Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

Two of the Dolphin footmen, in breeches and powdered wigs, stood behind Lord Harold, their countenances deliberately devoid of expression. The stable lads had gathered at the gates, which were closed to carriage traffic; from time to time, when a ball sang home and the target’s wooden face splintered agreeably, a cheer went up from this serried rank.

“Lord Harold, Miss Austen,” Orlando said quietly. He bowed, and melted back into the safety of the inn; I hesitated on the edge of the yard, unwilling to disturb his lordship’s activity.

One of the footmen took the spent pistol from Lord Harold’s hand, and commenced reloading it with powder, wad, and ball; the other offered the second weapon, and as he reached for it, the Rogue’s eye fell upon me. His expression did not alter. He turned back to the target and steadied his aim. No trembling in the wrist, no hesitation as he pulled the trigger — but perhaps it should be different when he stared at the face of a man.

Seven more times the ritual was repeated; and then, when the target’s black centre had been cloven in two by the pounding of lead balls, his lordship blew the smoke from the pistol’s mouth and said:

“Come here, Miss Austen.”

I stepped forward, my mouth suddenly dry. He was so much more like the man whose acquaintance I had made years before — inscrutable, remote, dispassionate — than the one I had lately known, that I was afraid of him.

“My lord?”

He lifted the freshly-loaded pistol from the footman’s grasp and placed it in my gloved palm. The barrel was warm with firing; the grip smooth as an egg. I nearly dropped the thing, and was glad when I did not; for such foolishness must disgrace me.

“Wrap your other palm around the butt just so, and extend your arms.”

He stood behind me, his hands at my shoulders.

“Steady. You must turn your body side-on to the target, Jane — otherwise your opposite will tear open your heart.”

I drew a ragged breath and did as he bade. His cheek brushed my own.

“ Steady, ” he muttered. “More blood is spilled from sheer lack of nerve than from wanton malice; for it is a poor coward who cannot aim true, and prick his opponent as he chuses. Where do you intend to strike? Which part of the rings?”

“At the height of a man’s shoulder,” I said, “there, in the outer black.”

“Then align the pistol mouth and gaze without fear the length of the barrel. Fire at will — a gentle squeeze upon the trigger, no more.”

I felt my heartbeat suspended — and in a moment of clarity saw nothing but the edge of black where my ring turned white. My forefinger moved. An explosion of sound, a jolt up to my shoulder, and I stepped backwards, amazed.

A cheer went up from the assembled ostlers. The target showed a gaping hole at its furthest extent — well beyond the tight cluster of circles Lord Harold had made. I felt no small pride in my accomplishment; but I was newly aware of the difficulty inherent in aiming and controlling such a weapon. Years of practise must be required to command the sort of skill Lord Harold exhibited; and the knowledge of his precision forced a little of the fear from my soul.

“Did you come to me this morning on an errand of persuasion?” His looks were intent. “Did you think to put an end to this affair by stratagems and pleading?”

I shook my head, and handed him the weapon. I had made my decision — I would not go in search of Percival Pethering. “When is your meeting?”

“Tomorrow at dawn.”

“And where shall you do it? Porter’s Mead?”

He smiled thinly. “The ground there is flat enough — but too close to the magistrate for comfort.”

“I should like to witness the duel.”

“But you must wear black, Jane — and I confess I find the colour... disheartening.”

“I shall sport any shade you command, my lord,” I answered clearly, “provided you will allow me to be present.”

“To save my life?” he enquired ironically, “or James Ord’s?”

Friday, 4 November 1808

The seconds — Orlando and the Conte da Silva met yesterday evening at the George Inn to lay out the rules of engagement.

The principals in the affair — Lord Harold and Mr. Ord — were both of them at Netley Abbey, the former securely hidden behind a tumbled cairn of rock, and the latter at Mrs. Challoner’s side. As dusk fell and the hour of meeting came and went, no blackmailer appeared. Perhaps, Lord Harold wrote last night from the Dolphin, the girl was frightened off by the appearance of the American.

Orlando and the Conte fared better in their purpose. The duel was to be tried at dawn — perhaps forty minutes after six o’clock — and the ground they chose, a place called Butlock Common, northeast of Netley Lodge.

Orlando has paced off the distance, Lord Harold wrote, and assures me that the place is lonely enough. No one shall disturb us. I shall not think less of you, Jane, if you refuse to venture forth. It is a tedious distance at such an hour — but know, my dear, that whether you are present in the flesh or not, I shall carry an idea of you in my mind. Adieu—

I thought of hack chaises, and the difficulty in procuring one at five o’clock in the morning; I thought of lead balls and how they splintered wood — or flesh — despite acute precision; and then I went in search of my brother.

Butlock Common is a small, open field that serves as grazing land for the livestock of Hound. A lane runs along the eastern edge, and here in the crepuscular murk Frank pulled up our hired gig and said, “I wonder, Jane, if your man intends to meet this morning. It’s all of four bells, and not a carriage in sight!”

Shivering in my pale blue muslin — a shade unlikely to offend Lord Harold’s sensibilities — I peered through the darkness. A few candles glowed in the windows of a distant hamlet, faint stars against the mantle of sleeping countryside. Someone in a barn somewhere should be milking a cow, without the faintest notion that nearby, men were assembling to shoot each other.

“Honour!” I said bitterly. “How I detest it!”

“Pshaw, Jane — that’s a hum.” My brother went to the horse’s head; next to a ship, he loved best to have the management of a nag. “Without honour, society can have no just foundation; without honour, we should live as savages.”

“Murdering one another at random, you mean?”

He stared at me wordlessly.

At that moment, the sound of hoofbeats and iron wheels resounded upon the road. From the south, in the direction of the sea, came an open phaeton and a pair I should guess to be grey geldings; from the north, and the direction of the Itchen ferry, a heavy coach with its side lamps doused.

“Perhaps they shall run headlong into one another,” Frank observed cheerfully, “and settle the dispute by overturning. Do you mean to observe from the gig, Jane? Or shall I tie up the horse and give you my arm?”

How, I wondered, could Fly speak as though we were in attendance upon a mere race-meeting? As though nothing greater than a prize-fight were to be won? I rose from my seat and descended without his assistance, suddenly wild to have the madness done. As I set foot upon the ground, the Trowbridge equipage pulled up not ten feet from our position. Orlando jumped down from his footman’s perch and opened his master’s door.

He stepped out: a sharp silhouette in the rising dawn. Though he had commanded me to abandon mourning, he went, as ever, in black — the coat double-breasted, and buttoned high to the cravate, which was tied in the Jesuit style: a simple band folded once over the coat collar.