a court-martial Thursday on a charge of murder. Frank is seeking intelligence on his friend's behalf. He hopes to clear his colleague. It is nothing less than this honourable purpose that has drawn him from home tonight—and no strumpet's charms. You must endeavour to think better of him, Mary, than your mother does.”
“Court-martial? On a charge of murder?” Mary's brow cleared. “Surely you do not refer to Captain Seagrave?”
“I do,” I replied, astonished. “Has Frank told you of his misfortune?”
“Not a word. I was not aware that Frank was acquainted with Lucky Tom. But you must know that the Stella's engagement with the Manon is the talk of the Navy! I have heard of nothing else, all February. Mary Foote is never done speaking of it; but she is quite the Captain's warmest advocate, and must insist he could never kill an enemy in cold blood. She is one of the few naval wives who do?
“And what do the rest say?”
“As much, or as little, as any party of women with their husbands' interest to divide them.” Mary glanced at me sidelong. “Some are moved by malice, others by jealousy, and still others by satisfaction at seeing the Captain's luck turn.”
“You would imply, I imagine, that they dislike Seagrave's wife—and rejoice in her misfortune. Louisa Seagrave intimated as much, when I spoke with her Monday.”
“You met Mrs. Seagrave?' Mary's curiosity succeeded where all my words of comfort could not, in dispelling her anxiety for her husband. “She actually consented to receive you?”
“Is such behaviour so extraordinary in a naval wife?”
“Quite the contrary. But Louisa Seagrave has never comported herself as a matron of Portsmouth, nor sought the company of those who do. She has a reputation for oddity, Jane. Mary Foote declares that she is going mad.”
Mad. Was that the trouble I had glimpsed in the confectioner's shop—the trembling hands, the distracted air, the refuge sought in a medicinal draught? Was the brilliant Louisa Seagrave unsound in her mind?
“I wonder that Frank did not tell me of his friendship with the Captain,” Mary mused to herself. “He is grown so secretive this winter.”.
I hesitated. What could, and should, be revealed? Nothing of the possible posting to the frigate—for Frank seemed determined to refuse it, were Seagrave to hang. “He did not wish to disturb your thoughts, Mary, when you have so much else to occupy you. The move to Castle Square, the infant's arrival—”
“And this is naval business, and therefore the province of men,” she concluded resignedly. “Has it ever occurred to you to wonder, Jane, why men insist on taking the full burden of their work and families entirely upon themselves?”
“Recall, my dear, that Frank has spent the past twenty years in living solely for himself,” I replied gently. “He has been a solitary fellow, and the business of sharing a life is entirely new to him. Give him time. Once your husband is again at sea, you will be positively overwhelmed with the duties you are expected to undertake.”
“I suppose you are right. But it galls me to learn, Jane, that he is disturbed in spirit on behalf of his friend—and could not feel it right to confide in me.”
Choosing, instead, his sister, I thought, for the long passage down the Solent. Yes, I see how it is.
Mary looked me full in the face. “Does Frank believe that Seagrave will hang?”
“He is doing everything in his power to ensure the reverse.”
“Then he is the first of my acquaintance to do as much.”
“In what manner has Seagrave offended the Navy, to garner so considerable a contempt?” I asked her.
“He has taken more prizes than other men, and not solely among the French.” I caught the ghost of a smile in the darkness. “It is said that Tom Seagrave is one of those sailors, Jane, who cannot keep his breeches on— and the Service cannot forgive him for it. There is such a thing as too much luck.”
“I see,” I replied. And considered anew the reputed madness of Lucky Tom's wife.
FRANK WAS CERTAINLY RETURNED, AND IN ADMIRABLE frame, when I descended to the breakfast parlour before eight o'clock. He had shaved, and changed yesterday's shirt for a fresh; his uniform coat was brushed and his shoe buckles polished.
“Well?” I enquired from the doorway. “Did you discover the sinister lieutenant?”
“Neither hide nor hair,” he replied cheerfully. “The fellow has done a bunk. I regard Seagrave's innocence as accomplished, Jane—for you cannot have a charge of murder, nor yet a court-martial, without