Beyond the neat rows of flowers and shrubbery, Emily could hear wagon wheels on gravel as Helena’s soiree supplies were delivered to the Hall, and a curious peek at the noise resulted in the shocking revelation that Wetherell was the acting overseer, strutting about in his ostentatious colours, full of loud praise for the merchants and their wares. Spying Emily in the garden, he bowed to her, bending over so low she feared he would be locked forever in that unfortunate position. Biting back annoyance (with the upcoming soiree), and amusement (with the personage of Lord Monroe), she poured her concentration into her letter, knowing that time was fast running out, and therefore didn’t notice she had a visitor until a dog’s big tail slapped up against her legs.
Fleda stood unsmiling before her, bereft of spirit, wearing the same gown she’d had on the previous evening. Noticing the girl’s red-rimmed eyes, Emily hid her letter away in the desk’s tiny compartment, and extended an unspoken invitation to join her by arranging a chair close to hers. She gave permission to the wagging dog to rest his head upon her lap, and tickled his furry neck while waiting for Fleda to say something.
“Had Mr. Walby been allowed to stay, do you think he’d have asked me to dance at the party?”
“Indeed, I do, so long as he felt he could dispense with his crutch!” said Emily gently.
“Although Mother would have insisted we dance somewhere other than the music room.”
“Your mother could not tolerate her young daughter snatching away the guests’ attention from her.”
Fleda’s cheeks warmed as she looked away over the misty south lawns toward London. “I only knew Mr. Walby a short time, but I decided — if he asked me — I would marry him.”
Emily made certain she did not laugh. “I don’t think your father would be agreeable to parting with you at so young an age.”
“No,” she said quietly, “but I would like to leave here, to see something of the world. I’ve never even been to London.” She waved a limp hand in the direction of the fog-enshrouded city. “And there it is … so close by.”
“But you have been outside the walls of Hartwood.”
“I’ve been out in the neighbourhood, if that’s what you mean.” Fleda leaned in toward Emily. “I am envious of you. You have been to sea.” A dreamy expression occupied her wan features, as if her mind were running through scenes of Emily’s sword-wielding days on the Isabelle.
“I have, and it was both a wondrous and frightening experience, but now you see I am not allowed beyond Hartwood.”
“That’s because your family and mine fear you will escape.”
Emily snuffled. “And thus their urgency to see me safely married off to your brother?”
“But you don’t want Wetherell.”
“Please do not judge me if I say I’d rather be hanged alongside Thomas Trevelyan.”
A humourless laugh burst from Fleda’s lips. “He’s not a dashing figure. Not like Mr. Walby, is he?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Fleda gave Emily a sidelong glance. “But I did hope you might become my sister.”
“Can we not become sisters without me marrying into your family?”
Fleda considered the notion with a tilt of her head. “I suppose so.”
“Right then, now tell your elder sister why you’ve been crying. Is it Mr. Walby?”
“No, I cried over him last night.”
“Oh, I see!” said Emily, fearing the spilled tears might have something to do with her dead brother, and the painful remarks made in the music room. But there was something in the way Fleda’s chin inclined; the way in which she shyly searched Emily’s face, a light springing into those green eyes, then vanishing again as quickly, as if she were weighing the wisdom of confession.
“I — I have something to tell you. I think you should know.”
Emily grew alarmed. “What is it?” she whispered.
Fleda’s breath came in snatches as if she’d just run a full circle around the estate. “Somerton and Mother were speaking together in the parlour. I didn’t mean to, but I overheard them when I was crossing the front hall on my way upstairs. Somerton was very angry. I could hear him shouting at her, so I crept up on them, and watched through a crack in the door. Mother seemed shaken; she had her hand on her mouth, and was pacing before a sofa. I’ve — I’ve never known Somerton to be cross with Mother. She’s the angry one. Oh, and I heard such things! Somerton said something to her about stealing your letter — the one from Captain Moreland — that she never should’ve read it, and mustn’t tell the Duke of Clarence of it.” Fleda looked fearful. “Was I right to tell you this?”
Emily couldn’t answer immediately; incapable of thinking clearly over the beats of her heart. Is that why Helena had been in her room? Aware of its existence, had she rifled through her sea chest in search of Captain Moreland’s precious letter? But if so … why? What had she hoped to learn from it?
“Of course you were, Fleda.”
The girl’s bloodless lips quivered. “Somerton accused her of withholding all of your letters. There’ve been letters from your aunts, one from Mrs. Jordan and Mr. Walby, and you’ve received ever so many invitations to parties. And my mother … she … she kept them from you.”
Emily felt lightheaded. Was Helena really capable of such cold-hearted deception? But hearing of the letters, another emotion welled up inside her as if a loved one had placed a shawl around her shoulders on a chilly morning. “There’s a letter for me from Mrs. Jordan, my Aunt Dora?”
Fleda nodded. “Mother shouldn’t have kept them from you.”
“No, she shouldn’t have.”
“Somerton accused her of being obsessed, of recklessly seeking information.”
Information … what information?
Emily was left bewildered, unable to construct a logical explanation. “Your mother’s actions were wrong, but I hate to think of you ruining your pretty eyes over a bundle of stolen letters.”
Fleda smiled sadly; a sudden breeze tossing the slender wisps of her hair across her face as she glanced away. “I was about to go. I didn’t want to hear any more. I was too sad thinking of you never receiving Mr. Walby’s dear letter. But I saw Somerton grab my mother’s arm, and he shook her. He told her to forget the past — that she had to forget him — that she must never again breathe his name or it would lead to scandal and humiliation.”
Emily’s hand froze on the dog’s head. She held her breath, watching tears forming on Fleda’s eyelashes. “What did he mean?”
“My mother doesn’t love my father.”
“That’s quite an accusation. How can you be sure?”
“I heard Somerton say as much.” Fleda’s tone rippled with emotion. “Mother loved … she loves a man named Charles DeChastain.”
Emily’s stomach fell away.
“And he’s — he’s somehow related to your husband Thomas Trevelyan.”
11:30 a.m.
It was not long before Mademoiselle came in search of her errant student — Fleda shocking her by going quietly, but only once Emily had promised her they would talk again later. Returning the desk to the house and hiding her letter away under her mattress, Emily then set off toward the service wing, determined to find Somerton. She knew he would either be somewhere in the bewildering warren of storerooms and offices, or at the stables, saddling up his horse to dispel the disquieting clouds of his confrontation.
Recalling an earlier promise, Emily popped her head into the kitchen, delighted to find it buzzing with activity; the staff, doubled in number, scuttled about with their bowls and trays and platters as if the duchess were terrorizing them with a whip. The scene reminded Emily of the Isabelle, only here it was women in uniform toiling at their battle stations and not men.
Calling out “Good morning,” Emily was pleased to be met with shy smiles rather than rounded eyes and frozen mouths, and further pleased to see the cook — after all the curtsies had been dispensed with — come forward to greet her.
“Oh! Yer Royal Highness,” the woman blushed, “we wouldn’t know how to behave with you walkin’ amongst us.”
Emily smiled. “No French Chef this time?”
“He’s comin’ later on with his pastries and savoury entremets.”
“Did you have this many helping out at the last ball?”
“Nay, but it’s not every day we’ve royalty amongst us. We’re all aflutter with nerves.”
Emily frowned. She’d been at Hartwood for weeks now. Whatever did the woman mean? But a plea for clarification was hindered by Somerton, who made a surprising — if somewhat surly — appearance at her side.
“Lord Somerton! Just the person I was looking for.”
Ordering the cook back to work, Somerton took Emily’s arm and hastily led her along a narrow corridor of closed doors, steering her into the last room on the right — his office, presumably. It was decorated in shades of twilight blue and dominated by an imposing oak desk and sash windows that viewed the front courtyard, and haphazardly affixed to the walls were ancient swords and shields and glassy-eyed hunting trophies. Repulsed by his rude behaviour, Emily refused his invitation to be seated, and watched as he installed himself in the leather armchair behind his desk with the air and authority of a banker about to unburden her of her life savings.
“What were you doing in the service wing?”
“I was hoping to don an apron and bake pies.”
“Shouldn’t you be primping for tomorrow?”
“I’ll concern myself with primping an hour before the ball.”
“Would you like me to collect you for the first two dances, to rescue you from Wetherell?”
“I do not need rescuing; besides, Lord Monroe’s likely to choose the Whist tables over dancing.”
“Are you certain of that?”
There was a suspicious flicker in his eyes, though Emily could not be certain which of her two remarks had produced it.
“As a gentleman and your friend,” he said, mellowing his stern gaze, “I’ll watch over you at the ball.”
“My friend?” laughed Emily. “It would’ve been nice to have had a friend here beyond Fleda’s dog and the resident magpie.”
“You are speaking in past tense.”
“Am I?”
Somerton looked confused. “I thought we were friends.”
“Your actions toward me have been perplexing at best. At times you have shown kindness, but you’ve also shown an absolute disdain.”
“You’ve read me wrong. I have no disdain for you. I only have —”
Emily lifted her chin, curious to know how he would complete his sentence, but seeing his colour change she switched the subject. “And here you are at your desk when the fawning ladies shall soon be descending upon Hartwood? Don’t you have a pair of satin pumps to dust off?”
“Some of us must work. The estate does not run itself.”
“And you … not even the heir.”
“No. But you’ve met my father and eldest brother. I’m certain it wouldn’t surprise you to know that we’ve come close to losing the estate before.”
“Was it your hope to end up your father’s steward?”
“It was not.”
“Didn’t you want a career?”
“No. I wanted —” he hesitated. “I want Hartwood.”
“Ah! Was the thought of me ending up mistress of your ancestral seat a repugnant one?”
Somerton eyed her as he untied and yanked off his neckcloth.
“It’s not much fun, is it, Lord Somerton, wanting something you cannot have.”
His gaze did not waver. “No.”
“Your youngest brother wanted a career in law.”
“Did he? I scarcely knew my youngest brother.”
“Why do I have the impression that only Fleda was well acquainted with him?”
Somerton snickered. “Well she would have been. Octavius used to read to her, and take her riding. He even listened to her play the pianoforte, and before he left for the sea, he bought her that mutt.”
Emily had trouble imagining the Isabelle’s first lieutenant — the one she had known — showing patience for a younger sister. “And yet, when Mr. Walby was here, you displayed a zealous interest in your brother. I didn’t understand your behaviour last evening, in spite of Miss McCubbin’s assertion that you are a kind soul.”
Somerton’s mouth went missing in a grim line. “If my brother had lost his life when the Isabelle was set afire, you would have said. I cannot accept waiting until the trial to hear all. And now who knows whenever that shall take place with Trevelyan at large.”
“It came as a shock to find myself living with your family.”
“Why? My father opened Hartwood to you as a favour to your uncle.”
“Did he?” Emily challenged him with a sneer. “At first I thought so. It might also have made sense that your family wanted me here to provide them comfort and solace — someone who might recount their dead son’s final days on his ship and delight in his memory.”
“You’ve provided no comfort.”
“No.”
“Because my brother mistreated you on the Isabelle?”
“No, because I discovered early on that, with the exception of your little sister, none of you were genuinely in mourning. But then it was easier that way, for I didn’t know how to tell a girl of eleven years how her brother had died.” Feeling an enervating constriction in her chest, Emily crept toward the nearest chair and sat down, conscious of Somerton’s expectant gaze boring down on her. “I had an uncle named Octavius. He too was his father’s eighth son. I never met him — he died as a child — but upon his passing my grandfather was inconsolable. He believed there would be no heaven for him if he couldn’t find his beloved Octavius there.” Tears sprang to her eyes as her heart swelled. “I cannot understand a mother who does not love her child; therefore, I can only conclude that Helena invited me here for selfish reasons.”
Somerton began shuffling papers about. “You — you never actually said why you were looking for me.”
“I want my letters.”
He looked up quickly, his features falsely indignant. Emily stared him down.
“If you won’t get them for me, I’ll go post-haste to your mother. I believe she will know where to find them.”
A pall of silence settled on them like a dust cloth tossed upon the furnishings of a shuttered house. Mumbles of laughter and conversation filtered down the corridor from the kitchen, and outside in the courtyard wagon wheels grinded to a halt on the gravel driveway, inciting a series of welcoming barks from Fleda’s dog. Somerton’s sigh, which arrived only once he had contemplated the scenes beyond the windows, was almost inaudible. “Tell me something of my brother and I shall return what is yours.”
Emily rubbed her bare arms as if a ghostly presence had suddenly aspirated its dead chill down her neck. The ugly words would have to be uttered with celerity. “He died of a gunshot wound to the head.”
“What … in battle?”
“No.”
Somerton blanched, melding into the beam of pale sunlight streaming across the room. “No?” he echoed, shaking his head, his eyes scudding over the jumble of objects on his desk. “Are you saying he was executed?”
Emily would not reveal the traitorous exploits of Octavius Lindsay. His family did not need to know about them — not yet anyway.
“It was self-inflicted.”
His stare came back to her; incredulous and angry. “How do you know? Is this hearsay? Grist for the rumour mill? How can you be certain of this?”
“Because your brother killed himself in front of me.”
36
11:30 a.m.
(Forenoon Watch, Six Bells)
Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable
Leander gazed down at Magpie to see his small compressed mouth working against the horrors of the hospital. “Would you like to see if Mr. Austen needs your
help now?”
“Are ya tryin’ to send me off, sir?”
“It — it might be best.”
“If it’s all the same to ya, sir, I’d like to stay.”
Leander moved away from his operating table and gently guided Magpie toward the ladder, as far away as was possible from the desperate, weeping wounded. He could feel the boy’s thin shoulders quaking beneath his palms, and see his single eye transfixed upon the macabre wall shadows of the men huddled together in misery, mouths twisted and gasping in agony.
Leander drew himself up, his features grim. “You’ve worked yourself ragged these past hours.”
“Ya’ll need me to scatter the sand fer ya, sir.”
“Perhaps you can go find yourself something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Better still … bring us both some coffee. Biscuit always has a pot on the boil.”
“Send Mrs. Kettle in me stead, sir,” Magpie pleaded, nodding at the laundress who was rocking back and forth on a rum cask, her eyes vacant, mouthing the words to a silent song. “I kin prepare the tar fer ya! I kin hand ya yer knives and saws and stuff when ya needs ’em.”
Leander caught his breath, unable to oppose Magpie’s youthful resolution. How he wished he could just lower himself into the hold, and go to sleep for days on end among the barrels and the rats and the dead bodies of Biscuit’s dreadful tales. He made an adjustment to his pirated spectacles, which were determined to sit upon his nose like a heeling ship. “It’s not an easy thing to watch.”
“I won’t vomit or nothin’, sir.”
“That would be most helpful.”
Dragging himself back to his wretched table, Leander could sense the frightened child behind him as he examined Morgan’s shattered left leg. The foot was already gone, so was most of the tibia, and what remained was mangled right up to and including the patella; he’d have to amputate above the knee. One of Prosper’s ruffians who had kindly offered up his services — the one whose nose resembled a tumorous strawberry — had already administered a draught of rum and laudanum to the patient, while a second volunteer named Jim Beef, one of the Amethysts who’d scrambled aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable when the American ships first appeared on the sea, had a leather gag at the ready. Hardly recognizable as the intrepid carpenter, Morgan thrashed about in delirium, breathing in gulping snatches, mumbling incoherently except to ask for his sisters now and again. Clods of crusted blood and guts had lodged in his hair — someone else’s, Leander assumed — and his pallid face was slick with perspiration and misshapen with pain.
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