“I do not blame dear Mary for the neglect I have endured, my mother assured Martha; “for she has her own indisposition to attend to — tho' for my part, I did not lie upon the sopha half so much for any child, and I bore no less than nine! But I could wish that Jane were more attentive. There is nothing very much to occupy her, now that Trowbridge fellow Is gone off again. A most unsteady, disagreeable man, Martha! Always flying about the Continent in carriages not his own, on business that must not be mentioned, at the behest of some unsavoury character such as the Prince of Wales. I never speak of Trowbridge, of course — but I shall always say he used my daughter remarkably ill. Were I Jane, I should die of a broken heart.”

Little Mary's eyes were very wide in her round face; her countenance was all pity and regret I suspected I had risen considerably in her estimation for having Suffered a Disappointment.

“How happy your return has made me, Martha!” my mother cried. “I might almost think myself restored to the Hampshire of old, with your dear, departed mamma and all my friends about me!”

“You are returned to Hampshire, madam,” I observed crossly. “It is some centuries now since Southampton formed one of the county's principal beauties. There is nothing wrong with you, as you very well know, that a little activity should not cure. You are too much indisposed. Fresh air is what you require.”

“I know that some have called you heartless, Jane, but I did not suspect you of cruelty.” My mother dabbed at her eyes with a square of lawn. “When I am gone, you shall consider — too late, alas! — how advisable were your words.”

“The joint,” Mrs. Davies announced, entering the room with admirable timeliness — and, “Here, my dear Mrs. Austen — pray sit by me!” cried Martha, with an anxious look for myself. “I am sure that I may coax you to take a little of mutton!”

And so we sat over a joint rather underdone, and debated with all the appearance of interest the minutest activity of Martha's Berkshire connexions. I heard more than enough of hunting, and the business of a country parish, to suffice for several dinners; laughed at Martha's pointed jokes, where Mary entirely failed to comprehend them; and listened for the sound of an express messenger's horse on the cobbles of East Street. The halloo and rap at the door came before we had done with the nuts.

Frank's voice was heard in the corridor — a clink of spurs and a horse's neigh; and in another instant, my brother was seated at table, intent upon the cooling joint.

“You're looking very well, Mamma. Descending for dinner agrees with you. May I serve you more of mutton?”

My mother closed her eyes and raised one hand in mute protest “It was very ill-turned,” she remarked. “I wonder how Mrs. Davies came to choose such a leg. She buys food on the cheap, I've no doubt, and saves the cost of our board.”

“But it was Jane—” stammered Mary, her cheeks flushing.

“Captain Austen, sir.”.

We turned as one to look at the parlour doorway, where Jenny, our housemaid, stood twisting her large hands in her apron. The girl made such a picture of guilt and regret that I was certain she had killed Mrs. Davies over some dispute in the scullery, and now meant to make a clean breast of it.

Frank set down his knife. His countenance had begun to show the harassed expression of a man desperate for victuals. “What is it, Jenny?”

She held out a card that had once been white, but was now grubby with over-fingering. “The officer did seem most urgent that I should give you this. But I was that taken up with the washing, and Mrs. Davies did want me to dress the mutton, on account of Miss Lloyd coming from such a distance, and the day being so dreadful. 'I'll just put this card in me pocket,' I says to myself, 'and give it to the Cap'n when I sees him—' “

Frank took the card and studied it with a scowl. Then his countenance changed.

“When did the Lieutenant call?”

Jenny looked all her misery. “Quarter past one o'clock, it must've been, while you and the Missus was out walking. I ca' remember the time, because the butcher had just called round with the mutton as Miss Austen bought special. I hope as I did no wrong—”

“That remains to be seen,” Frank said in clipped accents. He stuffed the card into his coat and rose from the table. “Forgive me, Mary — Mamma — ladies. I am called away and may not tarry.”

“But, dearest—” Mary protested. “You have had nothing since breakfast!”

Had Chessyre summoned him to his rooms at the Dolphin? Or did Frank hope to seek him there, and learn the purpose of the Lieutenant's call? My eyes sought my brother's face, but his countenance told me nothing. He was intent upon retrieving his cockade from the table by the door.

“A little cold meat upon my return shall do very well,” he said over his shoulder. “I beg you will not wait, but retire as usual. Forgive me.”

“But whatever is the matter?” Mary cried. “It is too unkind, to call you from your dinner! And a mere lieutenant, too. I wonder you regard it!”

The sound of the outer door closing must stand as reply.

Chapter 8

Mr. Chessyre Vanishes

Wednessday,

25 February 1807.

MY BROTHER DID NOT RETURN UNTIL THE EARLY HOURS of the morning. I knew of the length of his absence, from Mary's small movements about the boarding house — her stealthy descent of the main stairs by the light of a taper, not long after midnight; the occasional squeak of a poorly-oiled door hinge, as she peered unavailingly from the parlour out into the hall; and then her faint rap on my own door, rousing me instantly from the bedclothes. Her face was pale, her expression miserable, in the flickering light of her poor flame.

“May I come insane?”

“Of course.”

She slipped through the doorway, and the taper went out.

I groped for my candle in the darkness, then coaxed a flame from the embers of the fire. I set the light on the mantelpiece and turned to stare at Mary. Her thick hair hung in a plait down her back. Her shift was of pink flannel, and voluminous. One finger was lifted to her mouth; she was worrying at the nail with her teeth. Distracted with exhaustion and fear, she looked a disconsolate child up long past her bedtime. I took her hand and found it cold as death.

“He has not come home,” she muttered. “Nearly three o'clock, and he has not come home! What if the worst has happened, Jane?”

Violence was not an unreasonable worry; a seaport overrun with sailors released from men o' war was not always the safest of habitations. We had often caught a faint echo of the revels at quayside — the drunken laughter and occasional shrieks, the explosions of breaking glass. But I trusted Frank to know how to defend himself. His uniform alone must demand respect of any fellow seaman.

“You should try to sleep, my dear,” I told Mary gently. “Frank shall come to no harm.”

“It is not harm I worry of, Jane,” she retorted bitterly. “Oh! That everyone would cease to treat me like a child! It has been many years since I enjoyed the privilege of innocence, I assure you. In my own home — in Ramsgate — I was accustomed to regard myself as quite the eldest of the family; my advice was sought, and my opinions respected. I know that I am not half so clever as you, nor half as kind as Cassandra — but I am not a simpleton!”

“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.”