she had quite recovered her shock, Mrs. Kettle glared at Emily. “I suppose yer teachin’ him yer fancy ways. Readin’ a book! Ya ’ave no use fer it, Magpie. Ya won’t never rise above yer station, especially now … lookin’ like a one-eyed serpent with ’alf a face.”
Feeling Magpie squirming beneath her hands, Emily squeezed his shoulders while Leander, standing next to her, looked like thunder. “Mrs. Kettle, your tongue has no place here. I must ask that you leave now.”
“And I see ya’ve fallen under ’er spell as well, Doctor.”
“Leave your laundry and turn about!”
Mrs. Kettle hurled the clean clothes at Emily. “There ya be, ya lofty camp follower.”
The room echoed with gasps and whistles. Heads rose from their pillows. Mr. Crump wiggled his stump about in raptures. He’d never witnessed such excitement! “Give ’er thee old toss, Doc.”
Osmund, none too gently, steered the laundress towards the exit.
“Wait!” said Emily. She stooped to collect her scattered clothes, past caring about the possible repercussions of what she was about to do. All eyes focused on her as she rifled through the pockets of her clean trousers, obviously in search of something, and came up empty-handed. “Mrs. Kettle,” she said with all the composure she could muster, “I believe you have something of mine.”
Mrs. Kettle shook off Osmund’s hold on her arm, her small eyes narrowing, almost disappearing into the folds of her facial fat. “And what would that be?”
Emily stood her battleground, holding onto Magpie again, this time for support. “It was in the pocket of these trousers.”
Mrs. Kettle looked uncertain. Several times she swallowed and her fists fiddled in the coarse material of her skirt. Her red face twitched as she cast nervously about, her eyes racing from face to face, her taut stance indicating a desire to bolt from the hospital. But when her eyes finally stopped on Leander, her hunted expression vanished. Giving the side of her head a playful smack, she haughtily exclaimed, “Ahhhh! How could I ’ave taken such leave o’ me senses. My sincere apologies to yer Highness. Right! In yer trousers pocket it was.”
Emily waited, holding her breath, while Mrs. Kettle leisurely reached into the pocket of her apron and jerked out a stained, crumpled piece of paper. Realizing what it was she held up in her fat hands, Emily watched in horror as a malicious grin appeared on the laundress’s lips.
“Ya think I know nothin’ of readin’, ya imp,” Mrs. Kettle spit at Magpie. “Well, hear this!” She shifted into her most amorous voice. “My Dearest Jane. It is too long since last I heard your joyful voice and walked with you in the gardens at Chawton. I often think of England and the time when we will next meet. More than ever I have need of your comfort and inspiration as already we have twice battled the Americans and our casualties have been too numerous for even this poor doctor to bear. Several of us in the hospital take solace in reading your novel. It has afforded us hours of pleasure. What delightful characters you have created in the Misses Dashwoods. I am particularly taken with Miss Marianne. Would you believe me if I told you that I have recently become acquainted with a true Marianne …”
Something in the way Mrs. Kettle read the letter suggested she had memorized its contents. With a dramatic flourish, she dabbed at her eyes and, shooting a meaningful glance at Leander, said, “Such pretty words! ’Tis a pity there ain’t more.”
Emily forced herself to look at Leander. Her heart sank to see his handsome face frozen in disbelief, his lips moving in silent inquiry, his blue eyes – brimming with devastation – staring back at her.
“Aye, imagine that! Right in ’er very pocket I found yer letter, Doctor!”
Magpie whirled about to face Emily. “What about the miniature, ma’am?”
Emily shook her head sadly.
Suddenly, a burst of cries and bellows came from the men above deck.
“She’s Yankee! She’s Yankee all right!”
“And a frigate!”
“Clear the decks for action!”
“Lively now, lads.”
“Lower the boats.”
The drums beat to quarters, instantly plunging the Isabelle and her crew into nervous activity. Urgent footsteps pounding overhead and the frantic orders of the unseen seamen sent Emily’s heart into her mouth.
“Dear, God, not again!” she whispered.
Gus took hold of her hand and dragged her back towards her canvas corner. “You’ll be safe in here, Em.”
Emily went in reluctantly, twisting her head around in a backwards glance only to learn that Mrs. Kettle had made her escape and Leander, his cheeks still flushed, was sharpening his surgical equipment for the grisly task that lay before him.
4:30 p.m.
(First Dog Watch, One Bell)
FLY AUSTEN REACHED THE QUARTERDECK and looked about the ship. He was dressed in his freshly pressed blue-and-gold uniform, his body erect, his dark eyes alert. Today his aspect was all business. Wherever his gaze fell, there wasn’t one man – from those clinging to the footropes and the tops, to those hugging the rails and manning the guns – whose eyes weren’t trained upon the approaching warship. Though she was still a few miles away and resembled a ghost ship emerging from the wispy mists, Fly could plainly see her American colours at her stern. He found James alongside Mr. Harding, holding onto the starboard rail with one hand, watching the ship’s movements through his spyglass.
Coming up behind the two men, Fly saluted James and said, “Sir, the men are at their posts and stand ready round the guns.”
As he lowered his glass, James looked disheartened. “We haven’t had the time to fully repair. What’s more, we have neither adequate sea room in which to manoeuvre, nor the wind in our favour, Mr. Austen.”
Mr. Harding shifted his weight onto his one foot. “And this is a cursed place to do battle. With very little effort, she could force us back upon those damned shoals.”
“We’ll not do anything to provoke her,” said James determinedly. “We’ll wait and see if she fires the first shot.” In the company of Mr. Harding, he moved on down the starboard gangway to dispense words of encouragement to the gun crews and yell out final orders to the men and marines in the tops.
Fly pulled out his own spyglass, mumbling words of encouragement to himself, to stay buoyed before the men. Breathe out, Austen. Remember that Nelson succeeded by breaking with our rigid naval tactics. Perhaps, if we want to save our necks, we should follow suit and try putting our collective imaginations to task. Lifting the glass to his eye, he studied the looming ship that was still three or four miles away. He could see her cutting a good bow wave beneath her elaborately carved red-and-gold figurehead. Her hull was black with a stripe of ochre-yellow that followed her gunports. The squares of her foresails, plumped up by the strong northeast breeze, glowed in the sun’s rays that peeked through the clouds, and resembled large pillows in slipcovers of gold. He watched the tiny figures of the seamen bustling about the decks and climbing the standing rigging to the tops. Near the bowsprit, he was certain he could see the captain himself, a corpulent man in a cocked
