Frank's expression was wooden. “Was your wife within?”

“Her bedroom door was closed,” said Seagrave abruptly. “I did not like to disturb her. She suffers from nightmare. And as you know, I had reason to guard my sleep as well that night. I was to face court-martial in the morning.”

The Captain's face was hard — as unyielding as any of the Enemy might find it. It occurred to me, as we took our leave, that whatever his failings in duty or attention, Tom Seagrave still meant to shield his wife.

WE HAD TOLD SEAGRAVE NOTHING OF ETIENNE LaForge's escape, nor of our suspicions of Sir Francis Farnham. Whether the shock of Seagrave's disclosures— the surprise of his history with Phoebe Carruthers — or some inner caution proscribed the topic, I shall leave the reader to determine. It was nonetheless true, however, that we quitted the gaol without the necessity of mutual consultation, and that we breasted the High in heavy silence, each of us lost in thought.

“Captain Austen,” said Mr. Hill, “it occurs to me that proper feeling might dictate a call upon Mrs. Seagrave. Would you regard such an act as likely to break the Sabbath — or entirely within the compass of these extraordinary circumstances?”

“I shall bear you company, Hill,” said my brother grimly, “and regard it as a charity. Jane? Are you greatly fatigued? I confess I should welcome the presence of a lady at this interview.”

“I was always a slave to the poor and downtrodden,” I observed piously, and placed my hand within his arm.

Chapter 24

Incitement to Vice

1 March 1807, cont.

MRS. SEAGRAVE LOOKED VERY ILL INDEED AS SHE WAS ushered into the Dolphin's upper parlour. Her hair in its cruelly tight knot was lifeless, her eyes overly bright, and her countenance determinedly sallow. If she had taken anything by way of food in the days since I had last seen her, it had added nothing to her frame.

“Forgive me,” she said without preamble. “I am not attired to receive visitors. I hardly looked for any today.”

“Pray do not make yourself anxious,” said Frank. He thrust himself hastily from his chair and bowed. “I trust you are well, Mrs. Seagrave?”

“I am thoroughly wretched; but what of that? It is become my usual condition. Miss Austen — it is a relief to see you again. I had begun to think that the world was solely populated by hypocrites and scoundrels.”

I went to her and curtseyed. “You may remember our friend Mr. Hill from our last meeting in Lombard Street.”

“The naval surgeon.” She offered him the barest nod. “I do recall. And how is your French colleague, Mr. Hill? The one who succeeded in preventing my husband from hanging?”

“Sadly — he is dead, ma'am,” lied Mr. Hill with the gravest of looks. “He died most tragically in a shipboard fire last evening. You may have heard rumour of the event.”

A spot of colour flared up in Louisa's cheek. “I never attend to rumour, sir, I assure you. Will you take some bread and cheese? Or a glass of wine — may I fetch you one?”

“Thank you — but no,” I returned after a glance at the impassive gentlemen. For my own part, I was faint with hunger. I do not break my fast before Sunday service, and the hour was fast approaching noon.

“I can stomach nothing at present,” Louisa murmured, “but I may at least ring for tea. Pray avail yourselves of chairs—” this last, with a vague gesture about the parlour, as though she were viewing its contents for the first time. At her ring, a maidservant appeared in the doorway, then disappeared in pursuit of a tray.

Frank waited for the ladies to adopt their seats before settling into his own. Mr. Hill seemed determined to stand. Louisa sank into her chair with so complete a weariness that I understood nerves alone must be animating her frame. She put her head in her hands, insensible for an instant to everything about her.

I broke the silence. “And how do the children? Charles and Edward are well?”

“Well enough in body,” she said, “but low in their spirits and cowed as mice. It is something to see one's father — whom one has always considered a sort of god, from his habit of command — taken from the house under armed guard, and conveyed like a pauper through the streets. I do not know what to tell them. Every sentiment must sound false in my ears. All my words are lies.”

“Not all,” I urged her. “Surely you have hope for the future — and not all hope is false. Some prayers must be heard, and answered.”

“But I do not know what to pray for,” she said bleakly.

“Good God, woman!” my brother ejaculated. “Would you have your husband called a murderer — when those who love him must believe the accusation false — and hang for it? I can think of several dozen prayers that might adequately serve.”

“We have only just quitted your husband's cell,” I told her.

A light flared in her eyes — but of joy or anger, I could not tell.

“You have seen my husband?”

“And found poor Tom quite sunk,” said Frank. “It was all we could do to elicit a word from those stern lips. He bears his troubles nobly. I intend to search out a reputable barrister on his behalf tomorrow — and shall travel to London if I must, to secure such a man!”

“Did he tell you where he went on Wednesday night?”

Louisa's expression, as she asked the question, was painfully acute. Every ounce of passion in her famished countenance was directed at my brother's answer — upon his next words her very existence seemed to hang.

Frank hesitated, and his eyes found mine. “He did not.”

Well done, I thought

The tension in Louisa's body seemed to drain away. But her countenance twisted in a bitter smile. “It was hardly an honourable adventure, you may be sure. A man with nothing to hide would not now be sitting in Gaoler's Alley. I am sure he sought only one in this wretched town, and that she was eager to bid him welcome.”

Frank snorted derisively and rose from his chair. “Forgive me, ma'am, if I must plead urgent business. I shall expect to meet you in future under happier circumstances, when we may all forget this dreadful episode, and rejoice in your husband's return to vigour and respect. I hope to find your humour and manners much improved.”

A curt bow, that was almost an insult, and not the slightest softening of his angry manner. I understood Frank's regard for Tom Seagrave; but I thought my brother lamentably ill-equipped to comprehend the subtlety of Louisa Seagrave's soul. Mr. Hill, perhaps, should have done better — but Mr. Hill was fixed in his position by the far wall, his regard never wavering from Louisa's wan face.

“You think me a hard and bitter woman, Captain Austen,” she said softly, “because I do not profess to love my husband. But perhaps I have loved him too well, and more than he deserves. I have sacrificed everything to his comfort; I have borne him five children, and seen two swallowed by the grave; I have endeavoured to preserve his respectability. Yet he has turned from me. He has left me bereft, who possessed nothing but his love in the world. Should you wonder that I find it hard to pity him now?”.

“I wonder that any woman can fail to pity a man,” returned my brother with heat. “You are all of you so much wiser and better than we. Can you not see that your husband is now in greater need of your respect and esteem than at any moment in his life? And yet it is now that you would withdraw them!”

“They were murdered, Captain — not withdrawn.” Her voice was raw with stifled weeping. “He killed our love with his careless ways as surely as he killed that poor boy.”

“Call it Death by Misadventure, then,” Frank persisted, “if you will call it death. Murder implies something other than mere carelessness. It suggests a cruelty and an intent to harm that I have never witnessed in Thomas Seagrave. I wonder, madam, whether you know your husband — or merely some demon your mind has formed!”