Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

“Poor man, I can well believe it. He loved that ship so, he must be ill with exhaustion and despair.”

The Lascar stepped backwards and glanced significantly towards the ruined timber walls, and the vestige of what had been the shipwright’s offices. I followed his gaze, and saw a pallet lying on the ground, with a loose covering of dirty canvas. Under it lay something that must — that could only — be the shape of a man.

“Mr. Dixon?” I whispered in horror. “How dreadful! Was he overcome by the heat of the flames?”

“Fire did not kill him.” The Lascar’s voice was sombre. “We found him there last night when the smoke first rose into the sky, and the men came running to open the lock. Dixon Sahib’s throat was cut from ear to ear. Murder, Mem-Sahib! And when I find the one who did it—”

His fists clenched on the mare’s reins.

I crossed at the Itchen ferry and rode on, through the gentle fields and coppices of Weston, the ground rising and falling as if formed by the Channel tides. Duchess stretched out her nose in the sharp October morning and seemed ready to gallop, but I could not trust myself so far in the saddle, and held in her head. It was as much as I could do to manage the horse, for my mind was full of the bitter intelligence lately imparted. Mr. Dixon, murdered! His throat cut and the seventy-four destroyed! No mere vandals, then, had torched the ship — but an enemy who moved with deadly purpose. The fires on

Southampton’s wharves must have served as diversion, intended to draw the townsfolk away from the River Itchen. With the men already fighting the flames near the quay, response to the second fire must be slow; too slow to save the seventy-four, as the event indeed had proved. It was a calculated evil — a plot well-sprung. A marshal in the field could not have done better.

And all this, but a few days after Mrs. Challoner opened Netley Lodge.

I could not like the coincidence. What had Lord Harold called her? The Peninsula’s most potent weapon. I longed for him suddenly: the steady look, the careless strength. For suddenly, I was afraid. The day was yet young, the hour being not much past ten and most of the world still at breakfast. My sketchbook and paints were secured in a saddlebag, and I had every intention of o’erlooking Netley Lodge for much of the morning. I could not stomach a third full day among the ruins, nor did I believe my outraged parent would condone such a scheme, did she know of it. The word murder would run through Southampton swift as fire along a ropewalk, and my days of rambling the country alone were at an end. I must make the most of the hours remaining to me. My road was the same as Mr. Ord’s had been the previous day. There are advantages in approaching the Abbey by land, as one reaches the ruins from the west. In arriving by sea as I had twice done, I approached from the east — passing Netley Lodge on my way. Today I might establish myself high in the Abbey walls without exciting the notice of anybody at the house, and gaze down upon its activity for the whole of the morning.

But I was forestalled — routed — and thoroughly undone before I had even so much as dismounted at the Abbey’s wicket gate. As I emerged from West Woods, I discerned the rattle of a tidy equipage, and in another instant it appeared: a phaeton and pair, driven by a lady at breakneck pace. The grey geldings were perfectly matched, and their action admirable. I must have started in the saddle, or perhaps the prospect of a race was too much for the mettlesome Duchess, for she stretched out her neck, seized the bit in her teeth, and careened down the road at a gallop.

Never had I been subjected to such a pace! I abandoned the reins and clung desperately to Duchess’s neck, all but unseated in the wretched sidesaddle. Too terrified to emit a syllable, I divided my attention between the heaving ground and the approaching phaeton, certain that one of us must give way or endure a fatal crash.

The lady’s gaze never faltered. She neither pulled up nor slowed her reckless course; she merely shifted her equipage with deft hands to the far side of the road, and scarcely glanced at my figure as I hurtled past. Duchess, intent upon a race, made a sharp turn in the phaeton’s wake, and redoubled her gait to catch up to the pair.

This final maneuver was too much for me. As the dun mare came around and gathered herself to spring, my grasp on her neck faltered. With a cry of dismay, I was flung wide and landed hard on the verge of the road, knocking the breath from my body and the sense from my head. I was aware of a great pain, and of the sound of the mare’s hoofbeats receding; and then I knew nothing more.

“Would you look at the rent in this bonnet?

It’s a wonder she wasn’t killed.” A gentleman’s voice, with something odd in its tone... something familiar...

“The little fool has not the least notion of how to manage a horse. Such poor creatures ought to be strangled in their cradles, before they ruin a perfectly good mount from ignorance and caprice.” His companion spoke briskly, as though she would save her pity for the wretched Duchess.

“Pshaw! You don’t mean it!”

“I never mean anything I say. I merely love to hear myself speak. You ought to know that, thus far in our acquaintance. Pass me the basin, pray.”

A cool square of cloth was pressed delicately against my brow. Light as the pressure was, it caused me pain, and I groaned and turned my head into the cushion.

“There’s no card in her reticule — nothing to betray her name or direction. A sketching book and paints in the saddlebag.”

“She probably aspired to Genius among the ruins,” the lady observed caustically. “I am surprised, however, that a gentlewoman — even one so shabbily dressed — should go jaunting about the countryside alone. Has she affixed her signature to her work?”

Again, the cool cloth bathed my forehead; the odour of vinegar assailed my nostrils. I winced, but did not open my eyes; I felt sure the light should split my head in twain.

“No. From the quality of these, she hesitated to claim maternity.”

A rich chuckle. “You are too bad. What about the horse?”

“Hired of a livery stable. Name’s on the saddlecloth.”

“—a private mount being rather above her touch. Then if she does not rouse by nightfall, we must send José Luis to enquire at the stables. They must be wanting their mare.”

Nightfall? What hour of the day could it be? And where in God’s name was I?

I opened my eyes and attempted to rise.

“Steady,” the lady advised, and her firm hands thrust me gently back. I was lying on a broad bed in a room with a peaked ceiling and dormer windows; my spencer and bonnet were set on a chair. She was seated nearby: masses of auburn curls, a gown of garnet silk, and the basin of vinegar in her lap. Her dark eyes, heavily-lashed, gazed at me coolly. It was quite the most elegant countenance I had seen in years.

“Steady,” she repeated, and laid her free hand on my arm. “You have had a fall, madam. You are quite safe, and among friends, and the doctor shall be with us presently.”

“But—”

Despite her words and the pain in my head, I sat up and gazed in bewilderment about me. A fairhaired young man in a correct suit of black cloth stood by the leaded window, and beyond him was the sea. I knew that view of the Dibden shore; I had gazed upon it a thousand times. But then I must be — I could only be—

“You are at Netley Lodge,” she explained, “not far from where you were thrown. Can you perhaps recall your name?”

“Jane Austen.” My voice was a whisper; I knew now what name I should put to Beauty’s face.