friend, too! He should be stripped of his rank and his uniform!”
I HAD NO DOUBT THAT FRANK SHOULD SWIFTLY SECURE the Lieutenant's direction, from among his naval acquaintance in Southampton, and that the morning might find him in full possession of Chessyre's history before it had grown very much in the telling. But I hoped, as I drained my tea, that Frank had not gone in search of the man alone. The Lieutenant's actions argued for a desperation of character—and if Tom Seagrave had not murdered the Frenchman, it seemed entirely possible that Chessyre had.
1Jane refers here to characters in Elinor and Marianne and First Impressions, which had not yet achieved their final manuscript forms as Sense and Sensibility (published 1811) and Pride and Prejudice (published 1813).—Editors note.
Chapter 4
A Morning Call
24 February 1807,
cont.
~
I COULD NOT LONG ENJOY THE LUXURY OF LYING AMIDST the bedclothes, however much I might sneeze or Jenny scold: for I had recollected that it was Tuesday—and that we expected our dear friend and future companion in Castle Square, Martha Lloyd, before the morning should be out.
Martha is the eldest sister of my brother James's wife, Mary, but as unlike that shrewish article as the human frame is to a butter churn” She has formed the dearest part of my acquaintance for most of my life, having spent her youth in close concert with the Austens in Hampshire. Martha is the daughter of a clergyman, and is cousin to the Fowles of Kintbury—the very Fowles I might once have called family, had my sister Cassandra's betrothed survived his voyage to the West Indies so many years ago.1
Martha's younger sister, Eliza, being the wife of the Reverend Fulwar-Craven Fowle, Martha might consider the vicarage at Kintbury as very nearly a second home; and thither she had repaired for the Christmas season. Her mother having passed away not long after my father's death, Martha may claim no other home, and has consented to form a part of our Southampton household.
Cassandra and I will thus know the pleasure of regarding Martha as very nearly a sister, a position we have long desired her to claim. There was a time when we believed it likely she should marry our Frank—but, however, the attraction between them, if indeed it existed, came to nothing. Martha is now in her early forties, some eight years Frank's senior; and with middle age, has acquired the dignity of a lady who dresses in lace caps and black satin. The difference between herself and Frank's rosy-cheeked bride is material, I assure you.
Among her many admirable qualities, Martha brings to our household the accomplishments of a cook, and a compilation of receipts, written out in her own hand, of such comestibles as she has learned to value through the years. In our present dismal weather, Martha should find the journey south from Berkshire cold and tiring; she would wish for a good dinner. As my mother was unlikely to quit her sickbed to procure a joint for Mrs. Davies's cook, I had better look to the business myself.
I rose and dressed for breakfast, sedulously avoiding my reflection in the glass that hangs over my dressing table. The pain of a chapped nose is more than enough to endure, without the added injury of ill looks. But I found that the tea had partially restored me; I felt a greater vigour, from my interval of writing amidst the bedclothes. I could not regard my diminished appearance as reason enough to remain within doors: not one woman in eighty may stand the test of a frosty morning, after all, and my watering eyes and reddened nose should occasion no very great comment on the streets of Southampton.
“Jane!” Frank's Mary exclaimed, as I entered upon the breakfast room, “I did not think to look for you this morning! And you are dressed!”
“I am quite well, Mary, thank you.”
“You are hardly in looks, my dear,” she declared, with utter disregard for my pride. “I am sure that you have a fever. Pray—come and sit beside the fire.”
My brother's bride is a well-grown young woman of one-and-twenty, with a fresh complexion and vivid blue eyes; her hair is glossy, neither brown nor gold, but curling delightfully over her untroubled brow. Mary possesses good health, considerable good humour, and just enough of understanding to please her Frank without attempting to master him. She is not so high-born as to regard a seafaring life with contempt, nor yet so vulgar as to cause the Austens