“Recollect, Mamma, that Lord Harold cannot be thinking of marriage at present. He is in mourning.”

“As are you, my dear — as are we all! But one cannot bury oneself in the grave with the deceased! One must, after all, cling to life!”

“More toast, ma’am?” Martha suggested.

My mother selected a slice of beautifully browned bread from the plate that was offered. “I cannot think what the two of you find to talk about. Men are never much interested in the opinion of ladies — and his lordship, in the opinion of anyone but himself. It is not as though he calls for the sheer pleasure of gazing at your countenance — which you will admit, my dear, has grown rather coarse of late. You will not take my advice, and make use of Gowland’s Lotion, though Martha has found it infinitely beneficial. Do you not, Martha?”

“Oh — certainly, ma’am. There is nothing to equal Gowland’s.”

“Even our Mrs. Frank said, before she went off, ‘Only think, Mother Austen, how thankful I am for your recommendation of Gowland’s Lotion! See how it has entirely carried away my freckles!’ ”

“Rubbish,” said a brusque voice from the breakfast room doorway, “Mary has never sported a freckle in her life — so do not be telling such shocking great fibs, Mamma, purely for the sake of bubble reputation.”

My brother Frank strode cheerfully into the breakfast parlour amid exclamations of surprise.

“Fly!” I cried, “my intelligence was correct! I was informed on Tuesday that you were not three days out of Portsmouth — and here you are in Southampton, the very day after!”

“Who could possibly know so much of my business?”

“Captain Strong, of the Windlass, ” I replied.

“Excellent fellow, Strong! But I made better time than he guessed, and put in at the Island yesterday morning. It was then I heard the sad news from Godmersham. I could not be passing so near your door, Mamma, without stopping to condole.”

He looked very grave as he said this. Frank had spent a good deal of time in Edward’s company in recent years — indeed, he had passed the whole of his honeymoon at Godmersham — and must feel for his brother, and mourn the passing of Elizabeth, who was always so generous. But I knew that some part of his gravity was reserved wholly for his wife, and the trials of childbirth she must inevitably undergo. Little Mary, so fresh and pink and fair-haired in the first flush of marriage, had very nearly been carried off by the birth of her first child last April; and Frank was in no haste to repeat the experience.

“You are wearing black gloves,” I observed. They looked oddly with his white pantaloons and secondbest naval coat.

“It was partly to obtain them that I journeyed up the Solent. Nothing so well-made is to be had in Portsmouth; they are all for economy there. Indeed, I carry a commission for Mary’s dressmaker at present — a woman lodged below in Bugle Street.”

“Madame Clarisse?” Martha suggested.

“Just so!”

“It is a great comfort to see you once more at home, Frank,” my mother said plaintively, “for I do not count those dreadful lodgings you would take, as being a home. It seems a very great while since you went away.”

As my brother had quitted Castle Square but a few weeks before, it was to be expected that Mrs. Austen should be made unhappy.

“Mary is well, I suppose?” she added. “For my part, I should be very low, indeed, if left entirely without friends in the midst of an island, my husband at sea. But not all of us are possessed of congenial spirits — or a taste for society.”

Frank’s brow darkened. Before he could hurl a biting retort, I said quickly, “What foresight you have shown, dear Fly, in making your removal — for you should have been forced to it in any case, by the flight of your mother and sisters! We have had a deal of news from Godmersham! In the midst of all his trouble — in the very depths of despair — our excellent brother has thought only of his family. Edward offers us a freehold, Frank, to be taken up this summer! He offers us two situations, in fact — and my mother has only to choose that which suits her.”

“It is such a comfort to possess one child who understands his duty,” the lady murmured.

“We were just canvassing the merits and weaknesses of our choice,” Martha threw in. “Perhaps you could offer an opinion, Captain? One cottage is in Kent, at a place called Wye; the other, in the village of Chawton.”

“Go anyplace you like — provided you remain in Hampshire,” he declared warmly. “Chawton must be the preferred situation.”

Martha blushed pink.

“A complete removal of the household, at my advanced age, is painful to contemplate,” my mother mourned. “But beggars cannot be choosers. When I consider how happy we all were, only a month since!

And now, so much has changed—”

She rose with an air of oppression at this final remark, and swept towards the door.

“I suppose you will wish your best love conveyed to Mary?” Frank called after her.

“Whatever you think best, dear boy,” she returned in a failing accent, “—for you shall do as you please.”

It was agreed that Martha and I should walk out with Frank into Bugle Street, she to complete some shopping, and I to consult with Madame

Clarisse. We have all of us been forced to take some pains with our mourning — for though we intend to honour Lizzy’s loss, we are likely to be out of black clothes by the turn of the year.[15]  I have two gowns of bombazine and crepe, according to the fashion, but my clothes shall not impoverish me — for by having my black velvet pelisse fresh-lined with the turnings of my cloak, I shall avoid the expence of bespeaking a new one. I shall require nothing further than a pair of black gloves and some hair ribbons. It is pitiful to economise in the matter of Elizabeth’s observance — she who was always exquisitely dressed — but I so abhor the necessity of mourning, and the somber reflections to which black clothes invariably lead with each morning’s toilette, that I cannot bear to throw my money after the privilege of obtaining them. I feel certain that Elizabeth would not only understand, but applaud, my sentiments.

“You know of the firing of Itchen Dockyard, and the destruction of the seventy-four?” I enquired of my brother as we quitted the house.

“Naturally. I had the news as soon as I touched at the Island — your naval set can talk of nothing else.”

“And do you credit the idea,” Martha asked, “that the act was deliberate? For my part, I cannot conceive of such wickedness! I am sure that we shall discover it was all an accident, in a very little while.”

“The shipwright — old Dixon — did not cut his throat by accident.” Frank’s tone was caustic. “A finer fellow never lived — he would do anything to aid a fighting captain! And his sweet ship, too — as neat a third-rate as one could wish. Dixon took me through her in July, before I set out for the Peninsula. Pressed his carronades on me, too, having learned that I could not beg or steal the same from Portsmouth yard.”

“I met Mr. Dixon so recently as Monday,” I said.

“He was all that was amiable, and asked to be remembered to yourself before he sent young Edward and George to look into the ship. They were quite taken with the naval life.”

“Pshaw, Jane — those boys are cut to a gentleman’s jib. Too old to put to sea, besides; our brother ought to have tossed one of ’em into my hold long since. Henry or William, now, might serve,” he added thoughtfully, with respect to my younger nephews. “I could take both of ’em on the St. Alban’s without the slightest trouble. I shall endeavour to write to Godmersham with the offer.”

“You are very good,” Martha told him. “It may serve as some recompense for all we owe your brother.”

“But tell me, Frank,” I interrupted, “does the Navy have no idea who might wish to destroy the shipwright and his seventy-four?”