“Uncle, please, what news?”
Having arrived later than anticipated, Uncle Clarence was in a flustered state and none too pleased. “Emeline, might we discuss all later on? It was an exhausting ride from London and I’m in need of a bowl of punch.” He inclined his neck to view the glittering guests passing by the open doorway. “The ladies are quirking their eyebrows at me in their eagerness to dance.”
“For one moment, Uncle, do forget the ladies.”
His reply followed an edgy sigh. “It’s too soon. There’s nothing further to report on either the whereabouts of Trevelyan or HMS Amethyst. The only good piece of news is that this damned business with Trevelyan has not yet been leaked, thus, our Royal Navy has forestalled exceeding embarrassment. Oh, but your family, Emeline — the one you claim has forgotten you — has managed to secure your annulment. How fortunate you are to have royal relations, able to secure favours in the wink of an eye. Tonight you may show your gratitude and tomorrow we shall pray for Trevelyan’s recapture and perhaps word of your mariner friends.”
Emily broke eye contact with him, turning away, feeling as if the merry dancers had skipped and trampled upon her heart. She was scarcely responsive when a chorus of exclamations pealed through the halls and chambers beyond the schoolroom, instantaneously shushing the guests and the band’s lively tune. Ball gowns swished, throats cleared and swallowed, and Emily thought she heard Helena’s hysterical tweet of laughter pierce the ensuing stillness.
Uncle Clarence clapped his hands together. “Come along, Emeline. This is the moment for which we’ve all been waiting.”
“Who has come?” she asked breathlessly.
“My brother and your uncle, the Prince Regent.”
“The Regent?” Emily caught his arm, delaying him from making a dash for the door. “Why? After all this time, why has he come now?”
Uncle Clarence winked a round blue eye. “You’ll not find out unless you follow me to the music room.”
38
11:30 p.m.
(First Watch, Seven Bells)
Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable
Having climbed down to the orlop surgery from the gun deck where Fly had slung a new hammock for him beside a restorative open port, Leander lifted his lantern in the black darkness to check on Magpie. The boy was still there, slumped over the operating table with his head resting against the side of the oak coffin that Pemberton had solemnly constructed to hold Morgan’s remains. Leander set the lantern upon the table and squatted down on his haunches beside him.
“Is that you, sir?” said a sleepy voice.
“Magpie, could I convince you to come away and sleep on the gun deck?”
“I’m keepin’ vigil over Mr. Evans, sir. But I ain’t doin’ a good job ’cause I’ve drifted off a few times.”
“I’ll find you a bed next to an open gun port.”
“I promised Mr. Evans I wouldn’t leave him.”
Leander smiled fondly at the boy. “I don’t believe any of us will be calling you the little sailmaker from this day forward.”
Magpie raised his head higher. “Why’s that, sir?”
“You’ve gained at least a foot on this cruise.”
“Ya really think so?”
“I really do.” Even in the poor lighting, Leander could see Magpie trying to secure the riffles of pride on his face.
“Do ya think Emily will notice when we go visitin’ her castle?”
“It’ll be the very first thing she notices.”
“Yer kind to say, sir, but the way I picture it in me mind, she’ll be noticin’ you afore me.”
Leander was relieved that Magpie could not see his eyes blurring. “You’ll have to trust me on this one.”
“Thank ya, sir. Ya’ve given me a bit o’ comfort.”
“But you still won’t come up to the gun deck?”
“I wants Mr. Evans to know I’m a man o’ me word.”
Leander reached into his breast pocket, pulled something from it, and gave it to Magpie. “I had it cleaned and dried for you.”
Magpie turned Morgan’s woolly thrum cap over in his hands. He stared down at it and, though he tried, he could not speak. Lighting a candle so the boy would not be left in the mournful blackness, Leander crept away to contend with his own welling emotion.
Midnight
As Dr. Braden’s retreating footsteps grew fainter, grief and skulking shadows threatened to engulf Magpie, and the only way he knew to fend them off was to conjure up courageous acts in which he had saved Mr. Evans from his untimely and devastating end. In one he had shielded him from the blast; in another he had given his blood to replace that which had been spilled; in yet another he had offered up his own life in exchange. Thinking he was alone and therefore at liberty to cry, he was startled by a low growl and a ghoulish head that appeared over the side of the hammock, slung across the table from him. Convinced a grave robber had come to pounce upon the departed, Magpie leapt to his bare feet.
“Ya might as well crawl inside with ’im, Maggot Pie,” said Meg Kettle, “and the two o’ yas can rot together.”
Magpie could summon neither words nor verve to retaliate.
“Usually they toss the dead ones in the sea. I ain’t never heard o’ seamen entitled to a real coffin o’ wood and nails, except fer Lord Nelson. Heard tell he were placed in a cask o’ rum for the journey back to England after he were killed at Trafalgar.”
“It were brandy,” mumbled Magpie, “not rum.”
“How’d ya know that?”
“The Duke o’ Clarence told me.”
“Fie! The Duke o’ Clarence!” Mrs. Kettle playfully slapped her cheeks. “Do ya think yer gonna drink tea with yer princess and her frisky uncle when we dock? Why the castle guards will think yer a tatterdemalion come to beg fer food.”
Magpie’s blood began to boil. “I won’t never have to beg fer food agin! I’m a sailmaker.”
“Ah! Bet Mr. Austen gets rid o’ ya in Portsmouth and sends ya to a workhouse or back to that mean Mr. Hardy, the one what starved ya whilst workin’ on London chimneys as a climbin’ boy. And I’ll be wavin’ ya off — and that stinking corpse — with me kerchief.”
“Ya won’t be able.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Austen will be cartin’ ya off to Newgate Prison.”
Mrs. Kettle frowned. “He wouldn’t do that. I got a babe comin’.”
“Ya’ve been right lucky ’til now.”
“Prosper won’t let no harm come to me.”
“Prosper won’t help ya, not when he learns yer a traitor.”
She locked her arms on her bosom. “Who says I’m a traitor?”
Magpie’s voice regained its confidence. “I saw what ya did on the Isabelle. I saw ya plottin’ with Octavius Lindsay when he were clapped in irons fer attackin’ Emily in the sail room. Ya stole her miniature and showed it to Captain Trevelyan to prove ya knew her. Ya told him where Emily was hidin’ so he could take her prisoner agin, and he thanked ya by lettin’ ya off the Isabelle afore he burned it.”
“Who’ll ever believe a one-eyed orphan over me what’s gonna be a mother?” challenged Mrs. Kettle, a nervous hitch in her voice.
“I’ll stand up in court, I will. I’ll tell ’em all yer no better than Captain Trevelyan. The both o’ yas turned yer backs on yer countrymen just to save yerselves. Ya’ll pay! Ya’ll suffer fer sellin’ yerself to the devil.”
Mrs. Kettle’s eyes blazed. She looked like red-hot canister shot about to detonate its pistol balls. Fighting her way out of her hammock, she landed with a thud, bottom-first and cursing, on the orlop planks, but wasted no time in rolling toward the table to seize Dr. Braden’s cloth-wrapped surgical instruments at the foot of Morgan’s coffin. She yanked at the bundle, which made an awful clatter when it hit the floor, and after some muttering and fumbling about, she stood up and rounded on Magpie, a long, thin knife in her fist. “Maybe ya needs to be silenced up.”
Magpie f
elt his hackles rise up. His brain went torpid as if he’d downed a mug of ale. He couldn’t get to the sharpened instruments — not with Mrs. Kettle staggering over them — and there was no other weapon, nothing nearby with which to defend himself. “Ya won’t never git away with it,” he gulped.
She took a terrorizing step toward him, the knife’s blade flashing in the candlelight. “Ain’t no one down here to help ya,” she spit. “Why they’ll all think ya did yerself in on account o’ yer legless friend.”
Magpie cast around for a way out, but she had him cornered — a step or two backward and he’d tumble into the hold and be groped and smothered by Biscuit’s dead men.
Think! Do something! Scream for help!
Maybe Dr. Braden was still within earshot; maybe a few sober Remarkables were asleep on neighbouring platforms. But there was no time for anything. In a wink, the knife lunged at him, came at him like a striking viper, narrowly missing his face, throwing him off balance. Magpie shielded his head with his arms, and again it struck, tearing into his shirtsleeve in its insidious search for flesh. Shock and searing pain dropped him to the planks. Someone cried out, whimpered like a wounded animal, but he didn’t recognize his own cry, for a second horror had now come upon him.
Magpie cowered on the floor, his heart pounding in his throat, watching wild-eyed as a pitch-black figure soundlessly stole up behind Mrs. Kettle, uncoiled its long arms, and began waving them about near her head, giving her the hideous appearance of the serpent-haired Medusa. Its face peeped above Meg’s shoulder — the features obscured in the shadows — and though Magpie was certain it did not speak, familiar words howled in his head.
“Woe and despair to he who clings to a dead man on the sea. Hold fast, ye wretched soul.”
Dear, God! Was the spectre Mrs. Kettle’s accomplice? Did they mean to torture him to death? The laundress stepped closer, the spectre ostensibly latched to her back. Sensing doom, hoping to delay it, Magpie grasped for the candle Dr. Braden had left for him and snuffed its meagre flame. The descending darkness was so sudden and suffocating, he wondered if his tormentors had walled him up inside a monk’s hole. Nay! They were still converging on him. He could smell the spectre’s putrid breath. He could hear Mrs. Kettle swiping at the air, a chilling laugh following every unrewarded swing. Too scared now to move, Magpie curled up in a ball, sniffling, rocking, waiting for the knife blows that would surely find him despite the absence of light, praying it would soon be over.
After a dreadful silence, there came a strangled cry. The knife fell. It hit the oak timbers beside Magpie and spun away, finding the edge of the platform and tumbling into the ship’s hold, colliding with the ballast in its echoing descent. Blinking in the dark, Magpie strained to listen over his own rasping breaths, puzzling over a gurgling sound and scuffle that played out within inches of him. Men’s voices called out. Advancing footsteps pummelled the orlop beams. Darkness receded. And before long, Magpie was swimming in lantern light.
Lifting his head from his knees, he was astounded at what he saw there. The spectre had pinned Mrs. Kettle with one of his sinewy arms, restraining her futile thrashing, while one of his hands was clamped upon her throat like the shackle of an iron ball and chain. His face — Magpie could see it clearly now — was the same as the one that belonged to the silent volunteer who had stood across from him at the operating table and helped Dr. Braden tend to Morgan in his final, woeful minutes. Still holding fast to Mrs. Kettle, the man locked stares with Magpie, something akin to camaraderie evident in his savage eyes.
“Your arm is bleeding. Let me look at it.”
Magpie was shaking so violently, he didn’t know when he had crawled under the table, or when Dr. Braden had found him there, but he could feel the soft wool of Morgan’s cap in his hands.
“Sir! Who — who’s that man holdin’ Mrs. Kettle?”
“That’s Jim Beef, recently of the Amethyst.”
“All this time, sir, I — I thought he were a spectre.”
“Well, at times he does fancy himself Davy Jones.”
“He’s not a spectre, is he?”
“No he’s real enough; the poor man’s just a bit mad. You might recall he received a hit on the head when we encountered that American privateer near Halifax. I believe that hit exasperated his madness.”
“Oh, sir, if it weren’t fer him — if it weren’t fer Mr. Beef, I wouldn’t have a tongue no more.”
“In that case we shall roundly reward him,” smiled Dr. Braden. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Magpie wiped his nose with the back of his hand, comforted by the nearness of the doctor. “I am now, sir, but I ain’t never bin so scared afore, and I think — I think I just lost that extra foot ya was talkin’ about earlier.”
39
Midnight
Hartwood Hall
Fearing his reasons for finally gracing Hartwood with his venerated presence, Emily had no desire to greet the Regent. Consequently, upon leaving the schoolroom and seeing Uncle Clarence swallowed up by an onslaught of admirers, Emily stole off in the opposite direction. Her head down, inviting no discourse from others, she quickened her step once she was well beyond the guest-laden rooms. She had successfully reached the great staircase when her path of retreat was barricaded. Standing in such a way that suggested he had witnessed her flight across the front hall, Somerton was on the bottom step, a smile she could not read upon his lips.
To conceal her heart’s deafening beats, Emily spoke with ebullience. “Lord Somerton, have you left the ladies bereft of their favourite dance partner?”
Towering over her like the locked gates of Hartwood, his eyes met hers. “There is only one lady with whom I care to dance, and I could not find her.”
“If your search was a recent one, I was speaking to Uncle Clarence in the schoolroom.”
“Ah!” He joined her on the marble floor. “Would you permit me to lead you back to the music room? Might I dance with you now?”
“Thank you, but — I believe you know that I broke my ankle while at sea.”
“I have been apprised of it.”
“Well, you see, while dancing with your brother, his foot frequently found mine, and now that particular ankle is throbbing.”
“Perhaps we could request a gentle waltz.”
“A daring waltz … one in which we would dance face to face? Is it your intention to set the tongues wagging, sir?”
He stepped closer, too close. His breath, moist and rancid with drink, struck Emily’s face. “I have long dreamed of placing my hands upon your waist.”
“I should like to rest for a while,” she replied, slanting away from him.
“Then I shall settle for a minuet and promise to speak only of the weather and the poor state of our roads.”
“I shall be happy to dance that minuet … after I lie down.”
“What about the Regent? He has generously come all this way to our little party and wants to see you.”
“As the Regent waited long enough to seek me out, he can be detained another half hour.” Emily tried to pass, but Somerton hopped up on the stair again and outstretched his arms to block her way. “Sir! Are you going to make it a habit of accosting me on the staircase?”
His eyes openly wandered her face. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There’s still time, Emeline.”
Her laugh was sardonic. “For what?”
“For us.”
Emily blinked at him. “Is it only when you carouse that the hardened shell of your exterior softens and makes you ridiculous?”
“I — I care about you.”
“If you have felt in the least bit solicitous toward me, your method of communicating such feelings has been most irregular.”
Rather than pausing to defend himself, Somerton pressed on with boyish enthusiasm. “You are, without a doubt, in need of some polishing … and a good dose of taming, and your frivolous fantasies mus
t be expunged and redirected, but —”
Emily felt a muscle quivering in her cheek. “But what?”
“I have … since the first day I met you … I have been dumbfounded by an inexplicable longing for you.”
“Alarming!”
“There have been moments when I have suspected … you too are tortured by a most violent yearning for me.”
“What moments? When?”
Somerton brought his face down to hers, his glittering eyes on her mouth. “One word of encouragement from you could change everything.”
“I admit I do have feelings for you, Lord Somerton,” said Emily, seeing the lines on his forehead shoot up in eager expectation. “But only the kind a sister would feel toward a brother — one with whom she rarely gets on.” She angled her head away from his parted lips; her low voice quaking now with indignation. “You have long known my heart, sir. It has not changed.”
His fervid expression withered and dropped away; he looked like a spoiled child, astonished that his desires had been rebuffed. A purpling flush began inching up his neck, and his eyes went flinty before they fell upon the burnished wood of the stairs. Seizing an opportunity, Emily attempted to squeeze past him, but his movements were quick and he cut off her path with his hip, pinning her against the wall. He swallowed several times, and finally lifted his eyes to her breasts. Reminded of the black, rotten, ungoverned disposition of his youngest brother, Octavius, Emily hissed at him in disgust.
“Are you now dreaming of placing your hands upon my throat?”
For an instant, he looked surprised. “No! But I shall happily leave you to your depraved fate.”
“Somerton!”
Helena’s shriek came as a shock; the woman’s approach had been soundless. Surely she must have cast aside her low-heeled shoes in the whirling joy of dancing. Emily raised her chin to meet Helena’s glare, aimed squarely at her before settling in a piercing blaze upon her son.
“I asked you to find Her Royal Highness and bring her straightaway to the music room.”
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 75
