“Good God!” I cried, and stared at my brother. “What an inducement to unhappiness and vice! Might any woman be equal to refusing such temptation?”
“And is Louisa then empowered to act as her son’s guardian and trustee?” Frank enquired.
Mr. Hill smiled thinly. “The late Viscount was hardly so forgiving. He offers his estranged daughter ample funds—some ten thousand pounds per annum—and the use of the Dower House at Luxford; but the guardianship of her son and the management of his affairs, including his vast fortune, will be undertaken by Sir Walter and Lady Templeton—trustees to the estate.”
“And thus we comprehend the benevolent activity of Lady Templeton in Lombard Street,” I said softly.
“Even did we charge Lady Templeton with acting in her own interest,” Frank countered, “the benefit to Louisa must be considerable. She might be returned to the circle in which she was born; her sons receive every advantage presently denied them; and her infant daughter be reared in the most select society. What mother could turn aside?”
But I was hardly attending. I was in the grip of an idea so dreadful I could barely pronounce it.
“You said, Mr. Hill, that the property was disposed in the above manner, if Mrs. Seagrave were married woman. “There is another provision, surely?”
Mr. Hill drained his Madeira to the dregs before replying. “It is a preoccupation of your Great Man, I find, to grasp in death what he could not obtain in life. The Viscount was a very Great Man; and his spirit of fun, shall we say, was commensurately large. Louisa Seagrave will inherit the entirety of her father’s fortune, and her son become the next Viscount, without recourse to guardians, trustees, or settlements—provided that when the will is read, Mrs. Seagrave is already a widow.”
1John Nash, the foremost architect of the late Georgian and Regency period (1752-1835).—Editor’s note.
Chapter 25
What the Lady Knew
1 March 1807,
cont.
~
“DEAR GOD,” I WHISPERED, WITH MY EYES UPON THE ceiling of the inn’s drawing-room, as though Louisa Seagrave might overlisten our words in her poisoned dreams. “We must discover what she knew.”
Frank stared. “You think it possible …”
“That she arranged for her husband’s dishonour? Paid off Eustace Chessyre to commit an act so obscene, the entire Navy must take notice, and charge Tom Seagrave with a violation of the Articles of War? Entirely within the range of her powers, I assure you!”
“But that is madness—to send her husband to the gallows! No woman could contemplate such an act! No wife could be capable of it!”
I did not reply. Restlessly, I commenced to turn about the room, my fingers smoothing the pleats of my gown. “What did Louisa know of her father’s will, and when did she know it? From Lady Templeton, as lately as Thursday, when I found the two together in Lombard Street? Or far earlier—before, let us say, the Stella sailed in January under sealed orders? How much time would Louisa require, to effect her husband’s ruin?”
“If she were well-acquainted with Chessyre—and he had been her husband’s lieutenant for many years— very litde time at all,” answered my brother grimly.
I wheeled upon Mr. Hill. “You said, I think, that the Viscount began his decline a month ago?”
“That is as the papers would have it. But the death itself was quite sudden.”
“And the Stella Maris engaged the Manon some seven weeks since. If we would have Louisa responsible for Chessyre’s plot, then we must accept the idea that she knew of the Viscount’s provisions well before her father’s illness. In a communication from Lady Templeton, sent during the Christmas season, perhaps? Or—if the Viscount’s sense of fun, as you call it, extended to the torment of his daughter—in a communication from the gentleman himself?”
My thoughts raced as a fevered pulse; but the gentlemen followed as swiftly behind. We all of us spoke in lowered tones, in deference to the public nature of an inn.
“The moment of the Viscount’s passing is immaterial,” Mr. Hill pointed out. “What is vital is the moment of his interment—and the subsequent reading of the provisions of his will. Mrs. Seagrave today is no different than she was before; but by the dinner hour on Tuesday she might be anything.”
“We may exonerate Lady Templeton of murder at least,” observed my brother ironically. “You have provided her with the strongest inducement to ensure Tom Seagrave’s survival. Without him, Lady Templeton gets not a farthing to administer or spend.”
“We must interrogate the aunt regardless,” I said, “though we must venture into Kent to do it. Without intending to incite murder, Lady Templeton may have done so with simple gossip. If she was aware of the Viscount’s provisions before his death, and communicated them to her niece—”
“It cannot prove that Louisa Seagrave decided to murder her husband,” Frank insisted impatiently. “And by so contrived a means! She should better have put arsenic in Tom’s plum pudding at Christmas, than attempted a hanging by court-martial!”
“Poison will out,” I reminded him. “How much more to be preferred, is an official disgrace—an impartial judgement—a public hanging… and the widow rather to be pitied than suspected of evil. The entire affair bears the mark of Louisa’s subtle mind.”
“And yet, not subtle enough,” opined Mr. Hill. “For Mrs. Seagrave to achieve the object you would set her, Miss Austen, she must have effected her husband’s death by Tuesday at the latest; and you must admit that that is not very likely.”
“Not if she is watched,” I said, “and knows herself to have fallen under suspicion. But if she feels secure … we might catch her in the very act…”
The two men were silent.
“Death might have been achieved already if Tom Seagrave’s court-martial had not been suspended,” I persisted. “Thus far, Louisa’s scheme marched to plan. She was listening for the gun that should mark her husband’s execution when I found her in Lombard Street on Thursday.”
“We may blame Eustace Chessyre and his uneasy conscience for spoiling such morbid hopes,” said my brother.
“Perhaps we may congratulate ourselves, for having thrown Etienne LaForge into the fray, and complicating matters irremediably,” I added. “We must certainly accept the burden of his poisoning.”
“But how? Louisa Seagrave has never been to Wool House—and on Thursday, when LaForge fell ill, we know her to have been at home!”
“Remember that LaForge was present in Lombard Street on Thursday, in company with ourselves. We were served dry sherry and iced cakes, much against our will. Is it at all possible that Monsieur LaForge was poisoned then, Mr. Hill, and not several hours later?”
“It is possible,” the surgeon said slowly, “for you will recall that LaForge was ill en route up the Solent. Something might have been introduced, I suppose, to his victuals in Lombard Street. We ascribed his sickness to the effects of fever and the sea, but with the benefit of hindsight—”
“The lady would have to be remarkably cool!” Frank protested. “She had only just learned of Seagrave’s survival—of LaForge’s existence—and you would have the poison so conveniently to hand?”
“She had learned of LaForge’s existence a full two days before his appearance in her drawing-room,” I countered. “You told her yourself, Frank—in your express to Seagrave of Tuesday; and we learned from the Captain only this morning that Louisa had plundered his desk.”
That fact must cause my brother to fall silent an instant “But consider, Jane,” he attempted at last, “that we believe Eustace Chessyre to have been murdered by his conspirator. Nothing you may say shall convince me that Louisa Seagrave wields a garrpte. It is one thing to plot disgrace, and another entirely to strangle a man!”
“True.” I halted before the hearth and stared into the flames. “But where did Louisa go, when she fled Portsmouth on Wednesday night in her aunt’s carriage— a carriage that bore the arms of a baronet? To me
et with Chessyre, who she feared repented of his betrayal?”
“If Louisa Seagrave was the veiled woman in the carriage, and not Phoebe Carruthers, then Chessyre was a fool to get in,” said Frank bluntly.
“He may not have feared the hands of a woman. Particularly one who appeared so sickly.”
Mr. Hill nodded once, as though in agreement; but my brother could not be easy.
“Why despatch Chessyre, if his death should suspend the very trial and conviction she desired?”
“Because you outlined the Lieutenant’s plot in your express of Tuesday. Louisa is unsteady in her mind, as we have all observed; she may have read that letter, feared Chessyre’s exposure of herself and her object— and made her plans accordingly.”
Frank revolved the idea in his mind. It is something to learn that one’s meddling for good might have achieved the deaths of two men.
“But why, Jane?” he demanded suddenly. “Do you believe Louisa to crave rank and fortune so very much? She scorned them fifteen years ago.”
“Fifteen years is a period,” I mused. “Louisa has become a bitter woman in the interval, and not a litde deranged by opium. And she has much to resent, Frank—the rumours of Seagrave’s infidelity, the threat she perceives to her sons’ safety. She felt the decline in her social fortunes acutely, I assure you. All these must have led her to Dr. Wharton’s Comfort in the end.”
Mr. Hill cleared his throat. “I should say rather that the steady usage of Dr. Wharton’s Comfort may have deluded the lady, over time, into believing her husband the very ogre whose face she saw in her nightmares. To kill such a beast—we might take it as Mrs. Seagrave’s hidden desire to free herself from opium-eating.”
“You are kinder by half than I should be,” muttered my brother.
There was a knock at the parlour door, and the maidservant’s visage once more appeared around the frame. “Begging your pardon, but the lady upstairs is awake, and asking for Miss Austen.”
I glanced at the gentlemen with resolution. “What shall I say to her?”
“For now,” cautioned Mr. Hill, “it is vital to offer comfort.”
Frank held his finger to his lips. “Remember that you know nothing for certain, Jane. Do not betray your worst fears. Remember that we have told her LaForge is dead. She may exult in the idea that her secret is safe. If Louisa intends to have her fortune, she must despatch Seagrave tonight.”
“Then we must watch her every movement,” I cried.
SHE HAD ARISEN BY THE TIME I ENTERED, AND WAS staring at her countenance in the looking glass.
“I was quite beautiful once. You would not think so, Miss Austen, to look at me now—but that summer I made Thomas’s acquaintance in Brighton, I was the flower of the regiment,”
“The passage of time may affect many changes, in appearance and sentiment; we are none of us immune.”
“I cannot remember the name of the regiment in Brighton that year,” she murmured, “but it scarcely matters. I tired of scarlet uniforms, and turned instead to blue. Thomas thought me quite the most extraordinary creature he had ever seen.”
“And you?” I asked her quiedy. “What did you think of him?”
Her fingers, which had been fluttering over the wisps of her dull, black hair, stilled an instant; her eyes met mine in the glass. “I thought John Donne had come again to walk the earth. ‘When thou and I first one another saw:/All other things, to their destruction draw.’”
“ ‘Only our love hath no decay;/This, no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday,’ “ I quoted. “The perfect union of two hearts, two souls, for all eternity. It is a fearful burden to answer, Mrs. Seagrave. A greater man than your husband should have bowed beneath it; for time, as we know, will exact its cost. Death only may preserve such love.”
She shuddered as if with cold, and reached for her bottle of laudanum.
“Mr. Hill is of the opinion that Dr. Wharton’s Comfort works viciously upon the system,” I told her gently. “Do you not wish to rid yourself of its effects?”
“At the suggestion of a naval hack?” she enquired with a laugh. “When I choose to consult a doctor regarding my health, Miss Austen, he shall be a reputable London physician—not the sort of man who administers to gaol-fever. I wonder you allow Mr. Hill’s acquaintance; he is hardly prepossessing.”
“Take care, Mrs. Seagrave,” I replied evenly. “You would not wish me to prefer one friend to another.”
Her expression hardened instantly. “I am glad you are come today, Miss Austen. I should have regretted quitting Southampton without a word of farewell. I go into Kent tomorrow with my children, for the funeral of my father—Viscount Luxford—and I cannot say when it shall be in my power to meet with you again.”
Had she summoned me upstairs merely to issue this dismissal?
“It is a considerable distance. Do you travel around the coast by boat—or intend to journey overland, by post?”
“My aunt is to send her carriage for me. It would not do, she insists, for the daughter of a viscount to appear at Luxford in one of the Dolphin’s equipages.” She turned her face before the glass once more, in contemplation of her complexion. “I shall achieve my ancestral home in good time for the funeral rites. How surprised they shall be to see me at Luxford!”
“Then you shall be in need of your rest, Mrs. Seagrave,” I said curtly, and bade her adieu.
Chapter 26
The Uses of Letter Knives
1 March 1807,
cont.
~
IT WAS EVIDENT THAT LOUISA SEAGRAVE MEANT TO murder her husband under cover of darkness, before quitting Southampton altogether on the morrow. Mr. Hill and my brother were agreed that, having employed poison once, the lady might be likely to attempt it again—with the introduction of some noxious substance in a parting gift of food she would press upon Tom Seagrave at this last interview. We deemed it probable that Louisa should await her children’s retiring, before quitting the Dolphin; she should not be likely to attempt any evil before eight o’clock at the earliest. The two gentlemen agreed to take it in turns to watch throughout the night for Louisa’s appearance in Gaoler’s Alley; as the duty would be a chilly and tiresome one, I was forbidden to appear, and consented most unwillingly to remain at home in East Street.
We invited Mr. Hill to dine, and the invitation was accepted with alacrity; like ourselves, the surgeon had consumed nothing but tea and Madeira for the better part of the day. Mary was persuaded to put aside her petulance, and do the honours of Mrs. Davies’s table with all the flushed enthusiasm of a bride; my mother found the surgeon’s attentions highly promising, and asked so many questions about the Indies, that I wondered the poor man was not driven mad. Martha was pleased to report some litde information regarding the garret beds to be installed in Castle Square, and to present a letter received of Cassandra this morning, that named the very day of my sister’s return to Southampton.1
My mother was so charmed by Mr. Hill’s manners and good sense—however litde she noted his fifty-odd years and wizened appearance—that she stayed below conversing in the parlour until very nearly seven o’clock. Her maternal fervour was so great that she condescended to confide in me, while ascending the stairs, that she “hoped that Disreputable Rogue, Lord Harold Trowbridge, would soon have news that should discomfit him.” I judged it best not to enlarge too much upon the nature of the news, as Mr. Hill was fixed in the front hall, preparatory to quitting East Street for his frigid station. It was left to Frank to make his excuses to the long-suffering Mary, to lift his hand in farewell—and so I was abandoned to all the dreariness of solitary suspense.
I sat over my needlework to litde purpose, while Mrs. Davies’s parlour clock chimed round the quarters of the hour; listened with half an ear to Mary’s idle chatter, and Martha’s measured responses; and then at last
threw down the baby’s shift I was embroidering with cornflowers.
Poor Uncle Walter—how he must suffer it!…
He
is shot of her for now. and must be having a jolly time of it…
I should have urged Louisa to send the children into Kent with her uncle…
“Is something amiss, Jane?” Martha enquired with an anxious look.
“Yes,” I replied. “Lady Templeton’s carriage is not at all as it should be.”
“I do not understand,” said Martha. “Who, pray, is Lady Temple ton?”
“I am sure there was a good deal amiss with the mutton,” observed Mary. “Mrs. Davies is prone to boil the joint less than she ought; and for one in my condition, mutton is such a trial! I am sure we have tasted of the same old animal three times this week. How I long for Castle Square!”
“Are you retiring, Jane?” Martha enquired.
“I feel the need of a walk,” I told her, with my hand on the parlour door. “Do not disturb yourself—I shall be perfectly safe. I shall employ our faithful Jenny as link-boy, and be returned within the hour.”2
WE MADE OUR WAY PURPOSEFULLY DOWN THE HIGH towards the Dolphin, Jenny clutching a Ian thorn in one hand and the fastenings of her cloak with the other.
The strong sunshine of the morning now fled, the wind off the water was cutting and sharp. I spared only a thought for my brother, crouched silently in the cold but a few streets distant; he was accustomed to exposure from more than two decades at sea. At the door of the inn, I paused.
“Jenny, be so good as to carry your light into Gaoler’s Alley, and bid my brother and his friend to join me here. I have urgent need of them. Do not stay for argument, but say that Miss Austen deemed it vital.”
Jenny went. I did not watch her steady progress down the street, but hastened into the Dolphin.
The broad front hall was awash in candlelight; the sound of male laughter and conversation emanated from the public room. I felt myself dreadfully exposed—a lady alone in a hotel, without even a maid in attendance—but my discomfort could not be considered of consequence. A footman passed, bearing a bottle of claret and a glass; he mounted the servants’ stairs off the passage. I saw a gentleman in converse with the innkeeper, and two ladies seated on a sopha in an attitude of fatigue. The length of my walk from East Street, I had struggled to determine the wisest method of approach. I could not present my card, and have it taken up to Mrs. Seagrave—but I must gain entrance to her rooms. Should I await the appearance of my brother? When every moment must be precious?
Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House Page 28