My Lady Pirate

by Danelle Harmon

  “Here we are,” Sir Graham said cheerfully, and waited while the footman opened the door.

  “Now stop looking so sad, my love. You are getting married today and I shall think you don’t want me after all!”

  Maeve nodded, and tried to smile. She had finished the letter to her parents. She had posted it. Several weeks from now, they would be reading it.

  Oh, if only she’d written it months ago. If only her family could be here today, on this happiest, yet saddest, day of her life . . .

  The door to the big house opened and a woman rushed across the dewy lawn, the morning

  sunlight gilding her voluminous, cream-colored gown. Maeve put her hand on Gray’s sleeve and allowed him to help her out of the carriage.

  “Why, what took you so long?” Lady Hamilton grabbed Sir Graham, clasped him in her

  arms, kissed him unashamedly and affectionately on the cheek, and, without skipping a beat, turned and embraced Maeve too, her emotions as naked and guileless as were those of Nelson himself. “Come, come, let me look at you, this woman milord has told me was the only one who knew where the French ’ad gone, this woman who’s done so much for our glorious an’ gallant navy! Oh, you’re lovely, beautiful, so exotic, an’ you’re going to make our friend Gray here very ’appy, very ’appy indeed! Are y’ nervous, love? Are y’ scared? ’Ere, let me take your things, and do come inside, we’re just ready to sit down to breakfast and you simply must join us!”

  Emma’s inelegant and unaffected voice was that of a country woman, loud and bawdy and

  full of fun and life. Maeve stared at her, momentarily taken aback by the sheer force of her personality. This was the woman whose charm and sensuality had won Nelson away from his

  cold wife, the woman who had been friend and confidante to the queen of Naples, the woman whose doings, past and present, had the gossipy tongues of all England wagging—the woman

  whose portrait hung in Lord Nelson’s cabin, around Lord Nelson’s neck, in every room of Lord Nelson’s kind and generous heart.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Hamilton.”

  “And it’s a pleasure to meet you, an’ please, you must call me Emma! Come, come, we ’ave much to do before the guests start arriving! Really Gray, you’re such a rascal, why didn’t you bring the poor dear yesterday? We ’ad room, you know we ’ad room, and you ’ave always been welcome at Merton!”

  Gray merely shrugged, smiling distractedly and gazing at the two women; one tall and slim and honed with muscle, the other effusive and matronly and as stout as a flagship. Both had chestnut hair, both were faultlessly beautiful—and both were sailor’s women, which in the end, of course, assured him they would get along famously.

  Emma was shamelessly hugging the very stiff Maeve to her ample bosom. “Come, come,

  let’s go inside,” she cried. “Milord ’as told me all about 'ow you saved Sir Graham's life! Such courage! Such valor!” She clapped a hand dramatically to her heart. “No wonder our dear Sir Graham is so taken with you!”

  With her two guests on either arm, Emma hustled them back toward the house, chattering all the way and hollering for Nelson. He, just coming around the side of the house, met them on the lawn; at first, Maeve didn’t recognize the admiral, for he was dressed as a civilian, in black gaiters, green breeches, a somber black coat, and a little tricorne hat, to which was attached a small, lime-colored visor to shade his good eye from the sun. He carried a walking stick in his hand, and his melancholy face was a study in anxiety, despair, and, as he saw Gray, relief.

  “Gray,” he said, in that severe tone reserved for use by admirals, generals, and the like, “I must talk to you. Now. ”

  “Is there something amiss?”

  Nelson jerked his head, indicating the garden, where servants were busily setting up tables and chairs for the afternoon ceremony. “I hope not. Can you come? Oh dear, forgive me, you must have some breakfast first—”

  “No, no, that can wait,” Gray said, concerned at Nelson’s obvious distress. He looked at

  Maeve, but Emma was already folding her in the circle of her arm and drawing her away.

  “Go on, the two of you!” she said, waving her hand. “Perhaps you can reassure our Nelson

  that everything will be fine. And you, Maeve? Come with me, we ’ave much to do before the guests arrive. . .”

  ###

  An hour later Maeve, sitting stiffly in a chair at Lady Hamilton’s mirrored dressing table

  while Emma attempted to make elegance of her hair, heard the crunch of gravel outside and knew the first guests had arrived. Emma’s mother, a kind, earthy woman who called herself Mrs.

  Cadogan, hurried downstairs to meet them, while her daughter ran to the window and drew the curtains aside.

  She gasped in delight, the sunlight picking out the classic beauty of her profile. “Oh, dear me! Admiral Hood is here, and Captain ’ardy, and there, Lord Barham himself! Now who is that naval officer with ’im? Nelson, I must find Nelson and ask him, but wait, there’s another carriage, and a very ’andsome young man getting out of it—’e’s blond, on crutches—do you know anyone of that description, love?—’e’s a real looker, ’e is!”

  “That would be my cousin,” she murmured, staring woodenly at the dressing table. “Colin.”

  Lady Hamilton never noticed the sadness of Maeve’s tone, the tears that threatened her

  golden eyes. “Oh, yes, of course! The Colin I’ve heard so much about, a pity about ’is leg . . .

  Look, another carriage and another . . . and there’s Gray’s family. And good ’eavens, would you just look at that, there must be a whole passel of young women out there, and they’re dressed most fiercely, if I do say so myself! Why, one of ’em is even ’olding a cutlass! ”

  “That would be my crew,” Maeve said tonelessly.

  “Oh, just think, in a few short hours you’ll be Lady Falconer!”

  She looked down at her hands. “Yes, Lady Hamilton.”

  “Emma, you must call me Emma. Oh look, they’re putting the flowers on the tables now,

  you really should come see this, love! And wait ’til you taste the champagne. Milord sent to town for the finest of it; indeed, ’e is most anxious to see that you and your admiral ’ave the most memorable of days!”

  “Lord Nelson is the kindest man I have ever met.”

  Emma turned and hurried forward with a gasp of dismay. “Why lovey—you’re crying!

  Whatever’s wrong?” Gentle hands grasped her shoulders. “Why, this should be the ’appiest day of your life! You’re about to wed the most eligible officer in the King’s navy! An admiral at his age; that is unheard of! You ’ave a whole life of ’appiness before you! Fine children, fine relations, the very finest of husbands—”

  “I do not have my family. “ Maeve’s throat worked against the tears, and she stared down in defeat at her trembling hands. “And there is nothing, nothing, I would’ve wanted more for this day than to . . . to . . . to have my father here to give me away . . .”

  “But your cousin, Admiral Lord,” Emma said slowly. “’E’ll do the honors?”

  “I have never set eyes upon Admiral Lord in my life. I do not know him and besides, it is his wife Deirdre who is my cousin, not him. I don’t know her either, and I barely know their son, Colin . . . and oh, I just want my D-D”—she bent her head to her hands and burst into tears — ”Daddy . . .”

  Emma stepped forward, and maternally, impulsively, hugged the stricken young woman to

  her bosom. Outside, she heard carriages in the drive, greetings as guests recognized each other, female voices, the guffaws of sailors, Nelson’s high laughter as he showed off little Horatia to an admiring crowd who would never know she was his own daughter.

  There wasn’t much time left and now she, too, began to feel the anxiety that Nelson had

  been unable to quell. But what could she do? What could any of them do?

  “Don’t cry, m’love,” she said,
feeling helpless for one of the first times in her life. “Don’t cry . . . everything’ll be all right, you just wait and see . . . Please, don’t cry . . .”

  But Maeve was still weeping as, nearly two hours later, Emma and her mother straightened

  the folds of her gown, placed the tiara atop her upswept tresses, and led her downstairs, to where the man she had never met, the celebrated Admiral Christian Lord, waited solemnly to take her hand and lead her to the husband who awaited her in the garden outside.

  ###

  In later years, her memory of those last few moments were fuzzy and dreamlike; she

  remembered tucking a small dagger into her bodice when Lady Hamilton wasn’t looking; she

  remembered looking up at the tall man whose elbow rested beneath her gloved hand and seeing the face of a stranger; she remembered thinking he looked stern and distinguished, with good looks undimmed by the years and an aura of authority he wore as easily as the gold epaulets upon his broad shoulders; she remembered thinking he was nothing like the mirthful and merry soul her daddy had been, and blinking back a fresh wave of tears as she raised her chin, commanded every ounce of courage and strength and pride she had, and allowed him to lead her outside into the bright sunlight.

  The band was playing. She could hear it, even from here, and above it, the sound of voices, laughter, gaiety, merriment . . . sounds that abruptly ceased as Admiral Lord escorted her across the lawn and to the gardens, where the guests had formed into two groups on either side of a flowered path.

  Faces.

  All turned expectantly toward her.

  As she passed them, she saw Aisling and Sorcha, barely restrained by Enolia and both

  waving madly in a gleeful attempt to be recognized by the lady of the day; she smiled

  tremulously, her feet moving of their own accord, her fingers tightening over a muscled arm that was alien and unfamiliar to her beneath her soft, satin gloves.

  Faces.

  She saw the squire and his wife—Gray’s parents— and all six of his sisters, each dark head covered by a colorful hat, each face bright and excited.

  Faces.

  She saw people she didn’t know, people she did. Orla, and Kestrel's rowdy crew; Colin, leaning heavily on his crutches, standing beside a lovely woman with curly black hair and a strange, Celtic crucifix about her neck—that would be Deirdre, his mother and Maeve’s own cousin; Mrs. Cadogan, one of Nelson’s sisters, and Emma, rushing to the head of the line and weeping with joy; a cluster of unknown sea officers, their wives in lovely gowns and parasols to shield their complexions from the sun . . .

  Faces.

  And there, at the end of the path, at the end of the crowd, Lord Nelson—aglitter with every star and decoration and order he owned, his neck draped with medals, his hat plumed by a

  brilliant diamond aigrette—standing triumphantly beside the vicar and the man who would soon be her husband.

  Sir Graham was in his best uniform. The one that had never seen sea service, but was

  reserved for only the most honored of occasions, the gold buttons and lace and epaulets

  blindingly bright in the sun, the medal of the Nile around his neck, the broad red sash of knighthood across his right shoulder. His hands were clasped behind his back; a sailor he was, even here, and he was smiling, his eyes radiant with love as he caught sight of her and watched her move slowly down the path, toward him.

  Gray . . .

  Her feet continued to move, but her stare was on Nelson. Why was the admiral looking so

  smug? So satisfied? So very proud of himself?

  And then Sir Graham was gazing beyond her shoulder, nodding ever so slightly; beside her, Admiral Lord stopped, stepped away from her, and with a deferential bow, relinquished her into the care of another.

  The voice came to her, moving across time, across memory, across pain and fear and

  anguish and hope . . .

  “Faith, lassie, did you really think you could steal my schooner and get away with it? Did you really think I wouldn’t show up to give my daughter away at her own wedding? Good God, what the devil is this world coming to?”

  She froze, not daring to breathe, to hope, to think; she felt his arm sliding under her gloved hand, heard his melodious Irish voice echoing through her senses and every joyous cell in her awakening body; she blinked once, twice, and slowly, looked up—into a face she hadn’t seen in seven long years and thought never to see again.

  A handsome face framed in chestnut hair gone gray at the temples; a youthful face, lit by a mirthful grin and Irish eyes now filling with tears of joy and love; a beloved face, a cherished face, the face of the one man whose love and forgiveness meant more to her than anyone else’s in the whole, entire world.

  “Dadd-e-e-e-e-e-e!” she cried, and threw herself into his embrace.

  And as he swung her around and around, she saw beyond him, gathered in a circle and now

  rushing forward, her family. Mama. Uncle Matt. Aunt Eveleen. Her sisters and brothers and cousins and yes, even old Grandpa Ephraim, swinging a pocket watch and grinning that great, yellow-toothed old grin she remembered so well.

  The tears streamed down her cheeks. Her family converged upon her, hugging her, kissing

  her, sobbing over her, enfolding her in loving arms that would never, ever let her go. And even as she wondered how they could’ve known she was in England, even as she wondered how they could’ve known to find her here, her gaze fell upon the frail figure of Lord Nelson, standing a bit apart from the others and smiling a faint, satisfied smile.

  Their eyes met. And in that brief, wonderful moment of revelation, Maeve knew the truth.

  Gray had given her back the ability to trust.

  The little admiral had given her back her family.

  After seven long years, the Merricks were united at last.

  I commit my life to Him who made me.

  —NELSON

  Epilogue

  Friday night at half past ten, drove from dear, dear Merton, where I left all which I hold dear in this world, to go to serve my King and Country. May the great God, whom I adore, enable me to fulfil the expectations of my country; and if it is His good pleasure that I should return, my thanks will never cease being offered up to the throne of His mercy. If it is His good Providence to cut short my days upon earth, I bow with the greatest submission, relying that He will protect those dear to me that I may leave behind. His will be done. Amen, amen, amen.

  The post chaise rumbled through the night, carrying Lord Nelson south, away from Emma

  and Horatia and the home he loved so much.

  He thought of Emma, sobbing and nearly collapsing at the table yesterday; he thought of the tearful, final farewells at dinner, and little Horatia as he’d knelt at her bedside in the darkness and prayed for her; four times he’d gone back to look at his sleeping daughter, before finally striding out the front door, down the steps, and into the waiting chaise, where a young stablehand had stood holding the door for him. “Be a good boy ’til I come back again,” Nelson had said fondly as he’d climbed in, and then, the lights of Merton had faded away into darkness . . .

  The prayer had been in his mind for days. At a break in the journey at a coaching-inn, he had copied it into his diary. And as the miles fell behind him he stared out into the night, thinking of the enemy at Cadiz, of his plan for defeating them, of his waiting coffin and glory and the words of a gypsy he’d once met, long ago . . .

  / can see no farther than the year 1805 for you . . .

  Thinking . . .

  Of his own premonitions, his fears, a visionary orb of white light that had come to him long ago when he’d been a despairing youth, remaining to guide him his entire life—and of his last farewell to the Pirate Queen, who had embraced him with tears streaming down her cheeks as a bewildered Sir Graham stood helplessly nearby . . .

  You can see the future, Maeve—what do you see for me? Will I beat the French? Oh, tell me, will I?r />
  And she, faltering, her eyes filling with tears before she’d looked away . . . You, milord . . .

  will fulfill your own destiny . . .

  Through the night the chaise went. On through the sleeping countryside, past woods and

  fields and darkened houses, on to the Hampshire coast, where morning light glowed upon the chalky bluffs and the scent of the sea filled the air, on across Portsea Island and finally, to Portsmouth—where the noble Victory stood in quiet readiness for the greatest admiral her country had ever known.

  ###

  The sally port was choked with crowds, all pushing and shoving, all anxiously waiting just

  to get a glimpse of him as, after lunching at The George, Lord Nelson left England for the last time. He tried to avoid them, but in the end it was no use, and as he walked toward the beach in his jaunty, rolling, seaman’s gait, the people came rushing through the narrow streets of Portsmouth after him in a tumultuous flood of adoring humanity. He—this little man they regarded as their savior, this little man who symbolized England, this little man upon whose shoulders the hope and fate of their country depended—was going off to fight their war, to save them from the dreaded Napoleon Bonaparte, and they were determined to send him off in a fine display of love and emotion. Hands reached out to grasp his, seeking to touch his greatness; people knelt in his path, praying for him, for a victory; some were crying in great keening wails, others wept quietly, all followed him as he headed for the beach.

  Across Southsea Common he went, the vast multitudes trailing in his wake, sobbing,

  screaming, crying his name— Nelson! Nelson! God bless you, Lord Nelson!—already he could see his barge, waiting for him, the soldiers having to fight to clear a path through the throngs so that he could get to it. There was an officer, sitting solemnly in the sternsheets, and the barge crew, their oars raised smartly.

  And beyond, Victory—waiting.