Did the sum of our intercourse deserve the name of friendship? I knew that the term was too great a benediction; I had approached Mrs. Challoner from motives of deceit, and had acted by design throughout. She cannot have understood so much — but her trust in me was ill-bestowed.
“I wish you safe, Sophia, and very happy,” I told her.
“Would that I could see you the same! But I have a favour to ask, Jane, before I go.”
“Anything in my power.”
“I cannot leave without knowing that Mr. Ord is well looked after.” She gazed at me clear-eyed and forthright. “He is a dear friend, far from home, and unacquainted with our ways. He requires safe passage on some ship or other bound for the Atlantic station — but in all the flurry of my own departure, I scarcely know where to begin!”
“The coroner requested that he remain in Southampton for the nonce,” I told her with a slight air of puzzlement.
“Pshaw! Mr. Ord has done nothing wrong, and thus cannot be considered subject to the coroner’s trifling ways!” she declared warmly. “That is why I have sought you out in this application — discretion is essential. I will not have the poor boy subjected to the nonsense of a murder enquiry. When I cast about for a means of brooking delay — I recollected, of a sudden, your excellent brother!”
Frank. Of course she would consider of Frank.
“He is a naval Captain,” she continued, “and must be aware of all the ships that are bound for the Americas. Can you not engage his interest on behalf of our friend, and solicit passage in some naval vessel — without too great a publicity?”
I felt myself flush hot, and then cold, as the full comprehension of what she asked broke upon me. Sophia Challoner had so far mistaken my position as to believe me capable of aiding Mr. Ord to escape English law! Was she so desperate? Did she consider me naïve?
“—By dawn, if possible?” she added.
Was the American that vulnerable to a charge of murder, that he must flee with the tide?
I gripped the arms of my chair and said only, “My brother is from home at present, in Portsmouth. His orders have come from the Admiralty, it seems; he was forced to a desperate haste. I suppose it is even possible he shall embark in the St. Alban’s without our meeting again.”
Her countenance fell, and her restless gaze shifted about the room. It occurred to me then that if I turned her away, she should find a more certain method of spiriting Mr. Ord from the country — and that I should have no share in the knowledge. Hastily I said, “I consider that eventuality unlikely, however, for his wife is presently in our care, and he should never abandon her without a word. I expect him returned this evening. I might speak to him then on Mr. Ord’s behalf.”
Mrs. Challoner expelled a soft breath, as though she heard my amendment with relief. “Excellent Jane! I knew you could not refuse to help me. I knew you understood the worth — the goodness — the sanc- tity of that boy! It is a duty to shield him from the eyes of the impertinent — from the invasion of the Law! A duty of friendship, as well as honour—”
She broke off, as though she had been betrayed into saying what she ought not, and cast her eyes upon the floor. I expected her to rise at that moment, and hold out her hand — or, perhaps, condescend to kiss my cheek, at which point I must convey her from the room — but after a space she continued.
“I ought to have said that Mr. Ord travels with a companion. Passage for two will therefore be required.”
“A companion?” My surprise was real — my mind, instantly in search of a possible candidate. The intimates of Netley were in general accounted for. Unless — surely it could not be— Maria Fitzherbert ?
“A companion — a superior — an instructor of the highest order, and one I may soon claim as a brother,” Mrs. Challoner said. She lifted her eyes to mine. “Monsignor Fernando da Silva-Moreira, of the Society of Jesus, who is bound for America in his student’s train.”
“Monsignor? ” I repeated.
“You may recall Lord Harold Trowbridge pronouncing his name. Monsignor is the Conte da Silva’s brother, and a Jesuit these five-and-twenty years at least,” she replied. “An excellent man, though vastly persecuted as are all his brethren in this violent age. He first fled France, at the Revolution, and took up residence in his native Portugal; but the present circumstances of battle made his position there impossible. It was to conduct Monsignor da Silva to Maryland that Mr. Ord came to Oporto — and found himself subject to English liberation.”
I thought of the black-cloaked figure; of the encounter in the tunnel; of Mr. Dixon with his throat cut, and Orlando abducted to Portsmouth. It was the Conte’s brother, who spoke nothing but French, who had dined with Frank in his cabin on the St. Alban’s; the Conte’s brother who had met with Mrs. Challoner in the Abbey ruins. I was to be the means, through Frank, of despatching a French agent to safety — or, if I alerted Lord Harold, of betraying a friend.
“Where is this Jesuit — this brother of the Conte’s — presently situated?” I enquired in a faltering accent. “I have not had the pleasure of meeting him at your house.”
She shrugged indolently. “The Monsignor detests England. The Society of Jesus has suffered too much at Protestant hands — I need not outline the executions and martyrdoms to which they and all Catholics have been subjected — and his predilection for the French tongue makes him doubly subject to suspicion. He took a room at the George, and scarcely ventured forth without a long black cloak, as though fearful that a priest should be attacked in the streets. Indeed, I may say that he quitted his rooms only to enter a hack bound for Netley — so that he might say Mass each day, and enjoy Mr. Ord’s company. The two have much to discuss, for the Monsignor intends to join Mr. Ord’s college in Georgetown — and Mr. Ord, the Monsignor’s Society, when his years of study should be complete.”
“And can you accept that kind of destiny for your young friend? Do you think the cloister a fitting end for so charming a man?”
“I know that in God, James Ord has found peace — and I would not deny that gift to anyone.”
“Has it proved so elusive in your life, Sophia?”
“I have known the want of peace since I was five years old! Bitterness and rage soured my father, and blighted my early years; but I vowed to differ from my parent in this: I vowed to practice forgiveness.” Her brilliant eyes shone with inner warmth that was entirely engaging; she laughed aloud. “And I do not believe I have utterly failed, Jane! I made a life — if only for a fortnight — in England; I made at least one English friend” — this, with a smile for me — “and I have even managed to forgive so desperate a character as Lord Harold!”
“Indeed?” I exclaimed, with surprise. “But I thought you hated him!”
“I do,” she replied serenely, “but I forgive him, from my heart, for being what he cannot help — the most detestable man in England.” She rose, and held out her hand. “I must leave you now. There is a quantity of packing, and the servants to be directed. I owe you a debt I shall be a lifetime repaying.”
Her expression of gratitude and faith was so sincere as to smite my traitorous heart. If forgiveness was her chosen art, I hoped she might spare a little of it for me, when all was known.
I unclasped the gold crucifix, and pressed it into her palm. “Take this, Sophia. It belongs to your Monsignor.”
She looked at it curiously. “But how did you come by it, Jane?”
“I found it... among the ruins of Netley Abbey once, when I had gone there to paint.”
I grasped her hand, and walked with her to the door — and saw her phaeton safely turned towards Samuel Street.
Then I sat at the writing desk, chose a sheet of fine paper and a well-mended pen, and set down the substance of Mrs. Challoner’s conversation. It required but a few moments. When I had done, I raised my head and listened. The house was quiet: Martha, her ankle on the mend, had retired to her bedchamber; Mary was bathing her daughter in the kitchen, under the benevolent eye of Phebe. My mother might already be snoring over her needlework, though it was but six o’clock.