Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

I tore open the larger of the two parcels and found my fingers caught in the stiff folds of black bombazine — my gown of mourning, freshly-made from the modiste, with the cunning design of opened lapels, split bodice buttoned down the centre, and delicate bows tied beneath the right breast. The high white ruff à la reine Elizabeth, with Vandyke pleating, had not been forgot.

I lifted the costume from its tissue wrappings and stared at it in silence.

Beneath it lay a dove-grey paisley shawl, figured in black and gold. The second parcel, I presumed, must be the Equestrian Hat.

Abruptly I sat down in a hard-backed wooden chair, as though its uncompromising support was necessary at such an hour.

“Good Lord, Jane — what can she mean by it?” my mother enquired wonderingly. “For your acquaintance is surely very trifling, is it not? And the obligation is entirely on your side, for without Mrs. Challoner’s aid, you should have died in a ditch!”

“It is extraordinary,” I returned with difficulty, “and excessively good of Mrs. Challoner — but I cannot possibly accept so costly a gift.”

“The cut of the gown is very fine.” My mother ran her fingertips over the bodice. “And though it looks to be in the first stare of fashion, it is entirely within the bounds of what is proper for mourning. I should dearly like to see you wear it, Jane!”

“Impossible.” I smoothed the folds of bombazine and reached for the tissue wrappings.

“But what else are you likely to choose, my dear, for such an evening party?” my mother observed mildly. “Not that this is exactly a gown for evening — but it is certainly the finest bit of mourning you possess. Do you mean to decline Mrs. Challoner’s invitation? It would be a paltry gesture, in the face of such excessive goodwill.”

That mild observation gave me pause. Did I intend to ignore Netley Lodge in future, and cut off all relations with its mistress? Did I believe that Lord Harold pursued a chimera of his own invention, and that the lady was blameless? And where, then, did I place the maid Flora’s intelligence regarding strange men in cloaks and mumbled witchcraft? Did I think to leave Lord Harold and his potent weapon entirely to themselves? Or did I owe Sophia Challoner some effort at friendship — she who was so clearly bereft of acquaintance in her native land?

The gown, I discovered, was still clenched in my hands. My mother eyed me with interest.

“It could do no harm, surely, to open the second parcel?”

I removed the paper with trembling fingers, and held the hat aloft.

“Oh, Jane,” my mother mourned. “It is beyond everything we have seen in Southampton this winter! Do not tell me you must deny yourself that also!”

I stared at her, wordless.

“I am persuaded that our dear departed Lizzy would not have wished it,” she said firmly.

I forced myself to sit down after breakfast and compose a note to Sophia Challoner thanking her for the excessive kindness she had bestowed upon me, but declaring that it was not in my power to undertake so great an obligation... I tore the sheet in twain, selected a fresh, and commenced anew.

I informed Sophia Challoner that I was deeply obliged for the impulsive gift of friendship and mark of esteem she had offered me, but could not accept either...

My third attempt hovered between gratitude and hauteur, and ended by sounding churlish, as each of the previous attempts had done.

I stared into the fire, and considered of the lady’s circumstances. She was possessed of a competence, an elegant household, a quantity of servants, and seemingly not a care in the world — but for the shadow that crossed her countenance when the memory of certain painful events recurred. She lacked nothing, in fact, but the most necessary articles on earth: love and friendship. From me she sought the latter; and to hurl her generous heart back in her face seemed the height of ill-breeding. That I hesitated to accept a gift for which I clearly longed, was a testament to pride: the pride of straitened gentility and dependent mortification. I was aware, moreover, that I had encouraged Mrs. Challoner’s friendship under false pretenses — and my heart smote me as an ungrateful and scheming wretch.

I drew forward a fourth sheet of paper and dipped my pen into the ink.

My dear Sophia—

You have made me extraordinarily happy, and placed me under an obligation that years of dedicated friendship cannot repay. I shall endeavour to deserve your faith and trust, however, by appearing in this lovely costume at Netley Lodge on Wednesday evening, and by offering my deepest gratitude for the kindness you have bestowed upon—

J. Austen

I walked my letter to the post quite alone this morning, Martha being far too unwell to rise from her bed. All the usual activity of a Monday went on around me: nursemaids with small children tugging at their arms; carters unloading their goods before the doors of shops that had been closed in respect of the Sabbath; and the hurried arrivals of mail coach and London stage at the principal inns. A glimpse of the public conveyance recalled the boys, Edward and George, to memory. They must be resigned now to a schoolboy existence until the Christmas holidays should release them; it would be a poor visit home this year. I must endeavour to write a letter soon, informing them of the burning of the seventy-four. They might recount the lurid tale throughout the ranks of their forms, and earn considerable distinction from having looked into the vanished ship. The brightness of the autumn day, and the peace it brought my burdened mind, was so powerful a tonic that I could not bear to return immediately to Castle Square; and so from the offices of the Royal Mail I turned towards the water, and took myself along East Street to the premises of Hall’s Circulating Library.

This was a smallish establishment, three steps up from the paving, with ranks of books displayed on shelves that ran from floor to ceiling, and the added provision of comfortable chairs where a few gentlemen, in want of their clubs, were disposed to linger over the current numbers of the London papers. For such ladies as cared to look into an improving work or frivolous novel, a subscription of one pound, four shillings per annum permitted the loan of books; I had inscribed my name on Mr. Hall’s lists upon first arriving in Southampton. Now I glanced through Hours of Idleness, by a young poet named Byron; picked up a new volume of Mr. Scott’s, entitled Marmion; and sank down into one of the library’s chairs to commence the reading of it.

I had not been sitting thus for longer than a few minutes, and had determined that I should like to take the book away with me, when a gentleman whose visage was entirely hidden by a fold of newsprint suddenly thrust the sheets together, rose to his feet, and adjusted his coat of dark blue.

“Miss Austen!” he exclaimed as he reached for his hat. “I should’ve guessed you were a reader. What work have you got there?”

“The most recent issue of Sir Walter Scott’s pen,”

I replied. “How do you do, Mr. Ord?”

“Well enough, thanks. You’ve recovered from that knock on your head, I hope?”

I raised a gloved hand involuntarily to my brow.

“Perfectly. Are you enjoying Southampton? Do you make a very long stay on these shores, or do you intend to return to America soon?”

He smiled at me easily, and replied that if his own wishes were consulted, he should remain in England forever — but that duty, his studies in Maryland, etcetera, conspired to demand his return home. He waited politely while I secured my book, and then conducted me in a gentleman-like fashion to the street, where he declared himself at liberty to escort me to Castle Square.