Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

“Did I understand what she was, that first night I saw her? Did I recognise the cunning behind Beauty’s mask? August 1807, the Governor-General’s ball, Oporto. Well before the fall of the Portuguese crown, or the siege of the English colony. She wore capucine silk, and a demi-turban of the same hue. [7] Burnt orange. — Editor’s note. Ravishing, that heated colour entwined in her dark hair, suggestive of the seraglio. One could hardly glimpse her countenance for the sea of gentlemen pressing their suit.”

I had an idea of the scene: a vivid swarm of English and Portuguese, the warmth of August, the mingled scents of sandalwood and tuberose in the humid air. Her cheeks would be flushed with heat and admiration; her gaze, despite the press of other men, would find Lord Harold’s. Were they worthy of each other? Both strong-willed, calculating, careless of opinion? The attachment must be immediate. Did he dance with her that night, under the Iberian moon?

“We were introduced by the Governor-General himself — Sophia simpering at her old friend, allowing her hand to linger a trifle too long in the roué’s paw. He knew my late husband, she told me a little later, in the days when I was happy .”

“She is widowed, then?”

“Three years now, and left with considerable wealth, if the French do not strip her of it. I should judge her at present to be not much older than yourself, Jane — but she has ambitions the like of which should never stir in your quiet breast.”

What would you know, my lord, of a lady’s ambitions?

What can you perceive of Jane? I thought. But I said only:

“You mistrust her — and yet, there is admiration in your voice.”

“Does the hussar respect his opponent, as the sabre whirls overhead?” he demanded impatiently.

“Of course I admire her. Sophia Challoner possesses the wit and courage of a man, honed by a woman’s subtlety.”

“And is it the subtlety you cannot forgive — or the wit, my lord?”

“That is ungenerous.” A spark from those cold grey eyes, disconcertingly akin to anger. He deserted the stern gallery and threw himself into a chair.

“She came to me the morning after the ball, and invited me to tour the Port factory in her phaeton. The late Mr. Challoner, you will comprehend, was a considerable merchant in the trade. His two nephews manage the business on Sophia’s account—”

“She has no children?”

“Challoner was an elderly man when she beguiled him, Sophia no more than seventeen; an early trial of her powers. The nephews, prosperous young men, are divided between admiration of her charms and distrust of her motives. Challoner left all his property — including his business concerns — to

Sophia alone. The nephews, naturally, had lived in expectation of the inheritance.”

“I perfectly comprehend the circumstances.”

“She was utterly charming that morning: entertaining me with good jokes and stories of the Oporto worthies; driving her pair with a competent hand; leading me with authority through the warehouses and the aging casks. I did not perceive it at the time — but she acted by design. She hoped to gain my confidence and, with a little effort, my heart.”

“She had tired of playing the widow?”

“Sophia never plays at anything, Jane — except, perhaps, at love. In all else, she moves with deadly earnest. No, it was not marriage she desired — but intimacy.”

“And is this the full measure of her guilt, my lord? That she presumed to trifle with Lord Harold’s heart?”

“She is guilty of treason, Jane,” he returned harshly. “Nothing more or less than the absolute betrayal of all our trust and hope.”

“That is a perilous charge to level at any Englishwoman.”

“Well do I know it! But I have my proofs. The French instructed Sophia Challoner as to my true purpose in descending upon Oporto. She understood that I was sent to observe the weakening of Portuguese resolve — the betrayal of the Crown’s trust — and the purpose in French guile. She knew that I was in daily communication with the British Government. Her object, in mounting a flirtation, was to pry loose my secrets — and sell them to the Monster.”

“But why, my lord? Why should any child of Britain so betray her duty to the King?”

His gaze darkened. “I do not know. Out of love, perhaps, for a ruthless Frenchman? Or is it mere jealousy that drives me to suspect that the Enemy owns her heart? Does she move me still, though I apprehend what she is? Hell’s teeth, Jane, but I have been a fool!”

He looked so miserable — nay, so shaken in his own confidence — that I grasped his hand tightly in my own. “What have you done, my lord?”

“I have talked when I should not. I have trusted too easily. I have allowed myself to be flattered and deceived.”

“Then you have been a man.”

He lashed me with his eyes. “When I quitted your side in September of 1806, I was in considerable torment.”

I knew that he spoke the truth; I had witnessed his attempt to win the heart of an extraordinary young woman — Lady Harriot Cavendish, second daughter of the Duke of Devonshire. He had failed, and for a time, had disdained Society.

“Sophia, with her considerable arts, perceived how I might be worked upon.” His voice was raw with bitterness. “I was too susceptible; I gradually fell into her thrall. She was — she is —beautiful, possessed of superior understanding, and careless of the world’s opinion. She is also brutal, calculating, and governed solely by interest. If she possesses a heart, I have not found it.”

“And yet — the affair did not endure. Your eyes were opened to her true character?”

“Vimeiro opened them, Jane.”

“Our victory over the French? Was Mrs. Challoner cast into despair?”

“Not at all. Vimeiro was her finest hour! All of England wonders at the easy terms of the armistice: that the French were allowed to depart the field with their lives and goods intact, escorted home in British ships. What the public cannot know is that the dishonourable document, that has proved the ruin of Generals Dalrymple and Burrard, was forged at the insistence — the wiles — the subtle persuasion of Sophia Challoner, who seduced Dalrymple even as she dallied with me!”

“Then it is Dalrymple, my lord, and not yourself who must be called the fool.”

He released my hand and rose restlessly from his chair. “Jane, when I encountered them together, I behaved as a jealous lover. I very nearly called Dalrymple out — nearly killed the man in a duel! — when I should have divined immediately how much the wretch had betrayed.”

“The armistice is over and done these two months at least,” I cried. “Do not goad yourself with painful memories!”

“Do you think that one battle makes a war? Even now, Sir John Moore and the thousands of men under his command await the brutal blow that Marshal Soult must deliver. Moore does not know where Soult is encamped; he must outmaneuver and outmarch a chimera. Intelligence of the Enemy is absolutely vital — as is complete disguise of Moore’s intentions. Can you guess, Jane, what should be the result if our General’s plans were delivered to the French?”

“Is that likely?”

“I live in dread of its occurrence. That is why I have come to Southampton.”

“Leagues upon leagues divide the Channel from the Peninsula, my lord.”

“But the Peninsula’s most potent weapon—

Sophia Challoner — is here, Jane,” he said softly. “She quit Oporto in a Royal Navy convoy this September, and has taken up residence in her late husband’s house.”