Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

by Stephanie Barron

  Frank’s grey eyes glinted. “It is most intriguing, I will confess—the stuff of novels, as I declared before! Seagrave did not wish to disclose the whole; but when I impressed upon him the gravity of his condition, he relented. It is plain he considers the orders as having nothing to do with his fate; but I cannot be so sanguine.”

  “I am all agog.”

  “The Stella Maris was ordered to stand off the coast of Lisbon, between Corunna and Ferrol—a treacherous bit of coastline, which the men all call the Groyne— and signal with a lantern every half-hour of the watch. between two and eight bells for three nights in succession.2 If he received a lantern beam in return—the signal was prearranged, of course—he was to land a boat and collect a stranger, for passage to Portsmouth in the Stella. Seagrave was given no hint of the man’s identity, but suspected he must be a foreign agent of the Crown; your fast frigates are often employed in such jiggery-pokery schemes.”

  “And did he collect his supercargo?”

  “He did not. After the affair of the Manon—the battle done, the French ship repaired and despatched to port under Chessyre’s management—Seagrave proceeded to the position specified in his sailing orders.

  He opened the sealed packet, and commenced to wait for the proper day and hour. Three successive nights he stood off the Groyne, signalling to no avail. Not an answering beam did he discover, and no stranger was hauled from the rocks. The duty done, Tom returned to port—and found himself accused of murder.”

  “Corunna might have been a subterfuge, I suppose.”

  “Designed to lure Tom within striking distance of the Manon?” Frank enquired. “I thought the same. The idea is fantastic, however—particularly when one considers the possibility of the two ships missing each other in all that sea, the vagaries of wind and weather. No, Jane, it will not do.”

  “By whom were the orders issued?”

  “Admiral Hastings. And he can have no reason to wish Tom Seagrave ill—he and the Stella Marts have won Hastings a fortune! The Admiral should be a fool to hang the goose that laid all his golden eggs!”3

  “And were the orders written by the Admiral?”

  Frank hesitated. “They were certainly transcribed by Hastings’s hand. Seagrave wondered whether Hastings had noted the position in error—whether the Stella had missed the agent’s signal, from standing off the wrong part of the Lisbon coast. Such a mistake is possible, I suppose.”

  “I do not understand you. You said that Hastings issued the orders!”

  “He put them in Seagrave’s hand, assuredly, and

  issued them with all his authority as flag officer in command of the Channel squadron. But the orders themselves were sent by the Admiralty telegraph. There is nothing unusual in this. Frank was attempting to marshal patience; but at his words my mind and spirit were animated as if by a shaft of lightning.

  “The telegraph! Of course! A convention of the Navy bent to peculiar purpose! Why did we not see it before?”

  Frank looked bewildered, but I lacked sufficient time to explain. For at that very moment Phoebe Carruthers was announced.

  1“The chains” refers to the chain-wale or dead-eyes, the hardware used to secure the lower shrouds of a mast to the hull of the ship. We may suppose that Charles and Edward Seagrave climbed up the bow of the ship and entered at the spot in the chain-wale where a sailor usually stood to take soundings of water depth. —Editor’s note.

  2Bells were the time-keeping system aboard ship. Struck every half-hour, they indicated by the number of strokes the tally of half-hours elapsed in the watch. Eight bells indicated midnight, one bell 12:30 A.M., two bells 1:00 A.M., and so on to eight bells at 4:00 A.M., when the sequence was repeated.—Editor’s note.

  3When a British ship seized an enemy vessel, the profits accruing from the sale of the prize were divided into eight equal parts. The captain of the victorious ship received three-eighths; one of these eighths was then turned over to his admiral. The remaining five-eighths were divided among the crew according to seniority. —Editor’s note.

  Chapter 19

  A Picture of Grief

  28 February 1807,

  cont.

  ~

  THE GOLDEN-HAIRED BEAUTY SWEPT INTO THE ROOM on Jenny’s heels, a veil of black lace all but concealing her features. At the sight of it I nearly gasped aloud; but stifled the sound in time. It would not do to betray a dangerous knowledge. Nell Rivers’s very life might depend upon my silence.

  She lifted the veil from her face. Her eyes, I saw now, were the green of pond-weeds in April, the green of lichens and stone. Another woman might have encouraged the hue with silks of gold and amber; but Phoebe Carruthers was resolute in her adoption of dark grey. In this, at least, she was sensible of the conventions of mourning.

  “Captain Austen,” she said with a curtsey, “it has been many years since we first formed an acquaintance. I daresay you do not remember me, but perhaps you will recall my late husband—Captain Hugh Carruthers.”

  Frank put his heels together and bowed. “He was an excellent man, Mrs. Carruthers; all England must feel his loss. You do not know my sister, I think. Miss Austen, Mrs. Carruthers.”

  I inclined my head. “Pray sit down. Jenny, be so good as to fetch some tea.”

  Phoebe Carruthers glanced over her shoulder at the hard wooden chairs ranged against the wall; Frank drew one of them forward and placed it near the hearth. She perched on its edge with all the poise of a figure carved by Canova.

  “I am happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Austen. I was very sorry not to speak with you last night, at the Footes’; and seized the first opportunity of paying a morning call.”

  My surprise must have shown in my countenance; Her green eyes flickered, and fell to her lap. She commenced to draw off her gloves.

  I said, “You were obliged to leave the party rather early. But it was a delightful evening, was it not?”

  “Or should have been, but for the manners of one in the room.” Her cool eyes came up to meet my own. “I had not intended to appear at the Footes’. Much as I respect them, I am ill-suited to mix in company. I recently lost my son, as you may be aware. For my own part, I would fix quiedy at home. But not all our obligations are matters of choice.”

  I glanced at Frank. The lady was dispassionate; she was contained; but this frankness she affected among virtual strangers could not fail to pique our interest. It might be a cold-hearted campaign to win our allegiance, who should find cause to suspect her of complicity in murder—but that was absurd. Phoebe Carruthers could have no idea of Nell Rivers, or what the latter had seen. She had no reason to assume our mistrust. She must be a woman of considerable caution.

  “Your son’s death cannot but be deeply felt,” I said. “You have my sincere sympathy, Mrs. Carruthers.”

  She bowed her beautiful head, and could not speak for several seconds. I thought I glimpsed the gleam of tears beneath her lashes; it was all admirably done.

  “I heard of your warm support for the prisoners of Wool House, Miss Austen—of your habit of tending to the sick.”

  Again, her tack in conversation surprised me; I inclined my head, but said nothing in my own cause.

  “Tell me, are any of the Manon’s crew imprisoned there?” she enquired.

  “There were lately four,” I replied. My thoughts sprang to Etienne LaForge. If Sir Francis Farnham was somehow embroiled in Chessyre’s scheme—if Phoebe Carruthers had lured the Lieutenant to his death— they would both be aware of the Frenchman’s evidence at court-martial. Why, then, consult with me?

  “One man died of gaol-fever, another is gravely ill, and all have been removed at Sir Francis Farnham’s instruction to a prison hulk moored in Southampton Water,” Frank supplied.

  “Removed? By Sir Francis?”

  The careful composure of her features was entirely torn. Her countenance evidenced shock. She stood, and moved restlessly towards the fire; grasped the mantel an instant in a desire for support—or suppr
essed anger—then turned, and regained her seat. When her gaze fell upon us once more, her looks were under management. The serenity of her features was as a lake no stone could ripple.

  “You were not aware of the amendment,” I said. “I had supposed that being acquainted with Sir Francis, you might have known all he intended.”

  “Sir Francis shares nothing, Miss Austen,” she said carefully. “He prefers to dispose of people’s lives rather than consult them. I had expressed a wish to speak with the men of the Manon, and he has deliberately thwarted my ambition.”

  “I see.” She had betrayed none of this bitterness while in the gentleman’s company.

  Phoebe Carruthers leaned forward. “You have moved among them—the prisoners at Wool House. You have heard them talk among themselves. You speak French, I think?”

  “A little.”

  Her lips worked painfully, and then the words came. “Do any of the French say how my poor son died? Was the shot that killed him deliberately fired? Were they so heartless as to strike down a child—so that his body was dashed upon the decks? … Oh, God, when I think of his father!”

  She put her head in her hands and wept with a brutal abandon. Frank went to her instantly, and placed his arm about her heaving shoulders; I snatched up a vinaigrette that stood on Mary’s work table, and offered it in vain.

  “Tea, ma’am,” said Jenny stoically from the doorway; and I motioned her towards the dining table. She set down the tray, poured out a cup, and proffered it wordlessly to Phoebe Carruthers.

  The lady lifted her streaming face and accepted the tea gratefully. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I should not have so far forgot myself. It is just that this fresh blow is like a wound reopened, and curved more deeply than before. It was tragedy enough to lose Hugh—but Simon! He was such a bright and beautiful boy. Seagrave always said—”

  Her words broke off; she sipped at her tea. The struggle for serenity was more obvious this time … and far less successful.

  “I know nothing of how your son died,” I told her gently. “It was not a subject I felt authorised to raise in Wool House.”

  “I quite understand. It was foolish of me to enquire.”

  Frank cleared his throat. “Mrs. Carruthers—you did no wrong in sending your son to sea. That was what his father would have wished, I am sure.”

  “My late husband would not have sent the boy aloft at such a time, in battle—he should have secured the child in his cabin. I must reproach myself for having entrusted the boy to Thomas Seagrave. I had not understood, at the time, what was vicious in Captain Seagrave’s character. It was enough for me that he was Hugh’s friend.”

  “They were long acquainted, I think?” Frank said.

  “From midshipmen. I cannot remember a time when I did not know Tom Seagrave—he was almost a brother to Hugh. I have loved him as one, I know; but all that must be past.”

  She uttered the words without a blush. Whatever the naval set might suspect of Seagrave’s attentions to Mrs. Carruthers, she betrayed not the slightest sensibility.

  “You must not blame Seagrave,” Frank said earnestly. “His present troubles aside, I believe Tom to be as good a man, and as honourable in his profession, as ever lived. The misfortunes attendant upon his engagement with the Manon are too many to name; but do not forget get that your son spent nearly two years in Seagrave’s keeping, and thrived.”

  “I know it.” She summoned that ghostly smile I had glimpsed on her lips the previous evening. “How Simon loved that ship! He was always his father’s child— haunting the seawalls and the quays, intent upon every anchorage. I could no more deny him a berth than I could cease to breathe. And I did regard Tom Seagrave— before I learned of his capacity for murder.”

  She shuddered.

  Was this another calculated ploy? A deliberate subterfuge, from a lady who had enticed a man to his death?

  “We had a glimpse of you on Wednesday night,” I said carelessly, as though to change the tenor of the conversation. “In French Street, at the theatre. How did you like Mrs. Jordan? “

  “Exceedingly,” she replied. “Her antics spared me the necessity of conversation. Sir Francis had only just descended upon the town, and was most pressing in his invitation—I could not bear to entertain him in Bugle Street, where I lodge, and thus resorted to the theatre.”

  She endeavoured to make it plain she did not like the Baronet’s attentions. I wondered at her energy in expressing so personal a sentiment, to a relative stranger; and thought the hint of design was in her words.

  “How unfortunate, then, that you were obliged to quit the place after the first act,” observed Frank engagingly. “We had intended to force acquaintance on Sir Francis at the interval, and were denied the privilege.”

  Mrs. Carruthers’s nostrils flared. “I found that I was unequal to the effort of appearing in public. It is a strain, you understand, to parade as though one is insensible to grief—as though every word and look must not inspire the most painful recollections! I begged to be quit of the crowd at the first opportunity, and Sir Francis obliged me in this.”

  “How unfortunate! And so you fled one frying pan, only to end in the fire!”

  Her delicate brows curled in perplexity. “I do not understand you, Miss Austen.”

  I cast a look of amusement at my brother. “To bid Sir Francis adieu, only to find Tom Seagrave at the door!”

  “I did not know the Captain was in Bugle Street,” she replied steadily. “He left no card. It is as well we failed to meet; I have not seen him since Simon’s death, and might have uttered reproaches I should regret. Though Captain Seagrave may carry Simon on his conscience until he dies, I should not wish to carry him on mine.

  “And one might expect the two men to come to blows,” I added sympathetically. “Thank Heaven you were spared such a scene.”

  For the first time, her complexion lost some of its colour. “To blows? Sir Francis and Captain Seagrave? What could you possibly suggest, Miss Austen?”

  “From something Sir Francis said last night, I gathered that he holds the Captain in low regard.”

  “That is hardly singular. All of Southampton might say the same.”

  “But Sir Francis is not of Southampton, Mrs. Carruthers. Has he any cause for so pronounced a dislike? Some professional discourtesy, perhaps, on Seagrave’s part?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Then perhaps he merely thinks to support your grief, and your sentiments.”

  For the length of several heartbeats, Phoebe Carruthers said nothing. Her green gaze held my own. Then she set down her cup. “Sir Francis is not always the perfect master of his temper, Miss Austen, as you have reason to know. He is often betrayed into speech he may regret. He is a man of great passions and considerable jealousies, and may imperfectly understand the circumstances of those around him.”

  “You have been acquainted with the Baronet for some time, I see.”

  “Nearly twenty years. I was governess to his little sisters when I was but eighteen, and spent nearly a year in the bosom of the Farnham family. When one has observed the formation of a man’s character, one may forgive a great deal.”

  “Certainly one may respect the enduring nature of his regard,” I observed. “Twenty years is a period! And yet Sir Francis’s admiration for you is unflagging.” What had Frank said? That Phoebe Carruthers had been involved in scandal while a governess … something to do with the family’s eldest son … and her marriage to her cousin had followed hard upon the business. Sir Francis—jealous Sir Francis—had married and acceded to his title; but he had not forgot the golden beauty. He had waited, and bided his time— and plotted to remove his rivals….

  “Always his father’s child,” I murmured. “It is remarkable how blood will out, Mrs. Carruthers.”

  Her green eyes widened suddenly with alarm. She reached for her gloves.

  “I must beg your pardon for trying your patience so long,” Phoebe Carruthers said, r
ising. “It has been delightful to make your acquaintance, Miss Austen.”

  • • •

  MY BROTHER SHOWED THE LADY TO THE DOOR, WITH many a fine flourish regarding his hopes of seeing her in future, and all the assurances of his wife’s regret in having lost such an opportunity to form Mrs. Carruthers’s acquaintance; and when she had dwindled down the street, he rounded upon me in indignation.

  “Jane, you were exceedingly rude just now. Poor Mrs. Carruthers is the picture of grief—and you must interrogate her regarding Sir Francis Farnham! It is obvious she doesn’t like the fellow’s company, and only suffers his attentions because she is too well-bred to send him packing! You might have shown some consideration!”

  “She is altogether too picture-perfect for my liking, Fly,” I said abruptly. “She displays her grief at the slightest urging; desires us to believe that she has no designs upon a baronet; adopts the general tone of disapprobation towards Captain Seagrave, and denies all knowledge of him in Southampton on Wednesday evening. It was a performance intended to distance her from murder, and that alone must make it suspect.”

  My brother’s countenance hardened. “You think her afraid, Jane? You believe her bent upon deceit?”

  “I think that Sir Francis determined to destroy his rival for Mrs. Carruthers’s attentions. That he plotted Seagrave’s disgrace by offering advancement to his lieutenant, in return for betrayal. That he used the signal line to despatch a set of orders the Admiralty never contemplated—and that when Chessyre despaired of his guilt and dishonour, Sir Francis determined to be rid of him. I believe that Phoebe Carruthers went in search of Chessyre in the Baronet’s coach on Wednesday night, and carried the man away to meet with Farnham. I do not need to inform you of the result.”

  Frank took a turn about the room in considerable agitation. It is hard for such a man—trained up in the ways of gallantry—to credit a beautiful woman with evil.

  “I could accept all this, provided Phoebe Carruthers had no notion of what she did. The wife of Hugh Carruthers should never collude to murder a man.”