“I might be,” she sneered, rolling her hips about provocatively. “But best ya come visit me tonight, so’s we ’ave a bit o’ privacy, eh, Doctor?”
An ensuing rumpus struck Leander’s ears. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead in exasperation. Whispering an apology to Magpie, he stood up. “It’s far too early in the morning for your side-splitting humour, Mrs. Kettle.”
“And, Doctor,” added Biscuit with gusto, “here ya was thinkin’ the day would be dull.”
“I thank you all for providing me with an auspicious start to my day, but I require quiet in here, and a clearing out. Goodbye, Biscuit! Mrs. Kettle, collect whatever laundry it is you’ve come to collect, and leave. Now then, Mr. Bridlington, how can I be of assistance?”
The men in their cots piped down, Biscuit reluctantly returned to his galley stove, and the first lieutenant started in on a litany of calamities relating to his lost finger. “I can neither write in the logbook nor raise a sword, Doctor, and I take no pleasure in my meals for I cannot cut my meat, and it is hellish buttoning one’s jacket with one hand, and Captain Prickett becomes irritable and unreasonable whenever I ask him for assistance —”
While Leander examined Bridlington’s offending hand, he noticed Mrs. Kettle hovering near the ladder. It seems she had not come to collect anything at all. Though she ignored the warning glance he darted in her direction, she withdrew a few steps and made an attempt to conceal herself behind a timber post. Then the sides of her mouth fell and she glared like a fiend at Magpie, and before disappearing into the cheerless recesses of the ship, she dragged her forefinger across her neck in a terrorizing, throat-slicing gesture.
11
Saturday, August 14
10:00 p.m.
Hartwood Hall
Emily stood by her south-facing bedroom window, gazing down upon the frenzied scenes below. A hundred torches lit up the front lawns, and carriages of all sizes and descriptions jostled for space between the house and the gardens, so that the footmen, in their traditional powdered wigs and distinctive livery, could allow their guests to disembark without being crushed by a set of wheels or an agitated horse. If it were not for the women’s finery — flowing gowns of white muslin, fluttering fans, feathered turbans, coifs of flowers, and jewels that sparkled in the torchlight — and the happy expressions evident upon their countenances, as well as those of their male chaperones — Emily would think she was witnessing a ship’s crew dashing about on deck to gain their action stations before an enemy encounter. The murmur of impassioned voices filtering up from the lawns soon permeated the ground floor of Hartwood Hall, growing and swelling in volume until the house vibrated with a high-spirited energy. And, under its influence, Emily was relieved to find her lonely mood beginning to lift.
Tearing herself away from the window, she sought the full-length looking glass beside the wardrobe and scrutinized her appearance, while Fleda, in a dress of lemon-yellow muslin, her red hair arranged in loose ringlets and ribbons upon her head, looked on in flushed excitement from a chair arranged near the doorway.
Helena’s choice of a gown for her came as quite a shock, Emily being convinced the duchess would connive to attire her in a drab dress of bombazine or crepe; instead, what had arrived at her bedchamber was a gown of mull silk, the colour of pink roses, with a tunic-length overdress and lace edging along the neckline, which, despite it being low-cut, retained a respectability, as Emily had refused to don the proffered wadding and whalebone to coerce her breasts upward to meet her chin. The short, puffed sleeves were adorned with nosegays of silk flowers, so too was her pale-gold hair that had been dressed in the Grecian style by Helena’s giddy maid. To complete her full evening dress, Emily had been loaned white elbow gloves, pink silk slippers, and a string of fine pearls.
“It’s been months since I’ve seen this sort of reflection in the mirror,” she said, performing a pirouette.
“You remind me of a princess in one of my storybooks,” Fleda said with a glimmer of admiration in her green eyes.
“Yet if I were strolling about on the … on a ship, not one of the men would recognize me in such finery.” Emily was careful not to mention the Isabelle by name, in the event Fleda questioned her about her brother, Octavius.
“Why not?”
“They were so accustomed to seeing me in trousers, and my hair falling down my back or wrapped in a neck scarf.”
“But you’re not on a ship,” said Fleda solemnly. “You’re here, where you belong, and you’re dressed as you should be.”
Emily gaped at the girl, astonished to hear such words voiced by an eleven-year-old. “Shall I have the pleasure of meeting some of your brothers this evening?”
“Not one of them could get away on such short notice.”
“I was hoping to at least meet Wetherell.”
“I don’t think you’ll ever meet him. Mother says he lives at Boodle’s in St. James’s Street in London — whatever Boodle’s is — and doesn’t like to leave his friends.”
“Oh, I see,” said Emily, avoiding Fleda’s mystified expression, and any further discussion on the subject; it was not her place to explain the voluptuous character of the renowned men’s club to the girl. “Now tell me, has your mother arranged for you to delight us all tonight by playing a musical piece on your pianoforte?”
She shook her ringlets. “Glenna says I must stay out of sight with Mademoiselle, and content myself with the pastries and iced creams. But I will watch you dance.”
Emily smiled at her. “And will you rescue me if a man with a monstrous belly asks me to dance?”
“I’ll soon be sent to bed, and the ball will go on until five in the morning, but I know Somerton will rescue you.”
“Somerton?”
Fleda was about to say something more when someone crept up behind her and delivered a sharp rap upon the open door. To Emily’s utter amazement the pineapple-shaped head of her Uncle Clarence appeared, and he entered the room, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.
“God damn, Emeline, you should’ve come down long before this. The guests are waiting for the first dance, and the master of ceremonies was instructed that you were to select and lead it.” He continued into the centre of the room, stepping past Fleda, as if she were invisible. “Now, I’ve come to warn you … don’t select a minuet, my dear, for they are quite passé these days. You might want to consider a cotillion.”
“Greetings to you too, Uncle,” said Emily, reaching out to shake his hand. “How lovely to see you again so soon. I had no idea you were coming here tonight.”
“Wot? And miss a good party? And here I’ve barely recovered from the Prince Regent’s birthday celebration of two days ago,” he said, giving his stomach a friendly pat. “But I am a good sort, and would never turn down an invitation from my old friend Adolphus Lindsay.”
Emily longed to berate him for his appalling behaviour the night he summarily dropped her off at Hartwood in the rain, but she could only laugh at his good humour. “Actually, Uncle, I was thinking … perhaps we might begin the ball with a waltz, and I’ll ask the musicians to play the Brighton Waltz.”
Uncle Clarence looked horrified. “You’ll do no such thing, Emeline! I’ll not have a man’s hands on your waist.”
Fleda giggled.
He stared down at the seated giggler, as if he were seeing her for the first time. “And who is this mite? Your serving girl?”
Fleda jumped from her chair and lifted her pointed chin in defiance. “No, sir! I’m Lady Fleda, the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Belmont.”
The Duke of Clarence’s eyes rounded in surprise. “How d’ye do?” he said cheerfully, and then startled Fleda by grasping one of her small hands and kissing it before hastily flinging it away. “Well, well now! I didn’t know my old friend had a daughter.”
Emily frowned at her uncle. “How can you not have known?”
“Adolphus and I, when we do get together, don’t talk about our children. We have
important things to discuss such as politics and horses and the state of the Royal Navy. And I’ll wager he could not name all of my sons and daughters!” He stamped his foot impatiently, unaware of the hollow cast that had crept into Fleda’s eyes. “Now then, my dear,” he continued, giving Emily’s gown a once-over, “I am thankful you look decent, and not like a sea swabber; however, we must get a move on, for the guests will soon grow restless and storm the first floor — as the revolutionaries stormed the Bastille — to gather you up themselves. Remember to smile sweetly; do not dance more than two times with any one man; maintain a good posture at all times; don’t laugh too loudly — that is most vulgar — and for goodness sake don’t drink too much punch.” Firmly, he took hold of her upper arm and steered her toward the bedroom door.
Emily winked at Fleda, and said, “Dear Uncle, although it won’t be easy for me, I shall try.”
10:20 p.m.
The resounding voice of the master of ceremonies alerted the guests as Emily and her uncle entered the music room.
“His Royal Highness, the Duke of Clarence and St. Andrews, and Her Royal Highness, Princess Emeline Louisa.”
The laughter and hum of conversation subsided, allowing Emily to hear her heart thumping in her chest. In a rustling and scuffing of skirts and heels those who were sitting stood up, and those who were standing whirled about, all to scrutinize the newcomers with startling, unmasked attention from all directions, many from behind waving fans and through quizzing glasses. Beside her, pinching her arm in his grasp, Emily’s uncle preened, beaming broadly at the fair ladies who had their enticing décolletage on full display, as they made their way to the far end of the room where the band members — resplendent in their blue and red uniforms — were awaiting their instruction. Emily did her best to return the guests’ ingratiating smiles, but as she knew no one beyond the Lindsay family — Helena, all elation in her new cream silk, and Adolphus ensconced on the sofa with a bumper of punch in one fist and a cold veal pie in the other, and frequently expressing his satisfaction by calling out “Splendid” — by the time she reached the band, she could recall only a blur of white faces and a panoply of ostrich feathers, starched collars, lace caps and ruffles, and colourful costumes.
Her uncle leaned in toward her. “Now, Emeline, I think it best that I do the choosing of the music and steps for this most important first dance. A longways country dance would be most appropriate.” He straightened before the bandleader, and called out, “‘Wakefield Hunt.’”
Much to his perceptible satisfaction, Uncle Clarence’s ears were met with a roar of approval from the guests, which he gratefully acknowledged with a graceful bow. A number of couples scrambled to take their places in the set, hoping to be the ones that would find themselves standing next to the royals, and as the first notes of music filled the room, Emily found herself staring not into the contented countenance of her uncle, but into the expectant eyes of Lord Somerton.
“You … you look quite different,” he stammered, standing before her, attired in a cutaway coat of sky-blue velvet and matching satin knee breeches. Emily thought him dressed more for the king’s court than for a private country ball, and could not resist snatching a peek at his shapely calves.
“As do you, sir.”
“If you don’t want to dance with me, I’ll go quietly away. It was … it was your uncle’s idea.”
“Oh!” said Emily, somewhat chagrined, looking about her and spotting that meddler, her uncle, further down the dance line, having claimed the hand of a stout older woman with a happy disposition and a silk turban adorned with nodding ostrich plumes.
“It was a toss-up between me and Mr. Gribble,” Somerton grinned, causing Emily to stop short.
“Mr. Gribble?”
Somerton leaned toward her to speak sotto voce, as there were many appreciative ears nearby. “He plans to press you to dance and stay near to him the entire evening. Be forewarned: I believe he intends to propose marriage and whisk you away to his country seat.”
“Perhaps Mr. Gribble has not heard that I’m already married.”
Somerton’s reply was swift. “You must know that that’ll not stop the men from trying, especially since your husband is locked away in Newgate Prison, and therefore not here to challenge your suitors to a duel.”
“Is that where my husband is? Have they not hanged him yet?” Emily was pleased to see Somerton mentally calculating whether he should laugh or look alarmed.
The dance began. Stepping toward one another, they clasped hands briefly before twirling about and returning to the line formation.
“Perhaps my suitors should be informed that I’m a poor royal, and have nothing to my name.”
“Do you think then that all men look upon you as nothing more than a valuable prize?”
It was a question that could not preclude a raw reminder of Thomas Trevelyan.
“Yes! They must all see me as a ship full of the king’s gold and treasure — to be boarded and taken, but only against my will.”
“It may well be true that some would look upon you in that light, but you must know not all of our sex is cut —” Somerton could only complete his thought once they had performed a number of intricate steps “— from the same length of canvas.”
The expression in his eyes made Emily feel suddenly ill at ease, and she was grateful when they parted for a time and she was able to smile comfortably as she took up the hands of several new partners. Though deep concentration was a necessary evil — her recollection of the dance steps being quite rusty — certain faces amongst the admirers and observers scattered about the room now stood out. In front of the chimneypiece stood a cluster of young women who had evidently given careful consideration to their evening dress; they were all pearls and ribbons, their intricate hairstyles most likely achieved only upon great exertion by their harassed maids. Their eyes, having previously been locked upon the Duke of Belmont’s second eldest son, caught Emily unawares, and while she could not decide if it was the result of a digestive disorder or disdain for the royal princess in their midst, their rouged countenances were twisted in scowls and aimed at her.
Before long Somerton was again at her side, though they did not speak until the dance had come to an end and the flushed dancers and onlookers alike had raised their hands to applaud the skilful musicians.
“You made no comment upon my last remark.”
Emily lifted her face to his in question.
“That … we men are not all the same.”
“There was no need to argue you on that point.”
“And why not?” he asked, taken aback, as if he had fully expected to have to defend the honour of the male gender.
Emily’s lips curled enigmatically. “Because … I happen to know they are not.”
They did not converse at all during the second dance, a slow minuet — though Emily could feel Somerton’s inquisitive eyes on her — and when it was done she bowed, thanked him, and left him to the pretty smiles of the décolleté crowd that now swooned with trepidation near the chimneypiece.
Midnight
With a promise to dance with him again later, Emily pried herself from the clammy clutches of the moustached Mr. Gribble and fled the music room in search of sustenance. Every part of her ached, for not once had she sat down or even had a chance to catch her breath. Surely climbing the shrouds of a ship was a much easier task than making polite chatter, fending off impertinent inquiries, and dancing with unsavoury partners. It had just been announced by the master of ceremonies that a buffet was being served to the guests in the dining room under “His Grace’s newly installed gas-fired chandeliers,” and Emily, hoping to be one of the first to arrive, hurried there.
Upon entering the glittering chamber, she was chagrined to find it already jammed with hungry guests, as noisy as those she had left behind in the music room, and all of the chairs set at the long dining table occupied. Thinking it best she return later, she was about to retrace her steps when her ar
m was snatched up by Mrs. Jiggins, the stout woman with the ostrich-plumed turban who had been Uncle Clarence’s first dance partner, and — with ceremony — she was led to one end of the table. The woman’s happy disposition had, evidently, been made even happier as the hours of the evening wore on.
“Sit here, Your Royal Highness,” she gushed, pawing Emily as a servant boy rushed to bring her a chair. “We want to hear how you’re getting on.”
With an unrefined push from the overwrought woman, Emily was assisted into the chair, and upon looking up found two endless lines of curious faces fixed upon her, their eyes sparkling like the chandeliers above their heads, their florid faces smiling, all of them gregarious in their deportment.
“Was it so terrible being shot in the leg?” Mrs. Jiggins asked, taking her place next to Emily and laying her bejewelled hand upon Emily’s forearm.
“Actually, I was shot in the shoulder.”
“Ohhh!” gasped the crowd.
“And were you standing on one of the ship’s yards at the time of your shooting?” asked one of the gentlemen seated nearby, who appeared to be less inebriated than the others.
“No, I was swimming in the ocean at the time.”
Another upsurging gasp issued forth from the onlookers. “Whatever were you doing swimming in the ocean?”
“I was trying to decide if I could safely swim away from the American ship and toward the British ship,” was Emily’s levelled reply.
Those around her shook their decorated heads in consternation.
“And what were these two ships doing? Were they exchanging news and niceties?” asked Mrs. Jiggins, who had made it clear to the diners — with little hand gestures and nods of her silk turban — that she would lead the conversation.
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