I blushed from awkwardness, and would have disabused her if I could. Truth seemed the chief kindness I could offer my own wounded heart, as well as hers — but being sworn to a brutal silence, I merely kissed her cheek instead.

We achieved the Itchen ferry in silence.

in the Abbey

30 October 1808, cont.

The chaise was visible from the turret stair: a sleek, black equipage emblazoned with the Trowbridge arms, coursing at a leisurely pace past the Abbey ruins in the direction of Netley Lodge. Orlando was not in evidence today — both his correct round hat and his elfin cloak were absent from the footman’s step. I stood among the ruins in the chill sunlight and watched the horses’ progress, never doubting that Lord Harold should turn into the gates, and pull up before the door, and force his notice upon a lady loath to receive him. Was Mr. Ord likewise dancing attendance?

Should the three principals compare notes on their various travels — or theories of war?

And if Martha and I had tarried a little on the road, and been overtaken by his lordship’s carriage as we toiled through West Woods, should he have halted the team and taken us up? Or would Jane have proved an impediment to the object of his morning?

I beat the rough stone of the parapet with one gloved hand and turned away from the dazzling prospect. I disliked nothing so much as jealous, catlike women; and I was fast becoming the very picture of one. But I was too aware what Mrs. Challoner’s reception of Lord Harold should be to discern nothing singular in such a visit; and I knew, moreover, that if he truly suspected her of treason, his lordship’s best policy should be watchful silence, not pushing sociability. I must ask myself — and ask again: What irresistible force drew Lord Harold to Sophia Challoner?

It could not, as he claimed, be hatred.

Was it possible that my words of yesterday had jarred him to comprehend the truth? Had he lain awake long into the night, considering the justice of my sentiments — and apprehended that he had wronged the lady from an excess of bitter love? Perhaps he had come, even now, to throw himself at her feet and beg forgiveness.

How did Mrs. Challoner appear this morning?

What ravishing costume, complete with jewels, had she donned in respect of the Sabbath?

I could not bear to contemplate two such figures contained in a single drawing-room — with or without the ingenuous Mr. Ord. Furious at my degree of sensibility, I set foot on the topmost stair, vowing never to think of the teazing man again.

“Martha! Martha! The hour grows late, and we have three miles yet to walk!”

A faint cry from below was my only answer. She must have ventured far into the Abbey. I eased my half-boots down the worn stone treads, one hand gripping the shattered supports, and thought fleetingly that a woman might fall to a bruising death in attempting this stair in haste. I had no more conceived the unpleasant notion than I achieved firm ground; but as I turned into the relative darkness of the south transept, a hand clutched at my elbow.

“Good God!”

My cry was met with an answering shriek. The voice was quite young — a mere girl’s, in fact — and when I peered through the dimness of the chancel ruins at the youthful face before me, I saw that it was not entirely unfamiliar.

“Is that Flora?” I enquired. “Housemaid to Mrs. Challoner?”

“Miss Austen?” She bobbed a curtsey. “Begging yer pardon, miss, but I never thought to find a living soul in this part of the ruin — thought you was a ghost, I did, when I laid my hand on yours—”

“The discovery of a ghost, though unpleasant in fact, must form the substance of every young girl’s romantic sensibility; but I regret to say that I am very much alive. Are you well, Flora?”

“Yes, miss — thank you, miss, and hoping your head is quite set to rights?”

“Never better. I find that a knock or two, once in a great while, succeeds in ridding the brain of a good deal of nonsense. Have you happened to meet with another lady in these ruins? I am in search of my friend, Miss Lloyd.”

The housemaid’s gaze fell to the stone floor. “I’ve seen no one, miss. I should not have come if I thought to find visitors.”

“Are you absent from your work without Mrs. Challoner’s leave?” I enquired mildly.

She glanced over her shoulder, and began to wring her hands in her apron. “She told me I might have an hour or two for my own, so that I might recover my senses after a fit of strong hysterics; tho’ indeed, I’d have said she wished to be rid of me!”

This was so nearly incomprehensible a speech that I was determined to decipher it. “Has your mistress taken you in dislike, Flora? Or is the case otherwise ’round?”

To my surprise, her great eyes of gentian blue swam with sudden tears, and she threw her apron over her face and sank down onto the stones, weeping.

“There, there,” I murmured as I perched beside her. “It cannot be so very bad, I hope?”

“You don’t know, miss, what it’s like,” she sobbed.

“Living in that great moody house with the gusts blowing off the sea. Not like it is in ’ound, where I was raised, and the cottages all hunker companionablelike into the hillside — the Lodge is right out on the edge of the cliff, and the wind batters it like it means to have the house into the Solent, one o’ these days. The weather sets a body to thinking. It’s no wonder I’ve had nightmares. I’ve hardly slept a wink since I left my home.”

“What sort of nightmares sent you running to the Abbey, Flora?”

“The kind that come by day,” she replied darkly.

“There’s evil work afoot at the Lodge, as I may attest — and my mistress is in the thick of it.”

This so nearly approximated Lord Harold’s view of things that I did not know whether to furl my brow in consternation, or cry huzzah! in relief.

“What possible evil may Mrs. Challoner do? You saw how kindly she treated me.”

“Aye — but that was merely by way of throwing dust in a body’s eyes,” Flora declared. “You will understand the truth of it when I tell you, miss, that she is a witch.”

This conclusion was so unexpected that I nearly laughed aloud.

“Incubus or succubus, Mrs. Challoner’s the one or t’other — except that I can never rightly recollect what the words mean.”

“What can your mistress possibly have done, to inspire such terror?” I exclaimed. “You must know that witches are no very great moment in England. They were cast out years ago with all popish things, and went to live in Italy.”

“It’s what comes of biding so hard by the Abbey,” the maid said with a wild look around the blasted chancel. “Ghosts do walk the cloister by night, miss, and I’ve seen their lanthorns bobbing in the darkness.”

“Does a spirit require a taper to light its way?” I enquired in amusement. “Surely you mistake. You have glimpsed a pleasure party overtaken by nightfall, and given way to dire imaginings.”

“I know the difference between a ghost and a pleasure-party,” Flora insisted stubbornly, “same’s I know the difference between dusk and midnight. It were past the witching hour and turning towards dawn when the lanthorn were raised Tuesday night.”

Tuesday night. The maid had observed a light on the ramparts only hours after I had first met Orlando, and learned of Sophia Challoner aboard the Windlass. Coincidence?

“I remember the day,” Flora persisted, “on account of Wednesday’s fire, and that poor Mr. Dixon with his throat cut. ‘It’s the Devil’s work,’ I says to myself, making the sign against the Evil One as my grandfer taught me, ‘and the mistress is to blame.’ ”

“Why should you think Mrs. Challoner has aught to do with lights at the Abbey? Surely she is asleep in her bed at such an hour?”