Jane and the Ghosts of Netley

Chapter 23 Pistols for Two

Thursday, 3 November 1808

I awoke well after ten o’clock this morning, and made a slow toilette in the stillness of the Castle Square house. The rest of my family having breakfasted and gone about their various errands, I was alone with my thoughts — and they were all of Netley Lodge, and the duel that was to come. Would it indeed occur on the morrow, at dawn? And should I have the courage to face it?

At least I might go suitably attired in black. I descended to the breakfast room and applied to Cook for some late coffee and rolls — she threw me a harassed look, being already embroiled, as she said, in preparations for “the Cap’n’s dinner.” I fetched the victuals myself, but found I had little appetite for them. Ought I to go to the magistrate for Southampton — Mr. Percival Pethering — and inform him of the affair of honour that should presently take place? He might then prevent it, by arriving at the duelling ground with a company of constables — but he could not stand watch upon the duellists forever. As long as Lord Harold and Mr. Ord remained in the same country, they should be determined to draw blood.

My brothers, I am sure, would assert that I refined too much upon a trifle. I allowed my fancy to run away with me, and form an idea first of Lord Harold — and then of Mr. Ord — torn and bleeding upon the ground. In a spirit of anger at the foolishness of men, I crumbled my roll between my fingers and ignored my scalding coffee. I could not sit idly by while Lord Harold sent to London for his pistols. I must inform Mr. Pethering — but if my intelligence was to be of any use, I must know the choice of duelling ground. I rose and fetched my pelisse and Equestrian Hat. In a matter of moments, I had quitted the house in the direction of the High.

“Miss Austen.” The innkeeper’s stooped figure was thin as a whippet’s, his bald head shining with exertion. He had come through the saloon to the Dolphin’s entry on purpose to greet me, and stood drying his hands on his apron. “You are in excellent looks, ma’am, if I may be so bold — and how is the Captain? Keeping stout, I hope?”

“My brother is very well, Mr. Fortescue, I thank you. He has lately been much at sea.”

“I don’t doubt it! Off the Peninsula, with all the rest of ’em? A grand old party it must be, when Boney’s back is turned. And how may I serve you this morning?”

“An acquaintance of mine is lodging in the Dolphin at present,” I said, blushing furiously, “and I should like to enquire whether he is presently within.”

“Indeed?” the innkeeper said curiously. “May I have the gentleman’s name, ma’am?”

“Lord Harold Trowbridge.”

Fortescue’s expression darkened. “I’m afraid you’re the second party this morning as has asked for his lordship; and I’ve been told to turn away all visitors, as the gentleman is engaged. Howsomever, the young woman chose to wait; and his lordship’s man has agreed to see to her.”

For a fleeting moment I had an idea of Sophia Challoner, driven forth by terrors like my own, to beg Lord Harold’s forgiveness — but the innkeeper should never have called Mrs. Challoner a “young woman.” That appellation was used for females of the serving class; or those who were not quite respectable.

“If you’ve a mind to speak with the valet,” Fortescue concluded, “you’re welcome to take a turn in my parlour. Good day.”

He nodded stiffly, and moved off; leaving me to wonder what had inspired such disapproval. Far from being quelled in my ambitions, however, I was cheered by his recital. If Lord Harold was indisposed to receive visitors, so much the better. I might learn more from an application to Orlando.

I walked through the parlour doorway, and stopped short in surprise.

“Flora!”

The girl gripped her reticule tightly in gloved hands. She was dressed as I had observed her on Tuesday, in the Prussian-blue cloak and poke bonnet. Her countenance bore the same furtive expression of fear or deceit.

“Miss Austen?” She rose, bobbed a curtsey, and sank down once more onto the settee.

“Are you waiting for Orlando?”

Her pretty eyes narrowed. “What do you know of him, miss? Or my business?”

“Nothing good,” I returned abruptly, and sat down in the chair opposite her. “You have got yourself into some kind of trouble, my dear — and I cannot think it worth your while. Mrs. Challoner knows that you wrote that letter; and she is excessively angry. She means to call your bluff this evening; and she is bringing Mr. Ord.”

“What letter?” The girl’s reply was high and clear; it should drift out into the hall, and to any prying ears disposed to listen.

“I suggest you lower your voice. The letter you sent to Mrs. Challoner. She showed it to me last evening, at Netley Lodge. I know your secret; ignore this at your peril. Isn’t that what you wrote, Flora?”

“It’s a lie,” she muttered, her eyes now on her lap. Her neck and face had flushed a dull, angry red.

“You told me yourself that you intended to profit by your knowledge. When the mistress considers of the sto- ries I might tell, she’ll make it worth my while.”

“But she didn’t, did she?” The girl looked up; the blue eyes flashed. “She turned me away without a character, easy as tipping her hand. My mother’s that anxious about the little ones, and how they’re to be fed, now I’ve lost my place — it’s driven her right wild. But I never wrote no letter.”

“Very well. If that is your story—”

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“I never wrote no letter,” she insisted with a look of defiance, “because I never learned my letters — and where I’d be like to get a bit of paper and a pen—”

A sound from the doorway drew both our heads around, and with an expression of relief in her voice, Flora said, “You’ve come at last. Thought I’d have to wait all day, I did.”

“Forgive me, Miss Austen.” Orlando glanced at the girl, and his brows lifted in disdain. “I had no notion you were waiting upon his lordship. If you would be so good as to pass through to the stable yard, I am certain he will be delighted to see you.”

“Flora is before me,” I said equably.

“Flora,” the valet returned, “will have to content herself with me.”

A giggle escaped the maid’s lips.

“Miss Austen — if you will be so good—”

He turned on his heel as though Flora had ceased to exist; and I was reminded again of the various skills required of a gentleman’s valet: dogsbody, defender, spy. Orlando had mastered them all. I rose, and with one final speaking glance at the girl, quitted the room.

He was standing in his shirtsleeves at the far end of the yard, his body canted sideways, his right hand extended. In his long white fingers was a gleaming silver pistol with ebony mounts. A large black and white target of concentric circles had been painted upon a board, which was established near the broad coach-house doors.

Two of the Dolphin footmen, in breeches and powdered wigs, stood behind Lord Harold, their countenances deliberately devoid of expression. The stable lads had gathered at the gates, which were closed to carriage traffic; from time to time, when a ball sang home and the target’s wooden face splintered agreeably, a cheer went up from this serried rank.

“Lord Harold, Miss Austen,” Orlando said quietly. He bowed, and melted back into the safety of the inn; I hesitated on the edge of the yard, unwilling to disturb his lordship’s activity.

One of the footmen took the spent pistol from Lord Harold’s hand, and commenced reloading it with powder, wad, and ball; the other offered the second weapon, and as he reached for it, the Rogue’s eye fell upon me. His expression did not alter. He turned back to the target and steadied his aim. No trembling in the wrist, no hesitation as he pulled the trigger — but perhaps it should be different when he stared at the face of a man.

Seven more times the ritual was repeated; and then, when the target’s black centre had been cloven in two by the pounding of lead balls, his lordship blew the smoke from the pistol’s mouth and said:

“Come here, Miss Austen.”

I stepped forward, my mouth suddenly dry. He was so much more like the man whose acquaintance I had made years before — inscrutable, remote, dispassionate — than the one I had lately known, that I was afraid of him.

“My lord?”

He lifted the freshly-loaded pistol from the footman’s grasp and placed it in my gloved palm. The barrel was warm with firing; the grip smooth as an egg. I nearly dropped the thing, and was glad when I did not; for such foolishness must disgrace me.

“Wrap your other palm around the butt just so, and extend your arms.”

He stood behind me, his hands at my shoulders.

“Steady. You must turn your body side-on to the target, Jane — otherwise your opposite will tear open your heart.”

I drew a ragged breath and did as he bade. His cheek brushed my own.

“Steady, ” he muttered. “More blood is spilled from sheer lack of nerve than from wanton malice; for it is a poor coward who cannot aim true, and prick his opponent as he chuses. Where do you intend to strike? Which part of the rings?”

“At the height of a man’s shoulder,” I said, “there, in the outer black.”

“Then align the pistol mouth and gaze without fear the length of the barrel. Fire at will — a gentle squeeze upon the trigger, no more.”

I felt my heartbeat suspended — and in a moment of clarity saw nothing but the edge of black where my ring turned white. My forefinger moved. An explosion of sound, a jolt up to my shoulder, and I stepped backwards, amazed.

A cheer went up from the assembled ostlers. The target showed a gaping hole at its furthest extent — well beyond the tight cluster of circles Lord Harold had made. I felt no small pride in my accomplishment; but I was newly aware of the difficulty inherent in aiming and controlling such a weapon. Years of practise must be required to command the sort of skill Lord Harold exhibited; and the knowledge of his precision forced a little of the fear from my soul.

“Did you come to me this morning on an errand of persuasion?” His looks were intent. “Did you think to put an end to this affair by stratagems and pleading?”

I shook my head, and handed him the weapon. I had made my decision — I would not go in search of Percival Pethering. “When is your meeting?”

“Tomorrow at dawn.”

“And where shall you do it? Porter’s Mead?”

He smiled thinly. “The ground there is flat enough — but too close to the magistrate for comfort.”

“I should like to witness the duel.”

“But you must wear black, Jane — and I confess I find the colour... disheartening.”

“I shall sport any shade you command, my lord,” I answered clearly, “provided you will allow me to be present.”

“To save my life?” he enquired ironically, “or James Ord’s?”