Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

I raised my brows at this, but elicited not the slightest notice.

Tethering required an explanation for the presence of my card among the man's things, and I told him that I had called upon Chessyre at the Dolphin during the course of Tuesday morning. I fancy he already knew as much. What he hoped to learn was the substance of my express to Tom Seagrave.”

“And did you disclose it?” I asked.

Frank hesitated. “I had no choice, Jane. Pethering warned me that he shall soon call a coroner's panel to enquire into Chessyre's death; and I shall be forced to give evidence. I could not very well lie to the man in my own home.”

“You might have pled the constraints of honour, and purchased your friend a few more hours!” I protested. “The magistrate now knows what the Frenchman saw. And what he saw is motivation for murder enough!”

“What Frenchman?” Mary cried, bewildered.

“I am done with preserving Tom Seagrave!” Frank retorted. “He has not been open; he guards all in a cloud of secrecy; he impugns the disinterest of his friends. It is not enough that I should be suspected of dangling for a ship; I must now be expected to lie for him! I wonder you can suggest it, Jane!”

My brother rose, and quitted the room with a bang of the door. Mary stared after him in perplexity.

“Frank is to have a ship} Why did he say nothing of this to me?”

“Perhaps we should start with the Frenchman,” I sighed.

Friday,

27 February 1807,

I AWOKE NOT LONG AFTER SEVEN O'CLOCK TO THE SOUND of a fist hammering at the front door.

My ears strained through the dawn stillness for the issue of so much commotion — caught the tramp of sleep-dulled feet along Mrs. Davies's lower passage — the murmur of conversation — the thud of the heavy oak. There was an instant's silence, and then the same ponderous tread of a woman long past her prime, mounting the steps and making for my brother's bedchamber.

Another express. From Portsmouth, perhaps?

Mrs. Davies would not be pleased to have lost her final hour of rest in the presentation of Captain Austen's mail.

I threw back the bedclothes and stretched my warm feet to the cold drugget. There was little point in attempting further sleep; I had tossed throughout the night, my dreams consumed by a dimly-lit room and the glittering, half-opened eyes of a whispering Frenchman. There was something he meant to tell me — some message he sought to convey — but either the noise in my head was too great for hearing, or his French was become suddenly unintelligible. I could not make out the sense of his words.

Must I always translate for you? Etienne LaForge enquired wearily. Chessyre is dead. I shall not long survive him.

I drew my dressing gown about my shoulders. The palest light seeped through the clouded windows; a bank of heavy fog pressed down upon the house. It was an hour for lying curled in a huddle of warm blankets; but I could not be easy in my mind. The Frenchman's words haunted me. Was I a fool to accord such weight to the spectres of fancy? Perhaps in my younger days I might have shrugged off this nocturnal warning; but the wages of experience are caution. I have learned that what waking thought may not penetrate, the slumbering mind will illumine. I am hardly the first to credit the notion — the English language is replete with aphorisms that would urge a troubled soul to retire with worry, and find comfort in the dawn. For are we not “such stuff / As dreams are made on, and our little life / Is rounded with a sleep”? [17] Shakespeare, The Tempest, act IV, scene 1, line 148. — Editors note.

Chessyre is dead. I shall not long survive him.

I twitched back the curtains and strained to make out the street below. My eyes have never been strong, and in the grey light every outline was indistinct; but even I could not mistake the horse and rider lingering there. The express messenger had been instructed to wait. His mount snorted and tossed its head; its breath showed white in the frigid air. At that moment, I caught the sound of my brother's door bursting open, and the quick light race of his feet along the passage. The reply, then, would be urgent. I must dress and discover what intelligence was come before Frank entirely quitted the house.

I let fall the curtain and broke the thin layer of ice in my ewer. I avoided the image of my own face in the glass; the persistent cold in my head could not improve my looks, and its effects were most determined before breakfast One could only hope that by this evening's party at Captain Foote's the swelling of my nose would have diminished. The view of a lady's complexion by candlelight, in any case, is vastly to be preferred to the glare of day.

“Jane!” My brother's voice came quick and cutting beyond the door. “Are you awake?”

“Of course.” I admitted him immediately. “What news, Frank — good or bad?”

“The magistrate has called the inquest into Chessyre's death for nine o'clock this morning. Tom Seagrave shall be in Southampton within the hour.”

“Oh, no! Poor Louisa!”

“I understand she intends to remove with her children to Southampton, the better to observe her husband's misery. It was she who drafted this letter; I must suppose that Tom did not wish to seek my aid. His wife shows less of injury, and more of sense. I replied that I shall endeavour to secure her accommodation at the Dolphin.”

So Louisa Seagrave had determined to decline Lady Temple ton's offer, and the funeral party in Kent. There was little enough of choice remaining to such a woman, I thought: an interval among relations one could not love, or the prospect of a husband's public disgrace. Either event should involve her in consuming shame; so proud a creature must be prey to every mortification. Dr. Wharton's Comfort should be sought all too often in the coming days.

“I shall leave my card at the Dolphin this morning,” I said thoughtfully. “She must receive every consideration at such a time. It seems hard in us to abandon her to solitude this evening — but I do not like to give up the party at the Footes', even in so persuasive a cause. We go out so little during the winter months — and Mary has looked forward to it so.”

“Devil take Louisa Seagrave!” Frank retorted savagely. “She may sit in contemplation of her disloyalty to Tom, and see whether she finds reason to blame herself for his present fate. Had she told the magistrate that her husband was at home Wednesday night—”

“She should have perjured herself without improving his chances,” I interrupted with equanimity. “Do not make her the proxy for your own unhappy conscience, my dear.”

The door to my brother's bedchamber slammed harshly in reply. From the floor below came the clang of an iron pan and the first heavy odours of bacon fat and boiling coffee; our faithful Jenny should be gone in search of fresh rolls.

Frank's furious voice shouted for hot water — and then like the strain of an uncertain bird, came Mary's placating tone. I pitied them both. Frank must regard himself as in some wise responsible for his friend's debacle. He had told Seagrave that which should make him murderously angry; and he had given Percival Pethering all that was required to clap the man in chains.

Frank would certainly attend the inquest; but I should be spared the discomfort. I had played no part in the body's discovery, I had witnessed nothing that must be disclosed, and I will confess that I felt consuming relief. I had no love for a coroner's panel — they are, in my experience, the product of haste and officiousness, spurred by information that is at best incomplete and, at worst, mendacious. In the present case, I could wager on the unhappy outcome. This should be Tom Seagrave's last day of liberty.