“Then you shall concentrate your efforts on the pianoforte,” returned her mother dryly. “I do not need an intelligent daughter.”
As if to ward off a family squabble, Somerton hastily introduced a fresh subject. “In your honour, Emeline, we’re throwing a ball this weekend, and have invited all of our friends to attend.”
Adolphus signalled to one of the servants to bring forward the basket of rolls, and then he added, “Thus our delay in returning to Hartwood, for we were riding about the countryside, dispensing our invitations, and so long in doing so we were caught in the rain and forced to spend the night at a friend’s house.”
Emily screamed silently before making her reply. “Oh, please, do not trouble yourselves on my behalf. I’ll be more than content to keep to my room while I’m here.”
Somerton allowed his dark gaze to linger on her face. “That’ll never do, especially when all of England wishes to dance with you.”
“And all will be most anxious to hear of your adventure on the Atlantic,” said Adolphus, peering down his pear nose at her.
At the far end of the table, the crackling voice of the duchess rose up. “Besides, Emeline, we are all most anxious to take part in society again. We have been in mourning these past three weeks, and have not been able to accept any invitations from our friends. I cannot count the number of dinner parties we have missed as a result.”
Of course, thought Emily, who until this moment had not realized that all four of her breakfast companions were draped in black — another indication her mind was as thick as the fog that lurked around Hartwood Hall. And yet, she was aghast to think her Uncle Clarence had left her here, amidst a newly grieving family.
“One of my brothers,” said Fleda quietly.
“Oh!” gasped Emily, glancing in turn at each family member — none of whom appeared to be disquieted — before extending her sympathies. “I am terribly sorry for your loss.”
Helena’s ice-blue eyes met hers, and in a tone bereft of emotion she said, “I have several sons, Emeline, and he was not one of my favourites. Now then … if you have a special dish or dessert you’d like us to serve at the ball, please say so, and we’ll include it on the menu.”
Noon
Hartwood Hall
At noon Glenna came looking for Emily and Fleda, and upon discovering the two on the second-floor landing, peering through the big oval window that afforded a panoramic, if somewhat grey-shrouded, view of London, she relayed the duchess’s strict instructions that Lady Fleda was to return at once to the schoolroom as Mademoiselle was not to be kept waiting a moment longer to begin morning lessons.
“Her Grace ain’t happy,” said Glenna, breathing heavily from climbing two long flights of stairs. “’Tis best ya hurry along.”
Fleda pulled a face at the housekeeper, but did not budge an inch. “I don’t want to. There isn’t a thing Mademoiselle can teach me! She’s as dumb as a tree stump.”
“I thought your mother was hoping you’d practise the pianoforte today,” said Emily, hearing some of her rebellious self in the girl.
“What purpose does the pianoforte serve?” Fleda asked gravely.
Emily gave her a puckish smile. “Why you’ll be able to entertain us with your magnificent melodies at the ball.”
Fleda’s green eyes narrowed as she puckered her thin, bloodless lips.
“Ya’ll git yerself a husband that way, by impressin’ him. All men o’ quality want a refined lass fer their wife.”
“I’m eleven years old, Glenna,” protested Fleda. “I don’t want a stupid husband.”
“Ya say that now,” said Glenna, wobbling toward the staircase down, “but when ya get to be Emily’s age, ya’ll be wantin’ one.”
Fleda waited until Glenna’s bouncing lace cap had vanished from sight, and then she upturned her pale, unsmiling face. “Mother told me you already have a husband, and that he’s to be hanged for crimes against England.”
Emily held Fleda’s gaze a moment, but made no reply beyond a slight incline of her eyebrows. Lifting her skirts, she headed toward the stairs, hoping Fleda would follow her down and make no further references to the subject. And as soon as the unhappy Mademoiselle had her reluctant student in her clutches, Emily devised plans to return to her room to rest and fortify her resources before the next interview with the duke and his family. But to her dismay, she discovered Somerton waiting for her in the small antechamber next to the schoolroom.
“Unless you’ve seen enough of Hartwood for one day,” he said, pushing away from the wall against which he had been leaning his head, “I’ve come to continue your tour.”
Removing from her mouth the hand that had been concealing a yawn, Emily banished her disappointment and tried to inject enthusiasm into her voice. “How very kind of you! Let’s see … we’ve already toured the orangery, and all of the principal rooms, and peeked into all of the bedchambers, dressing rooms, servants quarters … we’ve even done the attics; however, I believe there’s a portrait gallery somewhere on the premises that your sister neglected to show me.” Emily left off at telling him of Fleda’s admission that she abhorred the paintings of her ancestors, or, as she had been wont to describe them, “those creepy old men and women in their ridiculous clothes, whose dead eyes follow your every move.”
Somerton looked hopeful. “Would you like to meet my family?”
“Are all of you hanging in stately frames, glowering down on us small beings who look in wonder upon your sumptuous, painted images?”
“We are!” he said, lifting one dark eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, we’re all there, every one of us, back to the very first Duke of Belmont. And you’re in luck — no more stairs to climb — for the gallery is right here … in the music room.”
Somerton invited her to follow him through a colonnaded archway and into a rectangular room on the north front side of Hartwood Hall, which must surely have equalled the size of the Isabelle. An elegant, rounded window flanked by curtains of green-and-crimson-striped damask dominated the far wall and overlooked the courtyard beyond the main entrance, where Emily had been dropped off on Sunday evening. Arranged in an orderly semicircle around the window was a collection of musical instruments, including a chamber organ, a square harpsichord, a cello, two violins, a harp, and the dreaded pianoforte. The walls were painted a pond green to complement the gilt frames of the portraiture, and nestled around the room’s main feature — an elaborate chimneypiece and overmantel mirror — were sofas and chairs in coverings that matched the window hangings.
“On the night of the ball, this will be the principal dancing room,” explained Somerton, looking around him with satisfaction. “Do you play an instrument?”
“I love music, but I do not play.”
He raised his eyebrows. “How were you ever able to avoid instruction while growing up?”
“My teachers gave up,” Emily replied, admiring the cornice of sculptured harps. “I was far more interested in climbing fences and jumping off barn roofs into stacks of hay.”
Somerton’s glance wavered, as if he were not certain of her sincerity. “Have you an interest in learning now?”
“And be held a prisoner of Mademoiselle?”
He laughed. “Are you perhaps fond of balls?”
An old memory of dancing a cotillion with partners whose hands were clammy, and whose clumsy feet frequently tripped up hers, drifted through Emily’s recollection. “I am, so long as the company in attendance is well versed in the intricate steps of the dance selections,” she replied playfully, “and therefore able to forgive both my forgetfulness and shaky sea legs.”
Emily noticed a slight narrowing of Somerton’s eyes, and as she made for the wall opposite the chimneypiece to study the portraits of the present inhabitants of Hartwood, she felt their dark gaze examining her from the loose knot of pale-gold hair on her head to the tips of her white satin slippers. When his examination was complete he followed her, and held up his hand to acknowledge the fir
st of the formidable portraits. “This is my brother, Wetherell, the Marquess of Monroe. He’s the eldest.”
“I thought you were the eldest,” said Emily, surprised to see such a remarkable resemblance between Wetherell and his thick-featured father, right down to the outdated, powdered wig upon his head.
“No, I’m the second eldest. It’s Wetherell who will one day inherit Hartwood, though he doesn’t care much for the management of its affairs. Furthermore, he doesn’t get on with my father, and prefers his residence in London. I doubt you’ll even see him during your stay with us.”
“Do you assist your father in overseeing the estate?”
“I do. I’m the only one of my brothers living here at present.”
Somerton wandered down the line of portraits, telling her something about each of his brothers: their names and professions, their foibles and interests, as well as those of their wives and mistresses. Emily did her best to listen, but she was so tired she found it impossible to assimilate all of the information and worried — should Somerton decide to test her — that she would fail miserably in recalling which one was George and which one was Henry, and which ones had chosen careers in law, or politics, or the army. By the time they reached the last of the portraits, Emily felt an overwhelming desire to lie down.
“This is the youngest … second youngest if you consider my sister, Fleda.”
Emily assessed the countenance of this final brother. His complexion was not a smooth one; though the artist might have softened it somewhat with his professional brush strokes, the cheeks were pale and hollow, and his thin, dark hair was combed flat upon his head. Outfitted in the uniform of a Royal Navy lieutenant, his stance seemed self-conscious, and his coal-black stare communicated a profound unhappiness. A sick feeling began to stir in Emily’s stomach as words spoken long ago echoed in her ears.
Perhaps you have made the acquaintance of my family … my father being the Duke of Belmont.
I wanted a career in law, you know.
Why, then, did you choose the navy?
For the simple reason that the choosing was done for me.
Beyond the walls of the music room the rain fell harder and the wind intensified, wailing as it searched for a way inside the house. Shivering, Emily felt the rise and fall of a ship on a stormy sea, thought she heard the sound of sails snapping, and remembered the chaotic atmosphere in the bottom of the sinking Serendipity; a pistol emerging from a bloodstained uniform jacket, and the head that was subsequently pulverized by a bullet. Somerton was standing close to her — too close — curiously observing her face as she mentally counted the portraits on the wall. The final tally came as no surprise.
I am my father’s eighth son.
Emily could think of nothing but ending the tour. Facing Somerton, she endeavoured to smile. “I thank you for generously taking the time to show me this lovely room, and telling me something of your family.”
His eyes probed hers. “But I’ve not yet told you anything of my youngest brother.”
“I — I can see he chose a profession in the navy,” said Emily, thinking she might be ill; perhaps if she were able to splash some cold water on her face. Hadn’t Glenna set out a water pitcher on the commode in her room first thing this morning?
Somerton nodded, his eyes still locked on hers. “He did.”
“And as I know something of the Royal Navy, I can see he was an officer.”
“Yes … a first lieutenant,” he said expectantly, perhaps waiting for her to add something more. When she did not, he pressed on. “And the last we heard of him, he was serving under Captain James Moreland of HMS Isabelle.”
Fighting to maintain an attitude of indifference, Emily quietly replied, “I’m sorry to hear of it.”
In the silence that ensued, a glint of suspicion crept into Somerton’s eyes. Emily lifted her chin to gaze upon the youngest brother’s white hands, solemnly folded upon the hilt of a sword, and then slowly she backed away from her host. “Will you please excuse me? I’m feeling rather unwell, and should like to lie down for a while.”
Somerton’s stare softened. “Yes … yes, of course … by all means. I’m sure your journey has left you weary.” He straightened up, then bowed toward her. Emily bowed too, and wheeled about, hurrying as decently as was possible to arrive in the antechamber, and therefore pass from Somerton’s sight. She paused for a moment, leaning against one of the chamber’s columns, to breathe deeply the oppressive air of the house, and collect her wits.
She could not have borne to hear him utter the name of his dead brother, despite the fact that she knew it … all too well.
8
Tuesday, August 10
3:00 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Six Bells)
Aboard HMS Amethyst
Having located his dilapidated box from the previous evening, Magpie had carried it — along with his neglected mending — to the poop deck where he relaxed in the sunshine near the stern, watching the sailors replace the new spanker sail that he had just finished sewing. His work filled him with pride, and he loved watching his fresh lengths of canvas being secured to their ropes and pulleys, always hopeful the men doing the work might shout out praise for his fine craftsmanship. But Magpie had another excuse for wanting to leave his sail room on the dank orlop. Last night he hadn’t slept well, for he had fully expected that dark spectre to come knocking on his door, hover near his hammock, and breathe more haunting pronouncements into his ear. Surely whoever it was would not appear during daylight hours, when so many moved about the decks. Surely he was a night creature that only surfaced when the sun had set.
Forgetting his terrors for a time, Magpie peered into the distance beyond the Amethyst’s frothy wake. No longer could he discern the hills of Halifax on the western horizon; the whole coast of Nova Scotia was fast receding in size, looking more like a thin slice of phantom shore than the vast expanse of terrain he knew it to be. Already missing the security of land, he hoped to soon glimpse Sable Island, for it wouldn’t be long now until they were engulfed in miles of empty waves. Magpie found some comfort in seeing the little mail packet, the Lady Jane, sailing safely in their shadow — like a child in its mother’s arms — even though she had already proven herself a spirited child, and had been ordered to slow down, her diminutive size capable of travelling much faster than the ponderous Amethyst of seventy-four guns, three masts, and five hundred men. It would be nice to have company on their Atlantic voyage.
Magpie heaved a sigh as he studied the large holes in his stockings. If Dr. Braden and he were going to be invited to dine with Emily and the Duke of Clarence at Bushy House, he would have to attempt to salvage his threadbare bits of wool with some momentous mending. He reached into his pocket for the folded scrap of canvas that safeguarded Emily’s miniature, and polished her golden frame until she gleamed in the afternoon sun. Then, holding her high, he pretended that her brown, smiling eyes could actually behold him.
“I’m comin’ to see ya, Em, and I’m bringin’ Dr. Braden with me. We’ll be a while ’cause we gots a big ocean to cross, and I’m worryin’ ya won’t be allowed to see me on account o’ me poor clothes, but I’m still comin’ be what it may.”
A shadow suddenly fell across Magpie, unnerving him at once, for in his mind it must be the spectre come to pounce on him and drag him to his cobwebby lair, but when he raised his head and blinked into the sunshine, he was relieved to see a much rounder figure than the lanky one that had chilled him to the bone last night. It was Meg Kettle who stood before him, her heavy arms folded upon her heavy bosom, her face percolating with ridicule.
“Well, if it ain’t Maggot Pie, the one-eyed monster!” she said, bursting into a gusty laugh. “’Ave ya gone mad then? Sittin’ here, speakin’ to a painted picture?”
Magpie hastily returned Emily to his pocket. “Ain’t none o’ yer business who I’m speakin’ to.”
“Imagine … makin’ love to a picture!” she hissed in a low voice only Magp
ie could hear.
“Ah, push off.”
“Why, I ain’t never seen such a sight! Yer as daft as the Doctor.”
Magpie’s face grew hot with humiliation.
“D’ya think yer goin’ to be allowed into the castle o’ King George to see ’er?” she asked, her voice rife with sarcasm.
“I might be,” was his diffident reply.
“Ya forget yerself, little Maggot. Ya ain’t no more valuable than a lump o’ mud in the Thames River.”
A scorching anger boiled in Magpie’s chest. How would she like it if he gave her shins a good trouncing? “Ya … ya better watch yerself, Meg Kettle,” he stammered.
“And why should I be watchin’ meself?”
“‘If ya can’t figure it out, then yer the daft one!”
Meg’s hands found her broad hips. “Are ya plannin’ … in the dead o’ night … to give me a Jonah’s lift into the sea?” She laughed again. “Why yer so scrawny ya couldn’t throw yerself overboard.”
If he lingered a moment longer in her odious presence, Magpie knew he would utter things he would later come to regret. He hopped up off his box. “Ya better watch yerself, ’cause —”
Meg’s eyes disappeared into loose folds of skin, and her neck jerked backward, setting her jowls in motion like that of a farmyard turkey. “’Cause why?”
Bunching his threadbare stockings up in his fist, Magpie backed away from the laundress. “I knows all what ya done. ’Cause I seen ya with Mr. Octavius Lindsay on the Isabelle … doin’ yer plottin’ together. Yer a traitor!”
The second his brave words had tripped from his tongue, he bolted from the laundress and her tottering shadow, across the poop and down the ladder to the safety of the quarterdeck. Had he loitered to witness the effect of his intimidation, he would have been richly rewarded for Meg Kettle was utterly dumbstruck.
8:30 p.m.
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 47
