I stared at him, for what he proposed argued the inclusion of Martha in our company’s narrow confidence. But a glance at the injured ankle—already swelling beyond the strictures of my friend’s boot—argued the swiftest accommodation available.
“Martha,” I said firmly as I placed an arm under her shoulders, “you must forget entirely what you are about to see. No word of its existence must ever pass your lips.”
“Do you know, Jane,” she murmured faintly, “I think I may promise you that—”
And as, with my help, Orlando lifted her—she fainted dead away.
Chapter 16
The Oddities of Mr. Ord
Monday, 31 October 1808
WE SUCCEEDED IN GETTING MARTHA HOME BETWEEN us, although I confess that the weight of an insensible, middle-aged woman, clothed in voluminous black silk and a wool pelisse, nearly staggered the goodwill of myself and Orlando both. We half-supported, half-dragged her the length of the subterranean passage, and had the good luck to see her revived in the brisk air of the shingle. As we attempted to shift her into the valet’s small dory, however, she very nearly had us over by screaming aloud that she could not swim, and clutching at the gunwales in a manner I found hard to bear, being up to my knees in cold saltwater at that very moment. I knew for a certainty that Martha had never set foot in a boat before; she was much given to reading lurid stories aloud from the newspapers, in which bright young ladies with limitless prospects were dashed to their deaths in one water-party or another. But once settled amidships she clung to her seat like a limpet, jaw clenched, and failed to utter so much as a syllable. Orlando gamely bent his weight to the oars, and had us returned to Southampton in little more than twenty minutes; and on the Water Gate Quay he secured a party of midshipmen to escort the mortified Martha to a hack chaise, which conveyed us expeditiously to Castle Square. The valet refused so much as a groat in recompense for his labours; and I thought, as I watched his slight figure turn back to his dory, and once more ship the oars, that he had managed our rescue quite as efficiently as his master should have done.
We were received with such a clamour of exclamation and lament that my friend might as well have been set upon by thieves at Netley Abbey; and my mother grimly pronounced the belief that no good ever came of walking about the countryside like a pair of gipsies.
The opinion of a surgeon was sought, and the limb determined to be sound, though badly sprained. Our apothecary, Mr. Green, supplied a sleeping draught, and Cook a hot poultice—and by nine o’clock last evening the poor sufferer had taken a bit of broth in her bedchamber and consigned the worst of ill-fated Sunday jaunts to oblivion.
I wondered, as I doused my light, whether Orlando had reported the whole to Lord Harold—and what that worthy’s strictures might have been, on the fate of heedless women left to fend for themselves in the wild. But perhaps his lordship had been too pressed by business—or the preoccupation of his heart—to attend very much to his servant’s adventures.
“JANE!” MY MOTHER CALLED UP THE STAIRS EARLY this morning, “ only look what has come for you by special messenger! Make haste, my love! Make haste!”
I was barely dressed, but hurried downstairs with one slipper in my hand and my hair quite undone. “What is it, Mamma?”
“Two parcels,” she said, “and a letter. I do not recognise the seal.”
The missive could hardly be from Lord Harold, for that gentleman’s crest should never escape my mother’s eagle eye. I crossed to the parlour table, where the parcels sat wrapped in brown paper and tied with quantities of string. I reached for the letter, and broke the dark green wax.
“It is from Sophia Challoner,” I said. “She writes that she expects a large party of guests arrived this morning at Netley Lodge, and intends to hold an evening reception for them—coffee and cards, with music and refreshment—at the Lodge on Wednesday. She invites my attendance, and begs me to wear … this.”
I tore open the larger of the two parcels and found my fingers caught in the stiff folds of black bombazine—my gown of mourning, freshly-made from the modiste, with the cunning design of opened lapels, split bodice buttoned down the centre, and delicate bows tied beneath the right breast. The high white ruff à la reine Elizabeth, with Vandyke pleating, had not been forgot.
I lifted the costume from its tissue wrappings and stared at it in silence.
Beneath it lay a dove-grey paisley shawl, figured in black and gold. The second parcel, I presumed, must be the Equestrian Hat.
Abruptly I sat down in a hard-backed wooden chair, as though its uncompromising support was necessary at such an hour.
“Good Lord, Jane—what can she mean by it?” my mother enquired wonderingly. “For your acquaintance is surely very trifling, is it not? And the obligation is entirely on your side, for without Mrs. Challoner’s aid, you should have died in a ditch!”
“It is extraordinary,” I returned with difficulty, “and excessively good of Mrs. Challoner—but I cannot possibly accept so costly a gift.”
“The cut of the gown is very fine.” My mother ran her fingertips over the bodice. “And though it looks to be in the first stare of fashion, it is entirely within the bounds of what is proper for mourning. I should dearly like to see you wear it, Jane!”
“Impossible.” I smoothed the folds of bombazine and reached for the tissue wrappings.
“But what else are you likely to choose, my dear, for such an evening party?” my mother observed mildly. “Not that this is exactly a gown for evening—but it is certainly the finest bit of mourning you possess. Do you mean to decline Mrs. Challoner’s invitation? It would be a paltry gesture, in the face of such excessive goodwill.”
That mild observation gave me pause. Did I intend to ignore Netley Lodge in future, and cut off all relations with its mistress? Did I believe that Lord Harold pursued a chimera of his own invention, and that the lady was blameless? And where, then, did I place the maid Flora’s intelligence regarding strange men in cloaks and mumbled witchcraft? Did I think to leave Lord Harold and his potent weapon entirely to themselves? Or did I owe Sophia Challoner some effort at friendship—she who was so clearly bereft of acquaintance in her native land?
The gown, I discovered, was still clenched in my hands. My mother eyed me with interest.
“It could do no harm, surely, to open the second parcel?”
I removed the paper with trembling fingers, and held the hat aloft.
“Oh, Jane,” my mother mourned. “It is beyond everything we have seen in Southampton this winter! Do not tell me you must deny yourself that also!”
I stared at her, wordless.
“I am persuaded that our dear departed Lizzy would not have wished it,” she said firmly.
I FORCED MYSELF TO SIT DOWN AFTER BREAKFAST AND compose a note to Sophia Challoner thanking her for the excessive kindness she had bestowed upon me, but declaring that it was not in my power to undertake so great an obligation …
I tore the sheet in twain, selected a fresh, and commenced anew.
I informed Sophia Challoner that I was deeply obliged for the impulsive gift of friendship and mark of esteem she had offered me, but could not accept either …
My third attempt hovered between gratitude and hauteur, and ended by sounding churlish, as each of the previous attempts had done.
I stared into the fire, and considered of the lady’s circumstances. She was possessed of a competence, an elegant household, a quantity of servants, and seemingly not a care in the world—but for the shadow that crossed her countenance when the memory of certain painful events recurred. She lacked nothing, in fact, but the most necessary articles on earth: love and friendship. From me she sought the latter; and to hurl her generous heart back in her face seemed the height of ill-breeding. That I hesitated to accept a gift for which I clearly longed, was a testament to pride: the pride of straitened gentility and dependent mortification. I was aware, moreover, that I had encouraged Mrs. Challoner’s friendship under false
pretenses—and my heart smote me as an ungrateful and scheming wretch.
I drew forward a fourth sheet of paper and dipped my pen into the ink.
My dear Sophia—
You have made me extraordinarily happy, and placed me under an obligation that years of dedicated friendship cannot repay. I shall endeavour to deserve your faith and trust, however, by appearing in this lovely costume at Netley Lodge on Wednesday evening, and by offering my deepest gratitude for the kindness you have bestowed upon—
J. Austen
I WALKED MY LETTER TO THE POST QUITE ALONE THIS morning, Martha being far too unwell to rise from her bed. All the usual activity of a Monday went on around me: nursemaids with small children tugging at their arms; carters unloading their goods before the doors of shops that had been closed in respect of the Sabbath; and the hurried arrivals of mail coach and London stage at the principal inns. A glimpse of the public conveyance recalled the boys, Edward and George, to memory. They must be resigned now to a schoolboy existence until the Christmas holidays should release them; it would be a poor visit home this year. I must endeavour to write a letter soon, informing them of the burning of the seventy-four. They might recount the lurid tale throughout the ranks of their forms, and earn considerable distinction from having looked into the vanished ship.
The brightness of the autumn day, and the peace it brought my burdened mind, was so powerful a tonic that I could not bear to return immediately to Castle Square; and so from the offices of the Royal Mail I turned towards the water, and took myself along East Street to the premises of Hall’s Circulating Library.
This was a smallish establishment, three steps up from the paving, with ranks of books displayed on shelves that ran from floor to ceiling, and the added provision of comfortable chairs where a few gentlemen, in want of their clubs, were disposed to linger over the current numbers of the London papers. For such ladies as cared to look into an improving work or frivolous novel, a subscription of one pound, four shillings per annum permitted the loan of books; I had inscribed my name on Mr. Hall’s lists upon first arriving in Southampton. Now I glanced through Hours of Idleness, by a young poet named Byron; picked up a new volume of Mr. Scott’s, entitled Marmion; and sank down into one of the library’s chairs to commence the reading of it.
I had not been sitting thus for longer than a few minutes, and had determined that I should like to take the book away with me, when a gentleman whose visage was entirely hidden by a fold of newsprint suddenly thrust the sheets together, rose to his feet, and adjusted his coat of dark blue.
“Miss Austen!” he exclaimed as he reached for his hat. “I should’ve guessed you were a reader. What work have you got there?”
“The most recent issue of Sir Walter Scott’s pen,” I replied. “How do you do, Mr. Ord?”
“Well enough, thanks. You’ve recovered from that knock on your head, I hope?”
I raised a gloved hand involuntarily to my brow. “Perfectly. Are you enjoying Southampton? Do you make a very long stay on these shores, or do you intend to return to America soon?”
He smiled at me easily, and replied that if his own wishes were consulted, he should remain in England forever—but that duty, his studies in Maryland, etcetera, conspired to demand his return home. He waited politely while I secured my book, and then conducted me in a gentleman-like fashion to the street, where he declared himself at liberty to escort me to Castle Square.
“You do not go to Netley Lodge this morning?” I enquired benignly.
“Mrs. Challoner expects a large party of guests. I don’t like to be in the way, you know. Can’t wear out my welcome.”
“You were not acquainted with Mrs. Challoner, I understand, before arriving in England?”
Mr. Ord shook his head. “I’ve been moving about the Continent on a kind of Grand Tour for the past six months, handing one letter of introduction after another to people I’ve never met before—and to a soul they’ve been no end obliging. But Mrs. Challoner beats the rest of them all hollow. She’s what you English like to call an Incomparable.”
It was a word for the greatest beauty of the day—for a Diamond of the First Water—and I smiled to hear it on the lips of an American. “It is no wonder, then, that you cannot bear to embark for Maryland!”
He appeared to hesitate. “I’ve a matter of business I must conclude first. On behalf of my guardian.”
“I see. You were so unfortunate as to lose your parents?”
“When I was very young,” he said easily. “I was born here in Hampshire, you know—it’s my native turf. But my mother, being a widow, followed her brother to Spain—my uncle James was in the employ of the Royal Navy.”
“Indeed? He was an officer?”
“Able Seaman,” Mr. Ord replied, “deputed to serve the King of Spain. It was there my family became acquainted with Mrs. Challoner’s late husband—who, though a wine merchant in Oporto, took care that none of the British subjects in the Peninsula fell beyond his ken.”
The statement was so extraordinary, that I nearly laughed in the young man’s face—but a glance revealed that he spoke in all earnestness, and clearly believed the tale he told. That a fellow of such obvious gentility, good breeding, and education should be happy to admit that his uncle was a common sailor, was surprising enough; but that he could, in the same breath, claim that the sailor had been ordered to serve the King of Spain was beyond belief.
“And in America?” I asked hesitantly. “Your family, I must suppose, prospered there?”
“My mother, unfortunately, died but two years after our arrival.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“The climate did not agree with her. I was but six years old when she was taken off—and I spent the remainder of my youth under the guardianship of a very great family, the Carrolls of Baltimore, who are distant connexions of my mother’s.”
—who married, it must be assumed, to disoblige her family. Uncle James was undoubtedly Mrs. Ord’s brother by marriage, not birth, as it seemed unlikely that a great family—even in America—would produce so low a member as an Able Seaman.
“How fortunate for you,” I managed. “And it is the Carrolls who determined you ought to tour the Continent? And provided you with letters of introduction?”
Mr. Ord bowed. “Mr. Charles Carroll of Carrollton is never done exerting himself on my behalf. I may safely say that I owe that gentleman—and his family—everything.”
It was a strange story, and one I felt nearly certain must be nine parts fabrication. Had this ingenuous young man, with the fair blond looks of a Greek god, invented the outline of his history on the spot? Was this my reward for too-inquisitive manners? But why, if phantasy were his object, should Mr. Ord choose a seaman for an uncle? Why not turn his father into the son of a lord? An attempt at fiction should have appeared more regular, more predictable, in its elements. The tale was just odd enough to seem … natural.
“I hope that we shall meet again before you quit these shores,” I told Mr. Ord as I halted before my gate.
He raised his hat and smiled engagingly. “At Mrs. Challoner’s, perhaps.”
Chapter 17
A Coven of Conspirators
31 October 1808, cont.
I HAD READ NEARLY HALF OF MARMION, AND HAD reached the passage where Constance, the perjured nun—who is travelling in her lover’s train disguised as a page—is betrayed to her convent and walled up alive in penance for her sins. So engrossing was Sir Walter’s tale that I barely discerned Phebe’s voice, announcing Lord Harold Trowbridge.
It appeared, from our maidservant’s expression, that she had ceased to find anything very extraordinary in the Rogue’s descent upon Castle Square. As she stood in the doorway, however, she threw me a speaking glance in respect of my crumpled black gown, and the ineffectual arrangement of hair that had sufficed for a morning at home. I thrust Marmion hastily behind a cushion, dabbed at my chignon with vague hands, and rose to greet his lordship.
&
nbsp; “Miss Austen—I hope I find you well?”
He bowed, his countenance expressionless, and Phebe hastily closed the parlour door on our tête-à-tête. The news that I was closeted with Lord Harold, I thought despairingly, should be in my mother’s ears within the instant.
“I am quite well. Pray sit down.”
“I cannot stay—I have come only to enquire whether you know aught of my man Orlando’s movements this morning.”
“Orlando?” I repeated in bewilderment. “I last saw him at the Water Gate Quay yesterday evening. That would have been at—oh, half-past five o’clock.”
“I am aware that he was so good as to convey you and Miss Lloyd from the Abbey to Southampton, following a mishap among the ruins—for Orlando left a note in our rooms at the Dolphin Inn, relating the entire history. Of Orlando himself, however, I have seen nothing since my return from Netley Lodge last night. I dined alone; and when I retired, he still had not appeared. Naturally I grew anxious.”
As Lord Harold usually dined at the fashionable hour of seven o’clock, I understood from this that he had spent a good deal of the day in Mrs. Challoner’s company. Before I could reply, however, the parlour door opened to admit my mother—who came forward with an expression of welcome, her arms outstretched.
“My dear Lord Harold! What a pleasure it always is to find you in Castle Square, to be sure!”
“Mrs. Austen—your humble servant.” He bowed correctly. “I hope I find you well?”
“Very well, indeed! Though it has been more than two years since we have met, I flatter myself that I have not enjoyed more than an hour’s discomfort from ill-health in the interval!”
As the good lady had spent more than half the attested period in her rooms, complaining of a wealth of injuries to body and soul, I found this blithe testament difficult to support; but forbore to argue.
“And how well you are looking, I declare! Always the man of Fashion! Though I observe that you are in mourning like ourselves. My condolences on the passing of your mother.”
Jane and the Ghosts of Netley Page 14