Saturday, August 28
9:00 a.m.
Hartwood Hall
The ship writhed on her side like one of Leander Braden’s ailing patients. There was no one about; they had all abandoned Emily at the first crack of enemy gunfire. The empty hammocks and cots now overflowed with water, the sea pouring into the hospital through open gun ports and crashing down the ladders like swollen rivers in spring. Haemorrhaging from a wound in her shoulder, she struggled through the freezing water on her knees, trying to reach the single whale-oil lantern still burning brightly near what she hoped was the exit, hampered by her sodden gown and the razor-sharp scalpels and bone saws floating around her, cutting into her arms and legs.
She could see him there, working in a small circle of light, crouched over his table but so far away. Try as she might, she could not make ground, for phantom arms had a tight hold on her waist, pulling her backward into dark, obscure regions of nothingness, where the walls of the ships had fallen away. She called out to him, but, too occupied with his grisly operation, he would not turn around. Captain Moreland was laid out on his table, and though already dead and waxen, Leander worked feverishly on him, slicing his gangrenous body into pieces and discarding the rotting lumps of blackened flesh into a bucket at his feet.
Reaching the ladder, Emily held on to its timbers, her body immobilized by the rushing torrent of water and the arms that stubbornly clung to her. Beyond the ladder rungs, the sunken, derisive face of Thomas Trevelyan hung in the shadows, his deep, sonorous, disdainful laugh striking such fear in her. Looking toward Leander, she could see that he was gone now, his table and the bloated corpse of Captain Moreland all swept away from the ship by the rising water. Weeping, she fought the presence holding her down, and peering into the darkness behind her she realized it was Octavius Lindsay, his body still twitching, and nothing left of his head but a pile of gory pulp …
Emily’s eyes fluttered open to find the sheltering canopy of her bed above her, but the dreadful images of her old dream had left her engulfed in waves of nausea, and she had to raise herself up on her pillows to calm her racing heart. Beyond the bed-curtains, her room was still dark, her window draperies still pulled shut, and she could hear the rain outside, thundering to the ground. The house was silent, as if — like her nightmare — those who lived within its walls had moved on and forgotten her. Observing the clock, she chose to ignore the late morning hour, and flopped back upon her blankets, opting for more rest rather than leaving her bedchamber and risking stumbling upon the Lindsay family, whom she had not encountered since yesterday afternoon.
A faint rustling sound in the far corners of her large room dashed all attempts to slow her heartbeats. Peeking around her bed-curtains, she could see someone moving in the dim shadows, working to close up the wardrobe as quietly as possible. She contemplated calling out, to demand to know who was there, but too sickened by her dream, she could only lie still and wait and watch while the obfuscated figure tiptoed toward her door and slipped out as unobtrusively as a cat.
10:00 a.m.
Emily took a series of deep breaths before entering the breakfast room. Sooner or later she had to face her hosts, though the prospect left her jittery, as if this were the day she had to stand in the witness box at the Old Bailey.
To her immense relief, only Helena and Somerton remained at the table. Their plates had been cleared away; the servants retired, but a silver coffeepot still stood between them. Given that the harsh weather had ruled out outdoor activities such as horseback riding and drinking tea in the garden, Emily had the impression that mother and son had lingered behind the others in order to discuss family affairs in private.
Upon seeing her guest, Helena resumed her usual posture of sitting on the front few inches of her chair like a bell tower, and pounced on Emily’s unpunctuality. “Well, at least one of you decided to rise from the dead this morning.”
“Where are the others?” asked Emily, attempting nonchalance as she headed toward the sideboard to select a few food items from the chafing dishes.
Somerton’s reply was effervescent. “Let’s see now: my father has retired to his bedchamber for a nap; your uncle has locked himself away in the library to write his morning letters; my sister is at her lessons with Mademoiselle, and completely inconsolable, for Mr. Walby cannot come by today on account of the rain, his doctor having forbid it; and my eldest brother has — ahem — taken to his bed.”
Helena waited until Emily had seated herself at the table to pounce again. “Wetherell is a wreck.”
“I’m sorry to hear of it.”
“You have ruined all of his hopes.”
Emily met her straight on. “Is it his hopes I’ve ruined, or yours?”
Helena would not answer, but Emily did not fail to notice the slight lifting of Somerton’s brow. “Did you truly think I would agree to marry your son?”
“I did indeed, especially when the recipient of his most earnest proposal has no other recourse in life.”
“What is behind this insistence of yours to condemn me to hell?”
Helena jabbed a ring-laden finger at Emily. “When word gets out of your refusal, I shall write to all of my friends and see to it that you never again receive another proposal of marriage, at least not from a man of quality.”
“Don’t exert yourself on my behalf, Your Grace.” Emily glanced at Somerton, who was aimlessly running his hands over the linen tablecloth on either side of his coffee cup. “And why marry Wetherell? Why not your second son?”
Somerton looked up suddenly, biting his lower lip, his gaze steadfast, but it came as no surprise when his mother answered for him. “Because he does not love you.”
Emily pouted. “Oh! How sad! Do you not love me, Somerton?” She watched his mouth forming a reply, but having no interest in hearing what he had to say she swung again toward Helena. “Do you mean to tell me that Wetherell does? I had no idea that love was a necessary prerequisite. Isn’t it all about making favourable matches in order to gain profit or maintain a family’s good standing in society? You obviously thought so when you connived to match me up with your son.”
Helena eyes went flinty; her red mouth quivered. Emily allowed her to fester while she addressed Somerton, whose ears had reddened, and who had now taken to fiddling with the cuffs on his shirtsleeves. “Lord Somerton, though you may not inherit Hartwood Hall, I am certain, should you agree to take me off their hands, my family would see to setting you up handsomely, especially since they have unequivocally agreed to settle the marquess’s gambling debts in exchange for his promise to tolerate me.”
“Your — your breakfast is getting cold, Emeline,” was all Somerton could say.
“How can one possibly think of eating when they’ve been so warmly welcomed to the breakfast table?”
Helena stroked Somerton’s hand and smiled through her teeth. “I have other plans for this son. I couldn’t bear to see him married to a harlot, not even a royal one.”
There was a sharp edge to Emily’s laugh. “Then I wish you well, Your Grace. You may call me whatever you like; however, since I don’t recall ever meeting you before my uncle deposited me on your doorstep, I wonder at your labelling me thus, and can only guess your insult springs from the salacious stories you are wont to imagine.”
“Any woman who has mixed company with a man such as Thomas Trevelyan —”
Emily rounded on Helena. “Oh! You reveal yourself! Are you acquainted with Thomas Trevelyan and his character? Has he been a guest here at Hartwood? Did you once have the pleasure of his company at a London dinner party before he betrayed his countrymen?”
Helena flushed. “No, but I —”
“I should very much like to describe your disposition, Your Grace, but as I can only do so based upon my own experience these past weeks, I shall refrain, for my description might be equally as cruel and unjust as your description of me. For all I know, you may have done good works in a nunnery in the years prior to marrying His Grace.” Emily leaned toward the duchess. “Are you so perfect yourself that we — none of us — can succeed in securing your esteem? If so, tell me this, for I’m quite curious and full of wild imaginings on the subject.”
Helena’s eyes widened as she shrank back upon her chair, as if she expected Emily to strike her across the face.
“Who is Fleda’s father?”
“Emeline!” gasped Somerton. “That’s quite enough.”
Helena rose abruptly to her feet, her hands clenching her gown.
“Oh, Your Grace, you cannot leave! You’ve not yet given me an answer.”
“And you shall not be receiving one,” said Helena, her voice carefully controlled. Lifting her skirts, she drifted queenly from the room.
Somerton’s face was now overspread with a queer, patchy red blush. He looked helplessly at Emily and shook his head. “You’ve done enough upsetting of this family for one day.”
Emily eyed him. “Your reprimand is feeble. You might as well be directing it at a child who’s accidently broken her milk mug.” She pushed her chair back, momentarily irritated by its clawing upon the floorboards, and then sighed, feeling as if she had not slept soundly in a month. “Perhaps you don’t truly comprehend the meaning of the word upsetting. Were I a man, with enough power over you to determine your destiny, I would secretly arrange a match between you and the most unappetizing woman I’ve ever met — a woman who would, no doubt, repulse you to the very core of your being — and when you balked and lamented, I wouldn’t listen; I would simply tell you that you are condemned — that you have no other recourse in life.” She bowed to him. “Good day to you, sir.”
Emily had almost reached the door when Uncle Clarence came bounding in, a clutch of letters in his fist. “Where are you off to, Emeline? Come and sit back down again,” he said cheerfully, springing toward Somerton and the breakfast table. “Is there any coffee left in the pot, Lord Somerton? If so, would you be so kind as to pour me a drop?”
Emily dragged herself back to the table. “Uncle, please! I’m not in a frame of mind to hear ultimatums regarding my future.”
For a moment, Uncle Clarence’s expression was one of confusion. “Oh! I see what you’re getting at! Well, my dear, I’m quite sure ultimatums will come later on, once I’ve had time to consult my brother, the Regent, and then fashion my wording of them in a way which will give you clarity of mind.” He sat down in Helena’s empty chair, and waved his letters in the air. “These have just arrived, and as the senders are individuals of great importance, I should like you to be apprised of their contents.”
10:30 a.m.
There was a gleam in Uncle Clarence’s eyes as he watched for the reaction from his audience of two before breaking the seal on the first letter — the one he deemed of most importance — and perusing its pages. “This one is from the office of the First Lord of the Admiralty,” he announced, “written by the Right Honourable the Viscount Melville himself.”
Emily pushed her cold breakfast around on her plate with a fork, and kept her eyes lowered as her uncle grunted over Lord Melville’s letter. A stolen glance at Somerton was completely disconcerting, for he was wearing a silly grin, and seemed pleased that she had returned to the table, as if the unpleasant exchange with his mother had never taken place. Unable to remember when she had last eaten — not having elected to dine with the family the previous evening — she had just speared a piece of potato, and was bringing it to her waiting mouth when her uncle’s ejaculations rent the air.
“God Almighty! My word! Hark’ee! This is bad news indeed!”
Emily looked up.
“What is it?” asked Somerton.
Uncle Clarence sat up a little straighter, held up his hand, and inhaled deeply. “Wait ’til I’ve read the others, for there’s another one here from Whitehall, and one from the Transport Office.” He continued to read, Emily watching in alarm as the rosy colour faded from his face and the lines on his brow deepened. When he was done, he slowly set the letters down beside his coffee cup and pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket. Rising solemnly from his chair, he began mopping his brow, and took up pacing before the windows, occasionally pausing to watch the rain drum the gardens. It was some time before he wheeled about to face them. “Lord Somerton, would you arrange for my carriage to be brought to the door? I must away to London this morning.”
“Of course,” said Somerton, looking quizzically at Emily as he jumped up to ring the bell for the butler.
Her heart thumping, Emily rushed to her uncle’s side. “First tell us what has transpired to cause you such dismay?” she insisted, leading him back to the table. “Is it Grandfather? Is he having hallucinations again?”
“No, my dear, it’s not the king.” Uncle Clarence allowed Emily to pour him another coffee and load it up with cream and sugar, although he normally drank it black. “The mail packet, the Lady Jane, arrived in Portsmouth the other day.”
“The Lady Jane? Of what significance is she?”
Uncle Clarence took Emily’s hands in his. “She was being escorted back to England from Halifax by your good friends on the Amethyst. About two weeks back, there was a horrendous storm; the seas were heavy, and the winds —”
Emily went white to the lips. She swallowed and was barely able to speak. “Please do not tell me the Amethyst was lost. Please —”
“The two ships were separated, and the crew of the Lady Jane has not seen her since. They had hoped to find her already moored in Portsmouth when they arrived home.”
Emily shut her eyes and prayed under her breath. Muted by the pouring rain, she could hear Somerton’s voice, giving instructions to the butler. He was standing but a few feet from where she sat, though he seemed miles away.
Uncle Clarence squeezed her hands. “There’s something more I must tell you, my dear.”
Emily pulled her hands from his. “No! Tell me no more!” she said in despair. “What little you have already said … I cannot bear.” She struggled to raise herself up, and began to creep toward the door like an elderly woman.
Uncle Clarence ran his handkerchief across his chin. “Emeline! You must hear this news from me. It won’t be long before all of England is speaking of it.”
Emily met her uncle, her eyes glistening with tears.
“It’s astonishing really, and no one in the Transport Office knows how he managed to effect it — being as there were no witnesses to his deception — but on the day he was to be moved to Newgate, Thomas Trevelyan escaped from his prison hulk, and his whereabouts at this time are regrettably unknown.”