Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  “My immediate concern is for our men. Round up a fresh crew to man the pumps. At once!”

  Bridlington set off at a snail’s pace, infuriating Fly, especially when the first lieutenant was struck down by the heavy sea and wasted precious time fussing over his maimed hand. But too many other anxieties were weighing on Fly, specifically the worry of the Amethyst rolling over on her beam-ends. “Stand ready by the guns! If need be, unlash them and throw them overboard. I’ll not have us capsizing.” Having dispensed with the necessary orders for the time being, he called out to Leander. “Have you come to stand with me at the mouth of Hell?”

  Leander glanced up nervously at the great press of canvas. “I thought … should someone have the misfortune to fall … I’d stand here ready.”

  “I’ll catch ’em fer ya, sir,” shouted Magpie into the gale, feeling safe — as nowhere else — in the presence of Mr. Austen and Dr. Braden.

  “Magpie, I’d breathe easier if you would remain in the hospital,” said a disquieted Leander.

  “Please, Doctor, I’d like to be stayin’ up here with ya.”

  “Perhaps then, you could help Mrs. Kettle,” suggested Fly, his eyes noting the laundress, wrestling with her baskets. “She’ll never be done with it, and I fear the wind has already whisked away a good number of shirts.”

  “We can’t have the lads naked, can we, sir?” chirped Magpie.

  “We cannot.”

  “Fly!” yelled Leander. “Send Mrs. Kettle below. She’s in no condition to be wandering the deck in a storm.”

  Fly nodded in agreement, and hollered, “Mrs. Kettle!” When she did not respond, he grabbed the speaking trumpet from the sailing master’s hands, and bellowed, “Meg Kettle, get below now!”

  With a scowl and a saucy word on her tongue, the laundress finally jerked her head in their direction, in time to meet a giant wave that flooded the decks, slapping her off her feet and sending her into a screaming collision with the mainmast. The gale tore at the contents of her laundry basket, scattering articles of clothing everywhere, some clogging the ship’s scuppers, which served to drain water from the decks, most lost to the sea.

  Magpie set off to collect what he could before they were washed away forever, his task taking him further and further away from Mr. Austen, who, having little faith in Lord Bridlington, had gone off to make certain men had been gathered for the pumps, and from Dr. Braden, who had immediately dropped to the deck to attend to Mrs. Kettle in her fuddled state. Near the bowsprit, his eye widened in horror; the fo’c’sle deck sloped toward the sea like a wooden ramp to Davy Jones’s locker. Grasping the lifelines, Magpie tried to gather the lost clothes, but the wind made it hard work, and he hated the thunder for startling him and the flashes of lightning for illuminating such a fearful world.

  Perched in the fore rigging was the spectre; his long arms locked around the strong ropes, his long hair flailing about him, the wind tugging at his unbuttoned shirt.

  Spying Magpie, he bawled his gloomy pronouncements in a voice that rivalled the cracking thunder.

  “Hold fast, ye wretched soul. The end o’ life as ye know it has come. Woe and despair will escort us all to the grave.”

  Then he released a laugh — a deep, penetrating laugh that, with the cacophony of creaks and moans and howls and cries all around, made Magpie’s blood freeze in his veins.

  But their encounter was short-lived.

  A wall of water whooshed up before Magpie and carried him down the deck, away from the spectre, snatching him up so quickly there was no time to call out for help or grab on to the safety of something lashed down. Its force was so tremendous Magpie could only think it was an ocean beast that had seized him, a colossal feline creature that had him by the scruff of the neck, intent on giving him a severe drubbing. Showing no quarter, it knocked him around like a toy before dragging him over the side of the tilting ship and sucking him into the roiling sea.

  13

  Monday, August 16

  2:00 p.m.

  Hartwood Hall

  Emily gazed up at the dreary sky and felt light drops of rain on her nose. For two hours she had been walking the grounds of Hartwood, determined to regain her strength and vitality, depleted by months at sea — and further drained by the ball — and was not going to be deterred from her goal by the arrival of a little rain shower. Her first hour had been spent poking about the little bridges and glass-like ponds on the lower front lawns; her second around the service wing, the kitchen gardens, and colourful rhododendron bushes near the house; and now she was on the wooded driveway that led to Hartwood’s gatehouse, hoping to explore the roads beyond the Duke of Belmont’s land. There was no need to concern herself that the hem of her blue-and-white-striped morning dress was damp and encrusted with dirt, and the cooling breeze ruffling the heath was wreaking destruction upon her unbound hair, for it seemed there was no one around to be met. The whereabouts of the Lindsay family was a mystery and their staff — though she had periodically spied Glenna at the windows, watching her rambles — was all indoors, feverishly engaged in the restoration of Hartwood after the weekend festivities, or so they had been when she had first left the house. Wandering alone, Emily had revelled in her pensive freedom, so that when, from out of nowhere, swift-moving footsteps approached, she could not help feeling a surge of annoyance.

  “Wait up!” cried Fleda, running along the driveway, her dog trotting along beside her.

  “Where’ve you been?” asked Emily. She had not seen any members of the Lindsay family since the early hours of Sunday morning, when she had finally abandoned her cold bench under the chestnut tree to seek her warm bed; her last few meals taken alone at the dining room table with no other company than the silent servants.

  “We have been visiting friends in the neighbourhood with your Uncle Clarence. Father didn’t wish to awaken you on Sunday when we set out —” Fleda paused to roll her eyes. “I had to come back for my afternoon lessons with Mademoiselle, but everyone else is still away.”

  “When will they return?”

  “When Father has had his fill of refreshments. He’s always most interested in what people serve for tea and luncheon. And when your uncle is satisfied that he’s asked everyone how they enjoyed the ball, and if they enjoyed meeting you.”

  It was Emily’s turn to roll her eyes. “And what has their response been? Were they overjoyed to meet the scandalous woman who’d sailed the Atlantic with a flock of pirates?”

  Fleda was surprisingly reverential in her response. “They cannot stop chattering about you. The women speak of nothing but your hair and your ball dress, which pleases Mother so, and the men … they are all clamouring for details of your sea adventure.”

  “Most likely they were unsatisfied with my replies to their questions on Saturday night.” Emily couldn’t resist a lighthearted laugh. “Although I did tell one of my dance partners that I’d single-handedly manned the cannons during a battle with the Americans, and another one that I’d walked across an iceberg.”

  “And did you?”

  “No,” Emily said wistfully. “And what of Somerton? When shall he be home?”

  Fleda picked up a stick and tossed it into the darkening woods that flanked the serpentine driveway, her dog making a mad dash in search of it. “He plans to go on to town for a few days.”

  “Are you able to divulge the nature of his business in town?”

  “He’s been invited to stay with a family eager to have him marry one of their daughters.”

  Emily was reminded of the silly girls who had run across Hartwood’s lawns at two in the morning. “And shall he?”

  “Would you be upset if he did?”

  “Of course not,” Emily said quickly.

  “Mother says their father doesn’t have a large enough fortune for her tastes.”

  “How sad to dash their hopes,” said Emily, feeling genuine sympathy for the unknown girls.

  “She thinks Somerton deserves someone much better.”r />
  Emily bristled. “Does your mother have someone in mind?”

  Fleda’s green eyes unwaveringly met Emily’s; her solemn face revealing nothing.

  “If not … I could always introduce Somerton to my cousin Charlotte, although I understand that, at the moment, she’s being courted by the Orange and interested in a Slice.”

  Fleda’s smooth forehead wrinkled like a freshly ploughed field. Seeing that she had successfully baffled the girl, Emily hurried on toward the formidable walls of stone that marked the entrance to the Hartwood estate. “Let us ask the keeper to unlock the gates, so that we may take a stroll to London.”

  “A stroll? It’s almost two hours to London by coach.”

  “What an adventure we could have!”

  Fleda looked uncertain. “Our gatekeeper won’t open them for you.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I’m not allowed to go beyond this point.”

  Emily was undaunted. “Then I’ll simply climb over them, and take that walk by myself.”

  Emily could see Fleda’s mind working. “If you did so, they’d surely come after you.”

  “Who would?”

  Fleda shrugged.

  “Highwaymen on horseback, brandishing pistols perhaps?” said Emily, studying the dark grey stones in the wall, searching for one with a sufficient protrusion that could provide her with a leg-up.

  “Let’s go back,” Fleda said sullenly. “It’s going to pour rain soon.”

  The last thing Emily wanted to do was return to the house. In casting about for something to warrant a delay, she was cheered to see a large black-and-white bird perched atop the wall, its little glossy head set on an angle, its black eyes on her, looking as if it desired to be included in the ladies’ conversation.

  “Oh!” Emily gasped, advancing toward it slowly, pleased that it was not frightened away. “It’s a magpie!”

  “I hate magpies,” said Fleda. “They’re such noisy birds, and they steal things.”

  “They are intelligent.”

  “You’d better speak kindly to him, or you’ll have bad luck.”

  “There’s no need to,” said Emily smiling, “for he’s looking directly into my eyes. I think we are already friends.”

  “Glenna says if you see one sitting on its own, it means someone is going to die.”

  “Scottish lore!” scoffed Emily. “Actually, if I remember correctly, you only have to worry if you see a lone magpie near the window of your house.”

  “But my brother Octavius died,” said Fleda quietly.

  Emily could offer the girl little beyond a compassionate glance. “That happened some time ago.”

  The magpie skittered along the stones and then flew off, Emily watching the bird’s journey into a maze of mountain ash branches until she could no longer see it.

  “Did you know my brother?”

  Emily set off reluctantly toward the house, wondering as she had from the first moment she set eyes on Octavius’s portrait hanging in the music room how long it would be before the Lindsay family learned the true nature of her acquaintance with their lost son. “No, I did not know your brother.”

  “But Mother said you were on the Isabelle.”

  Aware of Fleda’s eyes on her, Emily kept hers lowered on the gravel driveway. “There were four hundred men on the Isabelle. I was only acquainted with a handful of them.”

  Fleda stopped walking. Emily stopped too, and turned to give the girl a quizzical stare.

  “I don’t understand how you couldn’t have known my brother.”

  Emily spoke gently. “I just told you. There were so many men, sailors, and landmen, and —”

  “But he was an officer, a first lieutenant.”

  “I was confined to the ship’s hospital, Fleda, and therefore had no opportunity to meet many of —”

  “Did you know Captain Moreland?”

  “I did.”

  “Captain Moreland was a family friend.”

  Emily remained silent when she noticed the slight quiver in Fleda’s chin.

  “I cannot believe he didn’t introduce you to my brother. He should’ve been proud to have you make the acquaintance of Octavius.”

  “I am sorry I cannot tell you what you want to hear,” Emily said helplessly.

  Fleda’s eyes narrowed in suspicion — Emily certain they could see directly into her soul — and then curtly the young girl spun about and stomped off. Breathing heavily from his forays into the woods, Fleda’s dog hesitated, as if he were undecided whether to stay or go, but he soon bounded off to catch up to his mistress.

  Emily stood there watching them go, past caring when the clouds could no longer contain the rain, and she was soon soaked to the skin. Again she pondered taking that road to London, and was certain she would have had it not been for the gatekeeper who scuttled from the sanctuary of his cottage in order to open the wrought iron gates to admit the Duke of Belmont’s carriage.

  2:30 p.m.

  Hartwood Hall

  Glenna helped Emily out of her sodden dress. “What a mess ya are! There’s to be no more traipsin’ ’round Hartwood in the rain. I’ll not have it.”

  Emily had no will to retaliate. With apathy, she eyed the mess of boxes and bags heaped upon her bed and the three splendid new gowns hanging from its posts.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Ya lucky lass! Ya’ll find jewels there from Rundell and Bridge, and perfume and sweet-smellin’ soap from Price and Gosnell. Oh, and there’s shoes and hats from the shops on Bruton and Conduit Streets.”

  “Has Her Grace spent every pound the Regent kindly gave her for my custody on all of this?”

  “Heavens no!” said Glenna. “He’s been most generous fer sure, but Her Grace will guard every farthin’ with her life, and purchase only what’s necessary.”

  “I thought I might, at the very least, be allowed to go to London myself to shop.”

  “Why put yerself to inconvenience,” asked Glenna, drying Emily with a towel, “when ev’ry shopkeeper is only too happy to ship their wares to ya here?”

  Emily exhaled a lengthy sigh.

  “Are ya not happy with the lot?”

  “Of course I am, but there’s no need for Her Grace to have gone to all this trouble for me.”

  “She didna do it all herself, ya know,” winked Glenna. “I helped a wee bit with all the orderin’. But if ya don’t find what ya need here, I’ll take ya next door and show ya all o’ the gifts left fer ya yesterday.”

  “Gifts? Oh, heavens, Glenna. Pray, what gifts?”

  “The chamber next to yours is filled to the ceilin’ with bonnets and parasols, fans and reticules and gloves and the like. Why a body can hardly squeeze between the lot!”

  “But I’ve no need for such luxuries. Please ask Her Grace to distribute them amongst the servants of the house.”

  Glenna shoved her horrified face into Emily’s. “I’ll not insult the givers. Why they’ll be wantin’ to see ya wearin’ their gift at the next ball.”

  “Not another ball!”

  “The duke and duchess were so pleased with Saturday, they’re plannin’ another one, much to the neighbourhood’s delight.”

  For the longest while, Emily said nothing and quietly submitted to Glenna’s towel drying, which now seemed more of a drubbing. “Our men fighting on the sea, and — I suspect — our soldiers, have nothing at all. They’re lucky if they own a decent pair of shoes or boots.”

  “It’s none o’ yer concern, Pet,” said Glenna firmly. “Yer life’s here in England as Princess Emeline, and it’s only right ya dress proper.”

  “I shall not require a castle of clothes while I languish here at Hartwood.”

  “What’s all this nonsense about languishin’?

  “I have nothing to do here … no occupation.”

  Emily’s old nurse grumbled as she tossed the damp towel onto a chair, and went to fetch one of the new chemises and silk corsets from the bed. “Nothin’ to do
, ya say? With all o’ the parties and dances ya’ll be goin’ to? Why ya’ll soon be receivin’ an invitation every night o’ the week.”

  “One cannot spend one’s life doing nothing but seeking to be entertained.”

  Glenna shrugged off her comment as she helped Emily into her underclothes. “The Regent might even have ya down to Brighton fer Christmas.”

  Emily wheeled about. “Christmas! In Brighton? I’ve no interest in being a guest at his pavilion.”

  “Why it’s an honour to be invited there.”

  “But his dining room’s always so overheated, and his suppers go on forever, and his bands play so loudly, I’m always left with a headache.”

  “Ya’ll do what yer told while yer stayin’ here, Pet,” scolded Glenna. “And if the Regent invites ya to Brighton, that’s where ya’ll be goin’.”

  Emily felt Glenna tighten the lacings on her short corset. “Do you not think I’ll be long gone from Hartwood by Christmas?”

  “If the trial is done at the Old Bailey, I suppose.”

  “But Uncle Clarence said that could be months away.”

  “’Twould be tomorrow if it weren’t fer all o’ the thieves and murderers and ravishers of women livin’ amongst us.”

  “I feel — I feel I am no better off than I was while locked away on Trevelyan’s ship.”

  Glenna made a clucking noise and straightened her old frame to frown. “I don’t remember ya bein’ a grumbler. With all this,” she waved her arms at the fortress of bags and boxes upon the bed, “and ya still find somethin’ to complain about.”

  “You really don’t understand, do you?” said Emily sadly.

  “I don’t suppose there’s anythin’ to understand. Ya’ve grown ungrateful of late. Now quit yer grumblin’ and put on one o’ them new gowns.” Glenna collected the towel and Emily’s wet clothes, and wobbled toward the door. “I need ya down in the parlour, and to make haste.”

  “Why?”

  “Yer uncle’s returnin’ to town soon and desires a quick word with ya first.” She wavered in the doorway as if contemplating another reprimand. “Ya could do what Her Grace does ev’ry day o’ the week.”