demand she give it back.”
Emily turned to look at him, her dark brown eyes glistening in the half-light. “And by nightfall, every man on the Isabelle will know who I am. You see, Doctor, on the back of the miniature, in addition to my full name, there is written my father’s name and … his title.”
Leander’s eyes widened and his lips parted, but he said nothing, only waited.
“I told Captain Moreland when I first came on board the Isabelle that my mother died when I was young. She was legally married to my father, but my father’s parents did not approve of the match. During my childhood, my father was often absent for long periods of time, but I was well taken care of by various members of his family. Above all else, I adored my Uncle William and his children, and when my father died in 1810, I begged and pleaded to be permanently installed in my uncle’s home. Sadly, not long afterward, their home was broken up, my uncle and aunt separated, and Aunt Dora was forced to move into a much smaller home.
“My grandmother was adamant that I live with her in London, and certainly she had enough spare bedrooms to accommodate me, but I could not warm to the woman who had made my own mother’s short life so difficult. Besides, I could not tolerate the thought of vegetating in that household, of being shut up in the company of my grandmother, who was growing increasingly disagreeable, and my poor unmarried aunts, living out my days and evenings cutting out silhouettes, and painting china, and making lace, and doing needlework, having to rely upon visitors to tell me something of the vast world beyond my front door. I was seventeen, almost eighteen, and, as far as I was concerned, free to make my way in the world. To appease my grandmother, I told her I would happily come live with her if she would first grant me permission to have an extended visit with my mother’s relations in Dorset. Her answer was a long time in coming, and goodness knows, she made me suffer, but she finally agreed to my wishes.
“My maternal relations were exceedingly amiable, and my days with them were full of fun and adventure. We explored the countryside by horseback and on foot; we went seabathing in Weymouth Bay; took trips to Lyme Regis and Exeter; and climbed the ancient stones on Salisbury Plain. Why, I even glimpsed the Cerne Giant on his green hill.” Emily smiled in remembrance and was pleased to see Leander’s focused eyes flutter. “Not once, Doctor, did I pick up a needle, or play on a pianoforte, or sit at a whist table. All the while, the thought of returning to London filled me with dread. How could I ever live happily, caged in cold walls of stone, when I had tasted such delights, known such diversions? Determined to prolong my adventure as long as possible, I listened to my cousin’s plans to journey to Upper Canada to visit a distant relation who had made his home there some years before, and as I was drawn to the idea of an ocean-crossing, I began scheming to go …”
Leander, whose right hand had covered his mouth as he listened, spread his fingers to interrupt her. “Emily, in all this, you have brilliantly avoided my question.”
“Your question?” she asked innocently.
He angled his head, feigning impatience with her, but when she still didn’t answer him he grew solemn and looked troubled. “Who are you … really?”
Emily stared at the bucket of bandages on her recently vacated stool and summoned the courage to reply. She met his watchful gaze. “I have already told you that my father’s name was Henry. At one point in his career, he actually was a farmer. His last name, however, was not George. You see, Doctor, as my grandfather’s name is Geo …”
But Leander did not hear her subsequent words, for they were wrenched away, lost in a shocking hullabaloo of mirthful voices, pounding drums, and thumping noises that flooded the Isabelle like a tidal wave, causing the hanging lanterns to swing wildly on their hooks and the ship’s oaken timbers to shiver. No sooner had Leander leapt to his feet and Emily blinked at him in wonder when a succession of men blew into the hospital as if propelled by a gust of wind: Mr. Crump and another landsman (who had given the one-legged man assistance with the ladder), both full of chatter and a desire to tell the doctor what had just transpired; Emily’s marine sentry returning to his babysitting duties; a poor young sailor who had crushed his hand while his crew readied their gun for battle; and finally, a freckle-faced midshipman with a message for Dr. Braden: “Captain Moreland requests your presence for dinner in his cabin at the start of the First Watch, sir, and sends his apologies for the late hour, but says it will take Biscuit some time to fire up his stove in order to cook a proper meal.” Finally it all made sense when Gus Walby clambered down the ladder, calling out, “Dr. Braden! Dr. Braden, sir! You’ll never believe it! The Yankee ship … why, she’s not Yankee at all. She’s one of ours. She’s the Amethyst!”
Emily clutched at her chest and allowed a few tears of relief to fall, but as she looked from Gus back to Leander, she found the doctor’s attention fully engaged with the sailor and his crushed hand, and her heart sank to the floor. Their private moment had passed.
5:00 p.m.
(First Dog Watch, Two Bells)
MEG KETTLE GRUNTED AND CURSED her way down the ladder that led to the murky orlop deck, trying to lift her long skirt and find the ladder’s slippery rungs while balancing a lantern and bowl of stew. The Isabelle’s criminal, having been moved below when the gun deck was cleared for action, sat dejectedly in his new irons and raised his head as the blackness around him began to recede. Mrs. Kettle held the bowl high above him and took pleasure in watching him grab for it. “Ya looks like a mangy cur beggin’ fer a scrap o’ meat.”
Octavius’s sunken black eyes shone in the lantern-light. “I’m hungry.”
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