Jane and the prisoner of wool house by Stephanie Barron

Author:Stephanie Barron [Stephanie Barron]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Histoire
ISBN: 9780553578409
Published: 2002-10-29T07:00:00+00:00

1Barque of frailty was the cant term for a mistress or courtesan.— Editor's note.

Chapter 14

A turn for the Worse

Friday,

27 February 1807,

~

I AWOKE NOT LONG AFTER SEVEN O'CLOCK TO THE SOUND of a fist hammering at the front door.

My ears strained through the dawn stillness for the issue of so much commotion—caught the tramp of sleep-dulled feet along Mrs. Davies's lower passage—the murmur of conversation—the thud of the heavy oak. There was an instant's silence, and then the same ponderous tread of a woman long past her prime, mounting the steps and making for my brother's bedchamber.

Another express. From Portsmouth, perhaps?

Mrs. Davies would not be pleased to have lost her final hour of rest in the presentation of Captain Austen's mail.

I threw back the bedclothes and stretched my warm feet to the cold drugget. There was little point in attempting further sleep; I had tossed throughout the night, my dreams consumed by a dimly-lit room and the glittering, half-opened eyes of a whispering Frenchman. There was something he meant to tell me—some message he sought to convey—but either the noise in my head was too great for hearing, or his French was become suddenly unintelligible. I could not make out the sense of his words.

Must I always translate for you? Etienne LaForge enquired wearily. Chessyre is dead. I shall not long survive him.

I drew my dressing gown about my shoulders. The palest light seeped through the clouded windows; a bank of heavy fog pressed down upon the house. It was an hour for lying curled in a huddle of warm blankets; but I could not be easy in my mind. The Frenchman's words haunted me. Was I a fool to accord such weight to the spectres of fancy? Perhaps in my younger days I might have shrugged off this nocturnal warning; but the wages of experience are caution. I have learned that what waking thought may not penetrate, the slumbering mind will illumine. I am hardly the first to credit the notion—the English language is replete with aphorisms that would urge a troubled soul to retire with worry, and find comfort in the dawn. For are we not “such stuff/As dreams are made on, and our little life/Is rounded with a sleep”?1

Chessyre is dead. I shall not long survive him.

I twitched back the curtains and strained to make out the street below. My eyes have never been strong, and in the grey light every outline was indistinct; but even I could not mistake the horse and rider lingering there. The express messenger had been instructed to wait. His mount snorted and tossed its head; its breath

showed white in the frigid air. At that moment, I caught the sound of my brother's door bursting open, and the quick light race of his feet along the passage. The reply, then, would be urgent. I must dress and discover what intelligence was come before Frank entirely quitted the house.

I let fall the curtain and broke the thin layer of ice in my ewer. I

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