We were silent an instant, I from deepest sensibility, she from the horror of her recollections. Her hand gripped the spine of her book so tautly that all color drained from the skin, and the great stone on her finger glowed like blood in the candlelight.
“But what is one to do?” I asked quietly. “Men like the Monster will go to war, in a tilt at power beyond imagining; and men like my brothers will swear to prevent it. You cannot stop them coming to blows.”
“But I may at least try.” She sat erect in her chair, her gaze fixed implacably on my own. “War is vainglory and ruin, Miss Austen. It brings waste upon the countryside and desolation into the bosom of every family. I shall do all within my power to thwart this folly, and the men who would further it. No other course is open to those of us who are fated to live in such times.”
“On the contrary, madam. War is hateful, as is all wanton loss of life — but when the battle is thrust upon us, we have one course at least: to meet it honourably, and defend what we love. I should not like to see England in the hands of Buonaparte; and I am certain my brothers would say the same.”
“You think the Emperor so different from your King, then?”
“Our King, Mrs. Challoner.”
She smiled at me then. “I forget. So easily I forget! I was but five years old when I left my home in England, and have spent all my life since in the Peninsula. It is hard to feel allegiance to much beyond the few friends I have long known and loved. But I have wearied you with stories and harangues long enough. Rest now, and perhaps you will be well enough to descend for dinner.”
She touched my hand lightly, rose in a swirl of scented silk, and was gone: leaving me in some bewilderment of sensation regarding her. Did I understand what she was, that first night I saw her? a voice whispered in my ear. Did I recognise the cunning behind Beauty’s mask?
Had Lord Harold judged this woman wrongly?
Was she a lady of subtle purpose — or one of deep feeling? Did she intend that I should be taken in by her tale of dead soldiers? Or had she loved a man who died at Vimeiro? What possible motive could she find for deceiving me — who was but a stranger?
She is guilty of treason, Jane. I could not begin to judge Sophia Challoner. I only knew that I honoured her fierce conviction — and could not find it in my heart, yet, to condemn her.
Perhaps an hour later, I awoke from a light sleep. The house was utterly silent and my mouth was dry. I rang the bell for the housemaid, then rose and walked unsteadily to the leaded windows. The bedchamber was set into the corner of the house, with views looking both south and west. From one window, I might survey the traffic of Southampton Water: a few fishing boats bobbing at anchor, and an Indiaman making its heavy way towards the quay. From the other, I could just glimpse the brow of the hill that led to Netley Abbey, half a mile distant. Two figures were toiling up the footpath: a man with yellow hair and a lady in garnet-coloured silk. She was a little ahead of the gentleman, as though she were familiar with the direction, and intent upon leading the way. I could not conceive of Sophia Challoner following in any man’s footsteps.
“Are you quite well, miss?” enquired the maid from the doorway.
I whirled around. Flora, the granddaughter of Mr. Hawkins’s crony, Ned Bastable. She could not be much above fifteen. “I am merely thirsty,” I replied.
“Could I have a jug of water?”
She bobbed a curtsey, and went off to the kitchen. I glanced once more out the window, and saw that in the interval required for conversation, a third figure had appeared on the Abbey path: hooded and cloaked in black, and standing as though in wait for the two who approached. I narrowed my eyes, the better to study the scene: the motionless form, august and slightly sinister, and the toiling pair below. What could it mean?
I followed the walkers’ course until they breasted the hill, and stood an instant in greeting; I observed Sophia Challoner bow her head and curtsey low. Then all three began the descent into the ruins and vanished from view. I wished, in that instant, that I might be a bird on the wing: hovering over the ramparts of the walls in observation of the party. Did they pick their way to the south transept, and mount the chancel steps? Was it mere idleness that drew them hence — the love of a good walk, and a picturesque landscape — or did they flee the house to talk of deadly policy?
And who was the third, garbed in black?
“Your water, miss.”
Mouse-brown hair under a white cap; gentian-blue eyes. I accepted the glass. Flora was lacking in both age and experience, and might be encouraged to share her confidences. “Your mistress has gone out?”
“She will have her exercise,” the maid said.
“And may command Mr. Ord to bear her company. Is he often useful in that way?”
Flora smiled. “The young gentleman haunts the house, miss. He is but two days arrived in town, and has spent the whole of it with my mistress! Do you think that he is in love with her?”
“Does he behave as though he were?”
“I cannot rightly say,” Flora replied doubtfully,
“him being an American, and one of the Quality. He keeps a room in Southampton, as is proper, but appears after breakfast and does not quit my mistress’s side until past supper!”
“They must be very old acquaintances.”
She shook her head. “He brought a letter of introduction, on his great black horse. It’s my belief they’d never laid eyes on one another before yesterday. And yet he behaves as though he were her cousin.”
“That is indeed strange,” I said thoughtfully. “But perhaps, after all — he is. One might possess any number of colonial relations one has never met.”
The maid curtseyed and left. I stood a while longer by the leaded windows, the glass of water in my hand, but the walkers did not reappear. It was vital that I gather my strength, for I had no intention of dining on a tray in my room this evening. If Mr. Ord hoped to stay for dinner, then I should break bread with him. Lord Harold would desire no less.
Chapter 8
The Recusant
Friday, 28 October 1808
“And so we may have an end to all schemes of watercolour painting, I devoutly hope!” my mother cried when I appeared like a prodigal in the breakfast parlour this morning. “Pray impress upon her, Mrs. Challoner, how very improper it must be for a young woman to wander about the countryside entirely alone! And on horseback, too — when you have never acquitted yourself well in the saddle, Jane.”
“I am afraid her mishap must be laid to my
charge, Mrs. Austen,” Sophia Challoner said evenly.
“Had I not breasted Netley hill in my phaeton when I did, the mare should not have started, and Miss Austen must have been spared an ugly ordeal.”
“Every sentiment revolts! When I consider my daughter, rambling among the hedgerows like a gipsy, and falling off of horses she has no business riding — when I consider of you lying insensible, Jane, in the road — I am thankful you were not murdered before Mrs. Challoner discovered you!”
“You exaggerate, Mamma. What has murder to do with it?”
“Everything, miss! You cannot be aware of the horrors we have endured in your absence; but it is in my power to inform you that the shipwright of Itchen, one Mr. Dixon, was done away with two nights ago — his throat cut, if you will credit it — and the magistrates none the wiser!”
“The shipwright?” Mrs. Challoner enquired. “Why should anyone serve such a fellow with violence?”
“In order to reach his seventy-four,” I replied. “A handsome ship, and nearly complete when it was destroyed by fire Wednesday evening.”