Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (97 page)

A dreadful silence descended. Frozen with unhappiness and unable to meet his benumbed gaze, she was conscious of him slowly rising to his feet and drifting toward the window where the rain streaked the diamond-shaped panes. She rested her head against the side of her soft chair and listened to the shhh sound of the rain; heard laughter in the far reaches of the parlour, and closer by, the innkeeper’s wife humming a lively tune. Eventually she peeked up at the bent figure by the window, her heart clenching in sympathy to see his eyes squeezed shut as if awaiting the passing of a stabbing pain. When he spoke again, little remained of his self-assuredness.

“I’ll leave here this morning, and take Mr. Walby with me — Lord knows his Aunt Sophia doesn’t want him — but I shall say nothing to him of this right away. I’ll tell him we’re going to visit my sister who lives near Portsmouth. He may like a little holiday by the sea while I — I await word.”

“If only I could keep him with me.”

“Even if you could, I’m afraid Mr. Walby’s embarrassment is too severe to return to Hartwood at present. But
you
are more than welcome to accompany us. Eliza would be happy to offer you a room.” He attempted to lessen his despair with a crack at levity. “I must warn you though: you might starve and freeze in your bed at night, for she keeps a diet of bread and cheese, and holds strict economy over her coal supply.”

“Having been on the sea, Doctor, one appreciates any sort of bed and sustenance.” Emily’s smile failed as her eyes travelled around the snug alcove. “Thank you. I’ve not been outside of Hartwood since my coming here three weeks ago. I feel like a child who’s been locked away in an airless schoolroom with only a surly instructress for company, and finally I’ve been rescued, allowed to spend the day as I please, though keenly aware that my freedom shall be short-lived. As much as I’d dearly love to be waiting there with you, I cannot accept your kind invitation.” She hesitated a moment. “Perhaps, before we part, you would be so kind as to give me your sister’s address.”

He signalled comprehension with a nod. “Should you come to us, we’ll take good care of you —” Struggling to swallow, to complete his thought, his hands fell limply at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Emily went to him. She seized his helpless hands and pressed encouragement into his knotted fingers.

“Leander is — my son is all I have left.”

Leaning forward, Emily met his eyes. “Then we shall not give up hope,” she whispered.

8:55 a.m.

Emily hurried into her
bedroom, breathless with elation that she had evaded discovery; relieved that — having found the gates of Hartwood locked and barred — she had managed to clamber over the rough stone wall without incident or infliction, though the same could not be said for her unfortunate trousers. Her only wish now was to be alone, to shut out the world, but when a swift rustling movement caught her eye she stopped in her tracks.

The beautifully carved doors of the wardrobe stood wide open like a colossal mouth with its interior indecently exposed, and Emily could see that the lid of her little sea chest — shoved away in the bottom left corner — had been raised and shut again in a hurry, for a hapless shirtsleeve had got caught up and was hanging over the side like a spent tongue. Balancing unsteadily before the scene in a pearl-grey morning dress and ribbon-trimmed cap was the duchess, holding a clutch of letters in one of her elegant hands, attempting to muster poise, despite looking like she had been caught plundering the cookie cupboard.

“Helena!” gasped Emily, tugging her scarf from her head, her damp curls dropping past her shoulders. “I’m glad to see you’re no longer keeping to your room.”

Helena’s complexion altered, blanching first before a scarlet flush engulfed her. “Thank you.”

“Were you looking for me, or —?” Emily eyed the wardrobe.

“Ah,” said Helena, executing a cheerful pirouette. “Yes! I … as a matter of fact … yes, I was looking for you —”

“And did you think I might be hiding out in the wardrobe in amongst my gowns?”

As if stalling for time, Helena’s eyes flitted senselessly around the room, but forthwith a fierce puckering of her lips accentuated the grooves around her mouth. “Do remember, I have the right to go where I please at Hartwood.”

“Forgive me, but I’m unaccustomed to seeing you in this particular room; indeed, shocked to find you here at all when our last meeting was so disagreeable.”

“You have only yourself to thank for that.”

Emily chose to ignore her. “Have you come to make peace, and escort me to the breakfast table?”

“Certainly not!”

Emily inclined her head at the letters in Helena’s hand. “Is there one addressed to me? I’m still awaiting the arrival of the letter Mr. Walby claims to have sent.”

As if fearing Emily might try to pry them from her, Helena pressed the letters to her bosom. “No, there is not.”

“To what then may I attribute the honour of your presence?”

Helena’s eyes wandered the length of Emily’s trousers, halting — growing huge with horror — on the knees, both of which had been muddied and torn open during Emily’s scramble and plummet over the wall. Only once the shock of the trousers had abated did she explain herself. “I — well, I have the very
best
of news.”

Emily relaxed her frown; her lips fell open as she waited. Was it possible? Did she dare hope?

“Tomorrow night the salons of Hartwood shall be opened to our friends for an evening of music and dancing.”

“Tomorrow is Monday,” blinked Emily in disgust.

“
My
friends seek pleasure every day of the week, and shall be overjoyed to have an excuse to wear their finest, and to make
your
better acquaintance.” In a rustle of silk, Helena wheeled about to begin a critical inspection of Emily’s gowns, hanging in the wardrobe. “Overcome with anxiety regarding your evening dress, I came at once to discuss possibilities, and,” — she paused for an affecting smile — “to search for my white elbow gloves and pearls that I loaned you for your first Hartwood ball. I should like to wear them at our little soiree.”

Emily was certain this last bit had been invented on the spot; nevertheless, fighting down the disappointment of Helena’s
news
, she went to retrieve the items in the top drawer of the antique dresser near her bed. “Rather than upset yourself, why not postpone your soiree?” she asked, handing over the gloves and pearls.

There was an arrogant lift of Helena’s patrician chin. “Once the decision has been made, I do not
postpone
my parties.”

Emily searched the older woman’s face. “Did Somerton have an opportunity to apprise you of the news my Uncle Clarence received before he left Hartwood yesterday morning in a mad dash?”

“He did.”

“In light of
such
intelligence, how can you even contemplate parties?”

There was nothing in Helena’s deportment to indicate the news had given her a moment’s unrest. Instead, she backed away — in a hurry, it seemed, to leave at once — and arched one brow. “All the more reason to press forward with our plans.”

34

9:00 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Two Bells)

Aboard the
Prosperous and Remarkable

The guns! There they
were again. The guns!

Hemmed in by the insurmountable hulls of enemy vessels, Leander felt the skiff roll and lurch and descend. Overhead the mouths of carronades vomited grapeshot and canister, leaving wrecks in their wake as ruinous and worthless as carved up carcasses of meat. Masts tottered and moaned like stupefied giants, timbers haemorrhaged, yards and booms and ropes were left hanging in their execution, and gaunt sails endeavoured to drape the destruction.

Leander was alone in the skiff, alone on the sea. The enemy crews had abandoned ship, leaving the scorching guns to continue the warring, allowing ghostly fingers to strike the matches and light the fuses. His feet had blackened. His flesh had been worm eaten. His stomach convulsed with hunger. He groped the bottom of the food bucket only to find it was empty. Prepared to end his own fight, he lay back and clasped his hands over his heart, his failing vision falling upon a gaping, ragged wound in the side of one of the ships. There she was, untouched, smiling, sitting in her cot, the canvas curtain stirring behind her like a sentinel, protecting her where he once had. With a slight nod of her pale gold head she beckoned, and her voice came to him, a gentle sough in his ears: “Wait for me. Watch for me —”

“Dr. Braden? Sir?”

His eyelids fluttered open and he blinked, trying to identify the face at his bedside, struck down by an overpowering sense of loss when he realized it was not
her
. A dark circle had stained the skin beneath Magpie’s eye, and his small sooty fingers — remnants and reminders of his days as a London climbing boy — gripped the hammock’s rim, as if he were expecting a thirty-two-pounder to come crashing through the orlop wall.

“Is it the guns you fear, Magpie?”

“They haven’t sounded yet, sir, but I’m waitin’ fer ’em. Them ships have bin followin’ us all night.”

Leander remembered the explosions in his dream, but the spell of Emily’s fond smile was broken, receding swiftly beyond the point of retrieval. “We’re below the waterline down here,” he assured the little sailmaker, noticing then that the two beds swinging nearby were empty, their occupants curiously absent. “We didn’t lose them in the night, did we?”

Magpie still clutched the hammock. “Not to worry, sir. Pemberton Baker came and hauled Biscuit outta bed, mumblin’ somethin’ ’bout no rest fer wicked cooks, tellin’ him he had to help feed the Remarkables afore Prosper went to work.”

Leander frowned, attempting to make sense of the word
work
. “And what of our other friend?”

“He got hauled off too. And — and once ya’ve had yer oatmeal, sir, Pemberton wants ya to do up a surgery down here.”

Oh,
dear God!

Leander lay still, clutching his moth-eaten blanket, staring up at the water drops clinging to the beams, trying to predict which ones would give up the fight and fall.

“Are you okay, sir?”

“Yes — yes, I’m fine.” With a herculean effort of willpower, he sat upright and massaged his neck as he considered the congested platforms around him. After long moments, he gave his throat a good clearing. “Right then! We’ll need a few strong men to assist us. These barrels and staves must be moved somewhere out of the way, and I must have a table, and a covering sheet, and some sand, and — and a gag for the men to bite down upon. I’ll require assistants, and light … plenty of light. Bring me as many lanterns as you can find. And ask Prosper what surgical instruments he possesses on board, and if he can spare a bottle or two of rum.”

Magpie acknowledged every one of his demands with a bob of his head. “And what about yer glasses, sir? Don’t ya needs ’em to work on the men?”

Leander regarded him in dismay. “Long gone, I’m afraid, but see what you can find.”

“I’ll ask Mr. Austen and Mr. Evans to help us, sir.”

“No, don’t bother Mr. Austen, but do bring Mr. Evans, and a couple of Prosper’s men.”

“Ya gotta know, sir, most o’ them are ruffians.”

“We’ve no time to indulge in fastidiousness.”

Magpie’s little forehead furrowed up like a cloth of corduroy, prompting a smile from Leander. “Bring me anyone who possesses two arms and two legs.”

“Sir!” With a tenacious salute, Magpie scampered off toward the ladder, though he’d scarcely made headway when Leander was forced to recall him at once.

“Before you dash off, I shall require your assistance in climbing from my bed. It might be wise to determine whether or not I’m able to stand upright on my own.”

9:30 a.m.

“Sir, we’re outta range!”

“Wait ’til Prosper brings us up on the wind. Fire low! Aim for their hulls! We must sink them.” Fly paced the gun deck, his heart leaping in his chest. He detested being down here. Between billowing smoke and shot splash on the waves, he could barely discern who it was they were shooting at through the gun ports. His last look at the
Amethyst
had been a demoralizing one, the three smaller American vessels closing in on her like a black veil. Had he a speaking trumpet in hand, he could have roared at her seemingly incapacitated crew: “For God’s sake, deploy your guns! Prickett! Bridlington! Deploy your guns … NOW!”

But he was not standing with the Amethysts, and
this
ship was not his to command; he therefore went where he was needed. The gun captains and their crews assigned to work the
Prosperous and Remarkable
’s fourteen, twenty-four-pounder carronades required supervision, someone in charge to rein in their exuberance; otherwise, he was quite sure, all would descend into anarchy. The Remarkables had fanned out in every direction around him, crouched over the guns, stripped to their waists, scarves tied to their heads to sop up sweat. Smoke-blackened hands pushed and pulled, glistening backs strained, heated voices goaded and bellowed.

“Damp the sparks! Reload!”

Overhead, Fly knew Prosper had seized the brig’s wheel from Pemberton, for in the relative tranquillity between the whirring, cracking, splitting, and shrieking he could hear the privateersman’s hoarse commands doled out with salty condescension. To Meg Kettle, the deafening sounds having reduced her to a blathering idiot, Prosper had previously delivered an ultimatum: “Either ya keep yer mandible glued, or I’ll take an amputatin’ saw to yer tongue.” Being fond of her talking parts, Meg was now suitably employed in carrying canisters of gunpowder up from the hold, wheezing fiercely as if plagued with a respiratory ailment, and keeping her loads well before her in case they exploded in her face.

Before giving the next command, Fly gave a fleeting moment’s thought to Leander on the orlop, working over the wounded on his thin, feeble legs, an ill-fitting pair of spectacles stuck on his nose — not the perfect prescription, though adequate perhaps — and at his side, little, loyal Magpie, a heap of nerves, his eye large and brilliant in the darkness.