Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (64 page)

“You there! Little sailmaker!”

At first Magpie thought it was Osmund Brockley, that the man hadn’t followed Dr. Braden to the hospital after all, but in looking all around him he could see no sign of Osmund anywhere. Moreover, there was no one standing nearby on the fo’c’sle, nor anyone hanging above his head on the foremast yards who might have owned the voice. The revellers, who had gathered for entertainment, were all drifting toward the ladder that would lead them down to their beds. He thought to call out to Morgan, but unable to spot his friend’s woolly thrum cap in the crowd, he despaired that
he
had already disappeared below deck. Thinking he had imagined the voice, Magpie sprang up and was about to the follow the men when it called out a second time.

“You there … the boy they call Magpie.”

Wheeling about, Magpie caught sight of a shadowy figure roosting upon the bowsprit. Purple twilight glowed all around him, hiding the man’s face, but Magpie could see long hair blowing in the breeze, and an unravelling of long skinny arms and legs that reminded him of a prodigious spider.

“Ya won’t be havin’ no supper in no fancy restaurant.”

Magpie blinked in confusion. Whatever did the man mean? Perhaps he believed the Admiralty would never release an insignificant sailmaker from his duties on the
Amethyst
to allow him to go into London. Well then, Magpie would protest, and inform this strange man that Dr. Braden was an influential physician who would see to the arrangements. But the shadowy figure held Magpie transfixed, and rather than explaining it all to him — when really it was
not
his affair in the first place — Magpie simply asked him, “Why not?”

Slowly the dark spectre rose up to a standing position on the bowsprit, one skinny arm holding onto a rigging block for balance. Magpie still had no idea who the man was; he could not see his face beyond a nose as large as a pelican’s beak, and he did not recognize the grim voice that finally answered his question.

“’Cause I sees ya clingin’ to a dead man on the sea.”

Magpie considered crying out,
“Identify yerself,”
but there was something chilling, an element of foreboding in the man’s words which caused Magpie’s own to die on his lips. Convinced a giant web was about to be tossed upon his head, trapping him to the bowsprit, Magpie spun about, tripping over his dilapidated box, temporarily losing his
Isabelle
hat, and scrambled to catch up to the retreating revellers and the safety of their numbers.

7

Tuesday, August 10

9:00 a.m.

Hartwood Hall

Glenna McCubbin rapped
upon Emily’s door and entered her corner bedchamber. As suspected, the girl was still fast asleep in the commodious canopied bed, which she had declared — upon seeing it Sunday night — could easily accommodate a gundeck full of sailors. Glenna scurried around the vast room as fast as her arthritic ankles would take her, throwing open curtains onto the day. It was still raining and dismal outside, which disappointed her greatly, for she had hoped to impress Emily with the views overlooking Hartwood’s south lawns and the city of London beyond. But there was such a thick mist rolling around the parkland, one could barely see the trees and gardens below, let alone the rising chimneypots and jumble of edifices in the distance.

“Glenna? Are you there?” The drowsy voice had come from the bed.

“I am, Pet! When ya didna come down fer yer breakfast, I worried ya’d perished in the night, tho’ I’m shocked to find ya still abed,” Glenna said, wrestling with a set of gold-tasselled curtains. “Why, I let ya sleep all o’ yesterday! Did ya become a lazybones then on the sea without yer old Glenna about?”

Emily struggled to sit up, and smiled at the woman she had known her entire life. “Glenna McCubbin! Is it
really
you? I was so tired, so bewildered when I arrived here, I was quite certain I was dreaming.”

Glenna and her plain, brown, rustling skirts came rushing toward the bed, where she plunked her rounded rump down upon the mattress near Emily and reached out to give her hand an affectionate squeeze. “Bet ya figured ya’d never see yer old nurse agin! But here I am, havin’ survived the wreck o’ the
Amelia
, and me heart still beatin’, tho’ I do despair fer the rest o’ me!” She stood up quickly, and wavered a bit on her feet. “But no time fer it now. I’m the housekeeper ’round here, and mighty lucky to have the job — bless yer Uncle Clarence — so I’ve come to tell ya to git outta bed.”

Emily moaned. “May I sleep late just one more morning, Glenna? I haven’t slept in a bed like this for months, and it’s raining outside, and the owners of this fine house are not even at home.”

“Nay! Up ya git! That’s all bin changed. They surprised me by turnin’ up here fifteen minutes ago, demandin’ we heat up breakfast as they’ve had none, and very anxious to meet the Princess Emeline Louisa.”

Emily bolted upright, horror seizing her sleepy face. “But I’m a mess, and I’ve nothing to wear except for a pair of trousers!”

Glenna jerked her lacy-capped head toward an immense wardrobe near the bedroom door, where Emily’s blue-and-white-striped dress hung upon a wooden hanger. “Whilst ya was sleepin’, I cleaned and pressed yer gown fer ya, and yer underclothes, and found fer ya some satin slippers and silk stockings that’ll surely fit. Just splash a bit o’ cold water on yer face — there’s water in the pitcher — and pin up yer hair, and I’ll come back fer ya in fifteen minutes.”

“But Glenna…!”

“What now, Pet?” the older woman asked, huffing in Emily’s doorway.

“I don’t even know the name of the kind gentleman and lady who have graciously extended to me their hospitality.”

“What? Yer Uncle Clarence didna think to tell ya?”

“He did not!”

“Fancy that! Why ya’ve come to the blessed home of a duke and duchess!” she winked. “Now be quick with ya.”

Before Emily could question her further, Glenna had disappeared down the first floor corridor, leaving her alone in her gloomy room amidst antique furnishings to marvel at the scenes of ornate pagodas and curious boats and ships depicted upon her Chinoiserie wallpaper. Listening to the rain pattering upon the windowpanes, she wondered if she was in for a surprise.

9:30 a.m.

Glenna left Emily
standing diffidently in the doorway of the breakfast room on the ground floor of Hartwood Hall. On a more congenial day, the tall sash windows that looked out over undulating trimmed lawns and flower gardens would have delighted her, but this morning everything had a grey cast to it: the outside views, the pastoral wallpaper, the steaming feast laid out upon the sideboard, her mood, even the four individuals who sat stiffly around the long, linen-clad table. Emily took a deep breath, certain she was far too weary to be thrown to the wolves so early in the morning. If only jovial Uncle Clarence could have stayed long enough to manage the formalities of this first meeting.

There was a brief respite before anyone spotted her, allowing Emily time to observe at least two of the four family members. At the head of the table, wearing a black waistcoat and jacket, sat the man Emily reasoned to be the owner of the house. Never in her eighteen years had she laid eyes upon such an exceedingly large gentleman. He looked as if he had not quit his armchair — which surely was custom-made for him — in many months, and if he should be inspired to move, he would require assistance from the entire household staff. He wore a white, powdered wig on his big head, and his prominent nose resembled a ripe pear, but though his eyes and shape reminded Emily of a frog, his pockmarked face was not an unkind one.

At the opposite end of the table sat his duchess, swathed in black like her husband, in a long-sleeved, high-collared dress that seemed inappropriate for the warmth of August. She was a tall, angular woman who carried her head high and wore her ink-black curls lacquered to her forehead and cheeks. Emily could tell the woman had once been handsome, but the deep lines that ran from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth gave her a hardened, uncompromising expression. A young man and girl sitting on the side of the table nearest Emily were presumably two of the duke and duchess’s children; however, with their backs to her, she had only a glimpse of them. The son was dark-haired, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and the daughter a sallow-complexioned, fiery red-haired creature who reminded Emily — though she had never actually seen one before — of an otherworldly pixie or sprite.

The instant the family caught sight of her, the high-ceilinged room filled with the abrasive noise of chair legs making contact with the wooden floor as they all rose to greet her — the duke struggling a bit to raise himself up. Solemnly, they bowed their heads, and Emily bowed hers in return, but afterward they all stood there in silence, giving one another darting looks while the rain knocked upon the tall windows and the steaming food on the sideboard cooled. Finally, the young man, as if sensing his parents’ uneasiness, came forward. He was older than she had first suspected, perhaps closer to thirty. His large eyes were coal-black, heavy-lidded, and close set, and he wore his dark brown hair forward in a cropped, dishevelled style. His nose was wide, though nowhere near the proportions of his father’s, and as he approached her, Emily could not decide whether to proclaim him a good-looking man. She was, however, thankful for his friendly smile.

“Good morning, Your Royal Highness. I am sorry … were you standing there long?”

“No, not at all.”

“We
do
have a butler. He shouldn’t have left you there unannounced.”

At the risk of stirring up trouble for Glenna, Emily refrained from informing the man that the housekeeper had guided her to the breakfast room.

“Welcome to Hartwood Hall,” he continued. “I trust you found everything to your satisfaction upon your arrival.”

“I did, thank you.” Emily looked first at the duke, and then at his wife. “I cannot thank you enough for opening your home to me.”

They bowed a second time, and the silence resumed.

“Excuse me but I … I wondered,” began Emily, hating herself for feeling nervous, but hating the silence even more, “would it be an imposition if I were to ask you
not
to address me as Your Royal Highness. I should very much like it if you would call me Emeline, or … or just Emily if you wish.”

The duchess rolled a stupefied glance down the long table at her husband, while the son quickly replied, “Of course … so long as you call me Somerton, and my little sister here,” — gesturing toward the red-haired sprite who was busy giving Emily a hollow stare — “is Fleda.”

Emily smiled at Fleda, but the girl’s stare only grew more intense. The duke dropped into his chair, and when his bountiful flesh had been comfortably unfurled upon his seat he surprised Emily by crying out, “Splendid! I am Adolphus, and if it pleases you, you may call me Uncle Adolphus, although I know you already have an uncle by that name.”

Emily did not miss the dramatic scowl that crossed the face of the duchess. “Thank you, sir, I do, although whenever I see him, which is rarely, I call him Uncle Cambridge.”

“Splendid! Then there shall be no confusion. As your Uncle Clarence and I are old friends — practically family — this arrangement will be all most pleasant.”

Somerton offered her his arm, and escorted her to the place of honour on his father’s right. It was only when Emily was finally seated with the rainy morning at her back that the duchess made an effort to speak.

“This is most unbefitting … Emeline,” she said, slowly turning her head about, her chin elevated, to look everywhere but at her guest. “However, if it is your
fervent
wish … I am Helena.” Her voice was thin and crackly, as if she required a good clearing of the throat.

Adolphus clapped his huge hands to summon the servants. Five of them scurried into the room to prepare plates of herring, poached eggs, ham slices, grilled tomatoes, and mushrooms from the chafing dishes on the sideboard, and once they had served the food to the family they scattered themselves around the room and stood quietly, awaiting further orders. Normally breakfast was the meal during which one helped himself to the sideboard selections, but Emily suspected the duke did not take much exercise and preferred to be waited upon. With the delicious smells of her breakfast teasing her nose, and her cup filled with creamy coffee, Emily sat alone on her side of the table, taking small bites of her food as she expected at any moment to be interrogated. There was much she thought of asking the four who sat around her, periodically casting a furtive glance in her direction (except for Fleda who continued staring while she chewed on toast), but she knew enough to wait for their inquiries.

“I am sorry for the weather,” said Helena, gazing with indifference out the tall windows, “but we do have a well-stocked library you may wish to peruse. Perhaps you’ll find a lady’s novel or two upon the dusty shelves with which to
amuse
yourself.”

It was on Emily’s lips to reply that she would actually prefer to search Hartwood’s dusty shelves for medical textbooks, but as she had no interest in having to explain herself — for she had a feeling it would surely cause the duchess’s eyelids to flutter in disbelief — she simply thanked the woman and reached for the warmth of her coffee cup.

“I shall ask Glenna to show you around the house after breakfast,” said Adolphus, spooning salt upon his eggs. “I’m certain you’d like to spend time with your old nursemaid.”

Emily gave the duke an appreciative smile, despite the fact that her nose was suddenly assaulted by a rank odour which obviously emanated from the man’s grotesquely large body, and that, regrettably, overpowered the pleasant aromas of her meal. “Thank you, yes, I’d like that. Glenna and I have much catching up to do.”

Helena lay her silverware down with a clatter upon her plate. “But, Dolly,” she whined to her husband, “I’ve asked Glenna to prepare the menus for the ball this weekend. The woman is far too busy to be taking people on tours around the house.”