Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House (26 page)

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.

“J
ANE,” SAID
M
ARY
F
OOTE.
“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 illfated
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.”

Chapter 16
Nell Rivers

Saturday,

~

O
UR HACK CHAISE WAS THE FIRST TO ARRIVE AT THE
Footes' door, once the carriages were summoned—a testament to its driver's impatience, one must assume, or the penetrating cold. Frank handed in his wife, then Martha, and then myself. When we were all settled, and Mary had begun an animated discussion of baby Elizabeth's manifold charms, to which Martha kindly attended, I asked Frank softly, “What do you know of Phoebe Carruthers?”

He started; perhaps he had hoped to doze on the journey home. “No more than anyone may know. She was orphaned early, and worked as a governess, I believe—in a very wealthy household somewhere to the north. There was threat of a scandal—an attachment on the part of the eldest son—that led to her dismissal. She married Hugh Carruthers not long thereafter. He was her cousin, you see.”

“She is very beautiful.”

Frank glanced at his wife sidelong, but Mary remained insensible. “If you like that proud, untouchable look—yes, I suppose that she is.”

“Louisa Seagrave observed that all of Southampton was at Mrs. Carruthers's feet. 'Even Thomas/ she said, and then broke off.”

“Did she?” enquired Frank with quickness. “They have been acquainted some years. Hugh Carruthers was a great friend of Seagrave's, I believe, and when he was killed by a ball aboard the
Témérairt,
nearly two years since, Tom undertook to give young Simon a step.”

“Perhaps his esteem for Captain Carruthers now extends to his widow. Certainly Louisa Seagrave believes as much.”

“You imagine her to harbour envy of Phoebe Carruthers? But she seemed to grieve so deeply for the boy!”

“Louisa Seagrave grieves for herself,” I returned tardy, “and for the loss of an amiable marriage. She spoke of Mrs. Carruthers with pity, for the death of her son; that death must justify Mrs. Seagrave's refusal to send her boys to sea. She was unstinting, however, in her abuse of her husband for having showered young Carruthers with affection—at the expense of his own children.”

Frank whistled sharply between his teeth. “She regards the woman in the nature of a rival.”

“Mrs. Foote declares that it is so.”

“What Mary Foote professes to know, all the world must see is truth,” muttered my brother. “You suspect Mrs. Carruthers as the lady Tom Seagrave would shield? The lady in the case, as you put it?”

“He did say, with some bitterness, that he might better have remained at home for all the good he achieved Wednesday evening. What if he rode out to Southampton—not with the intent of murdering Chessyre, but of calling upon Phoebe Carruthers?”

“—Whom we know to have been occupied with Sir Francis Farnham in French Street,” Frank cried.

“For at least the first of three acts.”

“And so Tom, in finding her from home, suffered a disappointment!”

“Or arrived at her door in time to make the acquaintance of her latest escort.”

“Then it is a wonder it was not Sir Francis found with a garotte about his neck,” Frank supplied.

“I
DECLARE, MISS!
Y
OUR COLD IS MUCH IMPROVED.”
J
ENNY
had torn herself from the embrace of sleep quite early this morning, and her comfortable face was quietly cheering. She is nearly forty, our Jenny—as yet unmarried, and likely to remain so; plain of feature, ample in girth as she is in kindness. No one may equal her at frying a chop or dressing a salad; but the chocolate and rolls she carried this morning were all that I could desire.

“It will be the mustard plaster, I'm thinking,” she continued. “It's just as well you employed it—what with that dreadful fever as the Frenchmen are spreading, and you so insistent upon ministering to them yourself, miss. I don't wonder Captain Austen was put out to find you'd gone to Wool House. But there, a lady must do her duty.”

“Indeed,” I replied. I sat up in bed and prepared to have my breakfast on a tray, like an indolent marchioness. I had never employed Jenny's mustard plaster, and had no intention of informing her of the fact. “Has any messenger come from Mr. Hill this morning?”

“No, ma'am.”

I was sure that Jenny knew everything to do with our smallest concerns. From her piercing search of my countenance this morning, I guessed that she was disturbed in her mind—undoubtedly because of my correspondence with Wool House. Did she think me likely to lose my heart to a foreigner? Or was she nettled at the vagaries of Frank's temper? “I am afraid we are all a sad trial, with our adventures and our disputes. It is a wonder you put up with us, Jenny.”

“I'd never call it a quiet household, what with your taste for murder and the Captain's for drabs.”
¹

I nearly choked on my chocolate.

“He did ought to be ashamed of himself! There's that poor young wife of his so far gone with the first, and her still a bride. I never thought I'd live to see the day when we should have women of the street lurking in the back doorway—but there, he is a man of the Navy, and we all know what they are. Mrs. Davies will never be done talking of it. If it weren't for the spoke I planted in her wheel, she'd have told all of Southampton.”

“Did you see the young woman who enquired Thursday for the Captain?”

Jenny shrugged. “She weren't much to see. Long in the tooth and short on washing, if you ask me. But I knew it was her straightaway, when she come round again

this morning. I told her to be off in three ticks, and no mistake!”

This morning!” I thrust aside the covers and made to get out of bed. Jenny hastened to fetch my dressing gown. “Why did you not call my brother?”

“Captain Austen quitted the house at half-past six,” Jenny returned with asperity, “no doubt upon business of his own. The Captain made sure to tell me I was not to disturb Mrs. Frank, and that I was to tell you he was gone to Gaoler's Alley.” These last words were uttered with extreme contempt.

Gaoler's Alley. We had agreed last night, before retiring to our respective bedchambers, that Tom Seagrave should be interrogated on the subject of Mrs. Carruthers. Frank was doubtful that a direct assault might persuade him to yield a confidence he seemed so determined to keep. The lady, however, might save Seagrave's neck if she could swear before the magistrate that it was she he had sought on Wednesday night—and not Eustace Chessyre.