Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

“His lordship does not disembark in Southampton?”

“He is bound for Gravesend, and London, with the tide. You will have read of the family’s loss?”

I reflected an instant. “The Dowager Duchess?”

Lord Harold’s mother, Eugenie de la Falaise, formerly of the Paris stage and wife to the late Duke of Wilborough, had passed from this life but a few days ago. I had admired Her Grace; I mourned her passing; but I could not have read the Morning Gazette’ s black-bordered death notice without thinking of her second son. It had been more than two years since I had last enjoyed the pleasure of Lord Harold’s notice; and though I detected his presence from time to time in the publicity of the newspapers, I have known little of his course since parting from him in Derbyshire.

“Had the dowager’s death not intervened, his lordship should have come in search of you himself. But Fate—”

“Fate has determined that instead of Lord Harold, I am treated to an interview with his man,” I concluded. “Pray tell me, Orlando, what it is that I must do.”

25 October 1808, cont.

I cannot say how Orlando had achieved Netley Abbey, for I espied no stranger’s dory hidden along the shingle as we hurried in the direction of Mr. Hawkins. The falling dark and spitting rain hastened our footsteps, but still the old seaman was there before us, in attendance upon his sturdy craft — George having blown his whistle manfully for the better part of our descent. The Bosun’s Mate’s surprise at finding a fourth among our party was very great. He glowered at the green-cloaked sprite, and said by way of greeting: “I’d a thought you had more sense, miss, than to take up with strangers.”

“Mr. Smythe. is a very old acquaintance — fortuitously met on our road to the Abbey.”

Orlando bowed; the Bosun’s Mate scowled.

“We have suffered an alteration in our plans, Mr. Hawkins,” I said. “Would you be so good as to intercept that naval vessel presently dropping anchor in Southampton Water? I should like to be swung aboard.”

“Swung aboard!” George cried. “Oh, Aunt — may we bear you company? I should dearly love to set foot in a fighting ship!”

“It is not to be thought of,” I replied briskly.

“Your grandmamma will be every moment expecting you.”

“But — Aunt !”

“The young gentlemen, Mr. Hawkins, should be conveyed at once to the Water Gate Quay, and thence to Castle Square.”

Edward and George groaned with disappointment; the Bosun’s Mate stared keenly across the Solent. “That brig is never the Windlass ? She didn’t ought to be in home waters; ordered to the Peninsula in July, she was, and not expected back ’til Christmas.”

“You know the better part of the Captain’s orders,” Orlando observed quietly, “but not, I think, the whole of them.”

Mr. Hawkins cleared his throat and spat. “It’s a rum business, all the same. Get into the boat wi’ ye, Mr. Smythe — and haul an oar if ye’ve a mind to reach that brig by nightfall.”

It was nearly dark as the skiff pulled alongside the Windlass, and though a brig will never equal a ship of the line, the sides of the vessel soared above our tiny craft. Edward stared; George’s mouth was agape; and at a blast of Mr. Hawkins’s whistle, a lanthorn appeared at the rail. The bosun’s chair was let down. From the speed and efficiency of these movements, I judged that we were expected — nay, that we had long been observed in our passage up the Solent, and the chair readied against my arrival. [4] The bosun’s chair was formed of a simple board, rather like the seat of a swing. Sailors used it when repairs aloft were necessary; but it was frequently employed to assist ladies up the side of a ship, as they could not be expected to mount rope ladders while wearing skirts. — Editor’s note.

“Shall you be quite safe, Aunt?” George’s voice quavered.

“Safe as the Houses of Parliament, my dear.”

Edward frowned. “What must we tell Grandmamma?”

“That an acquaintance of your Uncle Frank — an officer of the Royal Navy — had news of him that could not wait.”

“You’re bamming,” George scoffed.

“I shan’t be above an hour; but you are not to put off dinner.”

I had suffered the bosun’s chair before, in being swung aboard my brother’s commands; but never had I attempted the exercise in darkness. Orlando hastened to assist me.

“I’ll see the young gentlemen safe at home,”

Hawkins said, “but I’ll return, miss, to ferry you to shore. Friends or no friends, I’m loath to leave you with this crew. Lord knows what they might get up to.”

A jeering laugh from above put paid to his sentiments; at a word from Orlando, I was borne aloft. I gripped the chair’s rope in one gloved hand, and with the other, waved gaily to my nephews; but in truth, I was wild for them all to be gone. I could think only of the man who waited within, by the light of a ship’s lanthorn.

“My dear Miss Austen.”

He received me quite alone, in Captain Strong’s quarters, where a handsome Turkey carpet vied for pride of place with a folding desk. He had been absorbed in composing a letter, but rose as though he had long been in the habit of meeting me thus, and not a stranger these two years. His grey eyes were piercing as ever, his silver hair as full and shining, his looks more engaging than I had seen them last — and his whole figure such a blend of elegance and arrogance, that I felt I had never been truly admiring him before with justice.

He grasped my gloved hand and raised it to his lips. “How fortunate that Orlando should have chanced to find you.”

“I suspect that Orlando does nothing by chance.”

“But for a lady to answer such a summons so swiftly must be extraordinary. I am in your debt, Jane. Are you well?”

“As you see. I need not enquire after your health, my lord. The Peninsula clearly agrees with you.”

His eyes glinted. “The Peninsula? Have you busied yourself with researches? What else have you learned?”

“Nothing to the purpose. I was as astonished at your man’s appearance as anyone could be.”

“And yet you hastened aboard — to my infinite relief.” He lifted my chin and studied my countenance.

“You are a trifle peaked, Jane, even by lamplight. I cannot approve the shadows under your eyes.”

“I have had a good deal on my mind of late.”

“So have we all. You should not wear black, my dear — you are far too sallow to support the shade. Willow green, I think, or Bishop’s blue.” His gaze roved over my figure. “Bombazine! But surely you are not in mourning?”

“My brother Edward has been so unfortunate as to lose his wife.”

“Not Mrs. Elizabeth Austen? Of Godmersham Park?”

I inclined my head. Lord Harold had been privileged to meet Lizzy once, during a flying visit to Kent in the summer of 1805; she had bewitched him, of course, as she had everyone who knew her.

“Such a pretty woman! And hardly out of her youth! It does not bear thinking of. Childbirth, I suppose?”

My countenance must have turned, for he said abruptly, “Forgive me. I ought not to have pried. But I was never very delicate where you were concerned.”

“I understand that you have lately suffered a similar bereavement. I was most unhappy to learn of Her Grace’s passing.”

“It was not unexpected, Jane — but it could not have occurred at a more troubled season.”

“My lord, why are you come to Southampton?”

“In pursuit of a woman,” he replied thoughtfully.