Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

Under the weight of his look, I felt the crucifix burning there, as though each throb of my heart burnished it the brighter. My hand nearly strayed to cover it, but the Count’s dark eyes flicked up to mine — and the spell was broken.

“Miss Austen?” he said. “There is an English sea captain by that name.”

“There are two, Conte — both my brothers. Have you happened to meet with one of them?” On the St. Alban’s, perhaps, off Vimeiro?

“I have not had that pleasure. I merely heard of Captain Austen from. . friends.” His eyes strayed once more to my throat. “That is a most beautiful crucifix you wear, madam. May I examine it?”

He employed the tone of a man who is never refused anything; his fingers were already reaching towards my neck.

A great, tall man wrapped up in a black cloak, Flora had said, nose as sharp as a blade, and eyes that glittered dark like a serpent’s . Was it he? The man Sophia Challoner called mon seigneur ? The man I had blundered against in the dark of the subterranean passage, only yesterday? The man who had stolen Mr. Hawkins’s boat?

He had been staying at Netley Lodge, after all, since Monday.

“How did you come by this?” he demanded sharply.

“It was pressed upon me by a friend.”

“Curious! On the obverse, it bears the family seal of my house!”

“Indeed? I cannot imagine how that could be so.”

“Can you not?”

“If you will excuse us, Conte,” said Sophia firmly, “we shall not be a moment.”

She clasped my hand and led me towards her dressing room. I felt the Count’s eyes follow me the length of the corridor, and shuddered.

“He is an imposing figure of a man, Sophia — too imposing, perhaps.”

“He ought to be. He was reared to rule estates as vast as a kingdom, and may command a quarter part of the wealth of Portugal, my dear. For all his power and fortune, Ernesto knows but little of the world, however; only the gravest necessity would drive him from his native land — and into the arms of the English Crown. But such is the goad of war.”

“—Into the arms of the Crown?” I repeated, perplexed.

“Indeed. The Conte has sought the aid of Maria Fitzherbert not merely from the ancient friendship between her family and his — but because of her influence with the Prince, and by extension, the Whig Party! Without the support of some part of the Government — without assurances that English troops will not desert the Peninsula, and consign its peoples to the French — the Conte’s future will be bleak, indeed. He remains here in Southampton only a day — long enough to engage a ship for his eventual return to Oporto. Tomorrow he posts to London, to meet with the Prince at Carlton House.”

She offered the recital as though it were of no great moment; from her air she had not an idea of the speech’s effect upon myself. That Sophia Challoner should disparage the French — that she should welcome to her household a man determined to win the English to the cause of war in the Peninsula — was so at variance with my ideas of the lady, that I was entirely confounded.

“That is why I extended an invitation to this soiree to Lord Harold Trowbridge — that insolent rake we encountered in Mrs. Lacey’s pastry shop on Saturday,” she continued easily. “He had the presumption to call here the following day, and could not be got rid of for full two hours! I detest the man — but I know him to wield great influence in Whitehall, and I thought it necessary for the Conte to make his acquaintance. Maria might do much with the Prince; but Lord Harold is vital to the persuasion of the Whig Great.”

“Is he?” I said wonderingly. “I did not know that one could be a. . what did you call him? a rake- hell ?... and yet command the respect of members of the Government.”

Sophia threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, my poor, dear Jane!” she cried. “Have your brothers never taught you the way of the world?”

The droll look of a cynic sat well on her beautiful countenance — but I could not credit the change. She had shown a depth of passion — a hatred in respect of Lord Harold — that could hardly be so easily done away with, merely for the sake of policy . I suspected duplicity, on one hand or the other; but looked diffident, as though her words had shamed me.

“I will not teaze you any longer.” She smoothed an errant wisp of hair, her eyes on her own reflection.

“Lord Harold may go to the Devil — provided he serve my interests first. But that is not why I carried you away with me, Jane. Pray attend to this .”

Now she would bring forth a selection from her wardrobe — or offer a ravishing jewel for my delectation, I thought. But instead, she opened the drawer of her dressing table, and drew forth a letter, its seal already broken.

“What do you make of that?”

I opened the page slowly, afraid of I knew not what — that it was penned in Lord Harold’s hand?

That it contained a declaration of ardent love? But I could not recognise the fist. The note was dated Monday — the thirty-first of October.

Mrs. Challoner:

If you wish to hear something to your advantage, be at the Abbey ruins at dusk on Thursday. I know your secret; ignore this at your peril.

There was no signature.

“How very odd,” I said softly.

“That is a note that smacks of blackmail, Jane. It appeared on my doorstep Monday morning.”

“But what does it mean?” I enquired with a puzzled frown. “And from whence did it come?”

“If I were forced to offer a guess — I should say that my late serving-maid, Flora, had penned it; though I confess I cannot speak to her hand.”

The writing was fluid and without hesitation, though from the appearance of several blots, it appeared to have been written on an unstable surface — the back of a jolting cart, perhaps? Flora had certainly suggested, in our conversation amidst the ruins, that she might pursue such a course; but I would not disclose so much to Sophia Challoner. She did not need to know that I had met with the girl on Sunday, while overlooking the Lodge.

“But why should your maid attempt extortion? What can this girl profess to know of your affairs?”

She shrugged. “Nothing I should not publish to all the world. She is gravely mistaken if she believes me likely to pay for her silence. I must assume she suffers a grievance, for having been turned off without a character — but in truth, Jane, she was a wretched servant.”

“I am sure of it — your opinion could not err in such matters,” I returned with complaisance. “But how shall you answer such a letter, Sophia?”

“I shall meet the scheming wench tomorrow at dusk. Should you like to bear me company?”

“Take Mr. Ord,” I advised. “You do not know, after all, whom you may encounter — and a gentleman of parts should be of infinite use, in so lonely a place, and at such an hour.”

A clatter in the hallway below — and my companion turned hastily from her mirror. “That will be Lord Harold, or I miss my mark. Come, Jane — let me make you better acquainted with the most despicable man in the Kingdom!”

2 November 1808, cont.

They played at faro on Mrs. Challoner’s enamelled table, with the faces of the thirteen cards painted on its surface: Sophia as dealer, Lord Harold the bettor. As she drew each card from her box, he wagered a sum as to its face; and as she displayed it, he must react with neither pleasure nor pain — but rather as a man in acceptance of his Fate. The game was well-suited to their varying tempers — Lord Harold should keep a mental register of every card that fell, and might, with time, wager successfully as to the nature of those that remained — while Mrs. Challoner stood in the guise of Fortune’s handmaiden: powerless to affect the hand she dealt, but determinant of success or failure all the same. He had appeared this evening at Netley Lodge with his usual careless grace; claimed acquaintance with Maria Fitzherbert in a cool but affectionate tone that was returned with polite indifference; bowed correctly to the Conte da Silva-Moreira, who would have drawn him apart immediately if he could — but that Lord Harold was determined, I saw, to take notice of me.