Page 21 of A Fortune Most Fatal (Miss Austen Investigates #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“And this is Ethelbert’s Tower, where the heretics who refused to swear allegiance to King Henry the Eighth were burned alive!” Mrs. Roche, a silver-haired crone with a knowing glint in her eye, grins as she waits for her audience to react. Neddy, Henrietta, Mr. Blackall and even Dr. Storer all contort their features into suitable expressions of horror, while little Fanny and Ted shriek and dissolve into giggles. When Jane had formulated her plan to consult Dr. Storer discreetly on Agnes’s condition, under the guise of acquiescing to Elizabeth’s demand she spend time in his and Mr. Blackall’s company, she had not reckoned on receiving such lively instruction from Lady Hale’s former housekeeper. Mrs. Roche’s tour of St. Augustine’s Abbey is protracted and Jane is dubious of its veracity. For one thing, there is not a single scorch mark on the yellow stone of the ruined tower. She is beginning to realise Mr. Bridges’s decision to sit out the faux-history lesson, in favour of sketching the ruins from afar, was a judicious one.

Henrietta runs a gloved hand over the crumbling stone. “I expect it’s haunted.” All that is left of the once-magnificent Norman church is a rugged square tower tufted in red valerian, and a portion of its nave. Through the empty arched window, the finer and far better-preserved tower of Canterbury Cathedral stares mockingly.

“Must you encourage her?” replies Jane. It has finally rained and her feet sink into the damp grass as she carries the weight of not-so-little Georgy on her hip. The child must have doubled in size since she arrived.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Roche replies. “Even the dragoons are too afraid to walk this way after dark.” Far from lying in romantic seclusion, the abbey perches beside a busy route linking Canterbury and Sir Edward Hale’s new barracks to the east, and a constant stream of vehicles rattles past. “For no sooner than darkness has crept over the fields, the monks return. In the quiet, their disembodied voices can be heard, still chanting vespers centuries after their slaughter. But, just lately, a new and even more terrifying apparition has begun to haunt the abbey. We call her ‘the bloody nun,’ for she wanders the ruins at dusk, dressed in a white habit with a mass of blood and gore oozing from a terrible gash on her forehead.”

Georgy bursts into desperate wails. Jane shifts him onto her opposite hip, holding him tight and attempting to hush him into quiet sobs. “Why would a nun haunt this place? I thought it was a monastery, not a convent.”

“It was,” says Mrs. Roche. “Every one of the brothers went up in flames. There wasn’t a soul spared among their ancient order to tell the tale. Now, if you’ll let me take you to the cursed well …”

While the rest of the party rushes to follow, Neddy lingers with Jane and the children. She senses he is not nearly as engrossed in Mrs. Roche’s far-fetched stories as the others. Something is troubling him. She wonders if it is simply the business he intended to manage today, or his wider conscience. “You don’t believe this codswallop either, do you? She lifted that part about the ‘bloody nun’ straight from The Monk. ”

“Which monk?” replies Neddy, brow furrowed. “She just said there weren’t any left.”

“ The Monk. It’s a novel. Haven’t you read it?”

“No.”

“Well, you must. Everyone else has.” Once again Jane is reminded of how disparate Neddy’s pleasures are from those of the rest of their family. Even James had read The Monk, if only to discover what had so scandalized Mary. Perhaps if Neddy had remained in Steventon, with only books to amuse him, he would not have wandered so far from the path of virtue.

“Why? Is it good?” Neddy pauses at the edge of the party, waiting for Jane to catch up.

“No, it’s atrocious—but that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“You can’t enjoy scorning something so thoroughly unless you’ve read it yourself.” Jane moves into the small patch of shade cast by the ruin’s remaining wall. Georgy squirms and reaches for his errant siblings, but Jane is too wary of the sharp flint foundations that Fanny and Teddy are clambering over to let the toddler join them.

“It’s far from codswallop, miss.” Mrs. Roche turns, her hearing evidently much sharper than Jane had anticipated. “The bloody nun has been witnessed by several travellers late at night. The innkeeper, across the way, is compiling a record. You can enquire of him if you don’t believe me.”

Jane halts. “I meant no offence.”

“This I can verify.” Mr. Blackall nods solemnly. “I interviewed the man myself—for my treatise on supernatural occurrences at sites of historical import.”

“How chilling.” Henrietta slips her arm into Mr. Blackall’s, eyes shining. Far from being chilled, Henrietta’s giddy expression suggests she is thoroughly titillated by the housekeeper’s histrionic performance. Away from Elizabeth, Henrietta is much more animated and she really does seem partial to Mr. Blackall. With such a wealthy family, there cannot be any imperative for Henrietta to marry. Unless, like Jane, she is at risk of suffocating under the notice of her rich relations.

Mr. Blackall places his hand over Henrietta’s. “Yes, but I have faith the Lord will protect those who do his work.”

“God bless you, sir.” Mrs. Roche crosses herself. “Your very presence will keep the evil spirits in check.”

“Why do you presume the spirits guilty of any malicious intent?” asks Jane. “It was their abbey. Surely, they have every right to haunt it. If they were Benedictine monks, they’d be more likely to offer you a jug of ale and a bed for the night than do you any harm.” All of the party groans. Really, Jane cannot understand why everyone, apart from herself, is accepting Mrs. Roche’s assertions unquestioningly. Even Dr. Storer, who is meant to be a man of science, is lapping them up. And now they are all frowning at Jane, as if her constant interruptions are akin to throwing rotten vegetables at the players on stage at the Theatre Royal. “Forgive me, I’m sure you know more than I,” she mutters, through gritted teeth.

Mollified, the housekeeper walks on, leading Dr. Storer, Mr. Blackall and Henrietta to the open well—where, no doubt, the skulls of several brothers can be spotted whenever the water dries up. Jane remains with Neddy and the children. “You know she’s fabricating all this to inflate her tip. The innkeeper will be colluding with her. An apparition will be good for business.”

“Don’t be such a killjoy, Jane,” Neddy replies. “What does it matter if her stories are true or not, as long as everyone is enjoying them? Even the children are entertained.”

Jane bristles. Trust Neddy to employ such a casual attitude to the truth. Fanny and Ted are not even listening. Instead, they are climbing the lumpen remains of the stone pillars, then shoving each other off the top as Conker barks his enthusiasm. Georgy fusses, kicking to get down and join in, but he is too little for such hazardous play. Jane dare not return him to his mother with grazed knees and bloodied elbows, and does not trust anybody else, least of all Neddy, to supervise him properly.

But the real reason Neddy’s comment nettles her is that he’s right. She is being a killjoy, and her bitterness arises from no nobler sentiment than petty jealousy. The housekeeper will receive a generous reward for her spurious tales and will be invited to repeat them for tourists throughout the summer. Whereas Jane, who labours in private night and day over her thoughtful compositions, has little hope of receiving a penny for hers. Ever since she was a child, she has dreamt of being lauded as a professional author. Now she has reached her majority, and her dream feels as unattainable as ever. Unlike Frances Burney and the other authoresses she idolizes, Jane does not mix with men and women of letters, or even booksellers. Sometimes she fears she is foolish for daring to believe she will one day find a way to break into such a world. “Keep an eye on Fanny and Ted. I don’t like the look of that well. I shall distract Georgy with a slice of pork pie.”

Happily for everyone’s comfort, Henrietta readily dispensed with her pride in her pursuit of her beau. Rather than maintain the illusion that she and Mr. Bridges had met the St. Augustine party by chance, she rode ahead in Sir William’s coach with several of the Goodnestone footmen, an enormous gazebo, a large picnic table, several comfortable chairs and what looks to be a very tasty spread. Jane is well satisfied with Henrietta’s willingness to cast aside the veneer of serendipity. It’s a very hot day, and she doesn’t want to wilt under a scarcity of refreshments. On her way to enjoy the much-needed food and shelter, she finds Mr. Bridges bent over his easel. “What are you about?”

He reaches out to tickle Georgy under the chin. “Insulting the scenery by attempting to capture it in a line drawing. That’s what one is meant to do on these romantic excursions, isn’t it?”

From where Mr. Bridges is sitting, the view is most picturesque. Seagulls rise over the apex of the open church, as the sun warms the ancient brick and stone that make up the ruined tower. Jane could almost believe it was not surrounded by farmers grazing their cattle and a constant onslaught of thunderous traffic. If only Cassandra were here, she would be enthusing about the light and eagerly unpacking her watercolours. No, that is not right. Cassandra refuses to wield a quill, let alone a brush. When Jane returns to Steventon, she must encourage her sister to seek the same solace in her painting and drawing as she herself has found in her writing. Jane forces her attention back to the present. “You weren’t tempted to partake in the tour, then?”

Mr. Bridges shrugs, affecting an air of nonchalance. “I’ve heard it a thousand times.” He must be growing impatient, waiting for the baronet to grant him an extension to his allowance. He’ll be gone soon, and Jane may never see him again. She must not let herself grow accustomed to his company. “Did she tell you about the singing monks?”

“Yes, and the bloody nun. That was what upset Georgy here.”

“The bloody nun?” A flicker of interest crosses his refined features. “That’s a new one. Her stories get better every time, unlike my sketches.”

Jane leans over the easel, squinting at his feeble attempt to capture the scene. “Your perspective is off.”

“Is that what’s wrong with it?” He tucks his pencil behind his ear, leaning back to review his drawing.

“Yes—there, see.” Jane jostles the toddler, now happily gnawing his chubby fist, and releases one hand to point to Mr. Bridges’s interpretation of the ruin. “The near corner of your tower is too short. I know it’s seen better days, but in your version the foundations have sunk. It’s teetering at a far too precarious angle. The slightest breeze and it would be reduced to a pile of rubble.”

“You’re right. I’ll start again.” He snatches the sheet, readying himself to tear the paper in two.

Jane places a hand on his forearm to stop him. “What are you doing?”

“You said the perspective was off.”

“I know, but you can’t discard it completely. No wonder your brother won’t advance you any money when you behave like such a profligate. That’s a perfectly good sheet of paper.”

“But it’s spoilt.”

“No, it’s not.” Jane takes the page from him, shaking it out to inspect it further. “Look, you’ve only drawn on one side. How can you be such a wastrel?”

“You’re the one who pronounced it a failure.” Mr. Bridges glowers at her from beneath his dark brows. He grabs the sheet and smoothes his rescued drawing over his board with his fist.

“Yes, but if you want to be an artist, you cannot renounce your work at the slightest imperfection. As tedious as it may be, you must labour over it until it’s right,” she says, with the heavy awareness that if she is in earnest about achieving her ambition of seeing her efforts in print she must follow her own advice. Jane may lack the connections to make publication easy but, if she can write something entertaining that people want to read, no prudent bookseller will refuse her.

Mr. Bridges huffs but he takes the pencil from behind his ear and draws over his lines, consciously elongating the nearest corner of the tower. Jane watches, with immense satisfaction. He really is most suggestible. She wonders if she could confide in him her fears for Agnes’s fragile state of mind, without revealing Neddy’s involvement in the horror that caused it. Cassandra’s continued silence has left Jane desperate to unburden herself to someone. But it is an enormous secret to share, and she has not yet known Mr. Bridges for a full week. Besides, Jane has learnt that handsome young gentlemen, with open countenances and easy manners, nearly always turn out to be the least reliable creatures.

Across the way, Mrs. Roche finally releases Henrietta, Mr. Blackall and Dr. Storer. Jane tries not to scowl too fiercely as both gentlemen hand the housekeeper a fistful of coins. As the old lady departs, with an added bounce to her step as she crosses the fields, Jane bites back the urge to chase after her and decry her as a charlatan. The secret lovers loiter at the well, and Neddy remains at the broken pillars with Fanny and Ted, while Dr. Storer, pink from the morning’s exertions, heads towards the gazebo. Sensing her opportunity to consult him alone, Jane hastens to join him. “I hope you’re enjoying your visit to Kent, Dr. Storer,” she says, as she seats Georgy at the table. Before Jane can prevent him, the toddler lunges for the food, grabbing handfuls of grapes from the opulent spread of cold meats, fresh bread and ripe fruit.

“Indeed I am.” Dr. Storer takes a seat opposite. “I find the county rich in beauty and history, but if Mrs. Roche’s stories upset you, you did well to remove yourself.”

Jane ignores his comment. She was horrified by the lies in Mrs. Roche’s account, not the facts. “When we met at the ball, you described my cousin’s house guest as suffering from ‘a common complaint.’ I wondered if you could possibly expand upon the condition and its treatment, if there is one.”

He frowns. “Your cousin’s house guest?”

“The young woman Dr. Wilmot and his wife found wandering along the beach.” Jane hands Georgy a slice of pie, which he proceeds to crumble between his fists rather than eat.

“Ah … the princess.” Dr. Storer nods. News of Agnes’s confession cannot have made its way to her former protectors as the doctor seems unaware she may present herself as anyone other than Eleanor. “I maintain it is curable, yes. I implemented a strict regimen of restraint and blistering to rebalance her constitution.”

“And did it help?” Jane asks, remembering the terrible ordeal Dr. Wilmot threatened to cure Elizabeth’s dropsy. This course of treatment sounds almost as unpleasant.

“Not immediately, but shortly after she removed to Godmersham Park, your cousin informed mine that the princess was much calmer. I am gratified, therefore, that my ministrations set her on her path to recovery.” He smiles, but Jane fears he is mistaken in his supposition. If Agnes was calmer once released from Dr. Storer’s care it was because, unlike the physicians, Mrs. Knight treated her with kindness.

“Pah!” Mr. Blackall enters the gazebo in time to latch on to their conversation. “Your remedies have no jurisdiction over her malady.”

“Let me assure you, Mr. Blackall, it is only a matter of time before every ailment will be remedied with medicine. Only look at the King. It is thanks to the pioneering court physicians that our sovereign has regained his wits, not his clergy.”

“And let me assure you, Dr. Storer,” Mr. Blackall pulls out a chair for Henrietta—who seems rather aglow after being left alone in his company for so long, “it was my spiritual guidance that returned the girl to her senses. If she is calmer, it is because I have been praying for her deliverance.”

“Such outmoded superstition.” Dr. Storer removes his spectacles and rubs frantically at the lenses with his cravat. “As a rational man, you cannot truly believe prayers alone restored her.”

“ I instructed Mrs. Knight to bring her to evensong,” Mr. Blackall continues, “and even though she did not dare cross the threshold while in the demon’s thrall, her close proximity to holy ground drove it into hiding.”

“It was not a devil that took hold of the girl but an imbalance of her humours.”

“Admit it, Doctor, you were so taken in by the devilish imp, you would have presented her at the Court of St. James, if only you’d been granted permission.”

“That is not true.” Dr. Storer replaces his glasses, twitching his nose until they are comfortable.

Jane remembers their conversation at the ball. “Dr. Wilmot told me he was making plans to exhibit her.”

“But I did not. Indeed, Dr. Wilmot and I disagreed greatly on how best to proceed with her treatment.”

“You did?” Perhaps Jane has maligned Dr. Storer. Her theories chime far more with his than they do with Mr. Blackall’s. It is much more likely that Agnes’s behaviour is due to an imbalance brought about by the terrible suffering she has endured, rather than an infestation by the devil. Dr. Storer’s prescriptions may sound severe, but if King George’s lunacy has been cured in this way, who is Jane to protest?

“We did,” the doctor continues. “While Dr. Wilmot thought it appropriate to present her at Court, I remain adamant she should be committed to an asylum.”

“An asylum ?” Jane repeats the dreaded word, as if it might diminish its ability to terrify her. Unfortunately, she has had some prior exposure to the criminally insane. The mother of one of her dear friends is resident inside Bedlam Hospital. As a murderess, the lady is responsible for her own fate, but Jane cannot help feeling a pang of sympathy when she hears of the inhumane manner with which she is treated—secured in chains day and night, her head shaved to release the vapours, while spectators pay a penny to leer at her from the public gallery. As far as Jane can see, Agnes is more sinned against than sinner. She does not deserve to be treated with such savagery. “But there’s no need to lock the girl away. She’s no danger to anyone.”

“She’s a danger to society. Hysteria is contagious. You must take great care not to expose yourself to her company,” Dr. Storer says, as a fly lands on the sliced ham. Instead of shooing it away, Jane watches it crawl over the pink flesh as he drones on. “She must be kept in isolation from other women, even female patients. Mrs. Knight’s pandering will not end well.”

Jane rubs her throbbing temples. Pity the poor girl, at the mercy of the Church and modern medicine. “How could frightening her possibly help? As Christians, we have a moral duty to treat the sick with compassion.”

Undeterred by the fly’s progress, Dr. Storer serves himself a slice of ham. “Really, you mustn’t concern yourself. I’ve seen such delusional behaviour before in a lawyer’s wife I treated in London. That lady was obsessed with the idea her husband was about to murder her and steal her fortune. She left notes appealing for assistance wherever she went. Together, we decided the best course of action was to declare her a lunatic.”

“You did what?” Jane cannot believe the depths of this blundering quack’s inadequacy. Dr. Storer is meant to be an educated man but he is starting to sound even more unhinged than Mr. Blackall. Indeed, Jane is beginning to wonder if her ever calculating sister-in-law invited him explicitly to make Mr. Blackall appear more attractive by comparison. “Can’t you see? You played directly into her devious husband’s thieving hands.”

Blotches of red suffuse Dr. Storer’s cheeks. “It’s perfectly legal for a husband to place his wife in an asylum.”

“I’m sure it is, and therein lies the problem.” Jane stands, unable to quiet her restless limbs any longer. If Elizabeth was successful in prevailing on her to marry Dr. Storer, she would live in constant fear of being committed. One lacklustre supper or sharp word and he could see her locked away for life. There is no use asking for the physician’s help in healing Agnes. She would likely die under any cure he prescribed. His barbaric methods were the reason Mrs. Wilmot asked Mrs. Knight to intervene in the first place. “Miss Bridges, would you mind supervising Georgy? I must check where the other children have got to.”

As Jane turns to flee, Henrietta sidles closer to Dr. Storer. “You must forgive Miss Austen. I’m afraid she has been brought up in the most complete ignorance of the world. Her family are not rich and the people with whom they chiefly mix are not at all high-bred. If it wasn’t for her brother’s adoption, she would be very much below par.”

Desperate to be as far away from the suffocating conversation as possible, Jane takes quick strides to cool her temper. No doubt Dr. Storer will attribute any signs of vehemence to her own hysteria, and Henrietta will revel in informing Elizabeth of any unseemly behaviour on Jane’s part. But how can she be expected to keep her opinions to herself when the views of those around her are so ludicrous? She stalks across the grass, towards Fanny and Ted. The children are inside the remains of a small chapel, taking turns to jump off the stone altar—the little heretics. Nearby, Mr. Bridges slouches against a jagged ivy-clad wall.

“Where’s Neddy? I expressly told him to keep an eye on the children.” Her voice comes out much shriller than she had intended. She must refrain from inflicting her ire on Mr. Bridges when he’s the only one willing to offer any assistance.

“He went tearing after Conker. The dog must have seen a rabbit. He made an ill-advised dash for the road.”

“Typical. Trust my brother to be more concerned with his hound than his own offspring.”

“I don’t mind watching them. They’re far more rational company than the rest of our party.” Mr. Bridges tips his head back to the gazebo, forcing Jane to give a tight smile. Was he close enough to hear her upbraid Dr. Storer? Or Henrietta’s comments about her own failings? “And they’re terribly sweet.”

“Aren’t they just? Sometimes they make my teeth ache.” The children are atop the altar, kicking each other’s shins while squabbling over whose turn it is to jump next. Ted protests, red-faced and stamping his feet; Fanny shoves him out of the way and leaps feet first onto the grass below. At what age is a girl’s determination not to give way for her brother knocked out of her? Jane wonders.

Mr. Bridges laughs softly at Fanny’s lack of decorum. “Staying at Rowling must put you in mind of having your own family.”

“No, it must not.” She frowns. “Why go to the trouble of breeding, when I can borrow my brother’s brood anytime I like?”

“But you must hanker after your own establishment? Poor Hen is desperate for her independence.”

“I expect she is.” Jane doesn’t point out that marriage will not grant Henrietta independence. She will simply transfer her subjugation from her brother to her future husband. “Believe me, just now, matrimony is the last thing on my mind.”

“Do you mean that?” Mr. Bridges reaches out, catching Jane’s wrist and shepherding her into an alcove.

“Most earnestly.”

“What do you think this was?” He offers her a rueful smile, surveying their semi-private surroundings. While Jane can still monitor the children, she and Mr. Bridges are shielded from view.

“From the stench of it, I’d say the latrina.”

“You are droll, Jane.”

“Is that a compliment? I never can tell when a gentleman praises a woman’s wit if he’s celebrating her gift or pointing out a flaw.”

“The highest accolade, I assure you.” His eyes soften as his gaze rests on Jane’s lips. “Your lively company is the only thing making it bearable for me to remain here so long.”

How can he claim to be supervising the children when his eyes are fixed solely on Jane? In fact, he’s watching her so closely, she is starting to worry she has some of Georgy’s pork pie smeared across her cheek.

A movement catches in the corner of her eye. Down by the road, Neddy places his hands on his hips and leans back to address a man in a stalled dog-cart. Conker sits obediently at his master’s heel. The man turns, revealing his face—half covered by a knitted hat. Jane shoves Mr. Bridges’s forearm away and steps out of the alcove. “Who’s Neddy talking to?” Her heart hammers in her chest as she squints at the driver. Could it be Spooner, the man she overheard Neddy arguing with in the lane a few days after she arrived in Kent? Is he the important matter her brother was so desperate to attend to?

“It’s a bit far to say for certain,” Mr. Bridges holds his hand flat above his eyes, “but he looks like one of our most infamous purveyors of goods originating from across the Channel.”

“He’s a merchant?” Jane asks, desperate to believe Neddy’s business is legitimate.

“Not quite. He’s a free-trader. An associate of the Sea Salter Company, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Does Neddy have an interest in such a company? I thought all his money was safely squirrelled away in government four per cents.”

“Not that sort of company. He’s an owler,” Mr. Bridges says, as if this explains everything. Jane stares at him, not comprehending. “A smuggler. Honestly, for someone so intelligent, you really can be incredibly green. I expect you pay the duty on tea in Hampshire.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Only a spendthrift like you would do that,” she quips, but this is not a joke. Why is Neddy consorting with a known villain in broad daylight in full view of the entire county? Does he have no care for his reputation? Here Jane is, working tirelessly to find a way to restore his fortunes, while Neddy is determined to condemn himself.

“They call him Spooner,” Mr. Bridges continues. “The blackguard will have earned it through some devilish deed. Gouging some poor fellow’s eyes out with a piece of dessert cutlery, most likely.”

“It’s an alias?” Jane steps closer to the road. The man looks up, revealing his face. As she suspected, it is the same scoundrel with whom she witnessed Neddy brawling.

“Yes, all the best villains have them: Nasty Face, Towzer, Stick-in-the Mud … I daresay they believe it helps them evade capture, but it only makes them more notorious among the schoolboys of Kent.”

A sickening realization stops Jane dead in her tracks. She should have thought of it earlier—but all the captains she has known previously have been debonair young men in uniform, gentlemen of self-import and ambition, like Captain Gore or her brother Henry. She assumed Captain Fairbairn would be obvious by his attire. It never occurred to her that this coarse-looking ruffian could hold any rank. But it would follow that the captain, or the “skipper,” of a smuggling ship would wear a different type of regalia. She turns to face Mr. Bridges. “Then what’s his real name?”

“No idea. I’ve never spoken to him. I only know him by reputation. He’s not the sort I’d ever accost, no matter how cheap his tobacco. Heaven only knows why your brother is conversing with him. Perhaps Conker ran out in front of his cart.”

“He must have …” Jane pushes down the rising fury in her chest. She has a horrible suspicion she knows what Neddy is discussing with the villain. The last time they met, Spooner threatened to inform Elizabeth of Neddy’s treachery unless he handed over money. At the time, Neddy seemed determined not to comply and Jane believed her brother had bested him. But perhaps Spooner remained as persistent in threats to Neddy as he has been in his hounding of Agnes and Mrs. Knight. Is Spooner the source of Neddy’s financial woes? If Neddy has been paying for his silence, it would explain his concern about meeting his repayments to Sir William. Worse, if Neddy is susceptible to blackmail, he could be coerced into helping Spooner evade justice by silencing Agnes. Is this what he meant when he referred to circumstances beyond her grasp? Jane’s stomach turns with revulsion. “Could his real name be Fairbairn?”

“Fairbairn? It doesn’t sound familiar, but it’s just as likely as any other,” replies Mr. Bridges.

Spooner releases the reins and his nag walks on along the road to Canterbury. Neddy heads back towards the ruin. His face is thunderous. Jane swallows. She has found him. Spooner is Captain Fairbairn, the skipper of the ship Agnes was travelling on. He is the man who brutalized Agnes as a child. He forced her and God knows how many other young girls into selling themselves to fill his own pockets. He is responsible for killing his entire crew, along with the unfortunate wretches forced onto his ship. And Neddy, the magistrate, is allowing him to evade justice in order to protect his own interests. Jane’s worst fears are confirmed: her brother is in league with the devil.

“Come, Fanny, Ted. You must be in want of refreshment by now.” She reaches for the children’s hands, tugging them towards the gazebo without daring to look at Mr. Bridges, lest he senses her distress. All this time, Neddy has been letting his adoptive mother nurse a broken girl, presenting himself as the victim in Agnes’s scheme to steal his fortune—when Neddy and his associates are responsible for her fractured state. With a lurch of her heart, Jane realises it is not her brother and his inheritance that her conscience demands she protect but Agnes: she must save her from Neddy.