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
