Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

Beside them, in the closest conversation, stood a man I recognised from his bold dark brows and his broad shoulders. Sir Francis Farnham, last glimpsed at the theatre in French Street, on the most intimate terms with David Lance. It should not be extraordinary; Lance had once been a prosperous merchant with the Honourable East India Company, and Sir Francis was something to do with the Navy Board. The two services were thick as thieves, my brother had always said. Frank had carried gold bullion for the Company himself on at least one occasion — a venture not strictly legal, but rich in its recompense and repeated so often in naval practise as to seem mundane. The Honourable Company depended upon Navy protection for its valuable convoys of merchant ships; and at times, in certain parts of the world, the Navy used Indiamen for the transport of men or victuals.

“Frank,” I breathed to my brother as he approached, in excellent humour for the first time in days, “what exactly did you say was Sir Francis Farnham's post?”

“Farnham is Civil Administrator of the Transport Board,” Frank replied. “He must spend a devilish amount of time in hiring merchant ships. The Navy uses them, you know, for the transport of goods and seamen. I expect that is why Sir Francis is in such close converse with Mr. Lance.”

“Yes,” I replied, “but it is Sir Francis I mean to speak to.”

Frank's attention was claimed by a man in the uniform of a first lieutenant. Martha Lloyd appeared in the doorway, a trifle flushed from the exertion of climbing the Highfield House stairs. I motioned to her to join me.

“Courage, Martha. I espy a difficult acquaintance, and you know that we must pay our respects.”

“Oh, Lord,” she breathed. “Not the Lances! Why must they be so very grand? I do not wonder poor Mr. Lance hesitates to be seen in his brother's company. It is too great a mortification for so modest a man.”, The “poor Mr. Lance” to whom she referred was a highly respectable gentleman of the Church — an old Hampshire acquaintance, and possessed of a living in our former neighbourhood of Netherton. It was through our good Mr. Lance that we had met the bad Lances, as we sometimes referred to them; for the clergyman's younger brother had gone off, in his youth, to India, and had made such a fortune there as Mr. Henry Fielding's novels satirise. He had married his partner's sister upon his return to England. The two possessed at least four children, all of them exceedingly delicate. They presided over a vast place known as Chissel House about a mile out of Southampton on the Bitterne side. David Lance is as keen as his name, and I will confess that I admired his wit and calculation; but I could not like his wife.

Frank and I had paid a call on Mrs. Lance some weeks previous. It was clear that she was rich — and that she liked being rich; and as we are very far from being so, she has determined that we are quite beneath her notice. She displayed her enormous pianoforte, and the view of her grounds, which are known hereabouts as Lance's Hill; and these two duties done, was entirely without conversation.

Martha grasped my arm. “Remember your feathers,” she instructed. “They shall never shame you, at least.”

We advanced upon the sopha; the gentlemen were engrossed in conversation. Mrs. Lance bestowed a distant nod, but failed to vouchsafe a greeting or evidence that she recalled my name or visage. Martha boldly advanced to claim acquaintance, and to talk in animated spirits of our good Mr. Lance; I curtseyed, and strained to overlisten the gentlemen's conversation.

“… signal flags certainly are an immense improvement upon the usual speed of such …”

“… understand these signals might be changed for purposes of encoding …”

“… entirely secure … hardly subject to …”

Far from discussing vital matters of transport with the Honourable Company, Sir Francis was launched upon his favourite subject of swift communication. Mr. Lance was most attentive; but at that moment he happened to glance around — happened to catch my eye— and bowed most handsomely.

“Miss Austen!” he cried. “You should never wear any colour but that. It becomes you exceedingly.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lance,” I replied. “I find the shade encourages me to boldness when I most require it. Like the peacock, I carry my feathers forward when I should prefer to retreat.”

He gave a swift look about the assembly. “I had not realised Foote's drawing-room was a battlefield! Whom would you tilt at?”

“Your friend, Sir Francis Farnham,” I replied promptly, with an inclination of the head at that gentleman, who stared at me sardonically from his black eyes. “Though we are as yet unacquainted, I confess I have yearned to speak with him for some time, on the subject of prisoners of war. The Transport Board is responsible, I believe, for the care of the French? Or should I say — irresponsible? “

“Let me fetch you a glass of claret, Miss Austen,” cried David Lance with a gallant attempt to lead me away. “I am sure that you require refreshment. The heat of the room—”

“Stay, Lance,” commanded Sir Francis. His imperious eyes had never wavered from my face. “I should like to hear the lady's concerns. It is because of the French I am come to Southampton, after all.”

David Lance looked from Sir Francis's set face to my own, which I imagine must have been flushed with the ardour of my thoughts. He took a step backwards. “Very well. I should never come between opponents on the battlefield. Tilt away, Miss Austen!”

I lifted my chin, and with it, my feathered turban. Martha drew a sharp breath at my side, as though she intended to dissuade me; she had not bargained for dispute when she agreed to meet the Lances. I squeezed her gloved hand in a gesture that has always commanded silence.

“Am I right in believing I have the honour of addressing some relation of Captain Austen?” Sir Francis enquired, with ponderously calculated formality.

“There are two captains of that name — my brothers Frank and Charles.”

“I am acquainted with the former. He commanded the Sea Fencibles, I believe, some years ago — and was stationed in Ramsgate. But presently he undertakes a very different duty, I understand. The defence of rogues and murderers.”

“My brother is a steadfast friend, sir,” I returned tardy.

“It has often been observed that one may know a man by the company he keeps.”

I gestured around the Footes' close drawing-room. “Then you may learn in a single evening at Highfield House all you wish to know. My brother is perfectly acquainted with three-quarters of the party.”

“His great friend Tom Seagrave, however, is not present. I understand the Captain was thrown into gaol this morning. It is a wonder he did not land there years since. Has your brother visited Gaoler's Alley?”

“He has. The support of a friend is no less a duty when it is afforded little respect, Sir Francis.”

“It must call into question Captain Austen's judgement, however,” Sir Francis observed. He had a broad smile on his supple mouth; he bent his broad shoulders attentively my way. Anyone in observing us would consider Sir Francis the most delightful of men, a true paragon of the Fashionable Set — and so attentive to the poor spinster with the ill-judged plumes. “I imagine the Admiralty will be forced to review their opinion of Captain Austen. They will wish to revise their estimate of his probity.”

“I have every confidence in my brother, sir — as I have in Captain Seagrave's innocence.”

“I shall take that as the most ardent recommendation of each man's worth, ma'am.” He bowed, and made as if to turn away — but that I reached without hesitation for his sleeve.