I said idly, “and hopes to make his fortune without recourse to hanging.”
“Should you like some coffee?”
“Tea, I think, against the morning. You disturbed Mary last night, Frank, with your prolonged absence; I hope she is well?”
“Sleeping yet.” He consumed a bit of bacon. “I confess I had no intention of being gone so long. I went round to the Dolphin directly I quitted this house, but was told that Chessyre was out. When I had cooled my heels a full half-hour, the Dolphin's proprietor — a man by the name of Fortescue, Jane, you must recall him, with a stooped back and a balding pate — suggested I might discover my man in a particular establishment near the Quay, one apparently more to his liking.”
Frank glanced at me over the rim of his cup; his grey eyes were dancing with devilry. “I have visited any number of sinkholes in my time, Jane — in Malta and Santo Domingo and Calcutta and Oporto; and I shall not hesitate to declare the Mermaid's Tail the very worst of its kind in Southampton. It is no secret where it sits— anyone may approach, provided he possess a strong stomach and an air of insouciance — and so I doffed my hat to the immense woman who sat inside the door— all red satin and moustaches — paid my five shillings' admittance, and prepared for delight.”
“Chessyre was not within?” I concluded patiently.
“He was not. I lifted several sodden heads from stinking tables, the better to scrutinise their features; consoled one poor midshipman crying piteously into his beer; lent a pound to another who had just sold his last shirt — and upon further interrogation of the Moustached Proprietress, learned that Mr. Chessyre had not been seen at the Mermaid's Tail in at least three days.”
“Perhaps his taste in sinkholes has changed. I find nothing in this to silence alarm. Frank, how can you be so certain that Chessyre has fled?”
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