Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House Page 10

  “My dear Mary!” I cried in return, “I have never regarded you as one! Gould my brother have loved a fool? It is only that you are a full ten years younger than myself, and younger still than your husband—”

  “—and you are a decade junior to Martha Lloyd,” she returned impatiently, “yet you do not suffer her to treat you as anything but her equal in sense and experience. I am sure that it was always so, when you were but four years of age and she fourteen! You have never allowed anyone to regard your opinions as of little account, Jane. Confess that it is true—and accord me the same privilege you have always seized for yourself.”

  “Very well.” I sank down upon the foot of my bed. “I shall tell you that you have every right to worry, and to remain sleepless. Frank’s behaviour is abominable. He should have considered of your feelings, and sent a boy with a note, long since. You have my permission to scold him roundly when he reappears.”

  “Scold him—Lord, how can I? He is only a man, and must behave as any man would.” She took a turn upon the carpet, unable to meet my eyes. “I simply expected— that is, I hoped … we have been so happy, despite the suddenness of this child—but he is restless, turned on shore. My mother warned me how it would be.”

  “How what would be?” I enquired, bewildered.

  ” ‘It is always the same with the Navy/ Mother said. ‘They cannot keep their breeches on.’ Those were her only words of congratulation, Jane, when I pledged myself to Frank/

  “Forgive me, Mary, but your mother is a fool.” I raised a hand to forestall her protests. “Frank may be a post captain, with all the glories and perfidies attendant upon that rank, and all the dubious practise of a lifetime spent at sea; but I would remind you that he was known in Ramsgate as the captain who knelt in church. Do not let the fears of the dark hours cloud your judgement Frank has hardly sought solace in another’s arms.”

  “Then why would not he disclose his business?”

  I drew her down to sit beside me, and felt her trembling—with anger, or cold? The air in the room was quite chill, and I wished for the means to kindle a good fire; but that was several hours distant, at least. All Frank required to entirely lose patience with me, was that Mary should fall ill as the result of her night’s walk. He should not hesitate to blame the French of Wool House, Cecilia Braggen, and Mr. Hill together. I must get her back to bed at any cost

  “Frank learned some distressing news while visiting in Portsmouth,” I began. If Mary’s understanding demanded respect, and a degree of trust in keeping with her position, then I ought to accord her both. “A fellow captain, a man Frank has known from his earliest years in the service, is to appear before a court-martial Thursday on a charge of murder. Frank is seeking intelligence on his friend’s behalf. He hopes to clear his colleague. It is nothing less than this honourable purpose that has drawn him from home tonight—and no strumpet’s charms. You must endeavour to think better of him, Mary, than your mother does.”

  “Court-martial? On a charge of murder?” Mary’s brow cleared. “Surely you do not refer to Captain Seagrave?”

  “I do,” I replied, astonished. “Has Frank told you of his misfortune?”

  “Not a word. I was not aware that Frank was acquainted with Lucky Tom. But you must know that the Stella’s engagement with the Manon is the talk of the Navy! I have heard of nothing else, all February. Mary Foote is never done speaking of it; but she is quite the Captain’s warmest advocate, and must insist he could never kill an enemy in cold blood. She is one of the few naval wives who do?

  “And what do the rest say?”

  “As much, or as little, as any party of women with their husbands’ interest to divide them.” Mary glanced at me sidelong. “Some are moved by malice, others by jealousy, and still others by satisfaction at seeing the Captain’s luck turn.”

  “You would imply, I imagine, that they dislike Seagrave’s wife—and rejoice in her misfortune. Louisa Seagrave intimated as much, when I spoke with her Monday.”

  “You met Mrs. Seagrave?’ Mary’s curiosity succeeded where all my words of comfort could not, in dispelling her anxiety for her husband. “She actually consented to receive you?”

  “Is such behaviour so extraordinary in a naval wife?”

  “Quite the contrary. But Louisa Seagrave has never comported herself as a matron of Portsmouth, nor sought the company of those who do. She has a reputation for oddity, Jane. Mary Foote declares that she is going mad.”

  Mad. Was that the trouble I had glimpsed in the confectioner’s shop—the trembling hands, the distracted air, the refuge sought in a medicinal draught? Was the brilliant Louisa Seagrave unsound in her mind?

  “I wonder that Frank did not tell me of his friendship with the Captain,” Mary mused to herself. “He is grown so secretive this winter.”.

  I hesitated. What could, and should, be revealed? Nothing of the possible posting to the frigate—for Frank seemed determined to refuse it, were Seagrave to hang. “He did not wish to disturb your thoughts, Mary, when you have so much else to occupy you. The move to Castle Square, the infant’s arrival—”

  “And this is naval business, and therefore the province of men,” she concluded resignedly. “Has it ever occurred to you to wonder, Jane, why men insist on taking the full burden of their work and families entirely upon themselves?”

  “Recall, my dear, that Frank has spent the past twenty years in living solely for himself,” I replied gently. “He has been a solitary fellow, and the business of sharing a life is entirely new to him. Give him time. Once your husband is again at sea, you will be positively overwhelmed with the duties you are expected to undertake.”

  “I suppose you are right. But it galls me to learn, Jane, that he is disturbed in spirit on behalf of his friend—and could not feel it right to confide in me.”

  Choosing, instead, his sister, I thought, for the long passage down the Solent. Yes, I see how it is.

  Mary looked me full in the face. “Does Frank believe that Seagrave will hang?”

  “He is doing everything in his power to ensure the reverse.”

  “Then he is the first of my acquaintance to do as much.”

  “In what manner has Seagrave offended the Navy, to garner so considerable a contempt?” I asked her.

  “He has taken more prizes than other men, and not solely among the French.” I caught the ghost of a smile in the darkness. “It is said that Tom Seagrave is one of those sailors, Jane, who cannot keep his breeches on— and the Service cannot forgive him for it. There is such a thing as too much luck.”

  “I see,” I replied. And considered anew the reputed madness of Lucky Tom’s wife.

  FRANK WAS CERTAINLY RETURNED, AND IN ADMIRABLE frame, when I descended to the breakfast parlour before eight o’clock. He had shaved, and changed yesterday’s shirt for a fresh; his uniform coat was brushed and his shoe buckles polished.

  “Well?” I enquired from the doorway. “Did you discover the sinister lieutenant?”

  “Neither hide nor hair,” he replied cheerfully. “The fellow has done a bunk. I regard Seagrave’s innocence as accomplished, Jane—for you cannot have a charge of murder, nor yet a court-martial, without you call a witness; and I cannot find that Chessyre is in Hampshire.”

  “Perhaps he has taken passage on an Indiaman,” I said idly, “and hopes to make his fortune without recourse to hanging.”

  “Should you like some coffee?”

  “Tea, I think, against the morning. You disturbed Mary last night, Frank, with your prolonged absence; I hope she is well?”

  “Sleeping yet.” He consumed a bit of bacon. “I confess I had no intention of being gone so long. I went round to the Dolphin directly I quitted this house, but was told that Chessyre was out. When I had cooled my heels a full half-hour, the Dolphin’s proprietor—a man by the name of Fortescue, Jane, you must recall him, with a stooped back and a balding pate—suggested I might discover my man in a particular establishment near the Quay, one apparen
tly more to his liking.”

  Frank glanced at me over the rim of his cup; his grey eyes were dancing with devilry. “I have visited any number of sinkholes in my time, Jane—in Malta and Santo Domingo and Calcutta and Oporto; and I shall not hesitate to declare the Mermaid’s Tail the very worst of its kind in Southampton. It is no secret where it sits— anyone may approach, provided he possess a strong stomach and an air of insouciance—and so I doffed my hat to the immense woman who sat inside the door— all red satin and moustaches—paid my five shillings’ admittance, and prepared for delight.”

  “Chessyre was not within?” I concluded patiently.

  “He was not. I lifted several sodden heads from stinking tables, the better to scrutinise their features; consoled one poor midshipman crying piteously into his beer; lent a pound to another who had just sold his last shirt—and upon further interrogation of the Moustached Proprietress, learned that Mr. Chessyre had not been seen at the Mermaid’s Tail in at least three days.”

  “Perhaps his taste in sinkholes has changed. I find nothing in this to silence alarm. Frank, how can you be so certain that Chessyre has fled?”

  “Ah—but I am coming to that bit,” he assured me.

  At that moment, Jenny appeared in the doorway; she had brought me tea and a quantity of soft rolls fresh from the oven. I sighed with contentment and prepared to endure the remainder of my brother’s story.

  “I managed to secure a guide to our lieutenant’s haunts—a fellow of perhaps eleven, who works as potboy in the Mermaid’s Tail. He was a likely lad, with the sharp chin and quivering nose of a weasel; he pocketed my money and led me through a warren of alleyways and foetid corners that I should never have believed existed outside of London. I poked my head into gin rooms and gambling hells and the offices of moneylenders; I visited cockfights and nunneries, and went so far as to interrogate a member of the Watch.1 By this

  time, you may well believe, I had felt the loss of my dinner, and sought a poor sort of meal in the company of my young guide; the taverns were beginning to close, and I thought the boy should be sent home to bed. It was a quarter past one o’clock when I returned to the Dolphin—”

  “—and was told that Lieutenant Chessyre never sought his room last night,” I concluded.

  Frank’s visage turned pink. “At this point I must confess that I engaged in an unpardonable subterfuge. I intimated to Fortescue that I was Chessyre’s captain— that he was due to sail—that he was wanted at Spithead before the turn of the tide, or should be left aground— and in general, I made so much of a public fuss, that Fortescue agreed to unlock the Lieutenant’s door.”

  “Well done,” I murmured. “You examined the premises?”

  “And determined that he had flown. The room was neat as a pin. It looked as though the man had been absent some hours already. The bed had not been slept in. There was not so much as a change of clothes, Jane, in the wardrobe. I rounded upon poor Fortescue and demanded to know whether he had mistaken the room! The fellow was quite put out. He had begun to suspect that he had been bilked of gold; for Chessyre had not settled the tenth part of his account, I understand.”

  “—And has left any number of enemies behind him, but no direction for future enquiries!”

  “He did, however, leave this” My brother flourished a crumpled sheet of paper as though it might have been his sword. The sheet had been torn in eighths, and laboriously pieced together with sealing wax. I took it from Frank and frowned over the scrawl of smeared blue ink.

  “When will you heroes learn to command a legible fist?”

  “When we are afforded a desk that does not heave and roll with every swell.”

  I glanced up. “You believe this to have been written at sea?”

  “Method, Jane!” he declared patiently. “Observe the heading.”

  “His Majesty s Prize Manon, in the Bay of Biscay, 13 January 1807,” I murmured.” ‘His Majesty’s Prize’— this was written after the French ship had struck! I suppose it is in Chessyre’s hand?”

  Frank shrugged. “I suspect as much. I found it discarded among some other papers in his room. Give it here, and I shall attempt to read it aloud. It is a monkey’s tangle; I am in some hopes you may make sense of it.”

  I have done all that was required, and congratulate myself that I shall not disgrace you. It is the sole aspect of the affair I may regard without distaste, for the perfidy—

  I write to inform you of the recent action between His Majesty’s frigate Stella Maris, commanded by Captain Thomas Seagrave, and the French vessel Manon, off Corunna on the eleventh of this month—a date that shall live forever in my mind as the death of Honour—

  I have the honour to inform you that the paltry sum, the benefices you pledged, are as nothing when measured against the diminution of Self I have been required to endure, and that if we cannot come to a more precise understanding, as to the value of a man’s Honour, however sacrificed and besmirched—

  There was no signature affixed, and no direction.

  “A letter from one unknown to another,” I murmured, “and certainly unsent. He never intended it should be read.”

  “No.”

  “But this is vital, Frank! It assures us that Chessyre worked against his captain at the behest of another. Taken in company with the French surgeon’s history, it smacks strongly of a plot. There cannot be two opinions on that point!”

  “It was not a letter for Admiral Hastings to read, that much is certain. Though the author mentions the engagement, his thread descends swiftly into recrimination.”

  I handed the piecemeal sheet carefully to my brother. “I must confess that I feel pity for the man. He is so divided in his soul! The writing smacks of torment. It is all pride and impudence, contempt and self-loathing. His conscience is uneasy. He has done that with which he cannot be reconciled; and he would blame the hand that moved him.”

  “Save your pity for Tom Seagrave,” Frank told me brusquely. “Chessyre suffers from shame and pride, certainly—but he is perverse in his desire to bargain with his mover. Having sacrificed his Honour, as he puts it, he is ready to profit from the loss.”

  “A man who fears the future may bargain with the very Devil.” I looked at my brother thoughtfully. “And you did say that he seemed mortally afraid. Do you think that he sent some version of this letter?”

  “Not from the Manon, certainly, though this was written at sea. He was bound for port himself, and must arrive before any missive he could have pressed upon a homebound ship. I wonder that he wrote it at all.”

  “Perhaps he merely attempted to order his thoughts.”

  “A draft, you mean? Of a letter he later posted from Portsmouth? It is possible, I suppose.”

  “His employer—if such we may call him—may have demanded the most immediate intelligence of Chessyre’s deed.”

  “I comprehend, now, why he said so little during our interview yesterday. He could not speak for himself; he moved under the prohibition of silence. His honour, we must assume, extends so far as the protection of his conspirator.”

  “Then why did he call upon you here, Frank? It cannot have been with a view to reiterating his refusal.”

  Frank glanced at me swiftly. “You think the man experienced a change of sentiment?”

  “Why else consult with a superior he had spurned but a few hours before?”

  “Remember that Chessyre is a mercenary creature. He may have thought to put a price on Thursday’s testimony.”

  “So much coin for Seagrave’s guilt—for he must already have been well paid for the construction of the evidence—and so much more, for a subsequent avowal of Seagrave’s innocence?”

  “It might assuage his conscience, at the same moment it lined his purse.”

  “And he could not hope for advancement in his naval career, did he recant of his charge,” I added thoughtfully. “Even did Chessyre profess himself confused— mistaken—unwitting in his accusation—he must be regarded as highly unst
eady by the panel. He must be cashiered for calumny at least.”

  My brother was silent an interval. Then he sighed. “I am too simple a man for prognostication. Chessyre is fled, Jane; and what Chessyre intends for the morrow must remain in question.”

  I sipped the last of my chocolate. “We ought, nonetheless, to take measures against the worst that Chessyre might do.”

  “Your French surgeon?” Frank cocked his head. “Very well. I shall go this morning to Wool House and petition Mr. Hill for the loan of his patient.”

  “Will Admiral Bertie consent?”

  “Admiral Bertie is so adamant in his refusal to credit any Frenchman of disinterested good, that he warns me soundly to be on my guard, and thinks it very likely your surgeon shall not receive a hearing before Seagrave’s court. We can but try.”

  I set aside my breakfast plate without further ado. “Then I shall accompany you.”

  “There is not the slightest need.”

  “On the contrary,” I retorted. “I have been ordered by Martha to procure a box for the theatre tonight; and Wool House lies in my way. You cannot thwart me in this, Fly. Mrs. Jordan is to play.”2

  “Mrs. Jordan!” he cried. “And poor Mary has not seen the inside of a theatre in weeks. It was always her chief delight I secured the promise of her affection,

  you know, during the interval of a play at Ramsgate; and must always accord the theatre my heartfelt gratitude.”

  “Then it is decided-You shall make another couple of our party, and I shall walk out with you now in the direction of French Street. I only stay to discover my bonnet.”

  “I hope Mary may not swoon,” Frank added. “The crush, you know, is likely to be fearful if Mrs. Jordan is to play.”

  “Let her swoon, and welcome!” I said in exasperation. “A lady in an interesting condition has so few opportunities to shine in public; and Mary, in fainting charmingly, might divert the attention of all assembled from a royal mistress. Think what delights she shall have in store! A play, and a personal act of considerable distinction! When one is grown old, and sources of satisfaction are few, it is much to relive one’s youth in recounting such a tale.”