Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

“Pray do not make yourself anxious,” said Frank. He thrust himself hastily from his chair and bowed. “I trust you are well, Mrs. Seagrave?”

“I am thoroughly wretched; but what of that? It is become my usual condition. Miss Austen — it is a relief to see you again. I had begun to think that the world was solely populated by hypocrites and scoundrels.”

I went to her and curtseyed. “You may remember our friend Mr. Hill from our last meeting in Lombard Street.”

“The naval surgeon.” She offered him the barest nod. “I do recall. And how is your French colleague, Mr. Hill? The one who succeeded in preventing my husband from hanging?”

“Sadly — he is dead, ma'am,” lied Mr. Hill with the gravest of looks. “He died most tragically in a shipboard fire last evening. You may have heard rumour of the event.”

A spot of colour flared up in Louisa's cheek. “I never attend to rumour, sir, I assure you. Will you take some bread and cheese? Or a glass of wine — may I fetch you one?”

“Thank you — but no,” I returned after a glance at the impassive gentlemen. For my own part, I was faint with hunger. I do not break my fast before Sunday service, and the hour was fast approaching noon.

“I can stomach nothing at present,” Louisa murmured, “but I may at least ring for tea. Pray avail yourselves of chairs—” this last, with a vague gesture about the parlour, as though she were viewing its contents for the first time. At her ring, a maidservant appeared in the doorway, then disappeared in pursuit of a tray.

Frank waited for the ladies to adopt their seats before settling into his own. Mr. Hill seemed determined to stand. Louisa sank into her chair with so complete a weariness that I understood nerves alone must be animating her frame. She put her head in her hands, insensible for an instant to everything about her.

I broke the silence. “And how do the children? Charles and Edward are well?”

“Well enough in body,” she said, “but low in their spirits and cowed as mice. It is something to see one's father — whom one has always considered a sort of god, from his habit of command — taken from the house under armed guard, and conveyed like a pauper through the streets. I do not know what to tell them. Every sentiment must sound false in my ears. All my words are lies.”

“Not all,” I urged her. “Surely you have hope for the future — and not all hope is false. Some prayers must be heard, and answered.”

“But I do not know what to pray for,” she said bleakly.

“Good God, woman!” my brother ejaculated. “Would you have your husband called a murderer — when those who love him must believe the accusation false — and hang for it? I can think of several dozen prayers that might adequately serve.”

“We have only just quitted your husband's cell,” I told her.

A light flared in her eyes — but of joy or anger, I could not tell.

“You have seen my husband?”

“And found poor Tom quite sunk,” said Frank. “It was all we could do to elicit a word from those stern lips. He bears his troubles nobly. I intend to search out a reputable barrister on his behalf tomorrow — and shall travel to London if I must, to secure such a man!”

“Did he tell you where he went on Wednesday night?”

Louisa's expression, as she asked the question, was painfully acute. Every ounce of passion in her famished countenance was directed at my brother's answer — upon his next words her very existence seemed to hang.

Frank hesitated, and his eyes found mine. “He did not.”

Well done, I thought

The tension in Louisa's body seemed to drain away. But her countenance twisted in a bitter smile. “It was hardly an honourable adventure, you may be sure. A man with nothing to hide would not now be sitting in Gaoler's Alley. I am sure he sought only one in this wretched town, and that she was eager to bid him welcome.”

Frank snorted derisively and rose from his chair. “Forgive me, ma'am, if I must plead urgent business. I shall expect to meet you in future under happier circumstances, when we may all forget this dreadful episode, and rejoice in your husband's return to vigour and respect. I hope to find your humour and manners much improved.”

A curt bow, that was almost an insult, and not the slightest softening of his angry manner. I understood Frank's regard for Tom Seagrave; but I thought my brother lamentably ill-equipped to comprehend the subtlety of Louisa Seagrave's soul. Mr. Hill, perhaps, should have done better — but Mr. Hill was fixed in his position by the far wall, his regard never wavering from Louisa's wan face.

“You think me a hard and bitter woman, Captain Austen,” she said softly, “because I do not profess to love my husband. But perhaps I have loved him too well, and more than he deserves. I have sacrificed everything to his comfort; I have borne him five children, and seen two swallowed by the grave; I have endeavoured to preserve his respectability. Yet he has turned from me. He has left me bereft, who possessed nothing but his love in the world. Should you wonder that I find it hard to pity him now?”.

“I wonder that any woman can fail to pity a man,” returned my brother with heat. “You are all of you so much wiser and better than we. Can you not see that your husband is now in greater need of your respect and esteem than at any moment in his life? And yet it is now that you would withdraw them!”

“They were murdered, Captain — not withdrawn.” Her voice was raw with stifled weeping. “He killed our love with his careless ways as surely as he killed that poor boy.”

“Call it Death by Misadventure, then,” Frank persisted, “if you will call it death. Murder implies something other than mere carelessness. It suggests a cruelty and an intent to harm that I have never witnessed in Thomas Seagrave. I wonder, madam, whether you know your husband — or merely some demon your mind has formed!”

To my surprise, Louisa stared at my brother with an expression akin to horror, as though he had peered directly into her soul. “I do see demons,” she whispered. “They torment my sleep. No rest do I have, by night or by day; they are ogres in form, that bear my husband's face.”

Frank's brows came down in perplexity at this; but whatever he might have said was forestalled by Louisa's sharp cry. “My flask! What has become of my flask?”

Her eyes swept frantically about the room.

“Is it in your reticule?” I enquired. The article lay forgot on the parlour table. I reached for it, but Louisa was before me — she rose from her chair and clutched at the thing as though it contained her life's blood. Her efforts to free the flask from her reticule were in vain, however; her fingers shook so violently that she was powerless to withdraw the bottle of laudanum. She swayed — Mr. Hill stepped forward — and without uttering a sound, Louisa slid to the carpet in a swoon.

The surgeon felt immediately for a pulse, while Frank and I waited in suspense.

“Carry her into the bedchamber,” he said abruptly. “She cannot lie here, displayed to the public eye. Quickly — help me to support her.”

The door to the upper parlour opened at that moment, to admit the maidservant with the tea. Her eyes widened as she comprehended the scene — but she was collected in her wits, and merely set down the tray on a chair, rather than dashing it to the floor in the best tradition of drama.

“This gentleman is a surgeon,” I told her. “Fetch cold water, and be so good as to bring a vinaigrette to Mrs. Seagrave's room.”

WE LAID LOUISA ON HER BED AND PLACED A SHAWL over her. Mr. Hill loosened her stays, and peered under her eyelids; and then he requested the bottle of laudanum Louisa carried everywhere with her.