“Ah — but I am coming to that bit,” he assured me.
At that moment, Jenny appeared in the doorway; she had brought me tea and a quantity of soft rolls fresh from the oven. I sighed with contentment and prepared to endure the remainder of my brother's story.
“I managed to secure a guide to our lieutenant's haunts — a fellow of perhaps eleven, who works as potboy in the Mermaid's Tail. He was a likely lad, with the sharp chin and quivering nose of a weasel; he pocketed my money and led me through a warren of alleyways and foetid corners that I should never have believed existed outside of London. I poked my head into gin rooms and gambling hells and the offices of moneylenders; I visited cockfights and nunneries, and went so far as to interrogate a member of the Watch.[11] By this time, you may well believe, I had felt the loss of my dinner, and sought a poor sort of meal in the company of my young guide; the taverns were beginning to close, and I thought the boy should be sent home to bed. It was a quarter past one o'clock when I returned to the Dolphin—”
“—and was told that Lieutenant Chessyre never sought his room last night,” I concluded.
Frank's visage turned pink. “At this point I must confess that I engaged in an unpardonable subterfuge. I intimated to Fortescue that I was Chessyre's captain — that he was due to sail — that he was wanted at Spithead before the turn of the tide, or should be left aground — and in general, I made so much of a public fuss, that Fortescue agreed to unlock the Lieutenant's door.”
“Well done,” I murmured. “You examined the premises?”
“And determined that he had flown. The room was neat as a pin. It looked as though the man had been absent some hours already. The bed had not been slept in. There was not so much as a change of clothes, Jane, in the wardrobe. I rounded upon poor Fortescue and demanded to know whether he had mistaken the room! The fellow was quite put out. He had begun to suspect that he had been bilked of gold; for Chessyre had not settled the tenth part of his account, I understand.”
“—And has left any number of enemies behind him, but no direction for future enquiries!”
“He did, however, leave this” My brother flourished a crumpled sheet of paper as though it might have been his sword. The sheet had been torn in eighths, and laboriously pieced together with sealing wax. I took it from Frank and frowned over the scrawl of smeared blue ink.
“When will you heroes learn to command a legible fist?”
“When we are afforded a desk that does not heave and roll with every swell.”
I glanced up. “You believe this to have been written at sea?”
“Method, Jane!” he declared patiently. “Observe the heading.”
“His Majesty s Prize Manon, in the Bay of Biscay, 13 January 1807,” I murmured.” 'His Majesty's Prize' — this was written after the French ship had struck! I suppose it is in Chessyre's hand?”
Frank shrugged. “I suspect as much. I found it discarded among some other papers in his room. Give it here, and I shall attempt to read it aloud. It is a monkey's tangle; I am in some hopes you may make sense of it.”
I have done all that was required, and congratulate myself that I shall not disgrace you. It is the sole aspect of the affair I may regard without distaste, for the perfidy — I write to inform you of the recent action between His Majesty's frigate Stella Maris, commanded by Captain Thomas Seagrave, and the French vessel Manon, off Corunna on the eleventh of this month — a date that shall live forever in my mind as the death of Honour — I have the honour to inform you that the paltry sum, the benefices you pledged, are as nothing when measured against the diminution of Self I have been required to endure, and that if we cannot come to a more precise understanding, as to the value of a man's Honour, however sacrificed and besmirched —
There was no signature affixed, and no direction.
“A letter from one unknown to another,” I murmured, “and certainly unsent. He never intended it should be read.”
“No.”
“But this is vital, Frank! It assures us that Chessyre worked against his captain at the behest of another. Taken in company with the French surgeon's history, it smacks strongly of a plot. There cannot be two opinions on that point!”
“It was not a letter for Admiral Hastings to read, that much is certain. Though the author mentions the engagement, his thread descends swiftly into recrimination.”
I handed the piecemeal sheet carefully to my brother. “I must confess that I feel pity for the man. He is so divided in his soul! The writing smacks of torment. It is all pride and impudence, contempt and self-loathing. His conscience is uneasy. He has done that with which he cannot be reconciled; and he would blame the hand that moved him.”
“Save your pity for Tom Seagrave,” Frank told me brusquely. “Chessyre suffers from shame and pride, certainly — but he is perverse in his desire to bargain with his mover. Having sacrificed his Honour, as he puts it, he is ready to profit from the loss.”
“A man who fears the future may bargain with the very Devil.” I looked at my brother thoughtfully. “And you did say that he seemed mortally afraid. Do you think that he sent some version of this letter?”
“Not from the Manon, certainly, though this was written at sea. He was bound for port himself, and must arrive before any missive he could have pressed upon a homebound ship. I wonder that he wrote it at all.”
“Perhaps he merely attempted to order his thoughts.”
“A draft, you mean? Of a letter he later posted from Portsmouth? It is possible, I suppose.”
“His employer — if such we may call him — may have demanded the most immediate intelligence of Chessyre's deed.”
“I comprehend, now, why he said so little during our interview yesterday. He could not speak for himself; he moved under the prohibition of silence. His honour, we must assume, extends so far as the protection of his conspirator.”
“Then why did he call upon you here, Frank? It cannot have been with a view to reiterating his refusal.”
Frank glanced at me swiftly. “You think the man experienced a change of sentiment?”
“Why else consult with a superior he had spurned but a few hours before?”
“Remember that Chessyre is a mercenary creature. He may have thought to put a price on Thursday's testimony.”
“So much coin for Seagrave's guilt — for he must already have been well paid for the construction of the evidence — and so much more, for a subsequent avowal of Seagrave's innocence?”
“It might assuage his conscience, at the same moment it lined his purse.”
“And he could not hope for advancement in his naval career, did he recant of his charge,” I added thoughtfully. “Even did Chessyre profess himself confused— mistaken — unwitting in his accusation — he must be regarded as highly unsteady by the panel. He must be cashiered for calumny at least.”
My brother was silent an interval. Then he sighed. “I am too simple a man for prognostication. Chessyre is fled, Jane; and what Chessyre intends for the morrow must remain in question.”
I sipped the last of my chocolate. “We ought, nonetheless, to take measures against the worst that Chessyre might do.”
“Your French surgeon?” Frank cocked his head. “Very well. I shall go this morning to Wool House and petition Mr. Hill for the loan of his patient.”
“Will Admiral Bertie consent?”
“Admiral Bertie is so adamant in his refusal to credit any Frenchman of disinterested good, that he warns me soundly to be on my guard, and thinks it very likely your surgeon shall not receive a hearing before Seagrave's court. We can but try.”
I set aside my breakfast plate without further ado. “Then I shall accompany you.”
“There is not the slightest need.”
“On the contrary,” I retorted. “I have been ordered by Martha to procure a box for the theatre tonight; and Wool House lies in my way. You cannot thwart me in this, Fly. Mrs. Jordan is to play.”[12]
“Mrs. Jordan!” h
e cried. “And poor Mary has not seen the inside of a theatre in weeks. It was always her chief delight I secured the promise of her affection, you know, during the interval of a play at Ramsgate; and must always accord the theatre my heartfelt gratitude.”
“Then it is decided. You shall make another couple of our party, and I shall walk out with you now in the direction of French Street. I only stay to discover my bonnet.”
“I hope Mary may not swoon,” Frank added. “The crush, you know, is likely to be fearful if Mrs. Jordan is to play.”
“Let her swoon, and welcome!” I said in exasperation. “A lady in an interesting condition has so few opportunities to shine in public; and Mary, in fainting charmingly, might divert the attention of all assembled from a royal mistress. Think what delights she shall have in store! A play, and a personal act of considerable distinction! When one is grown old, and sources of satisfaction are few, it is much to relive one's youth in recounting such a tale.”
Chapter 9
Scenes Played in French Street
25 February 1807, cont.
I MOUNTED THE STEPS TOWARDS MY ROOM IN SEARCH OF my. bonnet, a parcel clutched to my breast. Martha was in the act of descending, and the staircase being narrow, one of us must be forced to give way. I elected the office, and pressed myself flat against the wall.
“I have ordered of Mrs. Davies a good dinner,” she told me, “and begged that it might be early, on account of Mrs. Jordan. I do hope we may secure good seats! Do you think that your mother might be persuaded to make another of the party?”
“I do not think wild dogs could keep her from French Street. It is exactly the sort of amusement calculated to drive her from her bed.”
“She has been very low,” Martha mused, “but I cannot make out any symptoms of decline. Perhaps a change of season, coupled with a change of domicile, will offer amendment.”
“Was she very pitiful when you begged admittance this morning?
“I counted only three sighs and one dab at the eyes,” Martha replied, “but you know that talk of an early dinner must always raise her spirits.”
“True. Had I recollected the fact earlier, we all might have spent the winter months in tolerable good humour.”
I have known Martha Lloyd since I was fourteen. It was in 1789 that her mother, a clergyman's widow, settled in Deane and rented from my father the neglected parsonage; and though the Lloyds very soon removed again, to Ibthorp, the bond of our friendship endured. It is true, as Mary says, that Martha is ten years my senior, and might be supposed to have found a better companion in a girl closer to her own age; but there has hardly been a time when Martha and I did not share a good joke, or chatter about our acquaintance, or dispose of our friends in marriages they should never have thought of for themselves. Martha is as much my sister as Cassandra could be — more, in some respects, because she so often shares my turn of mind. We two have lain awake far into the morning, after many a ball, abusing everyone within our acquaintance, and have never failed to move each other to laughter.
But if I cherish her for her ready understanding and convivial spirit, I must acknowledge that her true value lies far beyond these. Martha, at forty, has honed and measured her strength. She has watched her younger sisters marry and have the joy of children; she has presided over the deathbed of her mother, and seen her buried; moved alone and penniless into the world, to take up a home without the slightest assurance of its permanence; and never has she complained or expressed a wish to exchange her lot.
“Frank intends to walk into French Street, though not so far as the theatre,” I informed this paragon of female virtue. “Should you like to join us?”
“With pleasure. Too many hours confined in a carriage must cripple a woman of advanced years; I should benefit from the exercise.”
“We might return by way of Bugle Street,” I added thoughtfully, “and look in upon the house in Castle Square. I cannot convince myself of its being habitable without the constant reassurance of my own eyes.”
“Surely the renovations are finished! Or have the painters been too often pressed into our neighbour's service?”
The Marchioness of Lansdowne — the neighbour whom Martha chuses to regard so familiarly — presides over the Gothic folly immediately adjacent to our house in Castle Square. She is everywhere acknowledged as a former courtesan, and as such, is permitted an eccentricity of behaviour that should be shocking in a female gently bred. She drives a diminutive team of eight ponies, each pair tinier than the next, and is much given to rouging her cheeks. Her husband the Marquis has taken a kindly interest in the Austen project of renovation — as naturally he must, being our landlord. The Marchioness's favoured house-painter has been pressed upon us for the improvement of our rooms. It is a family joke that when not required about the Marquis's walls, the painter must often be tending to the Marchioness's face.
Martha peered at me narrowly. “Whatever are you clutching to your breast, Jane? A foundling in swaddling clothes, that you intend to lay at the Marchioness's door?”
“Eggs,” I replied. “Mary would buy several dozen in the market yesterday, and now finds that they bring on bilious attacks. She begged that they be hidden from sight as soon as may be. And as Frank intends a visit to Wool House, I thought they might better be used in treating the sick.”
“Frank at Wool House? And after such a demonstration of temper?” Martha's eyebrows rose. “That is a reversal. You know that I can never ignore an opportunity to observe your brother reformed and penitent. Naturally I shall come.”
I WAS BETTER PREPARED TODAY FOR THE STREAMING stone walls and the dreadful stench of illness. The surgeon Mr. Hill chanced to be standing by the oak doors as we entered; and the turn of his expression at the sight of me was painful to behold. It was too much like relief to be mistaken for his usual reserve, though it vanished as swiftly as it appeared. I knew, then, how much the surgeon felt the Frenchmen's fate in his heart— how much it galled him to be able to do so little.
Frank bowed, and paid his respects to Mr. Hill; enquired of the surgeon's career since they had last met in the Indies; then introduced Martha to Mr. Hill's acquaintance. I lent half an ear to these pleasantries while my eyes surveyed the room.
Seven of the pallets, at least, were empty this morning. I did not enquire as to their occupants' fate; I was reasonably assured that I knew it. One of the missing was the young seaman whose letter I had transcribed only yesterday: Jean-Philippe.
With a chill at the heart, I glanced swiftly around the darkened room in search of the one man we could not afford upon any account to lose. I failed to discover his face. He was not lying in the shadows, nor yet propped against the stone wall; nor was he among the card players grouped around the table. Surely he was not—
“I am astounded to see you here again, Miss Austen,” said Mr. Hill, “and deeply grateful.”
I collected myself and curtseyed to the surgeon. “I could not stay away, Mr. Hill, and I have brought with me a companion. Miss Lloyd has consented to assist us.”
“We have brought eggs,” Martha declared. “They should be coddled over a moderate fire and served upon toast — provided, of course, that your men are capable of keeping their victuals down?”
Mr. Hill straightened. “I am happy to report that several of them seem equal to the task of taking a little sustenance. And I may say that I am well-acquainted with the process of coddling an egg.”
“Then you are a better man than most,” Martha retorted, and moved off in the direction of the fire.
“Pray tell me, Mr. Hill,” I attempted. “The French surgeon — Monsieur LaForge. Is he …”
“—Attempting to shave by the light of that far window,” Mr. Hill replied.
I followed his gesture with a queer little catch in my throat and a sensation of relief. The corner in which Etienne LaForge sat was difficult to plumb with eyes adjusting to Wool House dimness; but I discerned his clean profile, the spill of dark hair over the broad
brow, the delicate hands poised with the razor. He looked and seemed stronger at a distance of twenty-four hours. Not for him, the coarse black shroud and the common pit dusted with lime.
He had ceased his ablutions and was staring at me intently. I found that I blushed, and looked away. With my brother beside me, purposeful in his intent of securing LaForge's witness, I felt almost a traitor to the Frenchman's confidence.
“Captain Austen has been telling me of Captain Seagrave's case,” Mr. Hill persisted. “Most extraordinary. I had no notion we harboured such celebrated prisoners in this dreadful place. I did not even know that LaForge was a surgeon. I might have secured his assistance in treating the sick; but, however, he has been almost unable to stand upright before this.”
“He is improved, then?”
“I am happy to say it. I lost several men in the early hours of morning, Miss Austen.” He shook his head in weariness and regret. “It is always thus; a man will go out with the night's ebb tide, as though he cannot wait for dawn.”
Frank was listening to our conversation without attempting to form a part of it. His eyes roamed over the assembled pallets, but his countenance evidenced neither shock nor distaste; the scene before us must resemble the usual squalor of the lower decks. He had often seen men in suffering before.
“I have given my consent to your brother,” said Mr. Hill, “for this small liberty of Monsieur LaForge's. He shall accompany Captain Austen to Portsmouth on the morrow.”
“You are not his gaoler, surely?”
“No — but I remain his doctor,” returned the gentleman shrewdly. “He goes with Captain Austen on one condition: that I might form another of the party. I should not wish LaForge to suffer from exposure in the hoy.”
“You are very good,” I said. “But there remains one other person's consent we must seek.”
“Admiral Bertie's?”
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