Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

“She has recently lost her young son, I understand.”

“Yes. On the ill-fated Stella. I should not touch that ship for a kingdom, once Tom Seagrave is relieved of it — it is unlucky in its very knees! But poor Phoebe. Such grief as she has borne! She seems marked out by Fate.”

“Her looks remind one of Helen of Troy; and I suppose that when one tempts the gods with beauty, all manner of evil may follow.”

Mary Foote sat down beside me on the bench and patted my knee. “I have shown the baby to your Mary. She could hardly be pried from the nursery. I thought perhaps the sight of an infant might inspire her with delight; and that may do much, you know, to banish fears of confinement. We must all suffer them, to be sure, but we should never allow ourselves to be destroyed by them.”

“No indeed,” I replied. “And yet — it is not merely fear for herself. Mary fears for the child as well. So many young things are taken off in an instant! I recently knew of a family — in Derbyshire, where I passed some part of the late summer — that lost all four of its children within a year. Consider such unhappiness!”

“I could not survive it,” Mary Foote said simply.

“But Phoebe Carruthers—”

“Ah, Phoebe. She is possessed of considerable resources. Or perhaps — perhaps it is only a coldness of heart. Young Simon was gone from her for nearly two years, you know, before his death. She had not seen the boy but for a fortnight here or there; and she must certainly have known, as we all do when our men put to sea, that this parting could well be the last.”

“He was not a man,” I observed, “but a litde child. Mrs. Seagrave says—”

“Louisa Seagrave is mad,” declared Mary Foote. “I know what you are going to say — that she refuses to risk her boys to the Navy's care — but some part of her resolve must spring from jealousy.”

“Jealousy? Of Simon Carruthers?”

“Or his mother. It is everywhere known that Mrs. Seagrave believes poor Tom to be in love with Phoebe Carruthers.”

“I see!” I sat a little straighter on my bench. A good deal was suggested to my understanding, most of it conjecture, but none of it implausible. “And is it known whether Mrs. Carruthers returns the Captain's affection?”

“Who can say? Phoebe preserves as perfect a silence as Delphi. One might read anything, or nothing, in her sublime features. But I have seen her several times of late in the company of Sir Francis; and as Sir Francis has lately lost his wife, and is possessed of a considerable fortune — more than ten thousand a year, I am told! — one must regard him as a better prize than a post captain.” She gazed at me reflectively. “Is it true that Lucky Tom was seized and taken to Southampton Gaol?”

“Indeed,” I assured her. “My brother visited him there today. Captain Seagrave is very low, as should not be extraordinary.”

“And his wife has put up at the Dolphin, I understand. Edward fell in with her in the High Street at the very moment she was descending from her carriage. He says the little boys are fine fellows!” This last was said with a wistful air; for all her pregnancies, Mary had produced nothing but girls.

“Very fine,” I returned with some amusement, “and despite their present trials, undiminished in both spirits and appetite.”

“You've paid a call, then?” Mrs. Foote enquired sharply.

“I left my card at the Dolphin this morning,” I said, “but did not like to disturb Mrs. Seagrave. She must be involved in all the chaos of unpacking, for herself and three children; there are the servants to think of, and the ordering of dinner. But I shall certainly call tomorrow. She will require the support of many at such an hour.”

Mary Foote sighed. “Then I must go as well, I suppose — though I am sure Louisa Seagrave has never warranted much attention from the naval set! We must consider it a kindness on behalf of Tom. For my part, I never believed him a murderer. I made the poor fellow quite a cause among my acquaintance! I shall look a fool, now — for of course the magistrate should never be wrong.”

“I am afraid that magistrates are quite often wrong, Mary. Do not abandon your hero yet.”

“Very well. But I depend upon you, Jane, for all the latest intelligence. If I am to look a fool, it were as well I should be prepared.” She rose, and held out her hand. “The lion has gone, and taken his prize with him; so let us venture your acquaintance once more. I would not see those plumes wasted cm my back passage, Jane. Martha would never forgive me.”

Saturday,

28 February 1807,

OUR HACK CHAISE WAS THE FIRST TO ARRIVE AT THE Footes' door, once the carriages were summoned — a testament to its driver's impatience, one must assume, or the penetrating cold. Frank handed in his wife, then Martha, and then myself. When we were all settled, and Mary had begun an animated discussion of baby Elizabeth's manifold charms, to which Martha kindly attended, I asked Frank softly, “What do you know of Phoebe Carruthers?”

He started; perhaps he had hoped to doze on the journey home. “No more than anyone may know. She was orphaned early, and worked as a governess, I believe — in a very wealthy household somewhere to the north. There was threat of a scandal — an attachment on the part of the eldest son — that led to her dismissal. She married Hugh Carruthers not long thereafter. He was her cousin, you see.”

“She is very beautiful.”

Frank glanced at his wife sidelong, but Mary remained insensible. “If you like that proud, untouchable look — yes, I suppose that she is.”

“Louisa Seagrave observed that all of Southampton was at Mrs. Carruthers's feet. 'Even Thomas', she said, and then broke off.”

“Did she?” enquired Frank with quickness. “They have been acquainted some years. Hugh Carruthers was a great friend of Seagrave's, I believe, and when he was killed by a ball aboard the Témérairt, nearly two years since, Tom undertook to give young Simon a step.”

“Perhaps his esteem for Captain Carruthers now extends to his widow. Certainly Louisa Seagrave believes as much.”

“You imagine her to harbour envy of Phoebe Carruthers? But she seemed to grieve so deeply for the boy!”

“Louisa Seagrave grieves for herself,” I returned tardy, “and for the loss of an amiable marriage. She spoke of Mrs. Carruthers with pity, for the death of her son; that death must justify Mrs. Seagrave's refusal to send her boys to sea. She was unstinting, however, in her abuse of her husband for having showered young Carruthers with affection — at the expense of his own children.”

Frank whistled sharply between his teeth. “She regards the woman in the nature of a rival.”

“Mrs. Foote declares that it is so.”

“What Mary Foote professes to know, all the world must see is truth,” muttered my brother. “You suspect Mrs. Carruthers as the lady Tom Seagrave would shield? The lady in the case, as you put it?”

“He did say, with some bitterness, that he might better have remained at home for all the good he achieved Wednesday evening. What if he rode out to Southampton — not with the intent of murdering Chessyre, but of calling upon Phoebe Carruthers?”

“—Whom we know to have been occupied with Sir Francis Farnham in French Street,” Frank cried.

“For at least the first of three acts.”

“And so Tom, in finding her from home, suffered a disappointment!”

“Or arrived at her door in time to make the acquaintance of her latest escort.”

“Then it is a wonder it was not Sir Francis found with a garotte about his neck,” Frank supplied.