Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  Mr. Austen, who had an uncanny ability to ignore the existence of Mrs. Kettle, smiled warmly at Prosper. “It is astounding to find you here on this lonely patch of the sea, but we’re most delighted to see you again.”

  Prosper sank down on a barrel, and wrapped his arm around his puffed-up woman. “I’ve been followin’ ya since ya left Halifax. We set out the minute we got word ya was headin’ back to England to fight them Yankee privateers plunderin’ yer coasts. I was a bit down on me luck in the east … thought I’d better try new ground.”

  Magpie piped up. “But Prosper, where’s yer red hull got to? We might’ve known ya long afore this.”

  Prosper snarled. “Ah, too many were comin’ to know me Prosperous and Remarkable on account o’ that bloody-red hull, so we painted her up fer a disguise.” He looked over at Mr. Austen. “Just as well ya didn’t recognize me right off. I didn’t need yer help, leastwise from yer fat captain. What a galoot! He woulda turned his guns on me in order to claim that Yankee schooner fer himself.”

  “I am sorry for the visit he paid you,” said Mr. Austen, accepting Prosper’s offering of a coffee refill.

  “He’s a shack rag, yer captain; his blusterin’ gave me a headache.” Prosper showed some teeth. “But I did gladly accept his offerin’ o’ wine. Now, I’ve the greatest respect fer ya, Mr. Austen, as well as fer Mr. Evans here, and wee Magpie with his patched-up eye, but I ain’t about to share me prize and its contraband with ya.”

  “We’ve come for no other reason than to enjoy the company of old friends, Prosper, and to take you up on your hospitality after a most difficult night.”

  Prosper nodded with satisfaction, planted a wet kiss on Mrs. Kettle’s blooming cheek — sending her into a paroxysm of snorty giggles — and stood up to begin spooning out the breakfast. “Eat up! Then we must away, fer I don’t rest easy in foggy weather.”

  Magpie wasn’t certain his stomach could withstand the vile mash of burgoo bubbling in a copper pot on Prosper’s table, nor the mouldy biscuits, which — being as they were infested with black-headed maggots — seemed to be moving about on a cracked plate. But it was a dish of yellowish muck that really put him off. Seeing him blanch, Prosper centred him out. “What? Ain’t ya ever seen slush afore?”

  “Slush, Prosper?”

  “Aye! ’Tis the grease what floats to the top when ya boil yer salted meat. ’Tis right tasty stuff on yer biscuits. Bet ya’ll never want Prickett’s rancid butter agin.”

  But Magpie wasn’t convinced. While Prosper regaled his guests with a blowy account of his subjugation of the schooner, he plucked the squirmy maggots from the biscuits, only too happy for an excuse to delay bringing breakfast to his lips.

  Not an hour had slipped by when Pemberton Baker appeared before them with a message for his master, delivered with the gravest of countenances. “There’s been a sightin’.”

  “Great Caesar’s ghost! What? In fog?” barked Prosper.

  “The sun’s risin’ burned it off.”

  “Another hapless Yankee schooner, travellin’ alone?”

  “Nay, Prosper,” said Pemberton, lifting his wide, blank face a notch. “Might be wise to push off.”

  “We’re still eatin’, ya big bandicoot.” Prosper’s arm reached out to give Mrs. Kettle an affectionate squeeze.

  As if smelling danger, Mr. Austen and Morgan Evans jumped up at once to peer out the cabin windows. When he swung around again, Mr. Austen’s eyes were bright with alarm. “What is it you’ve seen, Pemberton?”

  The jack-of-all-tradesman relayed the information as flatly as if he were commenting on the number of weevils Magpie had rescued from the biscuits. “Seven or eight sails, sir: a veritable fleet, flyin’ American colours.”

  9:00 a.m.

  (Forenoon Watch, Two Bells)

  “Make sail!”

  “Raise the boats!”

  “Clear the decks, and beat to quarters!”

  Fly’s insides quivered as panic rained down upon the small triangle of ships on the sea; the relative peace of the morning shattered by the realization that the Americans were frighteningly close. Beneath his feet the Prosperous and Remarkable trembled with running men. Prosper himself was whirling like a waterspout, scaring and scattering his chickens on the main deck, his veins visible on his ruddy face as he cursed the imminent loss of his schooner prize and bemoaned the pandemonium that was certain to erupt the minute the defeated Americans, bolstered by the sight of the approaching fleet, decided to band together and punish his prize crew of ruffians as they attempted to flee.

  Fly hurried Morgan and Magpie to the ladder down to their waiting cutter, while Prosper leaned over his rail to holler advice to his beleaguered ruffians across the distance. “Ahoy, ya bog trotters! The wind will be blowin’ great guns afore long. Abandon that goddamned schooner! Swim back if ya knows how to, and if ya don’t knows how, tough luck, ’cause I’m pushin’ off.” He quit his stomping about only long enough to bid farewell to his guests, including Mrs. Kettle, who wept loudly upon his shoulder while he forcibly fixed her into a bosun’s chair. “Nay, Meggie, ya can’t stay with me. I’ve no time fer yer clingin’ and caterwaulin’. Get along now,” he said, throwing off her arms and expediting the go-ahead for the Remarkables to lower her chair. Jumping back from the rail, he gave Morgan and Magpie an assuring nod and wished them both Godspeed as they began their descent. Once the young ones were well beyond earshot, he turned to Fly. “Haven’t seen a sail fer weeks, Mr. Austen, and now the entire Yankee navy’s bearin’ down on us.”

  Facing west, Fly studied the approaching ships. “We’re an hour, maybe two, ahead of them.” He reached out to shake Prosper’s hand. “You will stay close to us? God knows we’ll need you.”

  “Don’t ya worry none, Mr. Austen; I ’ave yer back.”

  The second Fly’s boots hit the boat’s bottom, the oarsmen pulled away. His head spinning, he sank to his seat and rubbed his arms as he observed the deteriorating scenes around him. Prosper’s foretold scuffle had broken out on the schooner, the Americans beating off the ruffians with sticks of splintered wood. Rumbles and roars, and screams and shouts issued forth from her groaning timbers, even the occasional cracking of guns. Those who managed to escape the Americans’ newfound fearlessness hurled themselves overboard. On the Amethyst, the topmen were balancing on their footropes, working madly to make sail. Captain Prickett was hopping along the gangway, flourishing a speaking trumpet, with Bridlington at his heels. Through the noise and confusion, his amplified voice sailed clearly through the air: “Mr. Austen! Do you hear me, Mr. Austen? We are in serious danger! I command you to act hastily, and return to the ship at once!”

  Fly felt his hands go limp, and for a time the screams of pandemonium rolled away like the dying echoes of cannon fire. Prickett’s urgent voice continued to bellow, though his words were now indistinct. The sight of Morgan, straining on the oars, his bronzed face distorted with gritty determination, caused tightness in his ribs. Crowding his mind were sorrowful recollections of his own family, waiting for him in England. Wedged in a corner of the cutter’s stern, Magpie was sitting perfectly still, though twisted around on his seat. His white knuckles gripped the gunwales, and his face was fixed on something in the water. Following the boy’s gaze, Fly detected a large object drifting on a point in the sea well beyond the Prosperous and Remarkable, and totally at odds with the direction in which they were pulling. His mind began to race. He squinted into the distance and bent his neck forward. Was it wreckage from yesterday’s battle? Had one of the ships’ boats gone astray? Slowly, he got to his feet, and gasped just as Magpie wheeled about to find him. Their eyes locked.

  “Are you sure, Magpie?”

  The little sailmaker’s hands flew to his mouth; he couldn’t speak, but his curly head bobbed up and down in affirmation.

  29

  Saturday, August 28

  9:00 a.m.

  Hartwood Hall

  The ship writhed on her side like one
of Leander Braden’s ailing patients. There was no one about; they had all abandoned Emily at the first crack of enemy gunfire. The empty hammocks and cots now overflowed with water, the sea pouring into the hospital through open gun ports and crashing down the ladders like swollen rivers in spring. Haemorrhaging from a wound in her shoulder, she struggled through the freezing water on her knees, trying to reach the single whale-oil lantern still burning brightly near what she hoped was the exit, hampered by her sodden gown and the razor-sharp scalpels and bone saws floating around her, cutting into her arms and legs.

  She could see him there, working in a small circle of light, crouched over his table but so far away. Try as she might, she could not make ground, for phantom arms had a tight hold on her waist, pulling her backward into dark, obscure regions of nothingness, where the walls of the ships had fallen away. She called out to him, but, too occupied with his grisly operation, he would not turn around. Captain Moreland was laid out on his table, and though already dead and waxen, Leander worked feverishly on him, slicing his gangrenous body into pieces and discarding the rotting lumps of blackened flesh into a bucket at his feet.

  Reaching the ladder, Emily held on to its timbers, her body immobilized by the rushing torrent of water and the arms that stubbornly clung to her. Beyond the ladder rungs, the sunken, derisive face of Thomas Trevelyan hung in the shadows, his deep, sonorous, disdainful laugh striking such fear in her. Looking toward Leander, she could see that he was gone now, his table and the bloated corpse of Captain Moreland all swept away from the ship by the rising water. Weeping, she fought the presence holding her down, and peering into the darkness behind her she realized it was Octavius Lindsay, his body still twitching, and nothing left of his head but a pile of gory pulp …

  Emily’s eyes fluttered open to find the sheltering canopy of her bed above her, but the dreadful images of her old dream had left her engulfed in waves of nausea, and she had to raise herself up on her pillows to calm her racing heart. Beyond the bed-curtains, her room was still dark, her window draperies still pulled shut, and she could hear the rain outside, thundering to the ground. The house was silent, as if — like her nightmare — those who lived within its walls had moved on and forgotten her. Observing the clock, she chose to ignore the late morning hour, and flopped back upon her blankets, opting for more rest rather than leaving her bedchamber and risking stumbling upon the Lindsay family, whom she had not encountered since yesterday afternoon.

  A faint rustling sound in the far corners of her large room dashed all attempts to slow her heartbeats. Peeking around her bed-curtains, she could see someone moving in the dim shadows, working to close up the wardrobe as quietly as possible. She contemplated calling out, to demand to know who was there, but too sickened by her dream, she could only lie still and wait and watch while the obfuscated figure tiptoed toward her door and slipped out as unobtrusively as a cat.

  10:00 a.m.

  Emily took a series of deep breaths before entering the breakfast room. Sooner or later she had to face her hosts, though the prospect left her jittery, as if this were the day she had to stand in the witness box at the Old Bailey.

  To her immense relief, only Helena and Somerton remained at the table. Their plates had been cleared away; the servants retired, but a silver coffeepot still stood between them. Given that the harsh weather had ruled out outdoor activities such as horseback riding and drinking tea in the garden, Emily had the impression that mother and son had lingered behind the others in order to discuss family affairs in private.

  Upon seeing her guest, Helena resumed her usual posture of sitting on the front few inches of her chair like a bell tower, and pounced on Emily’s unpunctuality. “Well, at least one of you decided to rise from the dead this morning.”

  “Where are the others?” asked Emily, attempting nonchalance as she headed toward the sideboard to select a few food items from the chafing dishes.

  Somerton’s reply was effervescent. “Let’s see now: my father has retired to his bedchamber for a nap; your uncle has locked himself away in the library to write his morning letters; my sister is at her lessons with Mademoiselle, and completely inconsolable, for Mr. Walby cannot come by today on account of the rain, his doctor having forbid it; and my eldest brother has — ahem — taken to his bed.”

  Helena waited until Emily had seated herself at the table to pounce again. “Wetherell is a wreck.”

  “I’m sorry to hear of it.”

  “You have ruined all of his hopes.”

  Emily met her straight on. “Is it his hopes I’ve ruined, or yours?”

  Helena would not answer, but Emily did not fail to notice the slight lifting of Somerton’s brow. “Did you truly think I would agree to marry your son?”

  “I did indeed, especially when the recipient of his most earnest proposal has no other recourse in life.”

  “What is behind this insistence of yours to condemn me to hell?”

  Helena jabbed a ring-laden finger at Emily. “When word gets out of your refusal, I shall write to all of my friends and see to it that you never again receive another proposal of marriage, at least not from a man of quality.”

  “Don’t exert yourself on my behalf, Your Grace.” Emily glanced at Somerton, who was aimlessly running his hands over the linen tablecloth on either side of his coffee cup. “And why marry Wetherell? Why not your second son?”

  Somerton looked up suddenly, biting his lower lip, his gaze steadfast, but it came as no surprise when his mother answered for him. “Because he does not love you.”

  Emily pouted. “Oh! How sad! Do you not love me, Somerton?” She watched his mouth forming a reply, but having no interest in hearing what he had to say she swung again toward Helena. “Do you mean to tell me that Wetherell does? I had no idea that love was a necessary prerequisite. Isn’t it all about making favourable matches in order to gain profit or maintain a family’s good standing in society? You obviously thought so when you connived to match me up with your son.”

  Helena eyes went flinty; her red mouth quivered. Emily allowed her to fester while she addressed Somerton, whose ears had reddened, and who had now taken to fiddling with the cuffs on his shirtsleeves. “Lord Somerton, though you may not inherit Hartwood Hall, I am certain, should you agree to take me off their hands, my family would see to setting you up handsomely, especially since they have unequivocally agreed to settle the marquess’s gambling debts in exchange for his promise to tolerate me.”

  “Your — your breakfast is getting cold, Emeline,” was all Somerton could say.

  “How can one possibly think of eating when they’ve been so warmly welcomed to the breakfast table?”

  Helena stroked Somerton’s hand and smiled through her teeth. “I have other plans for this son. I couldn’t bear to see him married to a harlot, not even a royal one.”

  There was a sharp edge to Emily’s laugh. “Then I wish you well, Your Grace. You may call me whatever you like; however, since I don’t recall ever meeting you before my uncle deposited me on your doorstep, I wonder at your labelling me thus, and can only guess your insult springs from the salacious stories you are wont to imagine.”

  “Any woman who has mixed company with a man such as Thomas Trevelyan —”

  Emily rounded on Helena. “Oh! You reveal yourself! Are you acquainted with Thomas Trevelyan and his character? Has he been a guest here at Hartwood? Did you once have the pleasure of his company at a London dinner party before he betrayed his countrymen?”

  Helena flushed. “No, but I —”

  “I should very much like to describe your disposition, Your Grace, but as I can only do so based upon my own experience these past weeks, I shall refrain, for my description might be equally as cruel and unjust as your description of me. For all I know, you may have done good works in a nunnery in the years prior to marrying His Grace.” Emily leaned toward the duchess. “Are you so perfect yourself that we — none of us — can succeed in securing your esteem? If so, tell me this,
for I’m quite curious and full of wild imaginings on the subject.”

  Helena’s eyes widened as she shrank back upon her chair, as if she expected Emily to strike her across the face.

  “Who is Fleda’s father?”

  “Emeline!” gasped Somerton. “That’s quite enough.”

  Helena rose abruptly to her feet, her hands clenching her gown.

  “Oh, Your Grace, you cannot leave! You’ve not yet given me an answer.”

  “And you shall not be receiving one,” said Helena, her voice carefully controlled. Lifting her skirts, she drifted queenly from the room.

  Somerton’s face was now overspread with a queer, patchy red blush. He looked helplessly at Emily and shook his head. “You’ve done enough upsetting of this family for one day.”

  Emily eyed him. “Your reprimand is feeble. You might as well be directing it at a child who’s accidently broken her milk mug.” She pushed her chair back, momentarily irritated by its clawing upon the floorboards, and then sighed, feeling as if she had not slept soundly in a month. “Perhaps you don’t truly comprehend the meaning of the word upsetting. Were I a man, with enough power over you to determine your destiny, I would secretly arrange a match between you and the most unappetizing woman I’ve ever met — a woman who would, no doubt, repulse you to the very core of your being — and when you balked and lamented, I wouldn’t listen; I would simply tell you that you are condemned — that you have no other recourse in life.” She bowed to him. “Good day to you, sir.”

  Emily had almost reached the door when Uncle Clarence came bounding in, a clutch of letters in his fist. “Where are you off to, Emeline? Come and sit back down again,” he said cheerfully, springing toward Somerton and the breakfast table. “Is there any coffee left in the pot, Lord Somerton? If so, would you be so kind as to pour me a drop?”