My Lady Pirate (44 page)

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while Emma attempted to make elegance of her hair, heard the crunch of gravel outside and knew the first guests had arrived. Emma’s mother, a kind, earthy woman who called herself Mrs.

Cadogan, hurried downstairs to meet them, while her daughter ran to the window and drew the curtains aside.

She gasped in delight, the sunlight picking out the classic beauty of her profile. “Oh, dear me! Admiral Hood is here, and Captain ’ardy, and there, Lord Barham himself! Now who is that naval officer with ’im? Nelson, I must find Nelson and ask him, but wait, there’s another carriage, and a very ’andsome young man getting out of it—’e’s blond, on crutches—do you know anyone of that description, love?—’e’s a real looker, ’e is!”

“That would be my cousin,” she murmured, staring woodenly at the dressing table. “Colin.”

Lady Hamilton never noticed the sadness of Maeve’s tone, the tears that threatened her

golden eyes. “Oh, yes, of course! The Colin I’ve heard so much about, a pity about ’is leg . . .

Look, another carriage and another . . . and there’s Gray’s family. And good ’eavens, would you just look at that, there must be a whole passel of young women out there, and they’re dressed most fiercely, if I do say so myself! Why, one of ’em is even ’olding a
cutlass!
”

“That would be my crew,” Maeve said tonelessly.

“Oh, just think, in a few short hours you’ll be Lady Falconer!”

She looked down at her hands. “Yes, Lady Hamilton.”

“Emma, you must call me Emma. Oh look, they’re putting the flowers on the tables now,

you really should come see this, love! And wait ’til you taste the champagne. Milord sent to town for the finest of it; indeed, ’e is most anxious to see that you and your admiral ’ave the most memorable of days!”

“Lord Nelson is the kindest man I have ever met.”

Emma turned and hurried forward with a gasp of dismay. “Why lovey—you’re crying!

Whatever’s wrong?” Gentle hands grasped her shoulders. “Why, this should be the ’appiest day of your life! You’re about to wed the most eligible officer in the King’s navy! An admiral at his age; that is unheard of! You ’ave a whole life of ’appiness before you! Fine children, fine relations, the very
finest
of husbands—”

“I do not have my family.
“ Maeve’s throat worked against the tears, and she stared down in defeat at her trembling hands. “And there is nothing, nothing, I would’ve wanted more for this day than to . . . to . . . to have my father here to give me away . . .”

“But your cousin, Admiral Lord,” Emma said slowly. “’E’ll do the honors?”

“I have never set eyes upon Admiral Lord in my life. I do not know him and besides, it is his wife Deirdre who is my cousin, not him. I don’t know her either, and I barely know their son, Colin . . . and oh, I just want my D-D”—she bent her head to her hands and burst into tears —
”Daddy
. . .”

Emma stepped forward, and maternally, impulsively, hugged the stricken young woman to

her bosom. Outside, she heard carriages in the drive, greetings as guests recognized each other, female voices, the guffaws of sailors, Nelson’s high laughter as he showed off little Horatia to an admiring crowd who would never know she was his own daughter.

There wasn’t much time left and now she, too, began to feel the anxiety that Nelson had

been unable to quell. But what could she do? What could any of them do?

“Don’t cry, m’love,” she said, feeling helpless for one of the first times in her life. “Don’t cry . . . everything’ll be all right, you just wait and see . . . Please, don’t cry . . .”

But Maeve was still weeping as, nearly two hours later, Emma and her mother straightened

the folds of her gown, placed the tiara atop her upswept tresses, and led her downstairs, to where the man she had never met, the celebrated Admiral Christian Lord, waited solemnly to take her hand and lead her to the husband who awaited her in the garden outside.

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remembered tucking a small dagger into her bodice when Lady Hamilton wasn’t looking; she

remembered looking up at the tall man whose elbow rested beneath her gloved hand and seeing the face of a stranger; she remembered thinking he looked stern and distinguished, with good looks undimmed by the years and an aura of authority he wore as easily as the gold epaulets upon his broad shoulders; she remembered thinking he was nothing like the mirthful and merry soul her daddy had been, and blinking back a fresh wave of tears as she raised her chin, commanded every ounce of courage and strength and pride she had, and allowed him to lead her outside into the bright sunlight.

The band was playing. She could hear it, even from here, and above it, the sound of voices, laughter, gaiety, merriment . . . sounds that abruptly ceased as Admiral Lord escorted her across the lawn and to the gardens, where the guests had formed into two groups on either side of a flowered path.

Faces.

All turned expectantly toward her.

As she passed them, she saw Aisling and Sorcha, barely restrained by Enolia and both

waving madly in a gleeful attempt to be recognized by the lady of the day; she smiled

tremulously, her feet moving of their own accord, her fingers tightening over a muscled arm that was alien and unfamiliar to her beneath her soft, satin gloves.

Faces.

She saw the squire and his wife—Gray’s parents— and all six of his sisters, each dark head covered by a colorful hat, each face bright and excited.

Faces.

She saw people she didn’t know, people she did. Orla, and
Kestrel
's rowdy crew; Colin, leaning heavily on his crutches, standing beside a lovely woman with curly black hair and a strange, Celtic crucifix about her neck—that would be Deirdre, his mother and Maeve’s own cousin; Mrs. Cadogan, one of Nelson’s sisters, and Emma, rushing to the head of the line and weeping with joy; a cluster of unknown sea officers, their wives in lovely gowns and parasols to shield their complexions from the sun . . .

Faces.

And there, at the end of the path, at the end of the crowd, Lord Nelson—aglitter with every star and decoration and order he owned, his neck draped with medals, his hat plumed by a

brilliant diamond aigrette—standing triumphantly beside the vicar and the man who would soon be her husband.

Sir Graham was in his best uniform. The one that had never seen sea service, but was

reserved for only the most honored of occasions, the gold buttons and lace and epaulets

blindingly bright in the sun, the medal of the Nile around his neck, the broad red sash of knighthood across his right shoulder. His hands were clasped behind his back; a sailor he was, even here, and he was smiling, his eyes radiant with love as he caught sight of her and watched her move slowly down the path, toward him.

Gray . . .

Her feet continued to move, but her stare was on Nelson. Why was the admiral looking so

smug? So satisfied? So very proud of himself?

And then Sir Graham was gazing beyond her shoulder, nodding ever so slightly; beside her, Admiral Lord stopped, stepped away from her, and with a deferential bow, relinquished her into the care of another.

The voice came to her, moving across time, across memory, across pain and fear and

anguish and hope . . .

“Faith, lassie, did you really think you could steal my schooner and get away with it? Did you really think I wouldn’t show up to give my daughter away at her own wedding? Good God, what the
devil
is this world coming to?”

She froze, not daring to breathe, to hope, to think; she felt his arm sliding under her gloved hand, heard his melodious Irish voice echoing through her senses and every joyous cell in her awakening body; she blinked once, twice, and slowly, looked up—into a face she hadn’t seen in seven long years and thought never to see again.

A handsome face framed in chestnut hair gone gray at the temples; a youthful face, lit by a mirthful grin and Irish eyes now filling with tears of joy and love; a beloved face, a cherished face, the face of the one man whose love and forgiveness meant more to her than anyone else’s in the whole, entire world.

“Dadd-e-e-e-e-e-e!”
she cried, and threw herself into his embrace.

And as he swung her around and around, she saw beyond him, gathered in a circle and now

rushing forward, her family. Mama. Uncle Matt. Aunt Eveleen. Her sisters and brothers and cousins and yes, even old Grandpa Ephraim, swinging a pocket watch and grinning that great, yellow-toothed old grin she remembered so well.

The tears streamed down her cheeks. Her family converged upon her, hugging her, kissing

her, sobbing over her, enfolding her in loving arms that would never, ever let her go. And even as she wondered how they could’ve known she was in England, even as she wondered how they could’ve known to find her here, her gaze fell upon the frail figure of Lord Nelson, standing a bit apart from the others and smiling a faint, satisfied smile.

Their eyes met. And in that brief, wonderful moment of revelation, Maeve knew the truth.

Gray had given her back the ability to trust.

The little admiral had given her back her family.

After seven long years, the Merricks were united at last.

I commit my life to Him who made me.

—NELSON

Friday night at half past ten, drove from dear, dear Merton, where I left all which I hold
dear in this world, to go to serve my King and Country. May the great God, whom I adore,
enable me to fulfil the expectations of my country; and if it is His good pleasure that I should
return, my thanks will never cease being offered up to the throne of His mercy. If it is His good
Providence to cut short my days upon earth, I bow with the greatest submission, relying that He
will protect those dear to me that I may leave behind. His will be done. Amen, amen, amen.

The post chaise rumbled through the night, carrying Lord Nelson south, away from Emma

and Horatia and the home he loved so much.

He thought of Emma, sobbing and nearly collapsing at the table yesterday; he thought of the tearful, final farewells at dinner, and little Horatia as he’d knelt at her bedside in the darkness and prayed for her; four times he’d gone back to look at his sleeping daughter, before finally striding out the front door, down the steps, and into the waiting chaise, where a young stablehand had stood holding the door for him. “Be a good boy ’til I come back again,” Nelson had said fondly as he’d climbed in, and then, the lights of Merton had faded away into darkness . . .

The prayer had been in his mind for days. At a break in the journey at a coaching-inn, he had copied it into his diary. And as the miles fell behind him he stared out into the night, thinking of the enemy at Cadiz, of his plan for defeating them, of his waiting coffin and glory and the words of a gypsy he’d once met, long ago . . .

/ can see no farther than the year 1805 for you . . .

Thinking . . .

Of his own premonitions, his fears, a visionary orb of white light that had come to him long ago when he’d been a despairing youth, remaining to guide him his entire life—and of his last farewell to the Pirate Queen, who had embraced him with tears streaming down her cheeks as a bewildered Sir Graham stood helplessly nearby . . .

You can see the future, Maeve—what do you see for me? Will I beat the French? Oh, tell
me, will I?

And she, faltering, her eyes filling with tears before she’d looked away . . .
You, milord . . .

will fulfill your own destiny . . .

Through the night the chaise went. On through the sleeping countryside, past woods and

fields and darkened houses, on to the Hampshire coast, where morning light glowed upon the chalky bluffs and the scent of the sea filled the air, on across Portsea Island and finally, to Portsmouth—where the noble
Victory
stood in quiet readiness for the greatest admiral her country had ever known.

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to get a glimpse of him as, after lunching at The George, Lord Nelson left England for the last time. He tried to avoid them, but in the end it was no use, and as he walked toward the beach in his jaunty, rolling, seaman’s gait, the people came rushing through the narrow streets of Portsmouth after him in a tumultuous flood of adoring humanity. He—this little man they regarded as their savior, this little man who symbolized England, this little man upon whose shoulders the hope and fate of their country depended—was going off to fight their war, to save them from the dreaded Napoleon Bonaparte, and they were determined to send him off in a fine display of love and emotion. Hands reached out to grasp his, seeking to touch his greatness; people knelt in his path, praying for him, for a victory; some were crying in great keening wails, others wept quietly, all followed him as he headed for the beach.

Across Southsea Common he went, the vast multitudes trailing in his wake, sobbing,

screaming, crying his name—
Nelson! Nelson! God bless you
,
Lord Nelson
!—already he could see his barge, waiting for him, the soldiers having to fight to clear a path through the throngs so that he could get to it. There was an officer, sitting solemnly in the sternsheets, and the barge crew, their oars raised smartly.

And beyond,
Victory
—waiting.

He descended the sixteen steps of the wharf, the frenzied clamor of thousands of people

ringing in his ears. The barge swayed beneath him as he stepped down into it, acknowledging Hardy’s salute and taking his place beside him. The clamor rose to a deafening thunder, and, as the oarsmen pushed off from shore, separated itself into three distinct and mighty cheers that shook the very clouds in the sky above.

God bless Lord Nelson! God bless Lord Nelson! God bless Lord Nelson!