Page 19 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Determined to give her sister-in-law some respite, Jane presses Elizabeth to spend the next day in bed while she constructs paper boats with her niece and nephews and sails them across the garden pond. Fanny, Ted and Georgy have a splendid time, and only Conker needs the occasional reprimand for his tendency to dive in and make off with the fleet. Afterwards, Kitty serves the children dinner in the nursery and Alice promises to give them a good scrub before their mother sees quite how much sport they have had.

Jane withdraws to her bedroom, finally composing her letter to her mother and afterwards labouring over The Sisters. Her composition is not progressing well and, with her last few sheets of precious paper, she produces nothing more valuable than kindling. No matter her intentions, the Misses Dashwood’s correspondence bears the same dull woodcut of a pattern over and over again. Marianne, driven by her reckless sensibility, does something foolish. The elder Miss Dashwood admonishes her, while keeping her own frustrated desires corked up inside. And still neither can admit what she is really feeling, or empathize with the other. Unless they can bear to expose their wounds, and give way to compassion, there will be no satisfactory finale.

Jane is even more irritated than usual, therefore, when a newly revived Elizabeth invades her private chamber to insist she change in and out of several gowns, curl her hair, and borrow a pair of her best stockings. All of this finery to attend evensong at St. Mary the Blessed Virgin, parish church of the listless hamlet of Crundale, near Godmersham.

“That’s better. I’m positive he’ll prefer you in that one.” Elizabeth rests one hand on her bump, appraising her work.

Jane stands rigid as Kitty pins her into the modest white frock. It takes all her self-control not to object to making herself attractive for Mr. Blackall, especially now she knows the prime reason Elizabeth wants her to marry him is so that Henrietta cannot. “Why are you so confident he has any preference for me, at all?”

“Must you be so tiresome? You’re a tolerably smart young lady from a good family. Added to that, you asked pertinent questions about Mr. Blackall’s pursuits, and had the good breeding to sit quietly while he expounded upon them. You know that’s all the encouragement a gentleman needs.”

Jane gawps at her, mortified that her wicked curiosity could be mistaken for romantic inclinations. This is the problem with never being allowed to speak her mind. Anyone outside her inner circle would assume her interest is genuine, rather than a malicious attempt to encourage the many fools with whom she is forced to converse to hang themselves by their own rope. “That can’t be the case. If it was, I’d be betrothed to half of Hampshire by now.”

Elizabeth ushers her down the stairs to the entrance hall. “As well you might be, if I was there to guide you.”

“But he was so disapproving of my taste in literature. Are you not afraid I repulsed him with my penchant for novels?”

“On the contrary, he’ll be itching to correct you. If there’s one thing a man enjoys even more than perfection, it’s the opportunity to offer instruction.”

“But there must be so many young ladies whose tastes are more in sympathy with his.” Jane reaches for her pelisse, hanging on the row of hooks.

“None. You are very fortunate.” Elizabeth bats away Jane’s arm and hands her one of her own Canterbury wool shawls. “I truly believe he’s perfect for you, in every way.”

“But I wouldn’t want to tread on another’s heels. Not if there’s one who already has her heart set on claiming the honour of being Mrs. Blackall.” Jane cannot resist making a final veiled reference to Henrietta.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Elizabeth shoos her out of the front door and towards the waiting carriage as pique colours her cheeks. “Make haste or you’ll miss your chance altogether.”

In the drive, Neddy steps into the phaeton, grabbing the reins from Roger. “Are you sure you won’t come too, darling?”

“No, Ned.” Jane answers for Elizabeth, risking another lecture on the danger of intervening in her brother’s marriage. She is too vexed at his lack of regard for his wife to heed Elizabeth’s earlier reprimand. “Dr. Wilmot warned she must not exert herself.”

“I’m sorry, dear. But Jane’s right. I must rest. And I’ve the children to supervise. You know how Ted misbehaves when I’m not here.” In the last couple of days, the bulk of the baby has migrated downwards, settling in Elizabeth’s pelvis and forcing her to waddle. There is another three weeks before her confinement is expected, but Jane cannot imagine Elizabeth will be able to delay for so long. “And without me present, Jane is likely to be the only lady in attendance—which will certainly show her off to her best advantage.”

Neddy grimaces, looking as enthusiastic to peddle his sister to Mr. Blackall as Jane is to be peddled. “As you wish, my dear.”

Roger hands Jane up into the phaeton, and Elizabeth waves cheerfully as they set off at a clip through the crisp summer evening. The sun recedes beyond streaks of pink clouds, taking its warmth with it, so that Jane is grateful for Elizabeth’s shawl gathered around her shoulders as they speed through leafy lanes. Overhead, the trees are so full that the branches meet and form a tunnel of dappled light for the carriage to pass through. She eyes Neddy as he handles the reins. It is excruciating to be alone with him at such close quarters. Jane may have quashed her suspicion that he is the author of Fairbairn’s malicious notes, but she cannot pardon him for his use of Eleanor. In the silence, she recalls his initial assertion, on their very first journey to Godmersham Park, that Eleanor would “show herself to be a gold-digging tavern wench.” In retrospect, it is obvious his argument was founded on his prior knowledge of her.

Molly claimed the sailors aboard the captain’s ill-fated ship were from the town of Whitstable. Jane is still convinced that Eleanor must also have ties to the town, and she has read enough lurid novels to hazard a guess as to how she came to be there. Eleanor would have arrived in England, young and fresh, looking for work in service. Her downfall will have been heralded by an innocuous-seeming fat woman, offering her small beer and an easier way to make a living. Once in the clutches of the procuress, Eleanor’s innocence will have been eroded as she was passed from man to man. Eventually, she’ll have contracted some terrible disease and been ejected from her bawdy house. At that point, she’ll have been forced to walk the streets—until she found less salubrious employment in one of Whitstable’s many taverns.

There she would have fallen in with Fairbairn’s gang of devious smugglers and joined their expedition hoping for a rich reward across the Channel. France is a dangerous place but, as Jane’s brothers have proved, with war comes opportunity. Even, or perhaps especially, for a woman adept at selling herself. When the ship capsized, Eleanor will have used all her might to swim ashore. Exhausted and frightened, she will have concocted her ruse to evade the captain. She was probably as astounded as anyone when the lascar confirmed her story, and first the Wilmots, then Mrs. Knight took her in. Now she has worked her way into the widow’s affections, she will be determined to remain within the walls of Godmersham Park. Far safer than falling back into the villainous Captain Fairbairn’s clutches, or returning to a life of vice and dying alone of the pox in a sponging house. Jane knows she is giving way to “effusions of fancy,” as Mr. Blackall would describe them, but she doubts her surmises will prove far removed from the truth.

One thing she knows for certain is that Neddy is party to Eleanor’s real history, and she is determined to prise it out of him. “Whitstable was very refreshing. Do you visit often?”

“Never.”

Is she imagining it, or is he purposely refusing to meet her eye? “Not at all?”

“I have neither the time nor the inclination to do so. Why would I?”

“One or two of the taverns looked inviting.”

He snaps upright. “Did Mr. Bridges take you into one?”

“No!” Jane is outraged that Neddy should accuse Mr. Bridges of behaving improperly when his own behaviour is in question.

“Good. I’m a liberal man, but you should know better than to dine alone with a gentleman to whom you have no formal attachment.”

“I wondered if that’s where you might recognise Eleanor from, if you sometimes go there to meet with your associates.”

“I’ve already told you, Jane. I do not recognise the girl and I do not associate with the kind of low company who frequent ‘taverns’ in Whitstable.” He enunciates the word harshly, indignant at her insinuation, when Jane is sure Mr. Spooner is exactly the type of low fellow to be found enjoying his liquor at an establishment along the high street.

If Neddy will not admit to knowing Eleanor, Jane will try panicking him with the prospect of the girl revealing their connection instead. “I believe Mrs. Knight is beginning to suspect her of lying. It will not be long before she reveals who she really is.”

He nods, already resigned to this outcome. Since the moment Mrs. Knight took Eleanor in, he must have been preparing himself for their sordid connection to become known to her. But perhaps it is not too late to salvage their relationship. If Eleanor is cleaving to Mrs. Knight because she is afraid, Neddy may redeem himself in part by helping to prosecute Captain Fairbairn. To save his fortune, he may even be amenable to helping Eleanor find a new place. “Once it is safe for her to move on, you could offer her some money. So that she might start again somewhere her past is not known and she might have the benefit of character.”

“I will do no such thing. If she has blackened her reputation, she has only herself to blame.” He leans back, spreading his legs wide. Jane swivels away to make sure they do not touch. She is so full of loathing for her brother’s hypocrisy that she cannot bear to have any part of herself in communication with him.

“Just a couple of hundred pounds. You owe her that much at least.”

“I owe her nothing of the sort,” he says, voice terse. “Even if I had the money to hand, I would not give it to her.”

Jane remembers his concern over meeting his repayments to Sir William. The money Elizabeth brought into their marriage is likely to be tied up in trusts but, even so, his affairs cannot be so dire. “Surely you can spare her something.”

“I really can’t, Jane. And why should I reward her for her offences?”

“Because I imagine there was a time when her soul was as spotless as any other’s. If she is a sinner, it is because others have embroiled her in their own misdeeds. Father always says let him that is without sin cast the first stone. Wouldn’t you agree?”

At this, Neddy has the good grace to colour. He raises his whip above the horses’ hinds. The leather cracks as he vents his frustration on his team. “She is not a heroine from one of your stories. I know you’re fond of conjecture but in the real world there are circumstances beyond your grasp.”

Jane turns her face to the dense hedgerow racing by, too full of contempt to gaze upon her brother. If he knew how close Mrs. Knight was to signing away his anticipated riches, she doubts he would remain so uncharitable. That he will not spare the girl the means to begin her life afresh, even to remove a burden of his making from his mother, speaks to his indomitable selfishness.

By the time Jane and Neddy turn off the main road, and into a narrow lane leading to Crundale, the bells are ringing for evensong. It has not rained for more than a fortnight and the surrounding pasture is turning to straw, while brambles, dotted with dusty-white flowers and threaded with hemlock and red campion, crowd the path. As the carriage ambles towards the square tower of the Anglo-Saxon church, a haze of gnats plagues the horses. Desperate for relief, the mares swish their plaited tails and rear their blinkered heads. “Is that Mrs. Knight’s coachman?” Jane asks, spotting the Swiss man, in his distinctive purple livery. He stands in the middle of the lane, lifting one hand above his head in greeting, exposing the blunderbuss tucked into his belt.

“Whoa now.” Neddy slows the horses. “Yes, it is.”

“Why does he always carry his weapon? It’s most disconcerting.” While Jane is pleased Mrs. Knight is so well defended, she hopes the widow has chosen her protector wisely. It strikes Jane that if her brother is not behind the malicious notes, then one of Mrs. Knight’s household must be enabling Captain Fairbairn’s access to the park. How else could a messenger sneak in and out of Godmersham undetected? And every one of the staff has good reason to resent Eleanor. Could the cook have left the kitchen door unbolted for the captain? What if Armand, instead of chasing away an intruder, was discovered in the act of escorting him inside?

“I’m afraid Armand has witnessed more than his fair share of troubles. He was a captain in the Swiss Guard and fought at the Tuileries.” The Swiss Guard were the last forces to remain loyal to King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette. The vast majority were eradicated in the vicious attack on the palace where the Royal Family were held captive. Mrs. Knight’s surly coachman is either an excellent soldier or a deserter. “Is there a problem, Armand?” Neddy asks.

“I am here to prevent anyone taking the bend at speed and colliding with the carriage.” He gestures to the corner of the churchyard, where the rear of Mrs. Knight’s black coach extends from behind an ancient yew.

“Can you not drive on?” Neddy asks. “You’re blocking the lane.”

“ Non. Madame is within.” Armand takes the reins from Neddy, offering no further explanation as to why his mother has driven all the way to evensong at St. Mary’s, only to remain outside in her coach. Jane and Neddy exchange a glance of equal bemusement before alighting. Another two footmen stand idle in the lane, their glossy shoes and white stockings incongruous against the dusty path. Both touch their hats. Without pausing to acknowledge them, Jane heads directly for the coach. The door is ajar and the low murmur of female voices drifts from inside.

“Please, dear,” says Mrs. Knight. “You must come inside the church with me. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m sorry, mistress, but I can’t enter the Lord’s house. Not yet,” Eleanor replies, in the same distinctive Irish brogue Jane heard her use while Mrs. Knight was asleep.

Neddy places a hand on Jane’s arm, preventing her from getting any closer. “It sounds as if Mother has company.”

Jane cranes her ear to the vehicle. “That’s Eleanor. It’s as I warned. Mrs. Knight has discovered her ruse.”

Neddy takes a step backwards, removing his hat and wiping the sweat along his hairline with the back of his hand. “Then I will not interfere.” Even Neddy does not have the audacity to greet his mother and his harlot at the same time. Jane has no such compunction. If the axe has fallen, she must know where the blow landed. “Wait!” Neddy reaches for her elbow, but she has already hoisted herself onto the steps of the coach.

Inside, Mrs. Knight faces away from the door. Her black silk skirts flood the carriage. “You must accompany me inside. I will not abandon you, but it would be terribly rude of me to leave without acknowledging Mr. Blackall and his congregation. The villagers will have recognised the coach and be anticipating my attendance. I expect we’re holding up the service.”

On the opposite bench, Eleanor sits with her feet drawn up and her reed-thin arms wrapped around her shins. Today, she is unrecognizable as the jabbering princess or the wild creature hiding under tables. With her wavy hair pulled into a loose plait and pinned to the back of her head, she could be a farmer’s daughter or a respectable young maid on her afternoon off. “The next time, I promise.”

Jane pokes her head into the coach. “Is all well?”

“Miss Austen?” Mrs. Knight startles. “What do you mean by sneaking up on us like that?”

“I do apologize for the intrusion, but the coach is blocking the lane. I came to see if I could be of any assistance.”

Mrs. Knight presses a hand over Eleanor’s. “Don’t upset yourself. I’ll instruct Armand to restore us to Godmersham forthwith.” Eleanor sniffs into her skirts as Mrs. Knight returns her attention to Jane. “It’s my fault entirely. I persuaded her to accompany me to evensong. I thought it would benefit her to say her prayers, but now we’re here, I concede it’s far too much. I shouldn’t have pressed her before she was ready.”

Eleanor backs further into her seat. “I can’t confess. He’ll smite me for what I’ve done.”

Mrs. Knight squeezes Eleanor’s hand. “Oh, you poor child. Whatever it is you think you’ve done, I promise you the Lord is forgiveness.”

Jane senses an opportunity to gain Eleanor’s confidence. She may have surrendered her ridiculous claim to be a princess, but she appears too afraid to disclose the truth of her past in case of any repercussions from Captain Fairbairn. Jane glances at Neddy, pacing the lane in distress. “There’s no need for you to have made a wasted journey. I can remain here with Eleanor, while you attend the service with Neddy.”

Mrs. Knight brightens. “Neddy’s here?”

“Yes.” Jane bites her lip. If she can gain a private interview with Eleanor, she can reveal what she knows about the shipwreck and reassure her it is safe for her to come forward. Once Eleanor understands that she is not the only witness, her courage will be bolstered. And if he is wise, Neddy will use the time alone with his mother to make a confession of his own. “I’m confident he’d be only too happy to escort you inside. He’s been most forlorn at the lack of your company.”

“What do you think of that, dear? Would that be tolerable? You know Miss Austen. You’re safe with her.”

Eleanor peers over her knees, pressing her lips together as she nods. Jane jumps off the steps, clearing the way for Mrs. Knight to descend.

“What’s occurring?” asks Neddy, voice clipped with impatience.

“It’s all resolved.” Jane glares back at him. “You’re to escort your mother inside to evensong and redeem yourself in the eyes of the Lord, while I wait here with Eleanor.”

“Make haste, Ned. I’ve inconvenienced Mr. Blackall long enough.” Mrs. Knight tucks her hand into the crook of her son’s arm, pulling him towards the arched doorway.

“Perfect,” Jane calls after them. “With a bit of luck, we’ll be able to hear the music from here, and the singing, if not Mr. Blackall’s sermon.”

Jane waits until Neddy and Mrs. Knight are through the studded oak door of the church before climbing inside the coach. She shuts the window, acutely aware of Armand lingering nearby. The two footmen followed their mistress to evensong, but the coachman remains in the lane—ostensibly to guard the carriage. If there is even the slightest chance that he could be acting on behalf of Captain Fairbairn, Jane cannot risk him overhearing her conversation. Once sealed inside, the smell of freshly buffed leather is overpowering. She squeezes onto the bench beside Eleanor, rather than taking the seat opposite, before passing her a handkerchief from her reticule. The girl takes it eagerly, blowing her nose and wiping the tracks from her cheeks. She wears no gloves, and the cuticle around each of her fingernails is bitten to the quick.

The bells cease clanging, and an organ strikes up. A pathetic choir attempts to make its musical offering heard above the pipes. Overhead, a murmuration of starlings hovers, a cloud of black, twisting and turning across the dusky pink sky. Jane takes a deep breath to steady herself. She must get this right. She cannot have Eleanor thinking she is rounding on her, sending her clamouring to hide behind her lies or bringing on another hysterical fit. “Thank you for letting me bide with you, Eleanor,” she begins, voice low and shaky. “I was hoping to speak to you alone as, although we haven’t been acquainted for long, I want you to know that you can trust me.”

Eleanor drops her feet into the footwell. “It’s Agnes,” she whispers.

Jane falters. Will it really prove so easy to be taken into the girl’s confidence? “Agnes? That is your real name, not Eleanor?”

Agnes fixes Jane with her mournful stare. Her eyes are red-rimmed, causing the glassy irises to border on the colour of dried blood. “Please don’t think I was lying to you, miss. I was Eleanor then.”

Jane’s shoulders drop. She thought the girl was about to make a full confession, yet here is more sport. “Are you saying you changed your name?”

“No. I was Eleanor. She’s untouchable, the princess. Nobody would dare harm her. But today I find I’m Agnes again.” A look of abject misery crosses her features, as if she is as confounded as everyone else to discover she is not a kidnapped princess, but rather a penniless, destitute and friendless young woman.

“I don’t understand,” says Jane.

“Do you really not?”

“No. How could I?”

“Oh,” Agnes slumps forward, burying her face in her lap. “I so hoped you might.”

Jane raises her hand to pat Agnes’s shoulder, but her fingers recoil. Peeking from the scooped back of the girl’s dress is a mass of angry red and silver scars. The raised lines all follow the same direction, overlaying each other like a wheatsheaf of wounds. Agnes has been flogged to within an inch of her life. Some of the injuries are recent, for in parts her skin has only just begun to heal. This must have been the obvious sign of mistreatment that stirred Mrs. Wilmot to take pity on her.

After the ringleaders of the Oxfordshire militia mutiny were shot, Henry told Jane that any soldiers found guilty of participating in the uprising were handed down sentences ranging from three hundred to fifteen hundred lashes. She thought he was exaggerating, that it would be impossible to survive such a punishment. Now she fears she has seen living proof of the body’s ability to withstand such barbarity. What kind of monster could inflict such savagery on another being? Was it the villainous Captain Fairbairn? Is this how a young woman is made compliant in her own debauchery? Does Mrs. Knight know? She must: such an injury would be impossible to hide. And Neddy? No. Jane’s brother may be as susceptible as any other man to vice, but she cannot believe him capable of violence. There is no way Neddy could inflict, or even condone, such brutality.

Her fingers hover an inch from the tangle of welts. “Oh, Agnes. How could I possibly begin to understand?”

Agnes takes a shuddering breath, turning to face her. “Because you are Jane … But sometimes you are Marianne. And at other times, you are Miss Dashwood.”

“Yes,” Jane murmurs, her hand still poised over Agnes’s wounds. She wants, so desperately, to comfort her. Agnes’s life must have been wretched indeed. Who could blame her for concocting such an outrageous story to escape her suffering?

“And they’re all different …” Agnes’s eyes shine directly into Jane’s. She reminds Jane of her father in the schoolroom, when he is waiting for her to comprehend something so very obvious, yet Jane’s mind cannot grasp it.

“Yes. Yes, they are …” Jane places her hand in her lap. Touch will not comfort a woman who has been so violently assaulted. “But I’m not really Marianne or Miss Dashwood. Am I?”

“You’re not?” The light fades from Agnes’s eyes.

“No, I’m just playing a part. Reading their letters aloud, pretending to be them. They’re characters of my own invention. It helps, you see. When I’m feeling oppressed and I need an escape, I compose stories and fill them with all sorts of people. But they’re not real.”

“Are you certain? None of them?”

“No. How could they be?” Jane asks, but even as she says it an unsettling feeling washes over her. During Jane’s periods of extreme dejection, her characters are more vital than any of the friends and family who populate her daily life.

“Oh.” Agnes lowers her eyes to the floor of the carriage, lips trembling.

She looks so crestfallen that Jane almost wishes she had lied—pretended the letters were a set of correspondence between actual sisters that she had stumbled across. If thinking the letters were real gave Agnes comfort, what would be the harm? Tentatively, she reaches for Agnes’s hand. “Isn’t that what you were doing? Pretending to be someone else, so that you could escape those who might hurt you?”

“No.” Agnes withdraws her fingers, pivoting her frame towards the window. “Never mind, forget what I said. It doesn’t matter.”

Jane leans against the padded seat, squeezing her eyes closed. For the briefest of moments, Agnes was an open book, ready and willing to have her pages rifled through. Now she is shut tight again—an enigma locked inside a leather-bound case. Through the glass, the starlings continue to swarm. An amorphous shadow, pushing and pulling against each other, switching the direction of their formation before they are gathered.

In desperation, Jane resorts to directness. “Look, Eleanor. Agnes. I know exactly what occurred the night of the storm, and why you’re so determined to hide who you really are.”

“You do?” Agnes’s eyes stretch wide.

“Yes. I know you’re telling the truth about swimming to shore after the ship sank. And I’m not the only one. There was a witness. An old man was watching from the coast of Harty and he will testify to what happened.”

“Oh … that.”

“And I really think, given how charitable Mrs. Knight is, if you are honest about why you lied, she’ll help you find a way out. We all will.”

Agnes stares mutely at Jane, as if met with a stream of her own senseless babble. “But how could there ever be a way out from what I did? From what I am?”

“Well, our first priority would be to ensure it is safe for you to move on. And believe me, Agnes, Mrs. Knight would never dream of parting with you until she is assured of your safety. But once justice has been served to anyone who might threaten you, we could give you some money. You could leave your past behind and start a new life.” Jane calculates how much a woman like Agnes might need to begin afresh. Neddy scoffed at her request for two hundred pounds, but he does not yet know how much more he stands to lose.

“But where would I go?”

This is more like it: they are entering negotiations. Jane knows there are places where penitent prostitutes are tolerated, if not welcomed. She could ask James for the details. A Magdalene House is just the type of joyless enterprise he would subscribe to. On second thoughts, perhaps returning to her people might be best. “Have you any family who might take you in? In Ireland, say?”

Agnes’s bottom lip trembles. “I can’t. My mammy said I had to go with him. He gave her money to take me away.”

“Your mother sold you into this life?” Jane has read of women betrayed by the very people meant to protect them but, she had hoped, such unnatural behaviour was confined to the most salacious novels.

“She had to. We were half starved, with nowhere to go.” Agnes leans her forehead against the window. Her breath steams the glass, and she traces her fingertip lightly over the mist. “We could barely make the rent for the farm when my father was alive. After he died, our debts were the only things that grew. The landlord sent his middleman to turn us out. In his temper, he broke everything Mammy had not sold, so we gave up the cottage and walked to the harbour. At times, we had to carry all three of my younger sisters between us, and it rained so hard my brother took a chill to his chest. But Mammy said if we could find the strength to keep going, she would get work or a place for my brother on one of the tall ships going to America. Only, when we finally made it, there wasn’t work for all the men waiting. No one would give a place to a sickly, scrawny boy. Then, the man on the smaller ship, he offered her money to take me.”

“Oh, good Lord …” Jane chokes on the words.

“It was enough for food and shelter, and medicine for my brother so I told Mammy not to cry, that I would be brave and bear it for the sake of the other childer. But I couldn’t, not anymore.”

Jane presses herself into the seat, involuntarily sliding along the bench towards the opposite door—away from Agnes and her pain. “I’m so sorry, Agnes. I had no idea. How old were you?”

“Nine,” Agnes whispers, in her singsong voice.

“Nine? But that’s unconscionable.” Jane recalls Molly’s words about the only female victim of the shipwreck found washed up along the shore: Not a woman, more of a girl. By law, the age of consent is set at twelve but no decent man would consider a twelve-year-old to be a woman. Is it possible she was forced onto that boat to be used by the sailors, just like Agnes? And now the poor child is dead, slain by the captain’s negligence. Jane’s throat closes, smothering her words. All her life, she has believed—no, she has been told—that a fallen woman has brought about her own condition by some weakness in her moral fibre. But at no point in her story was Agnes or her companion on that ship given the opportunity to be the author of her own fate. Agnes no more chose to be a prostitute than Jane chose to be a clergyman’s daughter. “But you mustn’t despair. There are places you can go, where Mrs. Knight can help locate you, out of Captain Fairbairn’s clu—”

Agnes whips round, grabbing Jane by her upper arms. “How do you know about the captain? Has he made himself known to you?”

“He’s been sending Mrs. Knight nasty letters. You know this. You were there when the last one arrived.” Jane squirms to free herself, but the girl’s vice-like fingers dig deep into her flesh. “Ouch. Agnes, you’re hurting me.”

“But have you seen him? You must not get in his way if you do. He will smother anyone who stands between us.” Beneath her freckles, all blood has drained from Agnes’s countenance. “What letter do you speak of ?”

“The note that arrived the first time we met, while you were pretending to be a princess?” There is not the tiniest spark of recognition in the girl’s panic-stricken face with regard to the letters, but she is clearly terrified of the captain.

“I told you, that wasn’t me. It was Eleanor.”

The hair on the back of Jane’s neck rises. Agnes’s mind must be as damaged as her body if she cannot remember the events of only a few days ago. “Then another came, while you were hiding under the table, crawling around on all fours like a trapped animal?”

“That sounds like Nessa.” Agnes closes her eyes, shaking her head. “You mustn’t mind her, she’s only playing. She’ll have known you didn’t mean any harm. She wouldn’t dare be so bold if you were a real threat.”

“Nessa? Agnes, this is ridiculous.”

“I know it must sound that way, but the others … they don’t always talk to me. I try to remember, and I try to keep them out. But they force their way in …” Agnes withdraws her hands, rubbing at her temples. “There are so many of us, and all the time we’re fighting for possession. Sometimes I wake, and hours, days have gone by without me. I don’t know where I am, or how I got there. And I cannot stop them. Try as I might, I cannot stop them.”

“Please, Agnes, slow down and try to explain.”

“You won’t understand. I hoped you would, but you don’t.”

Although Jane cannot yet articulate her thoughts, deep within her breast a kinship stirs. When faced with a reality she cannot bear, Agnes finds solace in becoming someone other than herself. But, unlike Jane, she is able to will herself into such a state that she leaves behind the person she was before. “I may not comprehend you fully, but I can try. I want to help you, Agnes. Sincerely, I do.”

“Just promise you won’t let the captain take me.” Agnes grabs Jane’s hands, squeezing her fingers. Jane can taste her fear as the peppery scent of fresh perspiration fills the carriage. Agnes’s story might be fraught with lies and make-believe, but her terror is genuine. “He’ll make me go back there, and I can’t. I can’t let them stab me anymore.”

“Stab you?” Jane asks, thinking of the welts on Agnes’s back. Has Captain Fairbairn tortured her with a blade, too?

“With their swords. The ones they keep hidden, beneath their breeches.”

Jane is assaulted by the urge to fling the door wide, leap out of the coach and run as fast as her feet can take her from this wretched tale. Failing that, she will tear her fingers from Agnes’s grip and clamp them over her own ears to block out the girl’s words. But having encouraged Agnes to share her suffering, the least Jane can do is bear witness to it.

“Who?” she asks, terrified that Agnes will name Neddy. He has already admitted to using her, but hearing from Agnes that her brother has taken her against her will would be even worse. Surely he cannot be so depraved. Jane will not believe him so wicked. “Who is doing this to you, Agnes? You can trust me, I swear.”

“I don’t know who they are.”

“The men on the ship?”

“Men on the ship, men on land. I try not to look at their faces or hear their names. I try not to be there at all.”

“And money is exchanged?”

“Sometimes.” Agnes nods miserably. “At others, I am given to earn favours, or to distract the revenue officers. But I’d rather die than go on like that. I tried to die. I never meant anyone else to be hurt. All I wanted was for it to end. Promise you won’t let the captain take me back there. Anything but that.”

“I promise,” Jane hears herself say. It is as if she is outside the carriage, a spectator to the scene. Agnes breaks down in sobs, her body heaving. Jane wraps an arm around her, tentatively pulling the girl into her lap and smoothing a hand over Agnes’s hair as she wonders what she has committed herself to.

Jane was meant to find a way to move the girl on—but Agnes, with her fractured mind, is far too vulnerable for Mrs. Knight to turn out of doors, even with money of her own. What if protecting Agnes from Fairbairn means denouncing Neddy as a scoundrel? If Jane reveals everything she knows about Agnes’s past to Mrs. Knight, she risks exposing her brother in the process. For the captain to be prosecuted for the full extent of his crimes, Agnes must be interrogated and give up her abusers—if she can identify them. Could Jane really destroy the Austens’ good name and their best chance of financial security? Elizabeth would be devastated and Jane’s parents horrified. No one likes a tattletale—Jane would likely be ostracized forever, with no way of supporting herself. But how else can she, one lone young woman, conceive of keeping another safe from the leader of a gang of villainous smugglers? As impossible as it seems, Jane knows she will find a way to save Agnes from the vile captain. A promise, once extracted, must be kept. If nothing else, Jane is a woman of her word. 5. Letter to Cassandra Austen

Rowling Farm, Sunday, 25 June 1797 My dearest Cassandra, Our formidable cousin, the Comtesse de Feuillide, once told me there is only so far a woman can bend before she breaks. But what if, when pushed past the breaking point of any ordinary female, some women shatter? And these separate shards, splintered and slivered as they are, find a way to persevere? Might the good Lord, in his infinite kindness, grant peace through a cauterization of the mind? Enough of your silence—I cannot do without you. Gather your wounded parts, my beloved sister. Mrs. Knight’s house guest is more troubled than she is trouble. I have pledged to assist her, but what can I, one poor and powerless young lady against the world, do? Yours ever,

J.A. P.S. Purloin some of James’s paper, if you must. Just think, with every sheet, you’ll be saving his friends and family from the expense of his self-indulgent scribble. If you have no compassion for your own correspondents, will you not think of your brother’s? Miss Austen Rev. Mr. Austen’s Deane Hants