Jane and the Ghosts of Netley Page 3

  “Buonaparte has quit Paris,” Lord Harold told me, “and is on the road for Madrid. He intends to join Soult, wherever the Marshal is encamped.”

  “I should not like to be in Sir John Moore’s shoes.”

  “Of course not—your own half-boots are far more cunning, Jane, though they are black. But do not pity General Moore. There has not been such a command for a British officer since the days of Marlborough.”

  “You believe, then, that we shall drive the French out of Portugal and Spain?”

  “On the contrary: I hope that we are mired in the Peninsula’s muck for years to come. Only by forcing the Emperor to engage us on land, can we divert him from his mortal purpose—the destruction of England’s Navy, and with it, England herself.”

  I laughed at him. “Do not make yourself anxious, my lord. The Royal Navy should never accept defeat.”

  “Fine words, Jane. But you laugh at your peril. Buonaparte knows that he cannot prevail so long as England has her Navy; we know that England cannot survive so long as France possesses Buonaparte, and his Grand Armée. To defeat us, the Monster must seize or build more ships than we command: he cannot hope to destroy the Royal Navy with less than two vessels for every one of ours.”

  “But Buonaparte thinks like a grenadier, not a sailor. Consider Trafalgar! French ships—aye, and Spanish, too!—routed, captured, or sunk!”

  “Buonaparte has learned Nelson’s lesson. He will build more ships. Tilsit provides him with all that he requires: the timber of Europe—the labourers of a continent—and the command of every dockyard from Trieste to Cuxhaven. It is merely a matter of time before we fall to the French.”

  I was silent an instant in horror. “But what is to be done?”

  “Only the impossible. We must draw off the Monster—we must throw bodies into the Peninsula, into the maw of Napoleon’s cannon—to buy time for the Crown. We must bend all our energy towards outwitting the Enemy’s spies, by land or by sea. That is why I sailed to Portugal a year since—and why I am come tonight in haste to Southampton, in pursuit of a dangerous woman.”

  THE SHIP’S BELLS TOLLED THE WATCH; A CAVALCADE of pounding feet outside the cabin door heralded the end of one crew’s vigil above decks, and the commencement of another’s. The brig rolled gently beneath my feet, a movement as mesmerising and soporific as Lord Harold’s voice. I had lost reckoning of time as surely as I had lost the will to leave him. My mother, Castle Square, the bereaved boys … all had vanished, insubstantial as a whiff of smoke.

  Lord Harold moved to the cabin’s stern gallery, his gaze fixed on the lights of Southampton that twinkled now across the Water. When he spoke, it was as though to himself alone—or to some shadow present only in memory.

  “Did I understand what she was, that first night I saw her? Did I recognise the cunning behind Beauty’s mask? August 1807, the Governor-General’s ball, Oporto. Well before the fall of the Portuguese crown, or the siege of the English colony. She wore capucine silk, and a demi-turban of the same hue.4 Ravishing, that heated colour entwined in her dark hair, suggestive of the seraglio. One could hardly glimpse her countenance for the sea of gentlemen pressing their suit.”

  I had an idea of the scene: a vivid swarm of English and Portuguese, the warmth of August, the mingled scents of sandalwood and tuberose in the humid air. Her cheeks would be flushed with heat and admiration; her gaze, despite the press of other men, would find Lord Harold’s. Were they worthy of each other? Both strong-willed, calculating, careless of opinion? The attachment must be immediate. Did he dance with her that night, under the Iberian moon?

  “We were introduced by the Governor-General himself—Sophia simpering at her old friend, allowing her hand to linger a trifle too long in the roué‘s paw. He knew my late husband, she told me a little later, in the days when I was happy.”

  “She is widowed, then?”

  “Three years now, and left with considerable wealth, if the French do not strip her of it. I should judge her at present to be not much older than yourself, Jane—but she has ambitions the like of which should never stir in your quiet breast.”

  What would you know, my lord, of a lady’s ambitions? What can you perceive of Jane? I thought. But I said only: “You mistrust her—and yet, there is admiration in your voice.”

  “Does the hussar respect his opponent, as the sabre whirls overhead?” he demanded impatiently. “Of course I admire her. Sophia Challoner possesses the wit and courage of a man, honed by a woman’s subtlety.”

  “And is it the subtlety you cannot forgive—or the wit, my lord?”

  “That is ungenerous.” A spark from those cold grey eyes, disconcertingly akin to anger. He deserted the stern gallery and threw himself into a chair.

  “She came to me the morning after the ball, and invited me to tour the Port factory in her phaeton. The late Mr. Challoner, you will comprehend, was a considerable merchant in the trade. His two nephews manage the business on Sophia’s account—”

  “She has no children?”

  “Challoner was an elderly man when she beguiled him, Sophia no more than seventeen; an early trial of her powers. The nephews, prosperous young men, are divided between admiration of her charms and distrust of her motives. Challoner left all his property—including his business concerns—to Sophia alone. The nephews, naturally, had lived in expectation of the inheritance.”

  “I perfectly comprehend the circumstances.”

  “She was utterly charming that morning: entertaining me with good jokes and stories of the Oporto worthies; driving her pair with a competent hand; leading me with authority through the warehouses and the aging casks. I did not perceive it at the time—but she acted by design. She hoped to gain my confidence and, with a little effort, my heart.”

  “She had tired of playing the widow?”

  “Sophia never plays at anything, Jane—except, perhaps, at love. In all else, she moves with deadly earnest. No, it was not marriage she desired—but intimacy.”

  “And is this the full measure of her guilt, my lord? That she presumed to trifle with Lord Harold’s heart?”

  “She is guilty of treason, Jane,” he returned harshly. “Nothing more or less than the absolute betrayal of all our trust and hope.”

  “That is a perilous charge to level at any Englishwoman.”

  “Well do I know it! But I have my proofs. The French instructed Sophia Challoner as to my true purpose in descending upon Oporto. She understood that I was sent to observe the weakening of Portuguese resolve—the betrayal of the Crown’s trust—and the purpose in French guile. She knew that I was in daily communication with the British Government. Her object, in mounting a flirtation, was to pry loose my secrets—and sell them to the Monster.”

  “But why, my lord? Why should any child of Britain so betray her duty to the King?”

  His gaze darkened. “I do not know. Out of love, perhaps, for a ruthless Frenchman? Or is it mere jealousy that drives me to suspect that the Enemy owns her heart? Does she move me still, though I apprehend what she is? Hell’s teeth, Jane, but I have been a fool!”

  He looked so miserable—nay, so shaken in his own confidence—that I grasped his hand tightly in my own. “What have you done, my lord?”

  “I have talked when I should not. I have trusted too easily. I have allowed myself to be flattered and deceived.”

  “Then you have been a man.”

  He lashed me with his eyes. “When I quitted your side in September of 1806, I was in considerable torment.”

  I knew that he spoke the truth; I had witnessed his attempt to win the heart of an extraordinary young woman—Lady Harriot Cavendish, second daughter of the Duke of Devonshire. He had failed, and for a time, had disdained Society.

  “Sophia, with her considerable arts, perceived how I might be worked upon.” His voice was raw with bitterness. “I was too susceptible; I gradually fell into her thrall. She was—she is—beautiful, possessed of superior understanding, and careless of the world
’s opinion. She is also brutal, calculating, and governed solely by interest. If she possesses a heart, I have not found it.”

  “And yet—the affair did not endure. Your eyes were opened to her true character?”

  “Vimeiro opened them, Jane.”

  “Our victory over the French? Was Mrs. Challoner cast into despair?”

  “Not at all. Vimeiro was her finest hour! All of England wonders at the easy terms of the armistice: that the French were allowed to depart the field with their lives and goods intact, escorted home in British ships. What the public cannot know is that the dishonourable document, that has proved the ruin of Generals Dalrymple and Burrard, was forged at the insistence—the wiles—the subtle persuasion of Sophia Challoner, who seduced Dalrymple even as she dallied with me!”

  “Then it is Dalrymple, my lord, and not yourself who must be called the fool.”

  He released my hand and rose restlessly from his chair. “Jane, when I encountered them together, I behaved as a jealous lover. I very nearly called Dalrymple out—nearly killed the man in a duel!—when I should have divined immediately how much the wretch had betrayed.”

  “The armistice is over and done these two months at least,” I cried. “Do not goad yourself with painful memories!”

  “Do you think that one battle makes a war? Even now, Sir John Moore and the thousands of men under his command await the brutal blow that Marshal Soult must deliver. Moore does not know where Soult is encamped; he must outmaneuver and outmarch a chimera. Intelligence of the Enemy is absolutely vital—as is complete disguise of Moore’s intentions. Can you guess, Jane, what should be the result if our General’s plans were delivered to the French?”

  “Is that likely?”

  “I live in dread of its occurrence. That is why I have come to Southampton.”

  “Leagues upon leagues divide the Channel from the Peninsula, my lord.”

  “But the Peninsula’s most potent weapon—Sophia Challoner—is here, Jane,” he said softly. “She quit Oporto in a Royal Navy convoy this September, and has taken up residence in her late husband’s house.”

  I revolved the intelligence an instant in silence. “Can even such a woman do harm from so great a distance?”

  He took my face between his hands and stared into my eyes. “That, Jane, is what I intend for you to discover.”

  Chapter 3

  Voices in the Wind

  25 October 1808, cont.

  “… WET THROUGH TO THEIR UNDERGARMENTS, AND what the Master of Winchester will say when we return them in such a state—ague or worse, if I’m not mistaken—I cannot think. Two boys, exposed to the dangerous night air and the perils of Southampton Water after dark—! What if one of them should suffer an inflammation of the lungs? How shall I face my dear Edward? His heir, perhaps, taken off by a chill, only weeks after the death of his poor, poor wife! It does not bear considering, Jane!”

  “Yes, Mamma,” I replied steadily, “but the boys enjoyed their adventure, and Mr. Hawkins pressed his oilskins upon them during the journey home. We are likely to find that he, unfortunate man, suffers an inflammation of the lungs.”

  I had achieved Castle Square at the disreputable hour of eight o’clock, to discover dinner consumed, the boys in their bath, and my mother in high dudgeon. My dear friend Martha Lloyd, who forms a vital part of our household, ordered tea at my arrival and set about heating a brick in the embers of the fire. I was grateful for her presence. Although she took no part in the present dispute, her efficient bustle must serve as relief.

  “What has Mr. Hawkins to do with it?” Mamma’s looks suggested apoplexy. “Mark my words, Miss Jane, you shall come to no good end! To follow the whims of a stranger—to board an unknown ship—is what I cannot like! You might have suffered all manner of abuse—been carried off without a word of warning—and ended a captive in a sultan’s harem! You are far too trusting and too independent of convention for your own good. People will talk. At your age, and with your unfortunate history, you cannot be too nice in your habits.”

  My history, as my mother would term it, has been characterised by a penchant for stumbling over corpses that even I have begun to regard as a morbid hoax of Fate. It is true that my study of murder commenced with the refusal of the most respectable offer of marriage I had ever received—in December of 1802—and my mother might be forgiven for drawing the obvious conclusion: that my taste for Scandal has driven away all my suitors. Several years had lately intervened without the presentation of a body, however; and I dared hope that I was quite free of the blight.

  “Captain Strong was anxious that news of Frank should be conveyed to poor Mary,” I observed mildly, “and his First Lieutenant, Mr. Smythe, was most pressing in his invitation to come aboard. Perhaps I ought not to have accepted the invitation—”

  “No lady of delicacy should have done so.”

  “—but I understood that the Captain must sail with the tide. Imagine my suspense! I was every moment believing that Fly had been wounded—or taken ill—or even, God forbid …”

  “But as your brother is merely three days out from Portsmouth, Captain Strong excited your worst fears to no purpose,” my mother rejoined crossly. “You have lost your heart to that Lieutenant, I’ll be bound. What is his name?”

  “Smythe. He is perfectly respectable, Mamma, and by this hour, is safely at sea.”

  “You were always a girl to set your cap at the most disreputable sort of person—first Tom Lefroy, an Irishman, by my lights; and then that abominable smuggler who went by the name of Sidmouth—”

  “How I detest that phrase, Mamma! Setting one’s cap. It is so decidedly vulgar.”

  “Not to mention the gentleman whose name I vowed should never more be suffered to pass my lips.”

  She referred, of course, to Lord Harold Trowbridge—whose attentions she had long misapprehended as a seducer’s. My mother’s hopes warred with her disapproval of Lord Harold in this; for like any sensible widow left with two spinsters on her hands, she longed to see the family’s fortunes made through a brilliant and unexpected alliance. However dreadful his reputation, Lord Harold was yet a duke’s son.

  How shall I learn anything of Mrs. Challoner? I had asked him as he stood by the brig’s rail, preparing to bid me farewell.

  She lives in a place called Netley Lodge, he replied. A grand old manor near the Abbey ruins. You must have observed it… .

  I had, indeed—but a few hours before. And wondered at the smoke curling from the disused chimneys. Martha reached now for my untouched tea and replaced it with a glass of Port. “For medicinal purposes, Jane. I should not like you to catch cold. Your spencer is wringing with wet, my dear.”

  “As are your nephews’ heads!” my mother snapped.

  “I shall undertake to write a letter to the Master of Winchester”—I sighed—“informing him that Edward and George may prove a trifle delicate in coming days. Dr. Mayhew must be aware of Elizabeth’s passing, and his sympathies will be already excited on the boys’ behalf. They may be spared the worst of Winchester for at least a week.”

  Martha snorted. “I should judge them hearty enough. They were spraying the scullery with hot bathwater when I left them, exuberant as two whales.”

  LATE THIS EVENING, ALONE AT LAST IN MY OWN bedchamber, I built up the fire to a good blaze, drew off my stained gown, and laid my damp spencer by the hearth to dry. It was impossible not to think of him: at Gravesend, perhaps, or sailing past Greenwich. If the brig had made good time, he might even now be arrived at Wilborough House. The great limestone façade would be draped in black, the lanthorns shuttered.

  “My mother is to be interred on the morrow,” he had said, “and by Thursday or Friday at the latest I shall be returned to Southampton. Orlando stays behind—I shall put him off with Mr. Hawkins this very hour. He is to engage a suite of rooms at the Dolphin Inn against my return.”

  “Why cannot Orlando watch Mrs. Challoner in my stead?”

  “Because he is
known to her as my manservant,” Lord Harold said quietly. “I do not want her to apprehend, at present, that she moves under my eye. Do you dabble in watercolours, Jane? Or sketch a little, perhaps?”

  “A very little—but I am no proficient, sir. It is my sister who possesses that art.”

  “Then you might borrow her paintbox and easel, and set up in the ruins. Be seized by a fine passion for ancient habitation and lost sacerdotal faith. Spend hours—fortified by a suitable nuncheon—in the environs of Netley Abbey. Contrive to keep a weather eye on all activity at that house.”

  “So that I might learn … what, my lord?”

  “How Sophia Challoner intends to despatch her intelligence to France.”

  “And if it rains?” I enquired with asperity.

  He threw back his head and laughed. “You might beg shelter from the dragon. She will entertain you charmingly, I am sure.”

  I had written only the previous day to my sister Cassandra at Godmersham, but the habit of communication is strong, and I could not douse my candle without conveying a little of the boys’ adventures at the Abbey. No word should pass my lips, however, of my encounter with Lord Harold; Cassandra required diversion amidst her painful duties, not a further increase of anxiety. She never heard news of the Gentleman Rogue with equanimity.

  … the scheme met with such success that I fear young George might run off to sea, if his taste for Winchester does not increase. Mr. Hawkins allowed them to take the oars on the voyage home, and both are now possessed of sizeable blisters on their palms. Our nephews should not part with them for the world, and shall probably earn the esteem of their fellows, when once they are returned to school… .

  A boy cried out in his sleep, tortured by nightmares. I raised my head from my letter and felt the stillness of the house. It must be George. Did he dream of his mother? And did she walk tonight among the ruins of an abbey?