Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

by Stephanie Barron

  “It shall be sent for directly.”

  THEY WERE CLOSETED IN MRS. DAVIES’S BEST PARLOUR nearly three-quarters of an hour. I sat with Mary before the fire in the dining parlour adjacent, while she tried to attend to her sewing, and threw it down again; chewed at her fingernail, and sighed her impatience. I thought I glimpsed the stain of tears about her pretty eyes; some trouble with the child she carried, or a depth of anxiety for Frank must be the cause. But when at last she spoke, her voice held only fretfulness.

  “And so Tom Seagrave’s accuser was murdered, and must bring the magistrate to our very door! Thank God my mother has no notion of the scenes to which I am daily subjected—the indignities and sufferings quite thrust upon me, and in my delicate condition! I am sure that Mamma would carry me off to Kent directly, without stopping for a word of explanation; and I am in half a mind to summon her!”

  I studied her petulant young face over the edge of my book. “Mr. Chessyre called at this house in search of Frank on Tuesday. It was Chessyre who occasioned Frank’s absence from home that night, and Chessyre you must thank for your extreme anxiety then. Mr. Pethering, the magistrate, knows that Frank solicited an interview with Chessyre on Tuesday morning; he has found Frank’s card among Chessyre’s things. As Tom Seagrave’s friend, Frank must be counted among Chessyre’s enemies. Must I speak any plainer, Mary, or will the recital do? Your husband is in the gravest danger of being accused of murder.”

  Her mouth formed itself into a tragic O. “Frank went in search of the Lieutenant Tuesday night? When I could not sleep?”

  “He sought the man throughout the quayside, and among the most unsavoury circles; but failed in the end to meet with him. Tom Seagrave should consider himself greatly obliged to Frank, once he learns of the energy exerted on his behalf—” I broke off. Mary’s hand was now pressed to her lips, as though she were ill, and her eyes had filled with tears. “I have upset you. What a wretched thing in one who professes to be your sister! Pray forgive me—”

  “So that is why she came in search of him.”

  “Who came?”

  Mary shook her head. “She would not give her name. A very vulgar sort of person, Jane. Indeed, I believe one might refer to her as a …a …”

  “Barque of frailty?” I enquired.1

  “Not nearly so well-bred as that! She was quite disreputable in her person, and her clothes were in rags. I must confess that she smetted, Jane, most disconcertingly. No, I am afraid we must call her simply a jade, and leave it at that ‘As much as my life is worth,’ she insisted, ‘to speak to Captain Austen; but I must do it’ I thought her quite out of her senses.”

  “Wherever did you meet with such a woman?” I enquired, bewildered.

  “She came to Mrs. Davies’s kitchen door, just after breakfast, and asked for Frank.”

  “How very unfortunate,” I breathed.

  “Mrs. Davies felt it her duty, she said, to summon

  me—Captain Austen being from home.” Mary’s countenance was scarlet; she must have presented just such a picture of consciousness and mortification in our landlady’s kitchen. I apprehended, now, the source of those tears I had suspected in the poor girl’s looks, her misery and thoughts for her mamma.

  “And did she state her business?”

  “She would not, though I pressed her most severely. I thought at the time that she was simply surprised to find that Frank had a wife—that he had suggested otherwise, on a previous occasion in her … company. But I wonder—”

  “You did not learn her name?”

  Mary’s eyes slid away. “I suppose in common decency I should have requested it, Jane, but I will own that I was so dumbfounded by her appearance that I wished only to be rid of her. I told her that Captain Austen was from home, and that if she refused to disclose her business with my husband, she must seek him on another occasion. She wrung her hands, and insisted that she was in terror of her life—she looked most pitiful, Jane—but in the end, I shut the kitchen door, and she took herself off.”

  I could imagine the scene without considerable effort. Young Mary—unequal to the display of pride that Mrs. Davies would require—sailing past our landlady with her chin quivering, to spend the remainder of the morning in her empty bedchamber.

  “Do you think it possible,” Mary enquired of me, “that this person sought Frank with regard to Chessyre?”

  “Anything, in this sordid business, is possible,” I replied with unhappy candour. “Frank was open in his effort to secure the Lieutenant, the night before the man’s death; from my brother’s account, he searched the quayside for some hours, asking directly for Chessyre. Any with ears to hear and eyes to see, would know that the one man was concerned with the other. “

  Mary did not reply. She appeared lost in sorrowful reflection; the young bride’s quick remorse for hasty judgement, I presumed.

  There was the sound of a distant door thrust open, and the murmur of voices quick and low; then a decisive thud in the passage to the street as the house turned its back upon Mr. Pethering. Another instant, and my brother strode into the room, his countenance considerably lighter than it had been when we parted.

  “I do not believe we have the slightest cause for worry,” he declared without preamble. Mary, my love, have you been dreadfully disturbed in spirits? I must beg your pardon for occasioning anxiety, and lay the whole before you without delay.”

  “Spare your breath, Frank,” she replied with energy, “for I am well-acquainted with the business.”

  My brother shot me a look of hurt surprise; he had not believed me so unreliable a confidante; but Mary hastened to disabuse him.

  “Would you take me for an ignorant child? Am I to remain unconscious of a subject that has engrossed the better part of my acquaintance these many months, solely because my husband did not chuse to speak of it? Fie, Frank! That you could credit me for a goose! I wonder at your opinion of my understanding.”

  Frank begged forgiveness; Mary wept a little into her square of lawn; and I was spared a further indulgence of bridal humours, by the urgency of the matter at hand.

  “Pray tell me, dearest Frank, what that dreadful man Pethering would lay at your door,” Mary begged.

  “He had hoped to disturb a desperate murderer in his plans for flight,” my brother answered calmly, “but was forced to conclude, from my sanguine air and excellent head, that I had nothing to do with the Lieutenant’s sorry end. I pointed out that any number of lodgers in this establishment might vouch for my presence last evening; and proceeded to inform the magistrate that I thought it likely the man was killed in a brawl.”

  I raised my brows at this, but elicited not the slightest notice.

  Tethering required an explanation for the presence of my card among the man’s things, and I told him that I had called upon Chessyre at the Dolphin during the course of Tuesday morning. I fancy he already knew as much. What he hoped to learn was the substance of my express to Tom Seagrave.”

  “And did you disclose it?” I asked.

  Frank hesitated. “I had no choice, Jane. Pethering warned me that he shall soon call a coroner’s panel to enquire into Chessyre’s death; and I shall be forced to give evidence. I could not very well lie to the man in my own home.”

  “You might have pled the constraints of honour, and purchased your friend a few more hours!” I protested. “The magistrate now knows what the Frenchman saw. And what he saw is motivation for murder enough!”

  “What Frenchman?” Mary cried, bewildered.

  “I am done with preserving Tom Seagrave!” Frank retorted. “He has not been open; he guards all in a cloud of secrecy; he impugns the disinterest of his friends. It is not enough that I should be suspected of dangling for a ship; I must now be expected to lie for him! I wonder you can suggest it, Jane!”

  My brother rose, and quitted the room with a bang of the door. Mary stared after him in perplexity.

  “Frank is to have a ship} Why did he say nothing of this to me?”


  “Perhaps we should start with the Frenchman,” I sighed.

  1Barque of frailty was the cant term for a mistress or courtesan.— Editor’s note.

  Chapter 14

  A turn for the Worse

  Friday,

  27 February 1807,

  ~

  I AWOKE NOT LONG AFTER SEVEN O’CLOCK TO THE SOUND of a fist hammering at the front door.

  My ears strained through the dawn stillness for the issue of so much commotion—caught the tramp of sleep-dulled feet along Mrs. Davies’s lower passage—the murmur of conversation—the thud of the heavy oak. There was an instant’s silence, and then the same ponderous tread of a woman long past her prime, mounting the steps and making for my brother’s bedchamber.

  Another express. From Portsmouth, perhaps?

  Mrs. Davies would not be pleased to have lost her final hour of rest in the presentation of Captain Austen’s mail.

  I threw back the bedclothes and stretched my warm feet to the cold drugget. There was little point in attempting further sleep; I had tossed throughout the night, my dreams consumed by a dimly-lit room and the glittering, half-opened eyes of a whispering Frenchman. There was something he meant to tell me—some message he sought to convey—but either the noise in my head was too great for hearing, or his French was become suddenly unintelligible. I could not make out the sense of his words.

  Must I always translate for you? Etienne LaForge enquired wearily. Chessyre is dead. I shall not long survive him.

  I drew my dressing gown about my shoulders. The palest light seeped through the clouded windows; a bank of heavy fog pressed down upon the house. It was an hour for lying curled in a huddle of warm blankets; but I could not be easy in my mind. The Frenchman’s words haunted me. Was I a fool to accord such weight to the spectres of fancy? Perhaps in my younger days I might have shrugged off this nocturnal warning; but the wages of experience are caution. I have learned that what waking thought may not penetrate, the slumbering mind will illumine. I am hardly the first to credit the notion—the English language is replete with aphorisms that would urge a troubled soul to retire with worry, and find comfort in the dawn. For are we not “such stuff/As dreams are made on, and our little life/Is rounded with a sleep”?1

  Chessyre is dead. I shall not long survive him.

  I twitched back the curtains and strained to make out the street below. My eyes have never been strong, and in the grey light every outline was indistinct; but even I could not mistake the horse and rider lingering there. The express messenger had been instructed to wait. His mount snorted and tossed its head; its breath

  showed white in the frigid air. At that moment, I caught the sound of my brother’s door bursting open, and the quick light race of his feet along the passage. The reply, then, would be urgent. I must dress and discover what intelligence was come before Frank entirely quitted the house.

  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 unsuited 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 dan
ger?”

  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.”