The Truth by Jane Lark ~ a book exclusive to my blog part two

The Truth

© Jane Lark Publishing rights belong to Jane Lark,

this should not be recreated in any form without prior consent from Jane Lark

Emerald

The sailors immediately began climbing the rigging, like spiders climbing across webs all over the ship. The sails unfurled in a whoosh of canvas as she watched her father standing on the dock, speaking with an official from the port.

Her mother’s hand gripped Emerald’s and drew her to the rail out of the way as more sailors ran across the deck, hauling ropes or tying them off. Emerald’s heart thumped hard in her chest. Shouts passed across the ship, orders and confirmation as Mr Farrow, the captain and his lieutenant moved to the upper-deck where the giant steering wheel loomed.

The steady sound of the winding mechanism hauling up the chain which held the anchor, trembled through the air.

They were really going, leaving India. Forever.

She looked at her father again and gripped the rail which ran at waist-height the length of the deck. He was still talking with the port-official. She drank in the sight of her father, his portly figure and his dear face, trying to cut it so deep into her memory the image would never be lost. Then she lifted her gaze to Calcutta to the high wall surrounding the colony and the brightly painted roofs within, the bulbous pointed towers in reds, yellows and blues. She soaked the sight up, all of it, and the sounds, the smells of sea, salt and spices which infused the warm air.

“Ladies, may I show you to your cabin?” It was Mr Bishop, the quartermaster.

Emerald glanced back at him, as her mother did. She saw Mr Farrow watching from the upper-deck. He wished them stowed away like his cargo, like tea, tobacco or silk.

“No, thank you, Mr Bishop, not yet,” Emerald’s mother answered. “We would rather say goodbye to India.” Having refused, Emerald’s mother looked back at the dock. A breeze caught the fine silk of her ochre coloured shawl, whipping at its fringe and a loose strand of her pale blonde hair; her beauty defied years. Emerald had always admired it, along with her mother’s strength of character. Emerald wished to be like her and not disappoint her, and yet the longing for more than a subservient marriage to her English cousin was undeniable.

Her mother looked sideways and smiled, offering Emerald reassurance – the comfort Emerald silently longed for, though it did not go deep enough. Emerald had longed for a reprieve. She wished to come back.

She said nothing, as she had not done before. There was always a weariness in her mother’s eyes these days, that said she was too tired and worn down by life to face challenge or arguments from a contrary, stubborn daughter. Emerald hugged her mother, instead, briefly, it was suddenly clear to her that leaving India was hard for her mother too.

They turned back to the rail together, one hand gripping each others’ but as Emerald moved she noticed Mr Farrow once more, on the upper-deck, holding the rail and looking down at them. He smiled, or rather lifted his lips. It was an acknowledgement, nothing more. She had never seen him smile genuinely, or laugh, or show any sign of natural emotion. She looked away, at the dock. Her father had ceased speaking and was watching them. He lifted his hand. Her mother’s fingers squeezed Emerald’s and they both raised their other hands in answer, her father’s handkerchief gripped in Emerald’s.

The sound of the winding anchor stopped and the rigging above creaked as the sails caught the wind. There were smaller steamboats linked to the ship by ropes to pilot them out of port. The ship began to pull away, water swishing about the hull, shallow waves slapping at the ship as the tide pulled out and took the ship with it. Emerald lifted her hand higher. As the ship turned, she turned in an opposing movement to keep sight of her father. Her mother did too, her fingers gripping Emerald’s tighter, both of them waving more keenly. Emerald fluttered his handkerchief like a flag so he would clearly see. He was smiling. Emerald let go of her mother’s hand and pressed a kiss to her fingertips, then blew it to him. He caught it in a fist as he’d done when she was a child, then pressed it to his cheek, before sending her one in return. It may be the last thing they ever shared.

“Papa! I love you!” she shouted, knowing as the ship slipped through the water he could not hear, they were already too far out of reach, but she did not lower her hand she kept waving, as did her mother. Her father stood there, unmoving, his hand in the air, shrinking and shrinking until he became no more than a dot, but she still saw the moment his arm descended and knew with a dreadful certainty, it was the end–the end of happiness. She was leaving her life behind.

Richard

Richard looked at Mark who stood beside the women on the quarterdeck below. Mark nodded back. Richard had been watching Catherine and her daughter from the vantage point of the poop-deck. He gripped the rail more firmly and wondered what this journey would bring. Ill-luck probably with the women on board; women always brought bad luck. Mark had been asked to steer them into their cabin out of the way as they sailed. But Richard had seen Catherine refuse and her daughter’s tears. When Mark had looked up querying their refusal, Richard had agreed to let them stay. He could see their parting was painful, though, he’d no idea what that pain felt like.

He was embarking on a journey to be reunited with his family. The two images could not be more starkly opposing.

She was leaving her father’s love behind–he was returning to his father’s hatred.

The inverse parallel amused him.

While he watched, Mark coughed to gain the ladies’ attention and Mrs Martin looked back at the quartermaster. Her daughter’s eyes remained on the distant dock, though she could not possibly see anything clearly, bar the grey line of the harbour wall and the coloured roofs of the town behind, they were already too far out.

Richard breathed out heavily. The Governor’s daughter had an intensely feminine, fragile, appearance. She was in profile to him, had been most of the time, and he’d been absorbed in the delicacy of her features. The girl was a beauty. He’d already given one signal for his crew to keep their eyes averted but it was going to be hard for them not to look. Locks of pale blonde hair had slipped loose when her bonnet had been knocked off and tumbled down her back, to hang by its ribbons, and now those strands of hair brushed her neck as the wind played with them. It was an artistic beauty, not sexual, not to his usual taste. Richard thought of June, the mistress he had left behind in Calcutta this morning, dark haired and voluptuous. That was his taste; a woman who knew how to handle and entertain a man, a woman who he did not feel he might break. Yet the fact he was even thinking of sex as he looked at Miss Martin named his thoughts as a lie, there must be something more than outer beauty that attracted him.

She was not as he’d thought previously, though, not a pretty, shallow, shell of beauty. He had only needed to look into her eyes to know there was an intelligent vibrant woman within. She’d been rumoured wild in her childhood, and it was still there, albeit tamed. It was there when you scratched her lady-like surface. Spirit oozed from the girl and his men could see it too. Her delicate figure and perfect beauty may imply serenity and fragility. But the glimmer in her eyes, the way she moved, the passion in her gaze, the words for her father and the look, which even now she cast back to the dock, spoke of a determination and fire beneath. Every man aboard his ship would willingly have the girl in bed, he did not doubt it, and he was not immune.

However he did not think the feeling was mutual. When the girl’s mother passed on Mark’s words, Miss Martin’s gaze snapped up to look at Richard. It said, she did not like being ordered out of the way. And, if he judged her look correctly, nor did she like him.

His lips lifted in a slight acknowledgement and he nodded as he’d done before when she’d glanced up and like before she looked away. He did not. He watched Mr Bishop herd her and her mother, like sheep or geese, across the quarterdeck and into their cabin underneath where he stood. It was the largest, usually the captain’s cabin and when he came onboard, Richard’s. The whole damned ship was disturbed by their presence.

As the women disappeared he looked up at the men hanging in the rigging. Their eyes had been on the women too. “Look to your tasks!” he yelled up at them, casting his gaze across them all and then glaring at those on deck. They looked away and increased their pace. He’d have to reinforce his order with his senior crew over dinner. He did not want his men ogling the women all day, lack of concentration was dangerous–a loose sail or a slack knot could kill, if a sail swung back or a rope flew free.

He watched the activity for a while longer and listened to the familiar sounds as the ship cut through the waves and the wind whipped at the sails. He loved the sea–loved the exhilaration of mastering the forces of wind and water. His first three years in business he’d spent on his first vessel; establishing trade routes, shipping any cargo for profit, carving his niche as an alternative to the East India Company; fighting the elements and never knowing if he’d win. It was the thrill of winning he loved; the elation of sailing a cargo into port having brought it through vicious storms and traversed hundreds of miles of sea. His heart thumped at the thought of facing a storm again. Better that than what awaited him in England.

To be continued…

If you cannot wait until next week for more of Jane Lark’s writing there’s plenty to read right now.

To read the Marlow Intrigues series, you can start anywhere, but the actual order is listed below ~ and click like to follow my Facebook Page not to miss anything…

The Marlow Intrigues

The Lost Love of Soldier ~ The Prequel #1 ~ A Christmas Elopement began it all

The Illicit Love of a Courtesan #2

Capturing The Love of an Earl ~ A Free Novella #2.5

The Passionate Love of a Rake #3

The Desperate Love of a Lord ~ A second Free Novella #3.5

The Scandalous Love of a Duke #4

The Dangerous Love of a Rogue #5

The Jealous Love of a Scoundrel #5.5

The Secret Love of a Gentleman #6

Jane’s books can be ordered from most booksellers in paperback and, yes, there are more to come 🙂

Go to the index

For

the story of the real courtesan who inspired The Illicit Love of a Courtesan,
another free short story, about characters from book #2, A Lord’s Scandalous Love,
the prequel excerpts for book #3 The Scandalous Love of a Duke

Jane Lark is a writer of authentic, passionate and emotional Historical and New Adult Romance stories, and the author of a No.1 bestselling Historical Romance novel in America, ‘The Illicit Love of a Courtesan’.Click here to find out more about Jane’s books, and see Jane’s website www.janelark.co.uk to learn more about Jane. Or click ‘like’ on Jane’s Facebook page to see photo’s and learn historical facts from the Georgian, Regency and Victorian eras, which Jane publishes there. You can also follow Jane on twitter at @janelark

A new story exclusive to my blog – The Truth by Jane Lark

It has taken me a little while to get started again I know, I have had a little break, but here you are. This is another novel, so it will be in many parts, and like Reckless in Innocence it was an early story, although later than reckless, so it will perhaps be interesting for you to see my writing developing. It is also another novel which I will never publish as a book so you will only find it in parts here. I hope you enjoy it 😀

The Truth

© Jane Lark Publishing rights belong to Jane Lark,

this should not be recreated in any form without prior consent from Jane Lark

Chapter One

Emerald

Emerald walked along the plank leading to the deck of The Rose, her open, gloved, hand skimming along the rope.

The ship filled a third of the dock. It had been moored out at sea for two nights. She’d been watching it swaying on the water in the distance, sails furled, knowing that within days she’d be on it. She’d never left India, she’d been born in Calcutta, she’d seen paintings of England, her mother often spoke of it as home, but Emerald could not imagine it, not even in a glimpse of inner sight. England was not her home. No memory she had could help her imagine a chilly island, with rolling hills and patchwork fields of wheat, barley and hay.

The Farrow Line ship swayed beneath her feet as she stepped onto the deck, gripping the hand of a man in uniform, including stock and tailcoat, the captain or quartermaster.

She couldn’t see Mr Farrow, he was not on deck. As ever arrogant, he’d not even come to greet them.

The uniformed man let go of Emerald’s hand and bowed, “Miss Martin,” then turned to her mother. “Mrs Martin.” He took her mother’s hand, helped her on board and bowed again.

“Where is Farrow?” Emerald’s father asked, stepping aboard, his tone irate.

Calcutta’s former East India Company assistant turned private trader was still nowhere in sight. Then suddenly he was in sight, and as usual his presence sucked attention away from anyone but himself. He shut the cabin door behind him, turned and strode across the deck, the wolf leaving his lair, followed by two men clothed in the Farrow Line uniform. The men flanked him as he walked across the deck towards Emerald and her parents.

He’d fascinated and aggravated Emerald equally since she had been old enough to notice her father’s business acquaintances. It was the secrecy he wrapped about him which captivated her interest, and his rudeness which infuriated her. He held himself apart from the elite families in the British colony on Calcutta, as though he thought himself better than others. She had watched him use her father, his acquaintances, and their wives, for gain. Yet no one in the colony knew him properly. He could not call any man a friend, she was certain.

“Forgive me, Catherine, for not being on deck to great you.” Years ago he’d acquired the offer to use Emerald’s mother’s first name, he’d never returned the favour, and ever since he’d been given the honour he wielded it like a weapon, claiming his close relationship to the Governor and holding it up for all to see, like a trophy.

Emerald did not wish to be on his ship but her mother would not wait for another. Her mother wanted to reach England for the courting season and to see Emerald married before the year was out. Emerald’s marriage had been arranged. She was to marry a distant cousin on her mother’s side. She had been told he was titled, and influential. An English man. An Earl. A man who would suit the blue-blood within the veins of the great-granddaughter of a duke.

Emerald have never seen this man. Not even a miniature of him. She could not imagine the place she was to travel to, nor the man she was to marry. They had not even shared correspondence. It was merely their blood lines, and their status, which in her mother’s and father’s eyes, made them a match.

Mr Farrow took Emerald’s mother’s hand and bowed over it. Then he turned to Emerald’s father. Ignoring her.

It was always thus. He had nothing to gain from befriending her or her friends, male or female, they had no influence or wealth and that was all he sought. He’d always ignored them. Annoyingly it only made him more fascinating. He intrigued her, with his larger than life aura, people feared him like they feared God in Calcutta. He was a powerful, self-made man. People were in awe of him. She was in awe of him, despite disliking him intensely. He commanded people’s attention whether they were willing to give it or not.

“Governor.” He bowed slightly, disrespectfully. “Forgive me.” He could be civil when he wished, it was only that most of the time he did not wish. “I have omitted to welcome you appropriately.” The tone of his voice and the stiffness of his manner appeared everything but sorry–it appeared impatient, intolerant and irritated.

“I hope our presence will not disturb you too much, Mr Farrow, nor your crew,” Emerald’s mother said.

“It shall not, ma’am,” he said, “because I shall not allow it do so. However I will ensure you are comfortable.”

But not welcome–and ignored.

“Miss Martin.” He turned to her and looked into her eyes, for the first time ever. His eyes were dark brown, like his hair. She held his intense gaze as his hand lifted, feeling like he was weighing her up. She could see he was intelligent and his eyes searched hers to see if she was. He would run rings about a foolish man, or woman. She was no fool.

She laid her fingers in his offered hand. They were gripped firmly. He’d never touched her before, nor spoken to her. If he’d stood among a group she was included in, his gaze and his attention always passed over her. But today he was looking at her and holding her hand and he had said her name. It was disconcerting. She bowed her head and dropped into a curtsy. His grip on her fingers firmed even more. No other man had held her hand so tightly. He held her hand in a way that made sure she knew he existed. It was not a mere social nicety, it was a statement–I am here–give me respect.

She would not be daunted. Mr Farrow would not scare her. When he let her hand go she met his gaze again.

There was a look of something other than stern authority in his eyes. Humour perhaps. Mockery maybe. “I hope you will be happy aboard my ship, Miss Martin.” His attention disengaged then, leaving her behind and passing to her father again.“You have my word, they’ll want for nothing.”

Apart from human kindness. Emerald’s inner voice echoed with bitterness. She had always detested arrogance.

“I shall carry your precious cargo to England safely and we shall send you word when we arrive.”

Her father nodded, the assurance making his lips twitch with emotion. He did not want them to leave, although he approved of the arrangement of Emerald’s marriage. But it had become time for Emerald to leave. She could not remain with her parents forever, and her mother and father refused to believe that anyone within the colony was equal to her bloodlines. If she were to be married she must marry to an English man of standing, and so her marriage was arranged.

Emerald didn’t know what manipulation her father had deployed to get her and her mother passage aboard Mr Farrow’s ship, but some bartering must have taken place. She was sure Mr Farrow would not have agreed willingly. This was obviously an imposition.

Mr Farrow introduced the two men beside him. One, a similar height to Mr Farrow but blonde and thin, was introduced as Captain Swallow. The other, who was much shorter, shorter than Emerald, a man with black hair and grey blue eyes, was introduced as Mr Prichard, the captain’s lieutenant. Both men bowed, but Emerald and her mother were directed to speak to Mr Bishop, the man who had greeted them first, if they should have any needs, the responsibility for their care devolved to the quartermaster.

Her father approved, expressing his gratitude to Mr Farrow.

Then the moment to part from her father came.

Tears flooded Emerald’s eyes as she turned and hugged him.

“I will miss you, child,” he whispered, accidentally dislodging her bonnet and the pins securing her hair. A lock fell on to her shoulder as her bonnet slipped down her back, hanging from its ribbons. He kissed her temple. “More than I can bear, but I know you are a grown woman now and I must let you go.”

When she let go of him he took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into Emerald’s hand.

“I love you, Papa,” she whispered. Tears clouded his image as she accepted his handkerchief.

His arms wrapped about her, pulling her close once more. “I love you also,” he whispered into her ear.

She dabbed at the tears running onto her cheeks when he let her go.

Her mother hugged him, while Emerald re-secured her bonnet with shaking fingers. He kissed her mother’s lips, then turned back to kiss Emerald’s cheek, saying I love you to them both once more, even though Mr Farrow could hear.

This was the Governor of Calcutta, expressing deep affection for his wife and child before his business rival. Her father had never paid any heed to others opinion when it came to her mother and her, he’d never hidden his love.

What if I never see him again? It was a possibility. She was to marry and settle in England. She would never return to India. What if he never returned to England. The thought hit her in a rush as her father shook Mr Farrow’s hand once more and turned to disembark.

She did not want to go. She did not want to leave India. The trap snapped shut. She loved her parents as they loved her. She wished to make them happy. But it might suffocate her doing as they desired. She did not know if she could live in England, in a cold, dull, dismal world. She had only known heat, colour, noise and excitement. She did not know if she could take a husband she had never met and did not know at all.

When her father stepped from the gang-plank onto the dock, the crossing connecting the ship to the shore was withdrawn taking away their connection with India. She was at sea. India was yards away, and yet now it was no longer her home. She could not go back. She would never walk on Indian soil again.

Her heart raced into a wild beat, the rhythm of an indian drum.