But the niceties of welcome had eluded my brother. Frank took one furious stride across Mrs. Davies’s small parlour and turned in frustration at the far wall. He appeared to be itching to draw someone’s cork; his hands were clenching and unclenching in a fine demonstration of the pugilist’s art. I was not to be forgiven my improbable charity. In such a mood, he was unlikely to credit anything I might say.
“Oh, my dearest,” Mary cried, “do not be thinking of sending Jane away! I confess that I cannot do without her!”
Her plump hands were pressed against her mouth; she stared at Frank in dismay. I do not think she had ever witnessed a display of her husband’s temper; but I have an idea it is very well known among Frank’s colleagues in the Navy. He did not survive the mutinies at Spithead in ‘97, nor yet a gruelling chase across the Atlantic and back again in pursuit of the French, without driving his men and himself to the point of collapse.
“Damned foolish P he returned, with fine disregard for our landlady’s peace. “And why? Because Celia Braggen—that lantern-jawed, jumped-up busybody whose husband is the worst sort of scrub—required it!”
“Jane only went to that dreadful place to spare me the trouble, Frank,” Mary stammered. “I thought it very kind in her to oblige Mrs. Braggen, and save me from giving offence!”
“I shall call upon that Harpy in the morning, and offer my opinion of her presumption,” he muttered.
“Then pray let us dine on the strength of your conviction, Frank—it does not do to meet a Harpy on an empty stomach.” Martha’s attention was given entirely to drawing off her gloves. “Jane may sit at the farthest remove from Mary and the fire both, as punishment, and your mother have her meal on a tray. They do not offer much in the way of sustenance, in your southern coaching inns; and the smell of that joint makes me ready to weep with vexation.”
“Frank,” I interjected, “however angry you may be, I must have a word with you at once. It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”
My brother’s brows were lowered over his frigid grey eyes. He glanced at Mary; she threw me a frightened look, but gathered up her sewing without a word. Martha placed a hand at her elbow, and was just saying comfortably as the door clicked behind them, “I hear that the talk in Southampton is all of short sleeves for the summer—” when I sank down into a chair.
Frank listened this time without interruption. I told him of Etienne LaForge, and the scene the French surgeon had witnessed on the Manon’s quarterdeck; I told him of the blood from the head wound, and the lack of same from Porthiault’s chest. I told him, moreover, of LaForge’s final charge: This was no act of war. … Your Seqgrave was betrayed from within; and then I waited for some reaction from my hot-headed brother.
He was silent for the length of several heartbeats. He thrust his hands into his pockets and stood before the fire, his gaze fixed unseeing on the print of Weymouth that hung over Mrs. Davies’s mantel.
“This French dog—this surgeon—would have it that Chessyre deliberately made Tom look a murderer. To what purpose, Jane?”
“I cannot say.”
“The notion of skullduggery is common enough, I grant you, among the French. But I hesitate to credit it.”
“Do you prefer to believe that Tom Seagrave lies?” I protested. “One or the other—Seagrave or Chessyre— must be acknowledged as duplicitous. You require a witness who may speak without prejudice; I have found you one. Why will you not consider all that he has said?”
“Because what LaForge would claim is utterly beyond reason. Why should Chessyre thrust Seagrave’s dirk into the French captain’s breast? —And well after the man was dead?”
“To ensure that his charge against Seagrave would be amply supported by evidence—evidence observed by Englishmen and French alike. Can you think of any reason, Frank, why Tom Seagrave should be the object of such a plot?”
But Frank did not immediately reply. He bent and stared into the fire, though the heat from the faggots he had procured was considerable. “On Chessyre’s part, I might put it to the account of envy—the desire to see a successful man ruined, and repay trust with betrayal.”
“It seems such an awful act,” I murmured, “for one man to effect from spite alone. There ought to be another hand behind it—another force, that bent Chessyre to his will.”
Frank stared at me. “A plot, you said. You used the word as a politician might. You think it possible, Jane, that someone unknown has deliberately worked through Tom’s subordinates to ruin his career?”
I smiled thinly. “Believe me, Frank, when I assure you that similar outrage has been known to occur. How well acquainted are you with the details of Seagrave’s service?”
“No more than what every man may know. Tom was at the Nile, where he commanded a ship of the line. He was also at Trafalgar—and distinguished himself among all others on that glorious day. Since then he has been posted to the Channel station, having a rare old time ruffling Boney’s feathers and seizing ships off the coast of Spain. He’s worth twenty thousand pounds, at least.”
“You do not ruin a man’s reputation within the Navy for twenty thousand pounds. You ruin him for the satisfaction of seeing him disgraced before those he values beyond everything in the world.”
Frank nodded in assent. “The history of this whole affair must argue an intimate enemy.”
“Has he family? Connexions? Some force for Influence that might work on his behalf?”
“An elder brother employed by the Honourable East India Company out in Bombay. I met Alistair Seagrave in India once—a fair-spoken, intelligent man who cuts something of a dash. But the family were never very Great, Jane. The father was a clergyman. That was an early bond between Tom and myself—the likeness in our childhoods.”
Of course. The constant hours of learning Greek at the knee of a stern and kindly man, when one had much rather be gone to sea.
“And does Alistair Seagrave know aught of his brother’s trouble?”
“No letter could reach him in time. The voyage round the Horn is uncertain in winter; several months at best. I should not like to predict when he might learn of it. After all is … decided, perhaps.”
“But you think Tom Seagrave would request his brother’s help?”
“I cannot say. Even did Tom hope to prevent Alistair learning of it—from diffidence, or shame, or pride— they possess common acquaintance enough that his brother cannot remain in ignorance. The Navy and the Honourable Company are forever in one another’s pockets.”
“Is it at all likely, Frank, that Mrs. Seagrave’s family is behind the project? For you know they have considerable standing in Town, and cut her off when she married to disoblige them.”
“Why attempt to scuttle Tom Seagrave now, when the marriage is fifteen years old? They had better have despatched assassins on the night of elopement.”
“True. It does not seem likely. But whom, then? Has he enemies you could name?”
Frank threw up his hands. “Are you certain in your mind that we must credit this Frenchman?”
“Monsieur LaForge is no friend to Eustace Chessyre. That must be accounted an advantage.”
“He’s managed to complicate matters considerably.”
I laughed. “Then his work is disinterested at least. What possible advantage could LaForge find in destroying Chessyre’s reputation? Even the Lieutenant’s name was unknown to him. LaForge was cautious enough in his manner, as befits a man who has witnessed what is strange among his enemies; but I detected nothing of deceit. He offered the evidence of his own eyes.”
“Eustace Chessyre professed the same,” Frank observed.
I was resolutely silent.
My brother sighed. “I suppose I must disclose the whole to Tom Seagrave. He deserves to face the court on Thursday with as much intelligence as he may; he deserves to know that his subordinate betrayed him. A letter despatched express is in order, I think.”
“It is possible that Seagrave may supply the reasoning be
hind Chessyre’s act, and resolve the affair entirely.”
Frank hesitated. “Would your Frenchman consent to testify before an English court-martial?”
“We can but enquire.”
“And he refuses, we shall take a sounding of his deceit The man may merely be raving, after all, and when pressed on the morrow, deny all knowledge of his tale. But I shall petition Admiral Bertie for LaForge’s release, and carry him with me down the Solent on Thursday.”
“Let us hope he will survive so long.”
“If you are nursing him, he can do nothing else.” Frank’s tone was much softened from the abuse of a quarter-hour previous. I suppressed a smile, and rose to join the others in the dining parlour.
Jane—
I turned at the door.
“I regret what I said regarding your activity at Wool House. I know you undertook the effort solely with a view to aiding Seagrave’s case. I am deeply grateful for all that you have done. But—”
“Never fear, my dear,” I said. “I shall sit in the chair farthest from your bride.”
MY MOTHER FELT WELL ENOUGH, ON THE STRENGTH OF Martha’s return, to rise from her bed and descend—in all the fuss and state of vinaigrettes, wool shawls, and needlework—to the dining parlour.
“—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 so
und 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 un-availingly 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!”
Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House Page 9
