Come Looking For Me (43 page)

Magpie flew from the broken bowsprit, landing on all fours behind Trevelyan like a tiger about to pounce on its unsuspecting prey. The scream that now burst from his chest was otherworldly, a plaintive yet bloodcurdling snarl that sprang from deep inside him. In one sprightly motion, he plunged his dirks deep into Trevelyan's thighs, sending the stupefied captain stumbling and staggering along the littered gangway. As Trevelyan's legs buckled beneath him and he dropped to the deck, something dislodged from the breast pocket of his uniform coat and shot across the red, weathered planks towards Emily, like a messenger frantic to deliver its final message. Although her glimpse of it was a brief one, she could see it was the gold-framed miniature of the young lad that Trevelyan had set next to her own painted portrait on his desk. It was the last thing Emily saw on the
Serendipity.

Groaning and twisting in its death throes, the frigate slipped farther into the Atlantic, throwing Emily and Leander, their arms loosely entwined, from the fore chains and into the swells that tried, like cold, grey hands, to pull them down into a watery grave. As the men had fought on the deck, so Emily fought to prevent Leander from disappearing beneath the punishing surface. Ignoring her exhaustion and the pains that tortured her ankle and shoulder, she tightened one arm around his waist and kicked towards the nearest boat, which was now rowing towards them, the men in it having raised a shout when they spotted her. Recollection of another time when Trevelyan's pistol had been accurately aimed at her back fuelled her desperate strokes.

“Hold on, Doctor, please hold on,” she spluttered, the waves crashing over her head. “This I can do for
you.
” Leander gave her one long look of admiration, then shut his sea-blue eyes.

It was only after Morgan Evans had pulled them from the sea and given his oars over to another so that he could cloak Leander in a relatively dry blanket and hold on to him – as he had once held on to her – that Emily turned her back to the silent, staring men, covered her face with her hands, and allowed herself to cry.

Swinging her trousered legs up onto the cushions of the bench below the cabin's stern windows, she hugged her knees to her chest and gazed upon the place where, hours before, the Atlantic had swallowed the battered
Serendipity
, and where its tiny nemesis, the red-hulled
Prosperous and Remarkable
, still rocked triumphantly in the tranquil waves. The sky had cleared and the clouds that now sailed overhead were white and cottony and had blown together to form dreaming castles and majestic mountains. In the west, an evening sun spread beams of scarlet and gold upon the waves, enabling the boats belonging to the
Amethyst
and to the small brig to continue their task of picking up survivors. Emily had been relieved to learn that there were a great many.

As she watched the victorious and the vanquished sitting side-by-side in the boats below the windows, Emily's eyes misted. She could see the Amethysts and the Remarkables offering biscuits, meat, water, and even the rarity of cigars to the appreciative Serendipities, and she knew that once on board, they would be further provided with clothes, medical attention, and, eventually, camaraderie. She tried to recall what grievances had provoked their animosity – nay, their war – in the first place, and wondered if the men below, should they be questioned, could even name them.

Viciously they had fought against one another, had been only too happy to lop off limbs, mutilate young faces, and even snuff out lives, but when it was all over, the victorious treated the vanquished with an unspoken regard, as their own. It was as if their minds had cleared when the smoke of battle had cleared away, and they realized that, though a wide sea stood between them, they really were just the same: men of flesh and blood who shared the same language and sheltered the same dreams within their breasts.

There was a quiet tap on the door and Fly Austen entered, sending Emily's thoughts crashing back to the present. She rose to meet him, her eyes round with apprehension.

“They are still operating on him,” Fly said softly. “I wondered if you might like some company while you are waiting.”

Emily exhaled a nervous sigh and began wringing her hands. “Thank you, Mr. Austen. What I should really like is to be with him.”

“I understand, but this man, Prosper Burgo, insisted he could not be distracted by a princess of England while he worked on ‘thee esteemed Doctor Braden.'” Fly attempted to smile. “Mr. Burgo's quite a character, really. Apparently he's taken a shine to our old laundress.”

Emily gave Fly an incredulous stare. “Not Meg Kettle?”

“One and the same. Apparently, he found her in the waves, her ample skirts keeping her afloat, and was quite proud of himself for ‘rescuin' such an affable lady.'”

Emily sniggered. “He'll soon find there's nothing affable or ladylike about Mrs. Kettle. If it weren't for the growing babe in her womb, I …” But what did it matter now? Why bother telling Mr. Austen the
real
reason Meg Kettle had been invited to join Trevelyan's crew before he burned the
Isabelle?
Perhaps he already knew why.

Fly studied the floor at his feet. “I wonder what became of Octavius Lindsay? He has not been brought in on any of the boats.”

Incapable of reliving his last moments, Emily relegated his lonely death to the farthest corridors of her mind. “Let us not speak of Lord Lindsay at the present, Mr. Austen. I am much more interested in knowing if
you
are quite well.”

“I have sustained a few wounds, but I am told I will live.” His smile faded as he peered out the stern windows. “Trevelyan could so easily have run his sabre through me or finished me off with his pistol. I am guessing it was his hastiness to get to
you
… that saved my life.”

Overcome by a chill, Emily began rubbing her arms. “And tell me, Mr. Austen, will Leander live?”

Fly gently steered her to one of Captain Prickett's armchairs before answering. “They are doing what they can. The
Amethyst's
surgeon is with him, and so is a young assistant named Joe Norlan, with whom I believe you are already acquainted. And I have it, on very good authority, that Prosper Burgo is more than competent.”

Emily bit her lip and nodded her head, but his words did little to ease her suffering.

Fly blinked and turned his head away, and began studying the contents of Captain Prickett's cabin. “Did you look at the letter?” he asked after a time, not meeting her stare, but in a tone that suggested he was relieved to set aside the sorrowful subject of his friend.

“No. Not yet. I'm afraid I am quite distracted.”

“Read it when you can. I believe – I believe it will afford you some answers.”

Emily glanced up at him with wan interest.

“Captain Moreland wrote that letter in the hours before he died so that I would have an understanding of Trevelyan's thirst for revenge, of the hatred he harboured for both James and your father, Henry.”

Emily thought of the gold-framed miniature and a mystifying shiver passed through her worn body. “Did the root of his hatred have something to do with a young lad with … sandy hair and merry eyes?” she asked, enunciating the words of description.

Fly's eyebrows jumped up. “It did indeed! Trevelyan's younger brother, Harry… he blamed them both for his death.”

“Dear Captain Moreland,” said Emily wistfully. “I remember the doctor telling me – when I would not divulge my full name – that I could keep my secrets as long as I was in no way endangering the lives of the Isabelles.” Her voice broke. “I did not know.”

“Read the letter and I will be here to discuss it with you.”

Emily drew a deep breath. “And where is Trevelyan now?”

“Below, surrounded by ten of Captain Prickett's men and their muskets. You will never again have to fear him.”

Leaning back in her chair, Emily gave a sardonic laugh. “I would rather Magpie's dirks had killed him rather than disabled him, Mr. Austen. You see, I never wanted the title of
princess,
I never
was
Mrs. Seaton, but now – in the days since we last met – I have
become
… Mrs. Trevelyan.”

Fly stood unmoving, his mouth open in surprise.

“It was never my ambition to become so, Mr. Austen. I endured it for the sake of the men that Trevelyan claimed he had taken from the
Isabelle
and locked in his gaol, and for that dear soul now fighting for his life.”

A look of compassion crossed Fly's face. “Evidently, there is much we need to catch up on, much we need to share, but there will be time to do so, later.”

“Thank you, Mr. Austen. You have always been so kind to me.”

As they sat silently, both gazing out the bright windows, a ray of scarlet sunlight found Emily. She closed her eyes and basked in its rosy warmth as it played upon her upturned face. The sounds of life on board the ship that until now had seemed strangely muted suddenly intruded upon her thoughts. Calls were made requesting food and hammocks and the bosun's chair to help those onto the ship who could not climb the rope ladders. Emily could hear someone – perhaps it was Captain Prickett – gruffly questioning the whereabouts of Biscuit, as his presence was required immediately in the galley. It was Morgan Evans who replied, saying something about Biscuit being delayed as he was occupied at the present with a special task. Hearing Morgan's voice and knowing the young man had safely come through the tragic events of the past weeks gave Emily's weary spirits a lift.

Perhaps encouraged by the slight curling of her lips, Fly pressed his fingertips together and wrinkled his brow. “I wonder, Emily, are you feeling up to greeting a few visitors?”

“You are now going to tell me who lives so that I shall know who we have lost? Will I be able to bear it?” she whispered, gripping the arms of her chair.

Fly closed and opened his eyes in an exaggerated nod. “I believe so.” He called out to those apparently waiting behind the cabin's door. Given the signal, they burst open the door, wreaking havoc on its fragile hinges. In sauntered Biscuit, carrying a large tray. He had cleaned up nicely since Emily had last seen him; his thatch of orange hair was combed off his forehead and his prominent chest hair buttoned up respectably inside a smart muslin shirt.

“Wee lass,” he cried out, one eye looking at her, one eye looking for her, “I brung ya a pot o' tea and a pile o' fresh biscuits to celebrate yer safe return.”

Emily laughed. “Baked with a pinch o' sugar and a shot o' rum, I hope?”

“Ach, 'tis thee only way.” Biscuit set the tray upon Captain Prickett's polished table and stepped aside to make way for the next visitor, who swooped down upon Emily like a ghost in the trailing tails and balloon-sleeves of a shirt that had obviously not been tailored to fit him. He moved so swiftly towards her chair that her brain could not make a positive identification until he was in her welcoming arms and hugging her fiercely.

“
Magpie!”
she cried, embracing him in return, her cheek pressed against his thick dark curls. “My little Magpie,” she cooed, rocking him gently, as the men looked on, visibly moved by their joyful reunion, Biscuit dashing away a few stray tears.

When at last Magpie lifted his head to look up at her, his young face was fluttering with excitement like topgallant sails in a fresh breeze. “Do ya like me eye patch, Em? Do I looks like a pirate?”

Emily caressed the reddened, puckered skin beneath the black patch. “Not at all. You look like the hero of an epic tale …
my
hero.”

Magpie beamed from ear to ear, his smile warming Emily like the descending sunlight that poured into the cabin, and he threw himself into her arms for another embrace, holding on to her for such a long while that Fly had to clear his throat. Magpie's curly head shot up again, his face overspread with a blush. “Oh, Em,” he said, jumping back, “we got another surprise fer ya.”

“What is it?” she asked, excited by the boy's infectious enthusiasm.

Together Fly, Biscuit, and Magpie all turned on their heels and shot broad smiles at the open door. Emily's brilliant eyes followed theirs. A gurgle of emotion erupted from her lips as she slowly rose from her chair. Standing before her in the doorway was a stocky, pudding-faced man she had never seen before. But in his arms he carried Gus Walby.

Emily recalled the bittersweet hours she had just spent in the company of Magpie and Gus, delighting in their happiness at being reunited with her, awestruck by their miraculous rescue at sea, and marvelling at the tales they recounted of Prosper Burgo and his salty band of ruffians. In their exuberance, neither boy had asked questions about her final imprisonment on the
Serendipity.
Perhaps it was intentional on their part, or perhaps they simply possessed too many exciting stories of their own to relate; either way, she was grateful, for she needed no reminders of Charlie Clive, her marriage to Trevelyan, the loss of Jane Austen's book, and the gun blast that had hastened an end to Octavius Lindsay's short life. Though the lads' stories had proven to be a wonderful diversion, Emily had stiffened every time footsteps echoed near their private corner lest it be a bearer of bad news. Yet Fly, when he had finally looked in on their little party of three, had been quick to allay her fears with a significant nod of his head and the words, “He's awake and asking for you.”