Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  Gus shut the book, and all three of them pushed themselves up from the floor. Leander swept aside the curtain to let them pass into the hospital. To their surprise, standing amongst the hammocks, holding Emily’s cleaned checked shirt and trousers, was Meg Kettle. “Ahh, and what were yas all doin’ in there?” Mrs. Kettle asked in a tone that set Mr. Crump into a fit of giggles.

  “We was readin’ a book!” said Magpie. “Somethin’ ya can’t and won’t never do.”

  A hush descended upon the room as everyone present gaped at the little sail maker’s outburst. Emily placed her hands gently on his thin shoulders.

  When she had quite recovered her shock, Mrs. Kettle glared at Emily. “I suppose yer teachin’ him yer fancy ways. Readin’ a book! Ya ’ave no use fer it, Magpie. Ya won’t never rise above yer station, especially now … lookin’ like a one-eyed serpent with ’alf a face.”

  Feeling Magpie squirming beneath her hands, Emily squeezed his shoulders while Leander, standing next to her, looked like thunder. “Mrs. Kettle, your tongue has no place here. I must ask that you leave now.”

  “And I see ya’ve fallen under ’er spell as well, Doctor.”

  “Leave your laundry and turn about!”

  Mrs. Kettle hurled the clean clothes at Emily. “There ya be, ya lofty camp follower.”

  The room echoed with gasps and whistles. Heads rose from their pillows. Mr. Crump wiggled his stump about in raptures. He’d never witnessed such excitement! “Give ’er thee old toss, Doc.”

  Osmund, none too gently, steered the laundress towards the exit.

  “Wait!” said Emily. She stooped to collect her scattered clothes, past caring about the possible repercussions of what she was about to do. All eyes focused on her as she rifled through the pockets of her clean trousers, obviously in search of something, and came up empty-handed. “Mrs. Kettle,” she said with all the composure she could muster, “I believe you have something of mine.”

  Mrs. Kettle shook off Osmund’s hold on her arm, her small eyes narrowing, almost disappearing into the folds of her facial fat. “And what would that be?”

  Emily stood her battleground, holding onto Magpie again, this time for support. “It was in the pocket of these trousers.”

  Mrs. Kettle looked uncertain. Several times she swallowed and her fists fiddled in the coarse material of her skirt. Her red face twitched as she cast nervously about, her eyes racing from face to face, her taut stance indicating a desire to bolt from the hospital. But when her eyes finally stopped on Leander, her hunted expression vanished. Giving the side of her head a playful smack, she haughtily exclaimed, “Ahhhh! How could I ’ave taken such leave o’ me senses. My sincere apologies to yer Highness. Right! In yer trousers pocket it was.”

  Emily waited, holding her breath, while Mrs. Kettle leisurely reached into the pocket of her apron and jerked out a stained, crumpled piece of paper. Realizing what it was she held up in her fat hands, Emily watched in horror as a malicious grin appeared on the laundress’s lips.

  “Ya think I know nothin’ of readin’, ya imp,” Mrs. Kettle spit at Magpie. “Well, hear this!” She shifted into her most amorous voice. “My Dearest Jane. It is too long since last I heard your joyful voice and walked with you in the gardens at Chawton. I often think of England and the time when we will next meet. More than ever I have need of your comfort and inspiration as already we have twice battled the Americans and our casualties have been too numerous for even this poor doctor to bear. Several of us in the hospital take solace in reading your novel. It has afforded us hours of pleasure. What delightful characters you have created in the Misses Dashwoods. I am particularly taken with Miss Marianne. Would you believe me if I told you that I have recently become acquainted with a true Marianne …”

  Something in the way Mrs. Kettle read the letter suggested she had memorized its contents. With a dramatic flourish, she dabbed at her eyes and, shooting a meaningful glance at Leander, said, “Such pretty words! ’Tis a pity there ain’t more.”

  Emily forced herself to look at Leander. Her heart sank to see his handsome face frozen in disbelief, his lips moving in silent inquiry, his blue eyes – brimming with devastation – staring back at her.

  “Aye, imagine that! Right in ’er very pocket I found yer letter, Doctor!”

  Magpie whirled about to face Emily. “What about the miniature, ma’am?”

  Emily shook her head sadly.

  Suddenly, a burst of cries and bellows came from the men above deck.

  “She’s Yankee! She’s Yankee all right!”

  “And a frigate!”

  “Clear the decks for action!”

  “Lively now, lads.”

  “Lower the boats.”

  The drums beat to quarters, instantly plunging the Isabelle and her crew into nervous activity. Urgent footsteps pounding overhead and the frantic orders of the unseen seamen sent Emily’s heart into her mouth.

  “Dear, God, not again!” she whispered.

  Gus took hold of her hand and dragged her back towards her canvas corner. “You’ll be safe in here, Em.”

  Emily went in reluctantly, twisting her head around in a backwards glance only to learn that Mrs. Kettle had made her escape and Leander, his cheeks still flushed, was sharpening his surgical equipment for the grisly task that lay before him.

  4:30 p.m.

  (First Dog Watch, One Bell)

  FLY AUSTEN REACHED THE QUARTERDECK and looked about the ship. He was dressed in his freshly pressed blue-and-gold uniform, his body erect, his dark eyes alert. Today his aspect was all business. Wherever his gaze fell, there wasn’t one man – from those clinging to the footropes and the tops, to those hugging the rails and manning the guns – whose eyes weren’t trained upon the approaching warship. Though she was still a few miles away and resembled a ghost ship emerging from the wispy mists, Fly could plainly see her American colours at her stern. He found James alongside Mr. Harding, holding onto the starboard rail with one hand, watching the ship’s movements through his spyglass.

  Coming up behind the two men, Fly saluted James and said, “Sir, the men are at their posts and stand ready round the guns.”

  As he lowered his glass, James looked disheartened. “We haven’t had the time to fully repair. What’s more, we have neither adequate sea room in which to manoeuvre, nor the wind in our favour, Mr. Austen.”

  Mr. Harding shifted his weight onto his one foot. “And this is a cursed place to do battle. With very little effort, she could force us back upon those damned shoals.”

  “We’ll not do anything to provoke her,” said James determinedly. “We’ll wait and see if she fires the first shot.” In the company of Mr. Harding, he moved on down the starboard gangway to dispense words of encouragement to the gun crews and yell out final orders to the men and marines in the tops.

  Fly pulled out his own spyglass, mumbling words of encouragement to himself, to stay buoyed before the men. Breathe out, Austen. Remember that Nelson succeeded by breaking with our rigid naval tactics. Perhaps, if we want to save our necks, we should follow suit and try putting our collective imaginations to task. Lifting the glass to his eye, he studied the looming ship that was still three or four miles away. He could see her cutting a good bow wave beneath her elaborately carved red-and-gold figurehead. Her hull was black with a stripe of ochre-yellow that followed her gunports. The squares of her foresails, plumped up by the strong northeast breeze, glowed in the sun’s rays that peeked through the clouds, and resembled large pillows in slipcovers of gold. He watched the tiny figures of the seamen bustling about the decks and climbing the standing rigging to the tops. Near the bowsprit, he was certain he could see the captain himself, a corpulent man in a cocked hat, standing amongst a group of officers. Aware that the whirling mists were finally receding, Fly kept the glass to his eye and made a mental note of the number of guns she possessed. All the while, along the corridors of his mind, there was a pricking sensation – something was familiar about this large s
hip.

  Nearby, the sailors who nervously awaited their next round of orders – Mr. McGilp gripping the Isabelle’s wheel, the marines with their muskets ready and aimed, the gun crews and powder monkeys clustered around the great guns on the starboard side of the fo’c’sle, poop, and quarterdeck – never expected to see Mr. Austen, in one sudden movement, toss up his spyglass and throw back his head to howl with laughter.

  “Captain Moreland, sir,” he called out, addressing all those sweating, eager faces that looked his way, “I invite you to take another look through your glass.”

  * * *

  EMILY CAST OFF THE GARMENTS Magpie had laboured to make for her and wiggled into her clean, less formal checked shirt and trousers, determined she would not cower in her corner waiting for the cannons to shake the ship’s sides and the agonizing cries of the mutilated men to echo in her ears. When Gus and Magpie had left her to resume their nautical duties, she had attempted to calm herself by re-reading passages of Jane Austen’s novel, but it was no use. The words in Leander’s letter haunted her thoughts and only served to stir up envious emotions for the talented author of Sense and Sensibility.

  Leaving the security of her corner, she entered the hospital room with trepidation, worried lest there be further talk on the subject of Leander’s stolen letter. When the drums had beat to quarters, she had heard great commotion beyond her curtain, but she had not dreamed that every last man had heeded the call, from the marine sentry and Mr. Crump to Osmund Brockley and the loblolly boys. Leander’s desk had been transformed into an operating table, with the familiar bloodstained sheet and neat line of surgical tools spread out upon it, and Leander himself was sitting hunched over in the desk chair, scratching notes into his medical journal with a quill pen. Uneasily, Emily stood before him like a child before a stern teacher. “Please, Doctor, I am in need of an occupation.”

  He pressed his lips together and regarded her over his round spectacles, and without saying a word, lifted up a bucket of bandages by his feet and handed it to her. Emily knew he meant for her to roll them in preparation for their next round of patients. She searched about for the nearest stool, sat down with her bucket, and set about to work, relieved to be doing something useful and delighting in the pleasant musky smell of Leander’s closeness. From her seat, she furtively watched his fingers fly over the pages of his journal and his slim shoulders stir in his clean muslin shirt and striped waistcoat as he exercised stiffening muscles, hoping that eventually he would set his eyes upon her.

  “I gather my interview with Captain Moreland has been postponed.”

  He paused in his writing, but did not look up. “It has.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she said, hating herself for stating the obvious.

  As the silence between them continued, Emily grew more and more jittery, and the pandemonium over their heads seemed at once remote and unreal. At last, Leander lay down his pen. “I thought perhaps you might find respite in reading Jane’s book.”

  She eagerly smiled up at him. “It is not the same without the company of Gus Walby.”

  “I see,” he said absently, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Besides, I cannot help feeling jealous of Jane Austen.”

  “Why is that?”

  Her cheeks turned scarlet. “Because her … her book is so finely crafted, her writing so true. Her accomplishments are an inspiration to all women.” Leander nodded thoughtfully before returning to his journal. “And because,” she added quickly, “she so obviously holds your affections.”

  The flash of his eyes on her made her shaky and her words tumbled out of her mouth. “Doctor, please, you must believe me. I did not steal your letter. I found it on the floor of the hospital a week back. Osmund Brockley had already stepped on it with his clumsiness and spilled all forms of liquid upon it. It would have been lost altogether had I not picked it up before setting off for the sail room to fetch Magpie’s blanket and placed it in my pocket, and when … when I was forced to return to my cot it remained in my pocket, safe, but altogether forgotten. I swear to you … I did not read it.”

  Leander shut his journal and leaned back against the wooden spindles of his chair, assuming the aspect of a judge about to exact a punishment. Before long, an expression of amusement brightened his face. “If I were to believe you, Emily, can you tell me truthfully that you wouldn’t – at some point – have been tempted to read it?”

  She laughed nervously. “Honestly? I cannot tell.”

  All the clamour and confusion that had crashed above their heads for so long ceased abruptly, as if the peacefulness of the hospital had permeated the entire ship. Together Leander and Emily raised their eyes to the wooden ceiling and strained their ears to catch a sailor’s footfall or vociferous bellow.

  Emily fidgeted with the bandages in her lap, certain that Leander could hear her heart beating. “Why is there no sound?”

  “There is often an eerie calm before battle.” He set his eyes once again upon Emily, a sober glint having replaced his one of earlier enjoyment. “You asked Mrs. Kettle to return to you something that was yours. If it was not my letter to which you referred, may I ask what it was?”

  Emily was slow to answer, for her mind was muddled. It was tortuous trying to ignore the fact that a Yankee frigate was swiftly bearing down on them, and yet she keenly felt Leander’s humiliation at having Meg Kettle scornfully read aloud his letter to Jane. She needed to make amends.

  Somehow.

  “Mrs. Kettle found two things in the pockets of my trousers early this morning. The first was your letter, the second was a portrait … a miniature … of me.”

  “Of you?” Leander leaned forward in his chair. “Did you carry it concealed from us when you first came on board?”

  “No! No … the amazing thing is, I found it in Magpie’s sea chest, wrapped in his blanket.” She watched his face closely. “You see, Doctor, our little sail maker has discovered who I am.”

  His eyes searched out hers. “And who might that be, Emily?”

  With trembling hands, she set aside the bandages and stood up to pace the hospital floor, too worried to meet his stare. “You have most likely heard that prior to Magpie taking to the sea, he was a climbing boy in London, cleaning chimneys in the employ of a Mr. Hardy.”

  “I have heard something to that effect.”

  “Three years ago, Magpie was working in the home of my Uncle Clar … my Uncle William when he chanced to suffer a bad fall. My uncle showed Magpie much kindness, first by throwing his angry, unsympathetic employer out the door, secondly by giving him a large supper – more food than Magpie had ever eaten – and finally by offering him an opportunity to work on a ship. My uncle and his wife invited him to stay with them until a suitable posting was found, and when it came time for him to leave for the sea, they gave him three gifts: a sea chest, a blanket, and a miniature of me that the dear boy claimed he had greatly admired.” Emily paused to peer at Leander, only to find that he had not moved, that his gaze still rested on her. “That first evening I came on board the Isabelle, Magpie was convinced I was the same woman in his little picture … why, I was wearing the very same blue velvet spencer! But he told no one of his suspicions, and only this morning, when we met together in the galley, did I learn of it myself. Magpie has since discovered that Mrs. Kettle does indeed have my miniature. He saw her showing it to – of all people – Octavius Lindsay.”

  Leander stretched his arms across his surgery-ready table. “But as she has stolen it from you, we shall simply demand she give it back.”

  Emily turned to look at him, her dark brown eyes glistening in the half-light. “And by nightfall, every man on the Isabelle will know who I am. You see, Doctor, on the back of the miniature, in addition to my full name, there is written my father’s name and … his title.”

  Leander’s eyes widened and his lips parted, but he said nothing, only waited.

  “I told Captain Moreland when I first came on board the Isabell
e that my mother died when I was young. She was legally married to my father, but my father’s parents did not approve of the match. During my childhood, my father was often absent for long periods of time, but I was well taken care of by various members of his family. Above all else, I adored my Uncle William and his children, and when my father died in 1810, I begged and pleaded to be permanently installed in my uncle’s home. Sadly, not long afterward, their home was broken up, my uncle and aunt separated, and Aunt Dora was forced to move into a much smaller home.

  “My grandmother was adamant that I live with her in London, and certainly she had enough spare bedrooms to accommodate me, but I could not warm to the woman who had made my own mother’s short life so difficult. Besides, I could not tolerate the thought of vegetating in that household, of being shut up in the company of my grandmother, who was growing increasingly disagreeable, and my poor unmarried aunts, living out my days and evenings cutting out silhouettes, and painting china, and making lace, and doing needlework, having to rely upon visitors to tell me something of the vast world beyond my front door. I was seventeen, almost eighteen, and, as far as I was concerned, free to make my way in the world. To appease my grandmother, I told her I would happily come live with her if she would first grant me permission to have an extended visit with my mother’s relations in Dorset. Her answer was a long time in coming, and goodness knows, she made me suffer, but she finally agreed to my wishes.

  “My maternal relations were exceedingly amiable, and my days with them were full of fun and adventure. We explored the countryside by horseback and on foot; we went seabathing in Weymouth Bay; took trips to Lyme Regis and Exeter; and climbed the ancient stones on Salisbury Plain. Why, I even glimpsed the Cerne Giant on his green hill.” Emily smiled in remembrance and was pleased to see Leander’s focused eyes flutter. “Not once, Doctor, did I pick up a needle, or play on a pianoforte, or sit at a whist table. All the while, the thought of returning to London filled me with dread. How could I ever live happily, caged in cold walls of stone, when I had tasted such delights, known such diversions? Determined to prolong my adventure as long as possible, I listened to my cousin’s plans to journey to Upper Canada to visit a distant relation who had made his home there some years before, and as I was drawn to the idea of an ocean-crossing, I began scheming to go …”