Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

“Is the English coast so riddled with traitors?”

“Possibly.” He regarded me intently. “In September, we carried off our victorious troops and some French prisoners from Vimeiro, as you know. By disposing our ships in convoys, we offered a tantalising form of safe passage through our own Channel blockade. It is possible, Jane, that we ferried enemy agents home in our own vessels: men who crept aboard under cover of night, and now await their orders in every Channel port.”

I rose and took a pensive turn about the room.

“And you believe it is Mrs. Challoner’s duty to despatch these agents on errands of mayhem?”

“I confess I do not know. How does she conduct herself?”

“Quietly. In the six days she has been in residence, she has devoted more time to her wardrobe than to affairs of state.”

“Have you observed her to communicate with anyone?”

I glanced at him then. “An American. He arrived by the London mail on Wednesday morning, and is putting up at the Vine. He rides a splendid black hack, and spends the better part of each day at Netley Lodge.”

“An American!” he repeated, in tones of astonishment. “Now that is an alliance I should not have anticipated. And yet — why not? Americans have long enjoyed the confidence of the French. They bear England little affection. Any attempt to wrest control of the seas from the Royal Navy should meet with American approval, as providing greater scope for their own vessels and commerce. By Jove, Jane — what you say must interest me greatly. An American !”

“He is very young, my lord — not above twenty. He is exceedingly handsome—”

“He would be,” muttered Lord Harold.

“—possesses good manners, appears to be of good family, and goes by the name of James Ord. The housemaid informed me that he was totally unknown to her mistress before Wednesday, when he appeared with a letter of introduction in hand.”

Lord Harold snapped his fingers, as though bidding Sophia Challoner to the Devil. “I must learn what I can of the fellow. The Admiralty may know something—”

I saw Mr. Ord now in memory, as he had appeared only last evening: the correct black coat, neither behind nor before the fashion; the delicate cut of feature in the laughing countenance; the warmth of the blue eyes as he gazed at Mrs. Challoner. He looked to be little more than a boy as he sat in her dining parlour, exclaiming over the excellence of his capon. And have you lived the whole of your life in England, Miss Austen? Then you are indeed fortunate. It is a comfort to know that not all of us are born to be wanderers .

Lord Harold broke in upon my thoughts. “Have you any notion what part of the Colonies — I beg your pardon, the United States — Mr. Ord hails from?”

“Baltimore. He has been making the grand tour, and arrived in London last week from a period at Liège.”

“Liège? Not Paris?”

“He may have travelled through the capital, my lord.”

“Liège is a town of unfrocked Jesuits and perpetual scholars — there can be little to interest a youth in such a place.”

“Mr. Ord is a student of philosophy.”

“Is he, by God?” Lord Harold’s eyes had narrowed; he commenced to pace feverishly about the room. “Philosophy — or revolution? What does he find to do at Netley Lodge?”

“During the brief period in which I observed him, he read a great deal — played at whist — composed a letter to home — sang Italian airs with Mrs. Challoner — accompanied the lady in her exercise—”

“They walk out together?” Lord Harold interrupted.

“I was in the house but a day, my lord. You cannot expect me to speak with authority.”

“But on the occasion you observed her?”

“—She walked with Mr. Ord to Netley Abbey.” Of a sudden a black-cloaked figure rose in my mind: motionless, vaguely forbidding, impossible to dismiss.

“They encountered a third person among the ruins — it seemed as though by design. I surveyed them from too great a distance to make much of the figure.”

“Did they, by Jove?” His lordship seemed much struck. “Pray describe the fellow.”

“He was cloaked and cowled in black — a monk returned from old.”

“The Cistercians wore white, my dear,” he corrected absently. “Still — what you say intrigues me. The man made an effort at disguise, and that must always be suspicious. You saw him meet Mrs. Challoner?”

“She curtseyed to him.”

“The Abbey ruins. Though excessively public in certain seasons, they must be quite deserted as autumn advances, and offer certain advantages as well: from that elevated position, one might observe the whole of the Solent. As the good monks divined so many years ago.”

“One might observe the Solent from nearly every window in Mrs. Challoner’s house,” I objected drily.

“But if one intends to signal a confederate on the opposite shore — or perhaps a ship — Are there ramparts among the ruins?”

“The walls are achieved by a turret stair. Orlando and I espied the Windlass from that height.”

“Excellent Jane! You have done better than I might have dreamt. Come, fetch your cloak.”

“Why, sir? Am I going out?”

“We have much to do, and little time in which to effect it. Pray do not stumble over your mother in the passage,” he added as I made for the door. “She has been listening at the keyhole this quarter-hour at least.”

28 October 1808, cont.

My mother stood before the mirror in the hall, arranging withered leaves and raspberry canes in a Staffordshire vase. Although she had not elected to make a cake of herself in crouching before the parlour latch, I recognised the diffident look of guilt on her reflected countenance.

“Jane!” she hissed. “ That man is closeted within! I learned the whole from Martha. What is he about? How can he conceive of showing his face in Southampton, after the shabby treatment he served you in Derbyshire?”

As the shabby treatment had consisted of several intimate visits to the ducal house of Chatsworth, I could not share her indignation.

“If you would mean Lord Harold, Mamma, he has very kindly paid a call of condolence, having learned of our dear Elizabeth’s passing. His lordship is likewise in mourning. He recently lost Her Grace the Dowager Duchess.”

“Naturally — I saw the notice a few days ago. Poor woman; she was but three years older than myself, though hardly as respectable. An actress, you know, and French. That must account for the strangeness of the son — for I cannot find out that his brother Wilborough is so very odd. He must take after the paternal line.” She gave up her efforts with the vase and surveyed me critically. “Lord Harold might as easily have written you a note regarding Elizabeth, as any trifling acquaintance should do. What does he mean by descending on Castle Square in all the state of a blazoned carriage?”

I shrugged indifferently. “No doubt he has business in Southampton, Mamma, and merely offered us the civility of a morning call. As for the chaise — I have an idea it is on loan from Wilborough House. His lordship is but this moment arrived from London.”

“Is he, indeed?” She looked much struck, and began to fidget with the pair of garden shears she held in her hands. “And what does he prefer by way of a cold collation, Jane? For I have not a mite of meat in the house — not so much as a partridge! We might send to the tavern for brandy, I suppose—”

“Pray do not disturb yourself,” I begged her.

“Lord Harold has kindly invited me to take an airing in his equipage. He declares that I am looking peaked.”