But I was forestalled — routed — and thoroughly undone before I had even so much as dismounted at the Abbey’s wicket gate. As I emerged from West Woods, I discerned the rattle of a tidy equipage, and in another instant it appeared: a phaeton and pair, driven by a lady at breakneck pace. The grey geldings were perfectly matched, and their action admirable. I must have started in the saddle, or perhaps the prospect of a race was too much for the mettlesome Duchess, for she stretched out her neck, seized the bit in her teeth, and careened down the road at a gallop.

Never had I been subjected to such a pace! I abandoned the reins and clung desperately to Duchess’s neck, all but unseated in the wretched sidesaddle. Too terrified to emit a syllable, I divided my attention between the heaving ground and the approaching phaeton, certain that one of us must give way or endure a fatal crash.

The lady’s gaze never faltered. She neither pulled up nor slowed her reckless course; she merely shifted her equipage with deft hands to the far side of the road, and scarcely glanced at my figure as I hurtled past. Duchess, intent upon a race, made a sharp turn in the phaeton’s wake, and redoubled her gait to catch up to the pair.

This final maneuver was too much for me. As the dun mare came around and gathered herself to spring, my grasp on her neck faltered. With a cry of dismay, I was flung wide and landed hard on the verge of the road, knocking the breath from my body and the sense from my head. I was aware of a great pain, and of the sound of the mare’s hoofbeats receding; and then I knew nothing more.

“Would you look at the rent in this bonnet?

It’s a wonder she wasn’t killed.” A gentleman’s voice, with something odd in its tone... something familiar...

“The little fool has not the least notion of how to manage a horse. Such poor creatures ought to be strangled in their cradles, before they ruin a perfectly good mount from ignorance and caprice.” His companion spoke briskly, as though she would save her pity for the wretched Duchess.

“Pshaw! You don’t mean it!”

“I never mean anything I say. I merely love to hear myself speak. You ought to know that, thus far in our acquaintance. Pass me the basin, pray.”

A cool square of cloth was pressed delicately against my brow. Light as the pressure was, it caused me pain, and I groaned and turned my head into the cushion.

“There’s no card in her reticule — nothing to betray her name or direction. A sketching book and paints in the saddlebag.”

“She probably aspired to Genius among the ruins,” the lady observed caustically. “I am surprised, however, that a gentlewoman — even one so shabbily dressed — should go jaunting about the countryside alone. Has she affixed her signature to her work?”

Again, the cool cloth bathed my forehead; the odour of vinegar assailed my nostrils. I winced, but did not open my eyes; I felt sure the light should split my head in twain.

“No. From the quality of these, she hesitated to claim maternity.”

A rich chuckle. “You are too bad. What about the horse?”

“Hired of a livery stable. Name’s on the saddlecloth.”

“—a private mount being rather above her touch. Then if she does not rouse by nightfall, we must send José Luis to enquire at the stables. They must be wanting their mare.”

Nightfall? What hour of the day could it be? And where in God’s name was I?

I opened my eyes and attempted to rise.

“Steady,” the lady advised, and her firm hands thrust me gently back. I was lying on a broad bed in a room with a peaked ceiling and dormer windows; my spencer and bonnet were set on a chair. She was seated nearby: masses of auburn curls, a gown of garnet silk, and the basin of vinegar in her lap. Her dark eyes, heavily-lashed, gazed at me coolly. It was quite the most elegant countenance I had seen in years.

“Steady,” she repeated, and laid her free hand on my arm. “You have had a fall, madam. You are quite safe, and among friends, and the doctor shall be with us presently.”

“But—”

Despite her words and the pain in my head, I sat up and gazed in bewilderment about me. A fairhaired young man in a correct suit of black cloth stood by the leaded window, and beyond him was the sea. I knew that view of the Dibden shore; I had gazed upon it a thousand times. But then I must be — I could only be—

“You are at Netley Lodge,” she explained, “not far from where you were thrown. Can you perhaps recall your name?”

“Jane Austen.” My voice was a whisper; I knew now what name I should put to Beauty’s face.

“That gentleman is Mr. James Ord. And I am Sophia Challoner.”

Chapter 7

The Horrors of War

27 October 1808, cont.

Dr. Jarvey — a physician summoned from Southampton, and not a mere surgeon or apothecary of Hound — ran his fingers over my skull and shook his head gravely at a large lump that had swelled above my left ear. Upon learning that I had lost consciousness for the period of a half-hour, he looked dour and prescribed absolute quiet for the rest of the day.

“She must not be moved, and she must be subject to the closest scrutiny. If nausea ensues, keep her awake at all cost, even if you play duets until dawn to effect it. There is danger of a fracture to the cranium, and in such cases, derangement of the senses is likely. To fall asleep in that eventuality should be fatal. However, if she is not retching by the dinner hour, give her this” — proffering a draught against the pain — “and send your servants to bed.”

With which dubious advice, he quitted the room, leaving me in some suspense as to whether I should die or no.

“We must send word to your people,” Mrs. Challoner observed after he had gone. “Where do they reside?”

“Southampton. My mother is resident in Castle Square.”

“The mare must be fixed to her stable in any case, and her hire discharged. I shall send my manservant José Luis” — she pronounced the name heavily: Show-zay Lew-eesh — “to town with the horse, and your note of explanation. Shall I pen it for you?”

As my head distinctly ached, and Sophia Challoner appeared far better suited to decision, I agreed. What my mother’s anxieties should be, upon discovering that I had hired a horse — much less fallen from it — I could not think. But there was a cup of tea at my elbow and the prospect of an entire day’s tête-à-tête with the Peninsula’s most potent weapon. If I could but keep my composure, I might learn much. She fetched ink and paper, and settled herself once more in the chair by my bed. As she bent over her task, I studied her perfect countenance. A skin like alabaster, dusted with rose; the dark hair a brilliant counterpoint. A single thread of blue vein pulsed at her temple. She held her pen in elegant fingers. One of them sported a great jewel, polished and cut, that was the exact hue of her gown. Did she possess a similar ransom for every costume she owned?

“Dear Mamma — that is how one always commences, I understand, though I lost my own maternal parent well before I could write,” she drawled. “Do not be alarmed at receiving this from a stranger’s hand, for I am quite well. One always lies to one’s mother, I believe?”

“From about the age of six. Although in this, as in everything, I confess to a marked precocity.”

She raised her eyes to mine, and I observed a look of vast humour in them. “Well done, Miss Austen! We shall deal famously with one another! I have suffered a fall from my horse, and am very kindly bid- den to remain at the home of a gentlewoman, Mrs. Challoner of Netley Lodge, who happened upon me as I lay unconscious in the road. That should terrify her suitably. She will pause at this juncture, and exclaim aloud, and one of your domestics shall be enjoined to fetch hartshorn and sal volatile.”