Mr. Ord pulled off his glove.
“James — no! ” cried Mrs. Fitzherbert. “I beg of you—”
He stepped forward, and slapped Lord Harold across the face.
Chapter 22
Conversation by Lanthorn Light
2 November 1808, cont.
“Name your seconds, sir.”
Mr. Ord stared at Lord Harold, his fair skin flushed. “I have none. I am a stranger in this country.”
“I shall stand as his second,” said Sophia Challoner, and rose from her seat. “You do me the gravest injustice, Lord Harold, in supposing that I am incapable of defending a matter of honour.”
“I shall not raise a pistol against a woman,” he returned, tight-lipped. “Find a substitute, Ord.”
“May I offer myself as second?” enquired the Conte da Silva politely. “I had hoped to meet you on more amicable terms, my lord — but circumstances...”
“Nothing you might undertake on behalf of a friend, Conte, shall influence my opinion of your worth; nay, it shall only increase it.” Lord Harold bowed. “My second shall wait upon you here tomorrow afternoon. Good evening.”
Without another word or look, he deserted the room; and as swiftly quitted the house. I thought, in that instant, that I should faint dead away with anguish; but the sight of Sophia Challoner’s blazing looks forced me to adopt an attitude of insouciance. It should never do to betray a dangerous sensibility.
“James! James! ” Maria Fitzherbert cried, and stumbled towards Mr. Ord. “You must not meet Lord Harold! He has the very worst reputation as a marksman! You must fly from this place tonight, do you hear?”
“Forgive me, madam — but you speak of what you do not understand,” he responded gently.
Mrs. Fitzherbert sank down upon the hassock little Minney had once employed, and put her face in her hands. I apprehended only then, that her acquaintance with Mr. Ord must be of far longer standing than I had previously thought. Sophia Challoner went to her, the fire fading from her countenance. “Oh, my dear — I should have considered. I should have thought! It is all my fault! — Reckless, foolish Sophia, to spur the flanks of such a man! And now I have involved my friends in my disgrace!”
“Go to him, Sophia,” Maria Fitzherbert said faintly. “Go to him, and offer an apology. It is the only possible course—”
“You will not consider such a thing!” Mr. Ord said severely. “The Conte da Silva and I know what we have to do. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Fitzherbert — Mrs. Challoner — but I think it’s time we all retired. There’s a deal of work to be faced in the morning.”
Sophia raised her head and gazed at me miserably. “My poor Miss Austen! What a tragedy we have played for you tonight — and all on account of my ungovernable temper! Lord Harold is right: I do hate to lose at cards. But I hate even more to yield to his lordship — and I have done nothing else, to my shame, since making his acquaintance. Shall I summon your carriage?”
“Pray do.” I crossed the room to her, and offered my hand. “And do not hesitate to inform me, Sophia, should you require the least assistance in coming days. I should be honoured to aid you in any way I can, to thwart the policies of such a man.”
The autumn moon was just past the full, making travel at an advanced hour far less hazardous than it might have been in utter darkness. I had merely three miles to cover in my hack chaise — but the interior was more spartan than Lord Harold’s conveyance, and I was jolted against the stiff side-panels more than once on my way through West Woods to the Itchen ferry. The Abbey ruins rose up silent and ghostly in the silver light, a stark outline as I passed; no spectral fires lit the shattered ramparts this evening. I considered the singularity of human experience. I had contemplated the romantic possibilities of touring a ruin under moonlight, at the dead hour of night; and never dreamt the chance should fall in my way. Now, confronted by the chilly prospect, I shuddered.
We rumbled through Weston at a steady pace, for the coachman was eager to be home in his bed, and I was no less impatient to regain Castle Square. The hour was close to midnight, and the ferryman must be asleep at his post; for as we rolled down Weston hill to the river, I espied a second carriage, waiting on the desolate shore. My driver pulled up, and quitted the box to hold his horses’ heads — and a low murmur of conversation ensued beyond my window. I raised the glass and peered out. Neither ferry nor ferryman was in sight; but a lanthorn glowed on the opposite shore, and the neighbouring chaise was Lord Harold Trowbridge’s. In another instant the gentleman himself had approached the window and extended his hand. I grasped it in my own. The current of life in his fingertips was so strong that I trembled.
“Jane,” he whispered. “Well met, my dear. Are you comfortable in that bandbox?”
“Not at all,” I replied. “Are you comfortable in your soul? Do you really mean to kill that poor boy, who has no more idea of a duel than he has of the interior of White’s?”
“Better that he should learn, then, from a proficient. I do not take kindly to being slapped with a glove — but it is not the first time I have suffered the insult. I shall inflict nothing worse than a flesh wound; his heart shall be saved for another meeting.”
“Who shall act as your second, my lord?”
“Orlando, of course. I can summon no one else on such short notice.”
“Orlando?” I cried. “Has he then returned? What were his adventures? How does he appear?”
“Like a man reborn,” Lord Harold replied. “A common sailor discovered him in Portsmouth, lying unconscious near Sally Port. There was a great deal of trouble last night in Portsmouth, as no doubt you are aware—”
“But how did Orlando come to be there?”
“His story is a strange one. You will recall that he did not return to the Dolphin Inn, Sunday evening.”
“And you were anxious.”
“After leaving you and Miss Lloyd at the Water Gate Quay, he returned to Netley — though not, this time, to the Abbey. He waited in darkness for Mr. Ord, and witnessed him quit the Lodge well after the dinner hour — at perhaps nine o’clock.”
“I recall that you set Orlando on to follow him.”
“Though Ord was on horseback, he went at a walk, and thus Orlando was able to keep pace. The American travelled not in the direction of Itchen ferry, as one might expect — but to the northeast, and the village of Hound.”
“And what did he there?” I whispered.
“He pulled up his mount before the cottage of a family called Bastable, though the hour was exceedingly late and all such simple folk are early to bed. He knocked — gained admittance at once — and disappeared within.”
“That is decidedly strange!”
“I agree,” said Lord Harold coolly, “for even did we believe him capable of a liaison with Sophia’s late serving-maid, we must assume her to claim a populous family, not excepting a querulous old grandparent, which must decidedly diminish the charms of amour.”
“Mrs. Challoner believes Flora Bastable to be an agent of blackmail,” I said thoughtfully. “She received an unsigned missive, alleging privileged knowledge, and suggesting a meeting to the advantage of both.”
“Blackmail?” Lord Harold repeated with quickened interest. “Is it possible that Ord was sent as intermediary?”
“Possible,” I said doubtfully, “but I cannot say whether the note I read tonight was received so early as Sunday.”
“That was the day the girl Flora was turned away from her employment, was it not?”
“For an injudicious fit of strong hysterics — the natural result of having witnessed a bout of witchcraft, or a Catholic Mass.”
“I recollect a commotion in the servants’ wing near the close of my call at Netley Lodge: the sound of tears and lamentation, and the hurried departure of a girl in the direction of Hound. Perhaps Sophia regretted of her haste, and despatched Ord later as supplicant for Flora’s return.”
“Such solicitude is hardly in keeping with Mrs. Challon
er’s character! We must declare it a puzzle, and have done. But tell me of Orlando!”
“As he waited in suspense in the underbrush of Hound, a man came upon him from behind, and delivered such a blow to the head as to knock him insensible.”
“No!”
“Orlando was bound hand and foot, and spent the better part of the night and day subsequent in the Abbey tunnel. He awoke to find himself bobbing down the Solent in his own skiff, with a Portuguese gentleman in a long black cloak and hat plying the oars — bound for Portsmouth. His captor having achieved Spithead, Orlando was tossed summarily into the water, and left for dead.”
“Good Lord! The cloaked figure from the subterranean passage!”
“Mon seigneur, ” Lord Harold agreed. “He must have worked at Ord’s orders, and mounted watch upon his confederate’s back when the American ventured to Hound.”
“—and served poor Orlando with such vicious treatment! No wonder you feel no compunction in challenging Ord to a duel! But, my lord—” I paused in puzzlement. “I had thought the cloaked figure to be the Conte da Silva. And we know him to have arrived at Mrs. Challoner’s on Monday.”
“Do we?” Lord Harold countered.
“Flora, the serving-maid, did observe a tall man in a black cloak to enter the house on Sunday,” I said slowly, “the man we presumed to be a priest. But perhaps it was the Conte.”
“However that may be — Orlando is an adept at freeing himself from tight corners, and had the better of his captor. He slipped his ankle bonds and swam so far as Sally Port, where he dragged himself up onto the breakwater. From that position he witnessed the liberation of the prison hulks.”
“With mon seigneur—the liberator?” I breathed.
“Would that Orlando knew the man’s name — or had seen his countenance! But he was struck on the head by a flying splinter from one of the fired boats, and nearly drowned. When the seaman roused him at dawn yesterday, Orlando had swallowed a quantity of the sea, lost a good deal of blood, was chilled to the bone — and was taken at once to tell his story to the Master of the Yard.”
“An unenviable position, in the circumstances.”
“Yes,” his lordship agreed grimly. “Orlando was nearly hanged for the second time in his young life. It seems the Royal Navy was convinced they had a spy on their hands: a foreigner out of Oporto, who could neither produce his employer nor explain his presence near Sally Port. He cooled his heels a full day before they sought my advice at the Dolphin Inn.”
“Poor fellow! I saw the marks of his struggle on the passage floor,” I mused. “They were everywhere in evidence.”
His lordship’s profile was suddenly arrested. “You returned to the tunnel, Jane? Quite alone?”
“Yesterday morning. I was under Mr. Hawkins’s especial care. We ventured within, but were surprised by a man in a black cloak, who dashed out our tapers, hurled me flat against the wall, and stole Mr. Hawkins’s boat!”
“Left to your own devices,” he murmured, “you shall get yourself killed, one day. What if it should have been Orlando’s assailant?”
“I must assume that it was. But why should he return to the Abbey?”
His lordship shrugged. “To hide from the naval authorities presently in search of him? Or. . to retrieve something precious he once dropped there?”
Lord Harold reached for the gold crucifix at my neck and held it up to the lanthorn light. “The gold is warmed by the pulse at your throat,” he said softly. I could not speak — and for a second time that evening, felt as though I might swoon.
“Did anyone at the Lodge deign to notice this?” he asked.
“The Conte da Silva,” I replied with difficulty.
“He all but accused me of stealing it — and claimed that the seal of his house is stamped on the obverse.”
Lord Harold turned the cross in his fingers and peered at it more closely. The brim of his hat grazed mine; I closed my eyes, and drank in the scent of tobacco that clung to his greatcoat.
“There is an emblem of arms, certainly — the head of a wolf, with teeth bared, and two sabres crossed. Curious. And yet: he did not claim it as his? Merely of his house, he said?”
I nodded. “He chose not to interrogate me too closely; and if he knew me for the woman encountered in the tunnel, he did not betray his fear.”
“Perhaps he considered of his risk — or perhaps. . perhaps he intended to shield another. Someone, as he said, of his house ...” Lord Harold dropped the chain. “Tell me, Jane: what was the scene, when you quitted the Lodge?”
“Mrs. Fitzherbert was utterly overcome — almost fainting with despair — and urging Sophia Challoner to seek your pardon. She wishes Mrs. Challoner to retract her accusation against you; but I do not believe that Mr. Ord will allow it — tho’ they are on such terms as for the lady to call him James.”
“So Maria would shield the boy?” In the light of the side lamps, I saw him frown. “I confess I do not understand the business at all, Jane. What interest binds that party? Such a disparate group of souls — so ill-matched, to all appearances, and yet united by an unspoken trust.”
“It has the look of conspiracy; and Mrs. Fitzherbert is in the thick of it.”
“The blackmail note,” he demanded suddenly.
“It prescribed a meeting, you say?”
“At the Abbey ruins — tomorrow at dusk.”
“Then I shall be there.”
“If you live so long.”
“Jane, ” he returned patiently. “There shall be no duel until Friday morning at the earliest. You can have no idea of the details to be arranged — wills to be witnessed, doctors procured, the ground to be laid out, and the hour of meeting to be struck — and my pistols fetched from my flat in London. All conducted in the gravest secrecy, so that the Southampton constables are not alerted.”
“Wretched business! I might inform upon you myself, and save a good deal of trouble.”
A faint gleam of teeth as he smiled at me through the darkness. “If I killed Ord, I should have to flee to the Continent — duelling is illegal in England, as you well know. Flight is not at all in my line, Jane. The cub’s life is safe with me.”
“But what of yours, my lord? Are you safe with him?”
I stared at the man in the moonlight: insouciant, self-confident, as careless of age as he must be of public opinion. James Ord, in all the flush of youth and heedlessness, might cut off his thread in an instant, and sail for America with the tide. I felt a great fear rise up in my heart: for what should my world be, after all, without Lord Harold in it?
He covered my hand with his palm. “Do not excite yourself, my dear. All shall be well.”
The lights of the ferry loomed out of darkness; the flat-bottomed vessel bumped against the dock.
“Pray take the lady’s carriage first,” Lord Harold called out to the ferryman. “The moon is high; and when the lady in question is Miss Austen, it does not signify how long I wait.”
Chapter 23
Pistols for Two
Thursday, 3 November 1808
I awoke well after ten o’clock this morning, and made a slow toilette in the stillness of the Castle Square house. The rest of my family having breakfasted and gone about their various errands, I was alone with my thoughts — and they were all of Netley Lodge, and the duel that was to come. Would it indeed occur on the morrow, at dawn? And should I have the courage to face it?
At least I might go suitably attired in black. I descended to the breakfast room and applied to Cook for some late coffee and rolls — she threw me a harassed look, being already embroiled, as she said, in preparations for “the Cap’n’s dinner.” I fetched the victuals myself, but found I had little appetite for them. Ought I to go to the magistrate for Southampton — Mr. Percival Pethering — and inform him of the affair of honour that should presently take place? He might then prevent it, by arriving at the duelling ground with a company of constables — but he could not stand watch upon the duellists f
orever. As long as Lord Harold and Mr. Ord remained in the same country, they should be determined to draw blood.
My brothers, I am sure, would assert that I refined too much upon a trifle. I allowed my fancy to run away with me, and form an idea first of Lord Harold — and then of Mr. Ord — torn and bleeding upon the ground. In a spirit of anger at the foolishness of men, I crumbled my roll between my fingers and ignored my scalding coffee. I could not sit idly by while Lord Harold sent to London for his pistols. I must inform Mr. Pethering — but if my intelligence was to be of any use, I must know the choice of duelling ground. I rose and fetched my pelisse and Equestrian Hat. In a matter of moments, I had quitted the house in the direction of the High.
“Miss Austen.” The innkeeper’s stooped figure was thin as a whippet’s, his bald head shining with exertion. He had come through the saloon to the Dolphin’s entry on purpose to greet me, and stood drying his hands on his apron. “You are in excellent looks, ma’am, if I may be so bold — and how is the Captain? Keeping stout, I hope?”
“My brother is very well, Mr. Fortescue, I thank you. He has lately been much at sea.”
“I don’t doubt it! Off the Peninsula, with all the rest of ’em? A grand old party it must be, when Boney’s back is turned. And how may I serve you this morning?”
“An acquaintance of mine is lodging in the Dolphin at present,” I said, blushing furiously, “and I should like to enquire whether he is presently within.”
“Indeed?” the innkeeper said curiously. “May I have the gentleman’s name, ma’am?”
“Lord Harold Trowbridge.”
Fortescue’s expression darkened. “I’m afraid you’re the second party this morning as has asked for his lordship; and I’ve been told to turn away all visitors, as the gentleman is engaged. Howsomever, the young woman chose to wait; and his lordship’s man has agreed to see to her.”
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