Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (80 page)

“When the
Isabelle
was set afire, and we lads, along with Mr. Austen, were bobbin’ about, we had no food, no drink. Ach, we were a sorry lot. So I decided that won’t be happenin’ on the
Amethyst
, and hid a pail o’ salted pork and dried beans in every boat fer this kind o’ occasion. Of course, I couldn’t stash the grog away.”

“Why is that?”

“At night the lads on watch would sniff it out, and be sportin’ grog blossoms in the mornin’, the kind Mr. Austen would be sure to spot.”

“Grog blossoms?”

“Ya know, when yer all flush-faced from drinkin’.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I grabbed nothin’ prior to leavin’ the sinkin’
Isabelle
, so this time I made sure we wouldna go thirsty.” Biscuit helped himself to a carefully measured swig before passing off the flask to Leander, who, in turn, slid it along the boat’s ribbed bottom toward the taciturn coxswain.

“I’m grateful for that which experience has taught you. It would be dire indeed if it weren’t for your beans and pork, and flasks of grog. I don’t think we would’ve survived long on handfuls of rainwater.”

“Truth is, Doc, I’m always carryin’ a full flask hidden in me shirt. Ya won’t be tellin’ that to Mr. Austen now, will ya?”

“If we’re so fortunate as to see Mr. Austen once more, rest assured, I shall be as silent as a cemetery on the subject.”

Biscuit winked in thanks.

“I … I’ve never experienced severe hunger, but the men I’ve known who’ve lived through a shipwreck, and thus met with it, tell me the stomach cramps are fierce.”

“Aye, they be! When this lot’s gone, ya’ll know what I mean.”

“I’ll not think of that now.”

“Best not, Doc! When the time comes, we’ll draw lots.”

“What for?”

“To decide which one of us we’re going to eat.”

“Oh! Shall we resort to cannibalism?”

“Aye, that’s it!”

“And how do you propose we kill the poor victim?” Leander asked the question, drawing deep breaths to keep his stomach from heaving. “Stick his head underwater until he drowns?”

“Nay, we let ’im decide fer himself.”

“How fortunate for him.”

“Though ’tis best to bleed ’im, and the rest o’ us drink his blood, and gorge on his flesh.”

“And end up with raging insanity?”

“Won’t matter at that point.”

“I suppose not,” said Leander in a hollow voice.

They fell quiet, Leander searching the low waves and imagining — as he had for days now — being sighted by the
Amethyst
or the
Lady Jane
, or some such ship with friendly inclinations. But the hours passed slowly, agonizingly slow, and more often than not his daydreaming mind strayed toward the sinister eventuality that either an American or French frigate would find them, and forthwith despatch them to a godforsaken prison.

He could not — would not — end his days on foreign soil, in obscurity, forgotten by all.

It wasn’t long before Biscuit once again took up his chatter. “Been on the sea most of me life, seen a lot o’ men drown. I keep thinkin’ we all need a pair o’ special-made trousers or somethin’ to keep us afloat, should we have the misfortune o’ bein’ tossed overboard.”

“Did you really see Magpie restored to the
Amethyst
?” It was a question Leander had already asked a dozen times.

“I tell ya, Doc, though I have a lazy eye, I swear to ya, the sea saw fit to take him right back to Mr. Austen. I seen the likes afore where one wave washes men overboard, and another washes them right back agin. Right astoundin’, it is!”

“I do rest easier, knowing the boy is safe.”

“He’ll be sick with worry when he learns yer gone, Doc.”

Leander frowned. “He may be more distraught to think he’s lost forever his precious miniature of Emily.”

Biscuit arched one of his bushy eyebrows. “
His
precious miniature, sir?”

“You see, we share it,” said Leander, averting his eyes from Biscuit’s leering face, “and as I was the last to have the responsibility for it, I locked it away in my writing box.”

Biscuit let go a long, gurgling sigh. “Ah, she were a fine lass. All o’ us loved her.”

Leander could not trust himself to speak.

“Well, aside from the privateersman Prosper Burgo, that is. Emily were a bit too scrawny fer his tastes; he preferred his Meggie, his roly-poly puddin’.”

Still, Leander could say nothing; his heart was too full. He could not allow himself to think of Emily at all. The pain was worse than anything he had had to endure in the skiff. And yet he could not — without giving up on life — give up hope that he might one day see her again. With his eyes following the swirling puddles of seawater racing along the bottom of the boat, he could hear Biscuit digging around in the dwindling food pail. He looked up only when the cook placed a portion of salted pork into his hands.

“Here, Doc, take a bite o’ this to keep yer energy up. ’Twould taste a sight better if we’d enough freshwater to soak it properly, but no mind. Eat up and set yer eyes on the waves. We’ve seen a sail or two in our travels. Might be we’ll see another one.”

“Do you really think we might be sitting on the shipping route?”

“Might be!”

“I’m determined to believe so.”

“Ah, Doc, someone’s bound to spot our wee sail.”

“Right!” said Leander with a firm nod of his turbaned head.

“Just hope we ain’t reduced to a mound o’ bleached bones when they do.”

20

Monday, August 23

10:00 a.m.

Hartwood Hall

Exhausted by her
rigorous exercise, having marched around the wooded walk at least ten times before taking the gravel driveway that led to the main gate of Hartwood, Emily was only too glad to drop down upon the cool earth at the foot of a towering beech tree to rest. Gathering her skirts up around her and kicking off her silk slippers, she massaged her aching ankle, setting her sights on the insurmountable walls of stone in the hopes of seeing the magpie again. Twice now during her lonely jaunts around the estate she had spotted him, always near the main gate, and always he had given her a direct glance — a genuine indication of their kinship. Pondering her present existence, she looked up at the umbrella of branches overhead. “It would seem that the only one willing to keep your company these days is a bird,” she said with a sarcastic snuffle. “But then you don’t care for the human company to be found around here, do you, Emeline?”

Emily closed her eyes on the warm morning, refusing to dwell upon Somerton’s behaviour on Friday evening, and his puzzling pronouncements. Already she had spent too many of her sad hours ruminating those distasteful scenes. Today she desired only to revisit the
Isabelle
and pretend she was not sitting under a tree in England, but cross-legged on the wide planks of the ship’s hospital floor with Gus and Magpie and Leander around her, reading passages of Jane Austen’s
Sense and Sensibility
, keenly aware of Leander’s magnificent eyes and his stolen glances in her direction. The distance between them was ever widening; she could feel it. The lagging days here at Hartwood were rapidly erasing her memories of the smells and sounds and emotions of that past time, benumbing her with a forlorn sense of loss.

It wasn’t long before an approaching reverberation on the road beyond the walls dispelled her musings. Opening her eyes, she watched as the gatekeeper hurried from his cottage to unlock the heavy gates and welcome a convoy of wagons that trundled past her with their loads en route to the mansion. Supplies! Always supplies! Although it was not immediately obvious what was packed away in those bags and chests and tins and boxes, Emily suspected they contained flour and sugar, haunches of meat, precious tea and candles, and perhaps even new pieces of furniture. And if allowed to inspect the wagons’ loads more closely, she would surely find one filled with yards of costly fabric for Helena’s maid, so that the woman might sew more unnecessary gowns for Hartwood’s
royal
orphan
. Emily sighed. Why couldn’t a family member or a friend pass through those gates? Even the prosecuting lawyer, whose visit had been foretold by her Uncle Clarence, had not yet come to see her. Had everyone — especially those for whom she cared — forgotten her then?

Easing back against the trunk of the tree, Emily was determined to lose herself in daydreams when she noticed, at the tail end of the wagon assembly, an unfamiliar coach entering the grounds. She knew it could not belong to the duke and duchess, for earlier she had greeted the Lindsay family entering the breakfast room just as she was preparing to leave it. The duke was most disappointed that she had already taken breakfast, but did not wish to delay her in her daily ritual of walking the estate.

The closed body of the coach — a curious shade of purple — and the flanks of the two fine horses that pulled it, gleamed in the morning sunshine, and though there was no coat of arms emblazoned upon its doors, the attending coach and footmen were fitted out in colourful liveries of lilac and yellow. Piled high upon its roof were a number of trunks, leaving Emily wondering if the passenger — or passengers — intended to partake of the duke’s gracious hospitality for an extended stay. As the coach gracefully rolled passed her beech tree, she managed to glimpse a single silhouetted figure sitting erect on the seat, hands folded upon a cane, eyes looking straight ahead. With interest she followed its stately progress through the park until it had rounded a corner and was lost in a thicket of trees.

Jumping up, Emily brushed off the fallen leaves stuck to the back of her dress and looked toward the gate walls. This time her glance was rewarded, for there he was, his little feet hopping sideways atop one of the grey stones, his wing feathers an iridescence of purplish-blue.

“Hello, my friend,” she called out.

Planting his feet, the magpie looked her over with his beady eyes, giving her such a lengthy, unnatural stare, Emily was certain he could read her thoughts and recite her entire turbulent history if given a voice. Laughing, she dared him to look away, but he didn’t, at least not until their silent communication was broken by the sharp barking of a dog, and Fleda’s voice ringing clear across the park.

“Emily! Emily, come quick!”

The magpie quit the wall and flitted toward the higher branches of his favourite mountain ash tree where he paused briefly to inspect the newcomers, unleashing an admonishing chatter before sailing off into the sky.

“What is it?” asked Emily, setting off toward Fleda.

“We have a visitor.”

Emily picked up her pace. “Who has come?”

“You must hurry, and see for yourself.”

1:00 p.m.

Hartwood Hall

Until luncheon was served
, Emily was kept in suspense. According to Fleda, the visitor had insisted upon taking a rest, a bath, a change of clothes, and being rewarded with a lavish meal to banish the dirt and weariness of the long journey. Although Emily had pumped the girl all the way back to the house, Fleda had remained smugly tight-lipped, revealing nothing further than Glenna’s threat to
“hang, draw and quarter”
her if she breathed a word — the housekeeper desiring to surprise her as well. No sooner had Emily stepped into the front hall than Glenna herself, clucking disapproval, seized her elbow and steered her across the marble floor toward the staircase.

“I’ll not have ya come to the table lookin’ like that,” she scolded.

“Like what?”

“Like yer some back-alley dweller from Tothill Fields!” Glenna paused before a hall mirror and forced Emily to look at herself. “Have ya bin sittin’ on the ground? Yer dress is soiled, and, Lud … did a family o’ bats make a nest o’ yer hair? Go clean yerself up.”

Emily managed a tone of defiance. “I’ll clean up for no one but King George.”

Glenna’s round face reddened; her lacy cap shook. “Ya’ll clean up fer this one!”

Incensed at being ordered to change and dress her hair, but in a frenzy of curiosity to know who had come to Hartwood — who it was that had succeeded in stirring up such a fuss amongst the family — Emily did as she was told. Just prior to 1:00 p.m., rather than being summoned to the parlour or music room so that she might receive a formal introduction to the guest, the butler ushered her straight to the dining room where the heavy draperies were drawn upon the hot afternoon. Wringing her hands as she made her entrance, she suddenly felt insignificant standing beneath its grand chandeliers, ornamental plastered ceiling, and myriad masterpieces fixed upon its grey-blue walls. As if on cue, everyone’s glance swivelled her way, including — it seemed — the stern-looking figures in the frames, while hers eagerly sought out and fell upon the visitor. With the exception of Adolphus, who surely felt it was no longer required of him to make the effort, those seated at the elegant table rose from their chairs to greet her with a polite bow.

Praying no one had detected the lines of disappointment surely visible upon her face, Emily bowed in return. She had harboured such hopes of finding one of her uncles or aunts sitting here amongst the Lindsay family, or even the lawyer, for
he
at least, with his countless questions, would have indulged her in an afternoon of reliving her weeks on the
Isabelle
. But she must be wrong on all accounts, for never had she met a lawyer who dressed himself in such an extravagant manner as this male, middle-aged visitor standing before her.

He was attired in a quality jacket, the colour of ripened limes, cutaway at the waist with tails that nearly touched the floor. His cream-and- yellow-striped trousers were exceedingly voluminous, almost concealing his high-heeled and spurred boots, and in his waistband pocket he carried a gold watch from which dangled a fob ribbon with three seals of ivory and silver. A scarlet striped waistcoat contained his thick middle, and underneath it he wore a heavily starched frilly shirt, the collars of which rose to the height of his cheekbones. His head seemed locked between those high collars, causing Emily to wonder whether, were he not careful, they might lift up his powdered wig to reveal a scalp of scanty hair. His lips were purple and fleshy, like two rounded plum slices, and his stubby fingers — clasped comfortably on his belly — were decorated with emerald and diamond rings. Emily could not guess where the duke and duchess had made the acquaintance of such a
fop
.