Scandalous Scoundrels

by Aileen Fish

  “Putrid throat,” he proclaimed after peering deep into her mouth.

  “Hell, man, I know what ails my girl,” her father replied gruffly. “What I want to know is what you’ve got in that black bag of yours to fix her up right and tight?”

  “You’re in luck, my good man,” Dr. Peabody answered with a grin, showing off yellowing teeth. “I’m on my way to Bristol to sell my patented tonic. A cure for near every malady known to man, from the megrim to cholera to—”

  “Laudanum, is it?” Charles Calvert interrupted impatiently.

  “Not just any variety of laudanum,” the physician insisted. “I have found the perfect combination of essence of poppy, oil of sassafras, ginger root and a touch of treacle.”

  “Will it ease Em’s pain?” her father demanded.

  “Your daughter will be right as rain this time tomorrow,” Peabody promised.

  Emily was not right as rain—not the next day. She did feel a bit better when she awoke from a deep, dreamless sleep, the first truly restful sleep she’d fallen into since she’d failed to convince her father to forego this trip across the Atlantic Ocean. Two days later she was well enough to venture on deck, to sit quietly in the crisp winter air, a fur-lined cloak buttoned up to her chin.

  Staring up at the gray sky, at the clouds that appeared low enough to reach up and touch, she tried to wrap her mind around the fact that she was on her way to England, on her way to a life far away from everything and everyone she loved.

  She’d avoided that truth since the night her father had called her to his study and told her she was to journey across the ocean to marry a man she’d never met, never so much as seen.

  Emily hadn’t believed he meant his words, not that night and not in the weeks that had followed. As she’d dutifully traveled to Baltimore for a new wardrobe, as she’d packed up her belongings, as she’d bid her brothers and sister goodbye, she’d honestly believed Da was bluffing. She’d convinced herself he was simply punishing her, giving her a taste of what her future would hold if she did not curb her wayward behavior, if she did not settle down and choose a husband from one of the nearby plantations.

  It wasn’t until she’d stepped aboard the Silent Night that she’d begun to suspect she was truly in trouble, the sort of trouble from which there was no escape.

  Too shocked, too horrified by the truth, Emily had silently followed her father down the narrow steps and into the cabin that was to be her home for the next four weeks. That night she’d cried herself to sleep, her sobs ripping from her throat, her tears soaking her pillow, until exhaustion had finally claimed her.

  Now, as the ship sped across the waves, she forced herself to contemplate her future.

  What she found was a vast ocean of uncertainty where once there’d been conviction. She’d had a plan for her future, one that did not include fleeing across the sea to marry a stranger. She’d only ever dreamed of remaining in Calvert County, close enough to Emerald Isle that she might continue to work alongside her father in the stables. She’d imagined setting up house with a kind man, of filling that house with laughing children, all of them born of the same mother and father, all of them content in the knowledge of where they belonged in the world.

  Now that dream was disappearing with each mile she traveled from home. She wanted to resign herself to an uncertain future, to look upon it as an adventure, to hope that her journey would end with a man who might love and respect her enough to remain true to her. But she was finding it a daunting task to remain optimistic. As the wind whipped through the sails overhead, she imagined her hope, her dreams falling into the wake of the giant ship, bobbing and floating on the waves before sinking to the bottom of the ocean, like so much lost treasure.

  Blinking back tears of sorrow and an unfamiliar loneliness, Emily reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled forth a squat glass bottle with a fat cork shoved into the neck. She wrestled the cork out and tipped the bottle to her lips. Dr. Peabody’s patented tonic burst upon her tongue, glided down her raw throat to settle like a heavy, syrupy lump in her belly.

  In minutes, she was cocooned in soft, undulating warmth, her head pleasantly woozy and her eyelids heavy. All her anxiety fell away, as if she’d tossed off a heavy yolk. She felt light and airy, untouched by worry for her future. She was at peace for the first time since she’d set off across snowy fields in search of that wily buck.

  “Miss Em.” Tilly’s soft voice came to her as if from a great distance though she could see the girl standing before her on the deck. “What’re you thinking about that’s put such a pretty smile on your face?”

  “Was I smiling?” Emily asked, her hand rising to trace the smile that lingered on her lips. “I suppose I don’t find things to be quite so terrible up here on deck, with the sun beating down on me.”

  “Lord above,” Tilly replied, peering down into her mistress’s pale face. “The sun’s not put on a show for days now. You come on below deck with me before you catch a chill.”

  “Just a few more minutes, Tilly,” Emily pleaded even as her eyelids drooped.

  “Come on now, Miss Emily, ‘fore it starts to raining.” Tilly took hold of Emily’s hands and pulled her to her feet.

  “So bossy,” Emily muttered.

  “Now, if that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black,” Tilly retorted as she ushered her mistress across the deck.

  As they approached the narrow steps leading to the cabins below, a great gust of wind lashed the sails, setting them fluttering wildly, filling the air with the sounds of canvas rustling and metal rigging clanging. The wind rushed over Emily from behind, plastering her cloak to her legs and settling like a heavy hand on the small of her back. It seemed as if that cold sea breeze were urging her onward, not toward her cabin but rather toward the end of her journey.

  Emily contemplated the possibility as Tilly assisted her down the steep stairs and into their cabin. Perhaps she ought to heed the wind’s counsel and simply embrace both the journey and the future that awaited her on the other side of the ocean.

  “Perhaps England won’t be so terrible,” Emily whispered as the girl tucked her into her berth.

  “Now that’s the Emily Ann Calvert I know,” Tilly replied, pushing a wayward curl back from her mistress’s brow. “Ain’t nobody can keep you down. Why, them English won’t know what hit them when they get a good gander at you.”

  “And Mr. Avery, will he know what hit him?” Emily asked drowsily as she turned on her side and burrowed her head into the pillow.

  “You’re going to lead that poor man on a merry chase, and make no mistake,” Tilly answered around a laugh.

  Emily drifted to sleep and dreamed she was home at Emerald Isle, riding Aristotle over the green fields, the wind in her hair, the sun at her back. From behind she heard the beat of a horse’s hooves coming up on her quickly. Turning in the saddle, she saw a man on a great black horse riding toward her. The man was a giant, even from the distance Emily could see that he was tall and powerfully built. His face was tanned beneath a flowing mane of golden hair. A smile bloomed upon his full lips, his teeth flashing white. She couldn’t see his eyes but she knew they were brown, a rich dark brown.

  Emily. His voice carried across the field to her. Emily, come back to me, love.

  Emily came awake with a gasp, her heart thundering in her breast, her skin damp with perspiration. She sat up and looked around the dark room.

  “Miss Emily, you all right?” Tilly’s voice came to her from below the berth where she slept on a pallet.

  “Just a dream,” Emily whispered, reaching for the bottle tucked beneath her pillow and wishing she had remained asleep long enough for the smiling golden giant to catch up with her.

  In the ensuing days, Emily found herself remembering the dream at odd moments, remembering the smile, the husky timber of his voice, the way the wind whipped his curls about as he rode toward her. Unsettled by the dream man who would never be a part of her future, she resolutely pushed him
to the farthest reaches of her mind, until she could not see his face or hear him calling to her.

  Life aboard ship fell into a routine that made the long journey bearable, and on occasion even pleasant. She awoke each morning with the dawn, a faint ringing in her ears and a slight headache pulsing at her temples. A quick sip from Dr. Peabody’s elixir soon relieved her pains and had her feeling as if she’d wrapped a soft warm blanket around her shoulders, one that kept all of her fears and doubts at bay.

  She had little appetite and happily agreed with her father when he proclaimed it must be the motion of the ship that was unsettling her digestion. Dr. Peabody prescribed a double dose of tonic to combat her stomach ailments and Emily was only too happy to follow his advice.

  If the weather was fare Emily spent the mornings wandering around on deck, chatting with the other passengers, watching two small girls play dolls beneath the sails. In the afternoons she played cards with her father, both of them carefully steering their conversation away from any mention of the future, of the reason she’d been made to join her father on his journey. In the evenings, after she’d pushed her food about on her plate, she sat quietly while Tilly read to her.

  Through it all, through rough seas and calm, from dawn until dark, Emily sipped delicately from the bottle that had taken up permanent residence in the deep pocket of her fur-lined cloak.

  Each night she climbed into bed feeling wonderfully lighthearted and quickly fell into a deep sleep mercilessly free of dreams of a big blond giant with warm chocolate eyes.

  Emily and her father arrived in Bristol to be greeted by a late-winter snow storm. Fat white flakes fell from the gray sky creating an impenetrable curtain which hid the bustling port town from view. The journey to London was slow, the inns along the way crowded with stranded travelers.

  On the third day of their journey Emily tilted her ever-present bottle to her lips only to find it empty.

  “Tilly, when we stop at the next posting house, ask if there isn’t an apothecary nearby,” Emily told the girl.

  “Is your throat paining you again?” her father asked, looking up from the map of England he was studying.

  “My head aches something terrible,” Emily replied without meeting his eyes. In truth she could feel the effects of Dr. Peabody’s tonic dissipating. No longer enshrouded in a warm, hazy nest of contentment, she felt restless and irritable. Worse yet, her mind was beginning to clear, vague thoughts and dim worries swirling about like so much smoke. Soon they would coalesce into fear and anxiety as she was forced to confront the mess she’d made of her life and the unknown future that awaited her.

  By the time their rented traveling coach rumbled into the next village, Emily was tapping her booted feet against the floorboards and drumming her fingers against her thighs in growing agitation.

  “Land sakes, girlie,” her father muttered as the carriage came to a halt in the muddy yard of a small coaching inn. “You’re like to drive me batty with your fidgeting. Take Tilly and walk off your sillies or I’ll be forced to rent a horse and ride alongside for the remainder of our journey.”

  “Sillies?” Emily replied angrily. “You’ve dragged me across the ocean against my will with every intention of abandoning me into the hands of some pompous Englishman and you’ve the nerve, the gall to name by fears silly?”

  “Fears?” her father repeated in surprise. “What are you going on about, Em? I thought…you’ve been so quiet, so calm, I thought you’d come to see the wisdom in this journey, the benefit of making a match with Margaret’s young man. What have you to fear?”

  Emily ignored her father’s question, resolutely looked away from the concern she saw upon his weathered, freckled face. He wouldn’t understand and she’d be damned if she spent even a single second pleading with him to abandon his scheme of seeing her married to an aristocrat’s son.

  Without a word she pushed open the carriage door and jumped to the ground, her boots sinking into the muck of the stable yard, her hem trailing along behind her as she turned and marched off toward the small village.

  “Miss Emily!” Tilly struggled to catch up to her mistress, her little hands clenched in her skirts to hold them above the mud. “Lord above, what’s come over you, hollering at your father that way?”

  “Do not start in on me, Tilly,” Emily warned with a glare over her shoulder. “You’d do well to remember your place.”

  “My place?” the girl repeated as she caught up and fell into step beside Emily.

  “You are my servant,” Emily answered even as she cringed at the malice that dripped from her voice, swirled in her head. She felt mean, mean and nasty and cruel. “We’re in England now, Matilda Calvert. I’m to be a lady now and you had best learn to curb your tongue and behave as a lady’s maid ought to.”

  “Why’s everyone staring at us?” Tilly asked, ignoring Emily’s words entirely.

  “They’ve likely never seen a dark-skinned girl like you before,” Emily replied. “Drop your skirts, Tilly, you’re showing off your ankles.”

  Tilly dutifully complied, her wide eyes taking in the village and the people who’d stopped to stare at them as they passed. “I think it’s you they’re eyeballing.”

  “Why on earth would they be looking at me?” Emily demanded.

  “I don’t think they’ve ever seen a lady marching down the street with her hair falling from her pins and fire shooting from her eyes,” Tilly answered with a grin.

  “Well, let them look,” Emily muttered as she reached up to tuck a wayward curl back into place.

  “Where are we going?”

  In answer Emily stopped before a little shop wedged between a milliner and a curio shop. The door was painted a bright green and flanked by two large multi-paned windows through which she could see row upon row of bottles stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling. Above the door hung a weathered sign carved with a mortar and pestle.

  The proprietor, a stoop-shouldered man with a shiny bald head and trim beard greeted them, his welcoming words tinged with a faint Prussian accent.

  Wasting little time on pleasantries, Emily ordered a bottle of the apothecary’s own special recipe of laudanum, one he’d only whipped up that morning.

  As she waited, she looked about the long, narrow shop, entranced by the odd assortment of goods stored on the shelves and on tall rotating display cases. The air was redolent with myriad scents, from lavender to ginger, frankincense to eucalyptus, all combining into an exotic, spicy aroma that somehow soothed her frayed nerves, calmed the rapid beat of her heart.

  “Oh, look at all the pretty little bottles!” Tilly cried from across the room.

  Emily joined her before one of the windows where the girl had discovered a display of colored glass bottles of all shapes and sizes. A bright blue bottle with a round base and a long, elegant neck sat on the edge of the shelf. Emily tilted her head to study the bottle that was as pretty and dainty as any porcelain statue that had ever graced her mother’s front parlor. It was shaped almost like a woman, the base the bell of her skirts, the handle a long elegant arm cocked out with hand resting along a trim waist. Deep within the fluted neck sat a stopper decorated with pretty blue, red and green gems.

  “Pretty little things,” the apothecary said as he joined them. “My wife, she says the ladies prefer their tonics in pretty bottles, thinks they make the taking of them less onerous.”

  “I’ll take this one.” Emily lifted the dainty blue bottle, surprised by its near weightlessness. The bottle was only slightly larger than her hand and even lovelier up close. She held it up to a stream of sunlight, amazed by the way it glowed, by the blue beam that shot through it to dance along the warped wood floor, as if the little bottle had captured the sunlight and turned it into a moonbeam.

  “Shall I fill it for you?” he asked with a nod.

  “Thank you,” Emily replied with a trembling smile, her eyes fixed on the package he held out to her in exchange for the blue bottle. The paper-wrapped parcel was hea
vy enough that Emily suspected the contents would last her to London, would see her cocooned in oblivion through her first meeting with her aunt, through her father’s departure to join up with a group of train-mad gentlemen to tour the country’s fledgling railways, perhaps even through her first introduction to her future husband.

  If she was very lucky she might even manage to make it through her first London Season in quiet contentment, might avoid thinking of her future, a future that held no resemblance whatsoever to the one she’d imagined for herself.

  “Now mind me, young miss,” the apothecary cautioned as he handed another, smaller wrapped parcel into her hands. “Every apothecary brews his own variety of laudanum. This here that I’ve given you might be a bit more potent than what you’re familiar with. You be sure to take care with how much you take until you’ve accustomed yourself to it.”

  Emily nodded, barely hearing his words as anticipation shivered up her spine, finding a nest at the nape of her neck where it settled like a faint beat, a warm, whispering tingle.

  It was an odd sensation, anticipation coupled with a sort of jittery restlessness, and one she would come to both welcome and dread in the months that followed.

  Chapter Three

  London shocked Emily from the near stupor she’d been in for the final two days of their journey south. The carriage rumbled through narrow streets lined by tightly packed houses rising three and four stories and seemingly built expressly to block the weak rays of sunlight from landing on refuse-strewn streets and the people who scurried over them in every direction.