Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

by Stephanie Barron

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Lord Harold’s expression was wooden. That he longed to see my parent returned to her needlework in an adjoining parlour was evident; but propriety insisted otherwise.

  “May I offer you a cordial, my lord? A glass of brandy, perhaps?” my mother cried. “I am sure that Jane would benefit from a little ratafia, for she is undoubtedly looking peaked, from the effects of too much excitement and grief—she was quite devoted to our late Mrs. Austen, you know, and is so unselfish in her dedication to those she loves, that I declare she has quite gone into the grave with her! Can you perhaps conspire with me, my lord, to return our dear Jane to the bloom of health? We were so very grateful that you offered her an airing in your chaise—exactly suited to restoring the roses to a girl’s cheeks!”

  As I had long since left my girlhood behind, along with the roses to which my mother referred, this last was injurious to my dignity.

  “Mamma,” I said with studied patience, “would you be so good as to fetch a glass of brandy for Lord Harold?”

  “I should be infinitely obliged,” he concurred.

  “Oh—certainly! And perhaps just a spot of ratafia for the ladies—”

  She sped from the room, and in her wake I closed the door firmly. Frank, to my certain knowledge, had drained the last of the brandy before his removal to the Isle of Wight; and my mother should be forced to send Phebe to a local tavern in search of another.

  “Orlando gave no indication of his direction in the note he left yesterday?” I enquired of Lord Harold.

  “Not a word.” He took a restless turn before the fire, his expression troubled. “We had no need of messages, for the progress of our campaign was understood. At my arrival in Southampton last week, I let my man know that I was capable of valeting myself, and that his exertions were better devoted to work of a more subtle nature. Having spent most of Sunday secreted in the subterranean passage, Orlando was to follow Mr. Ord at his departure from Netley Lodge, and observe where the young man went—to whom he spoke—and all that he did in Southampton.”

  “Mr. Ord!”

  “Yes, Mr. Ord!” his lordship spat contemptuously. “There can be no one else so well-placed to communicate Mrs. Challoner’s commands to a host of subordinates throughout the South. Ord was in Sophia’s company when I appeared, unwanted and ill-received, at her door—and he remained there until I quitted the Lodge two hours later. I have no notion of when that insufferable puppy was at length torn from his lady’s leading-strings, but I am certain that Orlando will have followed him. And Orlando has vanished.”

  “Vanished!”

  “Do not make a practice, I beg, of repeating my every word in tones of shock and admiration. There are ladies, to be sure, who regard such a ploy as the highest form of flattery—but you are not one of them.”

  “I met Mr. Ord a few hours since, at Hall’s Circulating Library. He was so good as to escort me home.”

  “And were his gloves stained with blood?”

  “They appeared clean enough. His countenance, I may attest, was devoid of the desperate agitation that should characterise one who has kidnapped a blameless valet. But Mr. Ord is a perplexing fellow—his appearance is angelic, yet his performance on horseback is suggestive of the very Devil; he looks the gentleman, and yet professes to spring from no higher a station than Able Seaman.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He claims to be the child of a widowed woman named Ord, long deceased, and to have been supported in infancy by her brother, also named Ord, whose rank in the Royal Navy was confined to Able.”

  “I cannot credit such a tale! He looks—and conducts himself—as a man of Fashion!”

  “I am perfectly of your opinion, my lord.”

  “The presumptious young dog has received an education, Jane! He has done the Grand Tour—which comes at considerable expence, from so remote a locale as Baltimore!”

  “Well do I know it. And yet he related this humble history this morning, without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. He was born in Hampshire, and removed first to Spain, and then, at the age of four, to Maryland. His air of gentility we must impute to his mother’s patron, a certain Charles Carroll—”

  “—of Carrollton?” Lord Harold interrupted.

  “I believe that is what Mr. Ord said.”

  “Good God!” the Rogue exclaimed. “Jane! Do you not comprehend what this means?”

  “No, my lord. I do not.”

  “Charles Carroll was the sole Catholic gentleman of the Colonies among the signers of the Declaration of Independence! Charles Carroll’s uncle was Archbishop John Carroll—a Jesuit, and the first head of the Catholic Church in America. I met the fellow some once or twice while he lurked in England—a great favorite of Mrs. Fitzherbert’s. She regarded him, I believe, in the nature of a confessor, and sought his absolution for her alliance with the Prince.”

  “And did the Archbishop condone her moral abandon?”

  “That must remain a secret of Maria Fitzherbert’s heart. I have it on excellent authority that she continues to attend Mass—and must do so with a clear conscience. Nonetheless, dear Jane, the Carrolls and their powerful friends, at home and abroad, represent the very heart of the Recusant Ascendancy. If Mr. Ord is in the confidence of Sophia Challoner—as we know him to be—then the whole affair assumes an entirely different complexion.”

  “—Because the crime of treason is then aligned with the cause of Catholic Emancipation?” I suggested.

  Lord Harold gripped the mantel and stared into the fire. “Exactly so. The interests of France, and the interests of a powerful body of the Opposition, must be united against the aims of the Crown—and, indeed, if our assumptions of Napoleon’s plans are valid—against the survival of the Kingdom itself. If it is true, and the truth is published—then the Whig Party is done for, Jane.”

  Lord Harold’s agile mind, formed for politics, had leapt immediately in a direction I should never have taken alone. The Whig Party, and the Prince of Wales, had long espoused Catholic Emancipation, against the King’s firm support of the Church of England. The Whigs, therefore, must stand or die by the cause. If the Recusant Ascendancy—which included such powerful figures as the Duke of Norfolk, a member of the Carlton House set and crony to the Prince of Wales—were accused of treason, even by implication, then a kind of warfare should erupt on the streets of London that might make the Gordon Riots of 1780 look like child’s play. The Prince’s future must surely turn upon the outcome.

  I thought of Mr. Ord—of the genial young man who had carried my volume of Marmion from East Street—and shook my head. “The construction is possible, my lord, but quite improbable. If deception were his aim, why should Mr. Ord impart only facts that must incriminate him? There was no guile, no stratagem in his looks; he was the soul of innocence. Indeed, he ever is. I cannot believe him so accomplished an actor—so hardened a criminal—as to utterly disguise the violence of his passions. Is it possible, my lord, that your fears turn upon a misapprehension?”

  “That is certainly your preferred interpretation!” he returned with acerbity. “You believe me guilty in general, Jane, of assuming what is false—I appear in your eyes as a doddering old fool, beguiled by emotions beyond the reach of reason. What spell has Sophia worked upon you, that you credit her lies more readily than the counsel of a confirmed friend? Do you doubt me—nay, do you doubt yourself, Jane—so much?”

  This last was uttered in almost an undertone, with a conviction I had never remarked in Lord Harold’s accent before. I stared at him; the grey eyes were piercing, as though he would see into my soul. He had asked, Do you doubt yourself?—but he had meant: Do you doubt your power over me?

  “Spell, indeed,” I said slowly. “Did you know that Mrs. Challoner is credited for a witch? I had the story of her serving girl, in the ruins yesterday.”

  He scowled. “Young Flora? The mere child, with the wide blue eyes? What can she know of witchcraft?”

  “She
has seen strange lights bobbing on the Abbey ramparts in the middle of the night, and heard muttered conjurings in a tongue she cannot recognise. Perfumed smoke burns in the parlour at certain hours, and a man in a long black cloak—whom Mrs. Challoner calls mon seigneur—is admitted to the coven. Mr. Ord is a member, too.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Perfumed smoke? Mutterings in a foreign tongue? Could the language be Latin, Jane?”

  “—and the conjurings, nothing more than a Catholic Mass? I suppose it is possible, my lord.”

  “The man in the black cloak should then appear as a priest.”

  “—who is addressed by his title of monsignor. Mrs. Challoner is certainly a Recusant; she informed me of the fact over shortbread and marzipan.”

  “But is it solely a Mass the three would entertain?” Lord Harold muttered, “or are they so careless as to hatch French plots in the very Lodge itself?”

  “We have no proof that plots are even under consideration!” I protested.

  “You forget, Jane,” Lord Harold returned harshly. “A man in a dark cloak was seen racing from the burning seventy-four. Murder was done, and hopes ruined. This is an ugly business, and it shall turn more brutal still before it is quelled. You ignore that at your peril.”

  I could make no immediate reply. I had forgot the murdered Mr. Dixon, and the testimony of Jeremiah the Lascar. I had wished to forget them—to clutch at the notion of a group of Catholics, worshiping in private, without political aim of any kind.

  “Would they risk conspiracy before the servants?” Lord Harold mused.

  “Yesterday, certainly, when the staff were absent at divine service,” I replied.

  “But why not continue to meet at the Abbey?”

  “It is in general a lonely place—but on Sunday, must form a picture of sacred contemplation. Any number of pleasure-seekers might tour the ruins, of a Sunday in autumn when the weather is fine.”

  “That is true,” he said thoughtfully. “And so we have them, the members of the coven: Sophia, Ord, and a man in a black cloak whom she calls mon seigneur, or monsignor. Who can he be, I wonder?”

  I hesitated. “I suppose it is possible—although I have no proof—”

  “When has proof ever stood in your way?” Lord Harold enquired ironically.

  “The man might be a Portuguese, conversant in French, who goes by the name of Silva,” I replied. “He was taken off the Peninsula by my brother’s ship, in the first week of September, and disembarked at Portsmouth. Frank declares that he intended, so he said, to find out no less a personage than Mrs. Fitzherbert, at her home in Brighton. He bore a letter of introduction to her.”

  Lord Harold’s looks were shuttered. “And do you know who is to come to Netley Lodge this very morning? Shall I tell you whom Sophia Challoner entertains—and shall present to us both on Wednesday evening?”

  “Do not say that it is Mrs. Fitzherbert!”

  He turned in some agitation before the fire. “Naturally. The first Catholic lady in the land. The friend of Mr. Ord’s patrons, and, it would seem, of Sophia Challoner as well. The affair wanted only to implicate the heir to the throne, to augur total success! With Mrs. Fitzherbert thrown into the brew, we risk a scandal that defies description! Would that I knew what to do!” he said savagely.

  “But, my lord—it cannot be possible that Mrs. Fitzherbert should willingly endanger the career of the Prince of Wales! Whatever she may be—however ridiculed her morals—she remains entirely dedicated to his interests.”

  “But if she were deceived?—If she believed she acted for his good? Oh, that I knew how it was!”

  I could offer no aid that might ease his mind; I maintained a troubled silence.

  His lordship took up his hat with an abstracted expression.

  “I will bid you good day,” he said. “I require further particulars, and it is possible I shall post to London tonight.”

  “What of Orlando, my lord?”

  “Orlando must fend for himself.” He settled his black stovepipe upon his head; the broad brim curving over his brow gave him a rakish air the London papers were determined to celebrate. “I shall attempt to consult Devonshire—his powers are fading, but still he will know what is best to do.”1

  “Shall I see you at Mrs. Challoner’s reception, my lord?”

  “I shamed her into extending me an invitation,” he replied with a curling lip, “and I shall move Heaven and Earth to be there. Grant me this favour, Jane!”

  “If it is in my power.”

  “Wear the gold crucifix you discovered in the passage about your neck on Wednesday night.” His eyes glinted. “I should like to see it claimed.”

  HE HAD SUCCEEDED IN GAINING THE LOWEST STEP OF his carriage when my mother reappeared, quite out of breath, with Phebe in tow. The maid bore a tray with a freshly-opened brandy bottle, a decanter of ratafia, and three glasses; and my mother’s countenance, as she observed his lordship’s departure, was the apogee of outraged mortification.

  Chapter 18

  The Dead Spaces

  of the Earth

  Tuesday, 1 November 1808

  I AWOKE THIS MORNING WITH THE IDEA OF A BOAT IN my dreams: a dory, easily manned by a single oarsman, that had borne me swiftly across Southampton Water Sunday evening, then turned back in the direction of the monks’ passage. Orlando must have left it hidden among the rocks of the shingle that night while he sat his patient vigil in the tunnel.

  Orlando had vanished. But what of his vessel?

  Lord Harold might declare that his valet should fend for himself—he might devote his hours to composing letters of statecraft and policy, intended for the eyes of a duke—but I could not be so sanguine. I owed Orlando a debt of obligation, for having saved Martha Lloyd a most troublesome journey; and I did not like to think of him in danger and alone, as he had been so much of his difficult life.

  I breakfasted early, then wrapping myself up well against a sharp wind off the water, I went in search of Mr. Hawkins.

  “STRANGE TALK THERE DO BE ABOUT THE FOLK AT Netley,” said the Bosun’s Mate darkly. “Old Ned Bastable swears as he saw balls o’ light hovering over t’a Abbey two nights since, and the cottagers of Hound will tell you, after a tankard of ale, that the mistress can fly through West Woods, and speak with animals in a strange tongue.”

  “Young Flora has been spreading wild tales,” I observed.

  “Mrs. Challoner turned Flora away,” Jeb Hawkins returned. “Said as she failed to give satisfaction. But Flora will tell any who listen that the lady is right strange. Says she looks through a body in a way that gives a Christian chills; and that there’s doings at the Lodge as will end in blood, one o’ these days. Is that why you and his lordship are forever going to Netley? Keeping a weather eye on the place?”

  “Mrs. Challoner is not a witch, Mr. Hawkins,” I said firmly. “It may be that she is nothing more than what she claims: a widow lately removed from the conflict in the Peninsula, and entirely without acquaintance in this part of the world. It is also possible that matters are otherwise. But you would do well to say nothing to anyone in Hound.”

  The old seaman eyed me unsmilingly; he would determine his own course as ever he had done. He threw his back into the oars, and said, with seeming irrelevance, “I like the cut o’ his lordship’s jib. If he’s watching that woman, I reckon there’s cause. Are we bound for the passage? Or the landing near the Lodge?”

  “The shingle,” I answered, “below the tunnel mouth.”

  He lifted a hoary brow, but said no more; and the remainder of our voyage passed in silence.

  The sun was weak this November morning—the Feast of All Saints. A chill breeze slapped the waves into white-curled chargers, and the Bosun’s Mate fought hard against a stiff current. I clutched at the edges of my black pelisse with mittened hands and thought of Lord Harold. Was he in Whitehall already, consulting at the Admiralty? Or had he sought his counsel in the gentlemen’s haunts of Pall Mall—in the card room at Brooks’s C
lub? Grouse season was at an end, but partridges were in full hue and cry: the majority of the Whig Great were still likely to be fixed in their country estates and shooting boxes. Parliament should not open until just before Christmas, when the foxes were breeding and all sport was at an end. He might find that his acquaintance—the men he most wished to secure—were thin on the ground in London at this season. He might, in sum, be delayed beyond his power—

  The dory scraped across the shallows; Mr. Hawkins, without a word, jumped into the frigid sea and hauled the boat up onto the shingle. He assisted me carefully to land, and stood waiting for direction.

  I cast about me; to all appearances, the place was barren of life. A grouping of boulders—cast by Nature, or dragged into position by monks five centuries dead—screened the tunnel mouth from the notice of the inquisitive. I made first for these, peering behind them to ascertain that no small vessel lay upended there. Then I paced in the opposite direction, peering diligently through the waving grasses at the shingle’s edge, until the strand itself petered out to nothing. I turned back, to find Jeb Hawkins calmly lighting his pipe.

  “Where’s his lordship this morning?” he asked.

  “He has posted to Town.”

  Mr. Hawkins glanced speculatively at the sky. “Might you tell me what you’re looking for?”

  “Lord Harold’s man, Orlan—Mr. Smythe—has disappeared. He and his dory were last seen in this place, and I thought that if I could find the boat—”

  “Boats drift with the tide,” the Bosun’s Mate observed. “A boat might fetch up anywhere.”

  “That is true,” I replied dispiritedly. In this chill and empty place, the idea of searching at random for the valet seemed ludicrous in the extreme.

  Mr. Hawkins gestured with his pipe stem. “Could he’uv gone up into that there passage?”

  A chill flickered at my spine. Naturally he could have gone into the passage; it was his express purpose in coming here, to spy upon the party we suspected of treason. But Mr. Hawkins knew nothing of that, and I did not like to adventure into the passage alone.