Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (67 page)

“I wanted to come and meet you, sir.”

The doctor nodded, but continued his study of the sky and absently said, “Those clouds have followed me all the way from Steventon.”

The three pence — now enclosed in Gus’s fist — were burning the palm of his hand. “Did you have a good trip, sir?”

“I did indeed, having managed to keep my horse, my leather bag, and myself dry.” Sliding down from his saddle, the doctor joined Gus on the laneway, keeping his sights upon their destination up the road. “But I suggest we hurry back to your aunt’s or we shall soon be drenched.”

Gus couldn’t wait a second longer; he gazed up hopefully at the long-legged gentleman who walked beside him, whose face was partially obscured by his wide brim. “And … and, sir, were you able to stop in the village?”

The doctor caught his breath in hesitation, and when he finally looked down at Gus there was a sympathetic cast in his old eyes. Gus’s stomach dropped as if he had ingested a stone.

“I did, Mr. Walby, but —” he shook his head ever so slightly, just as the rain came. Quickly he peeled off his broad-brimmed hat and placed it on Gus’s head. “Now we must hurry.”

Inwardly Gus heaved a huge sigh, thankful that the pelting rain and hat concealed his great disappointment. He had
such
things to tell Emily, but he had no idea where to address a letter to her. An eternity would pass before the doctor’s next visit, and the days in between would be endlessly long, full of chores and exhausting games with the children. And what if there was still no word from her the next time? Dreadful thoughts, as dark as the ominous clouds overhead, suddenly raced through his mind. Had some misfortune befallen Emily on the road to London? Had King George locked her up forever within the forbidding walls of Windsor Castle?

Or … or had she simply forgotten her favourite midshipman — the now crippled and worthless Augustus Walby?

Noon

Hartwood Hall

Emily opened her eyes
and was startled to find Glenna’s round, glistening face in hers, examining her as if she were a fresh cadaver.

“Are ya finally awake, Pet? Are ya feelin’ better?” Glenna sank down on the bed beside her and, picking up one of her hands, began caressing Emily’s old scars. “Ya’ve been sleepin’ fer two days now, and His Grace was worryin’ about yer health, and wonderin’ if he should be cancellin’ the ball on Saturday eve.”

Emily wriggled her way up onto her pillows, discouraged to find that unpleasant jittery feeling still present in her stomach. “I do feel better, Glenna,” she lied, “but I
do
wish I could ask the family to cancel. I’ve no desire for dancing and society.”

“Lud! I’ve never met the lass who didna live fer a ball.”

“You’ve met one now.”

Glenna waved off her indifference, wriggled her bottom about on the mattress as if finding for herself a comfortable position, and then gave Emily a devilish grin. “I bin itchin’ to ask ya! What did ya think o’ Mr. Lindsay when ya met him the other day?”

Hearing the name
Lindsay
made Emily wince. That haunting portrait in the music room — the one of the youngest son with the desperate eyes, the last thing she’d seen of Hartwood House before retiring to her bed, pleading illness — cast a long shadow in her consciousness. She had told no one of her shock, not even Glenna.

“Do you mean Lord
Somerton
Lindsay?” asked Emily.

The older woman made a sucking sound of impatience with her tongue. “Well who else would I be meanin’?”

“Why I … I thought nothing of him.”

“Ya didna think him a handsome man?”

“No! Not at all.”

Glenna stared at her as if she’d uttered blasphemy. “I think yer lyin’ to yer old Glenna. Did ya not notice his well-shaped head, and his well-formed hands, and … and the sturdy muscles in his calves?”

“He was wearing boots when I met him,” Emily responded flatly.

“Well, when ya see him at the ball, wearin’ his breeches and silk stockings, take a good long gawp at the man’s legs.”

“Perhaps it’s only his calf-padding that has you so giddy.”

“Calf-paddin’? Not our Somerton; he’s no need fer such silly accessories.”

“I do confess … I did notice … that Lord Somerton’s eyes were —” Emily drew out her words to bait her old nurse, “that his eyes were
not
blue.”

Glenna pulled a wry face. “Now what kind o’ remark is that, Pet?”

“They’re too dark, too probing,” said Emily, adding under her breath, “A family trait, I believe?”

“Well, just ya wait ’til ya see the lasses fawnin’ over him on Saturday.”

Emily adjusted herself against her pillows. “Why him? I’d have thought they would save their
fawning
for the eldest son, the marquess. What’s his first name again?”

“Wetherell?” Glenna threw back her head to chortle. “Nay, it’s Somerton they all want. One day ya’ll understand why.”

“Well
the lasses
can fawn away. It’ll provide me with entertainment when I am reclining on the sofa, eating lemon ice.”

Glenna gave Emily’s hand a playful slap. “What’s happened to ya, Pet, since the night when the
Amelia
was burned, and we was parted? Where’s yer pluck gotten to?”

“Everyone knows I’m a married woman.”

“Pshaw! And everyone
knows
yer marriage is a sham, and those what don’t soon will.”

Emily held her eyes at half-mast, and spoke with exaggeration. “I must behave as such until my family is able to secure an annulment for me.”

“The young men won’t be waitin’ ’round fer that to happen. They’ll be lined up wantin’ to dance with ya, married or no. Ya shouldna be waitin’ ’round fer it neither! Why, Pet, ya can have any man ya desire.”

Emily rolled her head away from Glenna, her eyes falling on the black, calf-leathered, gilt-banded volumes of
Pride and Prejudice
, lovingly arranged on her little bedside table. Then she glanced up to watch the sun shadows attempt to find an opening in her thick gold curtains, stirring up memories of her old bit of canvas on the
Isabelle
, and the man who waited beyond. “They’ll have to find other partners, for I shall tell them all that my ankle is swollen.”

“Nonsense!” snapped Glenna.

Emily strangled her surging emotions before turning again to her old nurse. “I don’t want to stay here,” she whispered.

Glenna swivelled her neck to gape at her. “I thought ya’d be happy to be with yer old Glenna. And once ya get to know the Duke and Lord Somerton —”

Emily grasped Glenna’s arm. “Is there some way I can leave? I must write to Uncle Clarence and ask him to come get me. Fetch me some paper and a quill!”

“I will not. Ya won’t be leavin’ me sight agin.”

“I cannot stay here!”

“Why ever not?”

“It’s … it’s not home. These people are strangers.”

“Yer right lucky to be invited to Hartwood Hall.”

“Show me the road, and I’ll walk to London.”

Glenna chortled. “Ya’d be nothin’ but pap for the highwaymen what roam these parts. I wouldna advise it.” She stiffened. “And where is it ya plan to go?”

Emily looked fiercely determined. “To sea … back to the sea.”

All the warmth drained from Glenna’s face. She pursed her lips and set her double chin. Emily was so familiar with that disapproving countenance. “So long as there be breath in me bosom, ya’ll
not
be returnin’ to sea.”

“You came with me once, Glenna.”

“Ah, and ya forced me to come then — you and yer cousin, Frederick Seaton, sayin’ it would be a vacation, nothin’ more — and I ended up nearly drowned in the Atlantic, and seein’ such terrors, and that ogre, Trevelyan, pushin’ ya about so roughly. It all ripped me heart in two. Nay! There’s to be no more talk o’ leavin’ here and walkin’ to London, and nothin’ more about the sea.” Glenna stood up abruptly, the sudden movement making her unsteady on her feet. “Now, git yerself dressed. Her Grace desires to drink tea with ya in the music room.”

“Oh, Lord, please no!” begged Emily, slumping back upon her feather pillows.

“Ya canna lie here in bed forever. Besides, Her Grace has
things
to discuss with ya.” Glenna’s tone was now teeming with hoarfrost. Swinging about on her arthritic heels, she sloped forward, and, with a determined stomp across the carpet, made for the bedroom door, surprising Emily — who figured the old woman would now punish her, as she had in the past, with a prolonged period of silence — when she came to a halt and twirled around to throw her a final frown. “Before I go, tell me somethin’. Earlier when ya was sleepin’, I heard ya call out.”

Emily raised her head off her pillows. “What did I say?”

“Were ya havin’ a nightmare?”

“I … I don’t remember having one.”

“Well, ya kept callin’ out to someone.”

“Who?”

“Someone named
Leander
,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “and I don’t suppose it was the mythical Leander ya were addressin’ — the one what swum the Hellespont to be with his Hero.”

1:00 p.m.

Hartwood Hall

The music room was bright
with afternoon sunlight, making a more favourable impression upon Emily, who had first viewed it while it had been cloaked in a dank gloom. Helena Lindsay, however, had chosen to drink her tea far from the brilliance that filtered through the far wall’s elegant window, preferring to be near the entrance to the room, in the cooler shadows beneath the portrait of her eighth son. Perhaps she hoped to make a fast exit, or be in a position to call for help if Emily became too
unmanageable
. She turned her thin face in Emily’s direction, but did not rise from her chair; instead, she extended one slim, amber-bejewelled hand, inviting her to sit opposite her at the small, round mahogany table.

“Tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Emily, lowering herself into the green-and-crimson-striped damask of the proffered chair, not daring to glance at the haunting portrait behind the duchess. She kept her eyes on the woman’s slender fingers as she decorously lifted the silver pot and poured steaming tea into an exquisite china cup before handing it off to Emily.

“I trust you are feeling better, Emeline,” Helena said in that peculiar voice of hers.

“I am, thank you,” said Emily. “I didn’t realize how exhausted I was, but then I’ve not slept in a real bed for months. Ship hammocks do not provide the same level of comfort.”

“No, I should think not,” said Helena with disinterest. She kept her lips attached to her cup for a significant moment before speaking again. “And shall we have the pleasure of your presence at the ball on Saturday, or shall you be keeping to your room?”

Feeling as if she were agreeing to a public beheading, Emily was slow to reply. “I would be honoured to join your family and friends.”

“Good. My husband did mention a postponement of our soiree, but I wouldn’t hear of it. I’ve ordered a gown of cream silk and matching turban, and look much forward to shedding these ghastly mourning weeds. If I have my way, I’ll never again wear a gown of crepe or bombazine.” The harsh lines on either side of Helena’s mouth curved into a smug smile as she gazed out the large window.

Following the woman’s eyes to the far end of the room, Emily caught a glimpse of red-haired Fleda running about in the back courtyard with a handsome, excitable dog. But there was no evidence of enjoyment on Helena’s face as she watched her daughter at play, and soon she turned again to Emily.

“Glenna tells me you have no decent
habiliments
, and you most certainly cannot wear
that
to the ball,” she simpered, her eyes flickering over Emily’s blue-and-white-striped dress.

“I would think you’d prefer to see me dressed thus than attired for the evening in a pair of seaman’s trousers and scarf,” said Emily, her blood beginning to simmer.

Helena arched her dark eyebrows. “Its colours are not becoming; you look very yellow in it. I daresay the Prince Regent would be horrified to see you dressed in such an inferior rag; I know your Uncle Clarence was.”

Emily took a deep breath. “As my uncle seemed in such a hurry to bring me here, he didn’t consider stopping by Windsor to collect any of my belongings. As for the clothes I brought with me for the journey across the Atlantic … they were all lost on the
Amelia
. I am certain you can understand … it’s not easy to acquire women’s clothing while at sea.”

“These ships you were on … could you not have insisted one of them stop in New York or Boston so that you could disembark and purchase clothing worthy of your social standing?”

“For the most part, I was travelling on Royal Navy ships.”

Helena gave her a blank look. “Then what was the problem?”

Emily wrestled down her mounting impatience. “We avoided American ports, as our country is at war with the United States.”

“Yes, but it’s not a
real
war,” Helena said, studying the pattern on her teacup. “Is it?”

The heart-stopping boom of cannons, musket fire, and men’s piteous cries resounded in Emily’s ears. The smells and horrors of Leander’s hospital rose before her like a knife-wielding murderer. The shock of Octavius Lindsay lifting the gun to his head and …

“I’m afraid it is very real.”

“How fascinating,” she said with the enthusiasm of a dozing dog. “And all this time at sea, did you never once get off whichever ship you happened to be on?”

“While on Trevelyan’s ship, we did make one stop … in Charleston —”

“Charleston! And you couldn’t find any shops in Charleston? And here I understood it to be quite the fashionable city.”

“I was Trevelyan’s prisoner. I was not allowed out of his sight, and therefore had no opportunity to go
shopping
.”

“I see,” said Helena through her teeth.

“My Uncle Clarence informed me of a generous allowance the Prince Regent has made available to me. Perhaps it was given to you for safekeeping?”

Helena responded with a graceful nod, but said nothing.

“If I could trouble you for … a portion of it … and for a carriage ride into London, perhaps I could buy a few necessary
habiliments
before the ball.”