All seemed plain, easy to understand, until Laurence came to the end of the letter and this comforting portrait was entirely exploded by the scribbled signature, “Yours, etc., Jane.”
Laurence could scarcely avoid the only, the obvious conclusion, about Miss Emily Roland’s origins: a conclusion made all the more certain when he had looked in at the rest of his papers, and found in his brief accounts the salary of Mrs. Pemberton, Miss Roland’s chaperone, paid directly from his personal funds. Badly staggered, he went up to the dragondeck: Miss Roland was returned from her own dinner and at the moment engaged, at his own request, in trying to teach English to a silent and largely unresponsive Junichiro. Mrs. Pemberton, a composed lady of not quite thirty years of age, her dark hair tucked neatly beneath a cap, was sitting on a coiled cable and sewing as she supervised; she nodded as he came up the stairs. “Captain,” she said, politely: Laurence touched his hat and said a few words to her while he watched her charge: could the girl be his own natural-born child?
He saw no great similarity of feature: Roland’s face was round and she was stocky rather than tall. But to counterbalance this, she did have rather a look of his aunt Stourland in the chin, a stubborn determination; and there was very little difference between her fair hair and his own, if one made allowances for the effects of sun-bleaching. Roland certainly had not treated him as a father, but as her commanding officer; however, as this was how he would have expected any son of his to behave in similar circumstances, whether illegitimate or no, he could not argue himself out of it on those grounds alone.
He crossed over to her and Junichiro. “How do your studies go?” he asked, to be answered only by a half-bow and silence, on Junichiro’s part, while Emily said, “I am sure he will soon have the trick of it, sir,” rather doubtfully.
Junichiro too plainly did not care to learn; he had a dull look of resignation. “I intend,” Laurence had told him, “to seek you a commission with the Aerial Corps; you have no fear of dragons, I know, and I think you will do very well: there is no reason you should not be assigned to serve dragon-back, and advance through the ranks; you might aspire to a beast of your own, at length. Or I will buy your commission in the army, if you prefer: once you have learnt English.”
Junichiro had expressed no preference, no enthusiasm at all; he had said only, briefly, “It does not matter.” He had carried out any small task he was put to, silently and quickly, and took no initiative; he otherwise remained a solitary fixture on the deck.
Laurence shook his head privately; sensible of his own debt, he still did not know what else to do. “Carry on,” he said to Roland, and went to the forward railing, near where Temeraire dozed after his own meal.
“Why yes, of course Admiral Roland is Emily’s mother,” Temeraire said sleepily, when Laurence could not resist quietly inquiring of him, “and whyever would she be married? She has Excidium, of course. There is not the least reason for her to be married.”
Laurence could not conceive how Emily should have been got: she was sixteen, so her birth ought not have been lost from his memory, and he did not remember any incident for which he should have had to reproach himself, involving a Jane Roland. But the weight of evidence was too damning, and he now wondered with alarm whether he could not trust his memory of earlier dates any better than that of the later. He ran a hand through his hair: he could feel no trace of the injury; what swelling there had been, had vanished quite, without bringing any relief of his condition. The ocean streamed away before the ship to either side, very familiar and home-like—if only he stood in the bow and did not look behind him to see the dragons, the vast decks of the transport, the crew that were not his own.