Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (98 page)

“Wait for the downroll! Now! Fire!”

The direct hit smashed into an enemy’s stern near her rudder, spewing deadly splinters and shards of metal. Fly caught a glimpse of the destruction before the
Prosperous and Remarkable
lunged away, and he had to steady himself as she tilted in her turn.

“To the other side, lads! Prepare the starboard guns!”

As he dashed across the width of the gun deck, Fly could see Morgan Evans and his small team of carpenters at work on a hot, jagged hole where a carronade had once stood. Their shoes slid in the blood pools where a gun crew had once rallied, making it difficult to hammer nails into their covering timbers and sheets of lead.

At the wheel, Prosper’s bark echoed around the brig. “Ya fumble-fisted, bird-witted scoundrels, git these bleedin’ undeads outta me way. Now ready yer weapons and I’ll bring ya in closer, within pistol range.”

Meg Kettle trudged up to Fly, her shirt stained with perspiration, her face dripping with exertion. She passed off her delivery of fresh powder to waiting hands, and breathlessly cried out, “Mr. Austen, I’ve bin up and down five times now! I’m at the end o’ me rope.”

Feeling no sympathy whatsoever, Fly’s reaction was a cold one. “Then go help Dr. Braden, and be sure to refrain from whinging and rabble- rousing.” He turned away from her, and squinted through the gun port to see the
Amethyst
cloaked in dense smoke, her topgallants and pennants shot away; however, there was little time to contemplate her fate, for a fierce tug on the brig’s bow had brought her in line with yet another foe.

“Double-shot your loads, and bring her down!”

Within minutes the starboards guns were packed with their powder and shot, and levered into firing position.

“Wait for the ship’s roll! Aim down at the hull. Not all together now; one at a time, if you please.”

Fuses were lit. Ears were clamped. Hearts jumped.

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

Flames licked the gun barrels. Tremors drubbed the brig’s old timbers and rattled Fly’s teeth. The gun crews vaulted out of the way to avoid the violent recoiling of the gun carriages, but seeing the success of their hits they quickly regrouped to cheer as the enemy foremast toppled over, taking with it cordage and sails and men, and crashing into the sea.

“Well done, lads!” shouted Fly. “Now quickly clean and reload!”

Unlike the
Amethyst
, there were eager, skilled hands working the enemies’ cannons, anxious to retaliate, waiting for that precise moment, that precise hit. Prosper’s gun crews were seconds from firing another broadside when part of the gun deck imploded. A hail of splinters, as sharp as razors, spewed everywhere in their ghastly search for flesh. Knocked backward by the blast, Fly tripped over a young powder monkey, and fell heavily against the sticky floor. Stunned, he lay there in pain, coughing, choking, tortured by screams that curdled the blood in his veins. A severed arm with its white porous bone exposed throbbed beside him, and a head came rolling toward him, eyes embedded in a sickening frown of surprise. Fly thrust it away and peered into the swirling grey smoke settling upon the carnage.

Among the dead and the fallen, stuck in a hideous, custard-like mass of gore, was a woolly thrum cap.

35

10:30 a.m.

Hartwood Hall

When the sun decided
to gift the dwellers of Hampstead Heath with an appearance between the silvery-grey clouds, Emily embraced the opportunity to quit her room, and went in search of a portable writing desk and a bite of breakfast — coffee, jam, and a warm roll. Balancing her plunder upon her forearms like a novice juggler, she headed outside to the west garden where a damp tang had infused the morning air, such a pleasing improvement over the fusty, cloying smells of a house shuttered against the rain. Still, morning raindrops clung stubbornly to the ivy arbour, making it necessary for her to drag the little garden table out from under it; otherwise they would be sure to play games with her, and, in falling, wreak havoc upon her ink and paper.

Beyond the neat rows of flowers and shrubbery, Emily could hear wagon wheels on gravel as Helena’s soiree supplies were delivered to the Hall, and a curious peek at the noise resulted in the shocking revelation that Wetherell was the acting overseer, strutting about in his ostentatious colours, full of loud praise for the merchants and their wares. Spying Emily in the garden, he bowed to her, bending over so low she feared he would be locked forever in that unfortunate position. Biting back annoyance (with the upcoming soiree), and amusement (with the personage of Lord Monroe), she poured her concentration into her letter, knowing that time was fast running out, and therefore didn’t notice she had a visitor until a dog’s big tail slapped up against her legs.

Fleda stood unsmiling before her, bereft of spirit, wearing the same gown she’d had on the previous evening. Noticing the girl’s red-rimmed eyes, Emily hid her letter away in the desk’s tiny compartment, and extended an unspoken invitation to join her by arranging a chair close to hers. She gave permission to the wagging dog to rest his head upon her lap, and tickled his furry neck while waiting for Fleda to say something.

“Had Mr. Walby been allowed to stay, do you think he’d have asked me to dance at the party?”

“Indeed, I do, so long as he felt he could dispense with his crutch!” said Emily gently.

“Although Mother would have insisted we dance somewhere other than the music room.”

“Your mother could not tolerate her young daughter snatching away the guests’ attention from
her
.”

Fleda’s cheeks warmed as she looked away over the misty south lawns toward London. “I only knew Mr. Walby a short time, but I decided — if he asked me — I would marry him.”

Emily made certain she did not laugh. “I don’t think your father would be agreeable to parting with you at so young an age.”

“No,” she said quietly, “but I would like to leave here, to see something of the world. I’ve never even been to London.” She waved a limp hand in the direction of the fog-enshrouded city. “And there it is … so close by.”

“But you
have
been outside the walls of Hartwood.”

“I’ve been out in the neighbourhood, if that’s what you mean.” Fleda leaned in toward Emily. “I am envious of you.
You
have been to sea.” A dreamy expression occupied her wan features, as if her mind were running through scenes of Emily’s sword-wielding days on the
Isabelle
.

“I have, and it was both a wondrous and frightening experience, but now you see I am not allowed beyond Hartwood.”

“That’s because your family and mine fear you will escape.”

Emily snuffled. “And thus their urgency to see me safely married off to your brother?”

“But you don’t want Wetherell.”

“Please do not judge me if I say I’d rather be hanged alongside Thomas Trevelyan.”

A humourless laugh burst from Fleda’s lips. “He’s not a dashing figure. Not like Mr. Walby, is he?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Fleda gave Emily a sidelong glance. “But I did hope you might become my sister.”

“Can we not become sisters without me marrying into your family?”

Fleda considered the notion with a tilt of her head. “I suppose so.”

“Right then, now tell your elder sister why you’ve been crying. Is it Mr. Walby?”

“No, I cried over him last night.”

“Oh, I see!” said Emily, fearing the spilled tears might have something to do with her dead brother, and the painful remarks made in the music room. But there was something in the way Fleda’s chin inclined; the way in which she shyly searched Emily’s face, a light springing into those green eyes, then vanishing again as quickly, as if she were weighing the wisdom of confession.

“I — I have something to tell you. I think you should know.”

Emily grew alarmed. “What is it?” she whispered.

Fleda’s breath came in snatches as if she’d just run a full circle around the estate. “Somerton and Mother were speaking together in the parlour. I didn’t mean to, but I overheard them when I was crossing the front hall on my way upstairs. Somerton was very angry. I could hear him shouting at her, so I crept up on them, and watched through a crack in the door. Mother seemed shaken; she had her hand on her mouth, and was pacing before a sofa. I’ve — I’ve never known Somerton to be cross with Mother.
She’s
the angry one. Oh, and I heard such things! Somerton said something to her about stealing
your
letter — the one from Captain Moreland — that she never should’ve read it, and mustn’t tell the Duke of Clarence of it.” Fleda looked fearful. “Was I right to tell you this?”

Emily couldn’t answer immediately; incapable of thinking clearly over the beats of her heart. Is that why Helena had been in her room? Aware of its existence, had she rifled through her sea chest in search of Captain Moreland’s precious letter? But if so … why? What had she hoped to learn from it?

“Of course you were, Fleda.”

The girl’s bloodless lips quivered. “Somerton accused her of withholding
all
of your letters. There’ve been letters from your aunts, one from Mrs. Jordan and Mr. Walby, and you’ve received ever so many invitations to parties. And my mother … she … she kept them from you.”

Emily felt lightheaded. Was Helena really capable of such cold-hearted deception? But hearing of the letters, another emotion welled up inside her as if a loved one had placed a shawl around her shoulders on a chilly morning. “There’s a letter for me from Mrs. Jordan, my Aunt Dora?”

Fleda nodded. “Mother shouldn’t have kept them from you.”

“No, she shouldn’t have.”

“Somerton accused her of being obsessed, of recklessly seeking information.”

Information … what information
?

Emily was left bewildered, unable to construct a logical explanation. “Your mother’s actions were wrong, but I hate to think of you ruining your pretty eyes over a bundle of stolen letters.”

Fleda smiled sadly; a sudden breeze tossing the slender wisps of her hair across her face as she glanced away. “I was about to go. I didn’t want to hear any more. I was too sad thinking of you never receiving Mr. Walby’s dear letter. But I saw Somerton grab my mother’s arm, and he shook her. He told her to forget the past — that she had to forget
him
— that she must never again breathe
his
name or it would lead to scandal and humiliation.”

Emily’s hand froze on the dog’s head. She held her breath, watching tears forming on Fleda’s eyelashes. “What did he mean?”

“My mother doesn’t love my father.”

“That’s quite an accusation. How can you be sure?”

“I heard Somerton say as much.” Fleda’s tone rippled with emotion. “Mother loved … she loves a man named Charles DeChastain.”

Emily’s stomach fell away.

“And he’s — he’s somehow related to your husband Thomas Trevelyan.”

11:30 a.m.

It was not long before
Mademoiselle came in search of her errant student — Fleda shocking her by going quietly, but only once Emily had promised her they would talk again later. Returning the desk to the house and hiding her letter away under her mattress, Emily then set off toward the service wing, determined to find Somerton. She knew he would either be somewhere in the bewildering warren of storerooms and offices, or at the stables, saddling up his horse to dispel the disquieting clouds of his confrontation.

Recalling an earlier promise, Emily popped her head into the kitchen, delighted to find it buzzing with activity; the staff, doubled in number, scuttled about with their bowls and trays and platters as if the duchess were terrorizing them with a whip. The scene reminded Emily of the
Isabelle
, only here it was women in uniform toiling at their battle stations and not men.

Calling out “Good morning,” Emily was pleased to be met with shy smiles rather than rounded eyes and frozen mouths, and further pleased to see the cook — after all the curtsies had been dispensed with — come forward to greet her.

“Would you like my help?”

“Oh! Yer Royal Highness,” the woman blushed, “we wouldn’t know how to behave with you walkin’ amongst us.”

Emily smiled. “No French Chef this time?”

“He’s comin’ later on with his pastries and savoury entremets.”

“Did you have this many helping out at the last ball?”

“Nay, but it’s not every day we’ve royalty amongst us. We’re all aflutter with nerves.”

Emily frowned. She’d been at Hartwood for weeks now. Whatever did the woman mean? But a plea for clarification was hindered by Somerton, who made a surprising — if somewhat surly — appearance at her side.

“Lord Somerton! Just the person I was looking for.”

Ordering the cook back to work, Somerton took Emily’s arm and hastily led her along a narrow corridor of closed doors, steering her into the last room on the right — his office, presumably. It was decorated in shades of twilight blue and dominated by an imposing oak desk and sash windows that viewed the front courtyard, and haphazardly affixed to the walls were ancient swords and shields and glassy-eyed hunting trophies. Repulsed by his rude behaviour, Emily refused his invitation to be seated, and watched as he installed himself in the leather armchair behind his desk with the air and authority of a banker about to unburden her of her life savings.

“What were you doing in the service wing?”

“I was hoping to don an apron and bake pies.”

“Shouldn’t you be primping for tomorrow?”

“I’ll concern myself with
primping
an hour before the ball.”

“Would you like me to collect you for the first two dances, to rescue you from Wetherell?”

“I do not need rescuing; besides, Lord Monroe’s likely to choose the Whist tables over dancing.”

“Are you certain of that?”

There was a suspicious flicker in his eyes, though Emily could not be certain which of her two remarks had produced it.

“As a gentleman and your friend,” he said, mellowing his stern gaze, “I’ll watch over you at the ball.”