Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (81 page)

With a graceful upturn of her hand, Helena’s voice crackled the thick air. “Your Royal Highness, may I present my son Wetherell, the Marquess of Monroe?”

This clown in ridiculous trousers was Wetherell? An outburst of laughter threatened to take hold of Emily, and with all eyes closely watching her — especially those belonging to Somerton — she fought to quash it. Smiling sweetly, she quickly stepped toward the marquess, who didn’t bother to move an inch away from his chair, to shake hands with him; his fingers looking and feeling much like floured bread dough.

“At long last I have the pleasure,” he mumbled — or something to that effect — stooping theatrically to kiss her hand with his plummy lips, his eyes enlarging at the sight of her whitened scars. Upon raising himself up, he found the enormous mirror on the wall behind her and began admiring his reflection, giving his wig a tidying pat and his waistcoat a tug. There were no forthcoming inquiries after her health or that of her family, and he seemed not the least bit interested in engaging her in conversation — having found a far superior distraction in tinkering with the finely crafted seals at his waistband. Emily felt herself grow hot with embarrassment.

The Hartwood clocks bonged the hour, while those assembled in the dimly lit dining room swapped nervous glances with one another. Outside the birds chirped their August melodies, the chestnut trees soughed in the breeze, and shining through cracks in the closed draperies were ethereal strands of sunlight. The walls seemed to close upon Emily. If Helena had not had the wherewithal to instruct everyone to “Be seated,” and Adolphus had not chimed in with his loud, “Splendid,” Emily would have spun about on her heels and headed straight for the nearest door.

As the eldest son was now ensconced in the place of honour on his father’s right, which up until this moment had been Emily’s rightful place, she made her way around the table and reluctantly seated herself in the empty chair next to him. Once settled in with her linen napkin spread neatly upon her lap, she observed the family: Fleda looked miserable, Somerton was absently running a finger around the mouth of his wine glass, and Helena was sitting stiffly on the front few inches of her chair. Even Adolphus was not his usual gregarious self: he hollered like a ship’s bosun for the servers to come forward with their luncheon — cold roast beef, sliced mutton, and three kinds of salad — and hollered again for them to leave the dining room at once.

A pall descended upon the room as they all ate in silence. The only one seemingly untroubled was Wetherell. Though Emily did not dare give him a direct glance, his table manners did not escape her. As the food dishes were passed his way, he generously helped himself, but did not think to pass them on to others, too eager perhaps to dig into his own meal. He ate with obvious relish, oblivious to the company around him, alternately licking his fingers and washing them in the little bowl provided for such a purpose, and then drying them on a corner of the tablecloth. And every so often he peeked at himself in the mirror, Emily fully expecting to see him blow kisses at his astonishing reflection.

Fed up with the prevalence of glumness around her, and further annoyed to find the crushing humidity had adhered her dress to the leather upholstery of her chair, Emily decided to break the silence. She turned toward Helena and, careful to use the correct styling in the presence of the
great
Marquess of Monroe, she said, “Your Grace, have you been successful in your search for a new governess?”

“I have not,” Helena replied with a slow blink of her ice-blue eyes. “I shall worry about it after the ball.”

Emily saw Somerton raise his chin. “Are you still interested in the position, Your Royal Highness?” he coldly asked.

“I am. I’d like nothing better.”

Fleda gave her a small smile of appreciation, while, at her elbow, Wetherell whinnied in surprise, but made no comment.

There was another period of silence, broken only by Adolphus, whose large head had slumped forward upon his chest and was softly snoring.

Emily swung toward the marquess. “I understand, Lord Monroe, you live at Boodle’s in St. James’s Street.”

“I do,” he replied, his wigged head hunched over his luncheon.

“And how, sir, do you spend your days there?” Emily sensed Helena growing stiffer still on her chair, Fleda’s back straightening, and Somerton’s gaze growing round.

Wetherell smiled at himself in the mirror. “I eat fine meals and relish the latest gossip.”

“Ah, I take it then, sir; you live a most pleasant existence.”

“I do.”

“And do you carry on any business in town?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“I understand it is a rare occasion to have you visiting Hartwood.”

“I don’t like Hartwood. It’s too dull, without its diversions.”

“Then you intend to make St. James’s Street your permanent residence?”

“I do,” he grunted, heaping tomato and spinach salad onto his plate.

Emily tried her hand at levity. “And, pray, what has enticed you home this time? The prospect of a ball?”

For the first time he raised up his head and high collars. “Heavens, no! I’m far too important for such trifling affairs.”

There was food on Helena’s fork, but she did not carry it to her mouth, so flabbergasted did she seem by Emily’s questions and her son’s stinging replies. But as no one tried to stop her, and Fleda was obviously being entertained — her eyes dancing in mirth — Emily pressed on.

“What then?”

Wetherell again addressed the mirror. “I’ve been tempted home by the promise of good food and French wine.”

“That’s all?”

“For the most part.”

“But surely those commodities are available to you in London.” She smiled at him, though he took no notice. “And here I thought perhaps you were hoping to make my acquaintance.”

“Heavens, no, Your Royal Highness, you don’t interest me in the least.”

Helena blanched. Somerton choked on his slice of mutton.

Undaunted, and having been assured the Lindsay’s second son could still draw air, Emily continued. “Then, please, sir, enlighten me. What has enticed you home?”

Ever so slightly, Wetherell turned his head toward her. “I declare, for one so young, you are very forward in your questions.”

“If I offend, then please ignore me.”

“No one’s ever successfully offended me!” He gave his wig a pat. “And if I wish to ignore, I shall ignore.”

While Emily waited for a more satisfying answer, Adolphus’s snoring grew more sonorous, and when Wetherell finally decided to enlighten her he did so in a most patronizing tone.

“You see, of all things, Your Royal Highness, I delight in gambling. I possess avidity for playing at card and dice games, and I’ve been known to stray from my club to the gambling hells of Jermyn Street, where often my wagers have exceeded one hundred pounds. Therefore, I agreed to leave my rooms at Boodle’s
proviso quod
Father pay off my gambling debts, which I shall confess are atrociously high.”

A sudden attack of giggles seized Fleda, although Emily could not be sure whether it was Wetherell’s discourse or his delivery of such — complete with rolling eyes and little exaggerations of the mouth — the young girl found so amusing. Nevertheless, it served to partially obscure the shocking clatter of Helena’s fork as it fell upon her plate. In his slumbering state, Adolphus shook and snorted, but was quite able to resume his nap without further perturbation.

Curious to witness Somerton’s reaction, Emily gazed at him across the mountain of salad bowls and porcelain platters of meat. There was a quick movement of his head, as if he had been studying her but did not desire to be caught in the act, and to his meal he now gave his full attention. What mystified Emily was the queer, indecipherable smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

21

Tuesday, August 24

10:00 a.m.

Winchester

Gus was watching over
his cousins playing at marbles when a neighbour of Aunt Sophia’s wandered unexpectedly into the cobbled courtyard, announcing he was carrying a letter for Master Walby. So great was the excitement that it sent Gus into a paroxysm of coughs. His little cousins gathered around him, pushing and shoving, begging to know who it was from, but Gus firmly shooed them back to their game; he had business to conduct before there could be any reading of the letter. Being ever hopeful this day would come, he carried his three pence in his waistband pocket, and was therefore able to retrieve them straightaway, offering up the coins to the kind neighbour.

“Good Sir,” he said solemnly, “I thank you for your trouble.”

“Nay, Master Walby, keep your money.”

Gus looked up in surprise to see the neighbour grinning down at him. “The sender saw fit to pay the postage.”

Bursting into smiles he could barely contain, and grasping the letter so tightly the wind could not possibly wrest it from his fist and send it sailing over the sheep fields, Gus limped to a quiet corner of the courtyard and leaned against his aunt’s whitewashed shed. The words on the letter — his very first ever — had been executed in the most magnificent script:
Master Augustus Walby, Midshipman, Butterfield Farm, Winchester
. With trembling fingers, he carefully broke open the wax seal.

Bushy House

Monday, August 23rd

My Dear Master Walby,

I am distressed to hear that so much time has gone by without you receiving a letter from my niece. I cannot fathom why she has delayed corresponding with you, for I have been informed she does nothing all day long but read books on surgery and go for lengthy walks; however, be assured that she is well and in good hands. You may write to her at the following address:

Hartwood Hall, Helena’s Lane, Hampstead Heath, London

I trust you are thriving and well attended by the amiable and obedient doctor from Steventon, and that upon your complete recovery you are very much looking forward to your return to the sea.

Your much obliged, and very sincere friend,

William, Duke of Clarence.

Gus let out a loud whoop, and hurried toward the house as fast as his strong leg and crutch could take him, fully resolved — even if it meant an extra hour or two of back-breaking chores before bedtime — to beg Aunt Sophia for a single sheet of paper and a spot of ink so he could dash off a letter forthwith to Hartwood Hall.

11:00 a.m.

Portsmouth Harbour

Trevelyan found Twitch, wrapped
like an Egyptian mummy in his stolen velvet coat, in a reeking corner of the orlop deck, near the Black Holes: the poorly ventilated, damp cells below the waterline, into which prisoners were lowered for committing shipboard crimes. Twitch’s chalky, skeletal face was pressed against an iron-grilled scuttle cut into the hull, so that he could draw breath and bask in its tiny slit of daylight. Inspecting the encircling gloom to make certain there were no spies listening in — English, American, or otherwise — Trevelyan dropped down on the floor beside him, and was careful to speak in subdued tones.

“I haven’t crossed paths with you lately on deck.”

Twitch’s eyes fluttered open and narrowed as if to ascertain the identity of the speaker, but he kept his prone position on the floor. “Ain’t they dragged ya off to Newgate yet?”

“I have not yet had the privilege,” was Trevelyan’s droll reply.

Twitch snorted. “Why then haven’t ya tried to escape?”

“I’ve already witnessed the attempts of those who’ve tried and abjectly failed to flee through a hole in the hull, or hide out in the water casks carried back to shore.”

“What happened to ’em?” Twitch asked with fervour.

“One drowned, his body washed up on the mud flats, the other is languishing a few feet from you in his lonely Black Hole. I believe I can hear the poor fellow sobbing as we speak.”

“Ya ain’t afraid of the Black Holes, are ya?”

“I can think of more agreeable places in which to pass my hours.” Trevelyan changed up the subject. “So then, are you ill?”

“I’m feeble; I haven’t eaten fer days.”

“Have you been playing at cards and suffered the cruelties of bad luck?”

“Aye! Lost me meal rations … lost me exalted place on the gun deck … lost me trousers … lost everythin’ but me coat and tricorne. Ain’t givin’ them up.”

“When do you expect to eat next?”

“Haven’t a clue. What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“Right then, I eat again tomorrow.”

Trevelyan could see that Twitch had his esteemed tricorne wrapped up in his coat, and quietly he produced a half loaf of coarse bread from the open neck of his shirt. The aroma of food instantly roused Twitch, who peered up again. “Have ya come to share yer meal with me then?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I thought maybe we was comrades forever.”

“I make no man my friend.”

Twitch went silent, shutting his eyes again.

“Give me your hat, and I’ll give you this morsel of bread.”

“Tell me first … how did ya get yer hands on it? Did ya swindle it from the cook when he wasn’t lookin’?”

“I did not! It’s honest payment.”

“Payment fer what?”

“Whilst you were gambling away your belongings and meat rations, I’ve set up classes.”

One of Twitch’s eyes popped open. “Classes? What! Here on the
Illustrious
?”

“Aye, classes! And thanks to one of your compatriots, we have a decent supply of ink, pens, and paper.”

“What’re ya teachin’ at?”

“Mathematics, mainly, although there’re those who have additionally pleaded for lessons in geography and reading.”

“What do they want with all o’ that nonsense?”