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 striking 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 real
ized 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.
2:00 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Four Bells)
“SAIL HO! SAIL HO!”
“Larboard bow ahoy!”
“It’s a man-o’-war all right!”
“A mighty big one at that!”
In his cabin, James struggled to raise himself up in his cot. “Dear God! There was a time I thrilled to hear those words. Now they only fill me with dread.”
“Stay where you are,” said Leander firmly, trying to take James’s pulse. “Fly has commanded many ships in his time.”
“Hand me my clothes, Lee.”
“Your fever has returned and your pulse is weak. Please … stay where you are.”
James paid him no heed. He stumbled out of his cot and staggered over to his clothing hook where, with trembling hands, he reached for his white breeches and his blue frock coat adorned with shoulder epaulettes and brass-buttoned cuffs.
“I cannot agree to you leaving your bed in your state.”
James mopped his brow. “I’ve been too long in my bed, Lee. And I am well aware that I may never regain my strength.”
“Have you no faith in the abilities of Fly and Mr. Harding?”
“That is not the point!” he replied, with an edge in his voice; then, more gently, he added, “My men need to see me. If we are to face another battle, it will put their minds at ease to have me walk with them above deck.”
“That is all well and noble,” said Leander, pulling off his spectacles, “but I believe your men would find greater comfort in knowing your health was being restored with rest. As your doctor, I simply cannot approve of you – ”
“I will not fight Trevelyan in my bedclothes!” James glared at the doctor for a while until his anger dissipated, then, wearing a look of remorse, he carried his clothes meekly to his desk chair, where he sat down to catch his breath. Slowly he pulled on his breeches, then his Hessian boots, which stood upright on the floor beside him, and finally, his uniform coat.
Leander tucked his spectacles into his waistcoat pocket. “What evidence do we have that it is Trevelyan’s ship that approaches?”
James fumbled with his coat buttons, but finding the task exhausting, he shifted his body round to look out through the galleried windows upon the billowing misty-white sea, and fell into a dream-like state. There was something in his aspect that led Leander to wonder if James’s thoughts had travelled home to England. He watched him closely for some time.
“James, why is it the name Trevelyan strikes such fear in you? Granted, two weeks back, his guns inflicted a fearful lot of damage on us, but surely no more than we inflicted upon him.”
Beads of sweat ran down James’s sunken cheeks, and his eyes never left the sea. “He has an old score to settle with me and has waited a very long time for his revenge. I feared he would resurface again one day; I just never imagined I’d meet him in the Atlantic and find him commanding, of all things, an American ship called the Serendipity.”
Leander hoped to hear more, but when James revealed nothing further, he set about collecting his medical chest and made his way to the cabin door. “I will go and question Mr. McGilp for you – see what news there is.” Throwing open the door, he found McGilp already standing there, his fist at his forehead in a salute to his captain.
“Mr. McGilp!” cried James, rising to his feet. “Can you tell me? Is she British or Yankee?”
“She’s coming from the nor’east, sir. Still hard to tell with the mists and all.”
“Bearing down on us?”
“No, at ease and a piece off yet, sir.”
“The very minute – the very minute – you can identify her colours, let me know.”
“Right, sir.”
Mr. McGilp hurried off just as the sailing master, Mr. Harding, appeared at the door, red-faced and breathless. “Your instructions, sir?” he rasped.
“Tell Mr. Austen to raise the anchors and unfurl the sails. We must try to harness what wind we can and get to deeper water as soon as possible. Are our repairs nearly complete?”
“Another day or two would have been preferred, sir, but I think we are sound enough to fight … if need be.”
“And time … how much time would you say we have, Mr. Harding?”
“A good two hours, I’d say, sir – that’s if we were to stay put.”
After James had shut the door on the sailing master’s retreating steps, Leander led him back to his desk chair. Within minutes they could hear the familiar whirl of activity above deck – the call for the hands to weigh anchor and the sound of a fifer piping them to their posts to the tune of “Heart of Oak.” Two hundred men alone were needed to raise the thick cables of the main anchor. Eighty-four men, mostly marines, were necessary to operate the twelve bars of the capstan on the fo’c’sle, and several dozen more would be stationed on the gun deck and orlop to handle and stow the incoming, fishy-smelling cable.
“While we wait it out, I must stay occupied,” said James, fumbling again with his coat buttons.
“You’ve eaten nothing today. Could I convince you to take some food?”
“Perhaps a bowl of soup,” James said. “I will swallow a bit of nourishment for you, Lee, if you would escort Emily here to my cabin.”
“Emily?”
“I would like to question her again.” Noticing a mixed expression of interest and alarm on Leander’s face, he added, “You may stay for the interview.”
“I should like that.”
“Shall we say … in half an hour?” When Leander nodded his agreement, James sighed. “Right then! Now help me fasten these damned buttons.”
2:30 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Five Bells)
EMILY, GUS, AND MAGPIE sat cross-legged on the floor of Emily’s hospital corner reading Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility together. All three knew there had been a sighting, and their anxiety of the unknown was eased somewhat by listening to Austen’s fictional tale. Magpie sat with his back erect, his one almond-shaped eye shining in the shadows, his full youthful attention on the story of the sisters named Elinor and Marianne Dashwood. Gus read, his melodious voice loud enough so that Dr. Braden’s patients could hear his words as they lay in their cots, though it did not escape Emily’s notice that one of his legs was bouncing up and down.
Prior to their reading, Magpie had recounted in worried whispers the scene he had witnessed on the gun deck, and with this intelligence knocking around in her head, Emily sat nervously, one ear to the story, the other listening for the return of Mrs. Kettle with her laundry.
Before long, Leander crept into their corner and, with a nod of his head and an incline of his auburn eyebrows, sought permission to listen in. “I have a bit of time to spare before … before I tend to my next task,” he said, as if apologizing for his sudden appearance.
“Oh, please join us, Doctor,” Emily said, feeling at once safer with him on the wooden stool beside her.
Gus had barely managed to read a page when Magpie’s hand flew up in the air yet again as if he were a schoolboy sitting at his classroom desk and Gus his schoolmaster. “Excuse me, Mr. Walby, but I need to know why Miss Marianne got so sick.”
“Magpie, you must stop asking so many questions or we’ll never get through this chapter,” admonished Gus. “We don’t have long, you know.”
“It’s fine to ask questions, Magpie,” Emily said, smiling at his literary enthusiasm.
“All right then,” Gus recanted, disliking the thought of displeasing Emily. “While Miss Marianne was staying at the Palmers’ home, she took to rambling around their damp grounds, and got her shoes and stockings all wet. The result wa
s she caught a chill and came down with an infectious fever.”
Magpie meditated on Gus’s answer. “But I don’t understand, ’cause me shoes and stockins’ are wet all o’ the time and I never gets a ’fectious fever.”
“What Gus said is true,” added Emily softly, “but you also need to understand that Marianne was spiritually exhausted and came close to dying of a broken heart. You see, she had fallen in love with the handsome Mr. Willoughby, and he in turn loved her dearly. In all ways, they were wonderfully suited for one another. But Willoughby had debts to pay, and under the threat of losing his large income, was forced to marry a wealthy woman for whom he did not care. It was his pocketbook he chose over Marianne’s love.”
Magpie looked upset. “Then who will be marryin’ Miss Marianne?”
“For certain it will be Colonel Brandon!” Gus spoke up eagerly this time. “It was him that rode to Barton to fetch Mrs. Dashwood when Miss Marianne was lying ill.”
“And although not as dashing or enticing a man as Willoughby,” Emily continued, “Colonel Brandon is far more honourable, and he adores her.”
From her cross-legged position on the floor, she glanced up and was heartened to find Leander smiling down upon her, adoration in his eyes. He started as if emerging from a reverie. “Jane writes well, does she not?” he said. “She always had a talent for writing …”
Realizing his thoughts had been with Miss Austen, Emily’s reply was cool. “She does. I have read no better work.”
There was an uneasy moment of silence, during which Leander cleared his throat and fixed his stare upon the front cover of Sense and Sensibility. Then, standing up, he turned to Gus. “Excuse me, Mr. Walby, before you continue your reading, I have come to inform Emily” – Leander looked right at her – “that her presence has been requested in the great cabin.”
An icy chill prickled Emily’s spine. Had Mrs. Kettle already shown the miniature to Captain Moreland? She wrinkled her forehead. “More interrogation? Why now? Surely the captain has far more grave concerns on his mind.”
“That he does; however, he would like to speak to you before that approaching ship gets too close for comfort.”
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 17
