Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

Chapter 15 The Naval Set

27 February 1807, cont.

“A VERDICT OF WILLFUL MURDER WAS RETURNED AGAINST Tom Seagrave,” Frank said, as I entered Mrs. Davies's sitting-room at a quarter past three o'clock. “He is held at present in Gaoler's Alley, in expectation of trial.”

I sank into a chair ranged against the wall and closed my eyes. “That is very unfortunate. You told the coroner's panel of your express?”

“I did. The magistrate knew enough to direct the coroner's questions. There was little of surprise in anyone's testimony; and Seagrave refused, again, to disclose his movements on Wednesday night.”

“Did the charges of the court-martial arise?”

“Naturally. Percival Pethering has not the slightest authority in that case; but he sought to show that Seagrave had murdered his lieutenant — and all discussion of motive must involve events on the Manon.”

“And thus the panel was taught to regard Tom Seagrave as a man who is intimate with murder. No other outcome was possible. I feared as much.” I stared up at Frank. “Monsieur LaForge has taken a turn for the worse. Mr. Hill suspects poison.”

“Poison!” My brother's hand clenched spasmodically. “But who—?”

“The man who killed Chessyre, I suppose. Having despatched his conspirator, he could not allow a witness to survive.”

“If he dies, Jane, his blood will be on our hands,” Frank muttered. “It was we who urged LaForge to divulge what he knew.”

“Then we must pray that he does not die,” I said, and went to dress for the party.

“MY DEAR MISS AUSTEN! YOU DO US PROUD IN SUCH feathers, I declare — we shall be as the moon outshone by the sun!”

Captain Edward James Foote, hearty and weather-beaten as only a man in his third decade at sea may look, stood in his dress uniform under the sparkling chandelier in the central hall of Highfield House, and bowed to all our party. Captain Foote is a towering figure — quite suited to serve as model for some martial statue in bronze; and though forty years at least, is as yet handsome.

“And how is your delightful daughter?” I enquired, as I curtseyed before him. I had practised the movement in the privacy of my room, under Martha's tutelage, to be certain I should not disturb the wretched turban; but my heart and delight were not in it. I must be always thinking of Wool House, and the grim struggle undergone in its shadows. I had received a messenger from Mr. Hill just before five o'clock. Etienne LaForge had suffered greatly from the ministrations of castor oil and ipecac; he had refused to drink the potion of charcoal of his own will, and must be held down by two Marines while the dose was given; but Mr. Hill could detect no greater injury to the system. He saw nothing of improvement in the Frenchman's condition, but neither did he see a persistent decline. LaForge had fallen into restless slumber, still muttering the name of Genevieve. I must hope for the best and endeavour to turn my mind to other things—

“We were so happy to receive your daughter's visit last week, when Captain Austen brought her home from church; Catherine is most natural in her manner, and quite devoid of shyness.” She was also small and frail for her age, and her looks were not equal to her brother's; but I saw no occasion for telling the father this.

Captain Foote raised one eyebrow. “I hope Kitty did not disgrace herself by seeming too forward? She did not bring you to a blush? Her mother, you know, was not entirely what one could have wished.”

The unfortunate Nina Herries, long since fled to Calcutta with an officer of the Hussars. She had a fatal interest, it seemed, in the military orders — a fascination with uniforms that had better been outgrown in the nursery. Little Catherine was her second child, abandoned to a new mamma and a different home; but the change had been of marked benefit.

“Kitty was everything that was delightful — and all that I was not, at her age,” I replied. “You need have no fears for the young lady, with such an example at home.”

I glanced at Mary Foote as I said this, and felt the Captain's eyes travel fondly towards his wife. She looked brilliant in pale grey satin, her dark locks piled ingeniously upon her head. In four years of marriage she had spent barely six months free of pregnancy; but the practise appeared to agree with her. She was perhaps a bit more stout than the elegant young daughter of an admiral who had first caught Foote's eye; but the Captain's second adventure in marriage had proved him a gambler of good fortune.

I could feel Frank at my back, impatient to speak to his old friend; and so I passed on, and curtseyed to Mrs. Foote. She had only time to press my hand and murmur something about “delightful… so happy …” before Frank's Mary gave a little crow of pleasure, and was enfolded in her friend's embrace. “You must come up to the nursery and see the baby,” Mrs. Foote whispered to her, and received a giggle in return.

I made my way into the large and comfortable drawing-room of Highfield House. The villa on the outskirts of town was happily situated on rising ground, with a view of the sea from its upper storeys; it was adequate to the accommodation of seven children and occasional guests, and though quite modern in its style, looked everything that a growing family could wish. Nearly thirty people, I should judge, were already disposed about the room; a roaring fire ensured that those closest to the hearth should be roasted, while those at the farthest remove must suffer from draught I discerned Admiral Bertie, engrossed in conversation with another gentleman by the cunning French windows; his daughter, Catherine Bertie, held a silk handkerchief to her nose, which appeared decidedly enflamed. The Lances — Mr. David Lance and his wife, whom I believe to be called Mary, as every woman of my acquaintance must be, who is neither an Elizabeth nor a Catherine — were sitting in very grand style at the far end of the room, as though expecting the rest of the party to pay court. And beside them—

Beside them, in the closest conversation, stood a man I recognised from his bold dark brows and his broad shoulders. Sir Francis Farnham, last glimpsed at the theatre in French Street, on the most intimate terms with David Lance. It should not be extraordinary; Lance had once been a prosperous merchant with the Honourable East India Company, and Sir Francis was something to do with the Navy Board. The two services were thick as thieves, my brother had always said. Frank had carried gold bullion for the Company himself on at least one occasion — a venture not strictly legal, but rich in its recompense and repeated so often in naval practise as to seem mundane. The Honourable Company depended upon Navy protection for its valuable convoys of merchant ships; and at times, in certain parts of the world, the Navy used Indiamen for the transport of men or victuals.

“Frank,” I breathed to my brother as he approached, in excellent humour for the first time in days, “what exactly did you say was Sir Francis Farnham's post?”

“Farnham is Civil Administrator of the Transport Board,” Frank replied. “He must spend a devilish amount of time in hiring merchant ships. The Navy uses them, you know, for the transport of goods and seamen. I expect that is why Sir Francis is in such close converse with Mr. Lance.”

“Yes,” I replied, “but it is Sir Francis I mean to speak to.”

Frank's attention was claimed by a man in the uniform of a first lieutenant. Martha Lloyd appeared in the doorway, a trifle flushed from the exertion of climbing the Highfield House stairs. I motioned to her to join me.

“Courage, Martha. I espy a difficult acquaintance, and you know that we must pay our respects.”

“Oh, Lord,” she breathed. “Not the Lances! Why must they be so very grand? I do not wonder poor Mr. Lance hesitates to be seen in his brother's company. It is too great a mortification for so modest a man.”, The “poor Mr. Lance” to whom she referred was a highly respectable gentleman of the Church — an old Hampshire acquaintance, and possessed of a living in our former neighbourhood of Netherton. It was through our good Mr. Lance that we had met the bad Lances, as we sometimes referred to them; for the clergyman's younger brother had gone off, in his youth, to India, and had made such a fortune there as Mr. Henry Fielding's novels satirise. He had married his partner's sister upon his return to England. The two possessed at least four children, all of them exceedingly delicate. They presided over a vast place known as Chissel House about a mile out of Southampton on the Bitterne side. David Lance is as keen as his name, and I will confess that I admired his wit and calculation; but I could not like his wife.

Frank and I had paid a call on Mrs. Lance some weeks previous. It was clear that she was rich — and that she liked being rich; and as we are very far from being so, she has determined that we are quite beneath her notice. She displayed her enormous pianoforte, and the view of her grounds, which are known hereabouts as Lance's Hill; and these two duties done, was entirely without conversation.

Martha grasped my arm. “Remember your feathers,” she instructed. “They shall never shame you, at least.”

We advanced upon the sopha; the gentlemen were engrossed in conversation. Mrs. Lance bestowed a distant nod, but failed to vouchsafe a greeting or evidence that she recalled my name or visage. Martha boldly advanced to claim acquaintance, and to talk in animated spirits of our good Mr. Lance; I curtseyed, and strained to overlisten the gentlemen's conversation.

“… signal flags certainly are an immense improvement upon the usual speed of such …”

“… understand these signals might be changed for purposes of encoding …”

“… entirely secure … hardly subject to …”

Far from discussing vital matters of transport with the Honourable Company, Sir Francis was launched upon his favourite subject of swift communication. Mr. Lance was most attentive; but at that moment he happened to glance around — happened to catch my eye— and bowed most handsomely.

“Miss Austen!” he cried. “You should never wear any colour but that. It becomes you exceedingly.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lance,” I replied. “I find the shade encourages me to boldness when I most require it. Like the peacock, I carry my feathers forward when I should prefer to retreat.”

He gave a swift look about the assembly. “I had not realised Foote's drawing-room was a battlefield! Whom would you tilt at?”

“Your friend, Sir Francis Farnham,” I replied promptly, with an inclination of the head at that gentleman, who stared at me sardonically from his black eyes. “Though we are as yet unacquainted, I confess I have yearned to speak with him for some time, on the subject of prisoners of war. The Transport Board is responsible, I believe, for the care of the French? Or should I say — irresponsible? “

“Let me fetch you a glass of claret, Miss Austen,” cried David Lance with a gallant attempt to lead me away. “I am sure that you require refreshment. The heat of the room—”

“Stay, Lance,” commanded Sir Francis. His imperious eyes had never wavered from my face. “I should like to hear the lady's concerns. It is because of the French I am come to Southampton, after all.”

David Lance looked from Sir Francis's set face to my own, which I imagine must have been flushed with the ardour of my thoughts. He took a step backwards. “Very well. I should never come between opponents on the battlefield. Tilt away, Miss Austen!”

I lifted my chin, and with it, my feathered turban. Martha drew a sharp breath at my side, as though she intended to dissuade me; she had not bargained for dispute when she agreed to meet the Lances. I squeezed her gloved hand in a gesture that has always commanded silence.

“Am I right in believing I have the honour of addressing some relation of Captain Austen?” Sir Francis enquired, with ponderously calculated formality.

“There are two captains of that name — my brothers Frank and Charles.”

“I am acquainted with the former. He commanded the Sea Fencibles, I believe, some years ago — and was stationed in Ramsgate. But presently he undertakes a very different duty, I understand. The defence of rogues and murderers.”

“My brother is a steadfast friend, sir,” I returned tardy.

“It has often been observed that one may know a man by the company he keeps.”

I gestured around the Footes' close drawing-room. “Then you may learn in a single evening at Highfield House all you wish to know. My brother is perfectly acquainted with three-quarters of the party.”

“His great friend Tom Seagrave, however, is not present. I understand the Captain was thrown into gaol this morning. It is a wonder he did not land there years since. Has your brother visited Gaoler's Alley?”

“He has. The support of a friend is no less a duty when it is afforded little respect, Sir Francis.”

“It must call into question Captain Austen's judgement, however,” Sir Francis observed. He had a broad smile on his supple mouth; he bent his broad shoulders attentively my way. Anyone in observing us would consider Sir Francis the most delightful of men, a true paragon of the Fashionable Set — and so attentive to the poor spinster with the ill-judged plumes. “I imagine the Admiralty will be forced to review their opinion of Captain Austen. They will wish to revise their estimate of his probity.”

“I have every confidence in my brother, sir — as I have in Captain Seagrave's innocence.”

“I shall take that as the most ardent recommendation of each man's worth, ma'am.” He bowed, and made as if to turn away — but that I reached without hesitation for his sleeve.

“Pray enlighten me, Sir Francis, regarding an Admiralty matter that does happen to fall within your purview. Why are French prisoners, though no less men than ourselves, housed in such miserable conditions that they die of want and disease?”

My voice had risen with my passion for the subject; conversations all around me fell away and ceased. Sir Francis regarded me with one eyebrow quizzically raised. I drew breath, and blundered on.

“Surely we would not wish for British soldiers and seamen to be treated so abominably! If we cannot secure expeditious exchanges in the dead of the winter months, then we must ensure that the sick and wounded are placed in the naval hospitals at Greenwich or Portsmouth.”

“Are you fond of causes, Miss Austen?” he enquired with a curl of his lip.

“Only when I discern injustice, Sir Francis.”

He set down his wineglass with a care that suggested his temper was under tight rein. “I wonder that you dare to broach such a subject in the home of a naval officer. Those men you speak of so tenderly would as soon kill Captain Foote, and every other man in this house, as kiss your pretty hand.”

Most of the naval set was utterly engrossed, now, by our spirited scene. I felt my cheeks grow warmer.

“The men I have seen are in no condition to stand,” I replied evenly. “Indeed, there is one man at least who may not survive the night, he is in so wretched a condition; and he is a gentleman of some learning, too — a naval physician.”

“Ah.” Sir Francis risked a sneer. “There is a gentleman in the case. I should have suspected as much.”

I flushed hotly. “You are impertinent, sir! Were my brother — a post captain in the Royal Navy — to end a prisoner in France, I should devoutly hope that he might receive better care than a Frenchman on these shores. Our care for the Enemy must stand as a testament of our government's humanity, despite the brutality of war. It ought, it must, to serve as example to the Monster in France, that English subjects are possessed of hearts!”

“Here, here!” cried Cecilia Braggen. She had advanced upon the conversation. “Are you plaguing Sir Francis about Wool House, then? Well done, Miss Austen! The conditions are a positive disgrace, and Sir Francis should know it.”

The gentleman's expression shifted suddenly, from one of wooden tolerance — of indulgent impatience — to that of fleeting contempt.

“I have been to Wool House,” he replied, “so recently as yesterday. It was to view Wool House that I came to Southampton. I agree that the conditions are dreadful; I have already ordered that the men should be removed to Greenwich, and turned over to the care of the naval hospital. They shall be conveyed thither on the morrow. And now, ladies, if you would allow me to conduct my Board as I see fit — and as I am far more capable of doing than yourselves — I should be greatly in your debt.”

He turned his back and strode across the room without another word, so that I was left with scarlet cheeks and a desire to flee Highfield House that instant. When would I learn to govern my hasty tongue?

“I wonder what Mrs. Carruthers can be thinking,” observed Cecilia Braggen reprovingly. “To set her cap at such a man — vulgar, intolerant, and contemptuous as he is! I do not care how great his family was, or how considerable his late wife's fortune! He ought to be thanking us for the benevolence of our activity — for the sacrifice of our men, nearly every day! He ought to know what he owes the naval set!”

Curiosity overcame my mortification — I glanced up, and saw that Sir Francis indeed stood by Phoebe Carruthers's side. She wore tonight a gown similar to the one she had displayed in French Street — severe in its lines, untrimmed except for a frogging of black braid across the bodice — but her form was so magnificent, she might as well wear sacking and the world should cry admiration. She was speaking to Sir Francis in the most urgent tone, her eyes flitting from his countenance to my side of the drawing-room. Was it possible she understood a little of the scene that had occurred, and wished to know the particulars?

The golden beauty inclined her head to something Sir Francis said. Her countenance was unreadable; serene, or perhaps persistent in its coldness. And then her gaze came up to meet mine with an unfathomable look: nothing of humour or pain, neither wonder nor penetration. It was as though a wax doll had turned its painted eyes upon me. I shuddered, and at that instant Phoebe Carruthers's lips curled in the spectre of a smile.

Thanks to the efforts of his sister, Frank should never get his fast frigate now, I had made the name of Austen a laughingstock at the Navy Board; and the story would no doubt travel directly to the Admiralty.

“It is most improper,” persisted Cecilia Braggen, without guarding her tone. “She should not appear in public — a lady in her circumstances. And the poor little fellow not two months gone!”

“You see, Miss Austen, I am as good as my word — I have fetched you a glass of claret.” David Lance was kindly affecting insensibility to my confusion. He bowed slightly as he offered me the wine. “If I may be so bold as to comment — you might have chosen a more suitable adversary. Sir Francis is renowned for his harsh manners. Your feathers deserved greater consideration.”

I murmured a few words of thanks — half apology, half dismissal — and suffered an added blow at the sight of Mrs. Lance over her husband's shoulder. She was tapping her fan against her palm in a considering sort of way, and her smile was everything of contempt and derision.

“JANE,” SAID MARY FOOTE. “I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU suffer from the head-ache. Should you like to lie down upon my bed for a little?”

I had seated myself on a bench nicely screened by two large plants, in a passage just off the dining parlour. There, with a glass of lemonade and a biscuit I could not swallow, I might recover my spirits and my courage.

“You are too good,” I told her, “but I shall soon be perfectly well. I suffer from an excess of folly, Mary, not head-ache — though the one may certainly bring on the other.”

“We all admire the work you have done at Wool House.” Her voice was gentle. “Admiral Bertie has been talking of nothing else. He tells us that you certainly have saved more than one life, Jane. Mr. Hill, the surgeon, cannot do without you.”

“I fear poor Mr. Hill will pass a heavy night. One man was close to death when I left him this afternoon. We may regard this as the spur to my passionate plea, and dismiss the whole as a woman's hysterics.” I looked up from my dry biscuit. “I may fault Sir Francis's manners, but must grant him a certain perspicacity. The French are to be conveyed to the hospital in Greenwich tomorrow. Sir Francis Farnham has disposed of my trouble, and I may retire from the field.”

“Sir Francis Farnham has just quitted the house,” she observed, “and taken Mrs. Carruthers with him; that is all I know of advance and retreat. It was quite an honour that he came, to be sure — but we much prefer the company of our friends. Never doubt your welcome in this house, Jane. I should vastly prefer your company to a thousand Phoebe Carrutherses. She is delightful to look at, of course — but she has no conversation!”

“I have never tried her talents in that way. We have never met. I had hoped to make her acquaintance this evening — but that must have been impossible.” I recollected the coldness of her looks; I must be accounted among those she would henceforth cut direct.

“It is a fearful crush,” Mary Foote observed naively. “I had no notion we had invited so many! I suppose Edward was busily commanding the presence of some, while I secured others. But I do not think either of us thought to send a card to Mrs. Carruthers. We assumed she was too deep in mourning. It must be that Sir Francis brought her.”.

“She has recently lost her young son, I understand.”

“Yes. On the ill-fated Stella. I should not touch that ship for a kingdom, once Tom Seagrave is relieved of it — it is unlucky in its very knees! But poor Phoebe. Such grief as she has borne! She seems marked out by Fate.”

“Her looks remind one of Helen of Troy; and I suppose that when one tempts the gods with beauty, all manner of evil may follow.”

Mary Foote sat down beside me on the bench and patted my knee. “I have shown the baby to your Mary. She could hardly be pried from the nursery. I thought perhaps the sight of an infant might inspire her with delight; and that may do much, you know, to banish fears of confinement. We must all suffer them, to be sure, but we should never allow ourselves to be destroyed by them.”

“No indeed,” I replied. “And yet — it is not merely fear for herself. Mary fears for the child as well. So many young things are taken off in an instant! I recently knew of a family — in Derbyshire, where I passed some part of the late summer — that lost all four of its children within a year. Consider such unhappiness!”

“I could not survive it,” Mary Foote said simply.

“But Phoebe Carruthers—”

“Ah, Phoebe. She is possessed of considerable resources. Or perhaps — perhaps it is only a coldness of heart. Young Simon was gone from her for nearly two years, you know, before his death. She had not seen the boy but for a fortnight here or there; and she must certainly have known, as we all do when our men put to sea, that this parting could well be the last.”

“He was not a man,” I observed, “but a litde child. Mrs. Seagrave says—”

“Louisa Seagrave is mad,” declared Mary Foote. “I know what you are going to say — that she refuses to risk her boys to the Navy's care — but some part of her resolve must spring from jealousy.”

“Jealousy? Of Simon Carruthers?”

“Or his mother. It is everywhere known that Mrs. Seagrave believes poor Tom to be in love with Phoebe Carruthers.”

“I see!” I sat a little straighter on my bench. A good deal was suggested to my understanding, most of it conjecture, but none of it implausible. “And is it known whether Mrs. Carruthers returns the Captain's affection?”

“Who can say? Phoebe preserves as perfect a silence as Delphi. One might read anything, or nothing, in her sublime features. But I have seen her several times of late in the company of Sir Francis; and as Sir Francis has lately lost his wife, and is possessed of a considerable fortune — more than ten thousand a year, I am told! — one must regard him as a better prize than a post captain.” She gazed at me reflectively. “Is it true that Lucky Tom was seized and taken to Southampton Gaol?”

“Indeed,” I assured her. “My brother visited him there today. Captain Seagrave is very low, as should not be extraordinary.”

“And his wife has put up at the Dolphin, I understand. Edward fell in with her in the High Street at the very moment she was descending from her carriage. He says the little boys are fine fellows!” This last was said with a wistful air; for all her pregnancies, Mary had produced nothing but girls.

“Very fine,” I returned with some amusement, “and despite their present trials, undiminished in both spirits and appetite.”

“You've paid a call, then?” Mrs. Foote enquired sharply.

“I left my card at the Dolphin this morning,” I said, “but did not like to disturb Mrs. Seagrave. She must be involved in all the chaos of unpacking, for herself and three children; there are the servants to think of, and the ordering of dinner. But I shall certainly call tomorrow. She will require the support of many at such an hour.”

Mary Foote sighed. “Then I must go as well, I suppose — though I am sure Louisa Seagrave has never warranted much attention from the naval set! We must consider it a kindness on behalf of Tom. For my part, I never believed him a murderer. I made the poor fellow quite a cause among my acquaintance! I shall look a fool, now — for of course the magistrate should never be wrong.”

“I am afraid that magistrates are quite often wrong, Mary. Do not abandon your hero yet.”

“Very well. But I depend upon you, Jane, for all the latest intelligence. If I am to look a fool, it were as well I should be prepared.” She rose, and held out her hand. “The lion has gone, and taken his prize with him; so let us venture your acquaintance once more. I would not see those plumes wasted cm my back passage, Jane. Martha would never forgive me.”