“Oh, God!” moaned Bridlington. “Not that pirate again and his horde of cutthroats!”
27
Friday, August 27
11:00 a.m.
Hartwood Hall
Trying to tear Uncle Clarence away from his morning letter-writing had been a veritable chore for Emily, with him insisting he had to attend to his duty as Admiral of the Fleet, but when her employment of cajolery had finally been rewarded, she had insisted they meet out-of-doors, so that no one could attempt to put an ear to the wall to listen in. Uncle Clarence had pouted profusely, further insisting the weather was far too hot for him to be meandering around the grounds — being as his constitution was susceptible to bouts of asthma — and had, consequently, asked Glenna to lay out the little table in the garden with linen, crystal, and an iced pitcher of orgeat (his favourite concoction of distilled almonds and orange-flower water), so that they might enjoy Hartwood’s sweet-smelling abundance of azaleas, rhododendrons, and roses, and, if possible, find relief in the shade cast by the west wall of the great house.
Sitting on the front few inches of his wrought-iron chair, his fingers spread upon his pudgy knees, Uncle Clarence looked around him with satisfaction. “This is a most excellent estate; one would be lucky indeed to live out one’s years surrounded by such breathtaking beauty. Such a fine, solid house too, with every known comfort and convenience. I’ve had the pleasure to accompany my brother, the Regent, on several of his visits to aristocratic mansions in England, but, I declare, Emeline, there’re none as nice as Hartwood.”
Emily picked up the glass of orgeat her uncle had poured for her. “Are you planning to purchase Hartwood from the Duke of Belmont?”
“Well, hang me, Emeline, where did you get such a notion?”
“Seeing as you’ve such an affinity for the place —”
“Unless I was king, I’d never be able to afford such luxury. No, my dear, I must content myself with Bushy House for the remainder of my days, not that I’m complaining, of course, for, as you know, it suits me well.”
Emily grew wistful. It was hard to think of dear Bushy House without recollecting her exuberant cousins and endearing Aunt Dora, who was not one to judge and so rarely gave offence. Following her uncle’s lead, she too surveyed the grounds around her. She could see Somerton out riding alone, cantering on his blue-black horse down near the ponds, and closer by, Fleda rolling down the gentle undulation of the front lawn with her dog dancing in agitated circles around her, and Gus Walby, leaning on his crutch, laughing at her. The sound of Gus’s laughter — and Fleda’s, for that matter — filled her with both joy and sadness.
It was Uncle Clarence’s steadfast assurances to the family that Mr. Walby was indeed an officer of the Royal Navy, and of impeccable breeding, that led Adolphus to heartily agree that the boy should be allowed to visit during the day while old Dr. Braden was attending his ailing cousin in the village, so long as he took his lessons with Fleda, and was returned to the coaching inn before Hartwood’s dinner hour. Quivering in her chair at the end of the dining room table, Helena had looked like a shivering puddle-hound, but on the subject she had stayed curiously silent. And yet, throughout the deliberations, no one had said a word about extending an invitation to the old doctor to take dinner with them, the man who had so selflessly taken up a temporary guardianship of Mr. Walby. Of course, Wetherell had been too greatly distracted by the bowls of sugared almonds set before him to share his sublime opinions, and her uncle did not venture to suggest it, despite his initial joy at discovering the relationship between the doctor who had served on HMS Isabelle and the one he had retained for Gus. To Emily, it was Somerton who had given the most offense. Sitting across from her, studying her response to the conversation, there had been something telling, something festering and ruminating in his deportment, as if he were ready to pounce upon the person who even dared mention the name of Dr. Arthur Braden at the dinner table. The very recollection of it, the sheer indecency of it all, brought tears to Emily’s eyes, compelling her to glance away from her uncle toward the woodland of oak and ash and beech and chestnut, which stood drooping and motionless in the heat under a blanket of dark, low-hanging clouds, like the vanquished crew of the Isabelle when Trevelyan had come aboard to reap his spoils.
“Now then, Emeline, before we’re caught up in a downpour,” said Uncle Clarence, eying the sky, “tell me why you wanted a word in private?”
Emily kept her face averted. “I’d like to leave here, as soon as possible.”
Uncle Clarence choked on his beverage, coughing and sputtering before he was once again capable of finding his voice. “This is most shocking! And here I thought I’d found for you the perfect situation.”
“Situation?”
“I meant to say home. I believe Hartwood is a perfect home for you.”
“It is not my home, Uncle.”
He grimaced and gulped, and continued to clear his throat. “Would a visit to see your grandmother, Queen Charlotte, ease the pain of your homesickness?”
“I’ve no desire to see my grandmother.”
“That is good, because she’s growing ever more curmudgeonly, flies into rages so easily, and suffers constant bowel complaints. My sisters have quite lost their patience, and have little desire to spend any time at all with her.”
“Let me go home with you, Uncle. My best memories are of Bushy House.”
Uncle Clarence heaved a heavy sigh.
Emily shot forward in her chair. “Your brother kindly gave you an allowance, which you, in turn, gave to the duchess to keep me clothed and fed. If it’s money you need, could you not have that allowance transferred to you? I don’t want to be a burden.”
“I’m afraid you returning home with me is out of the question.”
Emily’s eyes blurred. “Do you not care? Is there no one who cares for me, no one who desires to see me simply because I’m unmanageable? Do my uncles and aunts all hope I’ll quietly retire here, on this unfamiliar soil, so that they’ll not have to bother again with me until I’m put into the ground?”
Uncle Clarence chuckled. “There, there! Naturally, we all care for your well-being, but at present we all have our own pressing concerns and families to maintain. And surely you cannot have forgotten that your uncles and I are all up to our necks, fighting Napoleon on the continent and the Americans on the sea. I cannot predict when I might be sent away on an urgent mission. No, my dear, I’ve quite enough to contend with, without having to worry about making certain you are dressing and behaving decently.”
Emily exhaled — all she could do to resist bursting into sarcastic laughter.
Uncle Clarence laid one hand over his heart, and allowed his round eyes to rove over her curls and gown with open admiration. “My friends are thrilled to have you here at Hartwood. And see how well Helena has been able to improve you. You look quite respectable. I was appalled when we met in Bermuda; so full of despair thinking of your dear, departed parents, and what they would’ve thought were they to see you debased in dungarees with your hair all about you.”
“Her Grace and I do not get along very well,” Emily said flatly.
“Wot? This is news to me! I declare she loves you like a daughter.” He laughed while he refilled his glass. “If there is any discord, it most certainly is in your court, Emeline. You must learn to get on with people, learn to hold your tongue. People don’t take kindly to hearing what it is you honestly think of them. Do your family proud and behave like a true Hanover.”
The first snarls of thunder rumbled over the city of London as if in harmony with Emily’s suffering.
“God damn this weather,” said Uncle Clarence, frowning at the accumulation of black clouds. “This has been a most wet summer. Perhaps we should head indoors.”
Emily placed her hand on her uncle’s upper arm as he was rising from his chair. “Uncle, where is Thomas Trevelyan?”
“Why, I believe he’s imprisoned in Newgate as we speak.”
“I cannot wait forever for his trial.”
“Why ever not? You’re not going anywhere, my dear. Besides, you’ve no say when his case shall be heard at the Old Bailey. But, mark my words, it’ll be a superb spectacle, and everyone shall be clamouring for a seat to see you rise up and take the stand.”
Emily rubbed her face in frustration. “And what news of my annulment?”
“Your case should prove to be a straightforward one. As far as your family is concerned, your marriage never existed in the first place. For one, Emeline, your marriage licence — if, in fact, you actually had one — is sitting at the bottom of the sea. This Mr. Humphreys, the clergyman who performed your ceremony, is more than likely a charlatan; however, since it’s impossible to ascertain whether or not the man was ordained, it remains that you did not have your family’s permission, and, though not necessary to make it valid, your marriage was not consummated. Then, of course, on this last point, I — ahem — I’m not certain I can believe you.”
Emily waited for her anger to abate. “Then what must I wait for?”
“Official word from the Archbishop of Canterbury that your marriage is null and void.”
“That’s all well and good, but when shall I receive word?”
The jaunty tilt of his head and the curve of his smile were unnerving. “Are you anxious for it, Emeline? Have you set your cap at a new suitor?”
“Indeed! I’m waiting to pounce upon one of cousin Charlotte’s many rejects.”
His smile widened. “That’s very good news!”
Emily shut her eyes to take a deep breath. “I’d sleep more peacefully knowing my connection with England’s traitor is no more.”
“Yes, yes, of course you would, my dear.” Uncle Clarence suddenly fumbled for his pocket watch. “Ah, look at the time! Well now, I’ve enjoyed our chat immensely, but I would suggest we quickly retire to the house, otherwise the approaching storm may wash us away to the Thames River.”
Emily’s shoulders drooped like the branches of the trees around her, and her eyes drifted away from the garden to the dark stones of the unbroken wall, which enclosed the perimeter of Hartwood.
Noon
Though Emily had longed to hide out in her bedchamber and take refuge under the quilts while the rain fell, upon re-entering the house Uncle Clarence had steered her toward the music room, where they now lolled about with the rest of the family, awaiting their next meal. Overhead the storm was unfurling its fury, plunging the room into obscurity, provoking her uncle, who had compared the moody atmosphere to that of an ancient burial cavern, to send the servants scrambling for candles so that he could decipher the words on the pages of the book he was attempting to read. With the first flash of lightning, Somerton had ended his ride and stabled his horse; however, Fleda and Gus, being loath to return indoors, would still be outside if the downpour had not forced them to take cover. The two youngsters, who had found mutual merriment in seeing one another’s hair and clothing soaking wet, were now safely sheltered in Mademoiselle’s schoolroom, eating their cheese sandwiches and taking their lessons in handwriting.
Aside from the occasional remark about the inclement weather, there was an absence of conversation. Adolphus was napping on the sofa, his arms draped over his immense middle; Uncle Clarence, now that he could see properly, was delighting in his book on naval warfare; and Somerton, still in his riding costume, had planted his boots in a wide stance before the north-facing window, his hands locked behind him, seemingly transfixed by the puddles forming out on the gravel courtyard. Sitting as far away as possible from Emily, Helena had her elegant head bent over her needlework, wordlessly making her tiny stitches, although her behaviour indicated a restlessness of the mind. She kept shifting upon her chair, as if sharp stones were irritating her delicate bottom, and she started at the slightest sound — thunderclaps included — that always ended with an anxious glance at the doorway.
“Oh, where is Wetherell?” she finally crackled, collapsing her work onto her lap.
Somerton replied over his shoulder. “Mother, you must know, he’s pondering the contents of his wardrobe in the hopes of bewitching us all with his latest fashion.”
“You know, Somerton, you could lend a dash of splendour and variety to your own fashion. You choose such dreary colours, one would think you were still in mourning.” She finished by throwing a significant look at Emily.
“Perhaps your second son does not choose to frighten us all,” said Emily with a fraudulent smile, inducing Somerton, though he kept his back to her, to break into a series of chuckles.
Into the music room rushed Wetherell, who did not disappoint in his dress, blazing like a flambeau amidst the gloom in gloves of lavender, satin breeches of rose, a flowered waistcoat of predominant yellows and greens, and a serge spencer jacket of the brightest orange. With his hands on his waist he strutted about, as if expecting compliments to be showered upon him. He had discarded his distinguishing high collars in favour of shorter ones, which were completely hidden by his elaborately wrapped and starched cravat, and secured to his protruding middle was his fob-watch ribbon with a dangling medley of silver and gold seals. His white silk stockings were of the finest quality and decorated with yellow embroidered clocks at the ankles, and his black shoes were adorned with prodigious leather bows. Despite the fact that he was a vision of fastidious perfection — with the exception of his calf padding, for one of the pads had slipped down his leg, destroying the symmetry of his lower limbs — no one in the assembled audience uttered a single word of praise, which prompted a pouting end to his strutting and the articulation of a cold commandment. “Very well, then, all of you out. Out you go!”
Emily’s hand flew to her throat as the family scrambled to obey him, not one of them questioning his motives. Without hesitation Somerton terminated his vigil at the window, and Uncle Clarence snapped his book shut to help Helena awaken and carry a light-headed Adolphus to the door. Trying to make sense of the scene, Emily stood up to follow, but Wetherell’s hand shot out to stop her. “Oh, but you must stay, Your Royal Highness.”
The last one to leave was Somerton. Grinning from ear to ear, he gave Emily a naval salute, and took great pains to quietly close the door on them, as if one small, creaking sound was bound to shatter the room’s collection of porcelain and glass ornaments.
“Sit! Sit down again, Your Royal Highness,” said Wetherell, pacing the area in front of the chimneypiece. He waited until she had returned to her chair, and then, stopping before her, he pulled himself up to his full height, and assumed a sober expression. Emily folded her hands on her lap, and waited for him to speak. There was a lengthy period of silence between them, though thunder shook the foundations of the house and rain fell in torrents against the tall window, obliterating all prospects of the outside world. At one point Wetherell did open his mouth, but closed it up again. Afterward, he resumed his pacing, his lips pursed in contemplation.
Emily’s leg began to bounce. She felt the eyes of Octavius Lindsay staring down at her from his gilded frame, and a desperate need to leave the room. “I am guessing, sir, you’re finding this subject a difficult one to raise with me.”
“Quite! It is never easy for a man.”
“Shall I help you say it then?”
“That would be most inappropriate, Your Royal Highness. As I am a gentleman, I must do the deed in my own way.”
“Of course! Forgive me,” she said, settling back in her chair.
“My mother, I’m afraid, does not like you.”
Emily peered up at him. “You’re right, she does not, though I’m not in any way troubled by her adverse feelings toward me.”
Wetherell gave her a momentary glare while he paced. “Therefore, the arrangement shall be difficult.”
“I believe you mean to say: the arrangement is difficult.”
A second, stronger glare from him silenced her. “Father likes you enough, says you’re a splendid sort of girl, but then I really don’t care what
anyone thinks of you. As a matter of fact, I don’t particularly like you either. You are too perverse and headstrong for my tastes.”
Emily could not help herself. “Now this is most troubling, sir! Would I rise in your noble esteem if I were daily to assist you in the selection of your shoes and jackets and trimmings, and agree to play cards with you every evening?”
He halted before her. “Oh, indeed, I would like that! This is great encouragement,” he said, locking his hands behind him, just as Somerton had while gazing out the window. “The thing is, Your Royal Highness, I have my gambling debts, and if I don’t settle them soon I shall be in a world of hurt. I may even lose possession of Hartwood when it comes to me, and this would bring shame to my family and leave my poor mother homeless, even though I don’t especially give a fig. What worries me exceedingly is the thought that I may be given the toss from Boodle’s, my beloved club, and if this were to happen, Your Royal Highness, I could not find a reason to live. Are you following me? Do you understand what I am saying?”
“No, sir! You speak in riddles! But my guess is, in a circuitous way, you’re trying to ask for your emerald ring back, since you require it to assist in paying down your debts.”
To this, Wetherell had no answer other than to gape at her, as if she were a snake that had fled the storm and had curled up comfortably on the music-room chair. Refusing to be put off by his rudeness, Emily continued. “Your mother spoke to me of its sentimental value; made known her unhappiness that it is now in my possession. You may have the ring back, so long as you do not ask me, in addition, to return the money I won fairly the other night. If you are the gentleman you claim to be, you’ll accept this, and ask for no more.”
Wetherell threw back his head to guffaw, surprising Emily that his wig did not flip off in the gesture. “Like all the members of your family, you are cork-brained.”
Emily angled her head, and chilled her voice. “Excuse me; I do not believe I heard you correctly.”
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 66
