public room. I felt myself dreadfully exposed—a lady alone in a hotel, without even a maid in attendance—but my discomfort could not be considered of consequence. A footman passed, bearing a bottle of claret and a glass; he mounted the servants' stairs off the passage. I saw a gentleman in converse with the innkeeper, and two ladies seated on a sopha in an attitude of fatigue. The length of my walk from East Street, I had struggled to determine the wisest method of approach. I could not present my card, and have it taken up to Mrs. Seagrave—but I must gain entrance to her rooms. Should I await the appearance of my brother? When every moment must be precious?
“Miss Austen?” said a voice at my shoulder.
I turned to see the stooped shoulders and balding head of the innkeeper. “Good evening, Mr. …” What had Frank said was the man's name? “Mr. Fortescue. I am sorry to appear at such an advanced hour, but I have only just learned that Mrs. Seagrave intends to quit Southampton on the morrow. I could not bear to let her go without a word.”
“Very good of you, and I'm sure,” said the fellow with a bob and a smile, “but Lady Temple ton charged me expressly to refuse all visitors tonight.”
“Lady Temple ton?” I repeated. It was as I had feared. There was hardly time enough between Friday and Sunday to complete a journey into Kent—and certainly no time at all to achieve the distance twice. The Baronet's coach had been sent not from Luxford, but from Portsmouth. Sir Walter had gone alone into Kent in a hired carriage, but Lady Templeton had remained behind. Awaiting news, perhaps, of Tom Seagrave's fate?
“Mrs. Seagrave's aunt,” Fortescue informed me kindly. “She intends to start for Kent quite early tomorrow, I understand, and does not wish to be disturbed. If you like, you might pen a note to Mrs. Seagrave and leave it for her—there is ink and paper in the morning-room, just off the passage.”
He gestured in the direction of the back staircase.
“You are very good, Mr. Fortescue,” I told him with a dazzling smile. “That is exactly what I shall do.”
I turned purposefully towards the morning-room, and was careful to linger in it until I was certain that the weary ladies on Mr. Fortescue's sopha had claimed the innkeeper's attention. The morning-room was quite empty. I examined the contents of a writing desk, then quickly made for the servants' stairs.
THE DOOR TO LOUISA'S UPSTAIRS PARLOUR WAS FIRMLY closed, but a light shone through the jamb. I approached it stealthily, desperate to make no noise, and pressed my ear almost to the oak.
All was silent within. Not even the fall of embers in the grate disturbed the silence. The children's rooms must adjoin this one, as Louisa's bedchamber did—and yet I heard nothing: no shift of a bed frame, no faint whimper of unquiet sleep. It was as though the family were already fled into Kent, and for an instant—my worst suspicions assuaged—I was weak with relief.
I must have sighed, and the sound penetrated to the room beyond the door. There was an abrupt movement—as of a small metal article overturned upon a table—and then an imperious voice called out: “Who is there?”
I had heard that voice on only one occasion, but I could not fail to recognise its tone of command. There was something of the same harsh timbre—the reflexive coldness—in Louisa's voice, when she gave way to snobbery. Lady Templeton.
I drew a sharp breath, and said in my best imitation of Jenny, “It's only the upper housemaid, ma'am, with the hot water.”
“We have no need of you tonight. Mrs. Seagrave has already retired.”
“Will the lady be wishful of a fire in the morning?”
“If so, I am sure that she will ring. Now be off, you stupid girl, and leave us in peace.”
I made a great deal of noise in retreating down the hallway, and collected my wits and my nerves in the shadows of the staircase. Were I not careful, I should be discovered in loitering by an honest servant, and made to explain myself. Steady, Jane, I urged inwardly; and took care to draw off my pattens and half-boots as dexterously as possible.
Louisa's bedchamber lay between my position and the parlour in which Lady Templeton worked. Undoubtedly the door should be on the latch; but I had procured a letter knife from the morning-room below, and was prepared to use it. I crept noiselessly