Jane and the Ghosts of Netley Page 11

  Sophia glanced sharply about the room. “Miss Austen, did you say? But where is she?”

  I stepped forward and offered the apparition a courtesy. “Good morning, Mrs. Challoner! I must count myself fortunate that we meet again! May I have the honour of introducing my brother to your acquaintance?”

  Frank, though a trifle awed by the lady’s fashionable looks, managed a neat leg.

  “Captain Austen, of the Royal Navy: Mrs. Challoner, of Netley Lodge. Mrs. Challoner was lately taken off of Oporto, Frank, by His Majesty’s forces.”

  “Good Lord!” my brother exclaimed. “I was in Oporto myself, you know! What vessel was so happy as to bear you home to England, ma’am?”

  “The Dartmoor, commanded by Captain Felbank.”

  “Then I may declare that you were in excellent hands. You enjoyed a safe passage, I hope?”

  “Not a moment of sickness, though the weather was abominable. Are you presently on shore-leave?”

  “I may wish for such blessings at every hour, ma’am—far oftener than I enjoy them. I am returned to port but a day, and may expect to quit it on the instant. Such is the nature of war. My dear Jane—time wastes, and I must leave you—”

  “Pray urge your dear wife to call in Castle Square.”

  Frank kissed my hand, bowed again to Mrs. Challoner, and completely ignored her elegant dresser in passing through the door.

  THE BURDENED MRS. PHILLIPS TOOK HERSELF OFF, with an air of oppression and ill-usage on her countenance. I could not blame her, for the contrast between Mrs. Challoner’s blooming looks, and every other person in the room, was almost too much to be borne. I am sure that Madame Clarisse would have given me several broad hints to be gone, with the promise of a fitting at another time, should my discomfiture prove more convenient to the mistress of Netley; but in this the charming Sophia would take no part. She insisted upon seeing me fitted out in my dreadful black bombazine, and though I blushed to be critically surveyed, while Madame Clarisse knelt at my feet with a quantity of pins in her mouth, I could not demur. I might have pled fatigue, and departed in the direction of my home—but that I abhorred the loss of such a prime opportunity of furthering my acquaintance with the Peninsula’s most potent weapon.

  “What do you think, Eglantine?” she enquired of her dresser as the two gazed at my reflection.

  “I cannot like the style,” the Frenchwoman replied in her native tongue; “it is too plain about the neck for prettiness, and taken together with the dull black of the fabric, must make the lady appear a penitent.”

  I understood this frank opinion well enough to flush an unfortunate red; but if Mrs. Challoner observed the change, she did not regard it.

  “I wonder if Madame Clarisse is familiar with the demi-ruff à la Queen Elizabeth, pleated in Vandyke?”

  “To be sure I am familiar with it!” the modiste cried. “Mrs. Penworthy has been wearing the same these five weeks and more, with an olive-green walking dress in Circassian cloth. Buttoned down the front it is, and formed high in back, with open lapels at the bosom. The sash is salmon pink, and tied in small bows on the right side. Over her left arm, Mrs. Penworthy affects a shawl of pale salmon figured in dark blue—quite elegant, I’m sure, when worn with straw-coloured gloves and shoes.”

  “But I am in mourning,” I reminded them gently, “and must make do with black.”

  Madame Clarisse rose to her feet, and surveyed me with a practiced eye. “She has the bosom for it—the sash should go high under the arms, to frame her décolleté. I suppose we might cut the middle anew, and set in the buttons on the bodice with a white chemisette behind the open lapels. Forgive me for speaking as I find, Miss Austen, but you’ve rather a short neck—and the white demi-ruff, Vandyke-stile, should lengthen its appearance to admiration.”

  “But is so much attention to fashion, at such a time, entirely proper … ?” I suggested feebly.

  “There’s no harm in setting off the black with a touch of linen,” rejoined the modiste stoutly, “and no dishonour intended to the Dear Departed, neither.”

  With the French dresser urging her support in flurried accents, and Sophia Challoner draping a pleated collar high about my neck, and prescribing a change in coiffure—parted down the middle, with curls on either side—I found myself suddenly transported to giddy heights: to an admiration of my countenance and figure I had long since abandoned, and a conviction that with a trifling expence, I might achieve an accommodation with the hated black I had never before envisioned.

  “You must never wear such a dismal cap on your hair again,” Mrs. Challoner enjoined, “for it makes you look a good deal older than I’ll warrant you are. What would you suggest, Eglantine, by way of headgear? An Incognita, trimmed Trafalgar style? A Polish Cap, bordered in sable? Or an Equestrian Hat of black, ornamented with leaves?”

  All three modes were assayed, and I professed myself most partial to the Equestrian, as being the more suitable for a Bereaved.

  How proud my dear Lizzy should have been! How ardently she must have urged me to adopt the new mode in deference to herself—who was always so elegantly attired! How vital it suddenly appeared, that I should purchase these paltry additions to a costume infinitely worthy of them—and refashion my old gowns, too, under the instruction and ingenuity of Mrs. Challoner!

  “Do not be fretting the cost, Miss Austen,” declared Madame Clarisse, “for the work on the gown is a matter of a few days, and the fribbles and frills amount to no more than … let us say, forty-eight guineas complete.”

  “Forty-eight guineas!” I cried, aghast.

  “Including the hat. And for such a paltry sum, you shall be the admiration of all Southampton!” Madame declared in triumph.

  A wave of heat washed over me, followed sickly by a flood of chill. Forty-eight guineas! When I lived on a mere fifty pounds per annum—and the year was nearly out!2 At present I could command no more than seven pounds in my private funds, and the idea of petitioning a loan of my mother—or poor Martha, for that matter—must be entirely out of the question. Pride forbade it; pride, and the necessity of adopting economy, when one lives as I do in the most straitened circumstances.

  Mortification overcame me. I glanced at the modiste—saw the incomprehension in her looks—and then at Sophia Challoner.

  She placed her arm about my shoulders and spoke in the gayest accent. “My dear Madame Clarisse, you have exhausted Miss Austen with your efforts, and I am certain that you have exhausted me. I think it best if we repair to a nearby pastry shop, and indulge in a restorative cup of tea. I am longing for a bit of shortbread, and I have heard that Mrs. Lacey’s is nonpareil. Will you accompany me, Miss Austen? Or do I impose upon your morning?”

  “Not at all,” I replied. “I have no fixed engagements. But I thought you intended to commission a gown … ?”

  “Expect me in an hour, Madame, when Miss Austen is recovered,” she told the modiste. “She will know then whether she likes the result of our officious interference, or should prefer to have her gown cut to her own cloth. Good day.”

  MRS. LACEY’S PASTRY SHOP WAS THREE DOORS farther down Bugle Street, on the opposite paving. The dresser, Eglantine, was consigned to wait with the phaeton and pair, which José Luis was leading along the stretch of Bugle that fronted the modiste’s shop. He stared at me balefully as I passed.

  “How menacing he looks,” I observed faintly, “in that long black cloak he chooses to wear! I do not recall having seen it before!”

  “It is the national habit of Portugal, Miss Austen,” my companion replied indifferently, “and suits him admirably. The poor man should not know where to look, did I subject him to a white-powdered wig and the livery of a major-domo! José Luis should leave my service at once—and that I cannot allow. He was taken on by my late husband, and has been with me a decade or more.”

  I considered the cloak as I followed Mrs. Challoner’s brisk footsteps in a fog of gratitude at my escape, and misery, and disappointment—for, in tru
th, the amendments made to my sad gown of mourning had been immeasurably cheering. I saw, like an abyss yawning at my feet, the gulf that lay between those of means, and those without. On the far side of the cavern sat the comfortable and the happy, in cheerful looks and easy circumstances; and on this side stood I: arrayed as a penitent for the sin of spinsterhood, counting over my sparse competence with a haggard air. The idea was maudlin—it was ridiculously indulgent—but I could not outpace it, and must link arms with Oppression, and step side-by-side into Mrs. Lacey’s room.

  “Shortbread, a pot of tea, and—what will you take, Miss Austen? A bit of marzipan, perhaps?”

  “Thank you. I am partial to marzipan.”

  I sank down in a chair near the shop window, while Mrs. Challoner drew off her gloves. “I owe you an apology. It is despicable to lead a friend into a compromising position, whether the error is done through spite—or merely ignorance. I cannot plead spite; but ignorance may be just as painful in its effects. Forgive me, Miss Austen.”

  I summoned my dignity. “I confess myself surprised, Mrs. Challoner, that you consider an apology either necessary or within your power. You have been all kindness. It is I who must consider myself the obliged.”

  “Do you imagine,” she demanded as she seated herself beside me, “that I have always gone in leopard spot and velvet capes? Do you imagine the jewels I wear”—with a negligent shrug of the brooch at her shoulder—“came to me at my birth? I was forced to flee England as a child—my father a desperate character with a price upon his head!”

  “Good lord!” I exclaimed. “I had not an idea of it! What can your parent have done?”

  “He killed a man in the heat of passion,” she said soberly. “From a desire to be revenged. It was the height of the Gordon Riots, you understand—and my family was the object of a mob.”3

  “The Gordon Riots? Then—are you an adherent of the Catholic faith, Mrs. Challoner?”

  Her lip curled. “If I may profess any faith at all. There have been times when I have questioned the existence of Providence—Catholic or otherwise. My family’s history is not a happy one.”

  I reached for her hand. “Can you bear to speak of it?”

  “There is comfort to be found in confession,” she returned, “as we Catholics know. Where should I begin? With the Riots themselves, I suppose. On the third night of that dreadful week, my mother was pulled from her carriage and beaten to death—and my father’s warehouses destroyed at the hands of a Protestant rabble. In the depths of his despair and rage, my father killed a man. Perhaps he was drunk—perhaps he was quite out of his mind—I do not know. I know only that at the age of five, I was carried by night to a ship that rode at anchor in the Downs—and transported in stealth to the coast of Portugal. My father thought to make a second fortune there. But how we lived, I know not! Those were desperate years, Jane. Those were moments when I might have taken my own life from blackest despair!”

  “Do not say so!” I whispered. “It is no wonder—with such a history—that you bear these shores scant affection.”

  Or that you might, if well worked upon, consider a campaign of terror against its interests?

  “Fortunately, I had my beauty,” she declared with a gallant smile, “and tho’ I had not two farthings to rub together—at the age of seventeen, my hand was sought in marriage by Mr. Challoner. I may admit to you now that it was solely from penury that I was forced to such a step!”

  “You did not love your husband?”

  “I valued him. I held him in affection. At the hour of his death—and we had then been married more than ten years—I infinitely esteemed him. But love? Of a romantic kind? For a man of phlegmatic temperament, nearly thirty years my senior, and twice widowed when we met? Do not make me weep, Miss Austen.”

  The tea was brought, and she drank deeply of her cup.

  “I have often wondered whether it is better to live for the idea of love,” I said slowly, “and grow old in expectation of a man who never appears—or to grasp at the chances thrown in one’s way, and accept a certain … moderation of experience.”

  “I take it that you have spurned several offers in the past?”

  “If by several, you would mean two … I have not repined in my refusals—and I cannot declare that I regret them even now. The prospect of a lifetime’s tedium, in the company of a gentleman one abhors, has always sunk every possible merit attached to the situation.”

  She threw back her head and laughed. “Tedium! When one might possess all the power of freedom?—For no one is so free, I assure you, as a married lady of position, wealth, and liberal instincts, well-launched and established in her chosen society. Love, my dear Miss Austen, can be nothing compared to freedom. And freedom is only possible when one may command the means to purchase it.”

  “Have you never felt the tenderer emotions, then?” I asked her curiously.

  A shadow passed across her face. She set down her cup. “Everyone loves. It is merely the foolish who submit to love’s whims.”

  “That is a speech that smacks of bitterness, Mrs. Challoner.”

  “If you would instruct me, Miss Austen,” she said sharply, “pray call me Sophia. I shall feel the sting of your words less keenly, if they are offered by a friend.”

  I smiled. “I could never intend to wound you—you, who are all kindness. It is I who must beg pardon, Sophia.”

  “Let us declare ourselves mutually absolved,” she returned, with a spark in her deep brown eyes, “and blot out our indiscretions in the exchange of confidences. You shall inform Madame Clarisse that you want none of her Vandyke collars, and retire in a cloud of solvent virtue; and I—I shall impart the dreadful truth: I loved a gentleman once, but he was killed; and my heart has suffered a blight from which it shall never recover.”

  “You have my deepest sympathy.”

  Those words of hers, overheard in the Abbey ruins, recurred now in memory. I eat and sleep and breathe anxiety. It has become my habit, since Raoul was killed. The name was French; had he died at Vimeiro? Was it this that had hardened her hatred of the English cause?

  “It should have been something, to unite the freedom of wealth with the delights of passion,” she continued, with an effort at lightness, “but we cannot all expect such relentless good luck. And my situation is hardly so mournful. I am left with the means to trick myself out in the most current fashions—and excite the despair of every hopeful fortune-hunter in the Kingdom! There!” She snapped her fingers. “I give you that for love!”

  “A pity,” murmured a voice at my back, “when you appear capable of so much more.”

  I turned—and looked straight into the eyes of Lord Harold Trowbridge. His sardonic gaze passed over my countenance without the slightest hint of recognition.

  “Mrs. Challoner,” he said with a graceful bow. “And in Southampton, of all places! I rejoice to find you once more established on your native shore.”

  Chapter 13

  The Cut Direct

  29 October 1808, cont.

  “I AM AFRAID, SIR,” SAID MRS. CHALLONER COLDLY, “that you have the advantage of me. I do not recollect that we have ever met.”

  She picked up her gloves and rose from her chair, as though desirous of quitting the pastry shop on the instant.

  Lord Harold did not give way; but neither did he importune her to recognise him. He merely stood square in her path to the door, with a faint smile of amusement on his lips.

  “Now, now, Sophia,” he said softly. “Your cruelty is unwise. It goads me to indiscretion. My sense of honour must urge the revelation of exactly how well you knew me in Oporto—and I should not like to put this unknown lady”—with a polite nod in my direction—“to the blush.”

  Her lips parted as though to hurl every kind of abuse at his head, and in an effort to play my part, I rose and murmured, “Perhaps I should leave you now, Mrs. Challoner. The modiste will be every moment wanting you, and I—”

  “Stay,” she commanded, her
black gaze fixed upon Lord Harold’s visage. “I recollect, now, the … gentleman’s … name. You are Lord Harold Trowbridge, are you not? Second son of the Fifth Duke of Wilborough? You spent a good deal of time in Portugal once, but ran off before the French could engage your fire. Allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Austen, to your acquaintance; and then pray have nothing more to do with her.”

  “Charmed.” He bowed low, a twisted smile on his lips. “You are in excellent looks, Mrs. Challoner. The air of Hampshire agrees with you.”

  “I have never felt better.” There was a challenge in the words, as though she tempted him to defy her; but whatever fierce emotion seethed behind the mask of her countenance, his lordship did not deign to notice it.

  “And so you are set up in Netley Lodge?” he enquired genially. “Vastly pleasant, I’m sure, to possess a house on the seacoast. That part of the country is rather lonely, however; you will be sadly wanting for visitors. Perhaps I shall look in one day, just to see how you do, now that my business has brought me to Southampton.”

  “Business?” She spat the word as though it were a curse. “What business has ever engaged your notice—except that which does not concern you?”

  “We second sons are driven to trade,” he observed drily. “Our habits of expence—our want of fortune—we must all make our way in the world as best we can. Some marry advantageously; some game themselves into Newgate. I choose to invest my funds in the most profitable ventures I may find—and thus am concerned in the fate of a neat little Indiaman fresh out of Bombay. The Rose of Hindoostan put into port two days ago. I have descended upon the South in order to consult with her captain. It is a happy chance, is it not, that throws us together?”

  “And like all such chances, swiftly fled.” She held out her hand with a brilliant smile. “Pray enjoy your interval in Southampton, my lord—but do not look to find me again in town. I expect a large party of friends within the week, and cannot hope to venture forth while they remain a charge on my time.”