by Elisa Braden
The marine leading Jonas’s crew gestured wildly, trying to convey the need to re-aim. Jonas seemed to be the only one who understood, so he shoved the frowning Clayton and the glassy-eyed Bailey toward the opposite side of the cannon’s carriage. Showing them what was necessary, he rushed to the front and did likewise with two other men. The marine gave him a nod of thanks.
By the time the Confiance fired upon the Americans, she’d already taken fatal damage. Jonas had sensed it coming. The loss of the anchor, the dying of the wind. The ragged, inexperienced crew. Even the green wood of her decks. No one factor was responsible for the disaster that followed. Instead, individual drops of ill-fortune coalesced to form a tide.
One of the squadron’s smaller vessels took damage early. It drifted like a child’s toy boat between the Confiance and the Saratoga, denying them a clear shot.
They waited and waited for signs that their land forces had advanced and engaged the American strongholds. Signs never came.
Worst of all, no more than a half-hour into the fight, Captain Downie was felled by one of his own bloody cannons. Hit directly by a ball fired from the Saratoga, the massive iron gun flew from its carriage and crushed the grim-eyed Scot beneath its weight. His watch was flattened, too, marking the moment of his death.
The gun crews, already exhausted and desperate, sank into despair. Jonas and the marine continued shoving the other men into position. Kept shouting, though no one could hear. Kept gesturing to reload. Jonas kept heaving the cannon back into place, ignoring the slickness of pitch and blood on the deck. Ignoring death’s foul odor, the bitter tang of gunpowder burning in a flash. Ignoring the listing of the ship as they took on water.
Another blast tore through the Confiance’s hull. Splinters of green wood flew, peppering his flesh like birdshot. He ignored it. Forced his boots to grip raw planks and yanked upon the cannon’s carriage.
Losing was no excuse for giving up.
Another blast. Bright-orange streaked past Jonas’s peripheral vision. Wine-stained horror wreathed Clayton’s sweating face as he gaped down at the deck behind Jonas. Gripping Clayton’s arm, he shoved him around to face the opposite direction.
No sense looking. Bailey was dead.
Probably better off. The wounded were being stashed in the decks below, where water was rising above their noses. Those who hadn’t been blown to bits were about to drown.
Just load the gun, he thought. Load the gun and fire.
The crew to their left had been taken out in the last broadside. Half the crew to his right sat on blood-slicked decking, their eyes vacant and downcast, heads lowered in defeat.
Little wonder. The guns on this side of the ship were down to four. They’d lost a second anchor an hour past. Without anchors or wind, they hadn’t a prayer of turning the ship for a fresh set of guns.
Despite the hopelessness, despite everything, he grasped the ropes and forced his crew to heave the cannon forward into the gun port. On the lieutenant’s signal, Clayton lit the gunlock.
The shot shuddered the ship.
Immediately, his crew rushed to reload.
He clapped shoulders and offered nods of encouragement. He might not know their names. He might never see their faces again. But if they survived, he wanted them to be certain of one thing—the failure hadn’t been theirs.
Sweat stung his eyes. Smoke singed his lungs. His shoulders were afire from the strain of hauling a two-ton gun into position over and over.
Clayton’s wine-stained cheek caught his eye a moment before he saw a flash from the Saratoga. Where the boy’s skin wasn’t marked, it was white. White as the clouds above Lake Champlain.
He turned as though to ask Jonas a question.
Then his body went flying. Colliding. A hard, wine-stained skull cracked into Jonas’s jaw. Flashes of light swirled and sparked. Thirteen stone of fellow infantryman flattened him like a weed beneath a plow. The force sent them both skidding across green wood and red blood.
For a time, he floated inside white and gray. He heard humming. At first, he blamed the ringing in his ears, which hadn’t stopped since the firing began.
But no, this was musical. A soft, light voice. It wavered a bit, like lake water upon a pebbled shore. Timid, uncertain beauty. He wanted to capture it. To linger and bask.
In the sound, the shy warmth.
Land appeared before him, a rolling sprawl of pasture and sheep, barley and rye. Cottages, too. Thatched roofs in good repair. A larger house made of gray stone with, of all things, turrets on two corners. Like a castle in miniature.
He sat in a garden shaded by a draping willow taller than the house. Beneath his feet were square stones, and between the stones was thyme. The herb’s fragrance filled his head, tasted like summer. Flowers spilled from urns nearby. A fountain splashed. He couldn’t see it, for two sides of the garden were edged with high hedges, but he heard. Golden light slanted through the mist. It set everything aglow.
Wind came up. “Someday,” it seemed to sigh.
No. Not someday. Now. He wanted to stay here, with her gentle voice washing him clean of death.
He tried to insist. Tried to speak.
“This is not how it ends,” the wind breathed.
Amidst white wisps and golden light, just beyond the willow’s weeping branches, he saw black silk fluttering. A bird’s wing, perhaps? A raven. Shimmering black.
She hummed her tune.
“Not how it ends,” sighed the wind.
Black slipped away between leaves. Fog swallowed the garden. Her song grew faint. Jittery. Frightened.
No! He wanted to stay. God, why couldn’t he stay?
“Not how it ends.”
He needed to stay. Needed to find this place. Find … her.
White and gray faded into night. The buzz in his ears grew louder. A violent force shot him upward through a slit in the sky.
Black became red. Gingery red.
And wine.
And wood.
Something lay on his chest. Heavy. Couldn’t breathe.
Shoulders hurt. Jaw ached. Ears buzzed.
His head rolled to the side. He allowed himself a single moment to close his eyes. Ignore the horror. Remember her song.
Breathe.
Then, he shoved. Rolled Clayton’s lifeless body away. Sat up and looked at death.
Everywhere. Everywhere.
Ensign Beaver’s big-toothed face appeared in front of his, clean but for a bit of soot. “Hawthorn,” the man mouthed. “You alive?”
Devil take it. Yes. He was. As always, he was alive and surrounded by death.
It appeared to be his punishment, and a cruel one, at that.
Ensign Beaver mouthed something like “surrender.” The gun deck was littered with the debris of war—bodies, blood. Parts that should have been men and no longer were. The creaking, broken ship listed sharply.
Jonas wanted to laugh. Absurdity usually did it. What a godforsaken farce to send men like Clayton and Bailey—infantrymen posing as sailors—to fight in an unfinished ship, then surrender only after the slaughter. They’d died for nothing.
No bloody thing.
Yes, he wanted to laugh. But he was covered in their futile blood.
And he could still hear her humming. Only a memory, of course, but it was sweet comfort. Someday, he would escape this vile world. For now, he would find pieces of beauty to keep him sane—green shoreline and blue lake water. Or a glimpse of shimmering black between willow branches.
Someday, he would have a place of beauty rather than war. He’d stand on stones that smelled of thyme, watch sunlight cut through mist, and know that he’d found home. A home no force in this world or the next could make him leave.
*~*~*
CHAPTER ONE
“A tedious ride on a lame mount holds more allure than a dance with you, my lord. Perhaps it is the company.”
—Lady Dorothea Penworth to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, Earl Bainbridge, in a letter expressing d
issatisfaction with said gentleman’s conciliation.
July 11, 1826
Primvale Castle, Dorsetshire
Sea-scented wind streaked past Hannah’s cheeks while her mount’s galloping rhythm pounded as fiercely as her heart. Coastal soil flew. Tall grass rippled like water. Sunlight warmed her velvet sleeves.
Her rides were never easy. Even now, a year after she’d first climbed onto a saddle, her palm sweated where it gripped her riding cane. Rods of any sort tended to cloud her head. But, with help and time, she’d denied fear its victory.
Or nearly so, at any rate.
In the beginning, the best she’d been able to manage was a slow, rocking walk upon her gentle mare, and that only when her sister-in-law, Eugenia, was by her side, cajoling and challenging and insisting that she was strong. She wasn’t, of course. Every moment had been filled with torturous dread. In time, she’d forced the queasy twist of her stomach to recede. She’d forced her grip to lighten on her horse’s reins. She’d pushed herself, day by day, to trot then canter then gallop.
Now, every day after breakfast, she rode Astrea across her brother’s vast lands. This morning, the sun glimmered upon the sea as she raced along the high bluff above Primvale Cove. Her legs gripped the sidesaddle’s pommels, as Eugenia had taught her. She bent low over Astrea’s neck, driving her mount—and herself—harder.
Speed was the thing. If she ran fast enough, it felt like flying.
Soon, Astrea’s sides heaved upon harsh breaths. Hannah slowed their pace, guiding the horse inland, back toward Primvale Castle.
“We’ve done well today,” she murmured, stroking Astrea’s neck. Her voice trembled only a little. Scarcely noticeable, really.
She sat straighter and sighed. How she loved this place. Her brother possessed an extraordinary talent for cultivating gardens. As she passed through the orchards, she noted his newest variety of pear tree was beginning to fruit.
He would be pleased. Phineas Brand might be the Earl of Holstoke, but titles were not the source of his pride. He was a scientist, a horticulturalist. His passion for plants drove him to develop ever more resilient and prolific varieties, despite the Horticultural Society of London’s continual denial of his application for membership.
How absurd. The mere fact that Phineas’s mother had been evil incarnate should not signify one way or the other when it came to matters of science. Wasn’t scientific inquiry supposed to be rooted in objective analysis? Alas, the Brand name would be forever tainted by the previous Lady Holstoke’s murderous legacy.
Every day, Hannah felt thankful that woman was dead—for Phineas’s sake as much as her own.
Fortunately, the new Lady Holstoke was a splendid woman. Hannah hadn’t thought so at first. When Phineas had married Eugenia Huxley amidst a roiling scandal, Hannah had feared losing the bond she shared with her brother. He was the only family she had left, and after the hellish nightmare of her early life, his care and devotion had been her haven. But Eugenia hadn’t stolen him away. On the contrary, she’d drawn Hannah close and become her sister in truth. She’d been relentless, ignoring Hannah’s cold rebuffs, wearing away at her resistance until Hannah couldn’t help loving her.
Now, as she guided Astrea out of the orchard and along a gravel path through the southeast gardens, Hannah smiled. Mad, blunt, hat-obsessed Eugenia. She’d missed her dear friend’s company during her rides of late. But Eugenia was a new mother, and she’d insisted on nursing the babe herself. Hannah’s nephew kept his parents busy, indeed.
Her smile grew into a grin. The mere thought of that precious little babe sent a glow through her chest. She’d never suspected one could feel so much love so quickly.
Winding around the square symmetry of Primvale Castle, she rode past the great fountain where a majestic griffin embraced a briar rose vine, and down the drive to the stables. Inside the stable courtyard, Primvale’s head groom, the kindly Mr. Reynolds, offered no assistance as she dismounted, merely tipping his cap and wishing her good day. Taking care not to touch her, he waited for Hannah to step down from the mounting block and move several feet away before coming forward to claim Astrea’s reins.
“How was your ride today, miss?” he asked with a warm, crinkled smile.
“Quite lovely,” she replied, setting her riding cane carefully in his open hand before retreating several steps. “When the sun shines, there is no place on earth more beautiful than Primvale.”
He nodded and tucked the cane out of sight. His eyes beamed gentle understanding. How she longed to return his warmth in kind. Reynolds was a good man, she reminded herself. He would never hurt her.
But she’d not yet found a way to persuade her body of what her mind knew.
Quietly, she thanked him before patting Astrea’s flank and heading for the castle. Inside, she heard Eugenia laughing. The sound made her smile.
She found them in the drawing room—her brother, tall and lean with raven-black hair and pale green eyes. Her sister-in-law with her rich brown hair, tiny waist, and wide-brimmed hat topped with no fewer than three miniature fruits. And, best of all, her nephew, Griffin Brand, or Griffy the Fussbucket, as Eugenia sometimes called him. At the moment, Griffy was squealing with curious delight and giving the air repeated kicks beneath his long gown. He lay on the sofa, gazing up at Eugenia’s hat with rapt fascination.
“He wants the fruit, Briar,” Phineas remarked to Eugenia, calmly folding his newspaper. “I did warn you.”
“Griffy knows dashing fashion when he sees it. Don’t you? Yes, you do.” Eugenia lowered her face to her son’s belly and made funny kissing sounds. Meanwhile, Griffy clutched her hat’s brim with determined focus. His mama laughed and gently retrieved it from the babe’s fingers. “Now, now, my darling. Leave the obsessions to your papa.” She slanted a wicked glance in Phineas’s direction. “He’s rather good at those.”
Phineas’s pale eyes—so similar to Hannah’s own—lit with a secret glow. He rose from his chair, tucked his paper under his arm, and bent to kiss Eugenia in one smooth motion. His hand cupped the back of her head in a possessive gesture. Eugenia’s hand cupped his cheek in a loving one. Their son gurgled and blew bubbles.
And Hannah’s heart seized up with an ache as sharp as any blade. She dropped her gaze to where her blue velvet skirts gathered and fell. Her hands didn’t know what to do, so she folded them there.
“I shall be in the greenhouse, Briar,” Phineas murmured. “Whilst Griffin has his nap, you may join me there, if you like. I’m conducting a new experiment I believe you’ll find … edifying.”
“Hmm. I do adore being edified by you, my love.”
Hannah could nearly hear her brother’s grin. Phineas had smiled and laughed more in the past year than in the prior six combined. Probably more than in his entire life. Hannah wouldn’t know. She’d only met her brother seven years ago, when a mutual acquaintance—Eugenia’s sister, as it happened—noticed their resemblance and introduced them.
Despite Hannah being their father’s by-blow, Phineas hadn’t hesitated a moment to take her into his home and embrace her fully. He’d protected her, sheltered her. He’d given her a home and a family.
Now, as he approached, she admired the man he’d become. He looked so much like their father. She remembered Papa visiting her and her mother in Bath, bringing her gifts and holding her on his lap. Before he’d been slowly poisoned by his viper of a wife, Simon Brand had been a good man, intelligent and patient and kind. Phineas shared those qualities along with an intensity that some found intimidating.
Around Hannah, he kept it carefully tempered, as he knew the effect it had upon her. Phineas was a protector by nature.
He paused just before reaching her side. Slowly, he extended his hand.
With her, Phineas always took the greatest care.
She hesitated only a moment before forcing herself to slide her hand into his. As usual, her reward was a gentle squeeze and a sense of relief. Phineas would never hurt her. She knew t
hat. She did.
His eyes were full of tenderness. “You have a lovely bloom on your cheeks, Hannah. I trust you had a pleasant ride.”
She nodded. “Astrea and I enjoyed a vigorous gallop above the cove. The breeze is warm off the water this morning. It feels like silk.”
“I suspect we’ll see a surge of heat this month.”
“Your new pears are showing promise.”
He grinned. “They are, indeed. I have high hopes for a September crop this year. I shall see you before dinner for our customary match, yes?”
They played chess every day, and every day he defeated her. But she learned more with each game. Last evening, she’d come within two moves of defeating him. Soon, she would triumph. She could feel it. She was an excellent player. “If you crave humiliation, then of course, I shall oblige,” she said pertly.
He chuckled. “Until then.” With one last squeeze of her fingers, he slowly bent to kiss her cheek.
She braced herself, holding still as she’d done often over the past seven years. In families, it was important to accept gestures of affection. Phineas was the only male with whom she’d managed such a feat, and he took great pains not to startle her.
“Go on with you, Phineas.” Eugenia waggled her fingers in a shooing motion. “Your plants await.”
As soon as he departed, Eugenia reversed her waggle and summoned Hannah to the sofa. “You must see this, dearest. I think Griffy is laughing.” She tilted her head. “Or perhaps he is plotting to dismantle my hat.”
Hannah sat beside her nephew and scooped him into her arms. He cooed and wagged his arms in circles. “Cleverness does run in the family.”
Eugenia snorted. “He may do as he likes, so long as he continues sleeping soundly at night. Good heavens, I contemplated begging Phineas for a sleeping draught.”
“For you?”
“For Griffy. The boy has a voracious appetite. It cannot be healthy.”
