Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  “Do you really think we might be sitting on the shipping route?”

  “Might be!”

  “I’m determined to believe so.”

  “Ah, Doc, someone’s bound to spot our wee sail.”

  “Right!” said Leander with a firm nod of his turbaned head.

  “Just hope we ain’t reduced to a mound o’ bleached bones when they do.”

  20

  Monday, August 23

  10:00 a.m.

  Hartwood Hall

  Exhausted by her rigorous exercise, having marched around the wooded walk at least ten times before taking the gravel driveway that led to the main gate of Hartwood, Emily was only too glad to drop down upon the cool earth at the foot of a towering beech tree to rest. Gathering her skirts up around her and kicking off her silk slippers, she massaged her aching ankle, setting her sights on the insurmountable walls of stone in the hopes of seeing the magpie again. Twice now during her lonely jaunts around the estate she had spotted him, always near the main gate, and always he had given her a direct glance — a genuine indication of their kinship. Pondering her present existence, she looked up at the umbrella of branches overhead. “It would seem that the only one willing to keep your company these days is a bird,” she said with a sarcastic snuffle. “But then you don’t care for the human company to be found around here, do you, Emeline?”

  Emily closed her eyes on the warm morning, refusing to dwell upon Somerton’s behaviour on Friday evening, and his puzzling pronouncements. Already she had spent too many of her sad hours ruminating those distasteful scenes. Today she desired only to revisit the Isabelle and pretend she was not sitting under a tree in England, but cross-legged on the wide planks of the ship’s hospital floor with Gus and Magpie and Leander around her, reading passages of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, keenly aware of Leander’s magnificent eyes and his stolen glances in her direction. The distance between them was ever widening; she could feel it. The lagging days here at Hartwood were rapidly erasing her memories of the smells and sounds and emotions of that past time, benumbing her with a forlorn sense of loss.

  It wasn’t long before an approaching reverberation on the road beyond the walls dispelled her musings. Opening her eyes, she watched as the gatekeeper hurried from his cottage to unlock the heavy gates and welcome a convoy of wagons that trundled past her with their loads en route to the mansion. Supplies! Always supplies! Although it was not immediately obvious what was packed away in those bags and chests and tins and boxes, Emily suspected they contained flour and sugar, haunches of meat, precious tea and candles, and perhaps even new pieces of furniture. And if allowed to inspect the wagons’ loads more closely, she would surely find one filled with yards of costly fabric for Helena’s maid, so that the woman might sew more unnecessary gowns for Hartwood’s royal orphan. Emily sighed. Why couldn’t a family member or a friend pass through those gates? Even the prosecuting lawyer, whose visit had been foretold by her Uncle Clarence, had not yet come to see her. Had everyone — especially those for whom she cared — forgotten her then?

  Easing back against the trunk of the tree, Emily was determined to lose herself in daydreams when she noticed, at the tail end of the wagon assembly, an unfamiliar coach entering the grounds. She knew it could not belong to the duke and duchess, for earlier she had greeted the Lindsay family entering the breakfast room just as she was preparing to leave it. The duke was most disappointed that she had already taken breakfast, but did not wish to delay her in her daily ritual of walking the estate.

  The closed body of the coach — a curious shade of purple — and the flanks of the two fine horses that pulled it, gleamed in the morning sunshine, and though there was no coat of arms emblazoned upon its doors, the attending coach and footmen were fitted out in colourful liveries of lilac and yellow. Piled high upon its roof were a number of trunks, leaving Emily wondering if the passenger — or passengers — intended to partake of the duke’s gracious hospitality for an extended stay. As the coach gracefully rolled passed her beech tree, she managed to glimpse a single silhouetted figure sitting erect on the seat, hands folded upon a cane, eyes looking straight ahead. With interest she followed its stately progress through the park until it had rounded a corner and was lost in a thicket of trees.

  Jumping up, Emily brushed off the fallen leaves stuck to the back of her dress and looked toward the gate walls. This time her glance was rewarded, for there he was, his little feet hopping sideways atop one of the grey stones, his wing feathers an iridescence of purplish-blue.

  “Hello, my friend,” she called out.

  Planting his feet, the magpie looked her over with his beady eyes, giving her such a lengthy, unnatural stare, Emily was certain he could read her thoughts and recite her entire turbulent history if given a voice. Laughing, she dared him to look away, but he didn’t, at least not until their silent communication was broken by the sharp barking of a dog, and Fleda’s voice ringing clear across the park.

  “Emily! Emily, come quick!”

  The magpie quit the wall and flitted toward the higher branches of his favourite mountain ash tree where he paused briefly to inspect the newcomers, unleashing an admonishing chatter before sailing off into the sky.

  “What is it?” asked Emily, setting off toward Fleda.

  “We have a visitor.”

  Emily picked up her pace. “Who has come?”

  “You must hurry, and see for yourself.”

  1:00 p.m.

  Hartwood Hall

  Until luncheon was served, Emily was kept in suspense. According to Fleda, the visitor had insisted upon taking a rest, a bath, a change of clothes, and being rewarded with a lavish meal to banish the dirt and weariness of the long journey. Although Emily had pumped the girl all the way back to the house, Fleda had remained smugly tight-lipped, revealing nothing further than Glenna’s threat to “hang, draw and quarter” her if she breathed a word — the housekeeper desiring to surprise her as well. No sooner had Emily stepped into the front hall than Glenna herself, clucking disapproval, seized her elbow and steered her across the marble floor toward the staircase.

  “I’ll not have ya come to the table lookin’ like that,” she scolded.

  “Like what?”

  “Like yer some back-alley dweller from Tothill Fields!” Glenna paused before a hall mirror and forced Emily to look at herself. “Have ya bin sittin’ on the ground? Yer dress is soiled, and, Lud … did a family o’ bats make a nest o’ yer hair? Go clean yerself up.”

  Emily managed a tone of defiance. “I’ll clean up for no one but King George.”

  Glenna’s round face reddened; her lacy cap shook. “Ya’ll clean up fer this one!”

  Incensed at being ordered to change and dress her hair, but in a frenzy of curiosity to know who had come to Hartwood — who it was that had succeeded in stirring up such a fuss amongst the family — Emily did as she was told. Just prior to 1:00 p.m., rather than being summoned to the parlour or music room so that she might receive a formal introduction to the guest, the butler ushered her straight to the dining room where the heavy draperies were drawn upon the hot afternoon. Wringing her hands as she made her entrance, she suddenly felt insignificant standing beneath its grand chandeliers, ornamental plastered ceiling, and myriad masterpieces fixed upon its grey-blue walls. As if on cue, everyone’s glance swivelled her way, including — it seemed — the stern-looking figures in the frames, while hers eagerly sought out and fell upon the visitor. With the exception of Adolphus, who surely felt it was no longer required of him to make the effort, those seated at the elegant table rose from their chairs to greet her with a polite bow.

  Praying no one had detected the lines of disappointment surely visible upon her face, Emily bowed in return. She had harboured such hopes of finding one of her uncles or aunts sitting here amongst the Lindsay family, or even the lawyer, for he at least, with his countless questions, would have indulged her in an afternoon of reliving her weeks on the Isabelle. But she mus
t be wrong on all accounts, for never had she met a lawyer who dressed himself in such an extravagant manner as this male, middle-aged visitor standing before her.

  He was attired in a quality jacket, the colour of ripened limes, cutaway at the waist with tails that nearly touched the floor. His cream-and- yellow-striped trousers were exceedingly voluminous, almost concealing his high-heeled and spurred boots, and in his waistband pocket he carried a gold watch from which dangled a fob ribbon with three seals of ivory and silver. A scarlet striped waistcoat contained his thick middle, and underneath it he wore a heavily starched frilly shirt, the collars of which rose to the height of his cheekbones. His head seemed locked between those high collars, causing Emily to wonder whether, were he not careful, they might lift up his powdered wig to reveal a scalp of scanty hair. His lips were purple and fleshy, like two rounded plum slices, and his stubby fingers — clasped comfortably on his belly — were decorated with emerald and diamond rings. Emily could not guess where the duke and duchess had made the acquaintance of such a fop.

  With a graceful upturn of her hand, Helena’s voice crackled the thick air. “Your Royal Highness, may I present my son Wetherell, the Marquess of Monroe?”

  This clown in ridiculous trousers was Wetherell? An outburst of laughter threatened to take hold of Emily, and with all eyes closely watching her — especially those belonging to Somerton — she fought to quash it. Smiling sweetly, she quickly stepped toward the marquess, who didn’t bother to move an inch away from his chair, to shake hands with him; his fingers looking and feeling much like floured bread dough.

  “At long last I have the pleasure,” he mumbled — or something to that effect — stooping theatrically to kiss her hand with his plummy lips, his eyes enlarging at the sight of her whitened scars. Upon raising himself up, he found the enormous mirror on the wall behind her and began admiring his reflection, giving his wig a tidying pat and his waistcoat a tug. There were no forthcoming inquiries after her health or that of her family, and he seemed not the least bit interested in engaging her in conversation — having found a far superior distraction in tinkering with the finely crafted seals at his waistband. Emily felt herself grow hot with embarrassment.

  The Hartwood clocks bonged the hour, while those assembled in the dimly lit dining room swapped nervous glances with one another. Outside the birds chirped their August melodies, the chestnut trees soughed in the breeze, and shining through cracks in the closed draperies were ethereal strands of sunlight. The walls seemed to close upon Emily. If Helena had not had the wherewithal to instruct everyone to “Be seated,” and Adolphus had not chimed in with his loud, “Splendid,” Emily would have spun about on her heels and headed straight for the nearest door.

  As the eldest son was now ensconced in the place of honour on his father’s right, which up until this moment had been Emily’s rightful place, she made her way around the table and reluctantly seated herself in the empty chair next to him. Once settled in with her linen napkin spread neatly upon her lap, she observed the family: Fleda looked miserable, Somerton was absently running a finger around the mouth of his wine glass, and Helena was sitting stiffly on the front few inches of her chair. Even Adolphus was not his usual gregarious self: he hollered like a ship’s bosun for the servers to come forward with their luncheon — cold roast beef, sliced mutton, and three kinds of salad — and hollered again for them to leave the dining room at once.

  A pall descended upon the room as they all ate in silence. The only one seemingly untroubled was Wetherell. Though Emily did not dare give him a direct glance, his table manners did not escape her. As the food dishes were passed his way, he generously helped himself, but did not think to pass them on to others, too eager perhaps to dig into his own meal. He ate with obvious relish, oblivious to the company around him, alternately licking his fingers and washing them in the little bowl provided for such a purpose, and then drying them on a corner of the tablecloth. And every so often he peeked at himself in the mirror, Emily fully expecting to see him blow kisses at his astonishing reflection.

  Fed up with the prevalence of glumness around her, and further annoyed to find the crushing humidity had adhered her dress to the leather upholstery of her chair, Emily decided to break the silence. She turned toward Helena and, careful to use the correct styling in the presence of the great Marquess of Monroe, she said, “Your Grace, have you been successful in your search for a new governess?”

  “I have not,” Helena replied with a slow blink of her ice-blue eyes. “I shall worry about it after the ball.”

  Emily saw Somerton raise his chin. “Are you still interested in the position, Your Royal Highness?” he coldly asked.

  “I am. I’d like nothing better.”

  Fleda gave her a small smile of appreciation, while, at her elbow, Wetherell whinnied in surprise, but made no comment.

  There was another period of silence, broken only by Adolphus, whose large head had slumped forward upon his chest and was softly snoring.

  Emily swung toward the marquess. “I understand, Lord Monroe, you live at Boodle’s in St. James’s Street.”

  “I do,” he replied, his wigged head hunched over his luncheon.

  “And how, sir, do you spend your days there?” Emily sensed Helena growing stiffer still on her chair, Fleda’s back straightening, and Somerton’s gaze growing round.

  Wetherell smiled at himself in the mirror. “I eat fine meals and relish the latest gossip.”

  “Ah, I take it then, sir; you live a most pleasant existence.”

  “I do.”

  “And do you carry on any business in town?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “I understand it is a rare occasion to have you visiting Hartwood.”

  “I don’t like Hartwood. It’s too dull, without its diversions.”

  “Then you intend to make St. James’s Street your permanent residence?”

  “I do,” he grunted, heaping tomato and spinach salad onto his plate.

  Emily tried her hand at levity. “And, pray, what has enticed you home this time? The prospect of a ball?”

  For the first time he raised up his head and high collars. “Heavens, no! I’m far too important for such trifling affairs.”

  There was food on Helena’s fork, but she did not carry it to her mouth, so flabbergasted did she seem by Emily’s questions and her son’s stinging replies. But as no one tried to stop her, and Fleda was obviously being entertained — her eyes dancing in mirth — Emily pressed on.

  “What then?”

  Wetherell again addressed the mirror. “I’ve been tempted home by the promise of good food and French wine.”

  “That’s all?”

  “For the most part.”

  “But surely those commodities are available to you in London.” She smiled at him, though he took no notice. “And here I thought perhaps you were hoping to make my acquaintance.”

  “Heavens, no, Your Royal Highness, you don’t interest me in the least.”

  Helena blanched. Somerton choked on his slice of mutton.

  Undaunted, and having been assured the Lindsay’s second son could still draw air, Emily continued. “Then, please, sir, enlighten me. What has enticed you home?”

  Ever so slightly, Wetherell turned his head toward her. “I declare, for one so young, you are very forward in your questions.”

  “If I offend, then please ignore me.”

  “No one’s ever successfully offended me!” He gave his wig a pat. “And if I wish to ignore, I shall ignore.”

  While Emily waited for a more satisfying answer, Adolphus’s snoring grew more sonorous, and when Wetherell finally decided to enlighten her he did so in a most patronizing tone.

  “You see, of all things, Your Royal Highness, I delight in gambling. I possess avidity for playing at card and dice games, and I’ve been known to stray from my club to the gambling hells of Jermyn Street, where often my wagers have exceeded one hundred pounds. Therefore, I agreed t
o leave my rooms at Boodle’s proviso quod Father pay off my gambling debts, which I shall confess are atrociously high.”

  A sudden attack of giggles seized Fleda, although Emily could not be sure whether it was Wetherell’s discourse or his delivery of such — complete with rolling eyes and little exaggerations of the mouth — the young girl found so amusing. Nevertheless, it served to partially obscure the shocking clatter of Helena’s fork as it fell upon her plate. In his slumbering state, Adolphus shook and snorted, but was quite able to resume his nap without further perturbation.

  Curious to witness Somerton’s reaction, Emily gazed at him across the mountain of salad bowls and porcelain platters of meat. There was a quick movement of his head, as if he had been studying her but did not desire to be caught in the act, and to his meal he now gave his full attention. What mystified Emily was the queer, indecipherable smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

  21

  Tuesday, August 24

  10:00 a.m.

  Winchester

  Gus was watching over his cousins playing at marbles when a neighbour of Aunt Sophia’s wandered unexpectedly into the cobbled courtyard, announcing he was carrying a letter for Master Walby. So great was the excitement that it sent Gus into a paroxysm of coughs. His little cousins gathered around him, pushing and shoving, begging to know who it was from, but Gus firmly shooed them back to their game; he had business to conduct before there could be any reading of the letter. Being ever hopeful this day would come, he carried his three pence in his waistband pocket, and was therefore able to retrieve them straightaway, offering up the coins to the kind neighbour.

  “Good Sir,” he said solemnly, “I thank you for your trouble.”

  “Nay, Master Walby, keep your money.”