Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

The thump of a boot hurled with vicious force thudded against my bedchamber wall; I heard a bell ring at the other end of the hall. My mother was awake, and demanding the most current news; she should be all agog at the flurry of misfortune among our acquaintance. But I could spare the matter only a part of my mind. Frank might be thrashing in the grip of rage; Louisa Seagrave, bound for the Dolphin; her husband, destined for misery — but I intended to appear at an evening party, and must endeavour to be a credit to my family.

Martha Lloyd — ingenious at the trimming of headdresses — had promised to accompany me to Pearson's, the milliner in the High, for a perusal of exotic feathers. A turban must be requisite for a lady of my advancing years: something dignified and imposing, with a swag of braid and a peacock's plume not un-suited to a gown of Prussian blue sarcenet. I fear that I am quite past the age of appearing all in white, regardless of season; such an attitude may be permitted only among pale consumptives or determined vestals, and I have never aspired to either station.

I turned back into my room and pulled my shift over my head, heedless of the draughts.

MY CONSCIENCE WAS NOT SO BEWITCHED BY THE prospect of dissipation, however, that I ignored the duty of sending my card up to Mrs. Seagrave at the Dolphin when Martha and I passed the inn later this morning. I declined to wait, having bade the footman not to disturb the lady; and trusted I should have the pleasure of receiving her in East Street before very long.

“Where is the inquest to be held?” Martha enquired in a voice better suited to the graveyard.

“At the Vine. It is much less public than this place, and the magistrate appears disposed to discretion, at least.”

“Is your brother in any danger?”

I looked at my friend in some surprise. There was that in her voice that suggested the most acute anxiety; and I thought it hardly the disinterested concern of a fellow-lodger. Some remnant of youthful feeling for Frank must survive in Martha's breast; but it should never do to speak of it now.

“Far less than he should be upon the open seas,” I told her easily. “He is a sensible man; he has nothing to hide; and I trust he shall convince every fellow on the panel of his probity and good sense.”

Martha sighed. “For so much of difficulty to come at such a time! With the removal to Castle Square but a fortnight hence — and Mrs. Frank's baby so near its time — and there is the possibility of a ship, I understand? Our Frank may be posted before his wife's childbed? It seems he has been ashore but a few months, and they would be sending him off again! The Navy is governed by brutes and beasts, Jane!”

“I am sure Mrs. Seagrave must believe so,” I said thoughtfully, and stared up at the inn's bow windows.

MARTHA'S SPIRITS SHOWED GRADUAL IMPROVEMENT AS we made our way along the High — stopping here to finger a sprigged muslin, there to abuse a bonnet of atrocious design. The day was clear and bright, almost unnaturally so for February, but sharply cold. We were obliged to enter far more shops than we had originally intended, merely to keep warm. When at last we had all but stripped our purses bare, I proposed a bit of refreshment — and was turning for a pastry shop I knew of, tucked into Butchers' Row, when two small figures huddled on a neighbouring doorstep caught my eye. They were dark-haired, rosy-cheeked, and shuddering from the cold: both well-grown boys, not unfamiliar, and decidedly ill-clothed against the penetrating wind.

“Charles Seagrave! And Edward!” I cried. “You shall both of you catch your deaths!”

Charles, the elder, sprang upright like a jack-in-the-box, his grey eyes wide with relief. “It's the lady who called upon Mum in Lombard Street,” he informed his brother. “When Uncle Walter was there. I have forgot your name,” he admitted doubtfully, “though you know mine.”

“Never admit to such an ignorance before a lady, Charles,” I told him briskly. “It is the worst sort of offence a gentleman may bestow. I am Miss Austen, and this is Miss Lloyd. How do you boys come to be abroad, entirely alone, in such cold weather? Where is Nancy? Surely she attended you from Portsmouth?”

“Nancy is in charge of the baby,” retorted Charles, “and good riddance, so cross as she is!”

Little Edward rose to his feet, his bare fingers thrust under his arms, his lips blue and chattering. “Please, m-m-miss, don't be telling our mum about our lark! She's resting after our journey from P-p-portsmouth, which was bang-up jolly if you ask me — four post horses hired from the G-g-george, and everything prime about 'em! How we ratt-tt-tled along! We made the distance in under two hours!”

“Am I to understand that your mother is as yet ignorant of your absence?” I enquired in an awful tone. “That you are both abroad expressly without permission?”

Martha choked upon what I guessed to be a laugh. The brothers quailed. Charles threw his arm about Edward, as though his thin nankeen jacket might supply the want of warmth in the younger boy's own.

“We only meant to have a look around town,” he protested. “It's our first visit to Southampton! We've been down the High to the Quay, and seen all the ships, and poked our noses into the dockyard — though it's a poor thing indeed compared to Portsmouth's,” he concluded contemptuously.

“Not even Nancy knows of your going?”

He shook his head.

“They shall be all in an uproar at the inn,” murmured Martha beside me.

“We intended to return ages ago!” Edward cried. “Only — we could not find the High once we had visited the bathing machines. We are most dreadfully lost.”

I did not have the heart to tell them that the High Street was but a hundred yards away. Both boys were shivering violently now. Edward looked upon the verge of tears.

“Come along,” I said with a sigh. “Miss Lloyd and I shall treat you to hot chocolate and honey cakes in that pastry shop opposite, while I beg some paper and a messenger of the proprietor.”

Crows of delight interrupted my declaration. I endeavoured to look stern.

“We shall send a note to the Dolphin attesting to your whereabouts and safety — but the very moment your last drop of chocolate is drunk, my fine fellows, it is off to the inn with you and no mistake! You require hot water bottles and warm possets, and you do not wish to die of an inflammation of the lungs.”

Suitably subdued, the boys preceded us into the pastry shop, and commenced to eat with a voracity that suggested young wolves. I secured my paper and pen, and began to compose a note for Louisa Seagrave while Martha kept up a stream of nonsense calculated for the boys' amusement. But not all their talk was of spillikins and hoops, or the dashing naval actions recently reported in the Gazette; little Edward must be constantly reverting to the subject foremost in the boys' minds: the judgement hanging over their father's head.

“Charles and I have determined to run away to sea if Father hangs,” he informed us as he tucked into an apple pasty.

“Edward!” his brother hissed in a quelling tone. Possessing eight years to his brother's six, he was necessarily more cautious, and knew the value of discretion. “They will tell Mum straightaway! Only you mustn't,” he added for our benefit, “for it is our only recourse, as I'm sure you're aware, being of the naval set yourselves. If Father hangs, we shall be tossed overboard in a manner of speaking. I mean to say — no connexions worth having, and no influence with the Admiralty. We shall have to make our way if we mean to advance.”

Martha gazed at Charles doubtfully. “I am sure your father — even supposing the worst should happen, which I do not admit for an instant — would wish you to serve as support for your mother. She should be in ever greater need of you, if she were … alone … in the world.”