Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  Biscuit stood up too, and supporting himself against Leander, he added what he knew of the prayer, slowly, haltingly. “Whose second comin’ in glorious majesty … the sea shall give up ’er dead. Amen.”

  “Amen,” echoed their companions at the stern.

  The effort of slipping the dead man over the side of the skiff and into the sea caused both Biscuit and Leander to collapse in exhaustion. The wind picked up and the rain came. Leander placed the unknown sailor’s jacket over his head, too grief-stricken to witness the man’s last journey on the waves.

  22

  Tuesday, August 24

  8:45 p.m.

  Hartwood Hall

  Dressed for the evening in a cashmere shawl, for the air was cool on this night, and a green silk gown, the colour reminiscent of the long waving grasses that grew beside the Hartwood ponds, Emily flipped through the July issue of the magazine La Belle Assemblée with a gnawing restlessness. Helena had thrust it into her hands once they had prettily arranged themselves on the music room sofas around the elaborate chimneypiece and overmantel mirror, instructing her to enlighten herself with the latest notes on English and French fashion while they awaited the arrival of the men who had — per tradition — stayed behind in the dining room to smoke their cigars, drink their port, and speak of subjects unfit for the delicate ears of the fair sex. Having been exiled to the pianoforte in the shadow of the great, rounded window, Fleda glumly sat upon her stool, sorting through reams of sheet music, periodically shooting daggers at her mother, who sat with her back to her daughter.

  “Practice your playing, Fleda, so that when Wetherell enters the room he might hear one of his favourite compositions. It would please him so.”

  Fleda brought her music sheets down hard upon the top of the pianoforte, and locked her thin arms across her chest. “Why should I do anything to please him?”

  Helena lifted her chin to give the ceiling a serene smile. “He’s your eldest brother.”

  “I don’t give a fig!”

  “You must always endeavour to maintain his favour.”

  “Why?” Fleda whined. “Wetherell cares not for me. Since his coming here, he hasn’t spoken a single word to me.”

  Helena turned on her sofa cushion — though not enough to necessitate having to meet the indignant eyes of her daughter — and replied through her teeth. “In the event no suitors come begging for your hand, you may have to plead for a roof over your head, and as Wetherell will one day inherit Hartwood, he’ll be the one to decide whether or not he can tolerate you living with him permanently.”

  “He would make me his servant.”

  “Yes, that is more than likely. You’d have to earn your keep somehow.” Helena wagged her bejewelled hand at her daughter. “Now play! They’ll soon be here.”

  Fleda stuck out her tongue at the back of her mother’s high head of curls, beautifully arranged in a pearl-encrusted bandeau, her little display leaving Emily fighting an upsurge of laughter. With an impish smile of collusion directed at Emily, she solemnly selected a piece of music, set her little chin, and began playing — her fingers striking the keys of the instrument in a way that clearly communicated her displeasure.

  “When the time comes for you to have children, Emeline, I do hope you are blessed with boys,” said Helena in a lament.

  Emily smiled, and set aside her magazine. “I hope to be blessed with both boys and girls.”

  “We women either die in childbirth or lose our figures.”

  “You did neither.”

  Helena furrowed her smooth, white brow. “No, but had I been the mistress of my fate, I would’ve avoided children altogether. They’re a terrible nuisance, and have devoured so many hours of my life. Had I the misfortune to bear eight daughters, I surely would have wished for an early death, so that I might have been blessedly released from their vexatious management.”

  Emily’s eyes were drawn to the portrait of Helena’s forsaken eighth son; he looked so forlorn in his gilded frame. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “Just look at Fleda! She’s as skinny and brittle as a twig.”

  “She’s just a child,” whispered Emily.

  “With an irascible disposition,” said Helena with a dramatic toss of her head. “And she isn’t in the least bit handsome.”

  “She has such lovely, fiery red hair.”

  “What benefit is the colour of one’s hair if the fine strands stubbornly refuse to be arranged in curls? I fear she will never be able to wear the fashionable hairstyles of the day.”

  At the precise moment when Emily hoped Fleda’s performance was sufficiently tempestuous to drown out her mother’s shrill declarations of discontentment, Helena’s voice crescendoed. “Fleda! Stop that banging on the pianoforte. Already I’ve a most severe headache, and I assure you Wetherell will find no pleasure in such an assault on the ivory keys.”

  Though Fleda eased up at once on the unfortunate instrument, Emily still detected the occasional note of musical defiance. Poor girl, she thought as she glanced with dissatisfaction around her, firstly at the card table — all set and ready for later entertainment — and then at the untouched tea tray upon the little rosewood table at her knees, and finally at Helena, who had just received a goblet of champagne from a servant boy. Sighing, she checked the position of the hands on the nearest clock. How soon could she quit the music room and find salvation in the garden and in the cool breezes of the night? The prospect of having to endure another hour or two with the Lindsay family left her with the simmering pains of her own headache.

  Emily helped herself to a cup of tea, for the duchess, who usually did the honours, was too absorbed in the business of drinking her champagne, and did her utmost to maintain the flow of their insipid conversation. “And yet, after having so many dark-haired children, Helena, you must’ve been pleased to see a darling red-haired infant.”

  Wistfulness crept into Helena’s eyes as she pensively sipped on her drink, sitting erect on the damask sofa as if someone was poking her in the back, and although Emily had as much interest in Helena Lindsay as she had in the soil of Hartwood’s gardens, she found herself — for the first time — wondering about the woman’s past.

  “I was not at all pleased,” said Helena, massaging her left temple. “It was a very dark period of my life, and the last thing I needed was to be saddled with another child. Fleda’s nothing more than a daily reminder of that time.”

  Hearing male voices and footsteps nearing the music room, Emily knew their conversation would go no further. Swiftly, Helena set aside her champagne glass, and spread the mauve folds of her dress out around her. “Here they are at last. Prepare yourself, Emeline.”

  9:00 p.m.

  Adolphus stepped heavily into the room, his enormous trunk careening precariously, as if one false step might send him toppling like a tree. Seeing the ladies rise from the sofas in greeting, his pockmarked face broke into a wide grin.

  “Splendid! Splendid! Decant some Madeira, and bring more champagne for the ladies,” he said to the servant boy, who was now standing stoically at his station near the doorway. “I’m feeling quite at leisure, and ready for a long evening of Whist.”

  Behind him, Wetherell pranced in, lending a dash of colour to his surroundings in his pink hunting coat and astonishingly yellow breeches, especially as he took his mincing steps next to Somerton, who was attired in shades of grey.

  “If it’s cards we’re at, then let there be wagers,” cried Wetherell, his droning voice fortified with port. “Send the child to bed, Mother, so that we may say and do as we please.”

  Fleda jumped up from her stool in a huff and, abandoning all her half-hearted efforts to impress Wetherell, stormed out of the room. Sadly, no one but Emily seemed particularly upset by her early exit.

  Helena’s hand flew to her forehead. “Dollie, I think I’ll join Fleda and go to bed. I’ve a miserable headache, caused no doubt by her atrocious piano playing. But Emeline will gladly make up a table
of four.” Avoiding Emily’s unhappy expression, Helena bowed to the company and slipped quietly away.

  Adolphus stuffed himself into one of the chairs at the card table. “Will you feel quite safe alone with us men, Emeline?”

  “I don’t see why not,” replied Emily, reluctantly taking the seat offered to her by Somerton. She would as soon dig a grave as play cards with these three.

  “If Emeline was able to tame the men on the Isabelle, she has no cause to fear us, Father.” The nod of Somerton’s head was decidedly jaunty as he took the chair across from her.

  “It’s a shame you never made the acquaintance of my son, Octavius,” said Adolphus, thrusting his pear-nose into Emily’s face, as was his new habit now that they were sufficiently acquainted with one another. “I assure you he would’ve become your protector, and made certain the seamen kept away from you. By God, he could have held that despicable Trevelyan at bay.”

  Resistant to further discussion of Octavius, Emily responded with a sluggish smile, thankful that Wetherell, in his eagerness to begin play, desired all unrelated talk to come to an end.

  “Shall we begin with a few games of Whist, and later change over to Faro?” he loudly asked, excluding Emily in his glance.

  “Fine with me,” said Somerton, picking up the deck of cards. “Shall we cut or draw for partners?”

  “As we are already seated, Somerton, and since I’m sitting across from Father, he shall be my partner,” answered Wetherell. “Besides, I never partner with a woman.”

  Emily bit her lip.

  “Cut for dealer,” barked Adolphus.

  The young servant boy had returned with their drinks. He poured each of the men a glass of Madeira from a crystal decanter, and then handed Emily a glass of champagne. Before departing for the night, he discreetly placed a chamber pot at the foot of Adolphus’s chair.

  A blush of excitement suffused Wetherell’s face. “What shall we wager?”

  “How about Hartwood Hall?” suggested Somerton. “As poor Emeline here is homeless — no one in her family willing to take her in, you see — and I’m nothing more than a penniless, second son, should we win, it might come in handy.”

  “Heavens, no! In the event that Father doesn’t take care of my debts —” Wetherell slithered a quizzical look at Adolphus “— I shall have to relinquish my fortune and estate to my debtors.”

  Adolphus licked the wine from his lips in appreciation of its excellence, and observed Somerton cutting the cards, giving no indication whatsoever that he had even heard his eldest son.

  Emily gazed again at the clock, her mind now fixed on thoughts of her soft bed. “I’m afraid I’ve nothing with which to make a wager. Shall I ask Miss McCubbin to substitute for me at the table? At least she has her housekeeper’s pay.”

  “I do not sit at cards with housekeepers,” remarked Wetherell, distributing the cards as he had won dealer. “Come now, Your Royal Highness, you must have a hamper of bracelets and baubles lying around somewhere. There must be some benefit in being King George’s granddaughter.”

  “Indeed, sir, my bedchamber is infested with such hampers, but I could not tolerate parting with my bracelets and baubles; I’d as soon part with my firstborn child.”

  Somerton’s dark eyes rounded with mirth as he studied his cards.

  “Then play well,” said Wetherell, still refusing to acknowledge her with a look. “And do try to remember what cards have already been set down.”

  Emily itched for the satisfaction of punching the marquess in that purple mouth of his.

  “Let’s play a friendly game,” said Somerton, “and not wager at all. That way we might cure you of your gambling addictions, Brother.”

  “If I’m to make an evening of cards, I shall have my wager.”

  Somerton laughed. “What can you possibly offer up when you’re indebted to everyone in England?”

  Wetherell paused in his card dealing to wrestle an emerald ring from one of his fat fingers, smugly tossing it onto the table. “That must be worth a farthing or two.”

  “That was a gift to you from Mother.”

  “Yes, it was, Brother,” was Wetherell’s disinterested reply.

  With a shrug, Somerton reciprocated by producing a £25 note from somewhere on his person, arousing Adolphus, who cried out, “Splendid! Now let’s get on with it. What are trumps?”

  Wetherell finished dealing and turned over the last card. “Hearts and game shall be a score of two points.”

  As Somerton was sitting on Wetherell’s left, he led the first trick, laying down a jack of Clubs. When Emily’s turn came, having no clubs in her hand and hoping Wetherell — the last to lay down a card — was holding an abundance of them; she played a five of Hearts. With a stamp of his foot, Wetherell flicked a three of Clubs into the pile of cards.

  “Such luck, Emeline!” gushed Adolphus. “A wonderful start.”

  Emily gathered up the four cards of the first trick, lay them face down near her on the table, and then led once again, this time with a queen of Diamonds — Diamonds being her longest and strongest suit. To her delight, Somerton and she successfully nabbed the next four tricks.

  “I take it you played Whist regularly with the seamen on your ship, Your Royal Highness,” muttered Wetherell before guzzling his wine.

  “Indeed! I played every night in the hospital from my hammock.”

  “With the ship’s doctor and his loblolly boys?” baited Somerton.

  “Naturally!” Emily took a few sips of her champagne, though in small measure, for it would be necessary to keep a clear head. As she led the sixth trick with a new suit, she eyed Wetherell’s emerald ring, its square-cut gemstone and gold band glinting in the room’s candlelight. The first game was dispatched quickly, with Somerton ardently proclaiming Emily and he the winners, for they had secured five points.

  Wetherell’s face was flushed with indignation. “I have never played a game of Whist where the opposing team has managed five points after the first thirteen tricks. You didn’t cheat, did you, Brother?”

  “Would you like to explain how one successfully cheats at a game of Whist?” he asked, scooping up the emerald ring and presenting it to Emily. “It is yours, fairly won.”

  “Sir, it is equally yours,” answered Emily, secretly hoping he would insist she keep it. “And being as it was a gift from Her Grace, perhaps you —”

  Leaning over the table, Somerton closed her fingers around the prize, allowing his hand to linger on hers. “You can have it sized to fit you. As is, it’ll surely fall off, for Wetherell’s fingers are as fat as sausages.”

  “We shall play again,” announced Wetherell, turning abruptly to observe his reflection in the music room window. He adjusted his wig, gave the lapels of his hunting coat a firm tug, and then twisted another ring from his hand. “This time I shall wager one of my diamonds.”

  Adolphus, who appeared sanguine despite being on the losing team, yelled into the darkness beyond the music room, hoping there might be a servant within earshot who would do his bidding. “Bring us more wine, and a plate of sandwiches. Ham and cheese will suffice.”

  “Now, Father, if you’re going to partner with me, you must keep your mind sharp. I didn’t expect her to know what she was about. Perhaps you should drink Mother’s tea, and leave off the wine.”

  Adolphus harrumphed and filled his glass to the brim with what remained in the decanter. “Cut for dealer,” he barked, opening his purse, and setting a £10 note on the table alongside Wetherell’s diamond ring, and Somerton’s previous wager.

  Emily eyed the booty, and smiled to herself. How different the evening might have been if Helena had not retired early to bed.

  2:00 a.m.

  Convulsing in laughter against the closed door of her bedchamber, tears streaming down her cheeks, Emily was totally incapable of consideration for those whom her unrestrained gaiety might awaken at this late hour. Even if the headachy Duchess of Belmont were to scream for silence and Glen
na follow up with punitive measures by impounding Emily in Hartwood’s stables, she could not help herself. Bursting with energy, she kicked off her silk slippers, lifted her skirts, and raced toward the bed in her stockinged feet, leaping onto the high mattress. With a giant yelp, she sank happily into her soft quilts. What a night; culminating in two of the household servants struggling to transport an inconsolable Wetherell off to his bed, his wig upended on his head, ranting and raving about being cheated out of his jewels, and challenging Somerton “ … to a duel on the morrow.”

  Assuming a cross-legged position, Emily tossed her winnings down upon the top quilt. Somehow, Somerton and she had done the unthinkable and managed to take every single game, and now, having split the booty, she was flush with funds — nearly £50 in all — and the happy owner of a valuable emerald ring. In the jumping light of her bedside candle, she studied the gem’s square-cut perfection and the delicate etchings on its broad gold band, all the while chuckling as she recalled the fury that had erupted from Wetherell’s plummy lips: “Never again shall I sit at a card table with you!”

  Gathering up her treasures, Emily held them in a tight fist to her breast and lay back upon her pillows, staring up at the embellishing knots of flowered material on the roof of her canopy, feeling the mirth slowly drain from her body. She then turned her face toward the colourful Chinoiserie wallpaper on the wall next to her; its foreign scenes and objects exciting her curiosity: villages full of round figures in comical hats, ornate pagodas, Chinese gondolas with their curling ends, and those bizarre sailing ships, traversing fictitious seas full of monsters, so very different from those she herself had once been on. Feeling more peaceful now, her eyes fell upon the precious volumes of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, sitting next to her candle, and her smile grew wistful. Through her unshuttered window, opened a crack to allow for fresh air, the whispering darkness of Hartwood’s parkland beckoned, and in the far distance a few lights still winked over the city of London. Somewhere out there, there was still life.