Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (95 page)

The dark-eyed man who had introduced himself only as
Somerton
, and insisted that he be addressed thus, since his family
“these days
did not abide by formality,”
had been asking old Dr. Braden hundreds of questions about medical training, showing a particular interest in the studies taken by his son on the sea, and was now discussing the horrors of dysentery and consumption, subjects which not only terrified Gus, but also didn’t seem suitable for dinner conversation, especially when there were ladies present. Somerton had barely glanced at Gus, let alone asked him any questions; then again it made perfect sense that such a significant gentleman, who lived in such an elegant country house, had no time or interest in an unemployed and crippled midshipman. Gus so wished the Duke of Clarence had been present. He at least might have singled him out with an inquiry after his health, and noticed how well his uniform was looking, thanks to the innkeeper’s wife, who had blithely agreed to lower the hem on his pantaloons and wash off the dirty spots.

Even worse, Gus was concerned about Emily. Aside from her evident joy upon his arrival, she had said very little, had eaten very little, and seemed remote, as if her thoughts were roaming through some far-off realm. And every so often she lifted her head — her gold hair so prettily arranged and adorned with tiny blue flowers — to throw a wild-eyed glance at this Somerton man, as if she feared he might divulge a dark secret. But the very worst of all, Gus didn’t like the way Somerton looked at Emily with those close-set eyes of his whenever her own were fixed upon her plate of rabbit cutlet and diced vegetables. It wasn’t anything like Leander Braden’s adoring, stolen glances he remembered well. To Gus,
this
man had the manners of a sailor.

Admiring the cornice of sculptured harps and the collection of instruments near the far window, Gus almost dropped his fork when Somerton recognized him at long last.

“Mr. Walby, I understand you served as a midshipman on HMS
Isabelle
under Captain James Moreland.”

“I did, sir,” said Gus, squaring his shoulders.

“The sinking of your ship must have been an awful ordeal.”

“I wasn’t on board when Trevelyan set her on fire, sir.”

“Where were you at the time?”

“I had fallen from the mizzenmast, and was drifting in the ocean without my wits about me.”

“Is that how you acquired your injuries?”

“Yes, sir. My injuries were bad at the time, but now it’s really only my one leg that gives me any trouble.”

Fleda suddenly hopped in her chair. “I forgot … I never asked you … I was so thrilled to have you as a playmate and show you around the grounds that I never asked you —”

“Fle-da!” said Somerton sternly, raising a finger. “You may make your inquiries, but only once I am done with mine.”

Fleda acquiesced, but continued to squirm as if she were sitting upon some wondrous intelligence.

“What did your duties include, Mr. Walby?”

“Thank you for asking, sir,” said Gus, injecting gravity into his voice, but finding instead that his words insisted upon tumbling out of his mouth. “I had to learn knots and splices, and the use of a sextant, and how to heave the log and to make notations on the log board. And I had to exercise at both the great guns and small arms, and sometimes … sometimes Captain Moreland made me the Officer of the Watch on the fo’c’sle.”

Fleda pulled a face. “What’s a folksill?”

“It’s the forecastle, the raised deck at the ship’s bow,” said Gus, proud to oblige with a knowledgeable reply.

“And did you keep up with your lessons in reading and writing?” asked Somerton, steeling his voice as if to warn his sister not to steer him off his course of questioning.

“Oh, yes, sir! Mr. Austen helped all of the middies with their lessons, and sometimes Mr. Lindsay, the first lieutenant, did too. But I always preferred it when Mr. Austen did the teaching.”

From the corner of his eye, Gus saw Emily tense up, and old Dr. Braden ruffle his white brow.

“Why is that? Didn’t you like Mr. Lindsay?”

Gus thrust out his lower lip. “Not at all, sir.”

“Why not?”

“He was very unhappy and mean to us all; never had a kind word for any of the younger lads, and every chance he could he would betray us to Captain Moreland.”

“For a man in his position, he wasn’t the gentleman he should have been. Is that it, Mr. Walby?”

“That’s it, sir! He gave Captain Moreland such grief, always questioning his authority, but toward Emily … he was particularly unkind.” Gus had hoped to secure Emily’s affirmation, but the round horror in her eyes evaporated his confidence. Oh! Was she worried he was going to mention that awful episode that occurred in the
Isabelle
’s sail room? Why, he would never do that. He gave his head a slight shake to reassure her.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t be speaking of someone who — I am guessing — is a relative of yours,” old Dr. Braden gently interjected, his uncertain gaze moving between Somerton and Fleda.

In need of an ally, Gus turned toward Fleda, but what he saw in her expression curled his toes. Her eyes searched his, and her question was spoken so faintly it could have come from the tunnel beneath the floor. “You didn’t like my brother?”

“Brother?” echoed Gus. “Mr. Octavius Lindsay was your
brother
?” His mind raced like a hounded fox. How could it be? How could he not have known? The people who owned Hartwood Hall were a duke and duchess … old Dr. Braden had told him as much, and taken pains to instruct him in styling them as
His Grace
and
Her Grace
should he have the honour of making their acquaintance, but at no time did he recall hearing any mention of the Lindsay name, or if he had his mind must have been too frenzied with thoughts of his Hampstead Heath adventure to have paid any heed. Was the duchess, that hag who had tried to turn them away at the door, really the mother of Octavius Lindsay? And Fleda … was she his sister? Octavius had never said anything about a sister, only that he had been his father’s eighth son. He couldn’t understand. If all this was true, then why — of all places — was Emily brought here to live?

Struck with such a thudding realization, desperate for answers, Gus swung toward Emily only to see that her cheeks had turned scarlet. Fleda had twisted in her chair to point at the portrait nearest to the entrance of the music room, the sight of which left Gus fighting down a rising belch. Good God! What had he done? Frightened by the loud silence, he fumbled to fill it. “Fleda! I didn’t know! I’m so sorry for my insensitive remarks. Mr. Somerton, sir, had I — had I known, I would’ve told you about Mr. Lindsay’s many good qualities and —” His words tapered off in a gulp when Emily reached for his hand under the table.

Somerton sniffed. “Since
you
were acquainted with my youngest brother, and no one else has thought it necessary to offer up any information to our grieving family —” he shot an insincere smile at Emily, “perhaps, Mr. Walby, you could tell me something of my brother’s death?”

The candle flames shot higher; the food on the dinner plates was forgotten. Fleda looked at him, her green eyes huge in her small face, drained of its previous blush; old Dr. Braden looked grave, and had slipped forward upon his chair; Emily squeezed his hand tighter; and Somerton cocked his head, awaiting his answer.

“I don’t know anything, sir,” said Gus, his voice cracking.

“You must know something. Not all of Captain Moreland’s men perished on the
Isabelle
. I understand you were reunited with those who survived. What did they tell you?”

“They — they told me nothing, sir.”

“Was there an explosion?”

“I believe there might have been —”

“Was my brother one of the unlucky ones who couldn’t get off in time?”

“He might have been, sir.”

“Or … or was he
too
taken prisoner by Captain Thomas Trevelyan?”

Gus tugged on his sweaty collar and gazed around the table, praying for assistance or a way out.

“Ah! I see by your reaction, Mr. Walby, that you do know something. Please! Enlighten us! We’re most anxious to hear what became of our brother.”

Emily stood up so quickly she bumped the table, knocking over her glass of wine. Disregarding it, she rounded on Somerton, speaking in an even, eerie voice Gus had never heard her use before. “Lord Somerton, it was most generous of you to invite my friends to dinner. I’d hoped for an evening of pleasant conversation with two of the most engaging men I know, but it seems you invited our guests under false pretences.”

Somerton jutted his chin out. “How so? I’ve asked Mr. Walby nothing but a few harmless questions.”

“Asking is one thing, sir,
badgering
quite another.”

Somerton’s eyes slithered around the table. “Mr. Walby, did you find my manner to be in any way unctuous?”

Not understanding the meaning of that word, Gus sat there helplessly.

“Perhaps I was overly enthusiastic,” Somerton chuckled, “finding your answers to be exceedingly intriguing.”

“I take full responsibility,” said Emily, maintaining calm. “I should’ve told Mr. Walby earlier of your relationship — and that of Fleda — to Lord Octavius. I regret that now, and can only put it down to my eagerness to forget about your unfortunate brother.”

Somerton’s eyes narrowed on her. “Has your being here at Hartwood made that impossible?”

“It has.”

For a time no one said a thing. Gus felt as if the roof were teetering and about to collapse. He felt his chin trembling, but was at a loss to tame it. He heard the rain sputter outside, and the murmurs and footfalls of the servants as they went about their business in faraway rooms. When a clock began to chime, old Dr. Braden rose to his feet, his flushed features tight with embarrassment.

“Lord Somerton, I believe the time has come to say goodnight. Thank you so very much for the excellent meal. Please, I beg you, stay here with your sister to enjoy your dessert. Perhaps Emily will see us out. No need to worry about calling for the carriage; I believe the rain has let up, so Mr. Walby and I shall be quite happy to walk back to our lodgings.” He bowed and sidled away from the table.

Gus wanted to die. This was not how he’d envisioned his evening at Hartwood. He knew it, he felt it in his bones; he’d never be allowed back. He’d never see the tunnels under the house, or explore the woods with Fleda, or picnic by the ponds. Refusing to let tears roll from his eyes, he blindly followed Emily and old Dr. Braden to the doorway, loathing himself for ending things this way with Fleda. Before passing into the darkness of the antechamber, he glanced back over his drooping shoulder. It gave him a pain to see such sadness in Fleda’s ashen face. But something — her downturned eyes, her wilting posture, her empty stare — told him that the death of her brother was not the true source of her devastation; it seemed to him she was regretting the leaving and the loss of her newfound friend.

32

8:00 p.m.

(Second Dog Watch, Four Bells)

Aboard the
Prosperous and Remarkable

In the lengthening shadows
of the day, Fly Austen and Prosper Burgo met together at the taffrail of the
Prosperous and Remarkable
, studying the movements of the American ships within their sights. With the exception of one ship, which had stopped to aid the drifting schooner, they were still frighteningly close, particularly the three smallest vessels. Being as she was lightweight, and with every stitch of her canvas flying, Prosper’s brig flew like a seagull over the waves, but Fly despaired for the
Amethyst
, imagining the tumult most likely unfolding upon her decks. Prosper’s brig had long surpassed her, and now — like a lumbering turtle — she had fallen behind, managing only to maintain a safe distance beyond the range of the Americans’ bow chasers. Casting his eyes toward the red and purpling sky, Fly prayed for nightfall to descend upon the Atlantic.

Beside him, Prosper was gnawing on a sandwich of stale biscuit and cheese — his stores of cheese being so tough, Fly had witnessed some of the Remarkables carving buttons out of their portions of the stuff — and quaffing the contents of a cracked and chipped mug between bites, most likely to assist the food’s path down his gullet. Not far from where they conferred, Meg Kettle had settled herself on an overturned tub normally reserved for the soaking of salted beef and pork. Prosper had warned her repeatedly to
“git below,”
but she disregarded his words, choosing instead to keep him within her sights at all times, so that whenever he moved camp she would follow. But during the rare moments when her slitty eyes weren’t padlocked on Prosper, she was mending a pair of his stockings, though Fly wondered why she bothered when there seemed to be more holes than wool with which to work.

“Meggie, best dump them woollies and git below to wrestle me laundry. I heard ya complainin’ ’bout me greasy scarves.”

“Nay, Prosper!” she hollered back. “Ya ’ave no lye soap on board, and I ain’t about to wash clothes in urine and saltwater. Ain’t proper fer a lady what’s got a child comin’.”

The wispy curls around Prosper’s ears shivered when he glanced up at Fly, his tongue stuck in his cheek. “I fear yer a lofty lot, Mr. Austen. There’s Meggie yowlin’ ’bout no soap, and Mr. Evans askin’ me fer tools I ain’t never heard of, and then there’s yer rumbustious Scotch cook declarin’ me biscuits inferior, and insistin’ we bake some up with sugar and rum. Mr. Austen, I haven’t transported a bag o’ sugar on these old timbers fer near a decade.”

“And rum?”

Prosper raised his mug with a low chuckle. “I wouldn’t think o’ sailin’ without plenty o’ rum in me hold.”

“I apologize for what may be perceived as our extravagant tastes, but I do assure you, we are all most obliged to you and give thanks that we are alive on your brig.”

“Ah, but fer how long kin I keep ya that way? I ain’t never had a fleet o’ ships on me arse afore.”

Meg Kettle’s head shot up from her mending, her mouth all quivery. “What d’ ya mean, Prosper?”