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Monday, June 14

7:00 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Six Bells)

THE CRY OF THE BOSUN'S MATE was loud and penetrating. “All hands ahoy! Up all hammocks ahoy!”

Emily opened her eyes to find a light patter of rain falling outside her open gunport and her ocean views obscured by a dense fog. She could hear the men dropping down from their hammocks on the decks below, and outside her curtain, Osmund Brockley fidgeting and clearing his throat. Barely had she time to pull her blanket around her and utter an invitation to enter when he burst through the canvas carrying her breakfast tray, babbling like an undisciplined child in need of attention.

“Mornin’, Miss. Dr. Braden ordered breakfast early fer ya as he thought ya might like to meet with young Magpie in the galley before the men are piped into breakfast. Ya’ll find Biscuit cursing by his stove in there; otherwise, it’ll be quiet and ya can have a private word or two. Mind ya, not for long. The duty cooks usually come in around seven bells.”

“Thank you, Osmund. You can set the tray down on the stool. I’ll eat later.”

Osmund unloaded the tray and stood back to regard her with his peculiar round eyes and blank expression, reminding Emily of a sailor who had taken a few too many knocks to the head. It never ceased to astonish her that he actually possessed some abilities in the hospital.

“We’re busting to know, Miss, why ya’ve asked fer a private interview with young Magpie,” he said.

Emily’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Are there no secrets to be had on this ship?”

“Oh, no, Miss. We all know one another’s business on the Isabelle.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Brockley, but I shan’t be divulging all mine this morning.” Seeing him squirm with curiosity, Emily hid her amused expression and looked about for her clothes. She’d last seen them hanging from the wooden peg on the post by her feet.

“My clothes! They’re gone.”

“Aye, Miss, but ya see it’s Monday – Mrs. Kettle’s laundry day – and on account of Dr. Braden disliking the way Meggie blows in here and causes a rumpus with the men, he asked her to fetch yer clothes late last night whilst ya were sleeping.”

“Why, I didn’t even receive certain articles of clothing back from last week’s washing.”

“Oh, they were probably ruined or lost during the exchange of gunfire with the Liberty,” Osmund said, licking spittle from his thick lips.

Emily neglected to tell him that it was her chemise that had never been returned, for fear of being told that a sailor or, worse still, Mrs. Kettle herself, had filched it as a souvenir.

“I cannot very well sit in the galley with Dr. Braden’s nightshirt on.”

Osmund broke into his characteristic donkey-braying laughter. “Aye, Miss, although it would provide a fine spectacle for all the men first thing in the morning.” Seeing her glower, he quit laughing and smartened himself up. “Ah! And it’s a bit damp today with the mists and everything. It wouldn’t do fer ya to catch a cold.”

“My blue jacket and white trousers, the ones Magpie made for me … would you know of their whereabouts?”

Osmund nodded. “The doctor told me where I’d find them.” He lumbered over to the cupboard and with a grunt of satisfaction pulled out the neatly folded clothing, tossed them upon Emily’s cot, then banged the cupboard door shut.

“And where is Dr. Braden this morning?” Emily felt her face grow hot, for no other reason than having spoken aloud his name.

“With the captain.”

“Is Captain Moreland still unwell?”

“The doctor’s not saying much, but none of us have seen him since he first took with fever. All’s I know is Mr. Austen is worrying hisself sick that we’ll be attacked again whilst the captain’s ailing. Mr. Austen’s ordered extra men on every watch, especially with the Isabelle sitting idle in these fogs.”

Emily began pulling her blue jacket on over Leander’s nightshirt and tried to ignore the anxious feeling that sent her heart beating out of control and twisted her stomach into reef knots. “Will we be able to sail again soon?”

“I hear there’re more repairs to be made, Miss, and then we’ll have to wait fer the right winds to carry us away.”

“Surely no one would fire upon us when we do not pose a threat?”

“We’ll know soon enough now, won’t we, Miss?”

“Please tell Magpie I’ll meet him in a few minutes,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Right, Miss, but if it’s secrets ya have to tell the lad, speak ’em quietly.”

“Why is that, Mr. Brockley?”

“’Cause we’ll all be listening in.”

Emily and Magpie sat upon two overturned buckets in the galley, as far away as was possible from Biscuit, who, in the company of Maggot and Weevil, was preparing the officers’ hot morning rations in true Biscuit style – with plenty of confusion and bad language. Dominating the room was Biscuit’s pride and joy, his Brodie’s Patent galley stove, a huge black hulk of a thing that hissed and shrieked like a monster and was capable of roasting, boiling, and baking simultaneously. Biscuit cheerfully buzzed around it, toasting bread, flipping eggs, stirring oatmeal, and barking at his mates to “clear me way, lads, excellent cookin’ in progress.”

Standing in the entranceway between the galley and the hospital stood the ever-present marine sentry. He kept watch over Emily and Magpie, glaring at those who dared to pause a moment in their chores to show interest in their quiet conversation. Emily sat with her back turned to them all and focused her attention on the little sail maker. He sat stoically before her, the right side of his face frighteningly bandaged and bruised. Leander had worried about infection setting into his wound, but surely enough time had passed and he was safely beyond that point. Neatly folded upon Magpie’s lap was his special pond-green blanket, and he told her he wasn’t afraid to carry it with him as none of the men had once teased him about it.

“Of course they wouldn’t tease you,” Emily said kindly.

Magpie’s cheeks glowed pink. “The Duke o’ Clarence’s wife gave it to me. Mrs. Jordan was her name. And she said to me, ‘This is to keep you safe and warm at sea.’ I – I sleep better when I ’ave it with me.” He peeked up into Emily’s face. “Dr. Braden says in a week or so he’ll take away the bandages and be fittin’ me up with an eye patch. Will I scare ya? Will ya be lookin’ at me and thinkin’ of Thomas Trevelyan?”

“Thomas Trevelyan?”

“He’s a pirate, ain’t he?”

“The worst kind! But how is it you know of Trevelyan?”

“He’s the captain of the Serendipity, that first ship we done battle with, ain’t he? The ship ya was on. Ya told Captain Moreland it was Trevelyan.”

“I suppose I must have done.” Emily tried to remember back to her first interview with James Moreland and Fly Austen. Evidently, there were big ears listening beyond the curtain that day. “And was I also overheard saying that Trevelyan was a pirate?”

“No, but why else would ya’ve jumped his ship and risked drownin’ yerself in the sea?”

Emily reflected on that one a moment. “When I look upon you, Magpie, I will be reminded, not of Trevelyan, but of the most courageous of men.”

The young lad beamed at her for a brief second before his smile faded. Emily could see his eye examining the bruises on her face. “You’re so kind to me, ma’am, and I … I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve it at all.”

Emily reached for one of his hands, so small and brown the little soot-stained fingers, and squeezed it gently. Liking the feel of his hand in her warm one, Magpie left it there as long as he could, until Biscuit’s wandering eye fell on the two of them and he pulled it away to deal with a few tears that had somehow dropped to his cheek.

“A few days ago,” he said quickly, “Morgan told me that the new sail maker – what’s replaced me – is a big man named Bun Brodie and he was sailin’ on the Liberty. Mr. Brodie was tellin’ the men one suppertime there was only one lady that he knew of travellin’ on the Serendipity and her name was Mrs. Seaton.”

Emily struggled to disguise her dismay. “And what did this Mr. Brodie say happened to this Mrs. Seaton?”

“He never knew. He don’t know what happened to her, but …” Magpie looked timid and hesitated to say more.

“Go on.”

“The men think – maybe yer Mrs. Seaton.”

Emily didn’t reply. She raised her pretty head and a distant look crept into her brown eyes as she sat there, stiff and erect, on the overturned bucket. She stayed silent such a long while that Magpie worried his remarks had been impertinent.

“Magpie,” she said in a whisper, “the day you asked for your blanket, I found something in your chest.”

Magpie grew excited and began squirming about on his bucket like a young kitten. “Ya found me miniature, then, didn’t ya?”

“I did!”

“It’s you, ain’t it?”

Emily nodded slowly.

“I knew it was ya the day Morgan pulled ya in. I just knew ya was the lady in me picture, that first time I seen ya smile. Ya looked just like her, even with yer hair all wet. And ya was wearin’ the very same blue velvet clothes! I just knew I was lookin’ at a princess.”

Emily placed a finger to her lips, grateful for the great racket Biscuit and his mates were making behind her. “I may be a princess, but I am not a very important one. I’m not heir to the English throne or anything.” There was a twinkle in her eye.

“Imagine me, Magpie, sail maker on the Isabelle, knowin’ a princess, even if she ain’t important. Why, you should be livin’ in the captain’s cabin, drinkin’ tea from his fine china, and havin’ Biscuit cook ya up ten-course suppers on silver plate.”

Emily laughed. “Hush, now! That is exactly what I do not want.” Leaning in closer to the lad, she dropped her voice. “The day we were left alone above deck … why didn’t you tell me of your suspicions then?”

“Oh, I was wantin’ to, somethin’ fierce, but I was too scared of ya, and I was bein’ respectful, ya bein’ royalty and all, and ’cause I was wondrin’ to meself what ya was doin’ jumpin’ out o’ ships. I was thinkin’ maybe ya was runnin’ away and didn’t wanna be found out. I – I did ask ya then, ma’am, if ya knew the Duke o’ Clarence, and right off ya said no.”

“I am sorry for that. I had my reasons for giving you that reply. The truth is, Magpie, I do know your Duke and Mrs. Jordan very well indeed, although to me they are Uncle Clarence and Aunt Dora. Three years ago, when my father died, I lived with them for a short while. Uncle Clarence has always treated me like one of his own daughters.”

Magpie puffed up his small chest, so proud he was, as if they were speaking of his own parents. “And the duke, he’s the admiral of the fleet! I didn’t even know ’til yesterday. Heard the men talkin’ about that too. Did ya know he was the admiral, ma’am?”

She nodded again. “He was given the appointment in December of 1811, if I remember correctly, by his brother, the prince regent.”

Magpie’s little face suddenly clouded. “Won’t yer Uncle Clarence be worryin’ about ya, gettin’ shot at and attacked in sail rooms and all, ma’am?”

Emily’s eyes glazed over. “He knows nothing of my getting shot at and attacked in sail rooms, but I am certain … he is quite frantic to know of my whereabouts.” She blinked and returned her attention to Magpie. “So tell me, was it my uncle who gave you the miniature?”

Magpie bobbed his curly head. “The day I was cleanin’ their chimney, I was admirin’ it and says out loud, ‘That’s the loveliest lady I’ve ever set me eyes on.’ The Duke told me ya was his niece. And Mrs. Jordan kindly gives it to me along with the sea chest and me blanket here. Ya won’t be takin’ it back from me, will ya?”

“No, it is yours to keep.” Emily grew sombre. “Magpie … I must know … have you shown that miniature to anyone, told anyone of your suspicions?”

Magpie sat up straighter and crossed his heart. “Not a one,” he whispered. “Not a one, I swear, ma’am. There ain’t no one on this ship that knows yer real name. Why, they’re all wondrin’ if yer Mrs. Seaton, but I know the truth. I know yer really Emeline Louisa Georgina Marie, daughter of Henry, Duke o’ Wessex, as was.”

Emily peeked over her shoulder to scope out the whereabouts of the cooks. “Please promise me this will be our little secret. Say nothing of Mrs. Seaton and the name Emeline Louisa …”

“Georgina Marie,” Magpie finished off triumphantly.

Biscuit approached, his odd eye rolling about as if trying to fix itself upon them, and said, “Pardon me, lass, but thee men, they’ll be piped into their breakfast soon and it might not be fittin’ they see ya sittin’ here.”

“I’ll be crawling back to my hole momentarily, Biscuit,” Emily said tersely, hoping her reply would get rid of him. She waited until he had crept back to his cauldron of porridge. “The miniature, Magpie … I will get it back to you the minute I – ” Her words died on her lips as a sudden realization struck with the force and speed of a cat-of-nine-tails whip.

Good God! Her clothes!

She sprang from her low bucket, her hands fumbling anxiously in the pockets of her white trousers, a fearful look in her eyes. Into the galley came a flood of duty cooks with their ration buckets to begin cooking breakfast for their messmates. Every last one of them gave Emily a long looking over, but in her frenzied state she took no notice.

“Well now, Magpie,” whistled one who had to drag his foot behind him, “ye have done well fer yerself!”

“Our young sail maker has risen in the world!”

“Ha, ha, ho, ho.”

“Shove off,” said the marine sentry.

But it was Biscuit who was more effective in scattering the sailors. He raised his wooden porridge spoon menacingly before them and growled, “Hold yer tongues, ya lubbers, and be mindin’ yer manners.”

Magpie jumped up from his own bucket, his bandaged head held high, and like a little gentleman took Emily’s arm and calmly steered her away from the men’s lusty looks, past the marine sentry, and back into the hospital. When they arrived at her corner, he let go of her arm and asked, “What’s wrong, ma’am?”

“Oh, Magpie,” she gasped, ashen-faced, “your miniature … it’s in the pocket of my other trousers, and … and Mrs. Kettle took them early this morning to be laundered!”

8:00 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Eight Bells)

The BOSUN’S MATE’S PIPES resonated round the lower deck, summoning the men to their breakfast. Near the gunroom, Meg Kettle waited until the last of the sailors had scurried past her and run up the ladder before slipping out of the shadows. It was her good fortune to find that the marine sentry had temporarily vacated his prisoner’s post. She leaned over the dirty man in the bilboes and grabbed a clump of his greasy hair, yanking his head back. “Time ta wake up, Mr. Lindsay … Lord, sir,” she said in derision. Plopping down upon the nearby bench pushed up against the ship’s sweating side, she watched the prisoner stir to life. He did so with great difficulty, grunting and groaning and cursing his back muscles, which ached from sitting on the damp floor, and his numb legs, immobilized in the thick irons.

“I’ve got somethin’ int’restin’ ta show ya,” said Mrs. Kettle, enjoying the spectacle of Octavius’s pain.

“Infernal woman, leave me be!”

“Ooooh, but this ya’ll be wantin’ ta see.”

Octavius screwed his head around to face her, rubbing his neck as he did so. “What the devil would you have that would interest me?”

“Mind yer tone or I won’t be showin’ ya.” She produced a shiny something from her apron pocket and waved it before him.

Octavius ignored her. “Vile laundry woman! Leave me be.”

In one fluid motion – far more fluid than one would think her capable of – Mrs. Kettle leapt off the bench, lifted her skirt, and dealt his crooked spine a savage blow with her booted foot. Octavius gasped for air, as if the woman had held his head underwater a long time. Howls of agony followed.

“Guard, guard, take her away. Take her away!” His voice was shrill and strained like that of a fearful child. “Why doesn’t anyone come?”

Mrs. Kettle shoved her face, red and wet with exertion, into his pimply one. “’Cause no one cares fer yer worthlessness any more.”

Mrs. Kettle looked pleased with herself as she watched Octavius desperately wrestle with his irons, vainly attempting to free his legs. When finally he gave up his fight and had, for the time, buried his rancour, she slapped her knee and said, “Right, now! Set yer eyes on this here.” She placed Magpie’s oval miniature into his quivering hands and held the lantern up over his head. “Behold that smilin’ face. Now, quick, flip it round.”

Octavius wiped at his eyes with dirty fingers and stared at the miniature for some time, turning it over again and again to scrutinize the face and the inscription.

“It’s her, ain’t it?”

“Who?”

“That woman what lies in thee doctor’s cot.”

“The daughter of Henry, Duke of Wessex, one of King George’s many sons? And … and therefore a niece of the prince regent and the Duke of Clarence?” Octavius snorted like a horse. “Impossible!”

“It’s her all right and she’s some kind o’ princess.”

Octavius gave his tormentor an impatient look. “I’ll admit to a resemblance, nothing more. I happen to know that portrait painters are never very accurate in their representation of their subject.”

“Aye, I suppose yer mother would be havin’ a portrait of ya without yer red spots and limp hair.”

He disregarded the slight. “I possess a miniature of my mother and the artist has succeeded brilliantly in making her look like Boticelli’s Venus, when in truth she bears a striking resemblance to a trollop!”

Mrs. Kettle grunted and pointed to the clothing worn by the woman in the miniature. “That woman came on board wearin’ thee same blue shirt.”

Octavius peered down at the picture again. “It’s called a spencer-jacket, not a shirt. Fashionable ladies have been wearing them for some time now.”

“Oh, we keep up with ladies’ fashions, do we now? Harumph! Well, I may not know thee fancy name fer it, but I knows what I see and thee braidin’ and design on that jacket’s thee same as what that woman were wearin’ thee day she set foot on thee Isabelle.”

Octavius shook his head. “It still doesn’t prove that Emily and the daughter of the late Duke of Wessex are one and the same person.”

Mrs. Kettle snatched the miniature out of his hands and laid down her trump card. “Aye, then how do ya explain me findin’ it in thee pocket of ’er trousers?”

Octavius’s mouth opened, his lips framing a silent “O.” He drifted into a daze while Mrs. Kettle stood over him, stroking the miniature as if it were a precious, sentimental object. “Ya never know who might be int’rested in seein’ this,” she said, tempting the wheels in his head to turn. She popped the miniature into her apron pocket, gave it a wee pat, and left Octavius in the dark to consider the possibilities.

In the blue shadows of the animals’ stable, Magpie swiftly and soundlessly sank out of sight just as Mrs. Kettle’s long swishing skirts swept past him, fanning his face. With Biscuit’s milking goat complacently licking his ear, and his heart thumping madly, he listened to her heavy footsteps gradually fade away down the gun deck. In despair, he realized he had come too late in search of the miniature. Mrs. Kettle had already found it, and she was scheming to do something with it – exactly what, Magpie didn’t know, but he knew he had to warn Emily and fast. Spying a perfectly rounded lump of dung sitting in a nest of straw by the goat’s hind legs, Magpie picked the whole works up and lobbed it like a grenade at the back of Octavius Lindsay’s head.

2:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Four Bells)

“SAIL HO! SAIL HO!”

“Larboard bow ahoy!”

“It’s a man-o’-war all right!”

“A mighty big one at that!”

In his cabin, James struggled to raise himself up in his cot. “Dear God! There was a time I thrilled to hear those words. Now they only fill me with dread.”

“Stay where you are,” said Leander firmly, trying to take James’s pulse. “Fly has commanded many ships in his time.”

“Hand me my clothes, Lee.”

“Your fever has returned and your pulse is weak. Please … stay where you are.”

James paid him no heed. He stumbled out of his cot and staggered over to his clothing hook where, with trembling hands, he reached for his white breeches and his blue frock coat adorned with shoulder epaulettes and brass-buttoned cuffs.

“I cannot agree to you leaving your bed in your state.”

James mopped his brow. “I’ve been too long in my bed, Lee. And I am well aware that I may never regain my strength.”

“Have you no faith in the abilities of Fly and Mr. Harding?”

“That is not the point!” he replied, with an edge in his voice; then, more gently, he added, “My men need to see me. If we are to face another battle, it will put their minds at ease to have me walk with them above deck.”

“That is all well and noble,” said Leander, pulling off his spectacles, “but I believe your men would find greater comfort in knowing your health was being restored with rest. As your doctor, I simply cannot approve of you – ”

“I will not fight Trevelyan in my bedclothes!” James glared at the doctor for a while until his anger dissipated, then, wearing a look of remorse, he carried his clothes meekly to his desk chair, where he sat down to catch his breath. Slowly he pulled on his breeches, then his Hessian boots, which stood upright on the floor beside him, and finally, his uniform coat.

Leander tucked his spectacles into his waistcoat pocket. “What evidence do we have that it is Trevelyan’s ship that approaches?”

James fumbled with his coat buttons, but finding the task exhausting, he shifted his body round to look out through the galleried windows upon the billowing misty-white sea, and fell into a dream-like state. There was something in his aspect that led Leander to wonder if James’s thoughts had travelled home to England. He watched him closely for some time.

“James, why is it the name Trevelyan strikes such fear in you? Granted, two weeks back, his guns inflicted a fearful lot of damage on us, but surely no more than we inflicted upon him.”

Beads of sweat ran down James’s sunken cheeks, and his eyes never left the sea. “He has an old score to settle with me and has waited a very long time for his revenge. I feared he would resurface again one day; I just never imagined I’d meet him in the Atlantic and find him commanding, of all things, an American ship called the Serendipity.”

Leander hoped to hear more, but when James revealed nothing further, he set about collecting his medical chest and made his way to the cabin door. “I will go and question Mr. McGilp for you – see what news there is.” Throwing open the door, he found McGilp already standing there, his fist at his forehead in a salute to his captain.

“Mr. McGilp!” cried James, rising to his feet. “Can you tell me? Is she British or Yankee?”

“She’s coming from the nor’east, sir. Still hard to tell with the mists and all.”

“Bearing down on us?”

“No, at ease and a piece off yet, sir.”

“The very minute – the very minute – you can identify her colours, let me know.”

“Right, sir.”

Mr. McGilp hurried off just as the sailing master, Mr. Harding, appeared at the door, red-faced and breathless. “Your instructions, sir?” he rasped.

“Tell Mr. Austen to raise the anchors and unfurl the sails. We must try to harness what wind we can and get to deeper water as soon as possible. Are our repairs nearly complete?”

“Another day or two would have been preferred, sir, but I think we are sound enough to fight … if need be.”

“And time … how much time would you say we have, Mr. Harding?”

“A good two hours, I’d say, sir – that’s if we were to stay put.”

After James had shut the door on the sailing master’s retreating steps, Leander led him back to his desk chair. Within minutes they could hear the familiar whirl of activity above deck – the call for the hands to weigh anchor and the sound of a fifer piping them to their posts to the tune of “Heart of Oak.” Two hundred men alone were needed to raise the thick cables of the main anchor. Eighty-four men, mostly marines, were necessary to operate the twelve bars of the capstan on the fo’c’sle, and several dozen more would be stationed on the gun deck and orlop to handle and stow the incoming, fishy-smelling cable.

“While we wait it out, I must stay occupied,” said James, fumbling again with his coat buttons.

“You’ve eaten nothing today. Could I convince you to take some food?”

“Perhaps a bowl of soup,” James said. “I will swallow a bit of nourishment for you, Lee, if you would escort Emily here to my cabin.”

“Emily?”

“I would like to question her again.” Noticing a mixed expression of interest and alarm on Leander’s face, he added, “You may stay for the interview.”

“I should like that.”

“Shall we say … in half an hour?” When Leander nodded his agreement, James sighed. “Right then! Now help me fasten these damned buttons.”

2:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Five Bells)

EMILY, GUS, AND MAGPIE sat cross-legged on the floor of Emily’s hospital corner reading Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility together. All three knew there had been a sighting, and their anxiety of the unknown was eased somewhat by listening to Austen’s fictional tale. Magpie sat with his back erect, his one almond-shaped eye shining in the shadows, his full youthful attention on the story of the sisters named Elinor and Marianne Dashwood. Gus read, his melodious voice loud enough so that Dr. Braden’s patients could hear his words as they lay in their cots, though it did not escape Emily’s notice that one of his legs was bouncing up and down.

Prior to their reading, Magpie had recounted in worried whispers the scene he had witnessed on the gun deck, and with this intelligence knocking around in her head, Emily sat nervously, one ear to the story, the other listening for the return of Mrs. Kettle with her laundry.

Before long, Leander crept into their corner and, with a nod of his head and an incline of his auburn eyebrows, sought permission to listen in. “I have a bit of time to spare before … before I tend to my next task,” he said, as if apologizing for his sudden appearance.

“Oh, please join us, Doctor,” Emily said, feeling at once safer with him on the wooden stool beside her.

Gus had barely managed to read a page when Magpie’s hand flew up in the air yet again as if he were a schoolboy sitting at his classroom desk and Gus his schoolmaster. “Excuse me, Mr. Walby, but I need to know why Miss Marianne got so sick.”

“Magpie, you must stop asking so many questions or we’ll never get through this chapter,” admonished Gus. “We don’t have long, you know.”

“It’s fine to ask questions, Magpie,” Emily said, smiling at his literary enthusiasm.

“All right then,” Gus recanted, disliking the thought of displeasing Emily. “While Miss Marianne was staying at the Palmers’ home, she took to rambling around their damp grounds, and got her shoes and stockings all wet. The result was she caught a chill and came down with an infectious fever.”

Magpie meditated on Gus’s answer. “But I don’t understand, ’cause me shoes and stockins’ are wet all o’ the time and I never gets a ’fectious fever.”

“What Gus said is true,” added Emily softly, “but you also need to understand that Marianne was spiritually exhausted and came close to dying of a broken heart. You see, she had fallen in love with the handsome Mr. Willoughby, and he in turn loved her dearly. In all ways, they were wonderfully suited for one another. But Willoughby had debts to pay, and under the threat of losing his large income, was forced to marry a wealthy woman for whom he did not care. It was his pocketbook he chose over Marianne’s love.”

Magpie looked upset. “Then who will be marryin’ Miss Marianne?”

“For certain it will be Colonel Brandon!” Gus spoke up eagerly this time. “It was him that rode to Barton to fetch Mrs. Dashwood when Miss Marianne was lying ill.”

“And although not as dashing or enticing a man as Willoughby,” Emily continued, “Colonel Brandon is far more honourable, and he adores her.”

From her cross-legged position on the floor, she glanced up and was heartened to find Leander smiling down upon her, adoration in his eyes. He started as if emerging from a reverie. “Jane writes well, does she not?” he said. “She always had a talent for writing …”

Realizing his thoughts had been with Miss Austen, Emily’s reply was cool. “She does. I have read no better work.”

There was an uneasy moment of silence, during which Leander cleared his throat and fixed his stare upon the front cover of Sense and Sensibility. Then, standing up, he turned to Gus. “Excuse me, Mr. Walby, before you continue your reading, I have come to inform Emily” – Leander looked right at her – “that her presence has been requested in the great cabin.”

An icy chill prickled Emily’s spine. Had Mrs. Kettle already shown the miniature to Captain Moreland? She wrinkled her forehead. “More interrogation? Why now? Surely the captain has far more grave concerns on his mind.”

“That he does; however, he would like to speak to you before that approaching ship gets too close for comfort.”

Gus shut the book, and all three of them pushed themselves up from the floor. Leander swept aside the curtain to let them pass into the hospital. To their surprise, standing amongst the hammocks, holding Emily’s cleaned checked shirt and trousers, was Meg Kettle. “Ahh, and what were yas all doin’ in there?” Mrs. Kettle asked in a tone that set Mr. Crump into a fit of giggles.

“We was readin’ a book!” said Magpie. “Somethin’ ya can’t and won’t never do.”

A hush descended upon the room as everyone present gaped at the little sail maker’s outburst. Emily placed her hands gently on his thin shoulders.

When she had quite recovered her shock, Mrs. Kettle glared at Emily. “I suppose yer teachin’ him yer fancy ways. Readin’ a book! Ya ’ave no use fer it, Magpie. Ya won’t never rise above yer station, especially now … lookin’ like a one-eyed serpent with ’alf a face.”

Feeling Magpie squirming beneath her hands, Emily squeezed his shoulders while Leander, standing next to her, looked like thunder. “Mrs. Kettle, your tongue has no place here. I must ask that you leave now.”

“And I see ya’ve fallen under ’er spell as well, Doctor.”

“Leave your laundry and turn about!”

Mrs. Kettle hurled the clean clothes at Emily. “There ya be, ya lofty camp follower.”

The room echoed with gasps and whistles. Heads rose from their pillows. Mr. Crump wiggled his stump about in raptures. He’d never witnessed such excitement! “Give ’er thee old toss, Doc.”

Osmund, none too gently, steered the laundress towards the exit.

“Wait!” said Emily. She stooped to collect her scattered clothes, past caring about the possible repercussions of what she was about to do. All eyes focused on her as she rifled through the pockets of her clean trousers, obviously in search of something, and came up empty-handed. “Mrs. Kettle,” she said with all the composure she could muster, “I believe you have something of mine.”

Mrs. Kettle shook off Osmund’s hold on her arm, her small eyes narrowing, almost disappearing into the folds of her facial fat. “And what would that be?”

Emily stood her battleground, holding onto Magpie again, this time for support. “It was in the pocket of these trousers.”

Mrs. Kettle looked uncertain. Several times she swallowed and her fists fiddled in the coarse material of her skirt. Her red face twitched as she cast nervously about, her eyes racing from face to face, her taut stance indicating a desire to bolt from the hospital. But when her eyes finally stopped on Leander, her hunted expression vanished. Giving the side of her head a playful smack, she haughtily exclaimed, “Ahhhh! How could I ’ave taken such leave o’ me senses. My sincere apologies to yer Highness. Right! In yer trousers pocket it was.”

Emily waited, holding her breath, while Mrs. Kettle leisurely reached into the pocket of her apron and jerked out a stained, crumpled piece of paper. Realizing what it was she held up in her fat hands, Emily watched in horror as a malicious grin appeared on the laundress’s lips.

“Ya think I know nothin’ of readin’, ya imp,” Mrs. Kettle spit at Magpie. “Well, hear this!” She shifted into her most amorous voice. “My Dearest Jane. It is too long since last I heard your joyful voice and walked with you in the gardens at Chawton. I often think of England and the time when we will next meet. More than ever I have need of your comfort and inspiration as already we have twice battled the Americans and our casualties have been too numerous for even this poor doctor to bear. Several of us in the hospital take solace in reading your novel. It has afforded us hours of pleasure. What delightful characters you have created in the Misses Dashwoods. I am particularly taken with Miss Marianne. Would you believe me if I told you that I have recently become acquainted with a true Marianne …”

Something in the way Mrs. Kettle read the letter suggested she had memorized its contents. With a dramatic flourish, she dabbed at her eyes and, shooting a meaningful glance at Leander, said, “Such pretty words! ’Tis a pity there ain’t more.”

Emily forced herself to look at Leander. Her heart sank to see his handsome face frozen in disbelief, his lips moving in silent inquiry, his blue eyes – brimming with devastation – staring back at her.

“Aye, imagine that! Right in ’er very pocket I found yer letter, Doctor!”

Magpie whirled about to face Emily. “What about the miniature, ma’am?”

Emily shook her head sadly.

Suddenly, a burst of cries and bellows came from the men above deck.

“She’s Yankee! She’s Yankee all right!”

“And a frigate!”

“Clear the decks for action!”

“Lively now, lads.”

“Lower the boats.”

The drums beat to quarters, instantly plunging the Isabelle and her crew into nervous activity. Urgent footsteps pounding overhead and the frantic orders of the unseen seamen sent Emily’s heart into her mouth.

“Dear, God, not again!” she whispered.

Gus took hold of her hand and dragged her back towards her canvas corner. “You’ll be safe in here, Em.”

Emily went in reluctantly, twisting her head around in a backwards glance only to learn that Mrs. Kettle had made her escape and Leander, his cheeks still flushed, was sharpening his surgical equipment for the grisly task that lay before him.

4:30 p.m.

(First Dog Watch, One Bell)

FLY AUSTEN REACHED THE QUARTERDECK and looked about the ship. He was dressed in his freshly pressed blue-and-gold uniform, his body erect, his dark eyes alert. Today his aspect was all business. Wherever his gaze fell, there wasn’t one man – from those clinging to the footropes and the tops, to those hugging the rails and manning the guns – whose eyes weren’t trained upon the approaching warship. Though she was still a few miles away and resembled a ghost ship emerging from the wispy mists, Fly could plainly see her American colours at her stern. He found James alongside Mr. Harding, holding onto the starboard rail with one hand, watching the ship’s movements through his spyglass.

Coming up behind the two men, Fly saluted James and said, “Sir, the men are at their posts and stand ready round the guns.”

As he lowered his glass, James looked disheartened. “We haven’t had the time to fully repair. What’s more, we have neither adequate sea room in which to manoeuvre, nor the wind in our favour, Mr. Austen.”

Mr. Harding shifted his weight onto his one foot. “And this is a cursed place to do battle. With very little effort, she could force us back upon those damned shoals.”

“We’ll not do anything to provoke her,” said James determinedly. “We’ll wait and see if she fires the first shot.” In the company of Mr. Harding, he moved on down the starboard gangway to dispense words of encouragement to the gun crews and yell out final orders to the men and marines in the tops.

Fly pulled out his own spyglass, mumbling words of encouragement to himself, to stay buoyed before the men. Breathe out, Austen. Remember that Nelson succeeded by breaking with our rigid naval tactics. Perhaps, if we want to save our necks, we should follow suit and try putting our collective imaginations to task. Lifting the glass to his eye, he studied the looming ship that was still three or four miles away. He could see her cutting a good bow wave beneath her elaborately carved red-and-gold figurehead. Her hull was black with a stripe of ochre-yellow that followed her gunports. The squares of her foresails, plumped up by the strong northeast breeze, glowed in the sun’s rays that peeked through the clouds, and resembled large pillows in slipcovers of gold. He watched the tiny figures of the seamen bustling about the decks and climbing the standing rigging to the tops. Near the bowsprit, he was certain he could see the captain himself, a corpulent man in a cocked hat, standing amongst a group of officers. Aware that the whirling mists were finally receding, Fly kept the glass to his eye and made a mental note of the number of guns she possessed. All the while, along the corridors of his mind, there was a pricking sensation – something was familiar about this large ship.

Nearby, the sailors who nervously awaited their next round of orders – Mr. McGilp gripping the Isabelle’s wheel, the marines with their muskets ready and aimed, the gun crews and powder monkeys clustered around the great guns on the starboard side of the fo’c’sle, poop, and quarterdeck – never expected to see Mr. Austen, in one sudden movement, toss up his spyglass and throw back his head to howl with laughter.

“Captain Moreland, sir,” he called out, addressing all those sweating, eager faces that looked his way, “I invite you to take another look through your glass.”

* * *

EMILY CAST OFF THE GARMENTS Magpie had laboured to make for her and wiggled into her clean, less formal checked shirt and trousers, determined she would not cower in her corner waiting for the cannons to shake the ship’s sides and the agonizing cries of the mutilated men to echo in her ears. When Gus and Magpie had left her to resume their nautical duties, she had attempted to calm herself by re-reading passages of Jane Austen’s novel, but it was no use. The words in Leander’s letter haunted her thoughts and only served to stir up envious emotions for the talented author of Sense and Sensibility.

Leaving the security of her corner, she entered the hospital room with trepidation, worried lest there be further talk on the subject of Leander’s stolen letter. When the drums had beat to quarters, she had heard great commotion beyond her curtain, but she had not dreamed that every last man had heeded the call, from the marine sentry and Mr. Crump to Osmund Brockley and the loblolly boys. Leander’s desk had been transformed into an operating table, with the familiar bloodstained sheet and neat line of surgical tools spread out upon it, and Leander himself was sitting hunched over in the desk chair, scratching notes into his medical journal with a quill pen. Uneasily, Emily stood before him like a child before a stern teacher. “Please, Doctor, I am in need of an occupation.”

He pressed his lips together and regarded her over his round spectacles, and without saying a word, lifted up a bucket of bandages by his feet and handed it to her. Emily knew he meant for her to roll them in preparation for their next round of patients. She searched about for the nearest stool, sat down with her bucket, and set about to work, relieved to be doing something useful and delighting in the pleasant musky smell of Leander’s closeness. From her seat, she furtively watched his fingers fly over the pages of his journal and his slim shoulders stir in his clean muslin shirt and striped waistcoat as he exercised stiffening muscles, hoping that eventually he would set his eyes upon her.

“I gather my interview with Captain Moreland has been postponed.”

He paused in his writing, but did not look up. “It has.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, hating herself for stating the obvious.

As the silence between them continued, Emily grew more and more jittery, and the pandemonium over their heads seemed at once remote and unreal. At last, Leander lay down his pen. “I thought perhaps you might find respite in reading Jane’s book.”

She eagerly smiled up at him. “It is not the same without the company of Gus Walby.”

“I see,” he said absently, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Besides, I cannot help feeling jealous of Jane Austen.”

“Why is that?”

Her cheeks turned scarlet. “Because her … her book is so finely crafted, her writing so true. Her accomplishments are an inspiration to all women.” Leander nodded thoughtfully before returning to his journal. “And because,” she added quickly, “she so obviously holds your affections.”

The flash of his eyes on her made her shaky and her words tumbled out of her mouth. “Doctor, please, you must believe me. I did not steal your letter. I found it on the floor of the hospital a week back. Osmund Brockley had already stepped on it with his clumsiness and spilled all forms of liquid upon it. It would have been lost altogether had I not picked it up before setting off for the sail room to fetch Magpie’s blanket and placed it in my pocket, and when … when I was forced to return to my cot it remained in my pocket, safe, but altogether forgotten. I swear to you … I did not read it.”

Leander shut his journal and leaned back against the wooden spindles of his chair, assuming the aspect of a judge about to exact a punishment. Before long, an expression of amusement brightened his face. “If I were to believe you, Emily, can you tell me truthfully that you wouldn’t – at some point – have been tempted to read it?”

She laughed nervously. “Honestly? I cannot tell.”

All the clamour and confusion that had crashed above their heads for so long ceased abruptly, as if the peacefulness of the hospital had permeated the entire ship. Together Leander and Emily raised their eyes to the wooden ceiling and strained their ears to catch a sailor’s footfall or vociferous bellow.

Emily fidgeted with the bandages in her lap, certain that Leander could hear her heart beating. “Why is there no sound?”

“There is often an eerie calm before battle.” He set his eyes once again upon Emily, a sober glint having replaced his one of earlier enjoyment. “You asked Mrs. Kettle to return to you something that was yours. If it was not my letter to which you referred, may I ask what it was?”

Emily was slow to answer, for her mind was muddled. It was tortuous trying to ignore the fact that a Yankee frigate was swiftly bearing down on them, and yet she keenly felt Leander’s humiliation at having Meg Kettle scornfully read aloud his letter to Jane. She needed to make amends.

Somehow.

“Mrs. Kettle found two things in the pockets of my trousers early this morning. The first was your letter, the second was a portrait … a miniature … of me.”

“Of you?” Leander leaned forward in his chair. “Did you carry it concealed from us when you first came on board?”

“No! No … the amazing thing is, I found it in Magpie’s sea chest, wrapped in his blanket.” She watched his face closely. “You see, Doctor, our little sail maker has discovered who I am.”

His eyes searched out hers. “And who might that be, Emily?”

With trembling hands, she set aside the bandages and stood up to pace the hospital floor, too worried to meet his stare. “You have most likely heard that prior to Magpie taking to the sea, he was a climbing boy in London, cleaning chimneys in the employ of a Mr. Hardy.”

“I have heard something to that effect.”

“Three years ago, Magpie was working in the home of my Uncle Clar … my Uncle William when he chanced to suffer a bad fall. My uncle showed Magpie much kindness, first by throwing his angry, unsympathetic employer out the door, secondly by giving him a large supper – more food than Magpie had ever eaten – and finally by offering him an opportunity to work on a ship. My uncle and his wife invited him to stay with them until a suitable posting was found, and when it came time for him to leave for the sea, they gave him three gifts: a sea chest, a blanket, and a miniature of me that the dear boy claimed he had greatly admired.” Emily paused to peer at Leander, only to find that he had not moved, that his gaze still rested on her. “That first evening I came on board the Isabelle, Magpie was convinced I was the same woman in his little picture … why, I was wearing the very same blue velvet spencer! But he told no one of his suspicions, and only this morning, when we met together in the galley, did I learn of it myself. Magpie has since discovered that Mrs. Kettle does indeed have my miniature. He saw her showing it to – of all people – Octavius Lindsay.”

Leander stretched his arms across his surgery-ready table. “But as she has stolen it from you, we shall simply demand she give it back.”

Emily turned to look at him, her dark brown eyes glistening in the half-light. “And by nightfall, every man on the Isabelle will know who I am. You see, Doctor, on the back of the miniature, in addition to my full name, there is written my father’s name and … his title.”

Leander’s eyes widened and his lips parted, but he said nothing, only waited.

“I told Captain Moreland when I first came on board the Isabelle that my mother died when I was young. She was legally married to my father, but my father’s parents did not approve of the match. During my childhood, my father was often absent for long periods of time, but I was well taken care of by various members of his family. Above all else, I adored my Uncle William and his children, and when my father died in 1810, I begged and pleaded to be permanently installed in my uncle’s home. Sadly, not long afterward, their home was broken up, my uncle and aunt separated, and Aunt Dora was forced to move into a much smaller home.

“My grandmother was adamant that I live with her in London, and certainly she had enough spare bedrooms to accommodate me, but I could not warm to the woman who had made my own mother’s short life so difficult. Besides, I could not tolerate the thought of vegetating in that household, of being shut up in the company of my grandmother, who was growing increasingly disagreeable, and my poor unmarried aunts, living out my days and evenings cutting out silhouettes, and painting china, and making lace, and doing needlework, having to rely upon visitors to tell me something of the vast world beyond my front door. I was seventeen, almost eighteen, and, as far as I was concerned, free to make my way in the world. To appease my grandmother, I told her I would happily come live with her if she would first grant me permission to have an extended visit with my mother’s relations in Dorset. Her answer was a long time in coming, and goodness knows, she made me suffer, but she finally agreed to my wishes.

“My maternal relations were exceedingly amiable, and my days with them were full of fun and adventure. We explored the countryside by horseback and on foot; we went seabathing in Weymouth Bay; took trips to Lyme Regis and Exeter; and climbed the ancient stones on Salisbury Plain. Why, I even glimpsed the Cerne Giant on his green hill.” Emily smiled in remembrance and was pleased to see Leander’s focused eyes flutter. “Not once, Doctor, did I pick up a needle, or play on a pianoforte, or sit at a whist table. All the while, the thought of returning to London filled me with dread. How could I ever live happily, caged in cold walls of stone, when I had tasted such delights, known such diversions? Determined to prolong my adventure as long as possible, I listened to my cousin’s plans to journey to Upper Canada to visit a distant relation who had made his home there some years before, and as I was drawn to the idea of an ocean-crossing, I began scheming to go …”

Leander, whose right hand had covered his mouth as he listened, spread his fingers to interrupt her. “Emily, in all this, you have brilliantly avoided my question.”

“Your question?” she asked innocently.

He angled his head, feigning impatience with her, but when she still didn’t answer him he grew solemn and looked troubled. “Who are you … really?”

Emily stared at the bucket of bandages on her recently vacated stool and summoned the courage to reply. She met his watchful gaze. “I have already told you that my father’s name was Henry. At one point in his career, he actually was a farmer. His last name, however, was not George. You see, Doctor, as my grandfather’s name is Geo …”

But Leander did not hear her subsequent words, for they were wrenched away, lost in a shocking hullabaloo of mirthful voices, pounding drums, and thumping noises that flooded the Isabelle like a tidal wave, causing the hanging lanterns to swing wildly on their hooks and the ship’s oaken timbers to shiver. No sooner had Leander leapt to his feet and Emily blinked at him in wonder when a succession of men blew into the hospital as if propelled by a gust of wind: Mr. Crump and another landsman (who had given the one-legged man assistance with the ladder), both full of chatter and a desire to tell the doctor what had just transpired; Emily’s marine sentry returning to his babysitting duties; a poor young sailor who had crushed his hand while his crew readied their gun for battle; and finally, a freckle-faced midshipman with a message for Dr. Braden: “Captain Moreland requests your presence for dinner in his cabin at the start of the First Watch, sir, and sends his apologies for the late hour, but says it will take Biscuit some time to fire up his stove in order to cook a proper meal.” Finally it all made sense when Gus Walby clambered down the ladder, calling out, “Dr. Braden! Dr. Braden, sir! You’ll never believe it! The Yankee ship … why, she’s not Yankee at all. She’s one of ours. She’s the Amethyst!”

Emily clutched at her chest and allowed a few tears of relief to fall, but as she looked from Gus back to Leander, she found the doctor’s attention fully engaged with the sailor and his crushed hand, and her heart sank to the floor. Their private moment had passed.

5:00 p.m.

(First Dog Watch, Two Bells)

MEG KETTLE GRUNTED AND CURSED her way down the ladder that led to the murky orlop deck, trying to lift her long skirt and find the ladder’s slippery rungs while balancing a lantern and bowl of stew. The Isabelle’s criminal, having been moved below when the gun deck was cleared for action, sat dejectedly in his new irons and raised his head as the blackness around him began to recede. Mrs. Kettle held the bowl high above him and took pleasure in watching him grab for it. “Ya looks like a mangy cur beggin’ fer a scrap o’ meat.”

Octavius’s sunken black eyes shone in the lantern-light. “I’m hungry.”