“Why, I didn’t even receive certain articles of clothing back from last week’s washing.”
“Oh, they were probably ruined or lost during the exchange of gunfire with the Liberty,” Osmund said, licking spittle from his thick lips.
Emily neglected to tell him that it was her chemise that had never been returned, for fear of being told that a sailor or, worse still, Mrs. Kettle herself, had filched it as a souvenir.
“I cannot very well sit in the galley with Dr. Braden’s nightshirt on.”
Osmund broke into his characteristic donkey-braying laughter. “Aye, Miss, although it would provide a fine spectacle for all the men first thing in the morning.” Seeing her glower, he quit laughing and smartened himself up. “Ah! And it’s a bit damp today with the mists and everything. It wouldn’t do fer ya to catch a cold.”
“My blue jacket and white trousers, the ones Magpie made for me … would you know of their whereabouts?”
Osmund nodded. “The doctor told me where I’d find them.” He lumbered over to the cupboard and with a grunt of satisfaction pulled out the neatly folded clothing, tossed them upon Emily’s cot, then banged the cupboard door shut.
“And where is Dr. Braden this morning?” Emily felt her face grow hot, for no other reason than having spoken aloud his name.
“With the captain.”
“Is Captain Moreland still unwell?”
“The doctor’s not saying much, but none of us have seen him since he first took with fever. All’s I know is Mr. Austen is worrying hisself sick that we’ll be attacked again whilst the captain’s ailing. Mr. Austen’s ordered extra men on every watch, especially with the Isabelle sitting idle in these fogs.”
Emily began pulling her blue jacket on over Leander’s nightshirt and tried to ignore the anxious feeling that sent her heart beating out of control and twisted her stomach into reef knots. “Will we be able to sail again soon?”
“I hear there’re more repairs to be made, Miss, and then we’ll have to wait fer the right winds to carry us away.”
“Surely no one would fire upon us when we do not pose a threat?”
“We’ll know soon enough now, won’t we, Miss?”
“Please tell Magpie I’ll meet him in a few minutes,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Right, Miss, but if it’s secrets ya have to tell the lad, speak ’em quietly.”
“Why is that, Mr. Brockley?”
“’Cause we’ll all be listening in.”
Emily and Magpie sat upon two overturned buckets in the galley, as far away as was possible from Biscuit, who, in the company of Maggot and Weevil, was preparing the officers’ hot morning rations in true Biscuit style – with plenty of confusion and bad language. Dominating the room was Biscuit’s pride and joy, his Brodie’s Patent galley stove, a huge black hulk of a thing that hissed and shrieked like a monster and was capable of roasting, boiling, and baking simultaneously. Biscuit cheerfully buzzed around it, toasting bread, flipping eggs, stirring oatmeal, and barking at his mates to “clear me way, lads, excellent cookin’ in progress.”
Standing in the entranceway between the galley and the hospital stood the ever-present marine sentry. He kept watch over Emily and Magpie, glaring at those who dared to pause a moment in their chores to show interest in their quiet conversation. Emily sat with her back turned to them all and focused her attention on the little sail maker. He sat stoically before her, the right side of his face frighteningly bandaged and bruised. Leander had worried about infection setting into his wound, but surely enough time had passed and he was safely beyond that point. Neatly folded upon Magpie’s lap was his special pond-green blanket, and he told her he wasn’t afraid to carry it with him as none of the men had once teased him about it.
“Of course they wouldn’t tease you,” Emily said kindly.
Magpie’s cheeks glowed pink. “The Duke o’ Clarence’s wife gave it to me. Mrs. Jordan was her name. And she said to me, ‘This is to keep you safe and warm at sea.’ I – I sleep better when I ’ave it with me.” He peeked up into Emily’s face. “Dr. Braden says in a week or so he’ll take away the bandages and be fittin’ me up with an eye patch. Will I scare ya? Will ya be lookin’ at me and thinkin’ of Thomas Trevelyan?”
“Thomas Trevelyan?”
“He’s a pirate, ain’t he?”
“The worst kind! But how is it you know of Trevelyan?”
“He’s the captain of the Serendipity, that first ship we done battle with, ain’t he? The ship ya was on. Ya told Captain Moreland it was Trevelyan.”
“I suppose I must have done.” Emily tried to remember back to her first interview with James Moreland and Fly Austen. Evidently, there were big ears listening beyond the curtain that day. “And was I also overheard saying that Trevelyan was a pirate?”
“No, but why else would ya’ve jumped his ship and risked drownin’ yerself in the sea?”
Emily reflected on that one a moment. “When I look upon you, Magpie, I will be reminded, not of Trevelyan, but of the most courageous of men.”
The young lad beamed at her for a brief second before his smile faded. Emily could see his eye examining the bruises on her face. “You’re so kind to me, ma’am, and I … I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve it at all.”
Emily reached for one of his hands, so small and brown the little soot-stained fingers, and squeezed it gently. Liking the feel of his hand in her warm one, Magpie left it there as long as he could, until Biscuit’s wandering eye fell on the two of them and he pulled it away to deal with a few tears that had somehow dropped to his cheek.
“A few days ago,” he said quickly, “Morgan told me that the new sail maker – what’s replaced me – is a big man named Bun Brodie and he was sailin’ on the Liberty. Mr. Brodie was tellin’ the men one suppertime there was only one lady that he knew of travellin’ on the Serendipity and her name was Mrs. Seaton.”
Emily struggled to disguise her dismay. “And what did this Mr. Brodie say happened to this Mrs. Seaton?”
“He never knew. He don’t know what happened to her, but …” Magpie looked timid and hesitated to say more.
“Go on.”
“The men think – maybe yer Mrs. Seaton.”
Emily didn’t reply. She raised her pretty head and a distant look crept into her brown eyes as she sat there, stiff and erect, on the overturned bucket. She stayed silent such a long while that Magpie worried his remarks had been impertinent.
“Magpie,” she said in a whisper, “the day you asked for your blanket, I found something in your chest.”
Magpie grew excited and began squirming about on his bucket like a young kitten. “Ya found me miniature, then, didn’t ya?”
“I did!”
“It’s you, ain’t it?”
Emily nodded slowly.
“I knew it was ya the day Morgan pulled ya in. I just knew ya was the lady in me picture, that first time I seen ya smile. Ya looked just like her, even with yer hair all wet. And ya was wearin’ the very same blue velvet clothes! I just knew I was lookin’ at a princess.”
Emily placed a finger to her lips, grateful for the great racket Biscuit and his mates were making behind her. “I may be a princess, but I am not a very important one. I’m not heir to the English throne or anything.” There was a twinkle in her eye.
“Imagine me, Magpie, sail maker on the Isabelle, knowin’ a princess, even if she ain’t important. Why, you should be livin’ in the captain’s cabin, drinkin’ tea from his fine china, and havin’ Biscuit cook ya up ten-course suppers on silver plate.”
Emily laughed. “Hush, now! That is exactly what I do not want.” Leaning in closer to the lad, she dropped her voice. “The day we were left alone above deck … why didn’t you tell me of your suspicions then?”
“Oh, I was wantin
’ to, somethin’ fierce, but I was too scared of ya, and I was bein’ respectful, ya bein’ royalty and all, and ’cause I was wondrin’ to meself what ya was doin’ jumpin’ out o’ ships. I was thinkin’ maybe ya was runnin’ away and didn’t wanna be found out. I – I did ask ya then, ma’am, if ya knew the Duke o’ Clarence, and right off ya said no.”
“I am sorry for that. I had my reasons for giving you that reply. The truth is, Magpie, I do know your Duke and Mrs. Jordan very well indeed, although to me they are Uncle Clarence and Aunt Dora. Three years ago, when my father died, I lived with them for a short while. Uncle Clarence has always treated me like one of his own daughters.”
Magpie puffed up his small chest, so proud he was, as if they were speaking of his own parents. “And the duke, he’s the admiral of the fleet! I didn’t even know ’til yesterday. Heard the men talkin’ about that too. Did ya know he was the admiral, ma’am?”
She nodded again. “He was given the appointment in December of 1811, if I remember correctly, by his brother, the prince regent.”
Magpie’s little face suddenly clouded. “Won’t yer Uncle Clarence be worryin’ about ya, gettin’ shot at and attacked in sail rooms and all, ma’am?”
Emily’s eyes glazed over. “He knows nothing of my getting shot at and attacked in sail rooms, but I am certain … he is quite frantic to know of my whereabouts.” She blinked and returned her attention to Magpie. “So tell me, was it my uncle who gave you the miniature?”
Magpie bobbed his curly head. “The day I was cleanin’ their chimney, I was admirin’ it and says out loud, ‘That’s the loveliest lady I’ve ever set me eyes on.’ The Duke told me ya was his niece. And Mrs. Jordan kindly gives it to me along with the sea chest and me blanket here. Ya won’t be takin’ it back from me, will ya?”
“No, it is yours to keep.” Emily grew sombre. “Magpie … I must know … have you shown that miniature to anyone, told anyone of your suspicions?”
Magpie sat up straighter and crossed his heart. “Not a one,” he whispered. “Not a one, I swear, ma’am. There ain’t no one on this ship that knows yer real name. Why, they’re all wondrin’ if yer Mrs. Seaton, but I know the truth. I know yer really Emeline Louisa Georgina Marie, daughter of Henry, Duke o’ Wessex, as was.”
Emily peeked over her shoulder to scope out the whereabouts of the cooks. “Please promise me this will be our little secret. Say nothing of Mrs. Seaton and the name Emeline Louisa …”
“Georgina Marie,” Magpie finished off triumphantly.
Biscuit approached, his odd eye rolling about as if trying to fix itself upon them, and said, “Pardon me, lass, but thee men, they’ll be piped into their breakfast soon and it might not be fittin’ they see ya sittin’ here.”
“I’ll be crawling back to my hole momentarily, Biscuit,” Emily said tersely, hoping her reply would get rid of him. She waited until he had crept back to his cauldron of porridge. “The miniature, Magpie … I will get it back to you the minute I – ” Her words died on her lips as a sudden realization struck with the force and speed of a cat-of-nine-tails whip.
Good God! Her clothes!
She sprang from her low bucket, her hands fumbling anxiously in the pockets of her white trousers, a fearful look in her eyes. Into the galley came a flood of duty cooks with their ration buckets to begin cooking breakfast for their messmates. Every last one of them gave Emily a long looking over, but in her frenzied state she took no notice.
“Well now, Magpie,” whistled one who had to drag his foot behind him, “ye have done well fer yerself!”
“Our young sail maker has risen in the world!”
“Ha, ha, ho, ho.”
“Shove off,” said the marine sentry.
But it was Biscuit who was more effective in scattering the sailors. He raised his wooden porridge spoon menacingly before them and growled, “Hold yer tongues, ya lubbers, and be mindin’ yer manners.”
Magpie jumped up from his own bucket, his bandaged head held high, and like a little gentleman took Emily’s arm and calmly steered her away from the men’s lusty looks, past the marine sentry, and back into the hospital. When they arrived at her corner, he let go of her arm and asked, “What’s wrong, ma’am?”
“Oh, Magpie,” she gasped, ashen-faced, “your miniature … it’s in the pocket of my other trousers, and … and Mrs. Kettle took them early this morning to be laundered!”
8:00 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Eight Bells)
The BOSUN’S MATE’S PIPES resonated round the lower deck, summoning the men to their breakfast. Near the gunroom, Meg Kettle waited until the last of the sailors had scurried past her and run up the ladder before slipping out of the shadows. It was her good fortune to find that the marine sentry had temporarily vacated his prisoner’s post. She leaned over the dirty man in the bilboes and grabbed a clump of his greasy hair, yanking his head back. “Time ta wake up, Mr. Lindsay … Lord, sir,” she said in derision. Plopping down upon the nearby bench pushed up against the ship’s sweating side, she watched the prisoner stir to life. He did so with great difficulty, grunting and groaning and cursing his back muscles, which ached from sitting on the damp floor, and his numb legs, immobilized in the thick irons.
“I’ve got somethin’ int’restin’ ta show ya,” said Mrs. Kettle, enjoying the spectacle of Octavius’s pain.
“Infernal woman, leave me be!”
“Ooooh, but this ya’ll be wantin’ ta see.”
Octavius screwed his head around to face her, rubbing his neck as he did so. “What the devil would you have that would interest me?”
“Mind yer tone or I won’t be showin’ ya.” She produced a shiny something from her apron pocket and waved it before him.
Octavius ignored her. “Vile laundry woman! Leave me be.”
In one fluid motion – far more fluid than one would think her capable of – Mrs. Kettle leapt off the bench, lifted her skirt, and dealt his crooked spine a savage blow with her booted foot. Octavius gasped for air, as if the woman had held his head underwater a long time. Howls of agony followed.
“Guard, guard, take her away. Take her away!” His voice was shrill and strained like that of a fearful child. “Why doesn’t anyone come?”
Mrs. Kettle shoved her face, red and wet with exertion, into his pimply one. “’Cause no one cares fer yer worthlessness any more.”
Mrs. Kettle looked pleased with herself as she watched Octavius desperately wrestle with his irons, vainly attempting to free his legs. When finally he gave up his fight and had, for the time, buried his rancour, she slapped her knee and said, “Right, now! Set yer eyes on this here.” She placed Magpie’s oval miniature into his quivering hands and held the lantern up over his head. “Behold that smilin’ face. Now, quick, flip it round.”
Octavius wiped at his eyes with dirty fingers and stared at the miniature for some time, turning it over again and again to scrutinize the face and the inscription.
“It’s her, ain’t it?”
“Who?”
“That woman what lies in thee doctor’s cot.”
“The daughter of Henry, Duke of Wessex, one of King George’s many sons? And … and therefore a niece of the prince regent and the Duke of Clarence?” Octavius snorted like a horse. “Impossible!”
“It’s her all right and she’s some kind o’ princess.”
Octavius gave his tormentor an impatient look. “I’ll admit to a resemblance, nothing more. I happen to know that portrait painters are never very accurate in their representation of their subject.”
“Aye, I suppose yer mother would be havin’ a portrait of ya without yer red spots and limp hair.”
He disregarded the slight. “I possess a miniature of my mother and the artist has succeeded brilliantly in making her look like Boticelli’s Venus, when in truth she bears a stri
king resemblance to a trollop!”
Mrs. Kettle grunted and pointed to the clothing worn by the woman in the miniature. “That woman came on board wearin’ thee same blue shirt.”
Octavius peered down at the picture again. “It’s called a spencer-jacket, not a shirt. Fashionable ladies have been wearing them for some time now.”
“Oh, we keep up with ladies’ fashions, do we now? Harumph! Well, I may not know thee fancy name fer it, but I knows what I see and thee braidin’ and design on that jacket’s thee same as what that woman were wearin’ thee day she set foot on thee Isabelle.”
Octavius shook his head. “It still doesn’t prove that Emily and the daughter of the late Duke of Wessex are one and the same person.”
Mrs. Kettle snatched the miniature out of his hands and laid down her trump card. “Aye, then how do ya explain me findin’ it in thee pocket of ’er trousers?”
Octavius’s mouth opened, his lips framing a silent “O.” He drifted into a daze while Mrs. Kettle stood over him, stroking the miniature as if it were a precious, sentimental object. “Ya never know who might be int’rested in seein’ this,” she said, tempting the wheels in his head to turn. She popped the miniature into her apron pocket, gave it a wee pat, and left Octavius in the dark to consider the possibilities.
In the blue shadows of the animals’ stable, Magpie swiftly and soundlessly sank out of sight just as Mrs. Kettle’s long swishing skirts swept past him, fanning his face. With Biscuit’s milking goat complacently licking his ear, and his heart thumping madly, he listened to her heavy footsteps gradually fade away down the gun deck. In despair, he realized he had come too late in search of the miniature. Mrs. Kettle had already found it, and she was scheming to do something with it – exactly what, Magpie didn’t know, but he knew he had to warn Emily and fast. Spying a perfectly rounded lump of dung sitting in a nest of straw by the goat’s hind legs, Magpie picked the whole works up and lobbed it like a grenade at the back of Octavius Lindsay’s head.
Come Looking For Me Page 17
