Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

by Stephanie Barron

  “I suggest you lower your voice. The letter you sent to Mrs. Challoner. She showed it to me last evening, at Netley Lodge. I know your secret; ignore this at your peril. Isn’t that what you wrote, Flora?”

  “It’s a lie,” she muttered, her eyes now on her lap. Her neck and face had flushed a dull, angry red.

  “You told me yourself that you intended to profit by your knowledge. When the mistress considers of the stories I might tell, she’ll make it worth my while.”

  “But she didn’t, did she?” The girl looked up; the blue eyes flashed. “She turned me away without a character, easy as tipping her hand. My mother’s that anxious about the little ones, and how they’re to be fed, now I’ve lost my place—it’s driven her right wild. But I never wrote no letter.”

  “Very well. If that is your story—”

  “I never wrote no letter,” she insisted with a look of defiance, “because I never learned my letters—and where I’d be like to get a bit of paper and a pen—”

  A sound from the doorway drew both our heads around, and with an expression of relief in her voice, Flora said, “You’ve come at last. Thought I’d have to wait all day, I did.”

  “Forgive me, Miss Austen.” Orlando glanced at the girl, and his brows lifted in disdain. “I had no notion you were waiting upon his lordship. If you would be so good as to pass through to the stable yard, I am certain he will be delighted to see you.”

  “Flora is before me,” I said equably.

  “Flora,” the valet returned, “will have to content herself with me.”

  A giggle escaped the maid’s lips.

  “Miss Austen—if you will be so good—”

  He turned on his heel as though Flora had ceased to exist; and I was reminded again of the various skills required of a gentleman’s valet: dogsbody, defender, spy. Orlando had mastered them all.

  I rose, and with one final speaking glance at the girl, quitted the room.

  HE WAS STANDING IN HIS SHIRTSLEEVES AT THE FAR end of the yard, his body canted sideways, his right hand extended. In his long white fingers was a gleaming silver pistol with ebony mounts. A large black and white target of concentric circles had been painted upon a board, which was established near the broad coach-house doors.

  Two of the Dolphin footmen, in breeches and powdered wigs, stood behind Lord Harold, their countenances deliberately devoid of expression. The stable lads had gathered at the gates, which were closed to carriage traffic; from time to time, when a ball sang home and the target’s wooden face splintered agreeably, a cheer went up from this serried rank.

  “Lord Harold, Miss Austen,” Orlando said quietly. He bowed, and melted back into the safety of the inn; I hesitated on the edge of the yard, unwilling to disturb his lordship’s activity.

  One of the footmen took the spent pistol from Lord Harold’s hand, and commenced reloading it with powder, wad, and ball; the other offered the second weapon, and as he reached for it, the Rogue’s eye fell upon me. His expression did not alter. He turned back to the target and steadied his aim. No trembling in the wrist, no hesitation as he pulled the trigger—but perhaps it should be different when he stared at the face of a man.

  Seven more times the ritual was repeated; and then, when the target’s black centre had been cloven in two by the pounding of lead balls, his lordship blew the smoke from the pistol’s mouth and said: “Come here, Miss Austen.”

  I stepped forward, my mouth suddenly dry. He was so much more like the man whose acquaintance I had made years before—inscrutable, remote, dispassionate—than the one I had lately known, that I was afraid of him.

  “My lord?”

  He lifted the freshly-loaded pistol from the footman’s grasp and placed it in my gloved palm. The barrel was warm with firing; the grip smooth as an egg. I nearly dropped the thing, and was glad when I did not; for such foolishness must disgrace me.

  “Wrap your other palm around the butt just so, and extend your arms.”

  He stood behind me, his hands at my shoulders. “Steady. You must turn your body side-on to the target, Jane—otherwise your opposite will tear open your heart.”

  I drew a ragged breath and did as he bade. His cheek brushed my own.

  “Steady,” he muttered. “More blood is spilled from sheer lack of nerve than from wanton malice; for it is a poor coward who cannot aim true, and prick his opponent as he chuses. Where do you intend to strike? Which part of the rings?”

  “At the height of a man’s shoulder,” I said, “there, in the outer black.”

  “Then align the pistol mouth and gaze without fear the length of the barrel. Fire at will—a gentle squeeze upon the trigger, no more.”

  I felt my heartbeat suspended—and in a moment of clarity saw nothing but the edge of black where my ring turned white. My forefinger moved. An explosion of sound, a jolt up to my shoulder, and I stepped backwards, amazed.

  A cheer went up from the assembled ostlers. The target showed a gaping hole at its furthest extent—well beyond the tight cluster of circles Lord Harold had made. I felt no small pride in my accomplishment; but I was newly aware of the difficulty inherent in aiming and controlling such a weapon. Years of practise must be required to command the sort of skill Lord Harold exhibited; and the knowledge of his precision forced a little of the fear from my soul.

  “Did you come to me this morning on an errand of persuasion?” His looks were intent. “Did you think to put an end to this affair by stratagems and pleading?”

  I shook my head, and handed him the weapon. I had made my decision—I would not go in search of Percival Pethering. “When is your meeting?”

  “Tomorrow at dawn.”

  “And where shall you do it? Porter’s Mead?”

  He smiled thinly. “The ground there is flat enough—but too close to the magistrate for comfort.”

  “I should like to witness the duel.”

  “But you must wear black, Jane—and I confess I find the colour … disheartening.”

  “I shall sport any shade you command, my lord,” I answered clearly, “provided you will allow me to be present.”

  “To save my life?” he enquired ironically, “or James Ord’s?”

  Chapter 24

  Last Rites

  Friday, 4 November 1808

  THE SECONDS—ORLANDO AND THE CONTE DA SILVA met yesterday evening at the George Inn to lay out the rules of engagement.

  The principals in the affair—Lord Harold and Mr. Ord—were both of them at Netley Abbey, the former securely hidden behind a tumbled cairn of rock, and the latter at Mrs. Challoner’s side. As dusk fell and the hour of meeting came and went, no blackmailer appeared. Perhaps, Lord Harold wrote last night from the Dolphin, the girl was frightened off by the appearance of the American.

  Orlando and the Conte fared better in their purpose. The duel was to be tried at dawn—perhaps forty minutes after six o’clock—and the ground they chose, a place called Butlock Common, northeast of Netley Lodge.

  Orlando has paced off the distance, Lord Harold wrote, and assures me that the place is lonely enough. No one shall disturb us. I shall not think less of you, Jane, if you refuse to venture forth. It is a tedious distance at such an hour—but know, my dear, that whether you are present in the flesh or not, I shall carry an idea of you in my mind. Adieu—

  I thought of hack chaises, and the difficulty in procuring one at five o’clock in the morning; I thought of lead balls and how they splintered wood—or flesh—despite acute precision; and then I went in search of my brother.

  BUTLOCK COMMON IS A SMALL, OPEN FIELD THAT serves as grazing land for the livestock of Hound. A lane runs along the eastern edge, and here in the crepuscular murk Frank pulled up our hired gig and said, “I wonder, Jane, if your man intends to meet this morning. It’s all of four bells, and not a carriage in sight!”

  Shivering in my pale blue muslin—a shade unlikely to offend Lord Harold’s sensibilities—I peered through the darkness. A few candles glowed in the wi
ndows of a distant hamlet, faint stars against the mantle of sleeping countryside. Someone in a barn somewhere should be milking a cow, without the faintest notion that nearby, men were assembling to shoot each other.

  “Honour!” I said bitterly. “How I detest it!”

  “Pshaw, Jane—that’s a hum.” My brother went to the horse’s head; next to a ship, he loved best to have the management of a nag. “Without honour, society can have no just foundation; without honour, we should live as savages.”

  “Murdering one another at random, you mean?”

  He stared at me wordlessly.

  At that moment, the sound of hoofbeats and iron wheels resounded upon the road. From the south, in the direction of the sea, came an open phaeton and a pair I should guess to be grey geldings; from the north, and the direction of the Itchen ferry, a heavy coach with its side lamps doused.

  “Perhaps they shall run headlong into one another,” Frank observed cheerfully, “and settle the dispute by overturning. Do you mean to observe from the gig, Jane? Or shall I tie up the horse and give you my arm?”

  How, I wondered, could Fly speak as though we were in attendance upon a mere race-meeting? As though nothing greater than a prize-fight were to be won? I rose from my seat and descended without his assistance, suddenly wild to have the madness done. As I set foot upon the ground, the Trowbridge equipage pulled up not ten feet from our position. Orlando jumped down from his footman’s perch and opened his master’s door.

  He stepped out: a sharp silhouette in the rising dawn. Though he had commanded me to abandon mourning, he went, as ever, in black—the coat double-breasted, and buttoned high to the cravate, which was tied in the Jesuit style: a simple band folded once over the coat collar.

  “My lord knows his business,” Frank murmured. “In that coat he has given Ord a double set of buttons, and no division in front, to confuse the fellow should he attempt to aim for the heart. By Jove! But he is cool.”

  “Jane,” Lord Harold said, and bowed low over my hand.

  Frank’s brow came down at his lordship’s use of my given name—but he forbore to comment. The Rogue looked up, and said, “Will you do me the honour of introducing me to your friend?”

  “My brother, sir. Lord Harold Trowbridge—Captain Francis Austen, of His Majesty’s ship St. Alban’s.”

  “You were in Oporto, I think,” his lordship said.

  “Off the coast of Merceira only. I cannot claim to have set foot on the Peninsula. May I wish you every hope of good fortune, my lord?”

  They clasped hands, and then with one serious, parting look for me, Lord Harold moved to stand by his second, Orlando.

  A horse’s whinny brought my head around, and there, in the gloaming, was Mrs. Challoner. She held the phaeton’s reins, and her mettlesome greys pawed the ground. Mr. Ord sat to the lady’s right; and behind the equipage, on horseback, rode the gentleman’s second—the Conte da Silva. Mrs. Fitzherbert, it seemed, had not deigned to witness an event whose mere idea had caused such profound misery.

  “Miss Austen!” Sophia cried aloud in amazement. “How come you to be here?”

  “I begged her attendance,” Lord Harold said swiftly. “Miss Austen is, after all, a witness to Wednesday’s challenge—perhaps the only disinterested one. She has brought her brother, an officer of the Navy whose integrity must be unimpeachable, to set the marks.”

  Frank started—he had not understood he was to be employed in the affair—and looked to me for explanation. “Do we await a doctor? Or are we to proceed without? The light will soon be too full for action, and the parties shall risk discovery.”

  Mr. Ord rose from his place and bowed. He looked pale, but resolute. “I have no objection to proceeding.”

  “Nor have I,” Lord Harold returned.

  “We expect Dr. Jarvey from Southampton at every moment,” Sophia Challoner broke in, “but you may set the marks, Captain, in expectation of his appearance.”

  “Very well.” Frank’s jaw was rigid, his eyes hard and unsmiling. “I should judge the proper alignment to be north-south, along the greater edge of the common, running parallel to the lane. Any glare from the rising sun shall thus be equally borne by the duellists. I shall set the first mark on the furthest southern extent of the flat part of the ground—and for the second mark, pace off thirty yards to the north. The gentlemen shall draw straws for their positions.”

  I apprehended, of a sudden, that my brother had witnessed such affairs before. As second—or principal? Defender—or accused? Fly stepped forward, and we turned as one to observe his progress.

  For the first time that morning, our eyes fell full upon Butlock Common. Slanting yellow light from the east picked out the withered grass stems, silvered with frost; and in the very centre of the field, a pile of rubbish lay abandoned as if for firing.

  Frank stopped and raised his hand to his brow. He peered into the sun—the slight slope of high ground, his quarterdeck, and the entire common his sea.

  “My lord,” he said—and in that instant, I could not tell whether he addressed the man waiting quietly by his coach, or the God of Heaven above. But I, too, had seen the cloak of Prussian blue, and the simple poke bonnet tossed in the grass like an empty basket. I did not need the confirmation of Frank’s horrified gaze to apprehend the truth.

  “It is a girl, Jane.”

  And then—as though the lifeless thing were his own Mary—he rushed to her side.

  DR. JARVEY MADE SHORT WORK OF HIS EXAMINATION, though he had been an age in arriving.

  “The cords of the neck have been cleanly severed, and the corpse drained of blood. Life will have been extinct in a matter of seconds.”

  James Ord, his countenance pale as death, walked slowly forward and fell on his knees near Flora Bastable. Had Orlando glimpsed the truth, a few nights past, when he saw the American enter the girl’s cottage? Had Ord loved Flora, despite the difference in their stations?

  Ord raised his hand as though he might caress the dead cheek—and then, to my surprise, he made the sign of the cross over the body, and began to murmur in a tongue that could only be Latin.

  After an instant, both Sophia Challoner and the Conte da Silva knelt together behind him.

  “Last Rites,” murmured Lord Harold. “But the girl is not Catholic, and Ord is no priest.”

  The American did not falter in his speech until he had done. Then he rose, and turning first to assist Sophia Challoner to her feet, said abruptly to Lord Harold: “You are over-hasty, sir. Tho’ I am no priest, I have long been a student of the Catholic faith, and intend to enter the Society of Jesus in time.”

  I stared at the young man—the blond Adonis—and exclaimed: “You, intended for the Church! I cannot credit it! No Jesuit would challenge a gentleman to a duel!”

  He smiled at me wryly. “Do you believe us incapable of defending our honour, ma’am? Or perhaps—that we possess none?”

  We were all of us silent a moment in confusion, but Lord Harold surveyed James Ord’s face with interest. “You were raised, I understand, among the Carrolls of Maryland? Archbishop Carroll—also a member of the Society—is your patron in the Church, I collect?”

  “He is, my lord. I have been acquainted with His Grace almost from infancy, my family having emigrated to America in the Archbishop’s ship.”

  “And are you also acquainted, I wonder, with the Conte da Silva’s brother?” Lord Harold enquired silkily. “Monsignor Fernando da Silva-Moreira, of the Society of Jesus—late of Oporto?”1

  The Conte da Silva started forward, his hand on his sword hilt. “What do you pretend to know of my brother?”

  “Too little, alas. I know that he was educated at Liège, and that he has wandered throughout Europe in the years since the Jesuit order’s suppression. I am reasonably certain that he came to these shores aboard His Majesty’s ship St. Alban’s, and that he has lately been staying in Brighton with Mrs. Fitzherbert—as you have done yourself, Conte. I suspect that he has come to rest in
Southampton—and that he haunts the ruins of Netley Abbey in a long black cloak.”2

  The Conte drew breath as though he would hurl Lord Harold’s claims in his face, but Sophia Challoner intervened. “His lordship knows everything that moves in England, Ernesto,” she said softly. “That is why you require his influence. Do not be a fool.”

  I recalled with a shudder the looming black form in the tunnel’s depths, and glanced at Orlando. He had suffered much at that creature’s hands. The valet’s countenance was pale and set; his eyes were fixed not on his master or the Portuguese Count, but on the lifeless form of Flora Bastable.

  I had very nearly forgot her.

  “This is all very well,” Dr. Jarvey declared, “but I would beg you to canvass your mutual acquaintance at another time! We must attend to a corpse! This unfortunate girl was your serving-maid, Mrs. Challoner?”

  “I turned her off,” the lady retorted, “almost a week since.”

  Dr. Jarvey stared down at all that was left of Flora Bastable. Her gentian blue eyes were fixed, unblinking, on the morning sky. “She is very young, is she not? Too young to wander the country alone at night. One must question how she came here—exactly here, on your intended dueling ground… .”

  “What are you suggesting, Doctor?” Mr. Ord enquired. The American’s eyes glittered dangerously in the waxing sunlight.

  “My dear sir—the girl was most certainly murdered, and murdered here. Her blood has soaked into the earth. It is as though she were left in this spot for a purpose. I must ask again: why?”

  “Don’t you mean—which of us?” Lord Harold observed.

  It must be true. Only a select party had known of Mr. Ord’s challenge, and the isolated spot in which it should be carried out: the company presently assembled on Butlock Common—and Maria Fitzherbert, who awaited the duel’s outcome in suspense at the Lodge.

  “That is absurd,” Sophia Challoner said tautly. “The girl lived in Hound, but a half-mile distant. She might have wandered here for any number of reasons. A legion could have killed her.”