I let fall the curtain and broke the thin layer of ice in my ewer. I avoided the image of my own face in the glass; the persistent cold in my head could not improve my looks, and its effects were most determined before breakfast One could only hope that by this evening's party at Captain Foote's the swelling of my nose would have diminished. The view of a lady's complexion by candlelight, in any case, is vastly to be preferred to the glare of day.
“Jane!” My brother's voice came quick and cutting beyond the door. “Are you awake?”
“Of course.” I admitted him immediately. “What news, Frank — good or bad?”
“The magistrate has called the inquest into Chessyre's death for nine o'clock this morning. Tom Seagrave shall be in Southampton within the hour.”
“Oh, no! Poor Louisa!”
“I understand she intends to remove with her children to Southampton, the better to observe her husband's misery. It was she who drafted this letter; I must suppose that Tom did not wish to seek my aid. His wife shows less of injury, and more of sense. I replied that I shall endeavour to secure her accommodation at the Dolphin.”
So Louisa Seagrave had determined to decline Lady Temple ton's offer, and the funeral party in Kent. There was little enough of choice remaining to such a woman, I thought: an interval among relations one could not love, or the prospect of a husband's public disgrace. Either event should involve her in consuming shame; so proud a creature must be prey to every mortification. Dr. Wharton's Comfort should be sought all too often in the coming days.
“I shall leave my card at the Dolphin this morning,” I said thoughtfully. “She must receive every consideration at such a time. It seems hard in us to abandon her to solitude this evening — but I do not like to give up the party at the Footes', even in so persuasive a cause. We go out so little during the winter months — and Mary has looked forward to it so.”
“Devil take Louisa Seagrave!” Frank retorted savagely. “She may sit in contemplation of her disloyalty to Tom, and see whether she finds reason to blame herself for his present fate. Had she told the magistrate that her husband was at home Wednesday night—”
“She should have perjured herself without improving his chances,” I interrupted with equanimity. “Do not make her the proxy for your own unhappy conscience, my dear.”
The door to my brother's bedchamber slammed harshly in reply. From the floor below came the clang of an iron pan and the first heavy odours of bacon fat and boiling coffee; our faithful Jenny should be gone in search of fresh rolls.
Frank's furious voice shouted for hot water — and then like the strain of an uncertain bird, came Mary's placating tone. I pitied them both. Frank must regard himself as in some wise responsible for his friend's debacle. He had told Seagrave that which should make him murderously angry; and he had given Percival Pethering all that was required to clap the man in chains.
Frank would certainly attend the inquest; but I should be spared the discomfort. I had played no part in the body's discovery, I had witnessed nothing that must be disclosed, and I will confess that I felt consuming relief. I had no love for a coroner's panel — they are, in my experience, the product of haste and officiousness, spurred by information that is at best incomplete and, at worst, mendacious. In the present case, I could wager on the unhappy outcome. This should be Tom Seagrave's last day of liberty.
The thump of a boot hurled with vicious force thudded against my bedchamber wall; I heard a bell ring at the other end of the hall. My mother was awake, and demanding the most current news; she should be all agog at the flurry of misfortune among our acquaintance. But I could spare the matter only a part of my mind. Frank might be thrashing in the grip of rage; Louisa Seagrave, bound for the Dolphin; her husband, destined for misery — but I intended to appear at an evening party, and must endeavour to be a credit to my family.
Martha Lloyd — ingenious at the trimming of headdresses — had promised to accompany me to Pearson's, the milliner in the High, for a perusal of exotic feathers. A turban must be requisite for a lady of my advancing years: something dignified and imposing, with a swag of braid and a peacock's plume not un-suited to a gown of Prussian blue sarcenet. I fear that I am quite past the age of appearing all in white, regardless of season; such an attitude may be permitted only among pale consumptives or determined vestals, and I have never aspired to either station.
I turned back into my room and pulled my shift over my head, heedless of the draughts.
MY CONSCIENCE WAS NOT SO BEWITCHED BY THE prospect of dissipation, however, that I ignored the duty of sending my card up to Mrs. Seagrave at the Dolphin when Martha and I passed the inn later this morning. I declined to wait, having bade the footman not to disturb the lady; and trusted I should have the pleasure of receiving her in East Street before very long.
“Where is the inquest to be held?” Martha enquired in a voice better suited to the graveyard.
“At the Vine. It is much less public than this place, and the magistrate appears disposed to discretion, at least.”
“Is your brother in any danger?”
I looked at my friend in some surprise. There was that in her voice that suggested the most acute anxiety; and I thought it hardly the disinterested concern of a fellow-lodger. Some remnant of youthful feeling for Frank must survive in Martha's breast; but it should never do to speak of it now.
“Far less than he should be upon the open seas,” I told her easily. “He is a sensible man; he has nothing to hide; and I trust he shall convince every fellow on the panel of his probity and good sense.”
Martha sighed. “For so much of difficulty to come at such a time! With the removal to Castle Square but a fortnight hence — and Mrs. Frank's baby so near its time — and there is the possibility of a ship, I understand? Our Frank may be posted before his wife's childbed? It seems he has been ashore but a few months, and they would be sending him off again! The Navy is governed by brutes and beasts, Jane!”
“I am sure Mrs. Seagrave must believe so,” I said thoughtfully, and stared up at the inn's bow windows.
MARTHA'S SPIRITS SHOWED GRADUAL IMPROVEMENT AS we made our way along the High — stopping here to finger a sprigged muslin, there to abuse a bonnet of atrocious design. The day was clear and bright, almost unnaturally so for February, but sharply cold. We were obliged to enter far more shops than we had originally intended, merely to keep warm. When at last we had all but stripped our purses bare, I proposed a bit of refreshment — and was turning for a pastry shop I knew of, tucked into Butchers' Row, when two small figures huddled on a neighbouring doorstep caught my eye. They were dark-haired, rosy-cheeked, and shuddering from the cold: both well-grown boys, not unfamiliar, and decidedly ill-clothed against the penetrating wind.
“Charles Seagrave! And Edward!” I cried. “You shall both of you catch your deaths!”
Charles, the elder, sprang upright like a jack-in-the-box, his grey eyes wide with relief. “It's the lady who called upon Mum in Lombard Street,” he informed his brother. “When Uncle Walter was there. I have forgot your name,” he admitted doubtfully, “though you know mine.”
“Never admit to such an ignorance before a lady, Charles,” I told him briskly. “It is the worst sort of offence a gentleman may bestow. I am Miss Austen, and this is Miss Lloyd. How do you boys come to be abroad, entirely alone, in such cold weather? Where is Nancy? Surely she attended you from Portsmouth?”
“Nancy is in charge of the baby,” retorted Charles, “and good riddance, so cross as she is!”
Little Edward rose to his feet, his bare fingers thrust under his arms, his lips blue and chattering. “Please, m-m-miss, don't be telling our mum about our lark! She's resting after our journey from P-p-portsmouth, which was bang-up jolly if you ask me — four post horses hired from the G-g-george, and everything prime about 'em! How we ratt-tt-tled along! We made the distance in under two hours!”
“Am I to understand that your mother is as yet ignorant of your absence?” I enqu
ired in an awful tone. “That you are both abroad expressly without permission?”
Martha choked upon what I guessed to be a laugh. The brothers quailed. Charles threw his arm about Edward, as though his thin nankeen jacket might supply the want of warmth in the younger boy's own.
“We only meant to have a look around town,” he protested. “It's our first visit to Southampton! We've been down the High to the Quay, and seen all the ships, and poked our noses into the dockyard — though it's a poor thing indeed compared to Portsmouth's,” he concluded contemptuously.
“Not even Nancy knows of your going?”
He shook his head.
“They shall be all in an uproar at the inn,” murmured Martha beside me.
“We intended to return ages ago!” Edward cried. “Only — we could not find the High once we had visited the bathing machines. We are most dreadfully lost.”
I did not have the heart to tell them that the High Street was but a hundred yards away. Both boys were shivering violently now. Edward looked upon the verge of tears.
“Come along,” I said with a sigh. “Miss Lloyd and I shall treat you to hot chocolate and honey cakes in that pastry shop opposite, while I beg some paper and a messenger of the proprietor.”
Crows of delight interrupted my declaration. I endeavoured to look stern.
“We shall send a note to the Dolphin attesting to your whereabouts and safety — but the very moment your last drop of chocolate is drunk, my fine fellows, it is off to the inn with you and no mistake! You require hot water bottles and warm possets, and you do not wish to die of an inflammation of the lungs.”
Suitably subdued, the boys preceded us into the pastry shop, and commenced to eat with a voracity that suggested young wolves. I secured my paper and pen, and began to compose a note for Louisa Seagrave while Martha kept up a stream of nonsense calculated for the boys' amusement. But not all their talk was of spillikins and hoops, or the dashing naval actions recently reported in the Gazette; little Edward must be constantly reverting to the subject foremost in the boys' minds: the judgement hanging over their father's head.
“Charles and I have determined to run away to sea if Father hangs,” he informed us as he tucked into an apple pasty.
“Edward!” his brother hissed in a quelling tone. Possessing eight years to his brother's six, he was necessarily more cautious, and knew the value of discretion. “They will tell Mum straightaway! Only you mustn't,” he added for our benefit, “for it is our only recourse, as I'm sure you're aware, being of the naval set yourselves. If Father hangs, we shall be tossed overboard in a manner of speaking. I mean to say — no connexions worth having, and no influence with the Admiralty. We shall have to make our way if we mean to advance.”
Martha gazed at Charles doubtfully. “I am sure your father — even supposing the worst should happen, which I do not admit for an instant — would wish you to serve as support for your mother. She should be in ever greater need of you, if she were … alone … in the world.”
“Muzzer that go into Kent,” Edward declared through a mouthful of pastry. “We thould be more of a burden if we thayed.” He swallowed mightily. “Besides, I cannot support Aunt Templeton. She means to engage a tutor for us! As if we did not know all we needed to learn, already! She is an ape-leader! Poor Uncle Walter — how he must suffer it!”
“He is shot of her for now,” returned Charles, “and must be having a jolly time of it. But I for one shall certainly run away to sea if we are bound for Luxford!”
I met Martha's eyes over the heads of the two boys. She raised one eyebrow. At that moment, the bells of St. Michael's Church, adjacent to our seats in the shop's bow front window, tolled half-past eleven o'clock. The inquest into Mr. Chessyre's death must be concluded, or nearly so.
I was suddenly sharply impatient to know what the judgement might be, and determined to place the boys in Martha's charge — they were getting along famously, for Martha has always been a slave to children's amusement — and set off in search of Fly. I gathered up my paper parcels — one held a pair of gloves in dark blue satin, quite unlike my usual wear, but perfectly in keeping with the iridescent hue of the three feathers I had chosen under Martha's instruction — and motioned for the reckoning. Pray God I had sufficient coin to satisfy the ravages of two healthy young predators.
“Jane,” observed Martha in peering through the window panes clouded with February cold, “is not that Mr. Hill I see before us? He looks worn to a fag end. I should judge that travel by sea does not agree with him — a curious recommendation for a naval surgeon, I am sure!”
The thin frame, the narrow, black-clad shoulders, the periwig — indeed, it could be none other than Mr. Hill. I set down the gloves and hurried out of the shop to intercept him.
“Miss Austen!” The surgeon started at my address, as though lost in a brown study. “How well you look this morning! I should say that your cold is quite gone off!”
Martha appeared in the doorway, her parcels precariously balanced in her arms and the Seagrave boys hiding behind her skirts.
“Miss Lloyd, too! And you have been making a few purchases at the milliner's, I see — a pursuit that is always calculated to bring animation to a lady's countenance.”
“We have been entertaining Captain Seagrave's sons,” I informed Mr. Hill. “Master Charles, his heir, and Master Edward.”
Both boys scraped their bows. Mr. Hill inclined his head benevolently.
“Your brother is well, I hope, Miss Austen? No ill effects from yesterday's voyage?”
“I do not think that Frank could ever suffer at sea. You might better enquire how he fares on dry land!” I scanned the surgeon's face. He looked very ill indeed. “But what of yourself, Mr. Hill? Are you quite recovered from your exertions?”
He hesitated. “I could wish our friend Monsieur LaForge to be in better frame. I sat up with him all night. The effort of achieving Portsmouth yesterday — his testimony on Seagrave's behalf — or perhaps simply the exposure to poor weather in his weakened state—”
Chessyre is dead. I shall not long survive him.
“You find me just returning from a consultation with Dr. Mount,” the surgeon continued, “a physician of considerable reputation, and a great traveller in his day. He has seen many cases of gaol-fever — or ship fever, as it is also known. Even he cannot account for LaForge's symptoms. I confess that I am greatly disappointed; I had hoped for some inspiration. Instead, I have fetched only laudanum. It shall ease his suffering, at the very least.”
“Then you think … you believe it possible …”
“That the man will die?” Mr. Hill gazed at me baldly. “I should never undertake to say, Miss Austen. It is a point that only his Maker may answer. I will tell you that his fever has increased; that from cramping in the bowels, he may take neither food nor water; and that his pulse is fluttering and weak. Indeed, he may have passed from this life while we stand thus, in talking.”
I looked my indecision at Martha, then impulsively seized Mr. Hill by the arm.
“For God's sake, let us be silent,” I said, “and reserve our breath for walking. Miss Lloyd must carry the young Seagraves back to the Dolphin, but I shall accompany you to Wool House. I cannot stay away.”
ETIENNE LA FORGE WAS NOT DEAD; BUT HE LAY IN AN attitude so narrowly approximating it, that I all but despaired of his life. The sharp brown eyes were completely closed, the jaw clenched in pain. He was drenched in sweat despite the room's raw atmosphere, so that his body was racked with chills. His ebony walking-stick lay by his side on the pallet, as though in the last extremity of existence, he would guard this one relic of home. He muttered fragments of French — phrases I could not always catch, or comprehend once I heard them. At times he seemed to be wandering in childhood; at others, he broke into bawdy song, and must be restrained or he should have attempted to dance. But for the most part he seemed torn with anguish, and struggled upright to cry aloud the name of Genevieve. His Beloved, perhap
s? Left behind in the Haute Savoie — or in early death?
“Just so it has been,” Mr. Hill muttered, “since eight o'clock last evening. I do not know how much more the human frame may stand.”
Chessyre is dead. I shall not long—
I pressed LaForge's shoulders gently back onto his pallet and bathed his brow. I held a basin while Mr. Hill bled him. Where I knelt on the stone floor, the cold crept through my dress, deadening all feeling in my joints.
“He should not be lying in these dreadful conditions,” I burst out. “None of them should. It is shocking that we tf eat men this way — as though they were slaves, or less than human. He should be moved to a proper bed, near a proper fire.”
Mr. Hill did not meet my eyes. “Naturally. But his condition has declined so greatly, Miss Austen, that I do not think it possible to move him now.”
“This is nothing like the usual course of gaol-fever?”
The surgeon shook his head. “Did I know nothing of the case before this, I should pronounce him poisoned. He suffers, I should say, from an acute gastric complaint quite unlike the troubles of a few days previous. His sickness is lodged in the bowels. It is that which causes him agony.”
I felt my frame stiffen, the breath caught in my chest. “I once witnessed a death from poisoning. It was terrible to behold. Could something noxious have been introduced to his food?”
“But that is absurd! Why should anyone wish to harm a French prisoner? None but ourselves is familiar with even a particle of his history!”
“Monsieur LaForge was in despair yesterday at the suspension of Captain Seagrave's trial,” I told the surgeon urgently. “When he learned the news of Lieutenant Chessyre's murder, he declared that his life was forfeit for having related what he saw aboard the Manon. He is the sole witness to an attempted plot. Do not you comprehend the matter?”
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