The golden beauty inclined her head to something Sir Francis said. Her countenance was unreadable; serene, or perhaps persistent in its coldness. And then her gaze came up to meet mine with an unfathomable look: nothing of humour or pain, neither wonder nor penetration. It was as though a wax doll had turned its painted eyes upon me. I shuddered, and at that instant Phoebe Carruthers's lips curled in the spectre of a smile.

Thanks to the efforts of his sister, Frank should never get his fast frigate now, I had made the name of Austen a laughingstock at the Navy Board; and the story would no doubt travel directly to the Admiralty.

“It is most improper,” persisted Cecilia Braggen, without guarding her tone. “She should not appear in public — a lady in her circumstances. And the poor little fellow not two months gone!”

“You see, Miss Austen, I am as good as my word — I have fetched you a glass of claret.” David Lance was kindly affecting insensibility to my confusion. He bowed slightly as he offered me the wine. “If I may be so bold as to comment — you might have chosen a more suitable adversary. Sir Francis is renowned for his harsh manners. Your feathers deserved greater consideration.”

I murmured a few words of thanks — half apology, half dismissal — and suffered an added blow at the sight of Mrs. Lance over her husband's shoulder. She was tapping her fan against her palm in a considering sort of way, and her smile was everything of contempt and derision.

“JANE,” SAID MARY FOOTE. “I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU suffer from the head-ache. Should you like to lie down upon my bed for a little?”

I had seated myself on a bench nicely screened by two large plants, in a passage just off the dining parlour. There, with a glass of lemonade and a biscuit I could not swallow, I might recover my spirits and my courage.

“You are too good,” I told her, “but I shall soon be perfectly well. I suffer from an excess of folly, Mary, not head-ache — though the one may certainly bring on the other.”

“We all admire the work you have done at Wool House.” Her voice was gentle. “Admiral Bertie has been talking of nothing else. He tells us that you certainly have saved more than one life, Jane. Mr. Hill, the surgeon, cannot do without you.”

“I fear poor Mr. Hill will pass a heavy night. One man was close to death when I left him this afternoon. We may regard this as the spur to my passionate plea, and dismiss the whole as a woman's hysterics.” I looked up from my dry biscuit. “I may fault Sir Francis's manners, but must grant him a certain perspicacity. The French are to be conveyed to the hospital in Greenwich tomorrow. Sir Francis Farnham has disposed of my trouble, and I may retire from the field.”

“Sir Francis Farnham has just quitted the house,” she observed, “and taken Mrs. Carruthers with him; that is all I know of advance and retreat. It was quite an honour that he came, to be sure — but we much prefer the company of our friends. Never doubt your welcome in this house, Jane. I should vastly prefer your company to a thousand Phoebe Carrutherses. She is delightful to look at, of course — but she has no conversation!”

“I have never tried her talents in that way. We have never met. I had hoped to make her acquaintance this evening — but that must have been impossible.” I recollected the coldness of her looks; I must be accounted among those she would henceforth cut direct.

“It is a fearful crush,” Mary Foote observed naively. “I had no notion we had invited so many! I suppose Edward was busily commanding the presence of some, while I secured others. But I do not think either of us thought to send a card to Mrs. Carruthers. We assumed she was too deep in mourning. It must be that Sir Francis brought her.”.

“She has recently lost her young son, I understand.”

“Yes. On the ill-fated Stella. I should not touch that ship for a kingdom, once Tom Seagrave is relieved of it — it is unlucky in its very knees! But poor Phoebe. Such grief as she has borne! She seems marked out by Fate.”

“Her looks remind one of Helen of Troy; and I suppose that when one tempts the gods with beauty, all manner of evil may follow.”

Mary Foote sat down beside me on the bench and patted my knee. “I have shown the baby to your Mary. She could hardly be pried from the nursery. I thought perhaps the sight of an infant might inspire her with delight; and that may do much, you know, to banish fears of confinement. We must all suffer them, to be sure, but we should never allow ourselves to be destroyed by them.”

“No indeed,” I replied. “And yet — it is not merely fear for herself. Mary fears for the child as well. So many young things are taken off in an instant! I recently knew of a family — in Derbyshire, where I passed some part of the late summer — that lost all four of its children within a year. Consider such unhappiness!”

“I could not survive it,” Mary Foote said simply.

“But Phoebe Carruthers—”

“Ah, Phoebe. She is possessed of considerable resources. Or perhaps — perhaps it is only a coldness of heart. Young Simon was gone from her for nearly two years, you know, before his death. She had not seen the boy but for a fortnight here or there; and she must certainly have known, as we all do when our men put to sea, that this parting could well be the last.”

“He was not a man,” I observed, “but a litde child. Mrs. Seagrave says—”

“Louisa Seagrave is mad,” declared Mary Foote. “I know what you are going to say — that she refuses to risk her boys to the Navy's care — but some part of her resolve must spring from jealousy.”

“Jealousy? Of Simon Carruthers?”

“Or his mother. It is everywhere known that Mrs. Seagrave believes poor Tom to be in love with Phoebe Carruthers.”

“I see!” I sat a little straighter on my bench. A good deal was suggested to my understanding, most of it conjecture, but none of it implausible. “And is it known whether Mrs. Carruthers returns the Captain's affection?”

“Who can say? Phoebe preserves as perfect a silence as Delphi. One might read anything, or nothing, in her sublime features. But I have seen her several times of late in the company of Sir Francis; and as Sir Francis has lately lost his wife, and is possessed of a considerable fortune — more than ten thousand a year, I am told! — one must regard him as a better prize than a post captain.” She gazed at me reflectively. “Is it true that Lucky Tom was seized and taken to Southampton Gaol?”

“Indeed,” I assured her. “My brother visited him there today. Captain Seagrave is very low, as should not be extraordinary.”

“And his wife has put up at the Dolphin, I understand. Edward fell in with her in the High Street at the very moment she was descending from her carriage. He says the little boys are fine fellows!” This last was said with a wistful air; for all her pregnancies, Mary had produced nothing but girls.

“Very fine,” I returned with some amusement, “and despite their present trials, undiminished in both spirits and appetite.”

“You've paid a call, then?” Mrs. Foote enquired sharply.

“I left my card at the Dolphin this morning,” I said, “but did not like to disturb Mrs. Seagrave. She must be involved in all the chaos of unpacking, for herself and three children; there are the servants to think of, and the ordering of dinner. But I shall certainly call tomorrow. She will require the support of many at such an hour.”

Mary Foote sighed. “Then I must go as well, I suppose — though I am sure Louisa Seagrave has never warranted much attention from the naval set! We must consider it a kindness on behalf of Tom. For my part, I never believed him a murderer. I made the poor fellow quite a cause among my acquaintance! I shall look a fool, now — for of course the magistrate should never be wrong.”