Come Looking For Me (26 page)

“The
Amethyst – ?
”

“Our signals to her for assistance went unanswered.”

“Will you not allow me to stay in the hospital, Doctor?”

“It is Captain Moreland's wishes – his orders – that you ride out the battle down here.”

“Would I not be put to better use helping you with your patients?”

“I – the men would only be anxious for your safety. You'll be better off down here.”

Hearing the misstep in his speech, she scanned his handsome face, willing him to gaze upon her with adoring eyes as he once had, only to be disappointed when he blinked several times and looked away. A brooding silence fell between them. Emily's arms dropped to her sides in defeat. She bit back her stinging tears in an effort to conceal her hurt and fear from him. Long, awkward moments passed before she broke their silence.

“Would you leave me the lantern? I do not like the darkness.”

“Of course,” he said, placing it on his bookshelf next to a slim volume of Robbie Burns's poems. He gestured towards a small purple bottle slipped in amongst his books. “Should things get … intolerable, you might find a sip of that will help.” He frowned and started as if suddenly remembering something. Reaching into the pocket of his brown frock coat, he pulled from it a folded slip of parchment and held it out to her.

“Is it another letter to Jane you would have me read?” Emily asked.

“This one is for you.”

Emily glanced up sharply, daring to hope.

“There – there is information that has recently come to light,” he continued, his eyes full of sadness, “information gleaned from Captain Prickett and Lord Bridlington of the
Amethyst
with whom I had the privilege to dine last evening. It is the very best of news. Read my letter and take comfort in it, and know that you do have a life worth living.”

Emily looked puzzled. “You
tell
me this, Doctor, yet I hear no joy in your voice. What of that?”

From the far reaches of the orlop, a voice suddenly called out, shattering the unsettling stillness around them. “Dr. Braden? Are ya down here, sir?”

“I am, Mr. Brockley.”

“And will ya be along, then? The hospital – I'm worried it'll soon be full, sir.”

“I am coming straightaway.”

Emily snapped in exasperation. “You are always needed somewhere! Why, I can hardly complete a sentence let alone a conversation in your company without someone listening in or pulling you away or beating to quarters or drowning or needing you to stitch up their bloody head! And now … you are needed
again.
” With a sharp intake of breath, she caught herself, regretting her words.

Leander lifted his chin. “There are many things I cannot change and that is one of them.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Doctor, will you not stay a moment? I should like to hear this good news from your own lips.”

“I should go.” He bent his tall frame to pass through the low door. Out in the darkness of the deck, he paused, briefly, before setting off, firm resignation evident in his stride.

A forlorn emptiness pressed down on Emily as she watched him go, disappearing bit by bit into the obscurity like an elusive dream. He was nothing more than a grey shape in the black shadows when a thunderous explosion ripped through the air and the
Isabelle
pitched and groaned with a hit. Panic arose in her breast as she listened to the crew's suppressed but distinct outpouring of horrified anger in the distance. In the furore, she was certain she discerned the chilling words,
“man overboard.
” Her pulse accelerated with anxiety for the
Isabelle's
crew. They were no longer faceless, nameless sailors; they were her friends, companions, brothers she had never before known, cherished substitutes for her lost parents. Her family.

“Who is it that has fallen now?”

Cold dread coursed through her veins as she realized, with a battle looming, a rescue of the poor soul would be impossible. The
Isabelle
shuddered as her larboard guns boomed and jumped in answer to the enemy blasts. Emily imagined the men falling dead, bloodied and torn apart by grapeshot, or worse still, alone and injured on the deck, pleading piteously for help that would be a long time in coming, if ever. Her mind raced to Morgan Evans, who only minutes before had said good-bye to her in the hospital after he had haltingly dictated a touching letter home to his Welsh sisters. She thought of Fly Austen and Captain Moreland running steadfastly about, assuring, assisting, and encouraging their men while standing in the direct line of enemy fire, and of little Magpie, his head still in bandages, and dear Gus Walby, proudly wearing his bicorne, both of them heady with adrenaline as they carried out orders and fought alongside the older men. Wild-eyed, she peered into the spreading gloom for a final glimpse of the one man she cared for above all others, and hysterically she cried out, “Leander!”

For a moment, there was a haunting silence, as if the battle had ended and all hands were lost, then at last she heard the welcoming echo of his returning footsteps. He soon appeared in the dim illumination of her lamplight, an expression of expectation on his face, staring at her with wide eyes as her own filled with tears.

“I cannot bear this coldness between us any longer,” she choked out. “I – I have relied so completely on your friendship these past weeks. I am well aware that I may not see you again. Will you – could you not at least shake hands with me?” She extended her trembling right hand as the tears started down her face and whispered, “Would you leave me thus?”

He stood stock-still, his auburn brow etched in sorrow, and for the longest time said nothing. Only when the pervasive wails of war intensified did his words at last tumble out. “If I had not heard the name of Mrs. Seaton and learned of your background and parentage and understood the reason for your unhappiness and nightmares; if everything was different, if everything was put right in the world – had we been born in the same circles – not opposite ends of the earth – and I wasn't simply a ship's doctor – then – then – I would never leave you.”

It was Emily's turn to be rendered speechless. She gave him a tentative smile and her eyes never wavered from his face.

He nodded towards the letter she held to her breast and gently said, “I cannot stay long, but I shall stay here while you read it.”

Tearing it open, she hungrily swept its contents.

Dear Madam;

Should we not have an opportunity to speak again in private I feel compelled to inform you that I am now aware that you are the granddaughter of King George and will henceforth address you as the Princess Emeline Louisa. I can only speculate what unfortunate circumstances resulted in you being taken prisoner on the
Serendipity
and now understand why it was you were travelling across the ocean under the name of Mrs. Seaton. But know this – it has been my pleasure and an honour to care for your wounds these past weeks. You have proven to be a most affable and courageous patient.

Rejoice in the knowledge that your lady-in-waiting and your husband, Frederick Seaton, were rescued from the wreck of the
Amelia
and are safely home in England under the care of your Uncle William, the Duke of Clarence. It is my hope that this news will safeguard you from your blackest hours.

I bid you Godspeed,

Your Faithful Servant,

Leander Braden.

Emily's fist tightened around the letter and her shoulders sagged as she fell against the cabin door, sinking to her knees, murmuring thanks like the tranquil sea after a tempest. Transfixed in happiness, she sat there until her spent sobs had turned to laughter and eagerly she looked up at Leander. “I travelled under the name Mrs. Seaton for no other reason than for my safety. Frederick Seaton is my cousin. He is not, nor ever shall be, my husband.”

Leander's lips parted in surprise.

“There is so much that I need to tell you, Doctor. So much that I need to explain. Give me a chance to tell you about myself and when you have learned all, tell me there is some hope.”

“Hope? When we belong to such different worlds?”

“It is your world, not mine, to which I wish to belong.”

Leander stared at her in mute elation, then dropped down next to her. There he lifted her little white hand that bore the scars of her leap from the
Serendipity
and, closing his eyes tightly, held it to his cheek, then to his lips, letting it linger there. When he opened his eyes again, their sea-blue colour was more striking than ever, and the fine lines around them crinkled in mirth. He seemed as content as he had been that gusty morning when they had sat together on the
Isabelle's
waist within the shelter of the smaller boats.

“God willing, I will meet you later, up high on the mizzenmast's platform, and there we will talk and watch tomorrow's sun rise.” He searched her face as if trying to memorize every one of her features, and his own broke into a teasing smile. “Your pistol, Princess Emeline, keep it with you at all times. I suspect you know how to use it.”

He rose and bowed to her respectfully, as he would have had he made her acquaintance in a lavish ballroom, allowed his gaze to fall on her another moment, and was gone. Emily shrank back against the door and waited until the guns and desperate cries above had swallowed the wrenching sound of his departing steps, then dragged herself beneath Leander's bed where she wept unrestained tears of joy.

James lay still, near the bowsprit where he had fallen, his breathing laboured, trying to focus on the gull as it cheerfully swooped and glided around the ruins of his once-proud masts. He kept his eyes skyward, afraid of what he might see if he lifted his head to search the decks. He could smell charred flesh and feel the stickiness of the blood that ran in rivulets along the planks, seeping into his cream-coloured breeches, and he tried to convince himself that neither belonged to him. He would have to get himself up soon –
stand tall on the deck
– as the men needed him now more than ever. They required direction and a calming word. The enemy was approaching. He could hear their excited shouts as they clambered into their small boats to cross over and board the
Isabelle.
James attempted to raise himself up, but he couldn't breathe properly, nor could he move his legs, or his arms, or any part of his body.

He lay there helplessly as the American boats pulled nearer and nearer, unable to do a blessed thing, except dwell with forlorn thoughts.
Is this how it would end, then? No victory, no glory, no prize money, no lofty comparisons made to Lord Nelson back home in England; his family forever having to bear the shame of his ignoble defeat at the hands of a British traitor?
James twitched and tasted blood in his mouth, and from somewhere far away, heard a voice calling to him.

“Captain Moreland! Sir!”

It was Fly's voice, but James could not see him clearly. Fly appeared over him suddenly, faceless in the darkness, and there were two others at his side, one weeping profusely.

“Hold on, sir, and I'll get Leander.” Fly's voice had a strange hoarseness to it.

“No!” James began to cough and he had to wait until his spasms had passed. “No. There will be others who need the doctor's attention. I will wait my turn.”

He felt himself being gently lifted from the wet deck and carried away, although in which direction they were headed he could not guess. He tried to hold onto their voices, which grew more and more distant with each step.

“Biscuit! Take the captain to his cabin.”

“Ach, but sir, it's bin shot out … awful mess in there. Glass all over thee place and thee furniture, why it's nothin' but rubble.”

“Take him there in any case.” Fly then lowered his voice. “Magpie, quit your snivelling this instant! Tell Dr. Braden to meet me in the great cabin. Run!”

“Fly?” James called out, feeling an overwhelming desire to go to sleep. “My letters, do you have them?”

“Aye, sir. They are safe.”

“I – I regret that first time a few weeks back, allowing Trevelyan to get away. Perhaps I should not have concerned myself with wind and repairs; perhaps I should have gone straight back after him.”

“But, sir, you had no idea it was Trevelyan's ship.”

“No.” James sighed. “Still …” He lifted his faded blue eyes to the sky once again. “I ask for your forgiveness.”

He could see quite clearly now and watched as the white gull, having grown tired of the cheerless wreck, swooped down the length of the
Isabelle's
decks towards her taffrail, circled her shattered mizzenmast and the tattered British colours that still fluttered from her stern, and finally soared through the smoke to search for the sun.