Sputtering and fighting for air while the ocean thrashed him about, Magpie could only pray someone would soon deliver him from this ghastly evil. If he allowed himself to think of Emily, sitting in her London castle, receiving news that the little sailmaker was lying in a lonely grave on the ocean’s mucky bottom, he was sure he would cry, and crying would only steal further from his waning store of strength.
“Magpie!”
The voice roused him. It was nearer. Rolling his head about, he was sure he could see faces through the sheets of seawater. But these faces were not on the ship; they seemed to be walking on the waves. How could that be?
“Magpie, if you can, swim to that length of timber. It’s so close to you.”
It sounded so very much like Dr. Braden.
“Ach, lad! Hold on, hold on!”
And was that Biscuit? Or was he dreaming? Had he already drowned perhaps, and these were the peaceful, familiar voices that would transport him from this world into the next? Would Emily suddenly appear and come forward to take him by the hand and lead him into that strange new land? Shivering, for the sea was growing colder by the minute, Magpie closed his eye and waited for her to come, thinking, if she did come to him now, maybe dying wasn’t so bad after all.
Something began tugging on his shirt. Grasping hands! Were these the dreaded drowned sailors? Nay! The hands weren’t pulling him downward, they were lifting him up. Muffled, frantic voices jostled in his waterlogged ears. But he felt disembodied, as if he were drifting away, and could not see what it was that had a precarious hold upon him. Something large brushed and bumped his back, wrenching him away from the hands. But then other hands seemed to be grabbing for him.
Again he was bumped, this time by a powerful moving force. He was certain he heard Dr. Braden cry out in dismay, “Dear God!” Up shot Magpie, carried forward and around and around. Was it a whirlpool? Magpie hardly cared. He could do nothing to save himself. On and on it kept pulling him, making him dizzy, until — at last — he felt a foundation beneath his legs, and came to an abrupt stop when his head struck an unyielding object.
And then he knew no more.
15
Wednesday, August 18
10:00 a.m.
Hartwood Hall
Smiling to herself, Emily closed her book, rose from the bench beneath the shady arms of the chestnut tree, and ambled toward the two-storey bricked edifice of the service wing that sprawled across the land to the northeast of Hartwood Hall, its earthy, purple-brown colouring inconspicuous next to the gleaming whiteness of the house. Feeling quite at home, Emily entered the high-ceilinged kitchen with its five sash windows — opened to admit any and all breezes — and with interest observed the activity that abounded within its roomy perimeter.
Dressed in starched white aprons and caps, a dozen servants were arranged around two massive square-topped tables in the middle of the stone floor, kneading dough or furiously beating on bowls while they gossiped with one another. On the right-hand wall stretched the black-iron range, stewing stoves, spits, and baking ovens, with their copper awnings that sent the excess heat and odours out the windows, all in use and steaming, and overseen by the perspiring cook, who barked instructional orders to her troop of assistants. Opposite the coal-fired ovens were deep porcelain sinks overflowing with soiled pots, pans, dishes, and utensils, and attended by two young scullery maids who laughed at a private joke as they went about their washing and drying. Noticing Emily standing in their midst, they ceased their scouring, kneading, beating, and basting, stared at her open-mouthed a moment, and then quickly curtsied.
“Good morning to all of you,” said Emily cheerfully. “Thank you so very much for the delicious breakfast.”
Their glistening faces rippled with surprise and again they curtsied.
“Is there a special dinner planned for this evening? You all seem to be so busy.”
It was the cook who finally found her tongue. “No, Yer Royal Highness, it’s just an ordinary day fer all o’ us.”
All this effort, thought Emily, for the few who sat, three times a day, around the breakfast and dining tables in the big house, far from the smells and heat and bustle of this quarter. “I don’t suppose I could help you, could I?”
They gave one another sidelong glances, knowing not how to answer her, and then looked to the cook for guidance, though she too seemed quite at a loss.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said quickly, hoping to lessen their discomfort. “Perhaps one of you could tell me the whereabouts of Miss McCubbin?”
Before anyone could say a word, Glenna materialized from the adjoining laundry room, in her plain brown dress, her arms piled high with freshly folded sheets. Seeing Emily she stopped short, and with a quick flutter of one linen-bound hand signalled to her to follow her out of the kitchen and into the courtyard.
Reluctant to leave all the excitement, Emily gave the servants a wistful smile and pledged to pop round another time.
“The service wing is off limits to ya, Pet,” asserted Glenna when they were safely beyond the eyes and ears of the kitchen staff.
“For heaven’s sake, Glenna!”
“They’ll all be cluckin’ away in there now. They ain’t never seen the duchess stop in fer a wee chit-chat.”
“I was hoping one of the bakers could teach me to make bread and cakes. I remember as a child I was once allowed to knead the bread dough, though I was forbidden to mix the ingredients together.”
“Are ya bein’ facetious agin?”
Emily grabbed Glenna’s arm. “I would truly love it!”
“’Tis no place fer King George’s granddaughter,” said Glenna, reinforcing her declaration with a stern bob of her head.
“Would it just be best for all if I kept to my room?”
“Might be a sight easier,” sighed the old housekeeper, setting off on the south-facing path toward the house. Again she stopped short, this time to give Emily a sizing up. “And why is it ya have on that gown agin when ya have three new ones to yer name?”
Emily ran her hand along the sleeve of her cherished blue-and-white-striped dress, but remained tight-lipped.
“Before ya come to the luncheon table, be sure to change to satisfy Her Grace.” Glenna trudged on. “Now, what is it ya need from me?”
“I wondered if the mail had come.”
“It has.”
“Was there anything for me?”
“Lud, Pet! I don’t rifle the mail, I just hand it off to Her Grace.” Glenna’s eyes narrowed. “Ya weren’t expectin’ somethin’ that quick from yer sea friends, were ya?”
“I was hoping to receive a note from Mr. Walby in Winchester.”
“And would this Mr. Walby’s given name be Leander?” asked Glenna, cocking her head to one side.
“No, his name is Augustus … Gus Walby,” she replied steadily, unwilling to oblige Glenna’s itch for information. “He’s the young midshipman who was badly injured on the Isabelle … the one who came home with Uncle Clarence and me. I believe I mentioned him to you. Almost immediately upon my return to consciousness after landing in on your doorstep, I wrote to him to let him know my address. That was several days ago; I did think I would hear from him before now.”
“Well, the mail ain’t always very reliable. I’m sure ya’ll hear from the lad soon enough.” Alerted to approaching footsteps on the pathway, Glenna’s face broke into smiles. “Since yer letter writin’ ain’t very successful, and I’ll not have ya bakin’ cakes with the servants, here now … here’s a bit o’ entertainment fer ya.”
The housekeeper hurried off with her laundry, leaving Emily alone to greet Somerton.
10:20 a.m.
Outfitted in his riding gear, Somerton stood there awkwardly, his gaze at first unable to meet Emily’s eyes. She wondered if his uncharacteristic diffidence had anything to do with the conversation she had overheard the other day between his parents and her uncle. Why they had been practically congratulating one another in their collusion
to have her married again — legally this time, of course. The niggling memory of it caused Emily to be trifling in her manner.
“I didn’t expect you home so soon.”
“Oh! Why is that?”
“Fleda told me you were staying in town for a week.”
“Ah! Well! It was best I didn’t overstay my welcome.”
“Were you unable to pick a bride from amongst your host’s many daughters?”
Somerton reddened under the hot August sun. “Did Fleda tell you I was off in search of a bride?”
“She told me something to that effect!” Emily looked longingly in the direction of the wooded walk on the western acres of the parkland, shimmering on the meadow like a welcome desert oasis. “It’s so humid out. Shall we?”
“I would like that,” said Somerton, settling in at her side. “The truth is … I was going to suggest we go for a walk.”
“You look as if you’re preparing to take a ride this morning.”
“I am, but it can wait ’til later.”
As they entered the invigorating woods, Emily said, “And so … are you?”
Somerton appeared puzzled. “I am sorry … am I what, Emeline?”
“Seeking to find for yourself a bride?”
He took his time in replying. “Not at the moment, no.”
“Well, when you are ready to begin your search, it might benefit you to know, while seeking a breath of fresh air in the early hours of Sunday morning, I overheard several young ladies squabbling over which one of them was most worthy of you.” Emily leaned in toward him. “Bravo, Lord Somerton! It seems you have secured for yourself several admirers.”
Somerton gave a nervous sort of laugh.
“Tell me, was there one in particular that you fancied above the others? If so, do describe her to me, for I’m quite sure I can still recall all the young ladies who were in attendance at the ball.”
His smile was guarded. “Is everyone so anxious to see me married off?”
“I’ve no idea. Are they?”
They strolled along in silence, Emily at ease as she admired the sun shadows that pierced the canopy of trees, hoping she might spot another magpie amongst the tangled branches, while Somerton, a particular stiffness in his stride, kept those dark, close-set eyes of his fixed upon the path. It was only once they had stopped to greet the ducks, paddling serenely on the glass surface of one of Hartwood’s ponds — Emily wished she had a crust of bread to offer them — that he spoke again, only now on a new subject.
“The book you’re carrying … what is it?”
She showed him its leather-bound front cover.
“A System of Surgery?” he cried.
“Written by the eminent practitioner, Benjamin Bell.”
“Volume one!” he cried again.
“Were you expecting Mrs. Radcliffe’s Mysteries of Udolpho?” she asked with enhanced formality.
“I was hardly expecting a book on surgery,” spluttered Somerton.
Emily refused to be put off by his astonishment. “I was so pleased to find a number of medical books in your well-stocked library. Do you have a doctor in the family?”
“My grandfather had a great passion for medicine. It was a hobby of his.” He frowned. “Are you planning to perform surgeries on us all while you’re here?”
“I was hoping, should you fall from your horse or be shot accidentally while hunting for grouse, you might allow me to further my knowledge by practising upon you.”
“You cannot be serious!”
“Oh, but I am! When I leave here, when the dark cloud of this looming trial has passed over, I plan to seek permission from my family to take up the study of medicine.”
“You … you do mean midwifery, do you not?”
“No! I do not.”
Somerton stole a glance at her. “Your family may have other plans for you.”
“I am certain they do.”
“And if they do not heed your wishes?”
“I shall strike out on my own.”
“I’ve never heard of a woman doctor before.” There was no enthusiasm whatsoever in his voice; in fact, Emily was certain she detected an undertone of agitation.
“If one does not already exist in England, then I shall be the first,” she said, hugging the book to her breast.
“The knowledge you already possess … I’m guessing it was acquired while you were at sea.”
“It was.”
“I believe you have seen things that no woman should ever have to see.”
“Nor any man, but gangrenous limbs, brutal amputations, and festering gun wounds are common realities to some of your countrymen; at least, I know they are for those who serve England on the Atlantic.”
“You actually witnessed amputations?”
“I did, and worse,” she said quietly.
“I cannot imagine anything worse than an amputation.”
Octavius Lindsay’s last moments flashed before Emily’s eyes.
Unaware of her abhorrent thoughts, Somerton paused beside a flourishing rhododendron bush and planted his boots in the gravel to observe her closely. “Wouldn’t you like to have a family, Emeline?”
“I would, very much,” she replied, stooping to smell the dusky-yellow flowers. “But not right now, and not with my present husband.”
“Of course not,” he concurred. “But don’t you think your family will try to make an advantageous marriage for you once you’re free from Trevelyan?”
“They shall try, I’m sure of it. I am not, however, going to be forced to marry Mr. Gribble.” She arranged her features to convey mock horror. “Is my family, unbeknownst to me, hoping I will marry Mr. Gribble and be whisked away to his country seat?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Somerton answered soberly, impervious to her jesting. “Although I do believe Mr. Gribble himself was hoping to secure your affections the other night.”
“The man is in his sixties!”
“Yes, and he has quite an assembly of young children at home.”
“Then he needs to hire a governess. The man has no business to come fishing for a young wife.”
When Somerton seemed unwilling to prolong the topic of Mr. Gribble they resumed walking, the pathway through the woods now leading them back toward the house, which gleamed like a full moon against its backdrop of summer greenery. Emily studied his profile, only to find his mind seemingly hard at work.
“If you were to find a younger husband,” he began slowly, “one who was well connected and could offer you protection and all the fruits of life, would you give up this notion … this hope of yours to study medicine?”
“I would not,” she said resolutely. “I do not require connections, nor to be protected, and as far as I am concerned I shall not find the fruits of life on a country estate nor in a fashionable townhouse in Mayfair.”
Somerton’s eyes widened. “It’s only your youth, your idealism speaking, Emeline.”
“Oh! Is it? Do tell.”
“We all hope for a life that is not within our grasp when we are eighteen,” he said, assuming a preachy tone. “You women all have such imaginations. Soon — you’ll see — soon you’ll be more concerned about your dinner guests, and how many children you have in the nursery, and the receiving of a new ball gown will throw you into an impassioned level of excitement.” Somerton spoke so evenly, he could have no idea of the effect his words would have on her.
“Will it?” she hissed.
“I’m sure of it.”
“The women with whom you are acquainted, are they all like-minded?”
“I would say so. You women are all the same. Quite uncomplicated, I find.”
“Perhaps you should leave your estate more often, Lord Somerton.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am younger than you, by at least ten years, I believe, and yet already experience has taught me that not all men are the same. Their thinking, their motives can be quite diverse. Why not say the same about
the female sex?”
“I’m afraid my experience with your sex has not taught me otherwise.”
“How long have we been acquainted?” asked Emily, an edge surfacing in her voice.
“A week or so.”
“Can you really come to know a person in a single week?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Then, please, do not presume that parties and ball gowns will become the sum total of my existence.”
She brushed past him to return to the place by the southwest corner of the house where they had begun their walk, and only when he had arrived there himself did she bother to square off with him one last time.
“Thank you for the exercise,” she said tersely. “It was most refreshing.”
His earlier diffidence having vanished, he glared down at her; the contemptuous expression flickering on his face so eerily similar to his youngest brother, it startled Emily. With a prim bow of his head he strode off toward the stables, but not before uttering a few final harshly-spoken words.
“Yes, and the conversation most enlightening, though I fear for you, Emeline. I fear you shall end up bitterly disappointed.”
16
Thursday, August 19
11:00 a.m.
Winchester
Gus lay still in his lumpy cot and cocked his ears to the sounds that reached the mullioned window of his attic room. There was a clip-clop on the cobbles of the backyard, followed by children squealing with delight and a kindly voice conveying words of greeting. At last, the doctor had come! Gus had been so hopeful he would visit today, for a whole week had passed since his last visit and feeling poorly as Gus was, Aunt Sophia was rapidly losing patience with what she termed his refusal to help her round the farm. At the very least, he needed the doctor to confirm the validity of his illness.
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 54