Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (94 page)

“I’m putting you in charge. It’s your watch. See to it those damned ships don’t catch up to us before nightfall.”

Bridlington’s eyes popped open. “Where’re you going, sir?”

“Below.”

“What … to check on the petulant deserters?”

Prickett pursed his lips and thought a moment. “Aye! Naturally! Where else would I be going?”

11:30 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Seven Bells)

Aboard the
Prosperous and Remarkable

Magpie looked around him
. He’d never been on Prosper’s orlop deck before, but he knew that Mr. Walby had, and
his
tales of terror of being alone in the dark had haunted Magpie ever since their telling. He was relieved to have others with him. It smelled awful down here, the odours of fish and tar and decaying cheese and mouldy canvas and vermin excrement made him headachy and ill at the stomach. There was little room to move around the hempen anchor cable on the platform deck that overlooked the brig’s hold, and its endless sea of barrels and casks, sunken into the shingle of the ballast, over which scurried rats trying to chew their way through the wooden staves to get at the food inside. But somehow a few cots had been rigged in the middle of it all for the three skiff survivors.

Mr. Austen and Prosper had put Magpie in charge, and, feeling as if he had suddenly grown a foot, he moved from cot to cot, bringing water to his patients’ parched lips and occasionally giving them each a spoonful of oatmeal. Prosper had further handed him a jar of oily salve, instructing him to gently administer a bit of it onto their sunburned skin. In the distance there was gunfire, and every so often Magpie tensed, thinking the
Prosperous and Remarkable
might rock with a direct hit, but so far there’d been nothing beyond the initial bow strike. He gave thanks that, at the time, no one had been sitting on the heads, or the
seats of ease
as the lads called them. Magpie thought that would be a mortifying way to die, with one’s trousers down around one’s ankles.

Dr. Braden’s eyes opened. Seeing Magpie sitting there next to his cot, he smiled. “Have our roles reversed?”

Magpie couldn’t speak right away, still in disbelief that the doctor was here, so close to him. “I wanted to give ya a banquet, sir, but Prosper scolded me, and said ya couldn’t handle it right off.”

Dr. Braden’s voice was little more than a whisper. “No, I couldn’t, but then I wonder if Mr. Burgo’s galley larder could provide for a true banquet.”

Magpie shook his head. “I bin on board with him afore, and his victuals ain’t so good. Pemberton gave me a cup o’ tea once, and said he’d bin boilin’ water over the same leaves fer two months. I won’t suggest ya try Pemberton’s tea, sir.”

“I will gladly take your advice.”

“But I promise, when I give ya some biscuit, I’ll first pluck out the weevils and maggots.”

“I am grateful to you. I’ve always found maggots to be somewhat cold and unpleasant, and weevils … well, they have a bitter taste to them.”

Magpie peeked over at the cots where his two other patients were asleep. He had to remind himself that Biscuit slept in one of them, being as he was so used to the Scottish cook’s chatter and jokey nature. There seemed to be more streaks of white in his bushy hair and whiskers than Magpie remembered. When he turned back to Dr. Braden, Magpie found his eyes intently watching him.

“I — I don’t suppose you know that I locked Emily’s miniature into my writing box.”

There was an ache in Magpie’s chest. “I was hopin’ ya might have it on ya, sir. This whole voyage … me mind’s bin so jumbled with fear … I sometimes can’t remember what she looks like.” He stared at his hands. “I do remember she smelled nice, and she had fine white teeth, but her face … it’s not clear, and I git her features all mixed up in me head.”

Dr. Braden exhaled quietly and, in the lantern light, Magpie thought he saw tears in his eyes.

Magpie sloped toward his cot. “Can I do anythin’ more fer ya, sir?”

“You can,” he whispered.

“Just name it, and I’ll do it, sir.”

“Take me home to England.”

31

Noon

Hampstead Heath

Gus Walby sat on
a three-legged stool by the window in the low-beamed room he was sharing with old Dr. Braden at the coaching inn in Hampstead Heath. He cradled his chin upon an upturned hand and reflected upon the muddy road that led to Hartwood Hall. Would the rain ever let up? He wanted so badly to spend another day at the estate, taking his lessons with Fleda, for he enjoyed the girl’s company — she was amusing, and never made mention of his crutch, and had such plans for their hours together — and he hoped he might catch a fleeting look at Emily, as he had yesterday when she was sitting in the garden with the Duke of Clarence, or even hear her voice through the schoolroom walls. It didn’t matter that he was forbidden to mingle with Fleda’s family. The duchess scared him. Why, he was quite certain she could hold her own in the society of Prosper Burgo’s ruffians, although — as far as he had seen — she was still in possession of all her teeth and extremities. The morning had dragged on interminably, and the prospect of spending the rainy afternoon with a penny novel was not an enticing one. When the door suddenly squeaked opened and in walked old Dr. Braden, all soaking wet but with a gleam in his eyes, Gus grabbed for his crutch at once.

“Sir, I didn’t expect you back until suppertime.”

The doctor kicked off his mud-caked shoes and peeled off his cape and broad-brimmed hat, hanging them to dry on a hook beside the empty grate of the fireplace. “My cousin is expecting visitors this afternoon, so I thought maybe we could spend the rest of the day together.” He disappeared behind a screen to change out of his wet clothes. “It’s chilly in here, Mr. Walby. Do you have a woollen vest in your travelling case? I shan’t allow that cough of yours to worsen.”

“I don’t, sir.”

“Well then, put on your midshipman’s jacket.”

Gus bent over to retrieve it from the cold floor and slipped it on, thankful for its extra layer of warmth. His healthy leg began bouncing up and down, his mind travelling to fantastical places. Did the doctor have something exciting to tell him? Could he somehow have received a letter from his son on the sea? Had the Duke of Clarence sent a note, saying that he’d secured for
him
a posting on a ship as magnificent as HMS
Victory
? And if so, were they going to celebrate downstairs in the parlour with a mug of ale and another mouth-watering meal prepared by the innkeeper’s wife?

Old Dr. Braden reappeared in his fresh clothes, and sank down upon one of the two narrow beds. “Mr. Walby, I must tell you: as I was making my way along the road, trying to avoid puddles — some of which, I declare, rose above my knees — a carriage passed me by, going at an alarming speed, drenching me through and through with a wall of rainwater. I wondered who it was coming down the road so quickly in this weather, but did not wonder long, for immediately following it a second carriage happened by, going at a much slower pace and stopping before me where I stood, across the road from our inn.”

“Was it Emily?” asked Gus.

“No! It was a servant from Hartwood Hall, a sonsy-faced Scottish woman named Miss McCubbin.”

“What did she want?”

“Catching me entirely off guard, she handed me an invitation, and announced that I was being invited to sup at the Hall tonight and that a carriage would be sent for me precisely at four o’clock.”

Gus wilted; an empty monosyllable was all he could utter in reply.

“Miss McCubbin further announced that I was to bring my young friend with me.”

Gus’s mouth jumped open. “You’re not trifling with me, are you, sir?”

“It’s not in my nature to trifle, Mr. Walby! So stop looking like a fish, and let’s determine what we shall wear tonight.”

“Oh, but I don’t have anything presentable.”

The doctor raised himself from the bed. “Ah! Well, perhaps we should discuss this dilemma downstairs in the parlour where the innkeeper has a nice fire going.”

“Do you think the Duke of Clarence will be at supper with us, sir?”

“I don’t know. Are you hoping to see him?”

“I am, sir. I’m hoping he might bring up the subject of a new posting for me. I am feeling stronger, and would like to return to sea.”

Old Doctor Braden turned around to straighten and tidy up his bed quilt, rumpled by his having sat upon it; Gus surprised at how long he lingered over his simple task, and how slow his reply was in coming. “Just as I was mounting the stairs, the innkeeper’s wife told me she’d baked a bread pudding, stuffed full of raisins and walnuts, and that she desired the young Mr. Walby to sample it.”

Gus forced a smile and tugged his jacket around him. The thought of a warm fire and a dish of dessert suddenly had no appeal. Hearing the rain intensify beyond the window, he looked away and stared once again at the muddy road and its ever widening pools of water.

1:00 p.m.

Hartwood Hall

Emily was at her desk
in front of the west-facing window of her bedroom overlooking the wet, colourless gardens when Glenna McCubbin flew through the door like a newly discovered species of gigantic bird. The housekeeper was heaving with breathlessness and quaking with emotion, though Emily could not determine if it was excitement or anxiety, or a bit of both. Sliding the letter she was writing into the desk drawer, she reluctantly turned toward her former nursemaid, hoping her tear-stained face would not incite comment and inquiry. “Back again so soon, Glenna? Didn’t you get what you wanted the first time around?”

Glenna redressed her lacy cap, which had gone awry during her flight up the stairs. “What d’ ya mean by that, Pet?”

“Weren’t you here in my room earlier this morning?”

“Nay!”

“Upon awaking, I was certain I saw you rummaging around in the wardrobe.”

“Must’ve bin another o’ yer tempestuous dreams,” said Glenna, seemingly untroubled by Emily’s accusation. “Nay! I’ve been runnin’ ’round all day like Lady Fleda’s dog! Why, the household’s all in an uproar. My word, Pet, ya’ve turned Hartwood on its end. Such fireworks! Oh, my poor heart! I swear, sooner rather than later yer gonna lower me into the grave.”

Emily could not help her empty gaze. “Could you save the telling of it for later? I’d like to be alone.”

Glenna’s face changed to a scowl. “Ya’ll wither away in this room if I let ya, and since yer causin’ all the fireworks, ya’ll hear me out.”

Sighing, Emily assumed a position of obedient attentiveness, while Glenna took a big breath for her recounting. “First off, the Duke o’ Clarence upset everyone with his quick leave takin’ on account o’ some terrible news he’d received this mornin’; and now Lord Munroe’s upset the kitchen with his insistence the cook prepare and deliver to his room all o’ his favourite dishes. Lud! Half o’ the ingredients canna be found this side o’ London. And then, His Grace is bilious, bein’ overset with stomach cramps, and he’s keepin’ to
his
room, and Lady Fleda’s in such a dither over Mr. Walby comin’ fer dinner that she’s refused to heed her lessons, puttin’ Mademoiselle in a fit o’ tears, and —”

“Wait! Mr. Walby’s coming for dinner?”

“Aye! And the old doctor as well.”

“Whatever possessed Her Grace to allow them a place at her dining table?”

“Oh, Her Grace is madder than a trapped hornet about it all, so she’s keepin’ to
her
room.”

“I don’t understand —”

“Ya see, t’were Lord Somerton what done the invitin’.”

Emily required a moment for reflection. “You mean Somerton’s organizing a dinner party for this evening, and being unable to coerce his friends to attend, he wallowed through the mud to invite the residents of the local inn?”

“Ain’t he a kind soul to be thinkin’ o’ your friends sittin’ in the postin’ house on such a dismal day?”

Emily felt a throbbing ache in her jaw.

“But there’ll only be five o’ yas at the table.”

“How cosy!”

“Tell me, Pet, is the old doctor a married man?”

“No. His wife has passed on,” Emily said coldly, longing to add that she’d died so very recently her own son had no idea his mother was gone.

“Oh!” crowed Glenna, playfully slapping her thighs. “He does have very fine eyes.”

Emily shook her head in disgust. “Seeing as most of the family would prefer to keep to their rooms, why don’t
you
join us tonight?”

Glenna blushed at the idea. “And give Her Grace a nervous disorder?”

“She’ll not know; she’ll be in bed with a cold compress on her head.” Emily rose abruptly and guided Glenna toward the door. “Let’s create more fireworks, shall we? In the event Captain Trevelyan comes knocking on the front door while we’re eating our roasted pork and gravy, let him come in and join our little, intimate coterie.”

Glenna’s eyes popped out of her head. “Aren’t ye the flippant one!”

Emily pushed her into the corridor and banged the door shut. She hobbled back to the writing desk, stumbling into the chair with a gasping sob; dark, lurking thoughts threatening to rear up again and overwhelm her. But the letter — she was determined to press on with it. Dabbing at her face, she dipped her quill pen into her silver inkwell and was just picking up where she’d left off when a black, fluttering shape suddenly appeared in the rain. Having found shelter from the storm, a magpie landed on the white stone ledge of her window to give his iridescent wing feathers a shiver, and turn his penetrating gaze upon her through the panes of glass.

6:30 p.m.

Gus Walby could hardly
wait for the meal to be over. Fleda had promised to show him the tunnels under the Hall, which led to the kitchens and offices and storerooms. He’d never been in a tunnel before; he’d only read about them in novels, and the literary ones were always dark and dank and musty-smelling, and teeming with either murderers or ghosts. He didn’t like sitting in this big music room, darkened by the enduring rain. The candlelight on their round table, as well as the candles that flickered on the sideboards and mantelpieces, radiated grotesque shadows upon the watchful visages of those in the many portraits nailed to the walls, and it didn’t help that Fleda had remarked that most of those painted people were dead.