Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  (First Watch, One Bell)

  After an exhaustive search, Fly found Leander leaning over the taffrail on the ship’s stern, his slim fingers clasped around a mug of coffee, gazing dreamily out over the water toward the lights of the Lady Jane.

  “I’ve spent the better part of a Watch combing the ship for you. I checked the middy’s berth and the sail room on the orlop, thinking you might be punishing the young ones with reading lessons, and then I scoured the galley, wardroom, and hospital, of course, on the upper deck. And here I find you draped over the taffrail like a penniless poet contemplating a plunge into the sea to end his sufferings.”

  Leander filled his lungs with the fresh evening air. “My reason for being drawn to this corner of the ship is not as drastic as all that. I’m listening to the music coming from our sailing mate. Someone on the Lady Jane is playing a violin, and playing it quite well.”

  Fly slumped down upon the stern bench. “Come away from your romantic musings and cheer me up!”

  “And why is it you need cheering up, old man?”

  “Old man?” frowned Fly. “You have the audacity to filch my name for you?”

  “Oh, no! You often refer to me as old fellow.”

  “Oh, I see! Well you are an old fellow … younger than me in age perhaps, but far more mature in your deportment.” Fly exhaled in mock disgust. “I still say you should have taken Prickett up on his suggestion of shore leave in Halifax. I should like to have observed your behaviour in a dancing hall.”

  Leander raised his auburn eyebrows. “I would have been completely beyond myself.”

  “Aye! And had a lusty wench made amorous overtures toward you, I’m quite certain you would have stuttered, and grown flustered, and known not how to proceed.”

  Leander looked askance at Fly. “It’s astounding I call you friend when you are so frequently like a millstone, grinding the poor grains of me to dust.”

  “Cheer up, old fellow … I need you to lift my spirits this evening. Shall we drink something stronger than coffee, or shall you be called upon shortly to perform intricate surgeries and therefore have need of your faculties?” Not bothering to await Leander’s reply, Fly searched the deck for someone he could order about. “Ah, Biscuit, I believe you’re hiding there in the gathering gloom.”

  Biscuit’s head with its thick shock of orange hair appeared between the newels of the poop deck’s railing. “I’m smokin’ a cigar with me lads, sir. Not often I git the chance to do so.”

  “If that is indeed true, mind you don’t burn down the ship,” growled Fly.

  “No worry in that, sir. What kin I git fer ya?”

  “Bring Doctor Braden and me some of Captain Prickett’s best red wine.”

  “Right away, sir, the minute I’ve had me last puff.”

  When Fly had completed his transaction with Biscuit, and had relaxed his weary body against the stern bench, Leander sat down beside him. “I cannot understand why you require a bit of cheering up, when, in my estimation, you have nothing to grumble about. It’s been some weeks since you encountered the enemy and suffered the loss of men. The incident with that skittish American privateer a few days back was nothing more than a bit of morning agitation, like finding a snake in one’s bed upon waking. And as recently as two days ago, you were the toast of the Halifax nobility.”

  Fly pulled off his hat to give his head a good scratch. “It’s Prickett; he’s become most aggravating.”

  “How so … beyond his habit of spitting in one’s face at the supper table?”

  “The instant we raise Portsmouth, the man is happily relinquishing command of the Amethyst, and yet he forgets we’re weeks away from a safe harbour.”

  “Are you saying the man has forgotten we’re still fighting a war?” asked Leander.

  “Precisely!”

  “Is there too much banqueting and frivolity on this ship for your tastes?”

  “Aye! I believe so! Prickett and I cannot agree on anything, which is fine so long as our voyage is an uneventful one and we face no American — or French — warships in the next while.”

  “But I thought, when Prickett rescued you after the sinking of the Isabelle, he happily sought your advice on all matters; that he, in fact, had you commanding the ship.”

  “Only when it came to the drubbing of the enemy. He was totally unprepared to face Trevelyan, and therefore allowed me to make the decisions pursuant to the chase. But now, when there’s no immediate threat, I find myself powerless, standing helplessly by while Prickett thinks of nothing but the reward that will await him when he presents the Lady Jane unmolested to the Admiralty, and the honours which will surely — though undeservedly — be heaped upon him for his role in nabbing Trevelyan.”

  “Then tell me, if the Amethyst were yours to command, what would you do differently?”

  “For starters, I’d focus less on my stomach and the prospect of riches, and more on discipline! The men … they’ve grown soft. At the very least, gun cleaning and drills must form part of their work day.”

  “I believe you once had the Amethysts practising their gun skills.”

  “Aye, but the minute the Serendipity was sunk, and Trevelyan taken prisoner, Prickett no longer desired to waste his stores of ammunition.” Fly suddenly jumped up to yell at the unseen smokers below the poop deck. “Puff your last, Biscuit, and bring us our wine! I’ve waited long enough.”

  There was a scurry and shuffle of feet as the reluctant Biscuit did his bidding. Fly resumed his seat, sighing heavily as he did so. “You see, even our Scottish cook is slow to carry out orders!”

  The two friends peered into the diminishing light on the seas around them and were lulled into a reverie. A few stars dotted the night sky, and off the Amethyst’s larboard side, just behind them, they could see the glow of the Lady Jane’s lanterns and hear the haunting strains of her unknown violinist.

  When Fly spoke again, his voice was sombre. “This night is calm, yet I feel unease.”

  Leander set his coffee mug down at his feet. “Then speak to Prickett in the morning when he’s at breakfast, and at his best. Tell him of your concerns.”

  Fly released a lighthearted snuffle, and then faced his friend in earnest. “I should like for you to see your Emily again, old fellow. It’s my duty to get you safely home.”

  “And you shall,” smiled Leander. “Now, banish your unease, and let us … let us get drunk.”

  Fly blinked in disbelief. “This cannot be! Is it the grave, pensive Dr. Braden I hear speaking?”

  “Quite so!” Leander stood up and reached down to pull Fly to his feet. “And since Biscuit is far too slow in bringing us our wine, let us go fetch it for ourselves.”

  9

  Thursday, August 12

  11:00 a.m.

  Outskirts of Winchester

  Gus Walby limped down the laneway as fast as his crutch would enable him, determined to be out of sight before his Aunt Sophia even realized he was gone. He had fled the cottage just minutes before she had raised that shrill, awful voice of hers to boom her midday orders — so reminiscent of the Isabelle’s firing cannons — to fetch the milk and prepare the sandwiches for the children and the two labourers who tended her sheep in the fields. Although he knew that upon his return she would unleash a nasty reprimand and send him upstairs to his lumpy cot under the eaves without any dinner, Gus was far too excited to hang about and do her bidding.

  The doctor had promised to visit again on Thursday, “around the hour of eleven” he had said, as he planned to travel by horseback this time. He had further promised to stop by the posting inn in Winchester for any letters addressed to Mr. Augustus Walby. It had been four days now. Surely today there would be a note from Emily.

  Having reached a bend in the laneway, where the road widened and fell away into a valley and the trees were as thick and shady as the beech and elm around Aunt Sophia’s home — and he was most assuredly out of earshot should she begin hollering — Gus rested upon a low s
tone wall, and there he ate his apple (stolen from his aunt’s heavily guarded kitchen basket) and affirmed that his pocket still held his three pence. He’d never sent a letter to anyone before, but he did know he had to have money to pay the postmaster in the event one should be sent to him. It was cheaper — and quicker — to send a letter from one address to another in London, but then Winchester was quite a few miles outside of the city. He hoped he had enough.

  The better part of a half-hour had passed away when Gus felt a few large droplets on his head and sensed the world darkening. Peering up through the canopy of tree branches, he could see sombre clouds gathering over the countryside. Then at long last he heard a horse cantering up the road, and although the man sitting astride a chestnut mare was concealed in a traveller’s cape and broad-brimmed hat, Gus knew it was the doctor. Tucking his crutch under his arm, Gus raised himself up off the wall and hurried to meet him, his body quivering with anticipation, his face all smiles.

  “Mr. Walby!” the doctor called out upon spying him. “I see you are taking my advice and getting some fresh air.”

  Gus nodded. “I am, sir!”

  “And have you been exercising your leg?”

  “I have been … every day!” Gus wanted so badly to tell the doctor his aunt possessed a knack for inventing chores, and refused him rest of any kind until the sun had left the sky, but he could only think of the possibility of a letter from Emily.

  “That’s important, Mr. Walby, if we’re going to see you back with your seafaring friends as soon as possible.” He leaned back in his saddle to look up at the patch of leaden sky between the agitated trees. “But perhaps it might have been wiser if you’d stayed in the house today.”

  “I wanted to come and meet you, sir.”

  The doctor nodded, but continued his study of the sky and absently said, “Those clouds have followed me all the way from Steventon.”

  The three pence — now enclosed in Gus’s fist — were burning the palm of his hand. “Did you have a good trip, sir?”

  “I did indeed, having managed to keep my horse, my leather bag, and myself dry.” Sliding down from his saddle, the doctor joined Gus on the laneway, keeping his sights upon their destination up the road. “But I suggest we hurry back to your aunt’s or we shall soon be drenched.”

  Gus couldn’t wait a second longer; he gazed up hopefully at the long-legged gentleman who walked beside him, whose face was partially obscured by his wide brim. “And … and, sir, were you able to stop in the village?”

  The doctor caught his breath in hesitation, and when he finally looked down at Gus there was a sympathetic cast in his old eyes. Gus’s stomach dropped as if he had ingested a stone.

  “I did, Mr. Walby, but —” he shook his head ever so slightly, just as the rain came. Quickly he peeled off his broad-brimmed hat and placed it on Gus’s head. “Now we must hurry.”

  Inwardly Gus heaved a huge sigh, thankful that the pelting rain and hat concealed his great disappointment. He had such things to tell Emily, but he had no idea where to address a letter to her. An eternity would pass before the doctor’s next visit, and the days in between would be endlessly long, full of chores and exhausting games with the children. And what if there was still no word from her the next time? Dreadful thoughts, as dark as the ominous clouds overhead, suddenly raced through his mind. Had some misfortune befallen Emily on the road to London? Had King George locked her up forever within the forbidding walls of Windsor Castle?

  Or … or had she simply forgotten her favourite midshipman — the now crippled and worthless Augustus Walby?

  Noon

  Hartwood Hall

  Emily opened her eyes and was startled to find Glenna’s round, glistening face in hers, examining her as if she were a fresh cadaver.

  “Are ya finally awake, Pet? Are ya feelin’ better?” Glenna sank down on the bed beside her and, picking up one of her hands, began caressing Emily’s old scars. “Ya’ve been sleepin’ fer two days now, and His Grace was worryin’ about yer health, and wonderin’ if he should be cancellin’ the ball on Saturday eve.”

  Emily wriggled her way up onto her pillows, discouraged to find that unpleasant jittery feeling still present in her stomach. “I do feel better, Glenna,” she lied, “but I do wish I could ask the family to cancel. I’ve no desire for dancing and society.”

  “Lud! I’ve never met the lass who didna live fer a ball.”

  “You’ve met one now.”

  Glenna waved off her indifference, wriggled her bottom about on the mattress as if finding for herself a comfortable position, and then gave Emily a devilish grin. “I bin itchin’ to ask ya! What did ya think o’ Mr. Lindsay when ya met him the other day?”

  Hearing the name Lindsay made Emily wince. That haunting portrait in the music room — the one of the youngest son with the desperate eyes, the last thing she’d seen of Hartwood House before retiring to her bed, pleading illness — cast a long shadow in her consciousness. She had told no one of her shock, not even Glenna.

  “Do you mean Lord Somerton Lindsay?” asked Emily.

  The older woman made a sucking sound of impatience with her tongue. “Well who else would I be meanin’?”

  “Why I … I thought nothing of him.”

  “Ya didna think him a handsome man?”

  “No! Not at all.”

  Glenna stared at her as if she’d uttered blasphemy. “I think yer lyin’ to yer old Glenna. Did ya not notice his well-shaped head, and his well-formed hands, and … and the sturdy muscles in his calves?”

  “He was wearing boots when I met him,” Emily responded flatly.

  “Well, when ya see him at the ball, wearin’ his breeches and silk stockings, take a good long gawp at the man’s legs.”

  “Perhaps it’s only his calf-padding that has you so giddy.”

  “Calf-paddin’? Not our Somerton; he’s no need fer such silly accessories.”

  “I do confess … I did notice … that Lord Somerton’s eyes were —” Emily drew out her words to bait her old nurse, “that his eyes were not blue.”

  Glenna pulled a wry face. “Now what kind o’ remark is that, Pet?”

  “They’re too dark, too probing,” said Emily, adding under her breath, “A family trait, I believe?”

  “Well, just ya wait ’til ya see the lasses fawnin’ over him on Saturday.”

  Emily adjusted herself against her pillows. “Why him? I’d have thought they would save their fawning for the eldest son, the marquess. What’s his first name again?”

  “Wetherell?” Glenna threw back her head to chortle. “Nay, it’s Somerton they all want. One day ya’ll understand why.”

  “Well the lasses can fawn away. It’ll provide me with entertainment when I am reclining on the sofa, eating lemon ice.”

  Glenna gave Emily’s hand a playful slap. “What’s happened to ya, Pet, since the night when the Amelia was burned, and we was parted? Where’s yer pluck gotten to?”

  “Everyone knows I’m a married woman.”

  “Pshaw! And everyone knows yer marriage is a sham, and those what don’t soon will.”

  Emily held her eyes at half-mast, and spoke with exaggeration. “I must behave as such until my family is able to secure an annulment for me.”

  “The young men won’t be waitin’ ’round fer that to happen. They’ll be lined up wantin’ to dance with ya, married or no. Ya shouldna be waitin’ ’round fer it neither! Why, Pet, ya can have any man ya desire.”

  Emily rolled her head away from Glenna, her eyes falling on the black, calf-leathered, gilt-banded volumes of Pride and Prejudice, lovingly arranged on her little bedside table. Then she glanced up to watch the sun shadows attempt to find an opening in her thick gold curtains, stirring up memories of her old bit of canvas on the Isabelle, and the man who waited beyond. “They’ll have to find other partners, for I shall tell them all that my ankle is swollen.”

  “Nonsense!” snapped Glenna.

  Emily strangled he
r surging emotions before turning again to her old nurse. “I don’t want to stay here,” she whispered.

  Glenna swivelled her neck to gape at her. “I thought ya’d be happy to be with yer old Glenna. And once ya get to know the Duke and Lord Somerton —”

  Emily grasped Glenna’s arm. “Is there some way I can leave? I must write to Uncle Clarence and ask him to come get me. Fetch me some paper and a quill!”

  “I will not. Ya won’t be leavin’ me sight agin.”

  “I cannot stay here!”

  “Why ever not?”

  “It’s … it’s not home. These people are strangers.”

  “Yer right lucky to be invited to Hartwood Hall.”

  “Show me the road, and I’ll walk to London.”

  Glenna chortled. “Ya’d be nothin’ but pap for the highwaymen what roam these parts. I wouldna advise it.” She stiffened. “And where is it ya plan to go?”

  Emily looked fiercely determined. “To sea … back to the sea.”

  All the warmth drained from Glenna’s face. She pursed her lips and set her double chin. Emily was so familiar with that disapproving countenance. “So long as there be breath in me bosom, ya’ll not be returnin’ to sea.”

  “You came with me once, Glenna.”

  “Ah, and ya forced me to come then — you and yer cousin, Frederick Seaton, sayin’ it would be a vacation, nothin’ more — and I ended up nearly drowned in the Atlantic, and seein’ such terrors, and that ogre, Trevelyan, pushin’ ya about so roughly. It all ripped me heart in two. Nay! There’s to be no more talk o’ leavin’ here and walkin’ to London, and nothin’ more about the sea.” Glenna stood up abruptly, the sudden movement making her unsteady on her feet. “Now, git yerself dressed. Her Grace desires to drink tea with ya in the music room.”

  “Oh, Lord, please no!” begged Emily, slumping back upon her feather pillows.

  “Ya canna lie here in bed forever. Besides, Her Grace has things to discuss with ya.” Glenna’s tone was now teeming with hoarfrost. Swinging about on her arthritic heels, she sloped forward, and, with a determined stomp across the carpet, made for the bedroom door, surprising Emily — who figured the old woman would now punish her, as she had in the past, with a prolonged period of silence — when she came to a halt and twirled around to throw her a final frown. “Before I go, tell me somethin’. Earlier when ya was sleepin’, I heard ya call out.”