Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  Emily’s eyes widened. “You would have me live with strangers then?”

  “My dear, you have been in the company of strangers — lewd hell-hounds and sinners — for the past few months. I cannot imagine you shall have any trouble at all adjusting to this new arrangement.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Her uncle set his heavily lidded blue eyes upon her, and assumed a hardened expression. “You are somewhat of an embarrassment to the family … in your … in your —” he groped a moment for the right word, “— your unmanageability.”

  “You think me unmanageable?”

  “Yes, my dear, in the worst way. Let us recapitulate.” The duke clapped his hands upon the table, and cleared his throat. “Without informing your royal family, you sailed from Portsmouth in April aboard HMS Amelia with your cousin, Frederick Seaton, who … you should know … will be soundly disciplined for your kidnapping once he has fully recovered his senses …”

  Emily was quick to cry out in protest, but her uncle cut her off and pressed on.

  “The Amelia was subsequently attacked, you were taken prisoner by one Thomas Trevelyan, who, I have been informed, kept you confined in his great cabin for three or four weeks — without any form of chaperone, I might add — until such time as his ship, the USS Serendipity, encountered HMS Isabelle. During a tremendous battle, while grapeshot and splinters filled the air, you escaped through Trevelyan’s broken windows, injuring your right ankle most grievously and taking a bullet in your right shoulder. You were then rescued by the Isabelles, and spent the next two weeks, in the close company of the aforementioned hell-hounds, in the ship’s hospital which was administered by a Dr. Leander Braden, who … I understand … had a salacious interest in you.”

  Emily shot forward in her chair. “Uncle, that is completely false and unjust. First of all, I was not kidnapped by my cousin; secondly, at no time did Dr. Braden ever …”

  The duke raised his hand to silence her, and though his gesture was stern his voice was not unkind. “My dear, I am far from finished. Permit me to continue.” He ripped a chunk of meat from the roasted duck carcass, stuffed it into his mouth, and slumped back upon the cushioned seat of his armchair. “While on the Isabelle, you caused the late Captain James Moreland much consternation as you developed a taste for laudanum, and had a penchant for climbing the shrouds and drinking ale with the sweaty, bare-shirted sailors, and while wandering the ship you incited the arousal of a some poor, young, unnamed sailor who attempted to …”

  Now it was Emily’s turn to raise a hand. “Stop! Please, Uncle! Please stop this madness! I do not know who has been feeding you this information, but your version of my life over the past several weeks has been unfairly prejudiced by your sources. I told you all when we first greeted one another in Bermuda. Have you now forgotten?”

  “Ah, but Emeline, I’ve heard a great deal more these past few weeks on the sea.”

  “And why would you believe what they have to say over what I’ve already explained to you, especially when you have always been one to listen to and consider another’s point of view?”

  His fleshy cheeks flushed red. “Because you are a woman.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” gasped Emily.

  “Women tend to be fanciful, and, therefore, often don’t know their own mind.”

  “I happen to be well-acquainted with mine.”

  “Do you really, my dear?” He raised his voice an octave. “Furthermore, you have not been in this world long enough to have a true understanding of the nature of men … especially those who ply their trade on the sea.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Then, Emeline, tell me this: how the devil did you ever get yourself mixed up with this Thomas Trevelyan? And here I always thought you possessed sound judgement in all aspects of your life. What will the Prince Regent say when he learns his beloved niece is married to one of the greatest traitors England has ever known?”

  Emily exhaled in frustration. “I am married to Trevelyan in name only. Rightly or wrongly, he assumed that being married to a granddaughter of King George would absolve him of the crimes he committed against England, and enable him to collect the fortune and titles which once belonged to his step-father, Charles DeChastain. I told you before, Uncle, I only acquiesced and went through with the ceremony to prevent Trevelyan from harming those I —” she hesitated to steady her voice, “— so that he wouldn’t harm the English prisoners he kept confined in the gaol of his ship.”

  Her uncle fixed his round stare on the bowl of fruit fritters. “Hogwash! We both know Trevelyan was carrying no prisoners in his hold! I am most disappointed in you, Emeline. The fact remains, you married the man, therefore, I can think of only one solution for you.” Whether or not it was punishment for her to have to wait until he had popped a fritter into his mouth and savoured its exquisite qualities before he continued, Emily could not tell. “Given your unfortunate circumstances, the best we can do for you is secure an annulment, and subsequently search the Continent for an insignificant prince — perhaps an elderly widower — who has fallen upon hard times, and would therefore be overjoyed to win the favour of an English princess … so long as I can convince the Regent to provide you with a small dowry.”

  Emily’s mouth fell open, her blood boiled in her ears; again she tried to protest, but as she did her uncle abruptly pushed himself away from the table and reached for his admiral’s hat. It seemed he had more pressing matters at hand, and that, as far as he was concerned, their unpleasant interview had reached its end. Helplessly, she watched as her uncle lumbered across the cabin floor and rattled the door open. His squat, bulky frame filled the small doorway, and he lingered there a moment before pronouncing his parting thought.

  “Here we thought the Regent’s daughter, Princess Charlotte, was a handful, showing her legs in public, preferring horses to literature, throwing tantrums, and keeping the company of Whigs. My dear,” he said with a cluck of his tongue, “she truly pales in comparison to you.”

  3

  Saturday, August 7

  Noon

  (Forenoon Watch, Eight Bells)

  Aboard HMS Impregnable

  Portsmouth, England

  Emily looked up from the pages of Pride and Prejudice and listened to HMS Impregnable quiver and gripe as her crew toiled to dock her in Portsmouth Harbour.

  Earlier in the day she had stood at her open gunport, sipping lukewarm tea, and watched, for what seemed like hours, as the ship sailed past the chalk downlands of the Isle of Wight, and into the town of Portsmouth — its dockyards and collection of taverns, inns, and churches rather dreary and unwelcoming under leaden skies that threatened rain. She had marvelled as the senior officers on the weather decks had squabbled — in a manner not unlike a haggling group of women at a fish market — over their navigational charts and their opinions regarding the dangers that lay in the waters of the Solent. There was so much to consider that Emily was quite happy to leave the anxieties of seamanship to others, though she was not certain she had complete faith in their abilities. The men argued about the position of various rocks and sandbars and channels; some wished to adhere to the routes laid out upon the charts, knowing they had been plotted with consideration given to leeway and the tidal stream; others wanted to rely on visual clues — namely lining up the landmark transits of Gosport Chapel to the west and the Blockhouse to the east — in order to maintain the deepest water. One man carried on about keeping a sharp lookout for the red buoy that marked the sunken remains of the Royal George, and the white one that marked the submerged Boyne; another had much to say on the subject of misplaced buoys. Her admiral uncle, the Duke of Clarence, was among the contentious officers, his voice rising up, shrill at times, bemoaning the absence of an experienced pilot to steer them safely in and around all lurking impediments.

  Soon Emily had tired of gazing out over the mundane vistas, for they did not fill her with any kind of joy; they only serve
d as a painful reminder that her time on the sea had finally come to an end. Leaving the gunport, she had tried to occupy herself and her mind by inspecting the corners of her cabin to make certain she had collected all of her belongings — the paltry few she did possess — and had packed them away in the small chest the purser was kind enough to forage for her. She had then changed into the blue-and-white-striped morning gown — the one Magpie had especially sewn on the occasion of her Bermuda reunion with Uncle Clarence back in early July. Having slept in curling rags in an effort to smarten up her long hair — neglected for so long in either a straight queue or concealed beneath a scarf — she arranged the gown’s matching bandeau upon her head, hoping it would quite impress the well-born ladies of Portsmouth and London, and keep them from gossiping about the style in which she dressed her hair. Boredom and cheerless thoughts had followed, at which time she had reached for the solace of the novel written by Jane Austen, Fly Austen’s youngest sister.

  But now, as she lifted her chin to listen, her ears detected a sound — nay, a racket — that rose in a deafening crescendo, surpassing that made by the mooring grumbles of the ship. She was about to make an investigative return to her open gunport when Gus Walby stuck his head into her doorway.

  “Em, please come. You must see this!” In his agitated state, he hopped about on his crutch and playfully pulled her out of her cabin, out into the cool, windy day, where he led her to the spot near the rail where the admiral — beaming from ear to ear in his polished and pressed blue uniform — stood with his senior officers. Hanging back, Emily endeavoured to make sense of it all, while Gus’s shining eyes observed her closely, awaiting her reaction.

  On the wharves below, a sea of people rolled like a colossal wave toward their ship. Waving their arms about and roaring with excitement, men, women, and children of all ages, from all circles of society — some dressed in finery, others in rags — rushed to find a place to stand, as close as possible to the docked Impregnable. Emily was aghast. Never before had she seen so many gathered together in one location. It was as though a much anticipated country fair had just opened, and those who had waited patiently outside the restraining gates had all broken into a run to be the first to see the attractions.

  “But I don’t understand,” she said to both Gus and her uncle. “Surely the people of Portsmouth are quite used to seeing a ship.”

  “Oh, my dear, they have no interest in the Impregnable,” said her Uncle Clarence, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

  “Oh! Is there a sea serpent clinging to her hull then?”

  “No, Em, I —” Gus quickly broke off, and corrected himself. “I … I meant to say Your Royal Highness.” Fortunately for him, the Duke of Clarence’s present high spirits precluded any form of admonishment.

  Emily still struggled to comprehend the extraordinary scene before her. “Has the Prince Regent come in a silk-lined coach and six to welcome you home, Uncle?”

  A bit of sunshine left her uncle’s smile. “Good God, Emeline, my brother has little time for me these days; besides, he’s far too busy to come all the way to Portsmouth just to drink tea with us.”

  “Keep me in the dark no longer, and tell me why there’s such a crowd here?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, my dear?”

  “I can only guess that you and your escorting ships have been away at sea for a very long time, Uncle, and these people are family members come to welcome their loved ones home.”

  “Now you are approaching the truth.” The duke firmly took hold of Emily’s arm and steered her toward the rail, thrusting her into the clear sight of the stimulated throng of humanity beneath them. In her gown and bandeau, it was easy to identify Emily amongst the many male faces that lined the ship’s side. A thunderous outpouring of huzzahs, whistles, and applause rattled Emily’s eardrums, and, further adding to her discomfort, her uncle leaned in close to shout into her ear, “You see, Emeline, they’ve come to see and welcome you home.”

  Emily was completely astounded. “But why? I’m of no consequence.”

  “But you are, and curiosity has got the better of them!”

  “Curiosity?”

  “Word has spread very fast — most likely on account of my messengers sent on ahead of our ship. It’s not an everyday occurrence that the ordinary people see a granddaughter of the king, who has lived among men on a congested ship, taken a bullet in the back, and married a most traitorous and contemptuous sea captain. Why, you’ve become a veritable spectacle.” The duke paused in expectation, as if he thought his niece would soon burst into a fit of unmitigated delight, but when she remained speechless he chirped, “So, come along, my dear, let us give the people joy, and parade down the ramp arm-in-arm, allowing all to see the kidnapped princess, and her loving uncle, her brave saviour who sailed with a flotilla of ships to rescue her from the war-ravaged seas.”

  Emily wriggled out of her uncle’s arm-lock and gave him an icy stare. “I will not parade down the ramp in front of all these people as if I’m some kind of prized horseflesh.”

  Her uncle’s head shot back in disbelief; however, his recovery was a speedy one, and, not to be deterred from enjoying the occasion, he brushed away invisible bits of fluff from the gold braiding on his full-dress uniform. “Very well, when you are ready to leave, have Mr. Walby help you off the ship — if he’s able to, although I daresay, you may have to carry him off! There’s to be no dilly-dallying, for I’ve arranged for a barouche to transport us to the inn.” He signalled to his officers to follow suit, and he led them down the ramp on his squat, unsteady sea legs, periodically acknowledging the people with an enthusiastic wave or a nod of his flushed countenance.

  Emily sidled away from the rail on her own wobbly legs, and sought the comfort of an overturned bucket, away from the attentions of the clamorous crowd. Unable to match her uncle’s ebullience she suddenly felt very tired, and desired — of all things — to return to the peace and quiet of her little cot, but she was too weary to even move. Her brown eyes dropped to the deck planks in a frozen stare, though she was conscious of the crewmen, leaving the Impregnable one-by-one, carrying their belongings in ditty bags strung across their shoulders, and balancing their hair-trunks and chests in or under their arms. Wordlessly, Mr. Walby, dressed in his cream-coloured pantaloons and blue jacket, leaning on his crutch, stood at her side. Glancing up at him, Emily could see evidence of his having been aggrieved by her uncle’s insensitive remark in his young features.

  “I’ve not been off a ship in months, Gus. I cannot even walk properly. Were I to attempt that ramp this minute, I’d surely topple over and end up smashed upon the pavement or stones, or whatever covers the ground down there, in front of all those people.” Emily released a sardonic laugh. “A veritable spectacle indeed!”

  “You shall not fall, Em,” he said, attempting to sound strong. “I will help you down.”

  “I know you will, Gus.”

  The air around Portsmouth seemed to thicken and grow chillier, causing Emily to shiver. She looked skyward at the dark, racing clouds, wondering if they were planning to release a torrent of rain upon the town and its dockyards. Without any kind of warning, a drum rolled, its beats both startling and disturbing, and the words “make way” rang loud and clear. Instantaneously, a strange hush filtered through the crowds assembled on the wharves, and although they could no longer see her — hidden from sight on her bucket — Emily could see that each and every person had stopped moving, as if her Uncle Clarence had taken up a speaking trumpet, and ordered them all to “be silent and stand at attention.” Those closest to the ship wore expressions of apprehension upon their upturned faces; some of the children, their mouths agape, had reached for the security of their mother’s skirts, while the mothers, in turn, clung to their husbands’ arms.

  A few feet from the place where Emily rested, four red-coated marines appeared through the hatchway, gripping their muskets, eyes before them, backs erect, faces grim. Thereafter came the clanking, grinding no
ise of someone — his feet bound in chains — making his gruelling way, step-by-step, up the ladder rungs. Emily’s heart quickened as she recalled the suffocating blackness of her nightmare. Captain Thomas Trevelyan — the man she had not laid eyes upon for six weeks, but whose diabolical shape constantly surfaced in her dreams — came slowly into her line of vision: first his hatless head, his straw-coloured hair long, matted, and unclean; then his torn and soiled shirt, his hands tied at his back; and finally his long legs, heavily bandaged around the thighs with old dressings. The marines might have allowed him freedom from his irons as he made his last journey up from the ship’s hold, but they did not — there could be no opportunity for escape — and so a length of chain still loosely imprisoned his bleeding, ulcerated feet.

  Feeling ill, Emily’s first thought was to flee to her cabin, but she could not induce her limbs to mobilize. Her eyes stared, absorbing every terrifying part of him as he materialized bit by bit upon the deck — like a spider creeping out of a cavernous hole. The crowd stirred, exhaling a drawn-out exclamation of horror, but there followed neither boos nor hisses nor hoots of condemnation, only a watchful silence.

  At first his eyes fought with the glare of daylight, but the minute Trevelyan lifted his heavily shadowed face in defiance, they beheld her. Ravaged by weeks of imprisonment, his uniform jacket and boots stripped from his body, he still stood tall, insurmountable; his spirits seemingly unbroken, his hatred still hot. He paused in his labourious march, ignoring the marine’s bayonet that repeatedly jabbed into his back, and allowed his gaze to slowly rove over her. Emily expected to see a flicker of loathing cross his face, or a narrowing of the eyes, perhaps a sneer of the lips. But his face remained void of all emotion. His cracked and swollen lips moved, and he uttered nothing more than a single word.