Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

With which gesture of magnanimity, my mother left me to nurse myself in peace.

“The papers speak of nothing but the Peninsula,” Martha Lloyd noted with a sigh some hours later, “and the tone of comment is unrelieved by optimism. Poor General Sir Arthur is covered in disgrace — I am certain his career is at an end.”

Martha being of the opinion that I should remain quietly at home so soon after an injury to the head, we had settled down by the parlour fire and given ourselves over to perusing the recent numbers of the London papers. We had been forced to forgo them of late, in deference to my nephews’ amusement and my sudden passion for watercolours.

“Do not pity Sir Arthur,” I advised. “He is a Wellesley, and as a family they have a genius for selfpreservation. He has been routed for the nonce, but shall regroup and advance the stronger for it.”

“I did not know you were a student of military strategy,” said a voice from the hallway, “much less of politics. I ought to have guessed it. Pray continue, Miss Austen.”

I glanced up from my paper to find our maidservant, Phebe, hovering in the doorway; at her back was a gentleman, an expression of languid amusement on his countenance. [11] From this reference to a housemaid named Phebe, it would seem that the Austens’ faithful servant Jenny, who had been with them since 1803, had left their service. — Editor’s note.

“Lord Harold Trowbridge!” I observed. “I had not looked for you in Castle Square today — but you are very welcome.”

Martha thrust herself hurriedly to her feet, her countenance flaming, as the Rogue strode into our parlour. She had learned enough of Lord Harold — from my mother’s veiled hints and my own obscure remarks — to comprehend that no meeting with such a man could ever be easy.

“May I present my friend, Miss Lloyd, to your acquaintance? Lord Harold Trowbridge.”

“A pleasure,” he said, bowing correctly in Martha’s direction.

“Pray accept my sincere condolences on the loss of the Dowager Duchess.”

“You are exceedingly good, Miss Lloyd. I attended Her Grace’s funeral rites only yesterday, and I may say they were exactly as she might have wished. Mr. John Kemble, the tragedian, broke off his London engagement in order to declaim the death scene of Ophelia; and very prettily he spoke it, too. It was my mother’s greatest ambition to play at tragedy, you know, but she had a fatal talent for the comic.”

“Indeed, sir?” Martha’s countenance struggled to suppress the outraged sentiments of Christian virtue, as well as the indecision battling in her soul. Ought she to support me in the presence of my dangerous acquaintance? Or did true friendship dictate a flight from the room as swiftly as possible?

I pitied her, but could not hesitate.

“Martha, be so good as to consult with Cook on the preparation of the pullet. No one has your genius for receipts — and I should hate to see a good bird spoilt.” Her lips twitched, from mirth and relief; she nodded once to Lord Harold, and sailed out of the room like a black ship of the line.

“I did not know you were entertaining guests,” he observed, as the door closed behind Martha. “Forgive me, Jane, for having lately commanded so much of your time, when others had far more vital claims upon it.”

“Miss Lloyd forms a part of our household, my lord. She has been in the nature of a sister to me since childhood; and being now quite alone in the world, she elected to throw in her lot with ours.”

“Ah.” In that single syllable, I detected a world of understanding. A household of four women: one elderly, and the others, spinsters long since left upon the shelf. A cattery, we should be called in the fashionable world of gentlemen’s clubs; or worse yet, a party of ape-leaders . I had never surprised an expression of pity in Lord Harold’s eyes, and I hoped I should not discover one now.

“How does your head, my dear?” he asked abruptly.

“It is repairing apace. You knew of my injury?”

He took up a position by the fire, his hand gripping the mantel. “I was informed of it last night by Orlando. Though he was forbidden to shadow Mrs. Challoner, he was expressly charged with observing you, and was ravaged with suspense when he saw you taken up in the dragon’s equipage. Nothing would do but he must despatch an express, urging me to make all possible haste south, as you were clearly subject to torture in the fiend’s clutches.”

He spoke lightly, but the words were in earnest. Of a sudden, I recalled the green-cloaked sprite slipping through the crowd of townsfolk on the night of the fires. Had Orlando been lurking in Castle Square, in closest watch of my door, when the alarum first went up?

“Your solicitude — and Orlando’s care — is a considerable comfort. I collect that you have heard of Wednesday night’s conflagration?”

“Arson, throat-cutting, and the destruction of a sweetly-built vessel,” he replied. “The report was intriguing enough to be taken up by the London papers.”

“I looked into the ship with my nephews on Monday, at the invitation of Mr. Dixon, the shipwright.”

“Who lost his life but two days later! Did he appear uneasy, Jane? As though he feared disaster?”

“He seemed as complacent as any man who took pride in his work, and believed the world to do the same. Now the Itchen yard is a veritable ruin, my lord, and Dixon’s men amazed.”

“You have seen the place since the blaze?” he demanded.

“But yesterday morning. It stank of the pitch that was spread over the ship’s timbers.”

“Such work might be intended to suggest mischief among the lower orders — but Whitehall is not so sanguine. The Admiralty is afraid, Jane, that Wednesday’s murder is but the first assault in a wider campaign.”

I raised my brows. “The Peninsula’s most potent weapon ?”

“I doubt that Sophia torched the seventy-four.”

“She has courage enough,” I mused, “but might abhor the blood and pitch such work should leave upon her clothes.”

Lord Harold’s eyes gleamed. “Jane, what is your opinion of the lady?”

“I quite liked her. She is all that is charming,” I replied frankly. “In Mrs. Challoner we may see the union of beauty, understanding, and good breeding; a creature of captivating manners, wide experience, and unfailing taste. Had you said nothing in her dispraise, I should have taken her straight to my heart. When she spoke so passionately of her beliefs — when she declared that this war must be stopped at any cost — I felt myself prey to a dangerous sympathy. She should find it easy to win hearts to her cause: she might persuade the Lord Himself against consigning her to Hell.”

“Well put. Having heard so much, I am thankful you spent no more than twenty-four hours in the lady’s company. But I should never suggest that Sophia was turned a murderer. I have an idea of her in the role of Cleopatra.”

“Reclined upon a couch, and toying flagrantly with the fate of nations?”

“You demonstrate a head for strategy, Jane — if you commanded the direction of Enemy forces, and could regard the affair at Itchen as but a trial of your strength, where next should you aim your Satanic imps?”

“At Portsmouth,” I told him steadily. It was the greatest naval dockyard along the Solent: the first port of call for every ship returning from the Channel station and our blockade of the French. Opposite Portsmouth Harbour lay Spithead, the deep-water anchorage where any number of His Majesty’s vessels awaited the Admiralty’s orders. Both should be an open invitation to the marauding French.

“But of course,” Lord Harold agreed. “You should aspire to ruin Portsmouth, and Deptford, and Woolwich and Chatham and Plymouth — His Majesty’s most trafficked yards. You might even strike at private shipwrights, such as Mr. Dixon, did you possess time and agents enough.”