Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House

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.[32]

My mother was so charmed by Mr. Hill's manners and good sense — however little 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 little 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.”[33]

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?

“Miss Austen?” said a voice at my shoulder.

I turned to see the stooped shoulders and balding head of the innkeeper. “Good evening, Mr. …” What had Frank said was the man's name? “Mr. Fortescue. I am sorry to appear at such an advanced hour, but I have only just learned that Mrs. Seagrave intends to quit Southampton on the morrow. I could not bear to let her go without a word.”

“Very good of you, and I'm sure,” said the fellow with a bob and a smile, “but Lady Temple ton charged me expressly to refuse all visitors tonight.”

“Lady Temple ton?” I repeated. It was as I had feared. There was hardly time enough between Friday and Sunday to complete a journey into Kent — and certainly no time at all to achieve the distance twice. The Baronet's coach had been sent not from Luxford, but from Portsmouth. Sir Walter had gone alone into Kent in a hired carriage, but Lady Templeton had remained behind. Awaiting news, perhaps, of Tom Seagrave's fate?

“Mrs. Seagrave's aunt,” Fortescue informed me kindly. “She intends to start for Kent quite early tomorrow, I understand, and does not wish to be disturbed. If you like, you might pen a note to Mrs. Seagrave and leave it for her — there is ink and paper in the morning-room, just off the passage.”

He gestured in the direction of the back staircase.

“You are very good, Mr. Fortescue,” I told him with a dazzling smile. “That is exactly what I shall do.”

I turned purposefully towards the morning-room, and was careful to linger in it until I was certain that the weary ladies on Mr. Fortescue's sopha had claimed the innkeeper's attention. The morning-room was quite empty. I examined the contents of a writing desk, then quickly made for the servants' stairs.

THE DOOR TO LOUISA'S UPSTAIRS PARLOUR WAS FIRMLY closed, but a light shone through the jamb. I approached it stealthily, desperate to make no noise, and pressed my ear almost to the oak.

All was silent within. Not even the fall of embers in the grate disturbed the silence. The children's rooms must adjoin this one, as Louisa's bedchamber did — and yet I heard nothing: no shift of a bed frame, no faint whimper of unquiet sleep. It was as though the family were already fled into Kent, and for an instant — my worst suspicions assuaged — I was weak with relief.

I must have sighed, and the sound penetrated to the room beyond the door. There was an abrupt movement — as of a small metal article overturned upon a table — and then an imperious voice called out: “Who is there?”

I had heard that voice on only one occasion, but I could not fail to recognise its tone of command. There was something of the same harsh timbre — the reflexive coldness — in Louisa's voice, when she gave way to snobbery. Lady Templeton.

I drew a sharp breath, and said in my best imitation of Jenny, “It's only the upper housemaid, ma'am, with the hot water.”

“We have no need of you tonight. Mrs. Seagrave has already retired.”

“Will the lady be wishful of a fire in the morning?”

“If so, I am sure that she will ring. Now be off, you stupid girl, and leave us in peace.”

I made a great deal of noise in retreating down the hallway, and collected my wits and my nerves in the shadows of the staircase. Were I not careful, I should be discovered in loitering by an honest servant, and made to explain myself. Steady, Jane, I urged inwardly; and took care to draw off my pattens and half-boots as dexterously as possible.

Louisa's bedchamber lay between my position and the parlour in which Lady Templeton worked. Undoubtedly the door should be on the latch; but I had procured a letter knife from the morning-room below, and was prepared to use it. I crept noiselessly forward, the blade concealed within a fold of my skirt. It was essential to muffle the sound of metal working against metal.

There was the bedchamber door. I wrapped the letter knife in the hem of my gown, and attempted to slide it slowly between door and frame. Once the tip of the blade was inserted beneath the edge of the latch, I might ease the fastening upwards, and gain entry to the room. Pray God Mr. Fortescue attended to his hinges'

Mr. Fortescue, or someone he employed, did.

There was no squeal of reluctant iron, no betraying creak of timbers. The door opened as though a wraith desired passage; and I took this bit of luck as a favourable omen. I stepped into Louisa's bedchamber and did not trouble to secure the latch behind me. I could not hope for such good fortune again.

She should have stirred at the band of candlelight that fell across her drugget, and screamed aloud as she detected my presence: but she did not raise so much as a finger. This was no luck, I knew — this was the drugged sleep of laudanum. I cast one glance at the inert form in the middle of the four-poster, determined that she yet breathed, and moved on tiptoe to the bedchamber's far door. The parlour lay beyond. I would not require my letter knife here; the portal was already ajar.

With breath suspended, I hung in the shadows and stared at Lady Templeton's back. She was seated at the table before the fire, her hand steady and unhurried as it moved across a sheet of rag. She had, at last, all the time in the world for writing.

I understood how it should be: Louisa Seagrave, repentant of the plot she had urged against her innocent husband, would die of laudanum tonight in the bed behind me, a determined suicide. The letter Lady Templeton busily penned — was she so certain of her hand, that she could attempt to mimic Louisa's? — would admit to a wife's infamy — to the plot Chessyre had perpetrated against Tom Seagrave, aboard the Manon. Only that plot was not of Louisa's invention— but Lady Templeton's. She must have known of her brother's will some months before his death; perhaps it was she who had reported its curious provisions to the London press. The Morning Gazette should seize upon this suicide, and make the obvious construction: the heiress had determined to blot out her husband, and had repented too late.

One person alone should benefit if Louisa were to die. Little Charles, of course, should inherit everything his grandfather had to leave — but with Lady Templeton as trustee. I doubted that even so sturdy a child as Charles could long survive the guardianship of such a woman.

Where, oh where, were Frank and Mr. Hill? How long before a fatal dose of laudanum must take its cruel effect?

I grasped the letter knife more firmly in my hand and eased through the door. Behind me, Louisa moaned.

Lady Templeton's back stiffened; her hand was arrested in its flight over the paper — and indeed, the sound of the woman dying in her bed was such as must make the flesh crawl. My lady, however, was a scion of the bluest blood, which is to say that she was the product of perhaps four or five centuries of harsh and ruthless breeding. She did not blench. Her forefathers had poisoned kings and princes; she had suckled at the breast of Lady Macbeth. She would have Luxford House and the late Viscount's millions, or hang in the attempt.

She laid down her pen, dusted the paper, and folded it in three. Then she rose — and at that moment there came a firm rap on the door.

“Mrs. Seagrave!” my brother cried. “Mrs. Seagrave! I must speak to my sister at once!”

Lady Templeton started, turned — and at the same moment, I leapt towards the table where the letter lay, and seized it in my hand.

“Good God!” she cried, her hand at her throat; and then she lunged at me.

I held out the letter knife in warning; she stopped short, her eyes fixed on my face.

“I know you,” she muttered. “Louisa's friend — the naval woman. You were in Lombard Street.”

“It is my brother at the door. Shall we open it?”

She snatched at the paper I held, but I stepped backwards, towards the outer passage. “Frank!” I cried. “The bedchamber!”

There was the sound of racing feet in the passage. Lady Templeton gave one wild look towards Louisa— glanced back at the letter — and hurled herself at my breast. I was thrust so hard against the closed door as to be nearly winded; the letter knife clattered to the floor.

“Give me that letter,” she gasped, as though she had only to cast it in the fire, and save herself. She was clawing at my hand when Frank achieved the room.