Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

“But he shall believe Monsieur LaForge is dead,” I pointed out.

“He'll hear as much,” said Hawkins grimly, “but don't you be certain, ma'am, as he'll believe the same, without the sight of the corpus in his own eyes. If you wish to safeguard the mon-sewer's life, you could do worse than to trust Giles Sawyer.”

“Giles Sawyer?” said my brother blankly.

“He's a coffin-builder in the town, Cap'n, and a rare mate o' mine. He'd be sailing with the Hearts of Oak still, if it weren't for Boney having taken off his leg. Giles'd be agreeable, I reckon, to shifting the Frenchie in his cart to London — and if the mon-sewer don't mind a bit of confinement, and travel by the slow road, he might rest secure until Kingdom Come.”

“Not quite so far, I beg of you,” said Etienne LaForge; but there was laughter behind his words. “First you would have me dead, then pack me off to London in a casket, hein? The English — they are plotters a la merveille. Ban. I shall go to my death with a will, as you say. Monsieur, I applaud you.”

It required only the addition of Nell Rivers to the cart, as principal mourner for her dead husband; Frank's note of explanation for the delivery of LaForge to the home of our brother, Henry, in Brompton; and a second note of introduction vouching for the Frenchman's probity, to Henry's acquaintance Lord Moira, who might be depended upon to convey LaForge to the First Lord. [29] The First Lord of the Admiralty to whom Jane refers was Thomas Grenville. Lord Moira was a client of Henry Austen's bank — and his failure to repay substantial loans later contributed to Henry Austen's bankruptcy. — Editor's note.

“I shall be off to nab old Giles directly,” said the Bosun's Mate, and fixed his cap upon his head.

My brother paid him the courtesy of a bow. “I could wish there were more men of fibre like yourself, Mr. Hawkins, as yet in the Royal Navy. We are greatly in need of your wit and courage — and greatly in your debt.”

“Now, then,” said Mr. Hawkins sternly, as though Frank were an errant Young Gendeman, “none of that misty palaver. I'll have Giles bring the cart round the back of Wool House, and carry the coffin inside; he has nobbut to do but poke a few holes in the sides, so that the mon-sewer don't stifle, and we'll all be right as rain.”

I COULD NOT BEAR TO PART FROM MY CONSPIRATORS before the conclusion of such a business, and thus found myself at home as late as nine o'clock. My mother had retired with a hot posset, but poor Mary was as yet abroad and beside herself with apprehension on her husband's part. When the door to Mrs. Davies's establishment opened to reveal only myself, the poor girl nearly fainted from fretted nerves.

“Where is Frank?” she implored, and clutched at Martha Lloyd's arm for support.

“He is making the rounds of the taverns,” I told her, “in the company of Mr. Hill, the naval surgeon, and is no doubt better fed than I. Has Jenny retired for the evening?”

“Taverns!”

“There has been a fire, Mary, on a hulk moored in Southampton Water, and Mr. Hill fears the loss of one of his patients.” We had determined among ourselves that if the ruse of LaForge's death was to bear weight, it must be supported in the bosom of our family as well as in the town. “The Frenchman who gave testimony at Captain Seagrave's trial is believed lost in the sea. Frank is conversing with all and sundry in an effort to learn of the unfortunate man's fate.”

“Good God!” ejaculated Frank's wife. “Shall we never be free of that wretched affair? Tom Seagrave is gone to gaol, and still my husband will not accept his guilt. Hang Tom Seagrave, I say, and be done!”

“Come and lie down, Mary,” interposed Martha gently. “You should have been abed long since. I believe, Jane, that Mrs. Davies left a little bread and soup on the kitchen hearth; you might enquire for your supper.” And with a speaking look for me, my friend led Mary firmly towards the stairs.

FRANK DID NOT RETURN UNTIL WELL NIGH ELEVEN o'clock, when I was tucked up in bed with the candle already snuffed; I heard the low murmur of conversation as he entered the adjoining room, and knew that Mary had enjoyed little rest in the interval. I was very warm, exceedingly comfortable, and shockingly sleepy — but spared a thought for Etienne LaForge, shut up in an oak box with handsome brass handles, and freezing, no doubt, on his way to London. His coffin was worth all of six pounds, seven shillings, eight pence, Giles Sawyer had assured us; and as holes had been bored in the sides, thus rendering the coffin useless, my brother and Mr. Hill had felt compelled to recompense the man. They paid him as well for the loan of his waggon, the use of his horse, and several hours' cold journey north to London; no small sum for either Frank or the surgeon. Such are the sacrifices of gentlemen for King and Country. I hoped that Monsieur LaForge should survive the trip: it would be a wretched joke indeed, if the coffin-lid were removed to reveal a corpse.

SUNDAY MORNING, AND ALL THE BUSTLE OF SERVICE AT St. Michael's, our parish of preference — it is close enough to Castle Square to prove an easy walk, once we are established in that house. My mother, upon observing that the day should be fine, determined to mark the Sabbath by quitting her bed. She rose in good time to accompany us into St. Michael's Square, where I had the pleasure of hearing a sermon neither too long nor too bombastic, and of meeting afterwards with Mr. Hill in the vestibule.

The surgeon appeared much refreshed, and remarkably jovial for a man so recently bereaved of a patient.

“Has your brother told you, Miss Austen, of our excellent luck last evening?” he enquired, in a voice lowered for the benefit of the milling crowd. “After touring the public rooms of the Dolphin, the George, the Star, and the Coach and Horses, we chanced to meet with Sir Francis Farnham himself, sitting over sherry in the Vine. We informed him, in the most lowering tone imaginable, of the loss of our former patient — which intelligence we had confirmed from the stories everywhere circulating, at the inns aforementioned—”

“—and which you had published in the first part yourselves. Well done!” I cried, and then subsided at a glance of curiosity from Frank's Mary. “And how did the gentleman take the news?”

“He said all that was proper — declared himself shocked at the poor conditions of the prison hulk— lamented the fate of two other Frenchmen, who had died of the fire before it was put out — and announced that the remainder should be exchanged to France tomorrow or Tuesday at the latest. In a word, Sir Francis conducted himself as a cunning rogue might be expected to do.”

“That is very well,” I mused, “for he must consider himself safe. Once LaForge's intelligence is known at the Admiralty, however, he shall begin to be afraid— and in his actions then, may show his hand.”

“Such an event is what we must hope for,” said Mr. Hill gravely, “because I do not think we can expect to expose Sir Francis in any other way. He professed himself determined to quit Southampton on the morrow; we must rely upon his betraying himself in London.”

“Mr. Hill,” said Frank, with a clap on the surgeon's shoulder, “I intend to visit my friend, Tom Seagrave, in Gaoler's Alley this morning; should you like to bear me company?”

“Gaoler's Alley?” cried Mary, with a look of pique. “But it is Sunday, Frank! Cannot you sit quietly at home, and work a little on the drawing-room fringe?”

“Sunday is a day for charity, Mary — and one must behave like a Christian to all of God's reprobates,” Frank said genially. “The loss of Seagrave's principal witness in the hulk last evening has put his defence in question. I should dearly love Mr. Hill's advice and counsel — and I know that Tom should be comforted by any appearance of interest in his case.”