Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

We invited Mr. Hill to dine, and the invitation was accepted with alacrity; like ourselves, the surgeon had consumed nothing but tea and Madeira for the better part of the day. Mary was persuaded to put aside her petulance, and do the honours of Mrs. Davies's table with all the flushed enthusiasm of a bride; my mother found the surgeon's attentions highly promising, and asked so many questions about the Indies, that I wondered the poor man was not driven mad. Martha was pleased to report some litde information regarding the garret beds to be installed in Castle Square, and to present a letter received of Cassandra this morning, that named the very day of my sister's return to Southampton. [32] Jane is not in error when she mentions Cassandra's letter. The post was delivered on Sundays regardless of the Sabbath. — Editor's note.

My mother was so charmed by Mr. Hill's manners and good sense — however little she noted his fifty-odd years and wizened appearance — that she stayed below conversing in the parlour until very nearly seven o'clock. Her maternal fervour was so great that she condescended to confide in me, while ascending the stairs, that she “hoped that Disreputable Rogue, Lord Harold Trowbridge, would soon have news that should discomfit him.” I judged it best not to enlarge too much upon the nature of the news, as Mr. Hill was fixed in the front hall, preparatory to quitting East Street for his frigid station. It was left to Frank to make his excuses to the long-suffering Mary, to lift his hand in farewell — and so I was abandoned to all the dreariness of solitary suspense.

I sat over my needlework to little purpose, while Mrs. Davies's parlour clock chimed round the quarters of the hour; listened with half an ear to Mary's idle chatter, and Martha's measured responses; and then at last threw down the baby's shift I was embroidering with cornflowers.

Poor Uncle Walter — how he must suffer it! …

He is shot of her for now. and must be having a jolly time of it …

I should have urged Louisa to send the children into Kent with her uncle …

“Is something amiss, Jane?” Martha enquired with an anxious look.

“Yes,” I replied. “Lady Templeton's carriage is not at all as it should be.”

“I do not understand,” said Martha. “Who, pray, is Lady Temple ton?”

“I am sure there was a good deal amiss with the mutton,” observed Mary. “Mrs. Davies is prone to boil the joint less than she ought; and for one in my condition, mutton is such a trial! I am sure we have tasted of the same old animal three times this week. How I long for Castle Square!”

“Are you retiring, Jane?” Martha enquired.

“I feel the need of a walk,” I told her, with my hand on the parlour door. “Do not disturb yourself — I shall be perfectly safe. I shall employ our faithful Jenny as link-boy, and be returned within the hour.” [33] The link-boy was an urchin paid to run before a sedan chair in its passage through the streets of a town, holding a torch or lantern aloft. — Editor's note.

WE MADE OUR WAY PURPOSEFULLY DOWN THE HIGH towards the Dolphin, Jenny clutching a Ian thorn in one hand and the fastenings of her cloak with the other.

The strong sunshine of the morning now fled, the wind off the water was cutting and sharp. I spared only a thought for my brother, crouched silently in the cold but a few streets distant; he was accustomed to exposure from more than two decades at sea. At the door of the inn, I paused.

“Jenny, be so good as to carry your light into Gaoler's Alley, and bid my brother and his friend to join me here. I have urgent need of them. Do not stay for argument, but say that Miss Austen deemed it vital.”

Jenny went. I did not watch her steady progress down the street, but hastened into the Dolphin.

The broad front hall was awash in candlelight; the sound of male laughter and conversation emanated from the public room. I felt myself dreadfully exposed — a lady alone in a hotel, without even a maid in attendance — but my discomfort could not be considered of consequence. A footman passed, bearing a bottle of claret and a glass; he mounted the servants' stairs off the passage. I saw a gentleman in converse with the innkeeper, and two ladies seated on a sopha in an attitude of fatigue. The length of my walk from East Street, I had struggled to determine the wisest method of approach. I could not present my card, and have it taken up to Mrs. Seagrave — but I must gain entrance to her rooms. Should I await the appearance of my brother? When every moment must be precious?

“Miss Austen?” said a voice at my shoulder.

I turned to see the stooped shoulders and balding head of the innkeeper. “Good evening, Mr. …” What had Frank said was the man's name? “Mr. Fortescue. I am sorry to appear at such an advanced hour, but I have only just learned that Mrs. Seagrave intends to quit Southampton on the morrow. I could not bear to let her go without a word.”

“Very good of you, and I'm sure,” said the fellow with a bob and a smile, “but Lady Temple ton charged me expressly to refuse all visitors tonight.”

“Lady Temple ton?” I repeated. It was as I had feared. There was hardly time enough between Friday and Sunday to complete a journey into Kent — and certainly no time at all to achieve the distance twice. The Baronet's coach had been sent not from Luxford, but from Portsmouth. Sir Walter had gone alone into Kent in a hired carriage, but Lady Templeton had remained behind. Awaiting news, perhaps, of Tom Seagrave's fate?

“Mrs. Seagrave's aunt,” Fortescue informed me kindly. “She intends to start for Kent quite early tomorrow, I understand, and does not wish to be disturbed. If you like, you might pen a note to Mrs. Seagrave and leave it for her — there is ink and paper in the morning-room, just off the passage.”

He gestured in the direction of the back staircase.

“You are very good, Mr. Fortescue,” I told him with a dazzling smile. “That is exactly what I shall do.”

I turned purposefully towards the morning-room, and was careful to linger in it until I was certain that the weary ladies on Mr. Fortescue's sopha had claimed the innkeeper's attention. The morning-room was quite empty. I examined the contents of a writing desk, then quickly made for the servants' stairs.

THE DOOR TO LOUISA'S UPSTAIRS PARLOUR WAS FIRMLY closed, but a light shone through the jamb. I approached it stealthily, desperate to make no noise, and pressed my ear almost to the oak.

All was silent within. Not even the fall of embers in the grate disturbed the silence. The children's rooms must adjoin this one, as Louisa's bedchamber did — and yet I heard nothing: no shift of a bed frame, no faint whimper of unquiet sleep. It was as though the family were already fled into Kent, and for an instant — my worst suspicions assuaged — I was weak with relief.

I must have sighed, and the sound penetrated to the room beyond the door. There was an abrupt movement — as of a small metal article overturned upon a table — and then an imperious voice called out: “Who is there?”

I had heard that voice on only one occasion, but I could not fail to recognise its tone of command. There was something of the same harsh timbre — the reflexive coldness — in Louisa's voice, when she gave way to snobbery. Lady Templeton.

I drew a sharp breath, and said in my best imitation of Jenny, “It's only the upper housemaid, ma'am, with the hot water.”

“We have no need of you tonight. Mrs. Seagrave has already retired.”

“Will the lady be wishful of a fire in the morning?”

“If so, I am sure that she will ring. Now be off, you stupid girl, and leave us in peace.”