permit me to serve as chaperone,” said my dear friend Martha Lloyd as she sailed into the room. “I might recommend any number of places in Town, and Jane and I could enjoy the Season at a safe distance from little Mary—provided, of course, that gaol fever does not carry Jane off. But I confess to a sanguine temper on that head. I have little fear of seeing any of us come out in spots. It has always been a man's complaint.”
I embraced Martha with joy, and enquired as to the safety and comfort of her descent upon the south; declared her in excellent looks after her visit to her sister— a compliment she turned aside with asperity—and took her bonnet into my own hands for safekeeping.
But the niceties of welcome had eluded my brother. Frank took one furious stride across Mrs. Davies's small parlour and turned in frustration at the far wall. He appeared to be itching to draw someone's cork; his hands were clenching and unclenching in a fine demonstration of the pugilist's art. I was not to be forgiven my improbable charity. In such a mood, he was unlikely to credit anything I might say.
“Oh, my dearest,” Mary cried, “do not be thinking of sending Jane away! I confess that I cannot do without her!”
Her plump hands were pressed against her mouth; she stared at Frank in dismay. I do not think she had ever witnessed a display of her husband's temper; but I have an idea it is very well known among Frank's colleagues in the Navy. He did not survive the mutinies at Spithead in '97, nor yet a gruelling chase across the Atlantic and back again in pursuit of the French, without driving his men and himself to the point of collapse.
“Damned foolish P he returned, with fine disregard for our landlady's peace. “And why? Because Celia Braggen—that lantern-jawed, jumped-up busybody whose husband is the worst sort of scrub—required it!”
“Jane only went to that dreadful place to spare me the trouble, Frank,” Mary stammered. “I thought it very kind in her to oblige Mrs. Braggen, and save me from giving offence!”
“I shall call upon that Harpy in the morning, and offer my opinion of her presumption,” he muttered.
“Then pray let us dine on the strength of your conviction, Frank—it does not do to meet a Harpy on an empty stomach.” Martha's attention was given entirely to drawing off her gloves. “Jane may sit at the farthest remove from Mary and the fire both, as punishment, and your mother have her meal on a tray. They do not offer much in the way of sustenance, in your southern coaching inns; and the smell of that joint makes me ready to weep with vexation.”
“Frank,” I interjected, “however angry you may be, I must have a word with you at once. It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”
My brother's brows were lowered over his frigid grey eyes. He glanced at Mary; she threw me a frightened look, but gathered up her sewing without a word. Martha placed a hand at her elbow, and was just saying comfortably as the door clicked behind them, “I hear that the talk in Southampton is all of short sleeves for the summer—” when I sank down into a chair.
Frank listened this time without interruption. I told him of Etienne LaForge, and the scene the French surgeon had witnessed on the Manon's quarterdeck; I told him of the blood from the head wound, and the lack of same from Porthiault's chest. I told him, moreover, of LaForge's final charge: This was no act of war. … Your Seqgrave was betrayed from within; and then I waited for some reaction from my hot-headed brother.
He was silent for the length of several heartbeats. He thrust his hands into his pockets and stood before the fire, his gaze fixed unseeing on the print of Weymouth that hung over Mrs. Davies's mantel.
“This French dog—this surgeon—would have it that Chessyre deliberately made Tom look a murderer. To what purpose, Jane?”
“I cannot say.”
“The notion of skullduggery is common enough, I grant you, among the French. But I hesitate to credit it.”
“Do you prefer to believe that Tom Seagrave lies?” I protested. “One or the other—Seagrave or Chessyre— must be acknowledged as duplicitous. You require a witness who may speak without prejudice; I have found you one. Why will you not consider all that he has said?”
“Because what LaForge would claim is utterly beyond reason. Why should Chessyre