It was early; dawn was nothing more than a glimmer of red on the far eastern horizon. Unlike the stormy seas of her nightmare, the ocean was calm, the breeze was fresh, and sitting low in the vast, brightening sky was the moon’s ghost. Plying the waters near the Impregnable was the comforting presence of two brigs, part of her Uncle Clarence’s convoy. Were she able to gaze out the ports on the ship’s larboard side, she knew she would find two more sailing escorts there. They were all prepared, if need be, to engage in battle with an American or French frigate, or give chase to a pompous privateer. Their presence was a mighty deterrent to potential enemies, and in Emily’s present state of mind she required calm. She could not bear to hear the guns of war booming now; she hoped she would never have to hear their thunder again.
On the weather decks above, the men of the Morning Watch went about their duties. The ship’s bell rang four times, a whistle trilled, commands were barked, barrels rumbled along the deck, and, periodically, the good-natured voices of the men were raised.
“If you please, Mr. Scattergood, what is our present speed?”
“Five knots, sir.”
“Up the mizzen with you, man. What are you waiting for?”
“Sir, I’m afeared of heights.”
“Look lively, Mr. Clamp! Why, ye’re a veritable sluggard this mornin’.”
“With respect, sir, I won’t have no vigour til I’ve had me breakfast.”
“’Tis the voice of a sluggard — I heard him complain: ‘You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.’”
At that moment someone said something amusing, igniting peals of laughter that echoed round the ship. Emboldened by the stirring sounds of life and the shining sea, Emily gathered up her long hair in a red scarf and quickly dressed, pulling on the flimsy linen trousers and checked shirt that, at her request, had been secretly presented to her by the obliging ship’s purser when she first boarded the Impregnable. Their quality and fit could not compare to that of the dear blue jacket and cream-coloured pantaloons little Magpie had once sewn for her with such care and attention to detail, but like so many other things she had once cherished, they too were gone, lost to the indomitable waves. She could not think of those days now, for if she were to submit to their poignant remembrance, she would never summon the fortitude to face the terrors that awaited her arrival in London.
Secure in her sailor’s disguise, she slipped quietly from her cabin.
7:00 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Six Bells)
Midshipman Gus Walby, who was nearing his thirteenth birthday, hopped along the quarterdeck of HMS Impregnable in his ill-fitting uniform with the aid of a crutch. It had been seven weeks since his ruinous fall from the Isabelle’s mizzenmast on that dreadful, decisive day when Thomas Trevelyan had set out to destroy Captain Moreland’s crew and his proud ship. Gus had broken both of his arms and his right leg that day, but in the past four weeks his arms had much improved, thanks in part to the admiral, the Duke of Clarence, who had insisted he rest up during their ocean crossing and take on only the lightest of nautical duties, and to Emily, who had frequently provided him with amiable company and had read to him multiple chapters of Pride and Prejudice, the book Mr. Austen had presented to her in Bermuda before she had departed for England.
But Gus’s leg was not healing as quickly, and he feared for his future as an officer of the Royal Navy. How could he ever be promoted from midshipman to lieutenant with a crippled leg? Emily had shrugged off his concerns, arguing that in all her nearly nineteen years she had either been acquainted with or had knowledge of several naval captains who had had various limbs missing — she had even known one whose prodigious belly had wreaked havoc on his waistcoats — but their encumbrances had in no way diminished their effectiveness in leading men. Why then, she had asked, should a simple limp and a temporary dependency upon a crutch obstruct his ability in the future to command one of the king’s ships? “Now mind you, Mr. Walby, I would be most concerned that promotion would forever elude you,” Emily had added as an afterthought, a smile curling her lips, “if you possessed … a disease of the mind.”
Gus tried not to think about his future; advancement and longevity in the Royal Navy were the least of his worries. Though he would not admit it, even to Emily, he was apprehensive about returning to England. How would he ever endure the endless hours while he convalesced? How long would he have to wait until he was well enough to resume his post? And if he were to return to the sea one day, might he be fortunate enough to sail once again with Mr. Austen, Dr. Braden, Morgan Evans, Magpie, and all those for whom he cared? However, deep in his breast, Gus hid the heaviest concern of all, one that pressed on his mind like a perpetual headache. His parents were both dead, his guardian uncle away at sea, who would be there to meet him?
Attempting to banish his gnawing anxieties, Gus gave his blond head a shake; besides, he had to pull himself together for he had an important errand to run. He was carrying a message for Emily. The only problem was, she was not to be found in her cabin — or, as she referred to it, her little private box, having once quipped, “Surely, Mr. Walby, my room has the same dimensions as one of the Duchess of Devonshire’s hat boxes.”
From experience, Gus was well aware that Emily did not take kindly to sitting alone in her quarters for any length of time. When they had sailed together on the Isabelle, she had been known to steal off, dressed in sailor’s slops, to forbidden areas of the ship. She had once been found in the men’s mess, swilling a mug of beer in the unsuitable society of Biscuit, the cook, and Jacko, the ship’s shoemaker. Another time she had ventured down to the sail room on the orlop with disastrous consequences. For Gus it was not easy negotiating the ladders down to the lower decks with a crutch stuck in his armpit, and he was hopeful he would find her nearby on the weather decks.
He hobbled along the starboard gangway, careful as always not to bump into any of the working men and risk jeopardizing his agonizingly slow recovery. As he crept by the seamen they saluted him, and while he did his best to acknowledge those who made polite inquiries — “Are you well this morning, Mr. Walby?” “Is your leg better today, sir?” — he searched the length of the foremast for Emily. Just as he expected, there she was, sitting a hundred feet up on the foretop, her unbound hair flying behind her like the ship’s pennants that billowed above the topgallant sails. Dressed in trousers and an oversized checked shirt, one might mistake her for a malingering sailor who preferred the warmth of the morning sun to his duty of unfurling the fore topsail; one would hardly suspect she was a granddaughter of King George III.
Relief flooded Gus when, having spotted him, Emily waved from her lofty perch and cried out, “Mr. Walby,” saving him the embarrassment of having to call out to her. Early on in their voyage, the Duke of Clarence had overheard him address her as “Em” and the result was a spitting verbal reprimand: “From this day forward, Mr. Walby, you are to address my niece as Your Royal Highness. And if I should hear you be so indecently familiar with her again, I will not hesitate to lash you to the crosstrees for the night.” Gus was in no doubt that the duke would carry out the punishment — the trouble was that it was not an easy task remembering to style Emily thus, especially when he was so used to addressing her otherwise.
Without delay, Emily jumped up and began her descent, leaving Gus scrambling to recruit two strong-armed sailors to stand watch beside him in the event she faltered on the shrouds and fell. But Emily clambered down the ropes with the speed and expertise of a seasoned seaman — with no indication of the troubled ankle she had broken weeks earlier while escaping Trevelyan’s ship — and landed safely on the deck before him, her face a healthy glow of exertion, her dark eyes flashing. She straightened her shoulders and raised her right fist to her forehead in a respectful salute.
“And how may I assist you, Mr. Walby? Do you require me to swab the decks, sir? Scrub your soiled shirts? Clean out the goat pens? Toss a bucket of severed limbs overboard?”
With so
many men working close by and, as always, unable to mask their interest in Emily, Gus, though he desired to, could not possibly return her lightheartedness. “The admiral … your Uncle Clarence … wishes to breakfast with you this morning,” he said solemnly, “in his cabin … alone.”
Emily angled her head in disbelief. “Imagine that! After all these weeks, my uncle actually wishes to spend time with me? Why, I was beginning to think he had completely forgotten that I was aboard and lodged in quarters four feet from his.”
The two fell in together and slowly made their way aft, toward the Impregnable’s stern, where the duke maintained his comparatively spacious quarters.
“Perhaps he’s been much occupied of late,” offered Gus.
Emily scoffed. “Yes, yes, I believe so. Preparing for imaginary sea battles and drinking port with his senior officers, and contemplating a revival of his prospects of marriage to any and all available young women of wealth and position upon his return to London.”
“Aren’t you fond of your uncle?” asked Gus warily.
Emily’s eyes softened. “Not really, but at one time I was … very much so. He and Aunt Dora and their many children were so kind to me when my father died. Seems so long ago now.” She sighed. “There is good in him yet, though I detest how he’s become so dependent upon his brother, the Prince Regent, and all of his royal advisers.”
Gus tried to cheer her up. “I will never forget you telling me the story of how your uncle saved Magpie from a most wretched employer, and took it upon himself to take the little fellow off the streets of London, feed him, outfit him, and send him to sea.”
At the mention of Magpie’s name, a pained expression crossed Emily’s lovely face, and in reply she could only manage a hollow “Yes.” Abruptly she strayed toward the starboard rail and, once there, peered into the blue distance, as if expecting the English coastline to materialize in the vast emptiness. Watching her, with the wind tearing at her hair and clothes, Gus couldn’t help wondering how often her mind returned to her recent past, back to the well-trodden decks of the Isabelle, and to the dear crewmembers with whom she had experienced so much. Gus yearned to give voice to his own turbulent emotions, to share his most precious memories of their time together on the Isabelle, especially those that included Dr. Braden and Magpie, and Jane Austen’s magical book, Sense and Sensibility, but he did not dare disturb her reverie; moreover, an ascending lump in his throat threatened the appearance of tears, and he could not tolerate a ribbing from the men who eyed them with their blatant curiosity high on the yardarms, and from all corners of the weather decks.
Long minutes passed before Emily pushed away from the rail, in a way that suggested she had had to conjure up the strength to do so, and in silence they walked along the gangway, passing by the Impregnable’s petty officers, marines, stewards, carpenters, gunners, ordinary sailors, and landmen, all of whom seemed intent on interrupting their chores and conversations to watch her, or awkwardly bow their heads in respect. But she seemed incognizant to all the attention, and did not speak again until they had arrived at the small door to her cabin.
“I suppose my uncle insisted I come to his breakfast table appropriately attired in gown and tiara.”
Gus lowered his voice. “His Royal Highness’s exact words were: ‘She’s not to appear in those damnable trousers.’” He attempted a smile, but was surprised when tears glistened in her eyes and, though she tried, she had difficulty fixing her gaze on him.
“When do you think we shall have our first glimpse of England?”
“If these winds prevail, perhaps as early as tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to go back home.”
“But why not?” asked Gus, knowing the entire country would be heralding her safe return, including dozens of family members.
There was a catch in her throat as she said, “Because I … I fear it.”
Gus wished he could offer her comfort, and racked his brain for a few words of encouragement, but at that precise moment, a loud voice boomed from the neighbouring cabin, as if one of the ship’s cannons had suddenly fired, startling him and causing the crutch to wobble under his arm. Was the Duke of Clarence about to fill his doorway with his portly figure, demanding an explanation as to why his breakfast was being delayed? Gus did not relish the thought of spending a night of punishment on the mizzen crosstrees. He looked up at Emily.
“You’d better hurry.”
Giving him a quick nod, Emily turned away and disappeared into her little box. Gus stood transfixed a moment longer, hardly daring to breathe in the event the Duke of Clarence’s sonorous notes should rise up again. Thankfully, they did not. Perhaps then it was only a servant — already within the confines of the great cabin — upon whom the duke was heaping his morning displeasure. Gus relaxed and stared sadly at Emily’s canvas door.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he whispered, “I fear it too … Em.”
8:00 A.M.
(Morning Watch, Eight Bells)
Emily’s Uncle Clarence was well into his meal by the time she had changed into her blue-and-white-striped morning dress — the only gown in her possession — pulled her hair together in an untidy chignon, and arrived at his sun-filled cabin. Flourishing doughy fingers, he invited her to sit at the empty place setting across from him at the round oak table, and continued to munch away on toast lathered with butter and marmalade.
“I have dismissed my steward so that we may be alone, my dear, so I will ask that you serve yourself,” said the duke, his full mouth, once Emily had seated herself and arranged a linen napkin upon her lap. “As you can see there’s plenty of boiled duck and onions … oh, and bacon, and I thought you might like fruit fritters with whipped cream, so I asked Mr. Belcher to prepare them especially for you. How fortunate we were to meet those merchantmen coming from England with fresh provisions! Nothing quite like fruit fritters. Now, there is tea, but perhaps you would prefer coffee or a cup of chocolate?”
Emily recalled her customary shipboard fare prior to the time she had embarked upon the Impregnable for the journey home. On those lost ships, there sometimes had been little beyond a thin gruel or jellied soup. “No thank you, Uncle, tea is fine,” she said, reaching for the vibrantly patterned bone china teapot. “I’m afraid I have no appetite for boiled duck and bacon this morning.”
“You have grown monstrously thin since I last saw you at Bushy House. Why, your FitzClarence cousins shall never recognize you. But we’ll change all that when we get you home. A few fine suppers at Carlton House should do the trick.”
Emily studied her uncle as she sipped her tea; he seemed quite content to consume the breakfast feast on his own, reaching now for a rasher of bacon. “You’re not sending me to Carlton House to live with the Prince Regent, are you, Uncle?”
“God damn, Emeline, my brother is far too busy ruling England for our dear father — on account of his most unfortunate illness — to have the added worry of you living under his roof.”
“Would you allow me to stay with my Seaton cousins in Dorset? I should like to see how Frederick is faring.”
Her uncle’s eyes rounded in horror. “Wot? Your mother’s relation who led you astray, who forced you to take that ruinous journey across the ocean on the ill-fated Amelia? Certainly not!”
“I wanted to go, Uncle.”
“I’ll not have it.”
“Please, Uncle, please don’t send me to Windsor. I should go mad with no companionship beyond my ill-tempered grandmother and my poor, unmarried aunts. The dimensions and diversions of a vault would be preferable to living there.”
“Oh, well, I cannot have you living there either. It’s too far from London, and, furthermore, your presence there would be too much stimulation for my mother.”
Having expected to be sent directly to her grandparents’ home at Windsor Castle and locked up in one of its cold chambers, Emily frowned in surprise, but did not dare question him; instead, she pleaded. “I should like to live with
my FitzClarence cousins at Bushy House.”
Her uncle shook his head in despair, as if he, and not his elder brother, carried the weight of England upon his shoulders. “You’ll find Bushy much altered since your days there, Emeline. It’s not the happy place it once was. I’ve … I’ve locked up Dora’s private apartments, and so many of the children are scattered, away at school, in the army, that sort of thing.”
Emily felt a stab of disappointment, and found herself sinking very low. It still upset her to think that her uncle had separated with the most excellent Dora Jordan, the woman with whom he had lived in domestic bliss for twenty years. “Do you think Aunt Dora would allow me to live with her in Cadogan Place?”
Again he shook his head. “Oh, no, that would never do. The Regent would not allow it. Besides, Dora has many troubles, many troubles of her own — too many to take on the added anxiety and expense of you.” He gave a nervous chuckle. “But you’ll have the opportunity to see her on the stage; she still performs at the new Drury Lane. No, Emeline, I have devised other plans for you.” He paused a moment to drain the contents of the teapot into his cup. “As you know, two days ago I ordered our escorting sloop to speed ahead home with my letters. It is my hope that, upon our arrival in Portsmouth, I’ll have news from my couriers, and will then be able to tell you the name of the family with whom you shall be residing.”
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 41