by Regina Darcy
“Perhaps. But they would have been scandalised if I had returned with you in tow and we were not married.”
Preston kissed Lucy on the lips and laughed. “Mrs Preston, I am just happy I found the greatest treasure a captain could ever wish for – a priceless stowaway.”
The End
BONUS CHAPTER 1:
–
THE CAPTAIN’S REDEMPTION
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Mummers’ Plays were traditionally performed by an all-male cast of an acting troupe, who were known by the colloquial nickname “mummers.” In this particular type of performance, a number of actors gathered on stage to witness a combat between two of them. The “survivor” was then tended to by an actor playing the role of a doctor, and revived. Mummer plays were often closely associated with sword dances, though the two were not necessarily related.
ONE
May 16, 1811
La Albuera, Spain
Captain Edmund Adair should have retreated when he heard the blast of the armaments. But he was a daydreamer. That was his downfall.
Daydreaming had rendered him an unremarkable student at St. John’s College, sealed his reputation as a boring and taciturn dinner guest in the upper rings of London society, and even prompted his childhood tutors to frequently deride him as a “jolter head” and “rum cull.”
But, despite all these setbacks and deterrents, Edmund could never keep his mind from wandering. By now, the twenty-four-year-old was quite the expert daydreamer. He could make the entire world fade away, even as rifle shots sounded like a hailstorm all around him.
This wasn’t a particularly useful—or even safe—habit to practice while riding around on the battlefield. However, he cherished it all the same. It allowed him to imagine himself back in England. For a moment, he could even picture himself at home with his fiancée, Lydia.
He could see her, almost touch her…as her fingers gripped his arm…as they took yet another turn around the pond together outside her family estate…as she waded into the shallow water, just to splash him, her golden hair wispy and loose around her face, her nose all scrunched up with laughter…
Edmund’s horse lurched beneath him, and he felt himself hurtling through the smoky air. For a moment, he hung there, gaping up at the blue Spanish sky. Then he somehow landed on his feet. Something snapped in his ankle, and he fell facedown into the thick, red mud of Extremadura. For a moment, he lay there, unable to see or breathe. All he could feel was the damp, suffocating earth and a hot pain shooting through his ankle.
Finally, pushing against the ground, he managed to struggle out of the muck’s tight grip. Silently, he thanked his Heavenly Father for not letting him be killed during his moment of inattention.
Wiping the mud out of his eyes, Edmund took a look at his right boot. His foot was twisted in an abnormal fashion. Judging from the excruciating pain and the strange angle, it was almost certainly broken.
Feeling sick, Edmund struggled to crawl back to his poor grey horse and put his hand on her motionless flank. The animal’s stomach didn’t rise. Her watery brown eyes were wide open.
Edmund patted her grey, dappled flesh, and then retrieved his gun, sword, and pack of ammunition before they sank into the sodden earth.
The enemies’ artillery began to rumble once more. Edmund looked ahead, searching for cover. He found it in the form of a crumbling stone wall some distance away.
He sheathed his sword, put his rifle across his back, and began to crawl towards the line of rocks. It was a slow process, but he could not possibly put any pressure on his right leg at the moment. As he drew near safety, he could hear the roar of guns rumbling closer and closer.
Somehow, Edmund managed to pull himself over the wall just as a cannon exploded behind him, spraying soil and rocks into the sky.
He sat there for a moment, taking deep, painful breaths.
He looked out over the wall, listening for more blasts and searching the field for the rest of the 57th Regiment. Over the course of the chaotic battle, he had become separated from his men.
Edmund smiled. If Lydia were here, he imagined she would be rather dismissive of the disorganised, sprawling melee. She’d sit on the ruined wall, thumbing through one of her dusty books, lecturing him on ancient battle techniques derived from Hannibal and Pyrrhus.
Edmund closed his eyes. He had to banish such thoughts. As comforting as they were, he was becoming distracted. He had a mission to complete; he had to get back to his men in a hurry. The British forces needed as many men as possible in a turbulent, muddy mess like this.
It wasn’t as if the tiny farming village of La Albuera was of any real strategic importance. The Crown and its Portuguese allies simply needed to drive off the French in order to continue the siege of Badajoz. However, the French and their allies had held their ground. So the two armies had clashed again and again, gaining and losing ground like a gory, thundering tide.
Edmund looked up. Another dark squall was engulfing the blue May sky. A series of such showers had rained down on the soldiers throughout the day, as if the clouds had been trying to cool down the conflict. The air became still as the two armies scrambled to make the most of the coming storm. The cover of rain would prove an excellent opportunity for either one to launch a surprise offensive.
Edmund’s eardrums felt as if they had been punctured by the sound of gunfire. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, throbbing in his head.
Then he picked up on a distant thumping sound, a single rider tearing across the land on the other side of the wall, clomping closer and closer to his hiding spot. He gripped his rifle tighter. Perhaps it was a French scout, coming to explore the wall—or to finish off enemy stragglers.
The horse and soldier trotted forward until they were right on top of Edmund.
“Edmund, is that you?”
Edmund almost dropped his gun. The low, drawling voice was quite familiar.
“Smith?” He stood up. Indeed, the rider was none other than James Smith, perched high upon his impossibly polished white horse. “Smith! What are you doing out here?”
James shrugged at him. “Thwarting Napoleon, serving the king and the old country. Same as you, cousin.” James’s glazed expression was more suited to a sedate ball than a battlefield.
Edmund smiled. In all the years he’d known him, he had seen James shed his dull expression on only a handful of occasions.
He had grown up with James; the Smiths were regarded as the nobler but less materially wealthy branch of the family tree.
James and Edmund had attended St. John’s College at the University of Oxford together. They had joined the army together after attempts at entering the legal profession. James had failed the entrance exam for The Society of Gentleman Practisers in the Courts of Law and Equity, while Edmund’s, father, Lord Cavendish, had altogether forbidden Edmund from pursuing his interest in law.
The two men shared little family resemblance. James was stocky and muscular, with a square jaw and reddish brown hair. Edmund had dark, unruly hair, a narrow, wiry build, and thin features. All they shared with regards to physical traits were the deep blue eyes common in their family.
But, in terms of upbringing, they were far more like brothers than cousins. James’s penchant for wine, women, and dancing nicely offset Edmund’s quieter personality.
“You know what I mean to ask. Where’s your squadron?” Edmund enquired.
“I’m not entirely sure. I seem to have misplaced them. The bloody horse got spooked, and I’m all turned around now.” James smirked down at him. “What befell you? Has Captain Adair abandoned his post to play around in the mud?”
Edmund attempted to brush some of the dirt off his ruined red coat, but only succeeded in smearing it in more.
“Same as you, old chap. I became separated from my men. I’m afraid I also seem to have broken my ankle.”
James shook his head. “Really, Edmund, you are quite the mess today.” He patted his horse’s neck.
“I’m afraid this silly creature is far too tired to carry us both back to camp. I’ll head there now and return with a party to bring you in. How does that sound?”
“That sounds just fine.” Edmund tried to keep his voice steady. The truth was, he didn’t want to be left alone, unable to move, with the enemy likely preparing to scramble over the grassy knoll in the distance at any moment. However, he didn’t want to endanger James, either.
“Cheerio.” James jerked the reins and galloped off. Edmund watched him disappear into the haze of rifle smoke.
Unwittingly, he began to think about England again. He could be in some dim, dusty office right now, clerking in relative safety. When his father, William Adair, the Viscount of Cavendish, had prevented him from such a career, he had been disappointed. But the thought of losing his inheritance had tempered any potential rebellion. He understood his father’s position and didn’t resent him for it. Lord Cavendish was self-conscious about the Adair family’s somewhat humble origins. In fact, Lord Cavendish had achieved his title through valour in combat. In his mind, lawyers were common, bloodsucking upstarts. Therefore, the military was the only acceptable profession for his only son and heir to pursue.
Boom.
The French artillery had started up again. The sound punctuated the air, like some sort of jagged drumbeat. Edmund knew that he had to get away. If the enemy came upon him, he’d likely be bayoneted on the spot.
He began to crawl along the wall, ignoring the splintering pain in his ankle. He distracted himself from the ache by envisioning Lydia. If she were here right now, she’d probably be reciting some portion of Cantar de Mio Cid. Lydia was well-learned and not afraid to show it.
“I’m all my parents have,” she had once told Edmund. “All the money they were saving up to educate their future male heir went towards me.”
Her father and mother were none other than Mr and Mrs John Page. The family had emerged in polite society a generation ago, when Mr Page’s father had made a considerable fortune in banking. As an only child, Lydia now stood to inherit a significant amount of money. Edmund imagined that this was what his father had in mind when he began arranging visits to the family’s Spotswood manor years ago.
In some ways, his engagement to Lydia had been the result of years of machinations on the part of both sets of parents. In the summer, the Adairs had always stayed with the Pages for several weeks. The Adairs desired a financial empire. The Pages craved titles.
Lydia and Edmund laughed about this sometimes. However, Edmund had to admit, the plan had certainly worked. He loved Lydia…but it was far more than that. Everyone knew that romantic love often faded over time. Passions withered and died as the years went on. But Edmund simply couldn’t imagine life without Lydia, without her teasing, gravelly voice, without her slightly crooked smile, without her habit of plucking away at the harp whenever she was nervous.
So he had to survive this. He had to get back to her.
The French opened fire. Edmund could feel the earth shudder whenever a cannonball struck nearby. He began to crawl faster. Up ahead loomed a crepe myrtle. Its pale tendrils hung down, almost touching the earth. Its blossoms were a rich, bruised purple.
Then he noticed the others. A circle of men in red coats stood around the tree. They stared at him with blank expressions.
Before he could even open his mouth to call to the group, Edmund felt a sharp pain crack through his skull. The flowering tree wobbled and then disappeared entirely in a blinding flash of white.
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BONUS CHAPTER 2:
THE BUESTOCKING & THE VISCOUNT (also part of 15 story boxset)
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The king was dead. The reign that began in 1760 when George III was a young man of twenty came to an end in 1820 when the king, whose time as the ruling monarch had in effect ended a decade before when his son George became the Prince Regent, died at the age of 82. Some who remembered the king when his reign began could recall the controversies that had afflicted his time on the throne: the loss of the American colonies; the conflict with his prime ministers; the discord within his family, but nonetheless, they reasoned that times had been better then, than they were now with the self-indulgent Prince Regent on the throne. Scandal accompanied the spendthrift Prince Regent who had been self-absorbed through the turmoil of the war with Napoleon and had turned his government into an enemy and his subjects into his adversaries. The British people were not consoled by the grand architecture and elegance that defined the Prince Regent’s lifestyle.
The death of George III simply meant that his son, now George IV, was king. For the years during which the Regency had been in effect, the mad monarch was a forgotten man and his death changed nothing. London aristocracy, which derided the first three Hanover kings for their clumsy, lumbering foreign ways and mocked the fourth one, did not feel that the Georges, taken collectively, were a credit to the nation and went about their business. George III did not inspire mourning and George IV did not inspire respect.
But while members of the haute monde evaluated the disappointing George on aesthetic grounds and found them wanting, other members of the English, less blue-blooded in ancestry, less plump of pockets, were seething. While the wellborn gentlemen concerned themselves with the cut of their trousers and the knots in their cravats, and the ladies sought the latest fashions, the ordinary men and women whose wages were insufficient for their needs resented the extravagant indulgences of Society. The unrest which had boiled over into revolution in France had not been imitated in England, and the victory over Napoleon should have fortified the English. But the war had been costly and that cost had fallen upon the workers of England. Their impotent rage went largely unnoticed because the Corinthians were gambling, drinking and womanising and what happened beyond the boundaries of Belgravia was insignificant.
ONE
Only pedagogues and bluestockings, those educated, intellectual women of the 18th-century Blue Stockings Society paid heed to the discontent that they detected seething beneath the hidden horizon of the social structure.
One of those bluestockings, albeit self-proclaimed, was Phoebe Stanford, age nineteen. Raised in an England where the king was crazy and his son was Regent, she spent more time in her uncle’s library than she did in society’s drawing rooms. But her uncle, Lord Glastonburg, was an indulgent guardian and did not object to having a niece who freely engaged in political discussions with his dinner guests.
Phoebe’s parents lived in India where her father was a military officer and her mother an energetic matron whose suppers and balls were among the most anticipated events of the social calendar. But Phoebe, who had more in common with her bookish uncle than with her socially ambitious mother, had pleaded with her parents to allow her to stay in England and they had done so with a sense of relief.
Truth be told Phoebe was not biddable, like the daughters of their friends. No, Phoebe Stanford was a challenge.
Her mother told her that she was going to ruin her eyes with so much book-reading, and her father, who found raising sons to be much easier, had nothing to say to her after exhausting the subject of any potential beaux.
As she had no suitor, her London Season as a debutante the year before having been an unsuccessful venture, there was nothing to answer. But being in England rather than India meant that she was not obligated to endure her father’s stale line of interrogation. Uncle was kind and good-humoured and like her, a lover of books.
He was rather forgetful and absent-minded, and had found it to his advantage to have Phoebe in the household because she did a much better job of managing it than he had. They got on very well together.
He was in the breakfast room, lingering over his tea and reading the newspaper, when she returned. He smiled in greeting, then, as he noticed the books she carried, his interest sharpened. “Anything of note?”
“Perhaps.”
“Hmmm. . . . The History of England, From the First Invasion by the Romans to the A
ccession of Henry VIII.”
“Yes, there are eight volumes. I only chose one, however, in case it’s completely dull. But this should be great fun and not dull at all.”
“Hmm. . . Ivanhoe. Yes, that looks promising, and historical in its own way. Very good, my dear. You must tell me what you think of them.”
Phoebe sat down at the table and poured herself a cup of tea. It was always entertaining to converse with Uncle Glaston because his thoughts seemed to spring out of his head without any way of predicting their source, like exotic plants that blossomed without roots.
“I passed several people on my way. They were talking about the king’s death.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course, His Majesty. Strange to live so long and yet in the end, not to have lived at all. I sometimes wonder if the Americans haven’t got the right notion after all.”
“The right notion about what, Uncle?”
“The monarchy,” he answered, folding his newspaper, a sure sign that he was eager to be engaged in discourse. “After all, the Hanovers have hardly been stellar representatives of the monarchy, now have they?”
“I don’t know, Uncle. I only know what people say about the Prince Regent. They say he has exquisite taste in buildings and none at all in people.”
“A fair assessment, I daresay.” Her uncle removed his spectacles and frowned, his usual expression when he was evaluating his analysis of a subject. “I wonder if we’re meant to be ruled by a succession of genetic dullards.”
“What do you mean?” Phoebe replied with a frown.
“I suppose that book you’ve chosen will enlighten you as to the quality of past monarchs,” he said, gesturing toward the tome on the history of England. “When one considers the dynasties that have sat on the throne, I wonder if one can make a convincing argument for the monarchy. Or even whether we ought to put our trust in Parliament at all.”