Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  Gus bent over to retrieve it from the cold floor and slipped it on, thankful for its extra layer of warmth. His healthy leg began bouncing up and down, his mind travelling to fantastical places. Did the doctor have something exciting to tell him? Could he somehow have received a letter from his son on the sea? Had the Duke of Clarence sent a note, saying that he’d secured for him a posting on a ship as magnificent as HMS Victory? And if so, were they going to celebrate downstairs in the parlour with a mug of ale and another mouth-watering meal prepared by the innkeeper’s wife?

  Old Dr. Braden reappeared in his fresh clothes, and sank down upon one of the two narrow beds. “Mr. Walby, I must tell you: as I was making my way along the road, trying to avoid puddles — some of which, I declare, rose above my knees — a carriage passed me by, going at an alarming speed, drenching me through and through with a wall of rainwater. I wondered who it was coming down the road so quickly in this weather, but did not wonder long, for immediately following it a second carriage happened by, going at a much slower pace and stopping before me where I stood, across the road from our inn.”

  “Was it Emily?” asked Gus.

  “No! It was a servant from Hartwood Hall, a sonsy-faced Scottish woman named Miss McCubbin.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Catching me entirely off guard, she handed me an invitation, and announced that I was being invited to sup at the Hall tonight and that a carriage would be sent for me precisely at four o’clock.”

  Gus wilted; an empty monosyllable was all he could utter in reply.

  “Miss McCubbin further announced that I was to bring my young friend with me.”

  Gus’s mouth jumped open. “You’re not trifling with me, are you, sir?”

  “It’s not in my nature to trifle, Mr. Walby! So stop looking like a fish, and let’s determine what we shall wear tonight.”

  “Oh, but I don’t have anything presentable.”

  The doctor raised himself from the bed. “Ah! Well, perhaps we should discuss this dilemma downstairs in the parlour where the innkeeper has a nice fire going.”

  “Do you think the Duke of Clarence will be at supper with us, sir?”

  “I don’t know. Are you hoping to see him?”

  “I am, sir. I’m hoping he might bring up the subject of a new posting for me. I am feeling stronger, and would like to return to sea.”

  Old Doctor Braden turned around to straighten and tidy up his bed quilt, rumpled by his having sat upon it; Gus surprised at how long he lingered over his simple task, and how slow his reply was in coming. “Just as I was mounting the stairs, the innkeeper’s wife told me she’d baked a bread pudding, stuffed full of raisins and walnuts, and that she desired the young Mr. Walby to sample it.”

  Gus forced a smile and tugged his jacket around him. The thought of a warm fire and a dish of dessert suddenly had no appeal. Hearing the rain intensify beyond the window, he looked away and stared once again at the muddy road and its ever widening pools of water.

  1:00 p.m.

  Hartwood Hall

  Emily was at her desk in front of the west-facing window of her bedroom overlooking the wet, colourless gardens when Glenna McCubbin flew through the door like a newly discovered species of gigantic bird. The housekeeper was heaving with breathlessness and quaking with emotion, though Emily could not determine if it was excitement or anxiety, or a bit of both. Sliding the letter she was writing into the desk drawer, she reluctantly turned toward her former nursemaid, hoping her tear-stained face would not incite comment and inquiry. “Back again so soon, Glenna? Didn’t you get what you wanted the first time around?”

  Glenna redressed her lacy cap, which had gone awry during her flight up the stairs. “What d’ ya mean by that, Pet?”

  “Weren’t you here in my room earlier this morning?”

  “Nay!”

  “Upon awaking, I was certain I saw you rummaging around in the wardrobe.”

  “Must’ve bin another o’ yer tempestuous dreams,” said Glenna, seemingly untroubled by Emily’s accusation. “Nay! I’ve been runnin’ ’round all day like Lady Fleda’s dog! Why, the household’s all in an uproar. My word, Pet, ya’ve turned Hartwood on its end. Such fireworks! Oh, my poor heart! I swear, sooner rather than later yer gonna lower me into the grave.”

  Emily could not help her empty gaze. “Could you save the telling of it for later? I’d like to be alone.”

  Glenna’s face changed to a scowl. “Ya’ll wither away in this room if I let ya, and since yer causin’ all the fireworks, ya’ll hear me out.”

  Sighing, Emily assumed a position of obedient attentiveness, while Glenna took a big breath for her recounting. “First off, the Duke o’ Clarence upset everyone with his quick leave takin’ on account o’ some terrible news he’d received this mornin’; and now Lord Munroe’s upset the kitchen with his insistence the cook prepare and deliver to his room all o’ his favourite dishes. Lud! Half o’ the ingredients canna be found this side o’ London. And then, His Grace is bilious, bein’ overset with stomach cramps, and he’s keepin’ to his room, and Lady Fleda’s in such a dither over Mr. Walby comin’ fer dinner that she’s refused to heed her lessons, puttin’ Mademoiselle in a fit o’ tears, and —”

  “Wait! Mr. Walby’s coming for dinner?”

  “Aye! And the old doctor as well.”

  “Whatever possessed Her Grace to allow them a place at her dining table?”

  “Oh, Her Grace is madder than a trapped hornet about it all, so she’s keepin’ to her room.”

  “I don’t understand —”

  “Ya see, t’were Lord Somerton what done the invitin’.”

  Emily required a moment for reflection. “You mean Somerton’s organizing a dinner party for this evening, and being unable to coerce his friends to attend, he wallowed through the mud to invite the residents of the local inn?”

  “Ain’t he a kind soul to be thinkin’ o’ your friends sittin’ in the postin’ house on such a dismal day?”

  Emily felt a throbbing ache in her jaw.

  “But there’ll only be five o’ yas at the table.”

  “How cosy!”

  “Tell me, Pet, is the old doctor a married man?”

  “No. His wife has passed on,” Emily said coldly, longing to add that she’d died so very recently her own son had no idea his mother was gone.

  “Oh!” crowed Glenna, playfully slapping her thighs. “He does have very fine eyes.”

  Emily shook her head in disgust. “Seeing as most of the family would prefer to keep to their rooms, why don’t you join us tonight?”

  Glenna blushed at the idea. “And give Her Grace a nervous disorder?”

  “She’ll not know; she’ll be in bed with a cold compress on her head.” Emily rose abruptly and guided Glenna toward the door. “Let’s create more fireworks, shall we? In the event Captain Trevelyan comes knocking on the front door while we’re eating our roasted pork and gravy, let him come in and join our little, intimate coterie.”

  Glenna’s eyes popped out of her head. “Aren’t ye the flippant one!”

  Emily pushed her into the corridor and banged the door shut. She hobbled back to the writing desk, stumbling into the chair with a gasping sob; dark, lurking thoughts threatening to rear up again and overwhelm her. But the letter — she was determined to press on with it. Dabbing at her face, she dipped her quill pen into her silver inkwell and was just picking up where she’d left off when a black, fluttering shape suddenly appeared in the rain. Having found shelter from the storm, a magpie landed on the white stone ledge of her window to give his iridescent wing feathers a shiver, and turn his penetrating gaze upon her through the panes of glass.

  6:30 p.m.

  Gus Walby could hardly wait for the meal to be over. Fleda had promised to show him the tunnels under the Hall, which led to the kitchens and offices and storerooms. He’d never been in a tunnel before; he’d only read about them in novels, and the literary ones were always dark and dank
and musty-smelling, and teeming with either murderers or ghosts. He didn’t like sitting in this big music room, darkened by the enduring rain. The candlelight on their round table, as well as the candles that flickered on the sideboards and mantelpieces, radiated grotesque shadows upon the watchful visages of those in the many portraits nailed to the walls, and it didn’t help that Fleda had remarked that most of those painted people were dead.

  The dark-eyed man who had introduced himself only as Somerton, and insisted that he be addressed thus, since his family “these days did not abide by formality,” had been asking old Dr. Braden hundreds of questions about medical training, showing a particular interest in the studies taken by his son on the sea, and was now discussing the horrors of dysentery and consumption, subjects which not only terrified Gus, but also didn’t seem suitable for dinner conversation, especially when there were ladies present. Somerton had barely glanced at Gus, let alone asked him any questions; then again it made perfect sense that such a significant gentleman, who lived in such an elegant country house, had no time or interest in an unemployed and crippled midshipman. Gus so wished the Duke of Clarence had been present. He at least might have singled him out with an inquiry after his health, and noticed how well his uniform was looking, thanks to the innkeeper’s wife, who had blithely agreed to lower the hem on his pantaloons and wash off the dirty spots.

  Even worse, Gus was concerned about Emily. Aside from her evident joy upon his arrival, she had said very little, had eaten very little, and seemed remote, as if her thoughts were roaming through some far-off realm. And every so often she lifted her head — her gold hair so prettily arranged and adorned with tiny blue flowers — to throw a wild-eyed glance at this Somerton man, as if she feared he might divulge a dark secret. But the very worst of all, Gus didn’t like the way Somerton looked at Emily with those close-set eyes of his whenever her own were fixed upon her plate of rabbit cutlet and diced vegetables. It wasn’t anything like Leander Braden’s adoring, stolen glances he remembered well. To Gus, this man had the manners of a sailor.

  Admiring the cornice of sculptured harps and the collection of instruments near the far window, Gus almost dropped his fork when Somerton recognized him at long last.

  “Mr. Walby, I understand you served as a midshipman on HMS Isabelle under Captain James Moreland.”

  “I did, sir,” said Gus, squaring his shoulders.

  “The sinking of your ship must have been an awful ordeal.”

  “I wasn’t on board when Trevelyan set her on fire, sir.”

  “Where were you at the time?”

  “I had fallen from the mizzenmast, and was drifting in the ocean without my wits about me.”

  “Is that how you acquired your injuries?”

  “Yes, sir. My injuries were bad at the time, but now it’s really only my one leg that gives me any trouble.”

  Fleda suddenly hopped in her chair. “I forgot … I never asked you … I was so thrilled to have you as a playmate and show you around the grounds that I never asked you —”

  “Fle-da!” said Somerton sternly, raising a finger. “You may make your inquiries, but only once I am done with mine.”

  Fleda acquiesced, but continued to squirm as if she were sitting upon some wondrous intelligence.

  “What did your duties include, Mr. Walby?”

  “Thank you for asking, sir,” said Gus, injecting gravity into his voice, but finding instead that his words insisted upon tumbling out of his mouth. “I had to learn knots and splices, and the use of a sextant, and how to heave the log and to make notations on the log board. And I had to exercise at both the great guns and small arms, and sometimes … sometimes Captain Moreland made me the Officer of the Watch on the fo’c’sle.”

  Fleda pulled a face. “What’s a folksill?”

  “It’s the forecastle, the raised deck at the ship’s bow,” said Gus, proud to oblige with a knowledgeable reply.

  “And did you keep up with your lessons in reading and writing?” asked Somerton, steeling his voice as if to warn his sister not to steer him off his course of questioning.

  “Oh, yes, sir! Mr. Austen helped all of the middies with their lessons, and sometimes Mr. Lindsay, the first lieutenant, did too. But I always preferred it when Mr. Austen did the teaching.”

  From the corner of his eye, Gus saw Emily tense up, and old Dr. Braden ruffle his white brow.

  “Why is that? Didn’t you like Mr. Lindsay?”

  Gus thrust out his lower lip. “Not at all, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was very unhappy and mean to us all; never had a kind word for any of the younger lads, and every chance he could he would betray us to Captain Moreland.”

  “For a man in his position, he wasn’t the gentleman he should have been. Is that it, Mr. Walby?”

  “That’s it, sir! He gave Captain Moreland such grief, always questioning his authority, but toward Emily … he was particularly unkind.” Gus had hoped to secure Emily’s affirmation, but the round horror in her eyes evaporated his confidence. Oh! Was she worried he was going to mention that awful episode that occurred in the Isabelle’s sail room? Why, he would never do that. He gave his head a slight shake to reassure her.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t be speaking of someone who — I am guessing — is a relative of yours,” old Dr. Braden gently interjected, his uncertain gaze moving between Somerton and Fleda.

  In need of an ally, Gus turned toward Fleda, but what he saw in her expression curled his toes. Her eyes searched his, and her question was spoken so faintly it could have come from the tunnel beneath the floor. “You didn’t like my brother?”

  “Brother?” echoed Gus. “Mr. Octavius Lindsay was your brother?” His mind raced like a hounded fox. How could it be? How could he not have known? The people who owned Hartwood Hall were a duke and duchess … old Dr. Braden had told him as much, and taken pains to instruct him in styling them as His Grace and Her Grace should he have the honour of making their acquaintance, but at no time did he recall hearing any mention of the Lindsay name, or if he had his mind must have been too frenzied with thoughts of his Hampstead Heath adventure to have paid any heed. Was the duchess, that hag who had tried to turn them away at the door, really the mother of Octavius Lindsay? And Fleda … was she his sister? Octavius had never said anything about a sister, only that he had been his father’s eighth son. He couldn’t understand. If all this was true, then why — of all places — was Emily brought here to live?

  Struck with such a thudding realization, desperate for answers, Gus swung toward Emily only to see that her cheeks had turned scarlet. Fleda had twisted in her chair to point at the portrait nearest to the entrance of the music room, the sight of which left Gus fighting down a rising belch. Good God! What had he done? Frightened by the loud silence, he fumbled to fill it. “Fleda! I didn’t know! I’m so sorry for my insensitive remarks. Mr. Somerton, sir, had I — had I known, I would’ve told you about Mr. Lindsay’s many good qualities and —” His words tapered off in a gulp when Emily reached for his hand under the table.

  Somerton sniffed. “Since you were acquainted with my youngest brother, and no one else has thought it necessary to offer up any information to our grieving family —” he shot an insincere smile at Emily, “perhaps, Mr. Walby, you could tell me something of my brother’s death?”

  The candle flames shot higher; the food on the dinner plates was forgotten. Fleda looked at him, her green eyes huge in her small face, drained of its previous blush; old Dr. Braden looked grave, and had slipped forward upon his chair; Emily squeezed his hand tighter; and Somerton cocked his head, awaiting his answer.

  “I don’t know anything, sir,” said Gus, his voice cracking.

  “You must know something. Not all of Captain Moreland’s men perished on the Isabelle. I understand you were reunited with those who survived. What did they tell you?”

  “They — they told me nothing, sir.”

  “Was there an explosion?”


  “I believe there might have been —”

  “Was my brother one of the unlucky ones who couldn’t get off in time?”

  “He might have been, sir.”

  “Or … or was he too taken prisoner by Captain Thomas Trevelyan?”

  Gus tugged on his sweaty collar and gazed around the table, praying for assistance or a way out.

  “Ah! I see by your reaction, Mr. Walby, that you do know something. Please! Enlighten us! We’re most anxious to hear what became of our brother.”

  Emily stood up so quickly she bumped the table, knocking over her glass of wine. Disregarding it, she rounded on Somerton, speaking in an even, eerie voice Gus had never heard her use before. “Lord Somerton, it was most generous of you to invite my friends to dinner. I’d hoped for an evening of pleasant conversation with two of the most engaging men I know, but it seems you invited our guests under false pretences.”

  Somerton jutted his chin out. “How so? I’ve asked Mr. Walby nothing but a few harmless questions.”

  “Asking is one thing, sir, badgering quite another.”

  Somerton’s eyes slithered around the table. “Mr. Walby, did you find my manner to be in any way unctuous?”

  Not understanding the meaning of that word, Gus sat there helplessly.

  “Perhaps I was overly enthusiastic,” Somerton chuckled, “finding your answers to be exceedingly intriguing.”

  “I take full responsibility,” said Emily, maintaining calm. “I should’ve told Mr. Walby earlier of your relationship — and that of Fleda — to Lord Octavius. I regret that now, and can only put it down to my eagerness to forget about your unfortunate brother.”

  Somerton’s eyes narrowed on her. “Has your being here at Hartwood made that impossible?”

  “It has.”

  For a time no one said a thing. Gus felt as if the roof were teetering and about to collapse. He felt his chin trembling, but was at a loss to tame it. He heard the rain sputter outside, and the murmurs and footfalls of the servants as they went about their business in faraway rooms. When a clock began to chime, old Dr. Braden rose to his feet, his flushed features tight with embarrassment.