“He put them in Seagrave's hand, assuredly, and

issued them with all his authority as flag officer in command of the Channel squadron. But the orders themselves were sent by the Admiralty telegraph. There is nothing unusual in this. Frank was attempting to marshal patience; but at his words my mind and spirit were animated as if by a shaft of lightning.

“The telegraph! Of course! A convention of the Navy bent to peculiar purpose! Why did we not see it before?”

Frank looked bewildered, but I lacked sufficient time to explain. For at that very moment Phoebe Carruthers was announced.

28 February 1807, cont.

THE GOLDEN-HAIRED BEAUTY SWEPT INTO THE ROOM on Jenny's heels, a veil of black lace all but concealing her features. At the sight of it I nearly gasped aloud; but stifled the sound in time. It would not do to betray a dangerous knowledge. Nell Rivers's very life might depend upon my silence.

She lifted the veil from her face. Her eyes, I saw now, were the green of pond-weeds in April, the green of lichens and stone. Another woman might have encouraged the hue with silks of gold and amber; but Phoebe Carruthers was resolute in her adoption of dark grey. In this, at least, she was sensible of the conventions of mourning.

“Captain Austen,” she said with a curtsey, “it has been many years since we first formed an acquaintance. I daresay you do not remember me, but perhaps you will recall my late husband — Captain Hugh Carruthers.”

Frank put his heels together and bowed. “He was an excellent man, Mrs. Carruthers; all England must feel his loss. You do not know my sister, I think. Miss Austen, Mrs. Carruthers.”

I inclined my head. “Pray sit down. Jenny, be so good as to fetch some tea.”

Phoebe Carruthers glanced over her shoulder at the hard wooden chairs ranged against the wall; Frank drew one of them forward and placed it near the hearth. She perched on its edge with all the poise of a figure carved by Canova.

“I am happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Austen. I was very sorry not to speak with you last night, at the Footes'; and seized the first opportunity of paying a morning call.”

My surprise must have shown in my countenance; Her green eyes flickered, and fell to her lap. She commenced to draw off her gloves.

I said, “You were obliged to leave the party rather early. But it was a delightful evening, was it not?”

“Or should have been, but for the manners of one in the room.” Her cool eyes came up to meet my own. “I had not intended to appear at the Footes'. Much as I respect them, I am ill-suited to mix in company. I recently lost my son, as you may be aware. For my own part, I would fix quietly at home. But not all our obligations are matters of choice.”

I glanced at Frank. The lady was dispassionate; she was contained; but this frankness she affected among virtual strangers could not fail to pique our interest. It might be a cold-hearted campaign to win our allegiance, who should find cause to suspect her of complicity in murder — but that was absurd. Phoebe Carruthers could have no idea of Nell Rivers, or what the latter had seen. She had no reason to assume our mistrust. She must be a woman of considerable caution.

“Your son's death cannot but be deeply felt,” I said. “You have my sincere sympathy, Mrs. Carruthers.”

She bowed her beautiful head, and could not speak for several seconds. I thought I glimpsed the gleam of tears beneath her lashes; it was all admirably done.

“I heard of your warm support for the prisoners of Wool House, Miss Austen — of your habit of tending to the sick.”

Again, her tack in conversation surprised me; I inclined my head, but said nothing in my own cause.

“Tell me, are any of the Manon's crew imprisoned there?” she enquired.

“There were lately four,” I replied. My thoughts sprang to Etienne LaForge. If Sir Francis Farnham was somehow embroiled in Chessyre's scheme — if Phoebe Carruthers had lured the Lieutenant to his death — they would both be aware of the Frenchman's evidence at court-martial. Why, then, consult with me?

“One man died of gaol-fever, another is gravely ill, and all have been removed at Sir Francis Farnham's instruction to a prison hulk moored in Southampton Water,” Frank supplied.

“Removed? By Sir Francis?”

The careful composure of her features was entirely torn. Her countenance evidenced shock. She stood, and moved restlessly towards the fire; grasped the mantel an instant in a desire for support — or suppressed anger — then turned, and regained her seat. When her gaze fell upon us once more, her looks were under management. The serenity of her features was as a lake no stone could ripple.

“You were not aware of the amendment,” I said. “I had supposed that being acquainted with Sir Francis, you might have known all he intended.”

“Sir Francis shares nothing, Miss Austen,” she said carefully. “He prefers to dispose of people's lives rather than consult them. I had expressed a wish to speak with the men of the Manon, and he has deliberately thwarted my ambition.”

“I see.” She had betrayed none of this bitterness while in the gentleman's company.

Phoebe Carruthers leaned forward. “You have moved among them — the prisoners at Wool House. You have heard them talk among themselves. You speak French, I think?”

“A little.”

Her lips worked painfully, and then the words came. “Do any of the French say how my poor son died? Was the shot that killed him deliberately fired? Were they so heartless as to strike down a child — so that his body was dashed upon the decks? … Oh, God, when I think of his father!”

She put her head in her hands and wept with a brutal abandon. Frank went to her instantly, and placed his arm about her heaving shoulders; I snatched up a vinaigrette that stood on Mary's work table, and offered it in vain.

“Tea, ma'am,” said Jenny stoically from the doorway; and I motioned her towards the dining table. She set down the tray, poured out a cup, and proffered it wordlessly to Phoebe Carruthers.

The lady lifted her streaming face and accepted the tea gratefully. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I should not have so far forgot myself. It is just that this fresh blow is like a wound reopened, and curved more deeply than before. It was tragedy enough to lose Hugh — but Simon! He was such a bright and beautiful boy. Seagrave always said—”

Her words broke off; she sipped at her tea. The struggle for serenity was more obvious this time … and far less successful.

“I know nothing of how your son died,” I told her gently. “It was not a subject I felt authorised to raise in Wool House.”

“I quite understand. It was foolish of me to enquire.”

Frank cleared his throat. “Mrs. Carruthers — you did no wrong in sending your son to sea. That was what his father would have wished, I am sure.”

“My late husband would not have sent the boy aloft at such a time, in battle — he should have secured the child in his cabin. I must reproach myself for having entrusted the boy to Thomas Seagrave. I had not understood, at the time, what was vicious in Captain Seagrave's character. It was enough for me that he was Hugh's friend.”

“They were long acquainted, I think?” Frank said.

“From midshipmen. I cannot remember a time when I did not know Tom Seagrave — he was almost a brother to Hugh. I have loved him as one, I know; but all that must be past.”

She uttered the words without a blush. Whatever the naval set might suspect of Seagrave's attentions to Mrs. Carruthers, she betrayed not the slightest sensibility.

“You must not blame Seagrave,” Frank said earnestly. “His present troubles aside, I believe Tom to be as good a man, and as honourable in his profession, as ever lived. The misfortunes attendant upon his engagement with the Manon are too many to name; but do not forget get that your son spent nearly two years in Seagrave's keeping, and thrived.”