Cannons and pistols and muskets still fired, but now their roar seemed muffled, as if they were mere echoes of Leander’s dream. For over an hour the battle had raged on, the Prosperous and Remarkable’s ceaseless pitching and shuddering leaving any and all faint-hearted languishing in sickness. But she was still fighting, still afloat, and Pemberton had seen fit to abandon his post to report the news to the hospital — with sober propriety — that one of the American vessels was sinking. The men who were still conscious had cheered and clapped and raved; most had said nothing at all.
“I’ll need you all to hold him down.”
Magpie timidly came forward to stand beside Leander, and closed his hands around Morgan’s left arm with care, as if he feared it might be afflicted too. Morgan rolled his head around and looked at Magpie, though his feverish eyes seemed fixed upon something stirring in the darkness behind him. Selecting the knife that would slice through skin and muscle and ligaments, Leander listened to the words that passed between them; their voices so whispery and husky with fear, he cursed the racket of the brig’s grinding pumps.
“You’ll tell them where I’ve been?”
“Who, sir?”
“Brangwen and Glyn; they’ve been wondering these past seven years.”
“Didn’t ya send them a letter, sir, when ya was in Bermuda?”
Morgan tried to raise his head up; his voice despairing. “What if it doesn’t reach them?”
“Then ya kin tell ’em yerself, sir … when yer better.”
“They need to know I wasn’t spirited away.”
“What’s that, sir?”
Assailed by another sweep of pain, Morgan clenched up, breathing heavily, and eased back on the table to fight it, leaving Leander to answer for him.
“It means when one is secretly taken, stolen by a gypsy or some kind of spectre.”
Magpie’s eye leapt across Morgan’s recumbent form and landed on the volunteer, Jim Beef, where it swelled in magnitude as if the lanky man was the sort capable of spiriting children away from their mothers. But Morgan’s fearful cry distracted him.
“Magpie? Are you still there?”
“I’m here, sir.”
“Please stay near.”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“You won’t forget about my thrum cap, will you?”
Magpie’s face began to crumple. Bereft of words, he could only touch his little fist to his temple in a salute. “Sir.”
For an instant Morgan’s face brightened; he tried to smile. Drawing a slow breath, he turned away to accept the leather gag, sank his teeth into it, and braced for what was to come. Stinging with tears, Magpie leaned his meagre weight upon his friend’s arm and buried his head next to him on the bloody cloth. Together the older men bore down upon Morgan while Leander cut into his leg.
Noon
In the abrupt, disquieting silence, Leander plodded toward the main deck, pausing after each climb to steady himself and catch his breath, his journey taking him past the fatigued gunners, most of whom were either sleeping or slumped upon the floor, curls of acrid smoke still prowling between them and the scorching carronades, and tripping over charred planks and unrecognizable bits of the brig. Reaching his destination, Leander stared up at the severed web of rigging stays traversing the blue brilliance of the sky, astounded to find the two masts unbroken, towering over the ship like fearless, inexhaustible combatants. The sails had not fared as well, many of them depleted by black-edged holes; nonetheless, there was enough canvas left to catch the wind.
As if he were working in the security of Portsmouth Harbour, Pemberton was organizing small groups of ruffians to begin making repairs, the damage report having included an unfortunate but complete destruction of the seats of ease. At the brig’s wheel, a subdued Prosper kept his eyes focused on the fore horizon, a steely determination on his fox-like features to put distance between the Prosperous and Remarkable and the American vessels he had failed to blow to kingdom-come.
Leander shook with relief when he spotted Fly standing alone by the starboard rail — whole, unharmed, alive — gazing back over the wake of the brig at the destruction and horror they had left behind them; his sad, slumped figure hauntingly reminiscent of Captain Moreland studying the white horizons, watching for Trevelyan.
Sensing his cautious approach, Fly moved his head slightly, but did not turn around. His voice was desolate. “If we’d continued fighting, those larger ships would’ve caught up and raked Prosper’s stern to pieces.”
“You did your best, Fly.”
“Did I?”
“What more could you’ve done?”
“I wish I knew. The Amethyst — she’ll be boarded, taken a prize, most likely sailed into New York Harbour under an outpouring of thunderous applause, and Prickett and Bridlington and the others — those that have not already fallen — will be herded into cold, crumbling jails and prisons. I’d prefer to be buried alive than become a prisoner of war.”
Fly’s hand — the one gripping the rail — was trembling, and the slackening pockets of flesh around his dark eyes gave him the aspect of a much older man.
Leander stood quietly beside him and listened.
“Such a gut-wrenching realization to discover — in the end — you are powerless and insignificant. All of your training, your exertion, your seemingly sound judgement, your extraordinary seamanship … what does it amount to when you know that, despite your efforts, this day, this season, is nothing more than the second summer of war. The fight will go on, and our lads will continue to be needlessly slaughtered, and we shall not triumph until more ships and supplies and men are redirected to America. The theatres of this war are too varied, far too vast, and Napoleon and his French Navy are slowly sucking us dry.” He heaved a despairing sigh. “I am so battle and sea-weary. I — I believe I now understand Captain Moreland’s need to ask for my forgiveness before he breathed his last on the blood-soaked deck of the Isabelle.”
Biscuit slunk toward them, his head respectfully bowed, and handed off two steaming mugs and — to Leander — the additional delicacy of a slushed biscuit. As quietly as he had come, he moved away in search of others who required sustenance.
“Let us follow Prosper’s lead and look off in another direction,” encouraged Leander, tearing Fly away from the tragedy unfolding on the waves, and leading him to the brig’s bow. “Look there! If you squint into that far-off cloud bank, I bet you’ll glimpse Land’s End.”
“Perhaps the Isles of Scilly?”
“Whatever! We’ll be home soon.”
Fly finally raised his misty eyes. “Not yet forty years of age the two of us, and we’re physical wrecks.”
“I’m a long way from forty. You on the other hand, Mr. Austen —”
“Ah, but you’re still an old wreck — an emaciated one at that. I would suggest you eat up that slushed biscuit, and try to include some meat in your diet tonight. We’ll need to smarten you up if you ever hope to win the favour of a certain princess.” He smiled sadly. “If not for your friendship, Lee, this cruise would have been intolerable.”
The exhaustion and emotion of Leander’s surgery suddenly overwhelmed him. His words caught in his throat. “And yet the cost … my debt to you —”
The embers of life that had begun to stir in Fly’s face were extinguished by alarm. “You’ve — you’ve come to tell me then that Mr. Evans has died.”
Leander’s fist bounced near his mouth; he could only nod.
Fly wandered the bow in agitated circles before stopping to lean against the bowsprit. His sorrowful groan sliced through Leander like the surgical knife he had just held in his hands.
“The odds were stacked against him. If only it’d just been his arm —”
“Infection? I know that’s always your concern.”
“No. Blood loss.”
“Is there anyone … sitting with him?” Fly whispered brokenly.
“Magpie will stay with him until we hold his funeral
service.”
“Bless our brave little sailmaker.”
“The boy grieves as if he’s lost an older brother.”
“Yes,” said Fly, contemplating the blue-green waves. “And I have lost a most cherished son.”
Leander touched his friend’s shoulder in sympathy.
“I shall not bury him in the North Sea or the Atlantic. There’s a little churchyard at Wymering in Portsmouth; I shall take him there. That way he will always stay close to the sea. It may ease his sisters’ minds to know where he is lying.” Tears slipped from Fly’s tired eyes. “It surely will ease mine.”
37
Monday, August 30
8:30 p.m.
Hartwood Hall
“What’s all yer tarryin’ about? Everyone’s waitin’ downstairs fer ya!”
Emily jumped in fright when that scolding meddler, Glenna McCubbin, suddenly filled her bedroom doorway, sending her sidling toward the desk to shield the items she had arranged there. “Is Uncle Clarence here yet?”
“Nay! He’ll likely arrive when the guests do.”
Emily’s stomach was a bunched knot of anxiety. She prayed her uncle had news — encouraging news this time. “Then what’s the hurry? I haven’t yet heard the expected barouches and phaetons below my window.”
“Her Grace and Lord Monroe want to see yer gown.”
“Lord Monroe? Since when did Wetherell become an authority on women’s fashion?”
“They want to make certain ya look satisfactory.”
“Satisfactory?” chirped Emily.
Glenna planted her fists on her hips to carry out her inspection. “Lud! That gown won’t do.”
Emily took a languid glance at herself in the mirror. “What’s wrong with it?”
“White doesn’t suit ya, and that absurd lace ruffle at yer neck reminds me o’ my prudish Aunt Euphemia.”
“This gown was made for me.”
Glenna stomped toward the wardrobe. “I’ll find ya somethin’ more comely.”
“No!” cried Emily, springing in front of her. “I am not changing. I don’t mind blending with the crowds tonight.”
“Well ya won’t, not with all the bosoms what’s sure to be on display!”
“Let Lord Monroe garner all the admiring glances tonight.”
Glenna wrinkled her nose. “Have ya bin cryin’ agin?”
“I’m fine,” snapped Emily, detesting her note of hysteria. “Let me just affix a rose in my hair — I brought some red ones in from the garden earlier — and I’ll be down shortly. I promise.”
“Ya need a maid. When yer properly married, they’ll see to gettin’ ya one.”
Itching to be rid of her, Emily did not inquire who they meant. “I am on pins and needles in anticipation!”
Seeing a narrowing of Glenna’s eyes and realizing another lecture was about to be unleashed, Emily acted swiftly. Rushing toward her old nursemaid, hoping to squeeze the breath from her, she embraced her, relieved — upon untangling herself — to see her face flushed with joyful surprise.
“Ya haven’t given me one o’ those fer a long while, Pet.”
“I am sorry. I truly am.”
“No need fer apologies; just make haste — make haste.”
When a placated Glenna had at last departed, Emily blocked the door with a chair and hurried to the wardrobe to drag out the pillowcase she had stashed away on the floor behind her suspended gowns. On her knees, she took stock — one more time — to make certain she had everything she would need and everything she held dear. There, sitting atop her neatly folded sailor gear and the blue-and-white-striped dress, were Jane Austen’s volumes of Pride and Prejudice, and the bundle of unread letters Somerton had finally relinquished to her. Captain Moreland’s letter was there too, for Emily could not bear to leave it behind. Fishing inside a silk slipper, her fingers reassuringly closed around the £50 note she had won playing cards. Her glance then travelled to the desk. Propped up against her silver inkwell, addressed to the Admiralty, in care of the Duke of Clarence, was the letter in which she had written a detailed account of her experiences on HMS Isabelle and the USS Serendipity. Alongside it sat Helena’s esteemed emerald ring. Smiling to herself, for there was nothing more she needed to do, she sealed up the pillowcase with a scarf.
Emily’s eyes fell on her small sea chest. Her quivering hands sought the lid, lingering there, caressing the roughness of its simple wood construction. She closed her eyes to gather the sea around her like a pair of wings, her heart and senses swiftly responding. The salty tang of the Atlantic tickled her nose; its bracing spray cooled her face. Beneath her feet, the ship’s timbers sighed, and overhead the billowing sails cracked and snapped in the fresh breeze. She could hear the bosun’s whistle and the beating drum, Captain Moreland giving his orders and the Isabelles’ heedful replies, and amidst all — like a soaring bird that heralds land — came the whispered words of Leander Braden.
“You must know, Emeline Louisa Georgina Marie, that, above all else, I completely love and adore you.”
A clock chimed the hour. The expected phaetons and barouches came clattering into the courtyard. Unwelcome voices rang out in cheerful greeting. Peals of piercing, high-pitched laughter floated upon the evening air. Along the corridor, heavy footfalls came marching toward her bedchamber; an impatient messenger rapped upon her door.
With a terrible grief clenching her breast, Emily banged the wardrobe shut and rose to face the night.
11:00 p.m.
When the music room’s mantelpiece clock tolled the hour, Emily was certain only she was cognizant of it. Where was Uncle Clarence? He had hoped to attend the ball. Was he afraid to face her then? Had he received confirmation that the Amethyst was lost? Had Trevelyan become a lurker in the backstreets of London, and her uncle was determined to singlehandedly root him out and present his head to the Admiralty?
Emily shrank against the wall beneath the portrait of Octavius. Sitting woodenly on a cushioned stool beside her was Fleda, her dead eyes watching the dancers. In her curls and ribboned muslin of duck-egg blue, she was a forsaken figure, all but forgotten in the corner of the music room to which her mother had banished her. Unable to cheer Fleda up — for her own condition was one of restless turmoil — Emily sipped on a goblet of pink punch, her eyes on the lookout for Wetherell in his violet and sapphire suit. So much for the Whist tables! “Your Royal Highness,” he had said after his fiercely critical scrutiny of her plain white gown, “I intend to dance every last cotillion and reel with you. Do not insult me by taking up with another partner.” Had he forgotten she had rebuffed his ridiculous proposal of marriage? Emily shook her head and shuddered in remembrance of his dry, doughy hands, his pointed toes as he performed ballet-style steps, and the staleness of his perspiring body as they whirled around the dance floor. She would have welcomed rescuing from Somerton, but he was far too busy to supply her with charity, lapping up the worshipping attentions of the single ladies who had sewn him up in an impenetrable circle of bare shoulders and smiles.
Without warning, Emily’s goblet was seized and dispensed with, and she was summarily dragged through the door and into the antechamber by the stout woman-friend of her Uncle Clarence, the one named Mrs. Jiggins — with the happy disposition — who had professed her notions on sailors and carnal recreation at the previous ball. Tonight the wiggly folds of her throat were constrained with pearls and her turban of pleated gauze was embellished with glittering amethysts and one very large ostrich plume.
“My dear, tell me,” she said, her voice slurring with drink, “when will your uncles be arriving?”
“I believe you mean my uncle … in the singular.”
“Oh, do I?”
“I’m hoping Uncle Clarence will be here soon.”
“Ah! And tell me,” she went on, leaning in, her hot, sour breath hitting Emily’s cheek, “when will His Grace be making the announcement?”
“What announcement?”
“Oh, come now, d
on’t be coy. You know perfectly well what I’m alluding to.”
Emily turned to face the woman. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
The woman’s fingers sought her vermilion lips and then fluttered on the base of her pearl-laden neck. “Oh, you sly thing!” she laughed. “You want to surprise everyone! Do not worry yourself, for Helena told only me in the strictest confidence.”
Emily’s blazing eyes went hunting for the Duchess of Belmont, but ideas of violent revenge were cooled when Wetherell’s vividness swelled before her, backing her up against a marble column.
“Ladies!”
He swept the parquet floor with an elaborate bow as if hoping to impress Emily with his prevailing ability to touch his toes, and then his fingers clamped her elbow like iron manacles. “Excuse us, Mrs. Jiggins,” he grinned, “but I must away with this exquisite creature to execute a longways country dance.”
11:30 p.m.
As soon as Emily spotted the distinctive pineapple head of her Uncle Clarence milling about in the antechamber, and before the master of ceremonies had trumpeted his arrival to the music room crowd, Emily made her graceful excuses to Wetherell — her ankle required a respite — and hurried away to pull her unsuspecting relative into the empty schoolroom.
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