Magpie sat upright with his bowl. “How’d I get back on the ship, sir?”
Mr. Austen folded his arms across his chest. “Ah! Would you believe a leviathan wave? It swept you up and, like a barrel, rolled you right back to us. You landed in on the quarterdeck, whereupon you knocked your head about, but you returned to us safely, for which we are all most thankful.”
In response to Mr. Austen’s declaration there came a snarling sound from Mrs. Kettle’s hammock, like a pack of dogs fighting over a chunk of meat, its owner trying but failing to exasperate Magpie, who was so happy to feel the gruel warming his empty stomach and to have the momentous presence of the commander at his bedside. Turning his back to Mrs. Kettle, Magpie silently thanked the stars for his safe return. On the deck above the hospital the air was infused with the steady banging of hammers and carefree voices. Sunshine poured in through the open gunports, and the Amethyst was travelling on a tranquil sea. Osmund Brockley, who was never one to work quietly, stepped lightly about on the floor planks and, once he had secured food for Mrs. Kettle, wordlessly tended to the bruised head of a third patient. In the centre of the hospital, sun shadows danced upon Dr. Braden’s desk, empty except for the locked writing box, which Morgan Evans had knocked together for him in Halifax. Though Magpie felt a sense of well-being, free from the terrors of the stormy sea, something unpleasant began to prick at his waterlogged brain.
Mr. Austen stepped closer to his bed, clasping his hands behind his back. It gave Magpie a pain in the pit of his stomach to see Mr. Austen looking very drawn, like a sail deprived of its driving wind. He wondered if he was going to say something more to him, perhaps question him further on his experiences alone in the big ocean, but a step on the hospital ladder diverted the man’s attention. It was Morgan, pulling the woolly thrum cap from his head, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Magpie beamed at him, so glad he was to see him, and yet Morgan did not, would not, look his way.
“Excuse me, sir, Captain Prickett wishes to speak with you. He asked that you come straightaway.”
Spying Mr. Evans, Mrs. Kettle started in her hammock. “What’s all this? Yer still about? I woulda thought ya’d been clapped in irons by now fer all yer mischief.”
In bewilderment, Magpie’s eye hopped from the carpenter to the commander and back again.
“I don’t suppose,” muttered Mr. Austen, raising his hand to silence the laundress, “you know what he wishes to see me about, do you, Mr. Evans?”
“I have an idea, sir, but I don’t like to say,” Morgan replied, his eyes never leaving Mr. Austen.
“I’ll come. In the meantime, may I ask … could you stay a while with Magpie? Maybe take him above deck when he has eaten … if he feels strong enough to take some fresh air? I haven’t yet had a chance to … I was about to, but —”
Morgan’s reply was swift. “Aye, sir. I will, sir.”
Without a parting word or glance, Mr. Austen hurried from the hospital. Magpie’s heart pounded in his chest as he waited for Morgan to locate a stool and carry it to the side of his bed away from Mrs. Kettle.
“What’s happened, sir?” he asked in a frightened whisper. “Why should ya be clapped in irons? And why … why is Mr. Austen so aggrieved?”
There were tears working in the corner of Morgan’s eyes when he finally lifted them to Magpie. “When you were in the sea,” he whispered, “five men set out in the skiff to get you. You came back, all on your own, but they couldn’t reach the Amethyst, and we couldn’t steer her toward them.”
A stone dropped in Magpie. He remembered … those familiar voices that had called out to him over the howling wind, so close to where he was fighting for his life, and those strong, comforting hands grabbing for him … latching onto his shirt just as the wave came … the one that had wrenched him away …
He looked up at Morgan to await the final answer.
“I’m afraid … we lost them.”
1:30 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Three Bells)
A sober-sounding Captain Prickett invited Fly to enter the great cabin.
“Do come in, Mr. Austen. Sit yourself down and I’ll have my servant get you a glass of refreshing wine. Goodness knows you could use it, seeing as your appearance reminds me of a fish caught on a hook.”
Fly seated himself next to Bridlington, who lost no time in inviting attention to his facial injuries by fingering the bandages around his mouth. “You asked to see me?”
“That I did!” Prickett swivelled in his cushioned chair to give loud instructions to the hovering waif to fetch them wine and a dish of sweets, and then eyeballed Fly.
“Now then, two things, first of which is this sorry business involving Mr. Evans. It must be settled. What do you suggest as a form of punishment?”
“I will tell you with honesty,” Fly said with a sorrowful shake of his head, “it is my wish we do nothing at all.”
Bridlington nearly jumped out of his boots. “Mr. Austen! We cannot let this pass. Your chap assaulted me. Why I hardly have a tooth left in my head.”
Allowing his glance to rove over Bridlington, who sat cross-legged and trout-faced in the comfort of his armchair, Fly felt a powerful temptation to inform the first lieutenant he would have done the same had he been in Mr. Evans’s place. It was therefore necessary to restrain his thoughts before he again opened his mouth. “My apologies … I’m afraid I’ve no appetite for discipline, my mind being full of nothing beyond the loss of our five men.”
“Put aside your soft feelings, Mr. Austen, and think clearly. Violence to a superior may result in death,” admonished Prickett, so serious in his demeanour, such a far cry from the slobbering bump in his hammock that Fly had seen earlier in the week.
“And Mr. Evans has been allowed to wander at will these past days,” Bridlington said, his speech an unfortunate sequence of lisps and whistles. “It’s abominable that we’ve not taken any action against the man, and now the men are whispering that the Amethyst is managed by milksops.”
“I’ve told you before, Bridlington, you are a milksop!” said Prickett, his reproach leaving his second-in-command muttering under his breath. “Naval law dictates a punishment must be exacted no later than twenty-four hours after the transgression. In any event, we have had our reasons for delay, but now Mr. Austen, I require your immediate counsel in the matter. How shall we proceed?”
Fly answered quickly. “Mr. Evans is one of our best men, industrious and loyal, and his skill as a carpenter is unparalleled. You’ve seen how well he’s organized the men and patched up the damage done by the storm. I plead for leniency in his case.”
Prickett rubbed his nose in circles as he considered the situation, while a red-faced Bridlington squealed, “Leniency? I’ll settle for nothing less than a flogging.”
Fly looked toward Prickett. “Might we take a moment to consider Lord Bridlington’s ill-conceived remarks prior to Mr. Evans having struck him?”
“By all means! Bridlington, forthwith!” said Prickett. “What exactly did you say that caused Mr. Evans to erupt like a volcano?”
Bridlington’s messy mouth dropped open, as if he were insulted to have to explain his actions. “I … I merely said we needed the doctor back on board … that it was outrageous for him to carry out such a foolhardy rescue.”
“According to Mr. Evans, you said we had no need for a trifling mite such as Magpie.”
“Mr. Austen! I said no such thing! Furthermore, I’m incensed that you’d take the word of a lowly carpenter over mine,” cried Bridlington, flouncing in his chair.
“Gentlemen, I realize how dangerous it would be to overlook offences against us, and allow men to see a weakness in those of us who lead. Nevertheless, it would be reckless to forget the importance of every man on this ship. We are all valuable. If we concede that some are better than others, that some are worth saving and others are dispensable, God help us all if and when we meet with disaster — whether it be the enemy, another storm, a shipwreck — and th
ose we deem to be inferior do not have our backs, or do not choose to take hold of our hand and pull us to safety. Mr. Evans’s feelings toward young Magpie are strong indeed; it’s a brotherly affection. And were it not for our young sailmaker, I wouldn’t be here at all. You might recall he saved my life, in the face of the worst kind of adversity, and I’ve no doubt, Lord Bridlington, he would one day do the same for you. I am therefore severely prejudiced in this affair.”
Bridlington swung toward Prickett, and pleaded, “Sir?”
The servant boy crept into the great cabin, bearing a tray, startled by the sound of Captain Prickett’s bark. “’Bout time! We might have perished for want of food and drink. Set it down and out with you.” Once the boy had done his bidding, Prickett tapped his fingers on the table. “Well, Austen, I’m leaving this one in your hands. You decide the punishment, but punishment there must be! I’ll not have my men think of me as a bumbling sort, though I care not for their opinion of my first lieutenant.”
Bridlington slipped into a muttering funk and said no more, which suited Fly, who hoped that neither man noticed the shaking of his hand as he reached for his glass of wine. “Thank you. I’ll have an answer for you by day’s end.”
“Now, on to our second bit of unpleasantness,” said Prickett with less gravity, his cares having been somewhat eased. “We cannot continue this futile searching.”
“We have been searching but three days.”
“Mr. Austen, I fear they’ve all drowned by now,” said Prickett, taking up his glass of wine, his voice devoid of compassion. “We’ve criss-crossed the ocean in the vicinity where they were last seen and found nothing.”
“Exactly! Aside from some of the items we heaved overboard for Magpie, we’ve found no debris, no bodies, nothing that would indicate disaster for either the Lady Jane or the skiff.”
“With the Lady Jane, I agree, there’d be evidence floating about. But the skiff — be reasonable, Mr. Austen.”
“A man can survive —”
“If the Lady Jane managed to get through that storm, she’ll be well on her way to England and we must catch up to her. I have my orders!”
“Would you permit one more day, sir?”
The crease between Prickett’s eyebrows deepened. “I will admit I’m quite desolate without Biscuit; however, I’ll give my consent in the hopes we come upon the Lady Jane. Should we find nothing in four and twenty hours, we shall push on our way.”
Fly’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.” Quitting the great cabin with alacrity, he was relieved to be away from its disagreeable occupants. He paused by the ship’s wheel where he closed his eyes to replenish his flagging spirits in the warm sunshine. Hearing his name, he was surprised to find a barefooted Magpie standing diffidently near the larboard rail. His face was tear-stained, but he carried himself well, and his voice was full of resolve.
“Mr. Evans told me what happened, so I had to find ya straightaway.”
Fly was at a loss to know how to console the boy.
“Could I borrow yer spyglass, sir?”
“For what purpose?”
“I’m goin’ to scour the waves, sir. And I’m not leavin’ the deck until I find Dr. Braden.”
“Very well, Magpie! You shall have my spyglass, but only on one condition.”
“Sir?”
Fly smiled in gratitude at the boy. “When I am able, you allow me to scour the seas in your company.”
18
Friday, August 20
11:00 a.m.
Hartwood Hall
As Emily meandered over the south lawns near the house, she could see Helena standing in the west garden in a snowy-white dress, one hand shading her eyes from the sun, the other waving to her in a summons. At first Emily wondered if perhaps the prosecuting lawyer had arrived from London to question her, but then Helena’s crackly voice rang out, meanly interrupting the birds’ melodies in the chestnut trees, and the lazy hum of the summer heat.
“Come drink your tea, Emeline. Fleda and I are waiting.”
The woman is always drinking tea, thought Emily crossly. She ambled up the undulating lawns, Benjamin Bell’s A System of Surgery tucked under her arm, toward the garden where a little table had been set up under the shade of an ivy arbour, in amidst rows of trimmed shrubs and flower beds. Had the woman nothing better to do? Emily had no desire to sit awhile with the duchess and her red-haired daughter, who had not uttered a single word to her since Monday, when their walk together to the main gates of Hartwood had ended on a bitter note. At least she did not have to face Somerton. Following their stroll through the grounds two days ago, he had delayed his intended ride around the estate and immediately left for town — perhaps, this time, to prey upon the hospitality of a more prosperous family. Was there no friend, no ally to be found at Hartwood? Even Glenna, her old nurse, was irascible and overbearing, and too eager to point out the limitations to her freedom. Adolphus was more benevolent in his attentiveness toward her, but he slept away much of the day — most likely to allay the distress of digestion — and when he was not abed, he was off visiting his neighbours and tenants, sampling their luncheon and supper victuals.
“Good gracious, you’re not reading that book again, are you?” mewled Helena, as Emily joined mother and daughter at the table.
“I am!” she said with a smile, setting down the precious volume by her feet. A glance at Fleda revealed the girl to be in a dudgeon, flinging bits of almond cake behind her chair to rid herself of her salivating dog, who only wanted to rest his head upon her lap.
“Why?” was Helena’s terse rejoinder, as she signalled to the waiting servant to pour the tea.
“It’s most informative, and as I fear I have grown dull of late it’s a way to keep my mind sharp.”
“I regularly receive the Lady’s Magazine and La Belle Assemblée, and you may have them when I’m done my reading. I believe you might find their content more useful than those shocking medical volumes you tend to favour.”
Fleda, deciding she had shunned her houseguest long enough, or perhaps incapable of withholding from her acquaintance what she perceived to be a deep, dark secret, finally glowered at Emily. “Somerton says you hope to study medicine.”
“I do.”
“How very interesting.” Helena’s voice was as dry as firewood. “Although, I think it is wise to leave the study of medicine to men; to those who can best withstand the sight of blood and entrails.”
Emily reached for her tea, that she might shut her lips upon the gold rim of her cup and prevent her hands from forming fists. Unfortunately the hot drink did nothing more than give her a hot flush, causing her further irritation.
“And all this exercise that you do, Emeline, and in this heat! I swear you cover five miles a day.”
“It has helped me regain my strength, and my land legs.”
Helena inhaled sharply. “Firstly, a young woman of your breeding should take care not to broil her skin in the sun. I would therefore suggest, when taking exercise outdoors, you wear a bonnet. Secondly, you should limit the amount of time you spend walking; otherwise, you will surely gain unsightly muscle.”
“I shall heed your wise counsel. Were anyone to notice I had muscles in my legs, I’d be quite appalled,” said Emily with a cheerfulness of disposition.
“I am happy to hear it, for where you are concerned we don’t need any further grist for the gossip mill.”
Their first cup of tea was drained in silence, Emily aware of nothing aside from the sounds of clinking china and Fleda’s snuffling dog as he lapped up his morsels of cake. Once their cups had been refilled, Helena stirred to life with a self-satisfied toss of her lacquered curls.
“Now for the reason I wanted to speak to you! His Grace and I are planning another ball, as our last one was such a triumphant affair; the talk of the neighbourhood, you know! I have every confidence the prospect will pull you from your lamentable state of dullness.”
Emily’s stomach fell away. “How
wonderful! Have you set a date?”
“Not yet, for I want my son Wetherell to attend, and he will not respond to my letters to make known his availability.”
Recollecting that both Somerton and Fleda had doubted she would ever have an opportunity to meet their eldest brother while at Hartwood, Emily said, “Perhaps some of your other sons will come in his stead.”
“No, I must have Wetherell. It’s high time he met the Princess Emeline Louisa.”
For a moment Emily mused on the complexities of the duchess’s remark. She did not care to meet the eldest son, whose portrait inferred he was a younger version of his wigged father, any more than she cared to suffer through another evening of frivolity at Hartwood, but an opportunity to irreproachably cause Helena discomfort presented itself, diverting her attention for a time. “I’d be more than happy to accompany you to town, and meet him there.”
“That is out of the question.”
“May I ask why?”
“He’ll have to meet you here,” replied Helena, sipping her tea.
“I was thinking it might be nice if you and I could shop in New Bond Street for accessories for the ball.”
“You have all you will need right here at Hartwood.”
Emily tried to sound convincing. “Oh, but I cannot be seen wearing the same pink silk gown!”
“Your new evening dress should suffice.”
“Well then, perhaps your eldest son would be agreeable to join us in seeing a play at the New Drury Lane Theatre.”
Helena was aghast. “A play?”
“Yes! I should so like to see my Aunt Dora perform again.”
“I’ve never attended a play in my life.”
“Oh! How sad.”
“There are always vagabonds and rogues hanging about theatres, and I simply could not countenance the thought of them jostling me to get a good look at you.”
While Emily wondered if she should laugh or cry, Fleda jumped into the discussion. “Wetherell doesn’t like leaving his residence at Boodle’s in St. James’s Street.”
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