Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

by Stephanie Barron

  “Captain Austen,” said Mr. Hill, “it occurs to me that proper feeling might dictate a call upon Mrs. Seagrave. Would you regard such an act as likely to break the Sabbath—or entirely within the compass of these extraordinary circumstances?”

  “I shall bear you company, Hill,” said my brother grimly, “and regard it as a charity. Jane? Are you greatly fatigued? I confess I should welcome the presence of a lady at this interview.”

  “I was always a slave to the poor and downtrodden,” I observed piously, and placed my hand within his arm.

  Chapter 24

  Incitement to Vice

  1 March 1807,

  cont.

  ~

  MRS. SEAGRAVE LOOKED VERY ILL INDEED AS SHE WAS ushered into the Dolphin’s upper parlour. Her hair in its cruelly tight knot was lifeless, her eyes overly bright, and her countenance determinedly sallow. If she had taken anything by way of food in the days since I had last seen her, it had added nothing to her frame.

  “Forgive me,” she said without preamble. “I am not attired to receive visitors. I hardly looked for any today.”

  “Pray do not make yourself anxious,” said Frank. He thrust himself hastily from his chair and bowed. “I trust you are well, Mrs. Seagrave?”

  “I am thoroughly wretched; but what of that? It is become my usual condition. Miss Austen—it is a relief to see you again. I had begun to think that the world was solely populated by hypocrites and scoundrels.”

  I went to her and curtseyed. “You may remember our friend Mr. Hill from our last meeting in Lombard Street.”

  “The naval surgeon.” She offered him the barest nod. “I do recall. And how is your French colleague, Mr. Hill? The one who succeeded in preventing my husband from hanging?”

  “Sadly—he is dead, ma’am,” lied Mr. Hill with the gravest of looks. “He died most tragically in a shipboard fire last evening. You may have heard rumour of the event.”

  A spot of colour flared up in Louisa’s cheek. “I never attend to rumour, sir, I assure you. Will you take some bread and cheese? Or a glass of wine—may I fetch you one?”

  “Thank you—but no,” I returned after a glance at the impassive gentlemen. For my own part, I was faint with hunger. I do not break my fast before Sunday service, and the hour was fast approaching noon.

  “I can stomach nothing at present,” Louisa murmured, “but I may at least ring for tea. Pray avail yourselves of chairs—” this last, with a vague gesture about the parlour, as though she were viewing its contents for the first time. At her ring, a maidservant appeared in the doorway, then disappeared in pursuit of a tray.

  Frank waited for the ladies to adopt their seats before settling into his own. Mr. Hill seemed determined to stand. Louisa sank into her chair with so complete a weariness that I understood nerves alone must be animating her frame. She put her head in her hands, insensible for an instant to everything about her.

  I broke the silence. “And how do the children? Charles and Edward are well?”

  “Well enough in body,” she said, “but low in their spirits and cowed as mice. It is something to see one’s father—whom one has always considered a sort of god, from his habit of command—taken from the house under armed guard, and conveyed like a pauper through the streets. I do not know what to tell them. Every sentiment must sound false in my ears. All my words are lies.”

  “Not all,” I urged her. “Surely you have hope for the future—and not all hope is false. Some prayers must be heard, and answered.”

  “But I do not know what to pray for,” she said bleakly.

  “Good God, woman!” my brother ejaculated. “Would you have your husband called a murderer—when those who love him must believe the accusation false—and hang for it? I can think of several dozen prayers that might adequately serve.”

  “We have only just quitted your husband’s cell,” I told her.

  A light flared in her eyes—but of joy or anger, I could not tell.

  “You have seen my husband?”

  “And found poor Tom quite sunk,” said Frank. “It was all we could do to elicit a word from those stern lips. He bears his troubles nobly. I intend to search out a reputable barrister on his behalf tomorrow—and shall travel to London if I must, to secure such a man!”

  “Did he tell you where he went on Wednesday night?”

  Louisa’s expression, as she asked the question, was painfully acute. Every ounce of passion in her famished countenance was directed at my brother’s answer—upon his next words her very existence seemed to hang.

  Frank hesitated, and his eyes found mine. “He did not.”

  Well done, I thought

  The tension in Louisa’s body seemed to drain away. But her countenance twisted in a bitter smile. “It was hardly an honourable adventure, you may be sure. A man with nothing to hide would not now be sitting in Gaoler’s Alley. I am sure he sought only one in this wretched town, and that she was eager to bid him welcome.”

  Frank snorted derisively and rose from his chair. “Forgive me, ma’am, if I must plead urgent business. I shall expect to meet you in future under happier circumstances, when we may all forget this dreadful episode, and rejoice in your husband’s return to vigour and respect. I hope to find your humour and manners much improved.”

  A curt bow, that was almost an insult, and not the slightest softening of his angry manner. I understood Frank’s regard for Tom Seagrave; but I thought my brother lamentably ill-equipped to comprehend the subtlety of Louisa Seagrave’s soul. Mr. Hill, perhaps, should have done better—but Mr. Hill was fixed in his position by the far wall, his regard never wavering from Louisa’s wan face.

  “You think me a hard and bitter woman, Captain Austen,” she said softly, “because I do not profess to love my husband. But perhaps I have loved him too well, and more than he deserves. I have sacrificed everything to his comfort; I have borne him five children, and seen two swallowed by the grave; I have endeavoured to preserve his respectability. Yet he has turned from me. He has left me bereft, who possessed nothing but his love in the world. Should you wonder that I find it hard to pity him now?”.

  “I wonder that any woman can fail to pity a man,” returned my brother with heat. “You are all of you so much wiser and better than we. Can you not see that your husband is now in greater need of your respect and esteem than at any moment in his life? And yet it is now that you would withdraw them!”

  “They were murdered, Captain—not withdrawn.” Her voice was raw with stifled weeping. “He killed our love with his careless ways as surely as he killed that poor boy.”

  “Call it Death by Misadventure, then,” Frank persisted, “if you will call it death. Murder implies something other than mere carelessness. It suggests a cruelty and an intent to harm that I have never witnessed in Thomas Seagrave. I wonder, madam, whether you know your husband—or merely some demon your mind has formed!”

  To my surprise, Louisa stared at my brother with an expression akin to horror, as though he had peered directly into her soul. “I do see demons,” she whispered. “They torment my sleep. No rest do I have, by night or by day; they are ogres in form, that bear my husband’s face.”

  Frank’s brows came down in perplexity at this; but whatever he might have said was forestalled by Louisa’s sharp cry. “My flask! What has become of my flask?”

  Her eyes swept frantically about the room.

  “Is it in your reticule?” I enquired. The article lay forgot on the parlour table. I reached for it, but Louisa was before me—she rose from her chair and clutched at the thing as though it contained her life’s blood. Her efforts to free the flask from her reticule were in vain, however; her fingers shook so violently that she was powerless to withdraw the bottle of laudanum. She swayed—Mr. Hill stepped forward—and without uttering a sound, Louisa slid to the carpet in a swoon.

  The surgeon felt immediately for a pulse, while Frank and I waited in suspense.

  “Carry her into the bedchamber,” h
e said abruptly. “She cannot lie here, displayed to the public eye. Quickly—help me to support her.”

  The door to the upper parlour opened at that moment, to admit the maidservant with the tea. Her eyes widened as she comprehended the scene—but she was collected in her wits, and merely set down the tray on a chair, rather than dashing it to the floor in the best tradition of drama.

  “This gentleman is a surgeon,” I told her. “Fetch cold water, and be so good as to bring a vinaigrette to Mrs. Seagrave’s room.”

  WE LAID LOUISA ON HER BED AND PIACED A SHAWL over her. Mr. Hill loosened her stays, and peered under her eyelids; and then he requested the bottle of laudanum Louisa carried everywhere with her.

  To my surprise, he administered a draught.

  “But is not that the very thing that ails her?” I enquired.

  “To be sure. But one cannot deprive the body of the evil prop it craves. Mrs. Seagrave has grown so dependent upon her Comfort that she cannot do without it.”

  “Then how is she to be saved? For her condition worsens. Every day that passes finds her more attached to the elixir, more despondent in her thoughts, more deranged in her dreams.”

  He raised a thin eyebrow. “The demons that bear her husband’s face? They are common enough among your opium-eaters. The initial effects of the drug are wondrous—the portal to a world of beauty and delight; but as the mind becomes ensnared to opium’s effect, the fantasies grow harsh, the dream world darkens. And still the sufferer cannot thwart the body’s craving.”

  I met the surgeon’s eyes. “You know a good deal more of the evil than is wise, Mr. Hill.”

  He smiled wryly. “I am not entirely a stranger to the poppy, Miss Austen, though I am happy to say that I am no longer its slave.”

  “How is the addiction broken?” Frank asked intently.

  The taking of opium in any form is a difficult practise to inhibit A strong mind—a will to desist—is required; and of course, adequate diversion to free the soul of boredom. Too many physicians will prescribe complete rest, without the understanding that ennui is a powerful spur to relapse. Mrs. Seagrave is unlikely to procure much of either rest or diversion, however, in Southampton at present Is she greatly attached to her husband?—I do not speak, here, of bitter words and reproaches. I speak of real feeling.”

  I glanced at Frank, who stood mutely by the opposite side of the bed. “That is difficult to judge,” I replied. “Certainly she regards it as her duty to be near him, under his present difficulty; but she derives no happiness from braving scandal, and has never professed confidence in his innocence.”

  “I see,” said the surgeon; and possibly he did. “How many children? “

  “Three, one of them a babe in arms. She possesses a nursemaid; we must presume the woman presently in charge.”

  “Has she any family capable of lending support? A home to which she might go, under careful super-vision, while attempting to wean herself from the vile stuff?”

  I hesitated. “There is her aunt—the lady to whom Captain Seagrave referred. Lady Templeton has quitted Portsmouth, I believe, and is presently gone into Kent She was bound for a place called Luxford House— somewhere, I think, near Deal.”

  “Luxford House!” Mr. Hill straightened. “Then your Lady Templeton is gone to a funeral! Viscount Luxford is very lately deceased—I read the account only yesterday in the Morning Gazette.”

  “So we understand. Mrs. Seagrave is the late Viscount’s daughter.”

  Mr. Hill’s eyes gleamed sharply. He glanced down at Louisa, who remained insensible. The draught of laudanum, however, appeared to have made her more comfortable; she looked now to be only sleeping.

  “Have the maid bathe her temples with vinegar every quarter-hour,” the surgeon instructed. “I can do nothing more here at present; and it is imperative I speak with you both.”

  “ARE YOU AWARE OF THE DISPOSITION OF THE LUXFORD estate?” Mr. Hill enquired.

  I glanced at Frank, who appeared as bemused as myself. We had descended to the Dolphin’s downstairs parlour, the better to converse in privacy; the airy room was empty but for ourselves.

  “We know nothing of the family at all,” I answered. “We have only just learned the name in recent days.”

  “In company with the better part of England,” Mr. Hill replied comfortably. “Mrs. Seagrave and her history are now the intimate concern of every reader of the Morning Gazette—to say nothing of the Post, the Times, and every other reputable scandal-monger in the Kingdom. The report of the Viscount’s death has led to considerable speculation. For the provisions of his will—and the passage of his estate—must leave your friend in peculiar suspense.”

  There is no one in England, I daresay, who may resist the temptation of canvassing an estate oddly left; the various clauses and provisions of wills, while dry stuff in themselves, must lead to the most extraordinary incident. Fortunes are made and lost; heirs plucked from obscurity, or thrown into eclipse; ancient scandals revived, in all their lurid particulars; and the Dead afforded the satisfaction of disturbing the Living’s peace for a decade or more.

  “Pray sit down, Mr. Hill,” said my brother. “Let us send for refreshment. Madeira, perhaps, and ratafia cakes?”

  “I should be infinitely obliged,” said the surgeon, and pulling the tails of his black coat over his hips, he sat

  The wine was brought; I accepted a glass; Louisa’s maid appeared to report that Mrs. Seagrave was unchanged, however much vinegar might be pressed into her temples; and Mr. Hill was urged to a second round of Madeira. His thin face took on a bit of colour, and his small eyes did not lose their gleam.

  “I often think that had I spurned the world of physick, and the adventure of the seas, I should have loved nothing so well as a tidy solicitor’s office, and the management of sundry affairs,” he observed. “Three or four families, in a country village—provided they be sufficiently rich or eccentric to involve the affairs of a multitude—is the very thing to work on. And so we come to the Viscount.”

  “I gather that he made some mention of Mrs. Seagrave in the will?” said Frank impatiently.

  “So it is rumoured. The actual reading of the testament will not occur, to be sure, until after the Viscount is interred—and that is not to happen until Tuesday. But speculation is rife, I fear, and the Viscount’s solicitors have not been as chary with intelligence as his lordship might have wished. Are you at all familiar with the gentleman?”

  I shook my head.

  “He was a very warm man, I believe,” said Frank.

  “So warm as to be positively scalding,” agreed Mr. Hill. “Viscount Luxford inherited a very handsome fortune at his ascendancy, but rather than going immediately to ruin in the pursuit of horses, gambling hells, or the improvement of his estate—he engaged in speculation.”

  “Which is merely gambling by a different name,” my brother observed.

  “But a happier one, in Luxford’s case. He first commissioned the building of a crescent, to the designs of Nash,1 on property long held by the family in Mayfair; the buildings, when sold, garnered a fortune. This in turn he ploughed back into commerce, by investing in ships. Luxford money has long been a considerable force in the management of the Honourable East India Company. More tea has come to England in Luxford’s

  holds, and more opium gone from India to China, than might fill all of Southampton.”

  “Opium!” I cried.

  “Naturally. It is a vital part of our triangular trade— though one we may hesitate to mention in polite circles. By consigning the vice to China, however unwillingly she might accept it, we may congratulate ourselves on remaining untainted.”

  “How dreadful, that the Viscount’s daughter should now be enthralled to the very abuse he has encouraged.”

  “There are many hypocrisies inherent in trade, Miss Austen—and chief among them is the notion that noblemen never engage in it. They may not build their own ships or purchase their own cargoes; they call themselves
investors rather than merchants; but they thrive in the mercantile world as happily as the Fashionable one.”

  “And so we may take it that Viscount Luxford was exceedingly wealthy at the time of his death,” Frank persisted.

  Mr. Hill nodded. “One of perhaps three or four of the richest men in England. There was talk of an earldom just last month, before Luxford took ill.”

  Frank let out a faint whistle. “And yet he cut his daughter off without a farthing when she married Seagrave.”

  “To say that she was cut off is not entirely exact.” Mr. Hill pressed a napkin delicately to his lips, as though to contain his own huge excitement. “I believe the Viscount lived in fear of his daughter’s marrying a worthless adventurer, and we may judge him to have regarded Seagrave in such a light Her portion was no less than an hundred thousand pounds, along with some considerable property in Berkshire, that came to her through her mother’s line.”

  “Her portion!” I said. “But Louisa is his only child. Is the bulk of the estate entailed upon heirs male? Shall it go to a cousin, perhaps?”

  “I am coming to that,” Mr. Hill informed me. “Luxford settled this marriage portion upon his daughter with the express provision that she must marry with his blessing.”

  “Louisa eloped,” I told him.

  “And was thrown off by her family. I am afraid that the Viscount took then-Lieutenant Seagrave in such violent dislike, that he sought to be punitive in the management of his daughter’s affairs. Louisa’s marriage portion was made over to her issue, inheritable only upon her husband’s death,”

  “The sole purpose being to keep the property from Tom,” Frank said.

  “Exacdy. And so we proceed to the Viscount’s entire estate—which, according to the knowledgeable fellows at the Morning Gazette, is estimated in the millions of pounds. If Louisa Seagrave is a married woman at the moment the will is read, the estate and tide are to pass to her eldest son—provided she divorces her husband within the year, and her son adopts the Luxford family name of Carteret.”