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
