Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  A glow of mortification crawled up Helena’s thin neck, and an explicit admonition for the girl to keep silent was meted out in the form of a piercing glare. Perhaps deciding that her glare was not ample enough punishment, she pounced upon her young daughter, striking an unfair blow. “Fleda, why did your maid not curl your hair this morning? I detest it when your hair is straight. You look like a drowned rabbit.”

  Fleda turned immediately toward Emily to blurt out, “Mademoiselle left this morning, and she’s not coming back.”

  “I’m sorry to hear of it.”

  Helena dabbed at her forehead with a lacy handkerchief. “It could not have come at a worse time.”

  “Will you be advertising for a new governess?”

  “With all I must bear, I cannot think of it now. I resent being burdened with such a task … such a dreadful process, having to interview all those pathetic girls to make certain they are suitable and possess some refinement, and now with all the arrangements I must make for the ball —”

  “I’d be pleased to take over Fleda’s instruction.”

  Helena blinked at Emily as if she had proposed an insurrection against the government.

  “At least until you are able to replace Mademoiselle.”

  Her cold, blue stare intensified.

  Emily persevered with eagerness, aware that Fleda was squirming with excitement on her chair. “It would provide me with an occupation while I await the trial, one I would relish, and devote myself to with the utmost attention and zeal.”

  “What an absurd idea! I cannot retain you as governess to Fleda.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “King George’s granddaughter … a governess?”

  “Then give me the title of companion.”

  “Unthinkable!”

  Emily filled her lungs, refusing to be put off her idea. “Very well, then! As I don’t require a title of any sort, think of me as Fleda’s sister, doing what any older sister would do: taking her instruction in hand.”

  Fleda was standing now. “Oh, Mother, please!” she cried.

  Helena shut her eyes, the worries of the world etched upon her face. “Take your slobbering pet and leave the table at once!” she snapped.

  Woefully hanging her head, Fleda pushed her chair back and marched across the garden, her innocent dog prancing at her side. There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Helena waited until her daughter was safely inside the house.

  “Your uncles would never agree to such an arrangement.”

  “Why seek the approbation of my uncles at all if you and I were to agree to it?”

  “I’m quite at a loss.”

  “In what way?”

  “What could you possibly teach my daughter?”

  The denigrating note in Helena’s voice enraged Emily. “What would you like me to teach her?”

  “You do not play the pianoforte, or any other instrument; you don’t embroider, or do fancy needlework, or sing, or paint watercolours to my knowledge.”

  “Fleda’s a clever girl. I’d concentrate on reading, geography, history, and arithmetic.”

  “Aside from reading, she has no need for such subjects.”

  “Very well, I do know a little French, and something of drawing.”

  “Compared to Mademoiselle, I fear your knowledge of French would be insufficient.”

  “Then I’ll teach her how to ride a horse.”

  “Ah! And risk the two of you riding into London together?”

  For a time Emily said nothing at all, so taken aback she was by the direction of the conversation. “Forgive me for the suggestion; I only thought it might be a way of helping out, to show my gratitude to your family for providing me such kindness and a roof over my head.”

  “Oh, come now, Emeline! Even if I were to agree to this arrangement, which I never would, you’d have to be supervised. It would be necessary for me to accompany you in the schoolroom every day; otherwise, I’d fear you filling Fleda’s head with nonsense.”

  The contrived sweetness in Emily’s voice gave way at last. “Pray, what nonsense?”

  “The probability that you would end up instructing her on the ways of sailors, and how to shoot a pistol, is far too great a risk, and I just know you’d allow her to peek at illustrations of — of human anatomy. Simply put, Emeline, you cannot be trusted.”

  Emily’s face reddened with indignation, her voice rose almost hysterically. “Oh, I am a dim wit. You are so right! I cannot be trusted!”

  Helena sniffed in disdain. “I shall be advertising for a new governess for Fleda, one who is certain to teach her all she requires so that, when she’s of age, she may make a good marriage for herself. In the meantime, you must stop rebelling against who you are, and remember what is expected of you.” She rose from her chair, like a queen in her court, and smoothed the wrinkles in her white dress. “Perhaps it would be best for all if I further advertise for a second governess … one that could provide proper instruction for you.”

  11:00 p.m.

  Hartwood Hall

  “My Dear, come join us!”

  In a voice warmed with drink, Adolphus called out to Emily as she tried to sneak past the music room without its occupants seeing her. Since supper she had been wandering in the garden, working off her anger and despair, and had hoped to steal off to her room without being apprehended by a member of the Lindsay family. Had she been aware that Adolphus and Somerton — the latter newly returned from town — had been drinking and puffing on cigars in this part of the house, so close to the garden, Emily would have traversed a more secluded part of the estate. Her black mood would not tolerate idle chitchat, especially since she had already endured the evening meal with the crisp duchess and her glum daughter, their exchanges limited to praise of the beef fillets, the savoury consommé, and excellent apple-and-rum pudding.

  “Come sit next to me,” said Adolphus, patting the plush arm of one of the green-and-crimson-striped chairs that faced the chimneypiece and overmantel mirror. “And tell us … what can we offer you?”

  Somerton sat opposite her on a sofa, his posture relaxed, his shirt open at the neck, and a foolish expression pasted upon his face. Between them, on a rosewood table, stood an impressive collection of used glasses and half-empty bottles of Madeira, port, brandy, and gin. Swirling over all was a cloud of stale air, a pungent mixture of smoke, liquor, and body odour. Almost immediately, Emily craved the sweet aroma of the garden roses and hydrangeas.

  “Nothing, thank you, I’m off to bed soon.”

  “Off to bed!” Somerton clamoured, his eyes glittering as if with fever.

  “Why it isn’t even midnight, Emeline. Do have a drink with us. Could I interest you in a brandy, or shall I call for a nice red wine?”

  “No, thank you.”

  But Adolphus, his head the only part of his body that moved, would not take no for an answer. “Then what about a nice claret-cup or ratafia?”

  Emily clasped her hands on her lap, smiled as she shook her head, and tried to ignore the chamber pot and its foaming contents that rested on the floor near Adolphus’s great feet.

  “Father, perhaps our guest could be convinced to stay if you were to order some chocolate.”

  “Splendid! A pot of chocolate for Her Royal Highness!” cried Adolphus, sending the young servant, who had been fidgeting in the gloom beneath Octavius’s portrait, scurrying off to the kitchen. The duke then angled his head toward Emily, knocking his powdered wig awry. “Now tell us, my dear, are you having a good time here at Hartwood?”

  “Yes, thank you, I am.”

  “No, she’s not, Father. She is bored.”

  Adolphus looked shocked. “How can one be bored at Hartwood? What about invitations to dinner parties and such?”

  “There’ve been many,” Somerton replied, “however, Mother has dismissed them all, informing the unhappy senders that Emeline must be safeguarded against exhaustion, bucks, and blackguards.”

  “Harrumph! My dear, you mu
st excuse my wife. I daresay the woman covets the glory of hosting parties above life itself. She doesn’t take kindly to competition, and would therefore hold it above all the women in the neighbourhood this … this responsibility she has for you,” said Adolphus, shifting about in his chair to face Emily. “Well then, in the absence of parties, are you not spending your hours writing letters and reading books?”

  “I am reading, and I’ve written a few letters. Although I don’t seem to be receiving any in return, which surprises me greatly.”

  “You must know, Emeline,” said Somerton, his head wobbling about on his neck, as if he could not manage the weight of it, “it’ll be weeks before you hear from your companions on the Atlantic.”

  “I am not expecting to —”

  “You’re not expecting a letter from your doctor friend? What’s his name again?”

  “His name is Leander Braden, Father,” was Somerton’s swift reply. “And I believe he’s more than a friend.”

  “Is this doctor the reason you’re reading tomes on medicine and surgery?” asked Adolphus, his head now locked into a position that enabled him to permanently fix his gaze upon his guest. “You can tell us! We’ll not say a word to your Uncle Clarence.”

  Somerton raised an eyebrow at Emily. “I could almost understand if this Braden were like Sir Halford, titled, eminent, a physician to your grandfather and family; it’s astounding that you would attach yourself to a ship’s doctor.”

  Adolphus thrust his pear nose so close to Emily it almost rubbed up against her bare arm. “He is a doctor now, is he, and not just a butcher that happens to have experience with cuts of meat?”

  There was such an appetite in Emily to hear her own voice speak Leander’s name — to reveal his character, his decency as a human being, to explain how the man had saved her life. It was overwhelming, as if she were slowly dying of starvation. But since these two men — these voluptuaries — spread out before her, resplendent in all their debauchery, were not worthy of such elevated intelligence, she attempted to change up the direction of the discourse. “Gentlemen, might we discuss England’s progress in her war against the United States?”

  “I make it a habit not to discuss such subjects with women. You’re all deplorably uninformed,” said Adolphus with conviction, an echo of his son’s pronouncement on the green lawns of Hartwood a few days ago.

  “Perhaps then, sir, you forget … I was enlightened while at sea.”

  “Locked away below deck with your doctor?” Somerton’s lower lip rounded in a pout. “Come now, Emeline, we’re most anxious to hear of your man, Braden.”

  Emily bristled. “For what reason? To mock me? I would have thought you’d be more interested in how I became the wife of Thomas Trevelyan.”

  “We shall hear all about him at the Old Bailey, I presume. But this Braden … well, he’s a good deal more intriguing.”

  “Besides, Emeline, I’ve been assured that you’ll soon be free of Trevelyan,” said Adolphus, manoeuvring his port toward his lips and upsetting a large portion of it on his frilled shirt of which he took no notice.

  “And, thus, free to marry again,” finished off Somerton.

  “I don’t intend to marry again; at least, not right away.”

  Somerton waved his Madeira glass about in the air, quite as if he were conducting an orchestra. “Oh, yes, I forgot, you want to become a doctor.”

  Adolphus’s pockmarked face clouded. “Forget this ridiculous notion. We’ve other plans for you.”

  Emily rounded on the duke. “What sort of plans?”

  “Fa-ther!” scolded Somerton.

  “But I want to tell Emeline of our most splendid plan, for I am certain it’ll please her exceedingly,” said Adolphus, much like a petulant boy.

  “Drink up your port, and say nothing.” Somerton sipped his own drink and closely watched Emily.

  “If you’re planning to marry me off to Mr. Gribble, you shall be disappointed,” said Emily, looking from father to son, “for I’ll drown myself first in one of the Hartwood ponds.”

  “Oh, no! Poor Mr. Gribble! He’ll most certainly drown himself when you refuse his offer of marriage.” Somerton helped himself to another bumper of Madeira.

  “So long as he submerges himself in his own pond. I’ll not have him sully the waters of Hartwood.” Adolphus guffawed at his own remark for such a prolonged period, his grand body jiggling with mirth that he was soon in trouble. “Somerton! Bring me the chamber pot … quick … quickly, the pot, please.”

  Jumping up in horror, Emily headed straight for the door. “I shall leave you to it, sir.”

  “My dear! Your chocolate!” cried Adolphus behind her.

  “Please have it redirected to my room,” she said, without a backward glance, determined to neither see nor hear the duke relieving himself.

  Passing through the colonnaded archway of the antechamber, where the air was much fresher, due in part to the garden fragrance wafting through an open window, Emily was struck with the memory of sharing a mug of beer with Biscuit, Morgan Evans, and their sundry messmates on the Isabelle. Why did the remembrance of that time never fail to induce an inward smile; yet the scene she had just quit left her cold, with a bad taste in her mouth?

  Meeting no one, she hurried past the orangery and the sealed doors of the dressing rooms; past the breakfast room — the dining table all set and prepared for the morning’s meal — and into the darkened hall where her footsteps clicked on the marble floor, echoing throughout the upper reaches of the house. Just as she was about to mount the main staircase, Somerton caught up to her, alarming her with his sudden, stealthy approach. In a surprising move, he hopped up on the first step to obstruct her way, and grinned at her, the candles in the wall sconces casting distorted shadows upon his face, giving him an insalubrious appearance. An icy chill ran down Emily’s spine, feeling for a dreadful moment as if she were being assailed in the back-slums of London, or in the hold of a pitch-black ship.

  “I thought your father needed your assistance,” she said, her sharp tone belying her unravelling nerves.

  “Father knows how to use the chamber pot.”

  Like a sailor who had knocked his head upon the ship’s beams, he swayed before her, and soon had to lean against the wall for support. In a huff of annoyance, Emily pushed past him, not expecting the speed with which his arm shot out, grabbing the skirt of her gown and yanking her backward. The force of his impetuous action sent her stumbling and grasping for the gleaming rail of the wrought-iron balustrade.

  “Let me pass,” she seethed, steadying herself.

  “You forgot to say good night.”

  “Good night … sir.”

  He advanced toward her, assaulting her nostrils with his sour, offensive breath, and tightened his moist fingers around her bare arm. “I thought I should escort you to your room.”

  “I’m capable of finding my way, thank you.”

  “A woman is not safe walking alone at night through the halls of Hartwood.”

  “If you took yourself to bed, the women of Hartwood would all be quite safe.”

  Sickened by his breath and the nearness of his body, Emily wriggled free of his clutch. “If you don’t let me pass, I shall arrange for you to join Trevelyan on the gallows.”

  There was a sudden transformation upon his face; his drunken expression hardened, so much so that Emily was certain he would strike her. As she recoiled, anticipating a blow, Somerton stood over her, his eyes blazing in the quivering candlelight. But as quickly as it had appeared, his dark mood vanished, and he began to laugh. Releasing her, he plunked himself down upon the stairs where he then fell into a fit of hysterics.

  Emily scrambled up a few more stairs, putting distance between them, ready to flee to her room if he tried to come after her. In contempt, she gazed down at him, rolling about — half on the steps, half on the floor.

  “Your Royal Highness,” he said haltingly, covering his mouth with the back of his hand to smother h
is merriment, “you, who were enlightened while on the sea … you have learned well how to handle a man who is … good and drunk. It was my fervent wish to send you off to your bed with sweet dreams.”

  “Then I do not require your escort. I’ve only to find my pillow.”

  “No! It’s just that … I thought you should know —” He left off, his words hanging between them like an invisible adversary, while he began brushing off a real or imagined crust of dirt from his boots.

  “Know what … sir?”

  “These plans we have for you —”

  She tensed, waiting, praying his alcohol-laced lips would reveal all, and watched as Somerton finished up his diverting task. Finally, he threw his legs across the lower steps and his arms across his reposed body, as if preparing to spend the night on the staircase, and uplifted his smug face.

  “Father thinks you’ll be vastly pleased, but I think otherwise. I would suggest, Emeline, that you consider taking for yourself … a lover.”

  For a moment Emily stared at him, unable to comprehend the meaning of his words, but as soon as he renewed his drunken laughter, she turned away in disgust.

  19

  Saturday, August 21

  8:30 p.m.

  (First Watch, One Bell)

  Aboard HMS Amethyst

  Morgan scaled the ratlines of the futtock shrouds, careful not to overturn the two small pails — one of soup, the other of ale — swinging from his leather belt, and found Magpie huddled on the foretop, steadfastly peering through Mr. Austen’s spyglass into the vast and vigorous sea.

  “I swear, Magpie, if you don’t rest up, that thing will stay plastered to your eye.”

  Lowering the glass, Magpie smiled up at Morgan, and crawled to a corner of the top’s D-shaped platform to make room for him. It saddened Morgan to see the boy’s blotchy face — a telltale sign of his inner turmoil. For two days now, he had stayed at his post in his quest to find Dr. Braden, Biscuit, and the others who had tried to rescue him; the only person visiting him — up until this moment — was Mr. Austen. Last evening, Captain Prickett had insisted they push on toward England, pronouncing it a waste of time, “… searching for men who had already met their God.” But Magpie would not give up. He had refused to abandon the platform during the nights, lashing himself to the timbers so he wouldn’t roll off, thinking he might spot a lantern burning, or hear a gunshot across the water. Not one of the Amethysts working on the yards around his lofty lookout dared to tell the boy it was unlikely the skiff had been fitted out with paraphernalia such as guns and candles.