dressing gown for more formal attire, though it was nearly one o'clock—before the Captain cried, “Excellent! She would be delighted to accompany you, Miss Austen, if you will but spare her a moment to fetch her bonnet I am sure she will attend you directly. If you should like to take a seat here in the hall—the maid is at present engaged in tidying the parlour—”
“But of course,” I murmured, and settled myself on the single Windsor chair the foyer could boast I have always detested Windsor chairs. “Pray do not tarry on my account, Frank. I shall be quite happy to await Mrs. Seagrave.”
“Expect us in an hour, Jane. Any later, and we'll find the passage back to Southampton too cold and wet for bearing. The rain cannot hold off forever.” Frank squeezed my gloved hand, settled his cockade hat, and pulled open the door. A bow from Captain Seagrave— and the two men were gone.
I had a full quarter-hour to calculate the depth of dust on the picture frames before the distant sound of feet descending a staircase alerted me. The hallway's farthest door was thrust open—Nancy's black patch and sullen countenance appeared—and behind her, the lady who must be Louisa Seagrave.
She was a tall woman, almost equal to her husband in height; and though, to judge by the infant's cries, she had recently been increasing, her gown hung upon her emaciated frame. Her hair was dark, and drawn back without the slightest attention to style or arrangement, in a severe knot at her nape. Though her features were good, and I might trace the remnants of a vanished beauty, it was rather as one might conjure the memory of summer from the frame of a leafless tree. There was about her a palpable air of defeat mingled with defiance, as though she knew herself to have suffered a mortal wound, but was prepared to fade without ceding the slightest quarter to her enemies.
I rose, and moved by an obscure sensation of pity, extended my hand.
“Good day. I am Miss Austen. And you must be Mrs. Seagrave. How good of you to consent to walk with me in town!”
The kindness is entirely yours, I am sure,” she returned abruptly. “Have you any particular errands you wish to complete? A direction you thought to pursue?”
“None whatsoever,” I replied cheerfully. “As this is my first visit to Portsmouth, everything is of interest to me.”
“Then you are more easily amused than I.” She could not disguise the bitterness in her words. “Portsmouth is a wretched hole, Miss Austen, with nothing to recommend it May I ask what place you call home?—Or are you as itinerant as every naval woman in my acquaintance?”
“I am presently settled with my family in Southampton,” I replied.
“Ah. Southampton. They have libraries there, I believe. All you will find in Portsmouth are essays on the calculation of longitude.” Her grey eyes glinted as she pulled on her gloves. They were doeskin, the color of mulled wine—and like much about Louisa Seagrave, of the highest quality and the shabbiest use.
“Have you lived here long, Mrs. Seagrave?”
“Three years. But I do not intend to endure it a fourth. I shall remove to Kent when my husband is again at sea.”
She lifted her head as she said this, as though in defiance of courts-martial and all die Articles of War—or perhaps it was a courage flung at the husband who would attempt to rule her. “Shall we go, then?”
“With pleasure,” I said drily, and followed the lady to the street.
THE RAIN BEGAN PERHAPS A HALF-HOUR AFTER WE HAD achieved the High. In the interval before the deluge, however, I had time enough to establish that my companion was the only daughter of a viscount; that her schooling had been accomplished at a fashionable establishment in Town; that she had become acquainted with Tom Seagrave at the age of seventeen, during a period at Brighton; and had married not long thereafter. The air of elopement hung over her terse explanation; the match had been accomplished without the sanction of her parents. It was clear to me, however, that if Louisa Seagrave did not exactly regret her headlong alliance with the dashing Captain, she had suffered greatly from social diminution. At the time of their union, Tom Seagrave had been only a lieutenant, with a lieutenant's meagre pay; success, and further steps in rank, had swiftly come—he was not called “Lucky” for nothing—but the early years had proved a period of deprivation.