Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  Leander glanced up at the grumbling, grey-haired woman, whose hips were as broad as the ship’s beam, snapped his book shut once and for all, and addressed her in a cool manner.

  “Are you unwell this morning, Mrs. Kettle, or just out-of-sorts?”

  “I ain’t never well, Doctor,” she grunted, “on account o’ the babe in me belly, and the rotten work ya gives me to do. I were treated with more respect on Trevelyan’s ship.”

  “And that surprises you?”

  Mrs. Kettle ignored his remark. “Still can’t keep down me vittles in the mornin’.”

  “Were you late getting to bed last night?”

  “I’m late to bed ev’ry night, Doctor. Ya would knows that if ya was to leave behind yer books and doctorin’, and come have a wee bit o’ fun with us.”

  “I’ve warned you before about the imprudence of drinking each evening in your condition. Perhaps if you were to entirely leave off your rations of grog, and avoid rum and ale when you are dancing with the men on deck, you might feel better.”

  Mrs. Kettle’s eyes widened. “What other pleasures do I ’ave in this life, Doctor?”

  Leander raised one of his auburn eyebrows to convey his disbelief.

  Gathering up her mud-coloured calico skirt, Mrs. Kettle spun about and began fastening the wet hammocks to the rigging with fat wooden pegs. “It’s Prosper Burgo what puts me in a temper. Here I was thinkin’ maybe I’d found fer meself a decent man — a father fer me child what’s comin’ — and the scoundrel goes and runs off.”

  “I believe the man is just trying to make a living. He’s not assigned to the Amethyst. He has a very good ship of his own.”

  “He could ’ave asked me to go with him, now couldn’t he? Nay! The scoundrel ran off; he won’t be back.”

  Leander mulled over how best to put his next theory into words. “Perhaps Mr. Burgo was discomfited by your other pleasures.”

  Mrs. Kettle, arms akimbo, her sausage fingers drumming her ever-thickening waist, rounded on him. “And how else am I supposed ta earn me money? I git paid a pittance fer slavin’ on this ship, cleanin’ the lads’ stockings and dirty drawers. If I were to leave off lyin’ with the men, I might as well drown meself.”

  “Yes, please,” whispered Leander to the wind.

  “Ya think maybe I’m not good enough fer Prosper?” she cried, jabbing a finger at him. “Is that what yer sayin’?”

  “I did not say such a thing, nor think such a thought.”

  “Ya think yer so superior on account o’ that princess what fancied ya fer a week or two.” Mrs. Kettle quickly finished up with her hammocks, and groaned as she bent over to scoop up her basket from the deck. She then planted her feet on the ship’s planks to aim her last dart at Leander. “Ya ain’t no better than me, Doctor. Why the minute that harlot lands in London, she’ll ’ave the Quality vyin’ fer her — men with heaps o’ money and fancy titles — and afore long she’ll be forgettin about ya. Why, ya might as well ’ave gone down with the Isabelle.”

  A dozen rejoinders burned in Leander’s brain before he made his reply. “Thank you for that, Mrs. Kettle. You know it puzzles me greatly that Mr. Burgo would ever have run off in the night and left you behind when you are so generous in manner … so affable a woman.”

  Mrs. Kettle jerked her head backward in surprise, and was a long time in responding. “Well,” she snarled, kicking at the deck with the toe of her boot, “there ain’t no sense in ya dreamin’ ’bout somethin’ ya can’t ’ave.” With a toss of her chin, Mrs. Kettle marched across the poop deck, leaving Leander believing his day would have got off to a much better start if he had stayed in bed to eat his cheese and biscuit. Languidly he lifted the spyglass to his eye, and gave a silent word of thanks when the Amethyst’s launch immediately popped into view.

  Fly was on his way at last.

  Noon

  (Forenoon Watch, Eight Bells)

  Hours later Leander finally had his opportunity to speak to Fly in private. Upon his arrival back to the Amethyst, there was much he had to discuss with Lord Bridlington, and then of course he had to be present for both muster and the Sunday church service. Leander was writing a letter at his desk in the hospital when Fly, carrying a paper-wrapped parcel in his hands, came stomping down the ladder with a big grin on his face.

  “Mr. Austen, I would kindly remind you that my patients require a bit of peace and quiet down here,” said Leander, folding up his letter and returning his friend’s smile.

  “Aye! My apologies.” Fly glanced around the small space to find only one of the hospital hammocks filled. “Is Jim Beef still in a bad way?”

  “No, he’s come through the swelling on his brain nicely, and periodically is conscious, though when awake he claims to be Davy Jones and enjoys pronouncing doom on the lot of us.”

  “I understand he was a Tom o’ Bedlam from the Bethlem Hospital before he was deemed a curable and impressed upon the Amethyst. It is more than likely sure he thought of himself as Davy Jones many years ago.”

  Leander chuckled as he pulled up a chair for Fly. “Come sit and tell me of the amusements in Halifax, and all the manner of debauchery you have indulged in over the past few days. In your absence, my life has been dull; my company the fretful Mr. Bridlington — you’d think the man had lost all of his limbs — and the ill-natured Mrs Kettle. If it weren’t for little Magpie, I believe I would’ve thrown myself into one of my hammocks, and happily joined Mr. Beef in his madness.”

  Fly’s gaze fell upon Leander’s letter. “Ah, I see you are busy writing again.”

  Hastily, Leander stuffed the folded parchment into his sloped writing box (the one Morgan Evans had recently knocked together for him) that sat atop his desk and turned the key in its tiny lock. “You are changing the subject on me. I asked about Halifax.”

  Fly plunked his parcel down upon the desk, flipped the chair around backward, and straddled it. “And if your red face is any indication, I’m guessing it’s addressed to the enigmatic Emeline.”

  “Actually,” Leander began, hoping to keep his flush in check, “I’m writing a love letter to Mrs. Kettle. I thought, now that Prosper Burgo has left us and he is seemingly out of the way, I should unburden the longing in my bosom to the woman. My only worry is that the long-absent Mr. Kettle may one day surface.”

  Much to Leander’s discomfort, Fly — his facial features twisted in a stultifying grin — stared him down.

  “I … I only hope,” he stammered, “that she has made it safely to England by now.” Fly’s stare grew brighter and more unsettling. “And, I confess, I would like to know if she still … if she still thinks of me occasionally.”

  Fly leaned forward to punch Leander on his upper arm. “While I do believe she’s now safely in London — for only the most foolhardy would have attempted to attack Clarence and his flotilla — I rather doubt she still thinks of you. Knowing she may never see you again, Emily has most likely decided to make the most of her marriage to Thomas Trevelyan. Hmmm … unless … have you told her that you have now managed to put aside five shillings for your future?”

  Leander shook his head in wonder. “You are quite astute at savaging a poor man’s confidence, Mr. Austen.”

  Fly laughed and began wrestling with the string holding his paper-wrapped parcel together. “You do know, old friend, I’m not all brute. Let me show you what I have here, and then I’ll tell you something that may lift up the corners of your sad mouth.”

  Heartened, Leander watched as Fly peeled back the paper layers to reveal a feast of food. “I’ve been spoiled these past days at the Commissioner’s House; therefore, I could not countenance returning to Biscuit’s cooking, and a meal that might include his lobscouse or fried goat — though I do hope he has brought in fresh vegetables and soft bread, and perhaps some unsalted beef for the men from shore. So, before quitting Halifax, I did a bit of shopping as well as a bit of pilfering —”

  “Hopefully not in the victualling yard,” interjecte
d Leander, hungrily eyeing the spread of fresh rolls, cold chicken, boiled eggs, ripe strawberries, and apple pastries.

  “Certainly not! Nay! I was able to charm a good lady into opening up her bakeshop early for the rolls and pastries; the rest I stuffed into my pockets while breakfasting in the company of Captain Prickett, a few vice- admirals and members of local gentry. It’s amazing really the strawberries aren’t mashed to a pulp.”

  Leander grimaced. “In your pockets?”

  “I jest, old friend, eat up.”

  Producing two clean cloths, which would serve as napkins, from a cupboard at his back, Leander tossed one at Fly, and then the two men set about to eat the cold chicken and eggs with their hands.

  “Your news, Fly,” Leander soon said, trying to quell the eagerness in his voice. “Don’t keep me waiting any longer.”

  “Right then! The truth is … I bring both good and bad news,” said Fly, wiping his fingers on his cloth. “I’ll begin with the good. Prickett has presented his resignation from the Royal Navy to the Admiralty, citing his age, and complaints of rheumatism and fluttering nerves. I shall soon be assuming command of the Amethyst.”

  “Congratulations! I know how difficult it’s been for you to stand by while Prickett and Bridlington pretend to lead the Amethysts.”

  “I have been waiting for another command for a long time now. And … we’ve been given fresh orders. Running into that American privateer in the fog a few days back was exceptional. Business has dried up in these parts, for our merchantmen rarely sail unescorted nowadays. The result? Our enemy has now found new hunting grounds. As so many of our ships are blockading the French in their harbours, or over here doing the same thing to the American warships, our enemy privateers are having great success in striking where we are not — in the waters around Britain.”

  Leander looked at Fly blankly. “You’re telling me that we shall be securing the shores of England from American privateers, preying on our trading ships?”

  “Aye, we shall be!”

  Leander leaned back against the bony spindles of his chair, looking somewhat dejected. “I am happy for your new command and for your new orders, but I must ask … knowing we are simply taking our fight into new waters … that I will continue my days on this ship, sewing up heads and lopping off limbs … how did you think this news might cause me to smile?”

  Fly began tapping the smooth, rounded curve on the back of his chair. “My new command and new orders can wait; I’ve been called back to London for two reasons: firstly, to attend an inquiry regarding the loss of the Isabelle —”

  “Yes, why is it,” interjected Leander, “a court-martial has not yet been called to settle the affair?”

  “For the simple reason that, in order to do so, there must be present at least five captains or admirals in the court, and preferably more, especially when Britain suffered such a great loss.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “To testify at Trevelyan’s trial. A date has not yet been set for it; however, Whitehall wants me in the city, to stand there prepared when the time comes.”

  Still not satisfied, Leander furrowed his brow.

  “And you, my friend, having been a witness to the destruction of Captain Moreland’s Isabelle, and subsequently been kidnapped by Trevelyan … along with the king’s granddaughter —” Fly paused to give his friend a long, significant look. “You are going with me.”

  5

  Sunday, August 8

  3:00 p.m.

  The outskirts of Winchester

  When the coach halted Emily’s head collided with the window’s frame, instantly awakening her. Sleepily she gazed about, trying to recollect the day and her whereabouts. Uncle Clarence sat next to her on one of the coach’s two olive-green velvet seats, fussing with his cane and brushing dust from his cream pantaloons in anticipation of his disembarkation.

  “Now, Mr. Walby, look sharp,” he said in an exasperatingly boisterous tone, shifting his bottom forward onto the edge of the seat. “We shan’t be dallying here at your aunt’s place for long. There’re many miles between Winchester and London.”

  Across from them, Gus sat alone. To see his face, one would suspect he was about to be buried alive in the next cemetery they happened upon. Adding to his frail, deflated appearance was the tight midshipman’s uniform he wore. Having lost his own to the sinking of the Isabelle, he had inherited one that had once belonged to a young Impregnable who had been drowned at sea, but its white trousers and jacket sleeves rode well up above Gus’s respective ankles and wrists. Emily could see, in the nervous blinking of his eyes and the compressing of his lips, his struggle to stay strong for the sake of the Duke of Clarence, for it would not do to break down in front of him. Trying to ease some of his anxiety, she gave him an encouraging smile, which he tried so very hard to return.

  The exuberant post-boys scrambled down from their rumble seat on the back of the coach, arguing about which one of them was going to offer a helping hand to the princess. Jostling one another, they finally succeeded in swinging open the door and pulling down the steps. Uncle Clarence was the first one out, and he exclaimed relief as he stretched his legs, took in the fresh air, and looked about. It had been his intention that they get underway early from Portsmouth, but the townsfolk would not have it. Their delay in departure was the result of an invitation to take breakfast with a local wealthy family who provided them with a feast that had surpassed — in both presentation and variety — their supper at the George, and who had invited a number of their neighbours to join them — many of them having gaped at Emily through their quizzing glasses during the meal, leaving her suspecting that overnight she had acquired a second set of eyes.

  Following the sumptuous breakfast, a few of the village ladies had pleaded with them to take tea and pastries with them. Where good food and festivity abounded, Uncle Clarence could not say no, while Emily confessed to being pleased with the arrangement. It had been her wish to meet some of the village children, especially those who had hung about the George for hours in the hopes of seeing her, and to whom she had gently instructed the hotel’s servants to give the plentiful remains of her supper dishes. Moreover, the delay had served to postpone her inevitable separation from Gus. But she had not meant to sleep — could hardly believe she had been able to do so — during the bouncing, jolting coach ride to Winchester, and felt she owed Gus an apology for slumbering away their last moments together.

  “I am sorry for my drowsiness. It’s been months since I was forced to speak to so many people, and eat so many pastries.”

  “I slept most of the way too,” admitted Gus, though there was something in the jumpy expression in his eyes which caused Emily to doubt he was telling her the truth.

  Peering out through the open coach door, Emily could see a timber-framed, thatched cottage, set in a copse of mature beech and elm trees and surrounded by a fence badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. In the distance, beyond the stirring trees, were acres of green, sheep-dotted fields. Though somewhat rundown, it was a beautiful place, and she would happily have ended her journey here, had it not been for the severe-looking woman — presumably Gus’s Aunt Sophia — who had emerged from the house with an unhappy baby in her arms, and who shrilly yelled at the three noisy children circling around her feet lest they “trip her up.” It did not seem to excite the woman in the least that a member of the royal house was standing in her front yard, for she neither smiled nor curtsied nor invited Uncle Clarence in to drink tea. Despite her chilly reception, Emily’s uncle chatted away merrily to the underwhelmed Aunt Sophia on the subject of her sturdy-looking children, and of his own ten offspring he had left at home.

  Despite the fact that Emily had not sought their assistance, the young post-boys seized her hands and, with silly grins upon their faces, fairly lifted her out of the confining coach, setting her down somewhat roughly upon the narrow, hedged-in road that ran alongside the cottage fence. Then they dashed to help Gus, and in a flash h
ad him safely delivered to her side, and propped up once more upon his crutch. Taking a deep breath, Emily fixed her eyes on the top of Gus’s blond head, and felt her heart breaking.

  “Promise me you’ll take good care of yourself, Mr. Walby?”

  “I will,” said Gus, casting an uncertain glance in his aunt’s direction.

  “Once I know where I’m to be left I’ll forward you my address.”

  He nodded wistfully.

  “And will you write to me?”

  “Every day, Em,” he said in a strangled whisper.

  Emily wanted so badly to leave him smiling. If only she could reassure him that the very instant Trevelyan was pronounced dead in his hangman’s noose, she would hire a coach, leave London, come straightaway to Winchester to collect him, and together they could journey back to Portsmouth to stow away on the first Royal Navy ship leaving for the war on the American coast. The unspoken words weighed heavily upon her tongue, but how cruel it would be to instill so much hope in Gus, when Emily herself was no more certain about the future than he was. She leaned against the gatepost to steady her failing legs.

  “You go on and greet your Aunt Sophia,” she said, giving his arm — the one gripping the crutch — a quick squeeze. She whispered a hurried goodbye, and then made for the coach, thankful that the post-boys were standing by to help her manage the steps.

  “Oh, fine! And what kind o’ help will ya be ’round here, hobblin’ about on a stick?” Aunt Sophia’s harsh words of greeting to her nephew sailed clear across the yard to strike Emily’s ears. It was too much; she could not bear to hear more.

  “Please … please close the door for me,” she called out to the post-boys, too anguished to do so herself. Away from all prying eyes, shut inside the hot, silk-lined, velvet-upholstered body of the coach, she allowed her tears to fall, and prayed her uncle would not linger long. The sooner they departed the better.