Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

“Pray enlighten me, Sir Francis, regarding an Admiralty matter that does happen to fall within your purview. Why are French prisoners, though no less men than ourselves, housed in such miserable conditions that they die of want and disease?”

My voice had risen with my passion for the subject; conversations all around me fell away and ceased. Sir Francis regarded me with one eyebrow quizzically raised. I drew breath, and blundered on.

“Surely we would not wish for British soldiers and seamen to be treated so abominably! If we cannot secure expeditious exchanges in the dead of the winter months, then we must ensure that the sick and wounded are placed in the naval hospitals at Greenwich or Portsmouth.”

“Are you fond of causes, Miss Austen?” he enquired with a curl of his lip.

“Only when I discern injustice, Sir Francis.”

He set down his wineglass with a care that suggested his temper was under tight rein. “I wonder that you dare to broach such a subject in the home of a naval officer. Those men you speak of so tenderly would as soon kill Captain Foote, and every other man in this house, as kiss your pretty hand.”

Most of the naval set was utterly engrossed, now, by our spirited scene. I felt my cheeks grow warmer.

“The men I have seen are in no condition to stand,” I replied evenly. “Indeed, there is one man at least who may not survive the night, he is in so wretched a condition; and he is a gentleman of some learning, too — a naval physician.”

“Ah.” Sir Francis risked a sneer. “There is a gentleman in the case. I should have suspected as much.”

I flushed hotly. “You are impertinent, sir! Were my brother — a post captain in the Royal Navy — to end a prisoner in France, I should devoutly hope that he might receive better care than a Frenchman on these shores. Our care for the Enemy must stand as a testament of our government's humanity, despite the brutality of war. It ought, it must, to serve as example to the Monster in France, that English subjects are possessed of hearts!”

“Here, here!” cried Cecilia Braggen. She had advanced upon the conversation. “Are you plaguing Sir Francis about Wool House, then? Well done, Miss Austen! The conditions are a positive disgrace, and Sir Francis should know it.”

The gentleman's expression shifted suddenly, from one of wooden tolerance — of indulgent impatience — to that of fleeting contempt.

“I have been to Wool House,” he replied, “so recently as yesterday. It was to view Wool House that I came to Southampton. I agree that the conditions are dreadful; I have already ordered that the men should be removed to Greenwich, and turned over to the care of the naval hospital. They shall be conveyed thither on the morrow. And now, ladies, if you would allow me to conduct my Board as I see fit — and as I am far more capable of doing than yourselves — I should be greatly in your debt.”

He turned his back and strode across the room without another word, so that I was left with scarlet cheeks and a desire to flee Highfield House that instant. When would I learn to govern my hasty tongue?

“I wonder what Mrs. Carruthers can be thinking,” observed Cecilia Braggen reprovingly. “To set her cap at such a man — vulgar, intolerant, and contemptuous as he is! I do not care how great his family was, or how considerable his late wife's fortune! He ought to be thanking us for the benevolence of our activity — for the sacrifice of our men, nearly every day! He ought to know what he owes the naval set!”

Curiosity overcame my mortification — I glanced up, and saw that Sir Francis indeed stood by Phoebe Carruthers's side. She wore tonight a gown similar to the one she had displayed in French Street — severe in its lines, untrimmed except for a frogging of black braid across the bodice — but her form was so magnificent, she might as well wear sacking and the world should cry admiration. She was speaking to Sir Francis in the most urgent tone, her eyes flitting from his countenance to my side of the drawing-room. Was it possible she understood a little of the scene that had occurred, and wished to know the particulars?

The golden beauty inclined her head to something Sir Francis said. Her countenance was unreadable; serene, or perhaps persistent in its coldness. And then her gaze came up to meet mine with an unfathomable look: nothing of humour or pain, neither wonder nor penetration. It was as though a wax doll had turned its painted eyes upon me. I shuddered, and at that instant Phoebe Carruthers's lips curled in the spectre of a smile.

Thanks to the efforts of his sister, Frank should never get his fast frigate now, I had made the name of Austen a laughingstock at the Navy Board; and the story would no doubt travel directly to the Admiralty.

“It is most improper,” persisted Cecilia Braggen, without guarding her tone. “She should not appear in public — a lady in her circumstances. And the poor little fellow not two months gone!”

“You see, Miss Austen, I am as good as my word — I have fetched you a glass of claret.” David Lance was kindly affecting insensibility to my confusion. He bowed slightly as he offered me the wine. “If I may be so bold as to comment — you might have chosen a more suitable adversary. Sir Francis is renowned for his harsh manners. Your feathers deserved greater consideration.”

I murmured a few words of thanks — half apology, half dismissal — and suffered an added blow at the sight of Mrs. Lance over her husband's shoulder. She was tapping her fan against her palm in a considering sort of way, and her smile was everything of contempt and derision.

“JANE,” SAID MARY FOOTE. “I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU suffer from the head-ache. Should you like to lie down upon my bed for a little?”

I had seated myself on a bench nicely screened by two large plants, in a passage just off the dining parlour. There, with a glass of lemonade and a biscuit I could not swallow, I might recover my spirits and my courage.

“You are too good,” I told her, “but I shall soon be perfectly well. I suffer from an excess of folly, Mary, not head-ache — though the one may certainly bring on the other.”

“We all admire the work you have done at Wool House.” Her voice was gentle. “Admiral Bertie has been talking of nothing else. He tells us that you certainly have saved more than one life, Jane. Mr. Hill, the surgeon, cannot do without you.”

“I fear poor Mr. Hill will pass a heavy night. One man was close to death when I left him this afternoon. We may regard this as the spur to my passionate plea, and dismiss the whole as a woman's hysterics.” I looked up from my dry biscuit. “I may fault Sir Francis's manners, but must grant him a certain perspicacity. The French are to be conveyed to the hospital in Greenwich tomorrow. Sir Francis Farnham has disposed of my trouble, and I may retire from the field.”

“Sir Francis Farnham has just quitted the house,” she observed, “and taken Mrs. Carruthers with him; that is all I know of advance and retreat. It was quite an honour that he came, to be sure — but we much prefer the company of our friends. Never doubt your welcome in this house, Jane. I should vastly prefer your company to a thousand Phoebe Carrutherses. She is delightful to look at, of course — but she has no conversation!”

“I have never tried her talents in that way. We have never met. I had hoped to make her acquaintance this evening — but that must have been impossible.” I recollected the coldness of her looks; I must be accounted among those she would henceforth cut direct.

“It is a fearful crush,” Mary Foote observed naively. “I had no notion we had invited so many! I suppose Edward was busily commanding the presence of some, while I secured others. But I do not think either of us thought to send a card to Mrs. Carruthers. We assumed she was too deep in mourning. It must be that Sir Francis brought her.”.