The surgeon appeared much refreshed, and remarkably jovial for a man so recently bereaved of a patient.

“Has your brother told you, Miss Austen, of our excellent luck last evening?” he enquired, in a voice lowered for the benefit of the milling crowd. “After touring the public rooms of the Dolphin, the George, the Star, and the Coach and Horses, we chanced to meet with Sir Francis Farnham himself, sitting over sherry in the Vine. We informed him, in the most lowering tone imaginable, of the loss of our former patient — which intelligence we had confirmed from the stories everywhere circulating, at the inns aforementioned—”

“—and which you had published in the first part yourselves. Well done!” I cried, and then subsided at a glance of curiosity from Frank's Mary. “And how did the gentleman take the news?”

“He said all that was proper — declared himself shocked at the poor conditions of the prison hulk— lamented the fate of two other Frenchmen, who had died of the fire before it was put out — and announced that the remainder should be exchanged to France tomorrow or Tuesday at the latest. In a word, Sir Francis conducted himself as a cunning rogue might be expected to do.”

“That is very well,” I mused, “for he must consider himself safe. Once LaForge's intelligence is known at the Admiralty, however, he shall begin to be afraid— and in his actions then, may show his hand.”

“Such an event is what we must hope for,” said Mr. Hill gravely, “because I do not think we can expect to expose Sir Francis in any other way. He professed himself determined to quit Southampton on the morrow; we must rely upon his betraying himself in London.”

“Mr. Hill,” said Frank, with a clap on the surgeon's shoulder, “I intend to visit my friend, Tom Seagrave, in Gaoler's Alley this morning; should you like to bear me company?”

“Gaoler's Alley?” cried Mary, with a look of pique. “But it is Sunday, Frank! Cannot you sit quietly at home, and work a little on the drawing-room fringe?”

“Sunday is a day for charity, Mary — and one must behave like a Christian to all of God's reprobates,” Frank said genially. “The loss of Seagrave's principal witness in the hulk last evening has put his defence in question. I should dearly love Mr. Hill's advice and counsel — and I know that Tom should be comforted by any appearance of interest in his case.”

“Then by all means take Jane,” urged my mother, with a friendly nod for Mr. Hill. She was devising a match, I little doubted, between myself and the aging surgeon; like a boy who would shoot fish in a barrel, my mother cannot be in the presence of a single gentleman of any age without hitting upon a marriage. “You cannot keep Jane at home, when there is a gaol or an inquest to be had. I daresay Mr. Hill is exactly the same. It is wonderful, is it not, how alike two strangers' hearts may be? Jane was always such a charitable girl — quite a slave to the sick and downtrodden! She should have made an excellent wife in Bengal, I always said, for they have a vast amount of beggars there. I urged her once to consider a bride-ship — Mr. Austen's sister took passage in one, you know, and was so fortunate as to marry a surgeon! — but Jane could not be persuaded.”[30]

“Quite right,” said Mr. Hill with a twinkle. “Such a jewel should settle for nothing less than a true physician.” And then he bowed.

GAOLER'S ALLEY DEBOUCHES FROM THE HIGH, FOUR streets below St. Michael's Square. For our achievement of the small prison was required but a few moments' exertion; the sharp air of a bright March morning hastened our steps and brought animation to our looks. Frank swung along as though the breeze tugging at his cockade was fresh from a thousand frigates' sails, while Mr. Hill offended the Sabbath by whistling between his teeth. We were all, I believe, feeling chuffed by our success at spiriting LaForge from beneath the gaze of a murderer; and even the sight of the low-roofed Norman building, with its narrow slits of windows, could not dampen our spirits.

I am no stranger to your modest house of incarceration, having visited no less a prison than Newgate in my time; I have entered the gaols of Lyme and Bath, and glimpsed the exterior of Canterbury's. Though I should never traipse through the dungeons of the Kingdom for a fee, as many a fashionable lady presently does, and call it a lark and a dissipation — I can find no shame in cheering an intimate of the gaol when the occasion arises.

Frank approached the heavy wooden door and peered through a small window barred in iron. “Halloo there, Constable,” he cried. “You have visitors for Captain Seagrave.”

“Captain Seagrave be presently entertaining a visitor, sir,” called a voice laconically from within. “Ye shall have to cool your heels a bit until the lady is done.”

“It must be Louisa,” muttered Frank. “I thought her unlikely to condescend to such a duty. Perhaps her humours are under amendment.”

He stepped back from the doorway and clasped his gloved hands together.

“Were it not Sunday, I should suggest a cup of chocolate at a pastry shop in the High,” said Mr. Hill. “The sun, though bright, quite fails to quell the bite of the cold. Are you well, Miss Austen?”

I had parted my lips to reply, when a rustle at the iron-barred door brought all our heads around. The oak was thrust back and a figure appeared — a woman clothed in black, with a veil about her face. She stepped out into the alley and nodded in acknowledgement of ourselves, but made no attempt to converse.

Phoebe Carruthers.

In another instant she had turned into the High, her carriage superb and her hands encased in a black fur muff. We watched her go in silence.

1 March 1807, cont.

“AUSTEN!”

Tom Seagrave stood with his back to the wall of his prison. His right leg was tethered to an iron ring set into the stone floor. He might travel five feet in every direction; such was the extent of his liberty — a man who had spent his life in roaming the seas. The floor was covered with straw, and smelt strongly of mould. The temperature within the cell was barely higher than in the streets, but the small space offered one advantage, in being sheltered from the wind.

“How d'ye do, Tom?” Frank bowed. “You will recollect my sister, Miss Austen — and perhaps Mr. Hill, Admiral Bertie's surgeon. He was present—”

“—at my court-martial. I remember him well.” Seagrave bowed. “You are come in some state to see me, Austen — and I cannot think that I deserve such attention. I have abused you to your face and behind your back, and still you dance a faithful attendance. I owe you a very great apology, I believe.”

“Not at all,” my brother returned, with all the appearance of awkwardness. “I should be a scrub of the first order, did I expect one.”

Seagrave shifted in his chains, the clink of metal resounding in the small space, and his eyes drifted towards me. “I understand from my wife that I owe you all a considerable debt as well — that it was you, Miss Austen, who discovered the whereabouts of my sons, and your brother who retrieved them from the Star of Bengal. We have put our few friends to decided trouble! I should have urged Louisa to send the children into Kent with her uncle when this dreadful business first broke upon us. They should have been safe and well cared-for.”

“They are charming rogues, Tom,” Frank broke in with warmth, “and you must get them to sea as soon as may be, for they will not consent to stay moored on dry land forever. They are pining for a berth in the orlop, and should do handsomely for all their pluck!”