Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

“That gentleman is Mr. James Ord. And I am Sophia Challoner.”

27 October 1808, cont.

Dr. Jarvey — a physician summoned from Southampton, and not a mere surgeon or apothecary of Hound — ran his fingers over my skull and shook his head gravely at a large lump that had swelled above my left ear. Upon learning that I had lost consciousness for the period of a half-hour, he looked dour and prescribed absolute quiet for the rest of the day.

“She must not be moved, and she must be subject to the closest scrutiny. If nausea ensues, keep her awake at all cost, even if you play duets until dawn to effect it. There is danger of a fracture to the cranium, and in such cases, derangement of the senses is likely. To fall asleep in that eventuality should be fatal. However, if she is not retching by the dinner hour, give her this” — proffering a draught against the pain — “and send your servants to bed.”

With which dubious advice, he quitted the room, leaving me in some suspense as to whether I should die or no.

“We must send word to your people,” Mrs. Challoner observed after he had gone. “Where do they reside?”

“Southampton. My mother is resident in Castle Square.”

“The mare must be fixed to her stable in any case, and her hire discharged. I shall send my manservant José Luis” — she pronounced the name heavily: Show-zay Lew-eesh — “to town with the horse, and your note of explanation. Shall I pen it for you?”

As my head distinctly ached, and Sophia Challoner appeared far better suited to decision, I agreed. What my mother’s anxieties should be, upon discovering that I had hired a horse — much less fallen from it — I could not think. But there was a cup of tea at my elbow and the prospect of an entire day’s tête-à-tête with the Peninsula’s most potent weapon. If I could but keep my composure, I might learn much. She fetched ink and paper, and settled herself once more in the chair by my bed. As she bent over her task, I studied her perfect countenance. A skin like alabaster, dusted with rose; the dark hair a brilliant counterpoint. A single thread of blue vein pulsed at her temple. She held her pen in elegant fingers. One of them sported a great jewel, polished and cut, that was the exact hue of her gown. Did she possess a similar ransom for every costume she owned?

“ Dear Mamma — that is how one always commences, I understand, though I lost my own maternal parent well before I could write,” she drawled. “ Do not be alarmed at receiving this from a stranger’s hand, for I am quite well. One always lies to one’s mother, I believe?”

“From about the age of six. Although in this, as in everything, I confess to a marked precocity.”

She raised her eyes to mine, and I observed a look of vast humour in them. “Well done, Miss Austen! We shall deal famously with one another! I have suffered a fall from my horse, and am very kindly bid- den to remain at the home of a gentlewoman, Mrs. Challoner of Netley Lodge, who happened upon me as I lay unconscious in the road. That should terrify her suitably. She will pause at this juncture, and exclaim aloud, and one of your domestics shall be enjoined to fetch hartshorn and sal volatile.”

As this was palpably true, I could not suppress a smile. “Pray include a sentence to the effect that the horse has been returned to Colridge’s, as she will be in some amazement at the idea of my riding, and must divide her anxiety between myself and the mare.”

“I am shocked to hear it. Have you been very much mounted?”

“Not above a few times in my life.”

She frowned slightly. “What possessed you to take a gallop?”

“The horse possessed me, I am afraid.”

“How very unfortunate. Dr. Jarvey has been called, and declares that nothing is amiss, save a considerable bruise to my head. I shall expect to be returned to you tomor- row in Mrs. Challoner’s phaeton— ”

“Indeed, that is very kind of you, but hardly necessary. I am perfectly able to walk—”

“— in Mrs. Challoner’s phaeton. Your loving daughter — should you like to affix your signature?”

I scrawled my name at the foot of the billet, and lay back upon my pillows. The scene of such a note’s reception was one I was thankful to avoid.

I never saw José Luis, but when the manservant and the mare had been despatched to Southampton, Mrs. Challoner ordered a tray of cold meat and bread to be sent up to my room. The young girl who brought it — with a fresh face and a diffident look that suggested she was little in the habit of service — I guessed to be Flora, granddaughter of Mr. Hawkins’s crony from Hound. When the maid had set the tray on a table and curtseyed in her mistress’s direction, Mrs. Challoner closed the door behind her and offered to read aloud, if it should amuse me. I had recovered strength enough to capitalize upon her willingness, though I suggested lassitude, and made a very poor picture of health.

“What of your guest, Mr. Ord?” I enquired feebly.

“I should not like to occupy all your attention.”

“Oh — as to that, the gentleman may come and go as he pleases,” she replied indifferently. “He is not actually staying in the house, but merely called a few moments after we returned from the accident, and was immensely helpful in carrying you abovestairs.”

“Was he?” The idea of myself, insensible in the arms of young Adonis, was riveting. “I am deeply grateful.”

“He is probably immersed in a great volume of sermons, or some such, in the library. Mr. Ord is a student of theology, you will observe, though he is an American. My late husband possessed an admirable collection of books, but I have hardly had occasion to look into them since my arrival at Netley.”

“My condolences, Mrs. Challoner. I should never have believed you a widow.”

“Because I do not go in black?” She surveyed me satirically. “My husband was an excellent man, Miss Austen, but a good deal older than myself. He died three years since; and though I may yet regret him, I have learned to survive him. And only consider of the library he left me! Perhaps when the cold sets in, I may establish myself by the fire and read the whole winter long. There shall be no occasion for driving out in the phaeton then . I cannot abide the cold.”

“Are you so recently come to this house?”

“I am but five days in residence.” The novel she might have read to me lay unopened in her lap; her dark eyes assumed a thoughtful expression. “I fled the Peninsula in the first week of September, when the siege of Oporto was entirely lifted and the British troops were carried off from Vimeiro.”

“Did you?” I exclaimed, as though the intelligence were news. “But that is extraordinary! My brother — Captain Frank Austen, of the St. Alban’s — was engaged in that very endeavour! Did you perhaps chance to meet him?”

“I was denied the pleasure,” she replied with a faint smile. “My family in Oporto were so good as to secure me a cabin in the Dartmoor, a fourth-rate intended for the conveyance of French prisoners. I was of infinite use, in serving as interpreter for the Captain, and thus could flatter myself I proved less of a burden than he had anticipated.”

“I am sure you were invaluable,” I told her earnestly. “French prisoners! How uncomfortable you must have found it — dealing with the Enemy!”

“Not at all. Any number were quite handsome.”

“And did you remain aboard the Dartmoor until the Lodge was ready to receive you?” I enquired innocently. A considerable period fell between the first week of September, and the last week of October. Did Lord Harold know of her whereabouts in the interval?