Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

“Indeed, Martha, you wrong me.”

“ Wrong you?” She gazed at me in limpid astonishment. “I can think of no one more deserving than my beloved Jane. You cannot ignore your heart’s desire!

You have played the dutiful daughter long enough. Do not throw away a chance at joy, my dear, from fearing to live too well. You will be three-and-thirty next month; and the world is so uncertain! For all of us, as well as the men we love—”

She broke off, and turned her head resolutely towards the sea. It had been many years since I had suspected Martha of an attachment for my brother Fly — her junior by nine years, and the husband of a charming girl half her age. That she took an abiding interest in his welfare — that she feared for his safety whenever he should put to sea — could not be surprising in one who lived almost as another sister among his family; but I knew a deeper motive sharpened her anxiety.

“I like your Lord Harold, Jane,” she said resolutely. “He is exceedingly solicitous for your welfare, and he appears to respect the liveliness of your mind — without which, any man should be intolerable. I hope — nay, I know —that you will be very happy.”

“You presume too much, Martha! Indeed — you presume far more than I!”

“Since his lordship arrived in Southampton, I have not spent above five minutes in your company.”

Her tone and air were rallying. “I cannot account for the fact that you are at liberty this morning — but am happy to make use of what intervals of enjoyment fall in my way.”

She could know nothing, of course, of my past errands at Netley Abbey — nothing of the intrigue that lurked among those tumbled stones. She should visit it this morning with the same delight as any small girl embarked on a pleasure party, little suspecting that if Lord Harold’s suspicions were correct, the fate of the war might be determined there. Though she valued my understanding, she must see in Lord Harold’s attentions nothing greater — and nothing less — than the most ardent courtship.

I blushed from awkwardness, and would have disabused her if I could. Truth seemed the chief kindness I could offer my own wounded heart, as well as hers — but being sworn to a brutal silence, I merely kissed her cheek instead.

We achieved the Itchen ferry in silence.

in the Abbey

30 October 1808, cont.

The chaise was visible from the turret stair: a sleek, black equipage emblazoned with the Trowbridge arms, coursing at a leisurely pace past the Abbey ruins in the direction of Netley Lodge. Orlando was not in evidence today — both his correct round hat and his elfin cloak were absent from the footman’s step. I stood among the ruins in the chill sunlight and watched the horses’ progress, never doubting that Lord Harold should turn into the gates, and pull up before the door, and force his notice upon a lady loath to receive him. Was Mr. Ord likewise dancing attendance?

Should the three principals compare notes on their various travels — or theories of war?

And if Martha and I had tarried a little on the road, and been overtaken by his lordship’s carriage as we toiled through West Woods, should he have halted the team and taken us up? Or would Jane have proved an impediment to the object of his morning?

I beat the rough stone of the parapet with one gloved hand and turned away from the dazzling prospect. I disliked nothing so much as jealous, catlike women; and I was fast becoming the very picture of one. But I was too aware what Mrs. Challoner’s reception of Lord Harold should be to discern nothing singular in such a visit; and I knew, moreover, that if he truly suspected her of treason, his lordship’s best policy should be watchful silence, not pushing sociability. I must ask myself — and ask again: What irresistible force drew Lord Harold to Sophia Challoner?

It could not, as he claimed, be hatred.

Was it possible that my words of yesterday had jarred him to comprehend the truth? Had he lain awake long into the night, considering the justice of my sentiments — and apprehended that he had wronged the lady from an excess of bitter love? Perhaps he had come, even now, to throw himself at her feet and beg forgiveness.

How did Mrs. Challoner appear this morning?

What ravishing costume, complete with jewels, had she donned in respect of the Sabbath?

I could not bear to contemplate two such figures contained in a single drawing-room — with or without the ingenuous Mr. Ord. Furious at my degree of sensibility, I set foot on the topmost stair, vowing never to think of the teazing man again.

“Martha! Martha! The hour grows late, and we have three miles yet to walk!”

A faint cry from below was my only answer. She must have ventured far into the Abbey. I eased my half-boots down the worn stone treads, one hand gripping the shattered supports, and thought fleetingly that a woman might fall to a bruising death in attempting this stair in haste. I had no more conceived the unpleasant notion than I achieved firm ground; but as I turned into the relative darkness of the south transept, a hand clutched at my elbow.

“Good God!”

My cry was met with an answering shriek. The voice was quite young — a mere girl’s, in fact — and when I peered through the dimness of the chancel ruins at the youthful face before me, I saw that it was not entirely unfamiliar.

“Is that Flora?” I enquired. “Housemaid to Mrs. Challoner?”

“Miss Austen?” She bobbed a curtsey. “Begging yer pardon, miss, but I never thought to find a living soul in this part of the ruin — thought you was a ghost, I did, when I laid my hand on yours—”

“The discovery of a ghost, though unpleasant in fact, must form the substance of every young girl’s romantic sensibility; but I regret to say that I am very much alive. Are you well, Flora?”

“Yes, miss — thank you, miss, and hoping your head is quite set to rights?”

“Never better. I find that a knock or two, once in a great while, succeeds in ridding the brain of a good deal of nonsense. Have you happened to meet with another lady in these ruins? I am in search of my friend, Miss Lloyd.”

The housemaid’s gaze fell to the stone floor. “I’ve seen no one, miss. I should not have come if I thought to find visitors.”

“Are you absent from your work without Mrs. Challoner’s leave?” I enquired mildly.

She glanced over her shoulder, and began to wring her hands in her apron. “She told me I might have an hour or two for my own, so that I might recover my senses after a fit of strong hysterics; tho’ indeed, I’d have said she wished to be rid of me!”

This was so nearly incomprehensible a speech that I was determined to decipher it. “Has your mistress taken you in dislike, Flora? Or is the case otherwise ’round?”

To my surprise, her great eyes of gentian blue swam with sudden tears, and she threw her apron over her face and sank down onto the stones, weeping.

“There, there,” I murmured as I perched beside her. “It cannot be so very bad, I hope?”

“You don’t know, miss, what it’s like,” she sobbed.

“Living in that great moody house with the gusts blowing off the sea. Not like it is in ’ound, where I was raised, and the cottages all hunker companionablelike into the hillside — the Lodge is right out on the edge of the cliff, and the wind batters it like it means to have the house into the Solent, one o’ these days. The weather sets a body to thinking. It’s no wonder I’ve had nightmares. I’ve hardly slept a wink since I left my home.”

“What sort of nightmares sent you running to the Abbey, Flora?”