Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

“Tell me, are any of the Manon's crew imprisoned there?” she enquired.

“There were lately four,” I replied. My thoughts sprang to Etienne LaForge. If Sir Francis Farnham was somehow embroiled in Chessyre's scheme — if Phoebe Carruthers had lured the Lieutenant to his death — they would both be aware of the Frenchman's evidence at court-martial. Why, then, consult with me?

“One man died of gaol-fever, another is gravely ill, and all have been removed at Sir Francis Farnham's instruction to a prison hulk moored in Southampton Water,” Frank supplied.

“Removed? By Sir Francis?”

The careful composure of her features was entirely torn. Her countenance evidenced shock. She stood, and moved restlessly towards the fire; grasped the mantel an instant in a desire for support — or suppressed anger — then turned, and regained her seat. When her gaze fell upon us once more, her looks were under management. The serenity of her features was as a lake no stone could ripple.

“You were not aware of the amendment,” I said. “I had supposed that being acquainted with Sir Francis, you might have known all he intended.”

“Sir Francis shares nothing, Miss Austen,” she said carefully. “He prefers to dispose of people's lives rather than consult them. I had expressed a wish to speak with the men of the Manon, and he has deliberately thwarted my ambition.”

“I see.” She had betrayed none of this bitterness while in the gentleman's company.

Phoebe Carruthers leaned forward. “You have moved among them — the prisoners at Wool House. You have heard them talk among themselves. You speak French, I think?”

“A little.”

Her lips worked painfully, and then the words came. “Do any of the French say how my poor son died? Was the shot that killed him deliberately fired? Were they so heartless as to strike down a child — so that his body was dashed upon the decks? … Oh, God, when I think of his father!”

She put her head in her hands and wept with a brutal abandon. Frank went to her instantly, and placed his arm about her heaving shoulders; I snatched up a vinaigrette that stood on Mary's work table, and offered it in vain.

“Tea, ma'am,” said Jenny stoically from the doorway; and I motioned her towards the dining table. She set down the tray, poured out a cup, and proffered it wordlessly to Phoebe Carruthers.

The lady lifted her streaming face and accepted the tea gratefully. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I should not have so far forgot myself. It is just that this fresh blow is like a wound reopened, and curved more deeply than before. It was tragedy enough to lose Hugh — but Simon! He was such a bright and beautiful boy. Seagrave always said—”

Her words broke off; she sipped at her tea. The struggle for serenity was more obvious this time … and far less successful.

“I know nothing of how your son died,” I told her gently. “It was not a subject I felt authorised to raise in Wool House.”

“I quite understand. It was foolish of me to enquire.”

Frank cleared his throat. “Mrs. Carruthers — you did no wrong in sending your son to sea. That was what his father would have wished, I am sure.”

“My late husband would not have sent the boy aloft at such a time, in battle — he should have secured the child in his cabin. I must reproach myself for having entrusted the boy to Thomas Seagrave. I had not understood, at the time, what was vicious in Captain Seagrave's character. It was enough for me that he was Hugh's friend.”

“They were long acquainted, I think?” Frank said.

“From midshipmen. I cannot remember a time when I did not know Tom Seagrave — he was almost a brother to Hugh. I have loved him as one, I know; but all that must be past.”

She uttered the words without a blush. Whatever the naval set might suspect of Seagrave's attentions to Mrs. Carruthers, she betrayed not the slightest sensibility.

“You must not blame Seagrave,” Frank said earnestly. “His present troubles aside, I believe Tom to be as good a man, and as honourable in his profession, as ever lived. The misfortunes attendant upon his engagement with the Manon are too many to name; but do not forget get that your son spent nearly two years in Seagrave's keeping, and thrived.”

“I know it.” She summoned that ghostly smile I had glimpsed on her lips the previous evening. “How Simon loved that ship! He was always his father's child— haunting the seawalls and the quays, intent upon every anchorage. I could no more deny him a berth than I could cease to breathe. And I did regard Tom Seagrave — before I learned of his capacity for murder.”

She shuddered.

Was this another calculated ploy? A deliberate subterfuge, from a lady who had enticed a man to his death?

“We had a glimpse of you on Wednesday night,” I said carelessly, as though to change the tenor of the conversation. “In French Street, at the theatre. How did you like Mrs. Jordan? “

“Exceedingly,” she replied. “Her antics spared me the necessity of conversation. Sir Francis had only just descended upon the town, and was most pressing in his invitation — I could not bear to entertain him in Bugle Street, where I lodge, and thus resorted to the theatre.”

She endeavoured to make it plain she did not like the Baronet's attentions. I wondered at her energy in expressing so personal a sentiment, to a relative stranger; and thought the hint of design was in her words.

“How unfortunate, then, that you were obliged to quit the place after the first act,” observed Frank engagingly. “We had intended to force acquaintance on Sir Francis at the interval, and were denied the privilege.”

Mrs. Carruthers's nostrils flared. “I found that I was unequal to the effort of appearing in public. It is a strain, you understand, to parade as though one is insensible to grief — as though every word and look must not inspire the most painful recollections! I begged to be quit of the crowd at the first opportunity, and Sir Francis obliged me in this.”

“How unfortunate! And so you fled one frying pan, only to end in the fire!”

Her delicate brows curled in perplexity. “I do not understand you, Miss Austen.”

I cast a look of amusement at my brother. “To bid Sir Francis adieu, only to find Tom Seagrave at the door!”

“I did not know the Captain was in Bugle Street,” she replied steadily. “He left no card. It is as well we failed to meet; I have not seen him since Simon's death, and might have uttered reproaches I should regret. Though Captain Seagrave may carry Simon on his conscience until he dies, I should not wish to carry him on mine.

“And one might expect the two men to come to blows,” I added sympathetically. “Thank Heaven you were spared such a scene.”

For the first time, her complexion lost some of its colour. “To blows? Sir Francis and Captain Seagrave? What could you possibly suggest, Miss Austen?”

“From something Sir Francis said last night, I gathered that he holds the Captain in low regard.”

“That is hardly singular. All of Southampton might say the same.”

“But Sir Francis is not of Southampton, Mrs. Carruthers. Has he any cause for so pronounced a dislike? Some professional discourtesy, perhaps, on Seagrave's part?”

“None that I know of.”

“Then perhaps he merely thinks to support your grief, and your sentiments.”

For the length of several heartbeats, Phoebe Carruthers said nothing. Her green gaze held my own. Then she set down her cup. “Sir Francis is not always the perfect master of his temper, Miss Austen, as you have reason to know. He is often betrayed into speech he may regret. He is a man of great passions and considerable jealousies, and may imperfectly understand the circumstances of those around him.”