Come Looking For Me (39 page)

Emily's wavering confidence drained away. “But you – you require Dr. Braden's services on your ship.”

“I will do what I must to get my way.”

Feeling the sting of tears, Emily was slow to reply. “Sir, I cannot pretend to understand the nature of your former crimes against your country; however, my guess is your more recent traitorous offences, namely those against the
Amelia
and
Isabelle,
will cost you dearly. I doubt you will ever be allowed to set foot again in England.”

Trevelyan poured himself another glass of wine, leaned forward over his table, and clasped his hands under his chin. “Then, madam, neither will you.”

“I would have preferred hot soup, Mr. Austen, but already the day is a warm one,” said Pickett, beads of sweat dripping down his cheeks as he downed spoonfuls of the brown, oily stuff.

Put off by the smell of both Prickett and his breakfast, Fly wheeled about to face the harbour where, despite the distance, he could see a few sails beginning to stir. “At least there is relief in the winds, sir. Perhaps they bode well for a sea battle.”

Bridlington looked alarmed.

Prickett nodded in agreement. “Tell us your thoughts, Mr. Austen?”

“Now that we have had it confirmed that Trevelyan does indeed lie anchored beyond, I question the wisdom in further delay.”

“But, Mr. Austen,” said Bridlington, “this suggestion of yours – to issue him a challenge – is a disquieting one. The
Amethyst
is a ship of seventy-four guns. Trevelyan's frigate boasts no more than thirty-six. It would be dishonourable to challenge a ship with inferior gun power.”

Fly had to stifle his impatience with the first lieutenant; they had already discussed the subject at length last evening in the wardroom. “Mr. Bridlington, of course you are aware that when it comes to single-ship action, much has to be taken into consideration, beyond the gun power of the opposing ships. The
Serendipity
is a much younger ship, she is well manned, her crews are well drilled, and her sailing ability is far superior to ours.” Fly compressed his lips. “Moreover, her captain is foolhardy and would undoubtedly be the first to issue a challenge if he had an inkling who was watching him.”

Bridlington sought Prickett for help. “Sir, we are not ready for this.”

Prickett hiked up his breeches. “No one is ever prepared to be shot to pieces. Toughen up and resist being a milksop.”

Bridlington reddened and looked offended, but neither Fly nor Prickett paid him heed, for at that precise moment energized voices pierced the calm morning air.

“Sail, ho! Sail, ho!”

“That ain't no fishin' boat.”

“For certain that's a frigate.”

Fly peered up at the masthead. To his pleasant surprise, sitting astride the foreyard, helping to make repairs to the stirrups, was the ubiquitous Morgan Evans. Catching his attention, Fly called out, “Is it him, Mr. Evans?”

“It's him all right, sir.”

Fly tossed the sulking first lieutenant a smile. “Well, now that our plans for a challenge have been thwarted, let us see how well the
Amethyst
handles herself in a chase.”

Bridlington's eyes were frozen in fear, but Prickett threw away his soup bowl and launched into action. He stomped around the quarterdeck with his hands on his heavy hips, barking orders that sounded as if his guns were already firing. “All hands aloft. Make sail, lads, and be sure to chain those yards. Where's the bo's'n? Wake the sleepers, man! You there, see to the netting. There'll be no Yankees boarding my ship today. Pass the word for Biscuit. We must all be fed before clearing the decks for action.” Fly watched in amusement as the stocky captain administered every direction, so unlike the smooth chain of command that had been prevalent on Captain Moreland's ship.

The
Isabelle.

Though he would never admit it to Bridlington, Fly felt his own fears, his own anxiety, and for reassurance, reached into his coat pocket to touch James's letter. Prickett soon rejoined him at the bowsprit, as his voice was now quite spent. “Tell me, Mr. Austen,” he said hoarsely, trying to assume a bold stance, “
are
we ready?”

Fly's thoughtful gaze scoured the decks and masts of the
Amethyst.
Though the scurry of activity was anything but organized, there was a contagious buzz of excitement in the air. “Not at all, sir, but our men – they are extraordinarily exuberant.”

The cabin door opened and closed. Wheeling about, she found Meg Kettle with the breakfast tray. The laundress set the food down upon the wooden stool and slipped out the door again. When she returned the second time, she was carrying what looked like an elegant dress box. “Aren't ye a lucky one,” she snarled.

“And why is that?” Emily said, her voice flat.

Mrs. Kettle blew a strand of greying hair out of her eyes, then eagerly lifted the lid from the box as if she were opening a Christmas gift addressed to her. She pulled out a crisp new chemise and a dress of fine white cotton with satin embroidery, and held them up for inspection. “Cap'n Trevelyan picked 'em out hisself in Charleston.”

Emily glanced indifferently at the dress. “And that makes me lucky?”

Mrs. Kettle returned the clothing to the box with such tender care one would think she was restoring baby birds to their nest. She then placed her hands on her hips and scowled at Emily. “It's more than ye deserve, I say. And look! See what he ordered up fer yer breakfast.”

Emily looked over the tray laden with sweet rolls, butter, strawberry preserves, cold ham, spiced nuts, cream, and steaming coffee. This morning she would have preferred her usual ration of tea and gruel. “I marvel at Trevelyan's
gifts
to me at this late hour,” she said. Wandering over to the tray, she picked up the mug of coffee, then returned and sat upon the cannon carriage. “The feast is all yours, Mrs. Kettle. I have no appetite for it.”

Without hesitation, the older woman stuffed a sweet roll into her mouth, grabbed a handful of spiced nuts, and stood back to scrutinize Emily with her little eyes. “Savin' yer
appetite
fer other things, are ye then?”

Emily glanced away, her ears alerted to the increasing commotion beyond the cabin walls. But Mrs. Kettle resumed her heckling. “Look at ya, sittin' there, full o' self-pity.”

“Self-pity? You are quite mistaken, Mrs. Kettle. As I am the
luckiest
of women alive, my temperament can only be interpreted as a testament to my immense disappointment that I will
not
be wed in the garden of a Charleston mansion, nor will I be able to wear magnolias in my hair, and eat an iced layer cake.”

The laundress watched Emily closely, squinting now and again as she crunched on her spiced nuts. “Bet yer face would be all smiles if ya was marryin' thee doctor.”

Emily wilted. Unable to summon enough energy to reply, she gazed out the open port at the small wave-like clouds that drifted by, and kept her painful thoughts to herself.

“Thee poor doctor! So melancholy is he. Why, just now it was, I passed him by, comin' out o' thee cap'n's cabin,” said Mrs. Kettle. “He were movin' real slow, like a man about to face thee gallows.”

Though she longed to hear something – anything – of Leander, Emily sat there silently, refusing to be drawn out.

Mrs. Kettle spit into the cabin's corner. “Yer nothin' but an ingrate! Ya bin indulged yer whole life. Why, I would give away me unborn child to be marryin' thee likes o' Cap'n Trevelyan.”

“Keep your child, Mrs. Kettle, and take Trevelyan,” said Emily quietly, turning from the open port to face her. “You are welcome to him.”

Mrs. Kettle stopped chewing, and gaped at her.

A sharp knock rattled the cabin door, mobilizing Mrs. Kettle into action. She snatched another roll and cried, “That's it! Ya gotta hurry! Thee cap'n's waitin' on ya.”

“Waiting? Wh – what? Now?”

“He wants thee weddin' over, just in case yonder ship gets too close and he's gotta clear thee deck.”

Emily's heart accelerated. “What ship?”

“Thee one behind us wavin' all manner of British flags and unfurlin' her full complement o' sails.”

Emily flew to the gunport.

“If ya don't git yer dress on, I'll give ya a good wallop,” said Mrs. Kettle, as if speaking to a child.

“Where is the ship? I cannot see it. How close is it?”

When Emily refused to budge from the gunport, Mrs. Kettle stormed towards her and started pulling at her shirt. “Looks like I'll be dressin' ya meself.”

Emily pushed her away. “Leave me be! I
shall
not wear Trevelyan's gift.”

“Ya foolish wench, ya can't git married in yer trousers.”

“I can! I will!” Emily turned away to conceal her tears and scanned the horizons, standing on tiptoes to lean farther out the port. There! There it was! She could see a crescent of its billowing white sails against the serene blue sky. Her hands tingled with nervous excitement. If only she could tell Leander. But then, if he had just come from next door, perhaps he already knew. So preoccupied was Emily watching the ship's progress that she forgot about the laundress. Investigating her whereabouts, she found the cabin door ajar and Mrs. Kettle standing next to it, holding her silver-buckled shoes, Jane Austen's books, and Leander's frock coat in her fat arms. There was a spiteful gleam in her small eyes.

“Git into yer dress … now.”

A sick, sinking feeling shook Emily to the core. “Only if you return … what is mine,” came her faltering reply.

There was a shuffling sound beyond the door and Trevelyan's tall figure came into view. His eyes peered through the crack and latched onto Emily's frightened ones. Mrs. Kettle shook her head and let out a long, low cackle of laughter.

At last Magpie appeared, wearing his
Isabelle
hat and twitching like a bundle of nerves. Gus pounced on him. “What have you been doing all this time?'

“Mendin' sails, sir,” he said breathlessly. “There's piles o' them what needs mendin'.”

“What news of the
Amethyst?
Is Prosper planning to communicate with her today?”

Magpie dropped down onto the nearest stool. “Oh, Mr. Walby, we're not sailin' near Charleston no more.”

Gus's disappointment was severe. “Where are we, then?”

“In a big, empty cove, sir, beside a bit o' marshy coast.”

“That's not very helpful, Magpie.”

“I tried askin' Prosper, sir, but he's in a foul mood this mornin'. He's struttin' round the deck, peerin' through his spyglass, mumblin' 'bout missed opportunities and the storm what's comin'.”

“Storm? At breakfast you said there were blue skies.”

“Aye, but the winds are pickin' up and there be some ugly-lookin' clouds about.”

Gus sighed. “I guess I won't be allowed up on deck this afternoon?”

“Yer chair's been cleared away along with the livestock pens, 'cause the men – they're stackin' their muskets and cannon balls.”

“Have we sighted an enemy ship?” The words were scarcely out of his mouth when he heard the men begin their task of taking down the gun deck walls. Their audible chatter left him in no doubt: they were clearing for battle. Magpie and he were staring transfixed at the bustle beyond their cots when Pemberton lumbered down the ladder.