Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

“—and you are a decade junior to Martha Lloyd,” she returned impatiently, “yet you do not suffer her to treat you as anything but her equal in sense and experience. I am sure that it was always so, when you were but four years of age and she fourteen! You have never allowed anyone to regard your opinions as of little account, Jane. Confess that it is true — and accord me the same privilege you have always seized for yourself.”

“Very well.” I sank down upon the foot of my bed. “I shall tell you that you have every right to worry, and to remain sleepless. Frank's behaviour is abominable. He should have considered of your feelings, and sent a boy with a note, long since. You have my permission to scold him roundly when he reappears.”

“Scold him — Lord, how can I? He is only a man, and must behave as any man would.” She took a turn upon the carpet, unable to meet my eyes. “I simply expected— that is, I hoped … we have been so happy, despite the suddenness of this child — but he is restless, turned on shore. My mother warned me how it would be.”

“How what would be?” I enquired, bewildered.

”It is always the same with the Navy,” Mother said. 'They cannot keep their breeches on.' Those were her only words of congratulation, Jane, when I pledged myself to Frank.”

“Forgive me, Mary, but your mother is a fool.” I raised a hand to forestall her protests. “Frank may be a post captain, with all the glories and perfidies attendant upon that rank, and all the dubious practise of a lifetime spent at sea; but I would remind you that he was known in Ramsgate as the captain who knelt in church. Do not let the fears of the dark hours cloud your judgement Frank has hardly sought solace in another's arms.”

“Then why would not he disclose his business?”

I drew her down to sit beside me, and felt her trembling — with anger, or cold? The air in the room was quite chill, and I wished for the means to kindle a good fire; but that was several hours distant, at least. All Frank required to entirely lose patience with me, was that Mary should fall ill as the result of her night's walk. He should not hesitate to blame the French of Wool House, Cecilia Braggen, and Mr. Hill together. I must get her back to bed at any cost.

“Frank learned some distressing news while visiting in Portsmouth,” I began. If Mary's understanding demanded respect, and a degree of trust in keeping with her position, then I ought to accord her both. “A fellow captain, a man Frank has known from his earliest years in the service, is to appear before a court-martial Thursday on a charge of murder. Frank is seeking intelligence on his friend's behalf. He hopes to clear his colleague. It is nothing less than this honourable purpose that has drawn him from home tonight — and no strumpet's charms. You must endeavour to think better of him, Mary, than your mother does.”

“Court-martial? On a charge of murder?” Mary's brow cleared. “Surely you do not refer to Captain Seagrave?”

“I do,” I replied, astonished. “Has Frank told you of his misfortune?”

“Not a word. I was not aware that Frank was acquainted with Lucky Tom. But you must know that the Stella's engagement with the Manon is the talk of the Navy! I have heard of nothing else, all February. Mary Foote is never done speaking of it; but she is quite the Captain's warmest advocate, and must insist he could never kill an enemy in cold blood. She is one of the few naval wives who do?

“And what do the rest say?”

“As much, or as little, as any party of women with their husbands' interest to divide them.” Mary glanced at me sidelong. “Some are moved by malice, others by jealousy, and still others by satisfaction at seeing the Captain's luck turn.”

“You would imply, I imagine, that they dislike Seagrave's wife — and rejoice in her misfortune. Louisa Seagrave intimated as much, when I spoke with her Monday.”

“You met Mrs. Seagrave?' Mary's curiosity succeeded where all my words of comfort could not, in dispelling her anxiety for her husband. “She actually consented to receive you?”

“Is such behaviour so extraordinary in a naval wife?”

“Quite the contrary. But Louisa Seagrave has never comported herself as a matron of Portsmouth, nor sought the company of those who do. She has a reputation for oddity, Jane. Mary Foote declares that she is going mad.”

Mad. Was that the trouble I had glimpsed in the confectioner's shop — the trembling hands, the distracted air, the refuge sought in a medicinal draught? Was the brilliant Louisa Seagrave unsound in her mind?

“I wonder that Frank did not tell me of his friendship with the Captain,” Mary mused to herself. “He is grown so secretive this winter.”.

I hesitated. What could, and should, be revealed? Nothing of the possible posting to the frigate — for Frank seemed determined to refuse it, were Seagrave to hang. “He did not wish to disturb your thoughts, Mary, when you have so much else to occupy you. The move to Castle Square, the infant's arrival—”

“And this is naval business, and therefore the province of men,” she concluded resignedly. “Has it ever occurred to you to wonder, Jane, why men insist on taking the full burden of their work and families entirely upon themselves?”

“Recall, my dear, that Frank has spent the past twenty years in living solely for himself,” I replied gently. “He has been a solitary fellow, and the business of sharing a life is entirely new to him. Give him time. Once your husband is again at sea, you will be positively overwhelmed with the duties you are expected to undertake.”

“I suppose you are right. But it galls me to learn, Jane, that he is disturbed in spirit on behalf of his friend — and could not feel it right to confide in me.”

Choosing, instead, his sister, I thought, for the long passage down the Solent. Yes, I see how it is.

Mary looked me full in the face. “Does Frank believe that Seagrave will hang?”

“He is doing everything in his power to ensure the reverse.”

“Then he is the first of my acquaintance to do as much.”

“In what manner has Seagrave offended the Navy, to garner so considerable a contempt?” I asked her.

“He has taken more prizes than other men, and not solely among the French.” I caught the ghost of a smile in the darkness. “It is said that Tom Seagrave is one of those sailors, Jane, who cannot keep his breeches on — and the Service cannot forgive him for it. There is such a thing as too much luck.”

“I see,” I replied. And considered anew the reputed madness of Lucky Tom's wife.

FRANK WAS CERTAINLY RETURNED, AND IN ADMIRABLE frame, when I descended to the breakfast parlour before eight o'clock. He had shaved, and changed yesterday's shirt for a fresh; his uniform coat was brushed and his shoe buckles polished.

“Well?” I enquired from the doorway. “Did you discover the sinister lieutenant?”

“Neither hide nor hair,” he replied cheerfully. “The fellow has done a bunk. I regard Seagrave's innocence as accomplished, Jane — for you cannot have a charge of murder, nor yet a court-martial, without you call a witness; and I cannot find that Chessyre is in Hampshire.”

“Perhaps he has taken passage on an Indiaman,” I said idly, “and hopes to make his fortune without recourse to hanging.”

“Should you like some coffee?”

“Tea, I think, against the morning. You disturbed Mary last night, Frank, with your prolonged absence; I hope she is well?”

“Sleeping yet.” He consumed a bit of bacon. “I confess I had no intention of being gone so long. I went round to the Dolphin directly I quitted this house, but was told that Chessyre was out. When I had cooled my heels a full half-hour, the Dolphin's proprietor — a man by the name of Fortescue, Jane, you must recall him, with a stooped back and a balding pate — suggested I might discover my man in a particular establishment near the Quay, one apparently more to his liking.”