Jane and the Prisoner of Wool House (31 page)

“I see.” She had betrayed none of this bitterness while in the gentleman's company.

Phoebe Carruthers leaned forward. “You have moved among them—the prisoners at Wool House. You have heard them talk among themselves. You speak French, I think?”

“A little.”

Her lips worked painfully, and then the words came. “Do any of the French say how my poor son died? Was the shot that killed him deliberately fired? Were they so heartless as to strike down a child—so that his body was dashed upon the decks? … Oh, God, when I think of his father!”

She put her head in her hands and wept with a brutal abandon. Frank went to her instantly, and placed his arm about her heaving shoulders; I snatched up a vinaigrette that stood on Mary's work table, and offered it in vain.

“Tea, ma'am,” said Jenny stoically from the doorway; and I motioned her towards the dining table. She set down the tray, poured out a cup, and proffered it wordlessly to Phoebe Carruthers.

The lady lifted her streaming face and accepted the tea gratefully. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I should not have so far forgot myself. It is just that this fresh blow is like a wound reopened, and curved more deeply than before. It was tragedy enough to lose Hugh—but Simon! He was such a bright and beautiful boy. Seagrave always said—”

Her words broke off; she sipped at her tea. The struggle for serenity was more obvious this time … and far less successful.

“I know nothing of how your son died,” I told her gently. “It was not a subject I felt authorised to raise in Wool House.”

“I quite understand. It was foolish of me to enquire.”

Frank cleared his throat. “Mrs. Carruthers—you did no wrong in sending your son to sea. That was what his father would have wished, I am sure.”

“My late husband would not have sent the boy aloft at such a time, in battle—he should have secured the child in his cabin. I must reproach myself for having entrusted the boy to Thomas Seagrave. I had not understood, at the time, what was vicious in Captain Seagrave's character. It was enough for me that he was Hugh's friend.”

“They were long acquainted, I think?” Frank said.

“From midshipmen. I cannot remember a time when I did not know Tom Seagrave—he was almost a brother to Hugh. I have loved him as one, I know; but all that must be past.”

She uttered the words without a blush. Whatever the naval set might suspect of Seagrave's attentions to Mrs. Carruthers, she betrayed not the slightest sensibility.

“You must not blame Seagrave,” Frank said earnestly. “His present troubles aside, I believe Tom to be as good a man, and as honourable in his profession, as ever lived. The misfortunes attendant upon his engagement with the
Manon
are too many to name; but do not forget get that your son spent nearly two years in Seagrave's keeping, and thrived.”

“I know it.” She summoned that ghostly smile I had glimpsed on her lips the previous evening. “How Simon loved that ship! He was always his father's child— haunting the seawalls and the quays, intent upon every anchorage. I could no more deny him a berth than I could cease to breathe. And I
did
regard Tom Seagrave— before I learned of his capacity for murder.”

She shuddered.

Was this another calculated ploy? A deliberate subterfuge, from a lady who had enticed a man to his death?

“We had a glimpse of you on Wednesday night,” I said carelessly, as though to change the tenor of the conversation. “In French Street, at the theatre. How did you like Mrs. Jordan? “

“Exceedingly,” she replied. “Her antics spared me the necessity of conversation. Sir Francis had only just descended upon the town, and was most pressing in his invitation—I could not bear to entertain him in Bugle Street, where I lodge, and thus resorted to the theatre.”

She endeavoured to make it plain she did not like the Baronet's attentions. I wondered at her energy in expressing so personal a sentiment, to a relative stranger; and thought the hint of design was in her words.

“How unfortunate, then, that you were obliged to quit the place after the first act,” observed Frank engagingly. “We had intended to force acquaintance on Sir Francis at the interval, and were denied the privilege.”

Mrs. Carruthers's nostrils flared. “I found that I was unequal to the effort of appearing in public. It is a strain, you understand, to parade as though one is insensible to grief—as though every word and look must not inspire the most painful recollections! I begged to be quit of the crowd at the first opportunity, and Sir Francis obliged me in this.”

“How unfortunate! And so you fled one frying pan, only to end in the fire!”

Her delicate brows curled in perplexity. “I do not understand you, Miss Austen.”

I cast a look of amusement at my brother. “To bid Sir Francis
adieu,
only to find Tom Seagrave at the door!”

“I did not know the Captain was in Bugle Street,” she replied steadily. “He left no card. It is as well we failed to meet; I have not seen him since Simon's death, and might have uttered reproaches I should regret. Though Captain Seagrave may carry Simon on his conscience until he dies, I should not wish to carry
him
on
mine.

“And one might expect the two men to come to blows,” I added sympathetically. “Thank Heaven you were spared such a scene.”

For the first time, her complexion lost some of its colour. “To blows? Sir Francis and Captain Seagrave? What could you possibly suggest, Miss Austen?”

“From something Sir Francis said last night, I gathered that he holds the Captain in low regard.”

“That is hardly singular. All of Southampton might say the same.”

“But Sir Francis is not
of
Southampton, Mrs. Carruthers. Has he any cause for so pronounced a dislike? Some professional discourtesy, perhaps, on Seagrave's part?”

“None that I know of.”

“Then perhaps he merely thinks to support
your
grief, and your sentiments.”

For the length of several heartbeats, Phoebe Carruthers said nothing. Her green gaze held my own. Then she set down her cup. “Sir Francis is not always the perfect master of his temper, Miss Austen, as you have reason to know. He is often betrayed into speech he may regret. He is a man of great passions and considerable jealousies, and may imperfectly understand the circumstances of those around him.”

“You have been acquainted with the Baronet for some time, I see.”

“Nearly twenty years. I was governess to his little sisters when I was but eighteen, and spent nearly a year in the bosom of the Farnham family. When one has observed the formation of a man's character, one may forgive a great deal.”

“Certainly one may respect the enduring nature of his regard,” I observed. “Twenty years is a period! And yet Sir Francis's admiration for you is unflagging.” What had Frank said? That Phoebe Carruthers had been involved in scandal while a governess … something to do with the family's eldest son … and her marriage to her cousin had followed hard upon the business. Sir Francis—jealous Sir Francis—had married and acceded to his title; but he had not forgot the golden beauty. He had waited, and bided his time— and plotted to remove his rivals….

“Always his father's child,” I murmured. “It is remarkable how blood will out, Mrs. Carruthers.”

Her green eyes widened suddenly with alarm. She reached for her gloves.

“I must beg your pardon for trying your patience so long,” Phoebe Carruthers said, rising. “It has been delightful to make your acquaintance, Miss Austen.”

• • •

M
Y BROTHER SHOWED THE LADY TO THE DOOR, WITH
many a fine flourish regarding his hopes of seeing her in future, and all the assurances of his wife's regret in having lost such an opportunity to form Mrs. Carruthers's acquaintance; and when she had dwindled down the street, he rounded upon me in indignation.

“Jane, you were exceedingly rude just now. Poor Mrs. Carruthers is the picture of grief—and you must interrogate her regarding Sir Francis Farnham! It is obvious she doesn't like the fellow's company, and only suffers his attentions because she is too well-bred to send him packing! You might have shown some consideration!”

“She is altogether too picture-perfect for my liking, Fly,” I said abruptly. “She displays her grief at the slightest urging; desires us to believe that she has no designs upon a baronet; adopts the general tone of disapprobation towards Captain Seagrave, and denies all knowledge of him in Southampton on Wednesday evening. It was a performance intended to distance her from murder, and that alone must make it suspect.”

My brother's countenance hardened. “You think her afraid, Jane? You believe her bent upon deceit?”

“I think that Sir Francis determined to destroy his rival for Mrs. Carruthers's attentions. That he plotted Seagrave's disgrace by offering advancement to his lieutenant, in return for betrayal. That he used the signal line to despatch a set of orders the Admiralty never contemplated—and that when Chessyre despaired of his guilt and dishonour, Sir Francis determined to be rid of him. I believe that Phoebe Carruthers went in search of Chessyre in the Baronet's coach on Wednesday night, and carried the man away to meet with Farnham. I do not need to inform you of the result.”

Frank took a turn about the room in considerable agitation. It is hard for such a man—trained up in the ways of gallantry—to credit a beautiful woman with evil.

“I could accept all this, provided Phoebe Carruthers had no notion of what she did. The wife of Hugh Carruthers should never collude to murder a man.”

“Very well. Call her merely a handmaiden—too stupid to know her purpose—and she will thank you for it from the bottom of her heart.”

“She don't even like that fellow Farnham!”

“Perhaps not,” I agreed, “but she may feel herself in some wise bound to his purpose. How did she phrase things just now? 'Not all our obligations are matters of choice.' How soon after her marriage to her cousin was Simon Carruthers born?”

Frank stared. “I have not the slightest notion!”

“You should do well to enquire. Phoebe Carruthers might do much for the father of her dead child, however little she has cause to love him—particularly when Sir Francis's quarrel is with the man she blames for her son's death.”

Chapter 20
An Episode with Rockets

cont.

~

“G
OOD
L
ORD
, J
ANE—IF YOU WOULD HAVE
S
EAGRAVE
the victim of a plot constructed well before the
Stella
sailed, then you must admit Mrs. Carruthers is out of it!” Frank cried. “Her boy was yet alive when Seagrave left the Channel. She could have no cause to hate poor Tom. Indeed, she vows she loved him as a brother.”

“But after she received the intelligence of young Simon's death, and learned that Seagrave was accused, moreover, of murder, her sentiments may have undergone a change. Sir Francis had only to appeal to Mrs. Carruthers's grief and sense of outrage, to secure her as accomplice.”

My brother pursed his lips. “We cannot prove that either of them had anything to do with Seagrave's debacle, you know. I should look an absolute fool, did I suggest to the Admiralty that Sir Francis Farnham was Chessyre's murderer.”

“We cannot risk an injury to your career, Frank— even in such a cause,” I said with decision. “The Admiralty shall be left in ignorance until such time as guilt is irrefutable. We must provide our friend Mr. Pethering with evidence of so compelling a nature, that he cannot do otherwise than arrest Sir Francis and Mrs. Carruthers both.”

“But how?”

“By catching them in their last desperate act.”

Frank's eyes narrowed. “Have not they done enough?”

“Etienne LaForge,” I said urgently to my brother. “He is in the gravest danger. Mrs. Carruthers meant to learn from us what the French canvassed, in their talk at Wool House. The appeal to her son's death was but a subterfuge: she was sent to test what we know. Sir Francis fears and suspects every sort of betrayal—this is why LaForge was poisoned after giving evidence in Seagrave's trial. And that is why the sick men have been removed to the prison hulk.”

“Farnham need only exchange the French to France to be secure in their silence,” Frank objected.

“But LaForge requested the right to remain in England as payment for his honesty. Does Farnham know as much?”

Frank looked all his discomfort. “The subject was generally discussed. Mr. Hill certainly knew of LaForge's plea, and I conveyed it myself to Admiral Bertie, who assured me he would try his influence at the Admiralty. As a prisoner, LaForge and his situation must fall under the authority of the Transport Board….”

“Which is governed by Sir Francis Farnham. Good God, we have contrived between us to deliver the man to the very Devil!”

Frank ran his hand through his hair. “Then we must endeavour to save him, Jane. I believe I know a way.”

W
E FOUND THAT IT WAS NEARLY FOUR O'CLOCK, AND
ordered dinner to be sent to my mother's room—left a note of apology and very little of explanation for Mary and Martha—and set out for Wool House thereafter.