Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

Do spirits walk among the fallen timbers of this house? Do they mourn and whisper in the moonlight? I have an idea of a shade, poised upon the turret stair, her white habit trailing. Absurd, to feel such a prickling at the neck in the middle of the day — to pace insouciantly down what had once been a sacred aisle, as though under the gaze of a multitude; to listen attentively to birdsong, aware that the slightest alteration of sound might herald an unwelcome intruder. Ladies have often called upon the ghosts of Netley — there is nothing strange in this.

In the distance, I heard young Edward’s shout of triumph and George’s, of despair. The birds continued to sing; a shaft of sunlight pierced the ruined window frame, and a breath of wind stirred the ivy. I traversed the south transept and turned for the turret stair, which winds upwards into the sky — the turret itself having crumbled — and gives out onto the Abbey’s walls. Here one may walk the perimeter of the ruin, with a fine view of the surrounding landscape. My head into the wind, I paced a while and allowed myself to consider of Elizabeth. I am not the sort to indulge in grief; I have known it too often and too well. The older I become — and I shall be three-and-thirty this December — the more I take Death in my stride. I have not yet learned, however, to accept the caprice of its whims — nay, the absurdity of its choice, that would seize a young woman of health, beauty, prospects, and fortune, a young woman beloved by all who knew her — and yet leave Jane : who am possessed of neither fortune nor beauty nor a hopeful family. I live as but a charge upon my relations.

Would I, in a spirit of sacrifice, exchange my ardent pulse for Lizzy’s silent tomb? If a bargain could be made with God — a bargain for the sake of young Edward and George, or the little girls so soon to be shut up at school — a bargain for dear Neddie, crushed in the ruin of his hopes — would I have the courage to strike it?

I cast my eyes upon the flat grey sheen of Southampton Water — on the smoking chimneys of Hound, tumbling towards the sea; on the distant roofs of Southampton town, glinting within its walls. Dear to my sight, who am selfish in my grasp at life. Forgive me, Lizzy. Though I loved you well, I cannot wish our lots exchanged.

The boys’ voices had grown faint. Thunder pealed afar off, from the easterly direction; the unsteady day had dimmed. I descended the turret stair, grasping with my gloved hands at outcrops of broken stone, and sought my charges in the ruined refectory. This was a groined chamber seventy feet long, lit by windows on the eastern side. For nearly three hundred years the Cistercians had dined here in silence, with their abbot at their head. The remains of a fresco adorned one wall, but the fragile pigments had worn to nothing, and the saints stared sightless, their palms outstretched. The refectory was empty. Or was it?

Just beyond the range of vision, a shadow moved. Light as air and bodiless it seemed, like a wood dove fluttering. My heart in my mouth, I swiftly turned; and saw nothing where a shade had been.

The sound of a footfall behind me — did a weightless spirit mark its passage in the dust?

“Have I the honour of addressing Miss Austen?”

I whirled, my heart throbbing. And saw—

Not a ghost or envoy of the grave; no monk concealed by ghoulish cowl. A man, rather: diminutive of frame, lithe of limb, with a look of merriment on his face. A sprite, indeed, in his bottle-green cloak; a very wood elf conjured from the trees at the Abbey’s back, and bowing to the floor as he surveyed me.

“Good God, sir! From whence did you spring?”

“The stones at your feet, ma’am. You are Miss Austen? Miss Jane Austen?”

“You have the advantage of me.”

“That must be preferable to the alternative. I am charged with a commission I dare not ignore, but must require certain proofs — bona fides, as the Latin would say — before I may fulfill it.”

“Are you mad?”

He grinned. “I am often asked that question. Would you be so kind as to reveal the date of your honoured father’s death?”

Surprise loosed my tongue. “The twenty-first of January, 1805. Pray explain your impudence.”

“Assuredly, ma’am — but first I crave the intimate name of Lady Harriot Cavendish.”

“If you would mean Hary-O, I imagine half the fashionable world is acquainted with it. Are you quite satisfied?”

“I should be happy to accept a lady’s word.” He bowed again. “But my superiors demand absolute surety. Could you impart the title of the novel you sold to Messrs. Crosby and Co., of Stationers Hall Court, London, in the spring of 1803?”

I stared at him, astonished. “How come you to be so well-acquainted with my private affairs?”

“The title, madam.”

“—Is Susan . The book is not yet published.” [3] Austen wrote the manuscript entitled Susan in 1798 and sold it to Crosby & Co. for ten pounds in the spring of 1803. The firm never published it, and Austen was forced to buy back the manuscript in 1816. It was eventually published posthumously in 1818 as Northanger Abbey . — Editor’s note .

“Just so.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a letter, sealed with a great splotch of black wax. “I hope you will forgive me when you have read that .”

I turned over the parchment and studied the seal. It was nondescript, of a sort one might discover in a common inn’s writing desk. No direction was inscribed on the envelope. I glanced at the sprite, but his raffish looks betrayed nothing more than a mild amusement.

“I have answered your questions,” I said slowly.

“Now answer mine. What is your name?”

“I am called Orlando, ma’am.”

A name for heroes of ancient verse, or lovers doomed to wander the greenwood. Either meaning might serve.

“And will you divulge the identity of these. . superiors . . for whom you act?”

“There is but one. He is everywhere known as the Gentleman Rogue.”

Lord Harold Trowbridge. Suddenly light-headed, I broke the letter’s seal. There was no date, no salutation — indeed, no hint of either sender’s or recipient’s name — but I should never mistake this hand for any other’s on earth.

From the curious presentation of this missive, you will apprehend that my man has been instructed to preserve discretion at the expense of dignity. I write to you under the gravest spur, and need not underline that I should not presume to solicit your interest were other means open to me. Pray attend to the bearer, and if your amiable nature will consent to undertake the duty with which he is charged, know that you shall be the object of my gratitude.

God bless you.

I lifted my gaze to meet Orlando’s. “Your master is sorely pressed.”

“When is he not? Come, let us mount the walls.”

Without another word, he led me back to the turret stair, and up into the heights.

“There,” he said, his arm flung out towards

Southampton Water. “A storm gathers, and a small ship beats hard up the Solent.”

I narrowed my weak eyes, followed the line of his hand, and discovered the trim brig as it came about into the wind.

“Captain Strong commands His Majesty’s brig

Windlass . My master is belowdecks. He asks that you wait upon him in his cabin. He has not much time; but if we summon your bosun and the two young gentlemen, and make haste with the skiff, we may meet his lordship even as the Windlass sets anchor.”

“You know a great deal more of my movements, Orlando, than I should like.”

“That is my office, ma’am. He who would serve as valet to Lord Harold Trowbridge, must also undertake the duties of dogsbody, defender — and spy.” He threw me a twisted smile; bitter truth underlay the flippant words.