Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (70 page)

Upon entering the glittering chamber, she was chagrined to find it already jammed with hungry guests, as noisy as those she had left behind in the music room, and all of the chairs set at the long dining table occupied. Thinking it best she return later, she was about to retrace her steps when her arm was snatched up by Mrs. Jiggins, the stout woman with the ostrich-plumed turban who had been Uncle Clarence’s first dance partner, and — with ceremony — she was led to one end of the table. The woman’s happy disposition had, evidently, been made even happier as the hours of the evening wore on.

“Sit here, Your Royal Highness,” she gushed, pawing Emily as a servant boy rushed to bring her a chair. “We want to hear how you’re getting on.”

With an unrefined push from the overwrought woman, Emily was assisted into the chair, and upon looking up found two endless lines of curious faces fixed upon her, their eyes sparkling like the chandeliers above their heads, their florid faces smiling, all of them gregarious in their deportment.

“Was it so terrible being shot in the leg?” Mrs. Jiggins asked, taking her place next to Emily and laying her bejewelled hand upon Emily’s forearm.

“Actually, I was shot in the shoulder.”

“Ohhh!” gasped the crowd.

“And were you standing on one of the ship’s yards at the time of your shooting?” asked one of the gentlemen seated nearby, who appeared to be less inebriated than the others.

“No, I was swimming in the ocean at the time.”

Another upsurging gasp issued forth from the onlookers. “Whatever were you doing swimming in the ocean?”

“I was trying to decide if I could safely swim away from the American ship and toward the British ship,” was Emily’s levelled reply.

Those around her shook their decorated heads in consternation.

“And what were these two ships doing? Were they exchanging news and niceties?” asked Mrs. Jiggins, who had made it clear to the diners — with little hand gestures and nods of her silk turban — that she would lead the conversation.

Emily was careful, lest her eyes should widen in disbelief. “No, I’m afraid they were exchanging
broadsides
.”

“Whatever is a broadside?” asked a thin voice from the lower end of the dining table.

“The shooting off of cannons and long guns, my dear,” answered someone.

“Goodness me!” came Mrs. Jiggins’s breathy reaction. She motioned to a hovering servant to bring a selection of pastries to Emily. “Why would you ever choose to take a swim while two ships were shooting off their cannons at one another?”

Emily tried to invoke a measure of patience in her reply. “I wasn’t taking a swim for pleasure. I had escaped from the American ship as she battled one of our Royal Navy ships.”

A drunken voice rose up from amongst the heads. “Americans? I thought we were fighting the French.”

“Oh, we are, but apparently we’ve now taken up a second quarrel with the Americans,” said Mrs. Jiggins, her ostrich plumes nodding with authority.

“As of when?”

“Last year, I think it was.”

“Why did I never hear of it?”

“And whatever for?”

“I believe our disagreement is over the issue of taxation.”

“On what? Our tea?”

“Ladies,” pleaded the gentleman near Emily, “you’re mistaking our present quarrel with one of the causes for the American War of Independence, and, you may recall, during those years
we
were the ones taxing
their
tea.”

“Well, I cannot keep it all fixed in my mind.”

“Pray, let us eat instead.”

“Her Grace has certainly outdone herself by bringing in a French chef.”

“Yes! These profiteroles are divine.”

“And do taste the apple tarts!”

Mrs. Jiggins seemed indignant with her companions’ preference for food over the recounting of great adventures, but, making a speedy recovery, she smiled congenially and leaned in toward Emily so that she might have a good view of her diamond necklace. “You must forgive them, Your Royal Highness; they don’t understand war and politics as I do. Now, go ahead and enjoy your pastries.” She gave Emily’s hand a gentle pat. “And let us speak together
sotto voce
, for I’m quite in painful suspense to know how you managed on these ships in the company of lusty sailors. Had I been in your place, I’m certain I would’ve abandoned all virtuous notions, and, despite the stink and dirt, indulged daily in carnal recreation.”

2:00 a.m.

Outside the night was
warm, even at this late hour, though a cool respite from the flummery and overheated noise of Hartwood’s ground floor, where the volume had reached a crescendo as the guests — so decorous in the beginning — unleashed their inhibitions with the aid of lively Scottish reels and plenty of drink. It had taken forever to pry herself away from the dining-room table and the insatiable attentions of Mrs. Jiggins, and upon wandering wearily back to the music room Emily could see that even her Uncle Clarence and the Duke of Belmont had overindulged; she was appalled to have found them napping on separate sofas. It was evident, however, that the duchess found this arrangement to her satisfaction. Having foregone the pleasures of the midnight buffet, she was still dancing, her normally reserved temperament having slipped to permit clapping in time to the music and occasional tweets of laughter.

Finding an empty bench under an enormous chestnut tree, Emily arranged her gown upon its wrought-iron configurations and gazed upon the far-off lights of London. Nearby stood the carriages and their attending footmen, belonging to the guests determined to stay until sunrise, when every drop of wine and every last morsel of the French chef’s feast had been devoured. Emily wondered how difficult it would be to clamber atop one of the closed-in carriages, or slide into the seat of a barouche or curricle, and wait for the owner to — inadvertently or not — offer a ride to the city. To amuse herself, she pictured Glenna McCubbin bursting into her room to awaken her Sunday afternoon, and finding her bed empty, its former occupant miles away from the high walls of Hartwood.

It was a gaggle of giggling women, having abandoned propriety to run across the lawn in their flowing gowns, who cut short Emily’s machinations. They dropped to the grass only yards from where she sat, hidden by the low-hanging branches of the chestnut. In the torchlight she recognized the young ladies as the ones who had shot daggers at her early in the evening when she had been partnered with Somerton for the first two dance selections. With mild amusement, Emily listened to their banter.

“Lord Somerton said I was the prettiest girl in the room.”

“I daresay he told you you were the fattest in the room!”

“No, he did not! In comparison to his father, I’m a twig.”

“Well, he said I was the most graceful dancer of all the ladies at the ball.”

“Pish! According to Lord Somerton, my gown is the most exquisite one he’s ever laid eyes upon.”

“He won’t be impressed when he sees it again, all rumpled and marked with grass stains.”

Peals of drunken laughter ensued.

“I had been fretting so before the ball, worried that that pompous Princess Emeline Louisa would bewitch him.” Emily’s name had been scornfully enunciated. “But he never asked her for another dance after the first two, and I believe he only started off the dancing with her to please the Duke of Clarence.”

“Certainly he never seemed to give her another thought afterward. He seemed so very contented with us.”

“I’d so hoped to find that she resembled a horse, like her cousin Charlotte, the Prince Regent’s daughter.”

“It appears she’s not as fond of food as Princess Charlotte is.”

“They say she was half-starved at sea. That her captors fed her nothing but oiled rats.”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about Lord Somerton hoping to make a match with her.”

“With Princess Charlotte?”

“For goodness sake, dear sister, do follow the thread of the conversation! Not with Charlotte, silly, with Princess Emeline, for
she
is already married.”

“Yes, but I heard that when her husband is tried, he’ll more than likely be found guilty and put to death, so then she’ll be free to marry again.”

“But Helena Lindsay would
never
allow her son to be married to such a notorious woman.”

“Indeed! Not after the disappointment of her eldest son, the marquess.”

“Lord Somerton deserves a woman of good breeding … such as myself.”

“You should be so lucky!”

“Princess Emeline, for all her beauty and royal connections, deserves nothing more than an English tar named Jack.”

Their laughter rang clear across the dark, rolling lawns of Hartwood, echoing throughout the distant woods and turning the heads of the footmen who stood vigil by the carriages. But the girls soon tired of the subject, and, desperate to replenish their empty punch cups and seek more merriment, they scrambled to their feet, brushed themselves and their silk slippers off, and scampered toward the glittering hall.

“Ladies,” one of them shouted as they ran, “let us determine, once and for all, which one of us is most favoured by the
breathtaking
Lord Somerton.”

Emily turned away from the ridiculous girls to gaze upon the waning moon that navigated alone in the inky sky just above the London spires, shivering in the fresh breeze that incited the chestnut tree to whisper and stir around her. Strains of a familiar and poignant tune suddenly floated upon the night air. Lifting her head to listen, a lump slowly rose in her throat. It was Bach’s haunting composition “Sheep May Safely Graze,” a favourite of Magpie’s. From where was the music coming? It was hard to imagine the musicians installed in the ballroom had decided to hush the happy crowds with the hymnal piece. Was it coming from a snug cottage or perhaps a tavern on the heath? Or was a little piper playing it somewhere on the sea?

Far too soon the lonely notes died away and, left to endure the more joyful, carefree sounds of the night, Emily was overcome with grief. Lying down upon the bench, its cold iron cutting into her exposed flesh, she cried herself to sleep.

12

Monday, August 16

12:15 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch)

Aboard the HMS Amethyst

Magpie rested his head
upon his upturned hand and stared down at his dinner of brown stew and pork, absent-mindedly watching the trickles of gravy charting a course around his square wooden plate.

“What’s wrong with you, Magpie?” asked Morgan Evans, giving him a playful kick under their mess table. “You haven’t touched your food.”

“Ya should be chirpin’,” added Biscuit, who had left his galley to sit down for a spell with his messmates. “Mealtimes are the best bits o’ the day — our one delight.”

“Fer me it’s me twice-daily grog rations,” said Jacko, smacking his blubbery lips.

“Ach,” moaned Biscuit wistfully, “if only Captain Prickett’s rum weren’t so watered down, it might have the effect o’ warmin’ our bellies to be sure.”

Morgan nudged Biscuit, hoping to unseat the cook. “What do you have to complain about? You’ve access to the stores of rum all day long, and take full advantage of it.”

Repositioning his bottom upon the bench, Biscuit assumed a stately manner. “Mr. Evans, the day ya want to trade occupations with me, ya let me know.”

Around the table, the men guffawed. “Ya can’t even git the food right, Biscuit,” said Jacko with a glower, pointing at his plate. “God help us if ya was responsible fer patchin’ up the sides of the ship.”

“We’d be certain to sink straightaway.”

“Ha, ha, ho, ho!” was Biscuit’s sarcastic response.

Morgan looked again at Magpie. “So, what’s all this sullenness about?”

It was the spectre that had stolen Magpie’s appetite in recent days, but he could not tell the men of his fearful experiences, for surely they would be merciless in their teasing. And though he was now safe at night, having gained sanctuary in the hospital in exchange for helping out Dr. Braden whenever he was free from his sail-making duties, he was still terrified of another sighting. In a quandary, Magpie fished for an answer to give his messmates.

“It’s the rollin’ of the ship. It’s takin’ me appetite away.”

“That’s never bothered you before,” said Morgan, looking concerned. “I’ve never known you to be sickened by the waves.”

Jacko chewed thoughtfully on a lump of pork. “I overheard Mr. Austen sayin’ this morning he didn’t like the look o’ the sky. He thinks we’re in fer a big one.”

Recalling the spectre’s words of doom, Magpie looked alarmed.

“Not to worry, Magpie.” Morgan smiled. “The
Amethyst
is weatherly and solid as a rock. She’s built to withstand a pummelling from wind and waves.”

“He’s right, lad,” added Biscuit. “Few ships go down on account o’ storms.”

Magpie glanced first at Morgan, and then at the others sitting around the table. “What about the
Blenheim
? The Duke o’ Clarence told me he lost his son William on that ship back in 1807 … that it vanished without a trace on account o’ awful weather.”

“No one knows that for sure,” said Morgan. “It was just speculation that the
Blenheim
foundered in a heavy gale. There were some that’d seen her in port after the storm had passed.”

“But the Duke o’ Clarence told me she was last seen sendin’ out distress signals in a big gale o’ wind.”

“Magpie, it
was
well-known that the
Blenheim
was in very poor condition.”

Jacko frowned at Morgan. “Where did she go down?”

“Near Madagascar.”

“Where’s that, sir?” asked Magpie.

“The Indian Ocean, off the coast of Africa, and we’re a long way from there,” said Morgan, pitching a piece of biscuit at Magpie’s chest.

Magpie flinched. He hated the thought of the Duke of Clarence’s forlorn son drowning in such a foreign and frightening sea, so far from all that he had loved.

“No worries,” continued Morgan, “especially with Mr. Austen on board. He saw us through the end of the
Isabelle
.”