“I comprehend, Orlando. Would you be so good, then, to go in search of a fellow named”—what was the name of Flora’s grandfather, Jeb Hawkins’s old friend? — “Ned Bastable, a retired seaman of Hound, and enquire whether he should be able to assist us?

He might have a cart, or even a boat that should succeed in conveying us with a minimum of discomfort to Southampton.”

“An admirable suggestion, madam,” Orlando returned gravely. “I possess a boat myself, however, lying at this moment on the shingle below the passage. Allow me to assist your companion below stairs, and thence to the Solent. Between us both, we might have her home in a trice.”

I stared at him, for what he proposed argued the inclusion of Martha in our company’s narrow confidence. But a glance at the injured ankle — already swelling beyond the strictures of my friend’s boot — argued the swiftest accommodation available.

“Martha,” I said firmly as I placed an arm under her shoulders, “you must forget entirely what you are about to see. No word of its existence must ever pass your lips.”

“Do you know, Jane,” she murmured faintly, “I think I may promise you that—”

And as, with my help, Orlando lifted her — she fainted dead away.

Monday, 31 October 1808

We succeeded in getting Martha home between us, although I confess that the weight of an insensible, middle-aged woman, clothed in voluminous black silk and a wool pelisse, nearly staggered the goodwill of myself and Orlando both. We halfsupported, half-dragged her the length of the subterranean passage, and had the good luck to see her revived in the brisk air of the shingle. As we attempted to shift her into the valet’s small dory, however, she very nearly had us over by screaming aloud that she could not swim, and clutching at the gunwales in a manner I found hard to bear, being up to my knees in cold saltwater at that very moment. I knew for a certainty that Martha had never set foot in a boat before; she was much given to reading lurid stories aloud from the newspapers, in which bright young ladies with limitless prospects were dashed to their deaths in one water-party or another. But once settled amidships she clung to her seat like a limpet, jaw clenched, and failed to utter so much as a syllable. Orlando gamely bent his weight to the oars, and had us returned to Southampton in little more than twenty minutes; and on the Water Gate Quay he secured a party of midshipmen to escort the mortified Martha to a hack chaise, which conveyed us expeditiously to Castle Square. The valet refused so much as a groat in recompense for his labours; and I thought, as I watched his slight figure turn back to his dory, and once more ship the oars, that he had managed our rescue quite as efficiently as his master should have done.

We were received with such a clamour of exclamation and lament that my friend might as well have been set upon by thieves at Netley Abbey; and my mother grimly pronounced the belief that no good ever came of walking about the countryside like a pair of gipsies.

The opinion of a surgeon was sought, and the limb determined to be sound, though badly sprained. Our apothecary, Mr. Green, supplied a sleeping draught, and Cook a hot poultice — and by nine o’clock last evening the poor sufferer had taken a bit of broth in her bedchamber and consigned the worst of ill-fated Sunday jaunts to oblivion. I wondered, as I doused my light, whether

Orlando had reported the whole to Lord Harold — and what that worthy’s strictures might have been, on the fate of heedless women left to fend for themselves in the wild. But perhaps his lordship had been too pressed by business — or the preoccupation of his heart — to attend very much to his servant’s adventures.

“Jane!” my mother called up the stairs early this morning, “only look what has come for you by special messenger! Make haste, my love! Make haste!”

I was barely dressed, but hurried downstairs with one slipper in my hand and my hair quite undone.

“What is it, Mamma?”

“Two parcels,” she said, “and a letter. I do not recognise the seal.”

The missive could hardly be from Lord Harold, for that gentleman’s crest should never escape my mother’s eagle eye. I crossed to the parlour table, where the parcels sat wrapped in brown paper and tied with quantities of string. I reached for the letter, and broke the dark green wax.

“It is from Sophia Challoner,” I said. “She writes that she expects a large party of guests arrived this morning at Netley Lodge, and intends to hold an evening reception for them — coffee and cards, with music and refreshment — at the Lodge on Wednesday. She invites my attendance, and begs me to wear ... this.”

I tore open the larger of the two parcels and found my fingers caught in the stiff folds of black bombazine — my gown of mourning, freshly-made from the modiste, with the cunning design of opened lapels, split bodice buttoned down the centre, and delicate bows tied beneath the right breast. The high white ruff à la reine Elizabeth, with Vandyke pleating, had not been forgot.

I lifted the costume from its tissue wrappings and stared at it in silence.

Beneath it lay a dove-grey paisley shawl, figured in black and gold. The second parcel, I presumed, must be the Equestrian Hat.

Abruptly I sat down in a hard-backed wooden chair, as though its uncompromising support was necessary at such an hour.

“Good Lord, Jane — what can she mean by it?” my mother enquired wonderingly. “For your acquaintance is surely very trifling, is it not? And the obligation is entirely on your side, for without Mrs. Challoner’s aid, you should have died in a ditch!”

“It is extraordinary,” I returned with difficulty, “and excessively good of Mrs. Challoner — but I cannot possibly accept so costly a gift.”

“The cut of the gown is very fine.” My mother ran her fingertips over the bodice. “And though it looks to be in the first stare of fashion, it is entirely within the bounds of what is proper for mourning. I should dearly like to see you wear it, Jane!”

“Impossible.” I smoothed the folds of bombazine and reached for the tissue wrappings.

“But what else are you likely to choose, my dear, for such an evening party?” my mother observed mildly. “Not that this is exactly a gown for evening — but it is certainly the finest bit of mourning you possess. Do you mean to decline Mrs. Challoner’s invitation? It would be a paltry gesture, in the face of such excessive goodwill.”

That mild observation gave me pause. Did I intend to ignore Netley Lodge in future, and cut off all relations with its mistress? Did I believe that Lord Harold pursued a chimera of his own invention, and that the lady was blameless? And where, then, did I place the maid Flora’s intelligence regarding strange men in cloaks and mumbled witchcraft? Did I think to leave Lord Harold and his potent weapon entirely to themselves? Or did I owe Sophia Challoner some effort at friendship — she who was so clearly bereft of acquaintance in her native land?

The gown, I discovered, was still clenched in my hands. My mother eyed me with interest.

“It could do no harm, surely, to open the second parcel?”

I removed the paper with trembling fingers, and held the hat aloft.

“Oh, Jane,” my mother mourned. “It is beyond everything we have seen in Southampton this winter! Do not tell me you must deny yourself that also!”

I stared at her, wordless.

“I am persuaded that our dear departed Lizzy would not have wished it,” she said firmly.

I forced myself to sit down after breakfast and compose a note to Sophia Challoner thanking her for the excessive kindness she had bestowed upon me, but declaring that it was not in my power to undertake so great an obligation... I tore the sheet in twain, selected a fresh, and commenced anew.