Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (90 page)

Noon

Though Emily had longed
to hide out in her bedchamber and take refuge under the quilts while the rain fell, upon re-entering the house Uncle Clarence had steered her toward the music room, where they now lolled about with the rest of the family, awaiting their next meal. Overhead the storm was unfurling its fury, plunging the room into obscurity, provoking her uncle, who had compared the moody atmosphere to that of an ancient burial cavern, to send the servants scrambling for candles so that he could decipher the words on the pages of the book he was attempting to read. With the first flash of lightning, Somerton had ended his ride and stabled his horse; however, Fleda and Gus, being loath to return indoors, would still be outside if the downpour had not forced them to take cover. The two youngsters, who had found mutual merriment in seeing one another’s hair and clothing soaking wet, were now safely sheltered in Mademoiselle’s schoolroom, eating their cheese sandwiches and taking their lessons in handwriting.

Aside from the occasional remark about the inclement weather, there was an absence of conversation. Adolphus was napping on the sofa, his arms draped over his immense middle; Uncle Clarence, now that he could see properly, was delighting in his book on naval warfare; and Somerton, still in his riding costume, had planted his boots in a wide stance before the north-facing window, his hands locked behind him, seemingly transfixed by the puddles forming out on the gravel courtyard. Sitting as far away as possible from Emily, Helena had her elegant head bent over her needlework, wordlessly making her tiny stitches, although her behaviour indicated a restlessness of the mind. She kept shifting upon her chair, as if sharp stones were irritating her delicate bottom, and she started at the slightest sound — thunderclaps included — that always ended with an anxious glance at the doorway.

“Oh,
where
is Wetherell?” she finally crackled, collapsing her work onto her lap.

Somerton replied over his shoulder. “Mother, you must know, he’s pondering the contents of his wardrobe in the hopes of bewitching us all with his latest fashion.”

“You know, Somerton, you could lend a dash of splendour and variety to your own fashion. You choose such dreary colours, one would think you were still in mourning.” She finished by throwing a significant look at Emily.

“Perhaps your
second
son does not choose to
frighten
us all,” said Emily with a fraudulent smile, inducing Somerton, though he kept his back to her, to break into a series of chuckles.

Into the music room rushed Wetherell, who did not disappoint in his dress, blazing like a flambeau amidst the gloom in gloves of lavender, satin breeches of rose, a flowered waistcoat of predominant yellows and greens, and a serge spencer jacket of the brightest orange. With his hands on his waist he strutted about, as if expecting compliments to be showered upon him. He had discarded his distinguishing high collars in favour of shorter ones, which were completely hidden by his elaborately wrapped and starched cravat, and secured to his protruding middle was his fob-watch ribbon with a dangling medley of silver and gold seals. His white silk stockings were of the finest quality and decorated with yellow embroidered clocks at the ankles, and his black shoes were adorned with prodigious leather bows. Despite the fact that he was a vision of fastidious perfection — with the exception of his calf padding, for one of the pads had slipped down his leg, destroying the symmetry of his lower limbs — no one in the assembled audience uttered a single word of praise, which prompted a pouting end to his strutting and the articulation of a cold commandment. “Very well, then, all of you out. Out you go!”

Emily’s hand flew to her throat as the family scrambled to obey him, not one of them questioning his motives. Without hesitation Somerton terminated his vigil at the window, and Uncle Clarence snapped his book shut to help Helena awaken and carry a light-headed Adolphus to the door. Trying to make sense of the scene, Emily stood up to follow, but Wetherell’s hand shot out to stop her. “Oh, but
you
must stay, Your Royal Highness.”

The last one to leave was Somerton. Grinning from ear to ear, he gave Emily a naval salute, and took great pains to quietly close the door on them, as if one small, creaking sound was bound to shatter the room’s collection of porcelain and glass ornaments.

“Sit! Sit down again, Your Royal Highness,” said Wetherell, pacing the area in front of the chimneypiece. He waited until she had returned to her chair, and then, stopping before her, he pulled himself up to his full height, and assumed a sober expression. Emily folded her hands on her lap, and waited for him to speak. There was a lengthy period of silence between them, though thunder shook the foundations of the house and rain fell in torrents against the tall window, obliterating all prospects of the outside world. At one point Wetherell did open his mouth, but closed it up again. Afterward, he resumed his pacing, his lips pursed in contemplation.

Emily’s leg began to bounce. She felt the eyes of Octavius Lindsay staring down at her from his gilded frame, and a desperate need to leave the room. “I am guessing, sir, you’re finding this subject a difficult one to raise with me.”

“Quite! It is never easy for a man.”

“Shall I help you say it then?”

“That would be most inappropriate, Your Royal Highness. As I am a gentleman, I must do the deed in my own way.”

“Of course! Forgive me,” she said, settling back in her chair.

“My mother, I’m afraid, does not like you.”

Emily peered up at him. “You’re right, she does not, though I’m not in any way troubled by her adverse feelings toward me.”

Wetherell gave her a momentary glare while he paced. “Therefore, the arrangement shall be difficult.”

“I believe you mean to say: the arrangement
is
difficult.”

A second, stronger glare from him silenced her. “Father likes you enough, says you’re a splendid sort of girl, but then I really don’t care what anyone thinks of you. As a matter of fact, I don’t particularly like you either. You are too perverse and headstrong for my tastes.”

Emily could not help herself. “Now this is most troubling, sir! Would I rise in your noble esteem if I were daily to assist you in the selection of your shoes and jackets and trimmings, and agree to play cards with you every evening?”

He halted before her. “Oh, indeed, I would like that! This is great encouragement,” he said, locking his hands behind him, just as Somerton had while gazing out the window. “The thing is, Your Royal Highness, I have my gambling debts, and if I don’t settle them soon I shall be in a world of hurt. I may even lose possession of Hartwood when it comes to me, and this would bring shame to my family and leave my poor mother homeless, even though I don’t especially give a fig. What worries me exceedingly is the thought that I may be given the toss from Boodle’s, my beloved club, and if this were to happen, Your Royal Highness, I could not find a reason to live. Are you following me? Do you
understand
what I am saying?”

“No, sir! You speak in riddles! But my guess is, in a circuitous way, you’re trying to ask for your emerald ring back, since you require it to assist in paying down your debts.”

To this, Wetherell had no answer other than to gape at her, as if she were a snake that had fled the storm and had curled up comfortably on the music-room chair. Refusing to be put off by his rudeness, Emily continued. “Your mother spoke to me of its sentimental value; made known her unhappiness that it is now in my possession. You may have the ring back, so long as you do not ask me, in addition, to return the money I won fairly the other night. If you are the gentleman you claim to be, you’ll accept this, and ask for no more.”

Wetherell threw back his head to guffaw, surprising Emily that his wig did not flip off in the gesture. “Like all the members of your family, you
are
cork-brained.”

Emily angled her head, and chilled her voice. “Excuse me; I do not believe I heard you correctly.”

“I scoff at you for imagining I wanted the emerald back; it means nothing to me. It’s true, my mother does hold an obscene sentiment for it —
what
exactly, I’m
not
at liberty to say. As my debts are exorbitant, the emerald would be nothing but a drop in a black hole.”

“Then speak plainly, sir. What is it you want?”

“I want
you
to pay off my debts.”

It was Emily’s turn to laugh. “Do you imagine, sir, that I have a chest of gold coins stashed under my bed on the first floor, and would — in good faith — share it with a man such as yourself, one I hardly know and one who has no discipline when it comes to his addictions?”

His features hardened. “Ah, but you
shall
pay my debts.”

“How so?”

“When we are married.”

Emily blinked, her eyes falling first on his dark-red lips, and then plunking down on his belly. “Surely you jest! Tell me you are trifling with me.”

“I do not jest, nor do I trifle.”

“Sir! We have been acquainted for five days.”

“If we’d met for the first time, standing up before the clergyman, it would’ve made little difference to me.”

“Oh, but to me it would,” said Emily, shaking her head with mock gravity, “for you have not yet apprised me of the secrets you hide under your powdered wigs.”

Wetherell’s retort was a swift one. “And you shall remain unapprised, for my wigs come to bed with me.”

“I cannot think of two people more unsuited for one another.”

“What does suitability have to do with anything?” Wetherell groaned, taking up his pacing again. “To me your connections and physical attractiveness alone will suffice. We shall produce at least one heir, and then you shall live here with my mother, and I shall take up residence in London. After that we need not bother with one another.”

Emily’s hand made its way to her mouth. Before answering, she had to trust she would not be prevailed upon by her churning stomach to spring for the duke’s chamber pot. “When my annulment has been formally ratified,” she said with slow enunciation, “I shall not be seeking to remarry.”

Wetherell made a sucking sound with his tongue. “Your Royal Highness, a woman such as yourself, who has blemished her reputation with her reckless flight to the sea and her cavorting with Jack Tars, is fortunate indeed that a gentleman such as myself, of such
unblemished
lineage, has chosen to accept you as a wife.”

“Sir, let me be clear: in order to marry, I must be a willing participant.”

“That did not stop you the first time.”

“I do not
want
a husband, and even if I did I would not choose
you
.”

Wetherell reddened. “I have been informed that you do not have a choice in the matter.”

“Informed? Informed by whom?”

“You must face reality, Your Royal Highness. You are an embarrassment to your relations; one who has no prospects. Marrying me is your only salvation, your only path to regaining any manner of respectability.” He re-knotted his cravat while he delivered his final blow. “Your family has not only given their permission, they have promised that our marriage
shall
take place, and the ball my mother is planning shall be the celebratory backdrop for our upcoming nuptials.”

A litany of events and innuendoes collided in Emily’s head. All at once so many things, so many baffling speeches and glances and secret conversations, began to make perfect sense. She felt a flush of heat race through her veins, and her eyes strayed around the room, seeing nothing at first, not even Wetherell in his extravagant costume. Then the storm played into her thoughts. Periodic lightning threw silver-grey shadows upon the burial cavern, the rain pounded the gardens and the earth, and the subsequent thunder rattled the windowpanes. The noise was so tremendous, surely the family — were they listening at the door — would not hear if she were to leap up to slam drawers and overturn tables and smash china vases. But even this therapeutic notion could not lift her from her chair. Without warning, she was seized with a tickle of laughter, and try as she might she had no control over it. At first her laughs came in short, chuckling gulps, which shook her shoulders, and soon her whole body joined in, throwing her into complete convulsions, barely able to breathe let alone speak, and with each peek at Wetherell she helplessly slipped further and further off her chair.

Wetherell’s lower lip hit the floor. In horror, he watched her unbridled display, as if he expected — any second now — to see her explode, and her severed head and limbs propelled across the room. A curious shade of purple, similar to the colour of his fine coach, overspread his face, and he began jerking his head in a strange manner, as if he were trying to rid his ears of water. But when Emily did nothing to stop her gales of laughter, or dash away the mirthful tears rolling down her face, he tugged on the hem of his jacket and headed for the door, moving so swiftly he walked over on his ankle, causing the crooked calf padding to slide further down his leg.

28

Noon

(Forenoon Watch, Eight Bells)

Aboard HMS
Amethyst

It was all over just
past noon, at the precise moment when two of the
Amethyst
’s midshipmen, bearing their sextants and quadrants, had completed their measurements of latitude and were reporting their findings to Captain Prickett and Fly Austen. The American schooner bobbed in the waves, as helpless as a toy whose owner had inflicted many imaginary battles upon her, and in doing so had shredded her sails, bloodied her crew, and charred her timbers. On either side of her, lying in the water like a pair of giant oars, lay the schooner’s masts, which had come crashing down amidst great cheering from the Amethysts and the Remarkables, sending the vanquished crew scampering to escape certain death under their frightening weight.

It had been Prosper Burgo’s fight from start to finish. The
Amethyst
had not fired a single shot; nevertheless, she had stood by with her colours proudly raised once more, a beacon to the privateersman and his Remarkables that a friend was in their midst. Now, abandoning their guns and stations, the Amethysts gathered at the rails to witness the aftermath, and at the sight of Prosper lowering his boats there came a second, cheerful outpouring of “Huzzah!” Of those who raised their voices, Fly was certain it was Mrs. Kettle who whooped the loudest. Dressed in her very best, she danced out in the open, waving a dainty handkerchief and yoo-hooing in the hopes that Prosper might hear her from across the watery divide. “I just knew he’d come back fer me … I just knew it,” was her effusive cry to the sailors and anyone else who cared to listen.