Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (89 page)

“Neither ship is flying her colours.”

“Damn! How dare they utilize my own form of trickery! Well, can you see anything of their hulls?”

“Not yet. There’s too much smoke to give us a clear picture.”

“What about their size?”

“I believe it’s safe to say they are
not
men-of-war. Both are two-masted, and tacking easily, though one seems to have more guns at her disposal.”

“If we cannot see their flags, how shall we discover who they are, Mr. Austen?”

Fly calmly stated the obvious. “We’ll have to come in closer still, at least until we can determine something from the sails and rigging and uniforms, or —” he paused for effect “— or see the ships’ names.”

“Closer? What, and get caught up in their fray?”

“Aye, if necessary,” said Fly, clenching his jaw. “That
was
the idea.”

Prickett ran his hand over his damp brow, wiped it on his breeches, and then began expelling his breath in a most bizarre manner.

“May I get you a glass of water, sir?”

“Do not put yourself out, Mr. Austen,” he said loudly, pulling at his top buttons to loosen his jacket. “I shall get it myself. Do not worry, I shan’t be gone long.” He handed Fly the speaking trumpet as if he were presenting his sword to a victorious enemy, and then spoke sotto voce: “When we’re within range of those ships’ carronades and long guns, whatever you do, kindly remember our masts were weakened in the storm.” Executing a crisp about-turn, he marched toward the companionway — the thunder of convergent guns hastening his journey — and disappeared below deck.

Standing alone, Fly peered through the swirling smoke at the battling ships. They warred as if they were alone on the water, oblivious to the imposing ship-of-the-line closing in on them, ready to add her broadsides to the action. If only he could look up and see Captain Moreland striding across the quarterdeck toward him, prepared to stand and lead with him. But he could see only faces lined with anxiety, looking to him, waiting for
him
to tell them what to do. Heaving a sigh, he sought out Morgan Evans, and told him he could stand down. “Should we get involved in this fight, your services shall be needed elsewhere, presumably patching holes in our hull, or — dare I say it — in the hospital again.”

Morgan collapsed his spyglass so he could bring his fist to his forehead in a salute. “Thank you, sir. I’ll go collect Magpie from the top, and tell him to get below.”

“Good luck with that!” Fly snickered. “But before you go, Mr. Evans, tell me first: what’s your assessment of it all?”

Morgan sniffed the smoky air. “Two privateers, sir; a brig and a schooner; neither one interested in abandoning the fight, despite our approach.” He looked squarely at Fly. “I can say with confidence that neither one is the
Lady Jane
.”

Both men had set their sights once again on the ships when the
Amethyst
’s brooding silence was shattered by a high-pitched shriek. At first Fly thought the livestock had broken free of their stalls and found their way on deck, but when every man around him looked toward the soaring length of the foremast — including an ashen-faced Bridlington, who had come scurrying over as if the sudden squeal had shaken his brittle nerves — he shaded his face with his hand to follow their gaze. There on the foretop, Magpie was dancing a jig.

“What’re you on about, Magpie?”

“Sir! I see him! He’s runnin’ ’round his ship, jumpin’ on the bowsprit and swayin’ on the capstan like he always does, doin’ a great deal o’ yellin’, his face all hot and ruddy.”

Fly looked bewildered. “Could you be more precise, Magpie?”

“Yon ship, the one what’s downwind, sir, I just knows it … it’s Prosper Burgo and his Remarkables.”

“Oh, God!” moaned Bridlington. “Not that pirate again and his horde of cutthroats!”

27

Friday, August 27

11:00 a.m.

Hartwood Hall

Trying to tear Uncle Clarence
away from his morning letter-writing had been a veritable chore for Emily, with him insisting he had to attend to his duty as Admiral of the Fleet, but when her employment of cajolery had finally been rewarded, she had insisted they meet out-of-doors, so that no one could attempt to put an ear to the wall to listen in. Uncle Clarence had pouted profusely, further insisting the weather was far too hot for him to be meandering around the grounds — being as his constitution was susceptible to bouts of asthma — and had, consequently, asked Glenna to lay out the little table in the garden with linen, crystal, and an iced pitcher of orgeat (his favourite concoction of distilled almonds and orange-flower water), so that they might enjoy Hartwood’s sweet-smelling abundance of azaleas, rhododendrons, and roses, and, if possible, find relief in the shade cast by the west wall of the great house.

Sitting on the front few inches of his wrought-iron chair, his fingers spread upon his pudgy knees, Uncle Clarence looked around him with satisfaction. “This is a most excellent estate; one would be lucky indeed to live out one’s years surrounded by such breathtaking beauty. Such a fine, solid house too, with every known comfort and convenience. I’ve had the pleasure to accompany my brother, the Regent, on several of his visits to aristocratic mansions in England, but, I declare, Emeline, there’re none as nice as Hartwood.”

Emily picked up the glass of orgeat her uncle had poured for her. “Are you planning to purchase Hartwood from the Duke of Belmont?”

“Well, hang me, Emeline, where did you get such a notion?”

“Seeing as you’ve such an affinity for the place —”

“Unless I was king, I’d never be able to afford such luxury. No, my dear, I must content myself with Bushy House for the remainder of my days, not that I’m complaining, of course, for, as you know, it suits me well.”

Emily grew wistful. It was hard to think of dear Bushy House without recollecting her exuberant cousins and endearing Aunt Dora, who was not one to judge and so rarely gave offence. Following her uncle’s lead, she too surveyed the grounds around her. She could see Somerton out riding alone, cantering on his blue-black horse down near the ponds, and closer by, Fleda rolling down the gentle undulation of the front lawn with her dog dancing in agitated circles around her, and Gus Walby, leaning on his crutch, laughing at her. The sound of Gus’s laughter — and Fleda’s, for that matter — filled her with both joy and sadness.

It was Uncle Clarence’s steadfast assurances to the family that Mr. Walby was indeed an officer of the Royal Navy, and of impeccable breeding, that led Adolphus to heartily agree that the boy should be allowed to visit during the day while old Dr. Braden was attending his ailing cousin in the village, so long as he took his lessons with Fleda, and was returned to the coaching inn before Hartwood’s dinner hour. Quivering in her chair at the end of the dining room table, Helena had looked like a shivering puddle-hound, but on the subject she had stayed curiously silent. And yet, throughout the deliberations, no one had said a word about extending an invitation to the old doctor to take dinner with them, the man who had so selflessly taken up a temporary guardianship of Mr. Walby. Of course, Wetherell had been too greatly distracted by the bowls of sugared almonds set before him to share
his
sublime opinions, and her uncle did not venture to suggest it, despite his initial joy at discovering the relationship between the doctor who had served on HMS
Isabelle
and the one he had retained for Gus. To Emily, it was Somerton who had given the most offense. Sitting across from her, studying her response to the conversation, there had been something telling, something festering and ruminating in his deportment, as if he were ready to pounce upon the person who even dared mention the name of Dr. Arthur Braden at the dinner table. The very recollection of it, the sheer indecency of it all, brought tears to Emily’s eyes, compelling her to glance away from her uncle toward the woodland of oak and ash and beech and chestnut, which stood drooping and motionless in the heat under a blanket of dark, low-hanging clouds, like the vanquished crew of the
Isabelle
when Trevelyan had come aboard to reap his spoils.

“Now then, Emeline, before we’re caught up in a downpour,” said Uncle Clarence, eying the sky, “tell me why you wanted a word in private?”

Emily kept her face averted. “I’d like to leave here, as soon as possible.”

Uncle Clarence choked on his beverage, coughing and sputtering before he was once again capable of finding his voice. “This is most shocking! And here I thought I’d found for you the perfect situation.”

“Situation?”

“I meant to say
home
. I believe Hartwood is a perfect
home
for you.”

“It is
not
my home, Uncle.”

He grimaced and gulped, and continued to clear his throat. “Would a visit to see your grandmother, Queen Charlotte, ease the pain of your homesickness?”

“I’ve no desire to see my grandmother.”

“That is good, because she’s growing ever more curmudgeonly, flies into rages so easily, and suffers constant bowel complaints. My sisters have quite lost their patience, and have little desire to spend any time at all with her.”

“Let me go home with you, Uncle. My best memories are of Bushy House.”

Uncle Clarence heaved a heavy sigh.

Emily shot forward in her chair. “Your brother kindly gave you an allowance, which you, in turn, gave to the duchess to keep me clothed and fed. If it’s money you need, could you not have that allowance transferred to you? I don’t want to be a burden.”

“I’m afraid you returning home with me is out of the question.”

Emily’s eyes blurred. “Do you not care? Is there no one who cares for me, no one who desires to see me simply because I’m
unmanageable
? Do my uncles and aunts all hope I’ll quietly retire here, on this unfamiliar soil, so that they’ll not have to bother again with me until I’m put into the ground?”

Uncle Clarence chuckled. “There, there! Naturally, we all care for your well-being, but at present we all have our own pressing concerns and families to maintain. And surely you cannot have forgotten that your uncles and I are all up to our necks, fighting Napoleon on the continent and the Americans on the sea. I cannot predict when I might be sent away on an urgent mission. No, my dear, I’ve quite enough to contend with, without having to worry about making certain
you
are dressing and behaving decently.”

Emily exhaled — all she could do to resist bursting into sarcastic laughter.

Uncle Clarence laid one hand over his heart, and allowed his round eyes to rove over her curls and gown with open admiration. “My friends are thrilled to have you here at Hartwood. And see how well Helena has been able to improve you. You look quite respectable. I was appalled when we met in Bermuda; so full of despair thinking of your dear, departed parents, and what they would’ve thought were they to see you debased in dungarees with your hair all about you.”

“Her Grace and I do
not
get along very well,” Emily said flatly.

“Wot? This is news to me! I declare she loves you like a daughter.” He laughed while he refilled his glass. “If there is any discord, it most certainly is in
your
court, Emeline. You must learn to get on with people, learn to hold your tongue. People don’t take kindly to hearing what it is you honestly think of them. Do your family proud and behave like a true Hanover.”

The first snarls of thunder rumbled over the city of London as if in harmony with Emily’s suffering.

“God damn this weather,” said Uncle Clarence, frowning at the accumulation of black clouds. “This has been a most wet summer. Perhaps we should head indoors.”

Emily placed her hand on her uncle’s upper arm as he was rising from his chair. “Uncle, where is Thomas Trevelyan?”

“Why, I believe he’s imprisoned in Newgate as we speak.”

“I cannot wait forever for his trial.”

“Why ever not? You’re
not
going anywhere, my dear. Besides, you’ve no say when his case shall be heard at the Old Bailey. But, mark my words, it’ll be a superb spectacle, and everyone shall be clamouring for a seat to see you rise up and take the stand.”

Emily rubbed her face in frustration. “And what news of my annulment?”

“Your case should prove to be a straightforward one. As far as your family is concerned, your marriage never existed in the first place. For one, Emeline, your marriage licence — if, in fact, you actually had one — is sitting at the bottom of the sea. This Mr. Humphreys, the clergyman who performed your ceremony, is more than likely a charlatan; however, since it’s impossible to ascertain whether or not the man was ordained, it remains that you did not have your family’s permission, and, though not necessary to make it valid, your marriage was not consummated. Then, of course, on this last point, I — ahem — I’m not certain I can believe you.”

Emily waited for her anger to abate. “Then what must I wait for?”

“Official word from the Archbishop of Canterbury that your marriage is null and void.”

“That’s all well and good, but
when
shall I receive word?”

The jaunty tilt of his head and the curve of his smile were unnerving. “Are you anxious for it, Emeline? Have you set your cap at a new suitor?”

“Indeed! I’m waiting to pounce upon one of cousin Charlotte’s many rejects.”

His smile widened. “That’s very good news!”

Emily shut her eyes to take a deep breath. “I’d sleep more peacefully knowing my connection with England’s traitor is no more.”

“Yes, yes, of course you would, my dear.” Uncle Clarence suddenly fumbled for his pocket watch. “Ah, look at the time! Well now, I’ve enjoyed our chat immensely, but I would suggest we quickly retire to the house, otherwise the approaching storm may wash us away to the Thames River.”

Emily’s shoulders drooped like the branches of the trees around her, and her eyes drifted away from the garden to the dark stones of the unbroken wall, which enclosed the perimeter of Hartwood.