Catherine Prowting.

I have found it difficult to sleep of nights for some weeks past. Where was she going, alone and at such an hour?

Her errand was not an open one. She did not intend her family to know of it.

With all the country alive against him, how can he hope to obtain so much as a cup of water?

I had been wrong. One friend at least in the neighbourhood Julian Thrace had no need to buy. I might follow Catherine, I thought, as Link strained against me.

I might rouse the neighbourhood and her father, bring a man to justice, and ruin forever the reputation of a young woman rather like myself — restless for life, bounded by country lane and glebe, her prospects lowering with each passing year. A starling beating against the bars of its cage. Lady Imogen. Shafto French.

Justice.

“Jane?” Cassandra repeated. “Is anything amiss?”

I shut the window.

“Nothing at all, Cass. Your dog must have scented a hare on the wind.”

I lay sleepless long into the night, listening for Catherine Prowting’s return.

Chapter 23

An Unexpected Visitor

Monday, 10 July 1809

“Major Spence?” I called, peering hesitantly from behind a marble column; and then I observed him, motionless and upright at the far end of the room.

It was Rangle who conducted me to the library, a handsome apartment in the very heart of the great pile that was Stonings. I had not glimpsed it during my previous visit, and once led through a series of passages by the chapfallen butler, could hardly have found my way out again. But the space in which I now stood was in better repair than any other part of the ramshackle estate; indeed, it was a delightful room, and perfectly suited to study. The chamber’s ceiling was painted indigo blue, and an array of stars and planets swam across its firmament; the walls were full two storeys in height, lined with bookshelves and myriad volumes; at the far end was a bank of tall windows, undraped at present, through which flowed the dull green light of a rainy summer’s morning.

Charles Spence was posed with his back to me, his gaze fixed on the landscape. The prospect here gave out onto high woody hills, rather than the lake that sat to the south; he could not have noticed the arrival of the gig, but I was certainly expected. Rangle had instructions to convey me to the steward the moment I arrived.

Of Lady Imogen’s remains there was no sign. I had halfexpected a bier in the hall, surrounded by candles and bouquets of summer flowers; a few domestics bent in prayer by her ladyship’s side. Certainly I had thought to find Charles Spence in an attitude of suffering — on his knees, perhaps, on the stone floor, while the hours passed unnoticed around him. But one cannot cry without ceasing, I must suppose; and there were all the duties of the estate still to be attended to. Not to mention the inconvenient supplications of chance acquaintance. I had received the gentleman’s reply to my letter at breakfast.

Miss Austen—

It seems we have much to discuss. Pray wait upon me at your convenience today, as I expect to quit Stonings on the morrow.

Your most obedient servant,

Spence

A brief note, imparting little of the man’s mood or intentions. I determined to go to him immediately, however, and walked into Alton in search of my brother.

It was no very great matter to prevail upon Edward to drive me to the Earl of Holbrook’s estate. Being as yet in black clothes for his wife, he had no desire to break in upon Charles Spence’s mourning; however, I impressed upon him the idea that a call of condolence was unexceptionable at such a time, and indeed a most necessary form of notice from the Chawton Squire.

“It will be those papers you are after,” Neddie retorted, “and no call of condolence, I’ll be bound, Jane. All the same — I should like to see a place of which I have heard so much; and who knows whether the Earl will ever come there in future? We might take in the Vyne on our way home; Chute is sure to be in residence during the summer months, and I have not seen the man this age.”

I told my brother nothing of Rosie Philmore’s tale, or the conjectures I had formed regarding the Major’s integrity. I had determined, in the magnanimity of last night’s sleepless reflections, that I should not press Spence for particulars. They should better be sealed in Lady Imogen’s tomb — provided Lord Harold’s chest was returned to me. And so I preserved a notable silence on our road to Sherborne St. John, and allowed Edward to talk of the improvements he intended for the Chawton estate.

The storm had broken at dawn, and thus a closed carriage was preferred; we hired one from Barlow at the George. The going was very heavy, and I blessed Heaven for the forbearance native to my brother, and his sportsman’s indifference to any kind of wet. It had been some days since Neddie had been privileged to drive alone; and simply having the ribbons in his hands, a light curricle and a tolerable pair of horses at his command, seemed to have raised his spirits remarkably. A bit more than two hours was required to cover the fifteen miles between Chawton and Sherborne St. John; but my brother remained cheerful despite the quagmire of the country lanes and the ruts to which the carriage was subjected. He was even now seeing to the horses’ stabling with Robley the groom.

At the sound of my voice, Major Spence turned away from the storm-swept prospect. His tall figure suited the proportions of the room, and I had an idea of the kind of comfort he must have found here during the long winter months after Vimeiro. There would have been his wounded leg to attend to — all the repairs to the various wings, and the architect’s designs; the plans for the grounds; the management of Lady Imogen’s affairs. Frequent meetings with the lady herself, perhaps, and a growing intimacy with her ways. And then Thrace had appeared to destroy his peace.

“Miss Austen.” Spence moved around the great desk that fronted the rain-swept windows and bowed.

I curtseyed in return.

I was struck by the alteration two days’ time had made in his appearance. The great dark eyes I had so frequently remarked were sunken in their sockets; his brow was careworn and lined. He must hardly have slept in the interval since Saturday morning, and his expression suggested the chronic invalid — a man’s whose war wound was likely never to entirely heal, and never to be forgot. I knew from bitter experience the ravages grief may do; and deeply pitied him.

“You are well, I hope?” he enquired.

“Very well, I thank you. I was grateful to receive your letter this morning, and came as soon as may be. I hope I do not intrude,” I added, as he preserved a distracted silence. He motioned towards a chair that sat near the great desk, and I sank down into it. He remained standing, however, his gaze fixed upon me; the persistent staccato of storm upon windowpane was all the sound in the room.

“You are a curious woman, Miss Austen,” he observed. “You write to importune me for a meeting — you cast the grossest aspersions on the character of a most beloved lady, as that lady lies in death elsewhere in this house; and yet you apologise for intruding. Is this intended as a pleasantry? A sad kind of joke?”

“Major Spence—”

He turned from me abruptly and limped painfully towards the door through which I had lately passed, some thirty feet behind; and for an instant, I thought he intended to show me out — that he had summoned me all this distance for no other purpose than to deliver his crushing rebuke, and be done. But as I watched, he secured the lock with a key, and tried the knob to be certain the door was immovable.