Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

“—and the conjurings, nothing more than a

Catholic Mass? I suppose it is possible, my lord.”

“The man in the black cloak should then appear as a priest.”

“—who is addressed by his title of monsignor. Mrs. Challoner is certainly a Recusant; she informed me of the fact over shortbread and marzipan.”

“But is it solely a Mass the three would entertain?” Lord Harold muttered, “or are they so careless as to hatch French plots in the very Lodge itself?”

“We have no proof that plots are even under consideration!” I protested.

“You forget, Jane,” Lord Harold returned harshly. “ A man in a dark cloak was seen racing from the burning seventy-four. Murder was done, and hopes ruined. This is an ugly business, and it shall turn more brutal still before it is quelled. You ignore that at your peril.”

I could make no immediate reply. I had forgot the murdered Mr. Dixon, and the testimony of Jeremiah the Lascar. I had wished to forget them — to clutch at the notion of a group of Catholics, worshiping in private, without political aim of any kind.

“Would they risk conspiracy before the servants?”

Lord Harold mused.

“Yesterday, certainly, when the staff were absent at divine service,” I replied.

“But why not continue to meet at the Abbey?”

“It is in general a lonely place — but on Sunday, must form a picture of sacred contemplation. Any number of pleasure-seekers might tour the ruins, of a Sunday in autumn when the weather is fine.”

“That is true,” he said thoughtfully. “And so we have them, the members of the coven: Sophia, Ord, and a man in a black cloak whom she calls mon seigneur, or monsignor. Who can he be, I wonder?”

I hesitated. “I suppose it is possible — although I have no proof—”

“When has proof ever stood in your way?” Lord Harold enquired ironically.

“The man might be a Portuguese, conversant in French, who goes by the name of Silva,” I replied.

“He was taken off the Peninsula by my brother’s ship, in the first week of September, and disembarked at Portsmouth. Frank declares that he intended, so he said, to find out no less a personage than Mrs. Fitzherbert, at her home in Brighton. He bore a letter of introduction to her.”

Lord Harold’s looks were shuttered. “And do you know who is to come to Netley Lodge this very morning? Shall I tell you whom Sophia Challoner entertains — and shall present to us both on Wednesday evening?”

“Do not say that it is Mrs. Fitzherbert!”

He turned in some agitation before the fire.

“Naturally. The first Catholic lady in the land. The friend of Mr. Ord’s patrons, and, it would seem, of Sophia Challoner as well. The affair wanted only to implicate the heir to the throne, to augur total success! With Mrs. Fitzherbert thrown into the brew, we risk a scandal that defies description! Would that I knew what to do!” he said savagely.

“But, my lord — it cannot be possible that Mrs. Fitzherbert should willingly endanger the career of the Prince of Wales! Whatever she may be — however ridiculed her morals — she remains entirely dedicated to his interests.”

“But if she were deceived? — If she believed she acted for his good ? Oh, that I knew how it was!”

I could offer no aid that might ease his mind; I maintained a troubled silence.

His lordship took up his hat with an abstracted expression.

“I will bid you good day,” he said. “I require further particulars, and it is possible I shall post to London tonight.”

“What of Orlando, my lord?”

“Orlando must fend for himself.” He settled his black stovepipe upon his head; the broad brim curving over his brow gave him a rakish air the London papers were determined to celebrate. “I shall attempt to consult Devonshire — his powers are fading, but still he will know what is best to do.” [21] Lord Harold refers to the Duke of Devonshire, regarded at this time as the grey eminence of the Whigs. — Editor’s note.

“Shall I see you at Mrs. Challoner’s reception, my lord?”

“I shamed her into extending me an invitation,” he replied with a curling lip, “and I shall move Heaven and Earth to be there. Grant me this favour, Jane!”

“If it is in my power.”

“Wear the gold crucifix you discovered in the passage about your neck on Wednesday night.” His eyes glinted. “I should like to see it claimed.”

He had succeeded in gaining the lowest step of his carriage when my mother reappeared, quite out of breath, with Phebe in tow. The maid bore a tray with a freshly-opened brandy bottle, a decanter of ratafia, and three glasses; and my mother’s countenance, as she observed his lordship’s departure, was the apogee of outraged mortification.

Tuesday, 1 November 1808

I awoke this morning with the idea of a boat in my dreams: a dory, easily manned by a single oarsman, that had borne me swiftly across Southampton Water Sunday evening, then turned back in the direction of the monks’ passage. Orlando must have left it hidden among the rocks of the shingle that night while he sat his patient vigil in the tunnel. Orlando had vanished. But what of his vessel?

Lord Harold might declare that his valet should fend for himself — he might devote his hours to composing letters of statecraft and policy, intended for the eyes of a duke — but I could not be so sanguine. I owed Orlando a debt of obligation, for having saved Martha Lloyd a most troublesome journey; and I did not like to think of him in danger and alone, as he had been so much of his difficult life.

I breakfasted early, then wrapping myself up well against a sharp wind off the water, I went in search of Mr. Hawkins.

“Strange talk there do be about the folk at Netley,” said the Bosun’s Mate darkly. “Old Ned Bastable swears as he saw balls o’ light hovering over t’a Abbey two nights since, and the cottagers of Hound will tell you, after a tankard of ale, that the mistress can fly through West Woods, and speak with animals in a strange tongue.”

“Young Flora has been spreading wild tales,” I observed.

“Mrs. Challoner turned Flora away,” Jeb Hawkins returned. “Said as she failed to give satisfaction. But Flora will tell any who listen that the lady is right strange. Says she looks through a body in a way that gives a Christian chills; and that there’s doings at the Lodge as will end in blood, one o’ these days. Is that why you and his lordship are forever going to Netley?

Keeping a weather eye on the place?”

“Mrs. Challoner is not a witch, Mr. Hawkins,” I said firmly. “It may be that she is nothing more than what she claims: a widow lately removed from the conflict in the Peninsula, and entirely without acquaintance in this part of the world. It is also possible that matters are otherwise. But you would do well to say nothing to anyone in Hound.”

The old seaman eyed me unsmilingly; he would determine his own course as ever he had done. He threw his back into the oars, and said, with seeming irrelevance, “I like the cut o’ his lordship’s jib. If he’s watching that woman, I reckon there’s cause. Are we bound for the passage? Or the landing near the Lodge?”

“The shingle,” I answered, “below the tunnel mouth.”

He lifted a hoary brow, but said no more; and the remainder of our voyage passed in silence.

The sun was weak this November morning — the Feast of All Saints. A chill breeze slapped the waves into white-curled chargers, and the Bosun’s Mate fought hard against a stiff current. I clutched at the edges of my black pelisse with mittened hands and thought of Lord Harold. Was he in Whitehall already, consulting at the Admiralty? Or had he sought his counsel in the gentlemen’s haunts of Pall Mall — in the card room at Brooks’s Club? Grouse season was at an end, but partridges were in full hue and cry: the majority of the Whig Great were still likely to be fixed in their country estates and shooting boxes. Parliament should not open until just before Christmas, when the foxes were breeding and all sport was at an end. He might find that his acquaintance — the men he most wished to secure — were thin on the ground in London at this season. He might, in sum, be delayed beyond his power—