Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

“My God, Sophia, how you hate to lose!”

“You saw the cards. Admit it! You cheated in my house! As you once cheated Raoul of life!”

The colour drained from Lord Harold’s countenance. “Madam,” he said stiffly, “in deference to your sex I may not answer that charge; but were you a man, I should toss my glove in your face!”

Mr. Ord rose from his seat. “Then toss it in mine, sir! I stand behind Mrs. Challoner’s words!”

“Do you, pup?” He bared his teeth in a painful grin; and I saw the mastery pride held over him. He would not hesitate to challenge the American — to meet him with pistols at dawn — and the outcome must be desperate. Lord Harold’s reputation as a marksman was fearful; but I had seen Mr. Ord spur his black mount, and guessed at the passions his gentle exterior must hide. I found that I had risen as well, and stood swaying by the whist table; the Conte da Silva was very still, his black eyes glittering as they moved from one man to the other.

Mr. Ord pulled off his glove.

“James — no! ” cried Mrs. Fitzherbert. “I beg of you—”

He stepped forward, and slapped Lord Harold across the face.

2 November 1808, cont.

“Name your seconds, sir.”

Mr. Ord stared at Lord Harold, his fair skin flushed. “I have none. I am a stranger in this country.”

“I shall stand as his second,” said Sophia Challoner, and rose from her seat. “You do me the gravest injustice, Lord Harold, in supposing that I am incapable of defending a matter of honour.”

“I shall not raise a pistol against a woman,” he returned, tight-lipped. “Find a substitute, Ord.”

“May I offer myself as second?” enquired the Conte da Silva politely. “I had hoped to meet you on more amicable terms, my lord — but circumstances...”

“Nothing you might undertake on behalf of a friend, Conte, shall influence my opinion of your worth; nay, it shall only increase it.” Lord Harold bowed. “My second shall wait upon you here tomorrow afternoon. Good evening.”

Without another word or look, he deserted the room; and as swiftly quitted the house. I thought, in that instant, that I should faint dead away with anguish; but the sight of Sophia Challoner’s blazing looks forced me to adopt an attitude of insouciance. It should never do to betray a dangerous sensibility.

“James! James! ” Maria Fitzherbert cried, and stumbled towards Mr. Ord. “You must not meet Lord Harold! He has the very worst reputation as a marksman! You must fly from this place tonight, do you hear?”

“Forgive me, madam — but you speak of what you do not understand,” he responded gently.

Mrs. Fitzherbert sank down upon the hassock little Minney had once employed, and put her face in her hands. I apprehended only then, that her acquaintance with Mr. Ord must be of far longer standing than I had previously thought. Sophia Challoner went to her, the fire fading from her countenance. “Oh, my dear — I should have considered. I should have thought! It is all my fault! — Reckless, foolish Sophia, to spur the flanks of such a man! And now I have involved my friends in my disgrace!”

“Go to him, Sophia,” Maria Fitzherbert said faintly. “Go to him, and offer an apology. It is the only possible course—”

“You will not consider such a thing!” Mr. Ord said severely. “The Conte da Silva and I know what we have to do. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Fitzherbert — Mrs. Challoner — but I think it’s time we all retired. There’s a deal of work to be faced in the morning.”

Sophia raised her head and gazed at me miserably. “My poor Miss Austen! What a tragedy we have played for you tonight — and all on account of my ungovernable temper! Lord Harold is right: I do hate to lose at cards. But I hate even more to yield to his lordship — and I have done nothing else, to my shame, since making his acquaintance. Shall I summon your carriage?”

“Pray do.” I crossed the room to her, and offered my hand. “And do not hesitate to inform me, Sophia, should you require the least assistance in coming days. I should be honoured to aid you in any way I can, to thwart the policies of such a man.”

The autumn moon was just past the full, making travel at an advanced hour far less hazardous than it might have been in utter darkness. I had merely three miles to cover in my hack chaise — but the interior was more spartan than Lord Harold’s conveyance, and I was jolted against the stiff side-panels more than once on my way through West Woods to the Itchen ferry. The Abbey ruins rose up silent and ghostly in the silver light, a stark outline as I passed; no spectral fires lit the shattered ramparts this evening. I considered the singularity of human experience. I had contemplated the romantic possibilities of touring a ruin under moonlight, at the dead hour of night; and never dreamt the chance should fall in my way. Now, confronted by the chilly prospect, I shuddered.

We rumbled through Weston at a steady pace, for the coachman was eager to be home in his bed, and I was no less impatient to regain Castle Square. The hour was close to midnight, and the ferryman must be asleep at his post; for as we rolled down Weston hill to the river, I espied a second carriage, waiting on the desolate shore. My driver pulled up, and quitted the box to hold his horses’ heads — and a low murmur of conversation ensued beyond my window. I raised the glass and peered out. Neither ferry nor ferryman was in sight; but a lanthorn glowed on the opposite shore, and the neighbouring chaise was Lord Harold Trowbridge’s. In another instant the gentleman himself had approached the window and extended his hand. I grasped it in my own. The current of life in his fingertips was so strong that I trembled.

“Jane,” he whispered. “Well met, my dear. Are you comfortable in that bandbox?”

“Not at all,” I replied. “Are you comfortable in your soul? Do you really mean to kill that poor boy, who has no more idea of a duel than he has of the interior of White’s?”

“Better that he should learn, then, from a proficient. I do not take kindly to being slapped with a glove — but it is not the first time I have suffered the insult. I shall inflict nothing worse than a flesh wound; his heart shall be saved for another meeting.”

“Who shall act as your second, my lord?”

“Orlando, of course. I can summon no one else on such short notice.”

“Orlando?” I cried. “Has he then returned? What were his adventures? How does he appear?”

“Like a man reborn,” Lord Harold replied. “A common sailor discovered him in Portsmouth, lying unconscious near Sally Port. There was a great deal of trouble last night in Portsmouth, as no doubt you are aware—”

“But how did Orlando come to be there?”

“His story is a strange one. You will recall that he did not return to the Dolphin Inn, Sunday evening.”

“And you were anxious.”

“After leaving you and Miss Lloyd at the Water Gate Quay, he returned to Netley — though not, this time, to the Abbey. He waited in darkness for Mr. Ord, and witnessed him quit the Lodge well after the dinner hour — at perhaps nine o’clock.”

“I recall that you set Orlando on to follow him.”

“Though Ord was on horseback, he went at a walk, and thus Orlando was able to keep pace. The American travelled not in the direction of Itchen ferry, as one might expect — but to the northeast, and the village of Hound.”

“And what did he there?” I whispered.

“He pulled up his mount before the cottage of a family called Bastable, though the hour was exceedingly late and all such simple folk are early to bed. He knocked — gained admittance at once — and disappeared within.”