Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  “I am doing just that, Mother.”

  “Are you really?” Helena flapped her hand with impatience. “Well, Emeline? Come along! The Regent’s first words were of you.”

  Caught between mother and son, Emily felt as if she were being coaxed into a cage. “Your Grace, please, I have injured my ankle and would like to rest upstairs. The night is still young, and knowing the Regent, he shall be awake, enjoying himself, until sunrise.”

  Helena mounted the stairs to hook her gloved arm behind Emily. “You must come along now.”

  “I shall not be a part of your plans. I have refused your son’s proposal.” Emily dug her toenails into the soles of her silk slippers. “Did you think that I would change my mind simply because the Regent is here to sanction the announcement?”

  “Your annulment has been secured.”

  “Yes! And now one part of me is free of Thomas Trevelyan.” Emily compelled herself to stay calm. “It has taken me a long while to understand you, Helena. Did you suppose, by inviting me to Hartwood, you could keep abreast of news on Trevelyan and thus learn first-hand of the dispersal of his stepfather’s fortune? If Trevelyan is hanged, if he is dead and out of the way, does Charles DeChastain’s fortune come to you? Or will it go to his daughter … Lady Fleda?”

  Helena went white and grew fitful.

  “I can only guess that is why you withheld and read my letters … why you stole Captain Moreland’s letter from my room.”

  “I have no time for this nonsense. Come along. I hear them calling for you.”

  Somerton enclosed his slippery fingers around Emily’s forearm and steered her down the stairs, hedging her further into the cage. Emily rounded on him. “I am curious. This fortune … has your mother decided that — should it come to her — she will eclipse Fleda and give it to you, so that you may do as you please and no longer have to act as a pawn to your father and eldest brother?”

  Somerton remained silent, refusing to meet her wild stare.

  “I shall not be humiliated in front of my guests and the Regent.” Helena’s cry was shrill and hysterical.

  “You wouldn’t have to be if you hadn’t placed me in this untenable position. I will not marry your son.”

  “You have no choice,” seethed Helena. “Your family will insist upon it. They will harass you until you agree.” She closed her eyes to draw in breath. “By now … surely by now … you must realize you could not find for yourself a better situation.”

  Uncle Clarence stomped into the front foyer, scowling at the scene by the staircase. “What’s all this? Do hurry, Emeline! The Regent is groaning. One does not keep him waiting.”

  Wetherell appeared beside him, steaming and frothing in his suit of violet and sapphire. He looked peevishly at Helena and whined, “Mother?”

  Emily’s first instinct was to bolt, but where to? She wanted to scream, but who would listen? The noose was being lowered upon her neck and it was about to tighten. She could only see her way through one solution, as revolting as it was. Resolved, saying nothing at all, looking at no one, Emily turned toward the music room and began a slow march in its direction. Surrounded on all sides by belligerents, she relived that awful day on HMS Isabelle when Trevelyan’s American soldiers had forced her off the quarterdeck, their bayonets trained upon her back.

  Assured of her coming at once, Uncle Clarence hurried on ahead to excite the crowds and speak a private word in the ear of the Regent, who immediately wheeled around to greet his long-lost niece with a smile and outstretched arms. Fighting tears, Emily made her grand entrance, hardly hearing the full announcement enunciated with enthusiasm by her Uncle Clarence. What she did grasp reverberated off the walls like a blast of bone-jarring cannon-fire.

  “ … the marriage of my darling niece, Princess Emeline Louisa Georgina Marie, daughter of my late brother, Henry, the Duke of Wessex, to Wetherell Lindsay, the Most Honourable the Marquess of Monroe and heir to Hartwood Hall.”

  As the guests’ resounding applause pulsed like a headache behind Emily’s eyes, Somerton turned slightly toward her. His face wore no jubilation, no gratification, no malice or mockery, but his haunting, whispered word numbed her to the core.

  “Pity.”

  Sickened by the triumphant smile glistening on Wetherell’s red lips, Emily looked straight ahead at the well-wishers about to close in on her.

  4:00 a.m.

  Tuesday, August 24

  Emily peeked outside through an aperture in her bedroom curtains. Several vehicles were still parked on the grounds beneath her window, the footmen and horses stoically awaiting the return of their owners. At this late hour, the band was still playing and Emily could hear no signs of wearying in the animated voices of the guests who made it a tradition never to leave a ball until first light.

  At 2:00 a.m. Helena had excused Emily from the ball with a politely constrained smile after hearing the doleful tale of her painful ankle, but the duchess had done so alone, there being no one else at hand to send Emily off to bed. Adolphus was out cold on a sofa; Wetherell had happily ensconced himself at the lively Whist tables; Somerton had disappeared, presumably with a young lady who was more amenable to his charms than she; and her two uncles had been latched to comely partners, far too focused on the precise execution of their dance steps to bid their niece goodnight. Half-expecting Helena to accompany her to her room, Emily was grateful to see her laughingly conveyed to the dance floor, for she had no intention of seeking sleep.

  Working by candlelight, Emily drew the curtains and hurried to the wardrobe where she gathered up the pillowcase — steeling herself against the potent lure of the sea chest — and carried it to the door. On the chair she had left a pale-blue, ostrich-plumed turban and matching silk-embroidered shawl — items she had earlier selected from amongst her many gifts in the adjacent bedchamber, but had never worn. Putting them on now, she took care in disguising her hair and simple gown under folds of material. Her limbs tingling, her insides in an uproar, Emily gave the room a final sweeping glance, making sure the letter and ring were still atop the desk before she collected the pillowcase and quietly slipped away. In her breast she harboured a solitary lament for her commodious bed, knowing it would be a long while before she lay again in such luxury.

  4:30 a.m.

  It was impossible for Emily to take the main staircase; there were still too many guests milling about beneath its wrought-iron balustrade. Instead, she tiptoed along the first-floor corridor, through the shadowy upper hall, and past the rooms belonging to the duke and duchess, until she came to the back stairway which took her down to the far side of the ground floor, away from the principal rooms. As this stairway was hidden from public view, Emily could hear, but not see, those still hanging about the dining-room table, eating and drinking and flirting and heatedly discussing politics. Reaching the bottom step, she headed for the library, recalling the existence of an antechamber just beyond its walls with a door that opened onto the south gardens.

  For some reason, the beautiful library had been overlooked on this evening. Its air was cool, unsullied with perfume and cigar smoke, and the furniture remained untouched, though someone had placed candles on the table beside the scarlet sofa, giving the large chamber a church-like atmosphere. Emily had almost gained the entrance to the small chamber when a sleepy moan pitched her heart into her mouth. Her eyes widened, fearing she had disturbed Somerton and his lady friend in their lovemaking. But no, it was Fleda whose head popped up over the sofa’s curved frame.

  “Who’s there?” she demanded.

  Emily quickly went to her, and saw that the girl had been reading her mouldy copy of Dafoe’s Robinson Crusoe. “Shh! It’s me!”

  “It’s dark out! Where are you going?” Fleda’s eyes fell upon the pillowcase that Emily was cradling in her arms like a baby, and when she lifted them again they had grown large with alarm. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “If I scream,” said Fleda, “you know t
hey’ll come running.”

  Emily nodded.

  “And they’ll — they’ll lock you in your room.”

  “Yes, they will.”

  “Then you won’t be able to leave.”

  “Only if they chain me to my bed and place a guard at my door.”

  “But you will try again.”

  “I will.”

  “The first chance you get?”

  “Yes.”

  They eyed one another, waiting for the other one to say something more. Emily stood stock-still, clutching her bundle close to her, her lips moving soundlessly in prayer. The last thing she expected was for Fleda to begin weeping.

  “Will you not stay for me?”

  “Fleda, you know I cannot,” Emily replied sadly. “But wherever I am, you shall always be welcome there.”

  “How will I know where you are?”

  “I shall get word to you — somehow — I promise.”

  “Please tell me where you are going.”

  “If you think about it long enough, you’ll know.”

  Fleda hopped off the sofa, Robinson Crusoe crashing to the floor, and threw herself into Emily’s arms, holding on to her so tightly Emily was certain her ribs would crack. Outside, beyond the library windows, drunken laughter and the whickering of horses were telltale signs that more of the carriages were preparing to take their leave of Hartwood. Fleda suddenly bolted from Emily and hurried to the darkened windows where she scrutinized the flurry of activity on the pavement.

  “I see Mrs. Jiggins stepping into her carriage. Go with her.”

  Emily moved closer toward the antechamber. “But the woman knows me.”

  “I overheard her telling Mother that she likes champagne so very much,” said Fleda, smiling bravely, “she usually sleeps the entire way back to London.”

  “My dear little sprite,” laughed Emily, gathering the girl up in one last embrace.

  As she went through the door and into the night, she heard Fleda call out to her, “Godspeed, my sister.”

  4:45 a.m.

  Mrs. Jiggins rolled her head over the side of her barouche. The ostrich plume on her pleated turban had broken in half and was now dangling absurdly over her eyes.

  “You say your friends left without you? Oh, you poor dear girl. With all the excitement of the Regent tonight, I daresay they left their heads behind as well. Hop in, hop in and I shall instruct my driver to take you to your home.”

  Mrs. Jiggins was snoring by the time her barouche clattered through the iron gates of Hartwood Hall. Smiling to herself, Emily pulled her shawl around her shoulders, nestled into the comfort of the leather seats and listened for the song of her magpie in the chestnut trees.

  40

  Friday, September 3

  10:00 a.m.

  The Brigantine Inn

  Portsmouth, England

  Emily pulled her eyes away from the bow windows, away from the drizzling harbour and the ships and boats navigating its grey churning waters, to see Dr. Arthur Braden returning to their inglenook in the heavy-beamed parlour with a tray of tea and apple cakes. She could not help noticing the tremor in his hands as he set it down upon the scuffed tavern table next to her knees and went about filling mugs for them, nor the whisper of a sigh when he lowered himself into the Windsor chair beside hers. They sat alone in front of the inn’s brick hearth, a terrible grief billowing between them, their backs to the far end of the room where a cluster of seamen had gathered around the oak bar to drink ale and tell jokes and yarns that spawned a raucous buzz in Emily’s ears.

  “Are you sure you’re comfortable here?” asked the doctor, his head turning slightly in the direction of the men. “I assure you my sister would be happy to offer you a room. She is economical to a fault but discreet.”

  “Thank you kindly, but I wish to stay by the harbour.”

  “Perhaps I could see to your settling into a more … respectable place.”

  “The innkeeper here is kind and doesn’t ask questions, even though her sights did linger upon my baggage when I first arrived.” Emily smiled wearily. “And if my family is scouring the countryside for me, this establishment just might escape their notice; my Uncle Clarence, no doubt, expecting to find me lodging at the George, ordering up extravagant meals.”

  They pensively sipped their tea, neither one interested in eating the apple cakes, both too spent to attempt further conversation. When Emily’s own shaky hands spilled drops of tea upon the mauve-edged skirt of her white gown, tears sprang to her eyes, reminding her of the longing she had felt earlier to don her blue-and-white-striped morning dress and stroll along the wharves in the hopes that a passing sailor might recognize it as the one the little sailmaker had sewn for her. But then hadn’t the entire population of Portsmouth seen her wearing it at her disembarkation of HMS Impregnable a month ago? She could not take that chance.

  Growing concerned for the quiet gentleman at her side, whose eyes were as empty as the hearth he gazed upon, Emily inquired after Mr. Walby. “I thought he might have come with you.”

  “When your note arrived at my sister’s house, I came here directly while he set off for the wharves. I expect him shortly, for he is most anxious to see you.” He gave Emily a sidelong glance. “For four days now, we have made our diligent inquiries at the offices of the Navy Board and questioned the crews of every single vessel moored within our midst. Mr. Walby is a remarkable young man, still brimming with hope, and reminding me daily — when my own hope is flagging — that a big ship-of-the-line would naturally take longer in arriving home than a swift-sailing mail packet.”

  “Yes, indeed, it would,” whispered Emily. She had turned again toward the windows when a commotion brought her swiftly back. If it were not for the crutch, she might not have immediately recognized the flushed-faced midshipman who came scurrying toward them, narrowly averting a somersault on the parlour’s carpet. He was so agitated he could not speak, only grin at Emily as he struggled to catch his breath.

  “Mr. Walby!” Emily could sense Gus’s heart thumping in its ribcage. “Did you run all the way from the wharves just to greet me?”

  “Yes! No!” was all he could manage. He seized Emily’s wrist and tried to pull her to her feet.

  “What is it?” she asked, exchanging an incredulous stare with old Dr. Braden as she willingly jumped up, hope swelling in her breast.

  “We must — we must hire a coach,” he said, resting against the brick wall of the fireplace as he coughed. “We must go … now!”

  “Take a moment for yourself, Mr. Walby,” said old Dr. Braden, himself rising.

  “There’s no time, sir. I’ll tell you all in the coach.”

  Completely caught up in Gus’s web of mysterious excitement, Emily laughed. “At the very least, tell us where we must go.”

  “To the church of St. Peter and St. Paul,” he exhaled with another grin, “in the parish of Wymering.”

  Noon

  Wymering, Portsmouth

  Leander left the front entrance of the church and stepped outside to find that the rain had stopped. He had been anguished, watching Mr. Evans’s coffin being lowered into the ground next to the copse of yew trees; the presence of rain had only made the scene and the mourners more desolate. As he slowly walked along the churchyard path, Leander could hear Fly’s hollow footsteps on the stones, but he did not turn around, thinking it best to leave his grieving friend to his silent reflections.

  Magpie, who had tarried in the church, never having been in one before, awestruck by the hushed magnificence of its nave and altar, finally caught up to him. His face was tear-stained and his mouth was still fighting to withhold his tattered emotions, but seeing the new pair of shoes they had purchased that morning for the funeral looking so splendid on his small feet, Leander could not help but smile.

  “Could I put it on now, sir?”

  “Yes, now that we are out of the church, you may.” He watched the boy pull on the woolly thrum cap, disheartened when his dark cu
rls and eye-patch disappeared under its weight. “Here now,” Leander said brightly, “if we fold up the bottom, it will sit very well on your head and you shall still be able to see.”

  “It doesn’t fit me proper, does it, sir?”

  “No, Magpie, but one day it shall.”

  Leander looked around for Fly. He had stopped walking to gaze back at the church, his eyes moving over its foundation of grey stone and the lichen-encrusted roof before scaling the length of the bell tower. “I should like to journey home now to be with my wife and children,” he said, mumbling as if speaking only to himself. “It has been too long a time.” He glanced sadly at Leander. “What about you, old fellow? Before the Admiralty tracks you down, I believe you have earned a day or two at leisure.”

  Leander continued along the pathway, keeping a watch out for their hired carriage, having asked the driver to return for them at noon. “Magpie and I have planned to — we are — we have —” His stumbling words died upon his lips. His eyes flickered away from his friends, over the churchyard’s low fence and across the road where a yellow post-chaise had slowed down and come to a stop.

  “What’s wrong, sir?” asked Magpie, peering around as if something sinister were lurking behind the crumbling tombstones.

  When Leander did not reply, his companions followed his expectant stare and frowned at the older gentleman who had alighted from the post-chaise and was now standing motionless beneath a stand of shivering trees, his arms at his side, his face turned in their direction.

  “Do you recognize him, Lee?” asked Fly.

  “Is it someone come to mourn their loved ones,” Leander said, trying to make sense of what it was he was seeing, “or is it simply a ghost?”

  Magpie gasped. “I hope it ain’t a spectre, sir.”

  A smile began to play upon Leander’s lips. “No! No, it’s my father.”

  “But he ain’t dead, is he, sir?”

  “Not that I know of, but — I don’t understand — how can this be? How would he ever have known to find me here in this lonely churchyard?” His eyes never once leaving the shadowy apparition, Leander drew toward the fence, but before he had reached the roadside, he stopped again, this time more abruptly, this time to catch his breath. A second person had stepped from the carriage — a young fair-haired woman in a white dress, whose dark eyes searched the churchyard until she had found him. Across the distance, he could hear her clear happy laughter, he could see her tremulous smile and the pink of her cheeks, but it was only when the boy at his side yelped and shouted her name that Leander realized he was not gazing upon a cruel vision.