Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  Emily’s voice faltered; her hand trembled against her mouth. “There is, of course, no tangible proof that the Amethyst is lost, but I — I am bracing for the worst.”

  A dreadful silence descended. Frozen with unhappiness and unable to meet his benumbed gaze, she was conscious of him slowly rising to his feet and drifting toward the window where the rain streaked the diamond-shaped panes. She rested her head against the side of her soft chair and listened to the shhh sound of the rain; heard laughter in the far reaches of the parlour, and closer by, the innkeeper’s wife humming a lively tune. Eventually she peeked up at the bent figure by the window, her heart clenching in sympathy to see his eyes squeezed shut as if awaiting the passing of a stabbing pain. When he spoke again, little remained of his self-assuredness.

  “I’ll leave here this morning, and take Mr. Walby with me — Lord knows his Aunt Sophia doesn’t want him — but I shall say nothing to him of this right away. I’ll tell him we’re going to visit my sister who lives near Portsmouth. He may like a little holiday by the sea while I — I await word.”

  “If only I could keep him with me.”

  “Even if you could, I’m afraid Mr. Walby’s embarrassment is too severe to return to Hartwood at present. But you are more than welcome to accompany us. Eliza would be happy to offer you a room.” He attempted to lessen his despair with a crack at levity. “I must warn you though: you might starve and freeze in your bed at night, for she keeps a diet of bread and cheese, and holds strict economy over her coal supply.”

  “Having been on the sea, Doctor, one appreciates any sort of bed and sustenance.” Emily’s smile failed as her eyes travelled around the snug alcove. “Thank you. I’ve not been outside of Hartwood since my coming here three weeks ago. I feel like a child who’s been locked away in an airless schoolroom with only a surly instructress for company, and finally I’ve been rescued, allowed to spend the day as I please, though keenly aware that my freedom shall be short-lived. As much as I’d dearly love to be waiting there with you, I cannot accept your kind invitation.” She hesitated a moment. “Perhaps, before we part, you would be so kind as to give me your sister’s address.”

  He signalled comprehension with a nod. “Should you come to us, we’ll take good care of you —” Struggling to swallow, to complete his thought, his hands fell limply at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Emily went to him. She seized his helpless hands and pressed encouragement into his knotted fingers.

  “Leander is — my son is all I have left.”

  Leaning forward, Emily met his eyes. “Then we shall not give up hope,” she whispered.

  8:55 a.m.

  Emily hurried into her bedroom, breathless with elation that she had evaded discovery; relieved that — having found the gates of Hartwood locked and barred — she had managed to clamber over the rough stone wall without incident or infliction, though the same could not be said for her unfortunate trousers. Her only wish now was to be alone, to shut out the world, but when a swift rustling movement caught her eye she stopped in her tracks.

  The beautifully carved doors of the wardrobe stood wide open like a colossal mouth with its interior indecently exposed, and Emily could see that the lid of her little sea chest — shoved away in the bottom left corner — had been raised and shut again in a hurry, for a hapless shirtsleeve had got caught up and was hanging over the side like a spent tongue. Balancing unsteadily before the scene in a pearl-grey morning dress and ribbon-trimmed cap was the duchess, holding a clutch of letters in one of her elegant hands, attempting to muster poise, despite looking like she had been caught plundering the cookie cupboard.

  “Helena!” gasped Emily, tugging her scarf from her head, her damp curls dropping past her shoulders. “I’m glad to see you’re no longer keeping to your room.”

  Helena’s complexion altered, blanching first before a scarlet flush engulfed her. “Thank you.”

  “Were you looking for me, or —?” Emily eyed the wardrobe.

  “Ah,” said Helena, executing a cheerful pirouette. “Yes! I … as a matter of fact … yes, I was looking for you —”

  “And did you think I might be hiding out in the wardrobe in amongst my gowns?”

  As if stalling for time, Helena’s eyes flitted senselessly around the room, but forthwith a fierce puckering of her lips accentuated the grooves around her mouth. “Do remember, I have the right to go where I please at Hartwood.”

  “Forgive me, but I’m unaccustomed to seeing you in this particular room; indeed, shocked to find you here at all when our last meeting was so disagreeable.”

  “You have only yourself to thank for that.”

  Emily chose to ignore her. “Have you come to make peace, and escort me to the breakfast table?”

  “Certainly not!”

  Emily inclined her head at the letters in Helena’s hand. “Is there one addressed to me? I’m still awaiting the arrival of the letter Mr. Walby claims to have sent.”

  As if fearing Emily might try to pry them from her, Helena pressed the letters to her bosom. “No, there is not.”

  “To what then may I attribute the honour of your presence?”

  Helena’s eyes wandered the length of Emily’s trousers, halting — growing huge with horror — on the knees, both of which had been muddied and torn open during Emily’s scramble and plummet over the wall. Only once the shock of the trousers had abated did she explain herself. “I — well, I have the very best of news.”

  Emily relaxed her frown; her lips fell open as she waited. Was it possible? Did she dare hope?

  “Tomorrow night the salons of Hartwood shall be opened to our friends for an evening of music and dancing.”

  “Tomorrow is Monday,” blinked Emily in disgust.

  “My friends seek pleasure every day of the week, and shall be overjoyed to have an excuse to wear their finest, and to make your better acquaintance.” In a rustle of silk, Helena wheeled about to begin a critical inspection of Emily’s gowns, hanging in the wardrobe. “Overcome with anxiety regarding your evening dress, I came at once to discuss possibilities, and,” — she paused for an affecting smile — “to search for my white elbow gloves and pearls that I loaned you for your first Hartwood ball. I should like to wear them at our little soiree.”

  Emily was certain this last bit had been invented on the spot; nevertheless, fighting down the disappointment of Helena’s news, she went to retrieve the items in the top drawer of the antique dresser near her bed. “Rather than upset yourself, why not postpone your soiree?” she asked, handing over the gloves and pearls.

  There was an arrogant lift of Helena’s patrician chin. “Once the decision has been made, I do not postpone my parties.”

  Emily searched the older woman’s face. “Did Somerton have an opportunity to apprise you of the news my Uncle Clarence received before he left Hartwood yesterday morning in a mad dash?”

  “He did.”

  “In light of such intelligence, how can you even contemplate parties?”

  There was nothing in Helena’s deportment to indicate the news had given her a moment’s unrest. Instead, she backed away — in a hurry, it seemed, to leave at once — and arched one brow. “All the more reason to press forward with our plans.”

  34

  9:00 a.m.

  (Forenoon Watch, Two Bells)

  Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable

  The guns! There they were again. The guns!

  Hemmed in by the insurmountable hulls of enemy vessels, Leander felt the skiff roll and lurch and descend. Overhead the mouths of carronades vomited grapeshot and canister, leaving wrecks in their wake as ruinous and worthless as carved up carcasses of meat. Masts tottered and moaned like stupefied giants, timbers haemorrhaged, yards and booms and ropes were left hanging in their execution, and gaunt sails endeavoured to drape the destruction.

  Leander was alone in the skiff, alone on the sea. The enemy crews had abandoned ship, leaving the scorching guns to continue th
e warring, allowing ghostly fingers to strike the matches and light the fuses. His feet had blackened. His flesh had been worm eaten. His stomach convulsed with hunger. He groped the bottom of the food bucket only to find it was empty. Prepared to end his own fight, he lay back and clasped his hands over his heart, his failing vision falling upon a gaping, ragged wound in the side of one of the ships. There she was, untouched, smiling, sitting in her cot, the canvas curtain stirring behind her like a sentinel, protecting her where he once had. With a slight nod of her pale gold head she beckoned, and her voice came to him, a gentle sough in his ears: “Wait for me. Watch for me —”

  “Dr. Braden? Sir?”

  His eyelids fluttered open and he blinked, trying to identify the face at his bedside, struck down by an overpowering sense of loss when he realized it was not her. A dark circle had stained the skin beneath Magpie’s eye, and his small sooty fingers — remnants and reminders of his days as a London climbing boy — gripped the hammock’s rim, as if he were expecting a thirty-two-pounder to come crashing through the orlop wall.

  “Is it the guns you fear, Magpie?”

  “They haven’t sounded yet, sir, but I’m waitin’ fer ’em. Them ships have bin followin’ us all night.”

  Leander remembered the explosions in his dream, but the spell of Emily’s fond smile was broken, receding swiftly beyond the point of retrieval. “We’re below the waterline down here,” he assured the little sailmaker, noticing then that the two beds swinging nearby were empty, their occupants curiously absent. “We didn’t lose them in the night, did we?”

  Magpie still clutched the hammock. “Not to worry, sir. Pemberton Baker came and hauled Biscuit outta bed, mumblin’ somethin’ ’bout no rest fer wicked cooks, tellin’ him he had to help feed the Remarkables afore Prosper went to work.”

  Leander frowned, attempting to make sense of the word work. “And what of our other friend?”

  “He got hauled off too. And — and once ya’ve had yer oatmeal, sir, Pemberton wants ya to do up a surgery down here.”

  Oh, dear God!

  Leander lay still, clutching his moth-eaten blanket, staring up at the water drops clinging to the beams, trying to predict which ones would give up the fight and fall.

  “Are you okay, sir?”

  “Yes — yes, I’m fine.” With a herculean effort of willpower, he sat upright and massaged his neck as he considered the congested platforms around him. After long moments, he gave his throat a good clearing. “Right then! We’ll need a few strong men to assist us. These barrels and staves must be moved somewhere out of the way, and I must have a table, and a covering sheet, and some sand, and — and a gag for the men to bite down upon. I’ll require assistants, and light … plenty of light. Bring me as many lanterns as you can find. And ask Prosper what surgical instruments he possesses on board, and if he can spare a bottle or two of rum.”

  Magpie acknowledged every one of his demands with a bob of his head. “And what about yer glasses, sir? Don’t ya needs ’em to work on the men?”

  Leander regarded him in dismay. “Long gone, I’m afraid, but see what you can find.”

  “I’ll ask Mr. Austen and Mr. Evans to help us, sir.”

  “No, don’t bother Mr. Austen, but do bring Mr. Evans, and a couple of Prosper’s men.”

  “Ya gotta know, sir, most o’ them are ruffians.”

  “We’ve no time to indulge in fastidiousness.”

  Magpie’s little forehead furrowed up like a cloth of corduroy, prompting a smile from Leander. “Bring me anyone who possesses two arms and two legs.”

  “Sir!” With a tenacious salute, Magpie scampered off toward the ladder, though he’d scarcely made headway when Leander was forced to recall him at once.

  “Before you dash off, I shall require your assistance in climbing from my bed. It might be wise to determine whether or not I’m able to stand upright on my own.”

  9:30 a.m.

  “Sir, we’re outta range!”

  “Wait ’til Prosper brings us up on the wind. Fire low! Aim for their hulls! We must sink them.” Fly paced the gun deck, his heart leaping in his chest. He detested being down here. Between billowing smoke and shot splash on the waves, he could barely discern who it was they were shooting at through the gun ports. His last look at the Amethyst had been a demoralizing one, the three smaller American vessels closing in on her like a black veil. Had he a speaking trumpet in hand, he could have roared at her seemingly incapacitated crew: “For God’s sake, deploy your guns! Prickett! Bridlington! Deploy your guns … NOW!”

  But he was not standing with the Amethysts, and this ship was not his to command; he therefore went where he was needed. The gun captains and their crews assigned to work the Prosperous and Remarkable’s fourteen, twenty-four-pounder carronades required supervision, someone in charge to rein in their exuberance; otherwise, he was quite sure, all would descend into anarchy. The Remarkables had fanned out in every direction around him, crouched over the guns, stripped to their waists, scarves tied to their heads to sop up sweat. Smoke-blackened hands pushed and pulled, glistening backs strained, heated voices goaded and bellowed.

  “Damp the sparks! Reload!”

  Overhead, Fly knew Prosper had seized the brig’s wheel from Pemberton, for in the relative tranquillity between the whirring, cracking, splitting, and shrieking he could hear the privateersman’s hoarse commands doled out with salty condescension. To Meg Kettle, the deafening sounds having reduced her to a blathering idiot, Prosper had previously delivered an ultimatum: “Either ya keep yer mandible glued, or I’ll take an amputatin’ saw to yer tongue.” Being fond of her talking parts, Meg was now suitably employed in carrying canisters of gunpowder up from the hold, wheezing fiercely as if plagued with a respiratory ailment, and keeping her loads well before her in case they exploded in her face.

  Before giving the next command, Fly gave a fleeting moment’s thought to Leander on the orlop, working over the wounded on his thin, feeble legs, an ill-fitting pair of spectacles stuck on his nose — not the perfect prescription, though adequate perhaps — and at his side, little, loyal Magpie, a heap of nerves, his eye large and brilliant in the darkness.

  “Wait for the downroll! Now! Fire!”

  The direct hit smashed into an enemy’s stern near her rudder, spewing deadly splinters and shards of metal. Fly caught a glimpse of the destruction before the Prosperous and Remarkable lunged away, and he had to steady himself as she tilted in her turn.

  “To the other side, lads! Prepare the starboard guns!”

  As he dashed across the width of the gun deck, Fly could see Morgan Evans and his small team of carpenters at work on a hot, jagged hole where a carronade had once stood. Their shoes slid in the blood pools where a gun crew had once rallied, making it difficult to hammer nails into their covering timbers and sheets of lead.

  At the wheel, Prosper’s bark echoed around the brig. “Ya fumble-fisted, bird-witted scoundrels, git these bleedin’ undeads outta me way. Now ready yer weapons and I’ll bring ya in closer, within pistol range.”

  Meg Kettle trudged up to Fly, her shirt stained with perspiration, her face dripping with exertion. She passed off her delivery of fresh powder to waiting hands, and breathlessly cried out, “Mr. Austen, I’ve bin up and down five times now! I’m at the end o’ me rope.”

  Feeling no sympathy whatsoever, Fly’s reaction was a cold one. “Then go help Dr. Braden, and be sure to refrain from whinging and rabble- rousing.” He turned away from her, and squinted through the gun port to see the Amethyst cloaked in dense smoke, her topgallants and pennants shot away; however, there was little time to contemplate her fate, for a fierce tug on the brig’s bow had brought her in line with yet another foe.

  “Double-shot your loads, and bring her down!”

  Within minutes the starboards guns were packed with their powder and shot, and levered into firing position.

  “Wait for the ship’s roll! Aim down at the hull. Not all together now; one at
a time, if you please.”

  Fuses were lit. Ears were clamped. Hearts jumped.

  “Fire! Fire! Fire!”

  Flames licked the gun barrels. Tremors drubbed the brig’s old timbers and rattled Fly’s teeth. The gun crews vaulted out of the way to avoid the violent recoiling of the gun carriages, but seeing the success of their hits they quickly regrouped to cheer as the enemy foremast toppled over, taking with it cordage and sails and men, and crashing into the sea.

  “Well done, lads!” shouted Fly. “Now quickly clean and reload!”

  Unlike the Amethyst, there were eager, skilled hands working the enemies’ cannons, anxious to retaliate, waiting for that precise moment, that precise hit. Prosper’s gun crews were seconds from firing another broadside when part of the gun deck imploded. A hail of splinters, as sharp as razors, spewed everywhere in their ghastly search for flesh. Knocked backward by the blast, Fly tripped over a young powder monkey, and fell heavily against the sticky floor. Stunned, he lay there in pain, coughing, choking, tortured by screams that curdled the blood in his veins. A severed arm with its white porous bone exposed throbbed beside him, and a head came rolling toward him, eyes embedded in a sickening frown of surprise. Fly thrust it away and peered into the swirling grey smoke settling upon the carnage.

  Among the dead and the fallen, stuck in a hideous, custard-like mass of gore, was a woolly thrum cap.

  35

  10:30 a.m.

  Hartwood Hall

  When the sun decided to gift the dwellers of Hampstead Heath with an appearance between the silvery-grey clouds, Emily embraced the opportunity to quit her room, and went in search of a portable writing desk and a bite of breakfast — coffee, jam, and a warm roll. Balancing her plunder upon her forearms like a novice juggler, she headed outside to the west garden where a damp tang had infused the morning air, such a pleasing improvement over the fusty, cloying smells of a house shuttered against the rain. Still, morning raindrops clung stubbornly to the ivy arbour, making it necessary for her to drag the little garden table out from under it; otherwise they would be sure to play games with her, and, in falling, wreak havoc upon her ink and paper.