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

The Truth

Posted as a gift of my time and thoughts to the readers of my books, thank you for the lovely messages of appreciation,

© Jane Lark Publishing rights belong to Jane Lark,

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

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10,11,12,13,14,15,16,17,18 ,19,20,21,22,23,24,25,26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33,34,35,36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51

Richard

“And you think you deserve a warm welcome,” his brother spat at Richard, shaking his wrist in a way which implied it still hurt from Richard’s grip. But Richard’s nose still hurt from the punch that had hit.

“Who is it, Frederick?”

Richard looked up to the position of the voice.

He knew the lady on the landing above him. He may not have seen his mother for years and her hair may be grey not black, but she had the same appearance in the essence of her character as she clung to a handkerchief that hovered before her breast. The handkerchief was a part of her love for drama. He remembered that handkerchief very well.

She was wearing black, though, and so was Frederick – and there had been no door knocker in place.

The truth struck Richard like another blow.

“If you have come in answer to the summons I sent you almost a year ago, you are too late. Your father is dead.”

Emotion struck Richard like the wind, rain and sea-spray. In his mind he clung to the poop deck rail as his mother’s eyes continued to accuse him of betrayal.

There was no chance to find accord with his father, no opportunity to address the man who had destroyed him while he was a boy, as an adult who could show him what the child he’d condemned had made of his life.

But now Richard was the Earl. He was a part of the land owning gentry.

The responsibility fell like a ton weight. It tied him with a shackle to the land. “When did he pass?”

“Two weeks ago,” his younger brother answered. “You have missed the funeral.”

“And he died with no ease knowing his eldest son and had not returned to do his duty,” Richard’s mother added.

Duty. The inheritance had been a curse in his family. He was not the first born, it was not his by right. His eldest brother had succumbed to scarlet fever at fourteen, he had lost three of siblings then.

His gaze lifted to a large long portrait that hung above where his mother stood. Their had been nine of them in the farcical portrait. They had been dressed in Greek garb with togas and such for the amusement of his father. There were only five of them now. The next brother between him and the title had fallen from a horse at sixteen.

Richard had become his father’s heir at twelve. Richard had already made his plans–– and they had always been in opposition to his father’s. After-all Richard was the one child his father called the devil’s spawn–– a worthless rogue who could do nothing but fail.

“And now you have come to gloat over us, I suppose,” his mother continued.

He had come because the letter she’d sent him had cut into the conscience he had locked away for years. He regretted that urge to seek forgiveness and his father’s blessing. By choice he would turn about and walk out of this life just as he’d done before. But there were people reliant on his father’s estate, servants, farmers and villagers. All those people now relied on him. He could not just walk away. “I have not come to gloat. I did not even know he had died, my ship only arrived today”

“Still now you are here, I suppose you must stay.”

He stared at her, his evil streak screaming–– the devil child in him. The devil in hims wished to make a point clear and hurt this woman as she had often hurt him. “Is it not my house? I believe it is now my father has died. So in fact I may say who will stay or not.” He was not a child to be belittled.

But he did not really want this house, or this life. He had crafted a life for himself––he intended keeping that life. He neither wanted nor needed this one. This would not become a yoke about his neck he would be the master of it.

“What do you intend to do then? Cast us all out?” His brother’s voice had become childishly sulky as his mother pressed her handkerchief to her lips in distress.

Frederick had been two in the portrait above the stairs. He was six and twenty now. No doubt their father had prayed for Richard’s demise. It was clear that Frederick was a well trained, compliant son.

“I have no intentions and I do not want to create an argument with you.” Frederick carried no blame.

Richard took a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it beneath his nose to stem a trickle of blood.

“Richard!” Another female voice rang from the landing above.

He knew that face too, his youngest sister. She inelegantly raced past his mother and down the half circle stairs.

“Rosalind.” He held out a hand to her as she ran towards him.

She had written to him through the years. She had been six months old in their portrait. She was four and twenty now, and unmarried. His other sisters were both settled, one older and another younger than him.

He smiled at her and lowered the handkerchief as she flew at him with arms wide, ignoring his offered hand and reaching for an embrace.

Rosalind had made him promise when he had walked out of this house, to write when he reached India . He had written irregularly. She had written constantly. Every ship that arrived from England had contained a letter from her. She had been his only link to his family.

She threw her arms about his neck and held him firmly.

He held her in return and saw Emerald, younger than Rosalind and alone among those strangers somewhere.

“Oh Richard, I am so glad you came.” Rosalind pressed a kiss on his cheek.

“It is a blessing to see you if nothing else.”

She let go of him but instead held his hand. “What have you done to your face?”

“I walked into the door I was so eager to come in.” He looked at Frederick.

She ignored the awkwardness that silenced everyone else. “I knew you would come. I knew and Mama and Papa did not believe me.” She released one hand but pulled on the other. “Come and have tea and tell us about your journey. How long did it take?”

Richard looked back at the footman. “My luggage is on the pavement. Have someone bring the chest in, and have the staff line up in the hall in an hour. I wish to meet them.” He was taking the reins of this house and he was not going to have to wrestle it from his mother nor Frederick.

The footman’s eyes widened and for a second he hesitated but Richard was used to pressing orders with his eyes and his body language and making it clear that his orders were not to be disobeyed.

As he turned back to follow Rosalind he glanced up at his mother too. “I brought some lengths of muslin and silk from India, they should arrive later. You and Rosalind may have the material made up as you wish and I shall pay the expenses.” He had often sent things back to England for them with no knowledge of how they were received. He’d done it to spur his father. His interests in trade were an embarrassment to them.

His mother said nothing. But in the drawing room Rosalind profusely expressed her gratitude as she poured him tea.

Home, what a strange place.

To be continued…

The Marlow Intrigues: Perfect for lovers of period drama

The Tainted Love of a Captain #8 – The last book in the Marlow Intrigues series out in May and available to preorder

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

The Illicit Love of a Courtesan #2

The Passionate Love of a Rake #3

The Scandalous Love of a Duke #4

The Dangerous Love of a Rogue #5

The Jealous Love of a Scoundrel #5.5

The Persuasive Love of a Libertine #5.75 now included in Jealous Love, (or free if you can persuade Amazon to price match with Kobo ebooks)

The Secret Love of a Gentleman #6

The Reckless Love of an Heir #7

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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

The Truth by Jane Lark ~ a free book exclusive to my blog ~ part fifty-one

The Truth

Posted as a gift of my time and thoughts to the readers of my books, thank you for the lovely messages of appreciation,

© Jane Lark Publishing rights belong to Jane Lark,

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

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10,11,12,13,14,15,16,17,18 ,19,20,21,22,23,24,25,26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33,34,35,36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50

Richard

Richard’s innards had become cold hard stone. His heart was too heavy to beat. There was no knowing when he would see Emerald next.

“I appreciate you not dismissing Mark.”

Richard turned to Joseph. He was not in a mood to hold any conversation and especially not the one he heard in the tone of Joseph’s voice, but Joseph progressed. “This is not the outcome either of us intended.”

“Is it not?” Richard let the sarcasm that spurred his anger touch his voice and turned back towards the gangplank of the ship.

“It is a–”

“Joseph. I deem you a friend as much as an employee, but on this occasion, pray mind you own damned business,” Richard mounted the gangplank and walked quickly as he called back over his shoulder, “And be grateful you are still the captain of this ship.” It was a threat. He only had so much patience.

“Richard…” Joseph followed him.

“Mr Farrow before the men,” Richard reminded in a low cutting voice.

“If there is anything–”

“To help… There is nothing, I can assure you, you have done enough. Have someone hire me a carriage?”

Within half-an-hour Richard was sitting in a hackney, his hands impatiently tapping out the rhythm of his heartbeat on his thighs. He was alone again. He had spent most of his life with the sense of fighting for himself, with no one else to turn to. There had been many mistresses, and then June, but he had never shared a part of himself before, as he had with Emerald. Only to be rejected. Again. It was why he had learnt not to trust. He should have held on to that belief.

But he was a fool, mixing up now with yesteryear, yet his childhood emotions were colliding chaotically with those of today as the carriage rumbled on over the cobbles, rocking and creaking.

Embarrassment flushed his cheeks. He was not a youth now.

The carriage rolled on through the distantly familiar London streets. He had not been back for years and yet he remembered places that they past, and things that had happened there.

What was Emerald thinking? It was all strange to her. Was she afraid? Her hands had been shaking when she had left the ship. But if nothing else came from their relationship he had given her one thing; he had taught her how to hide her thoughts and feelings. The brave, proud angry woman who had climbed into a carriage amongst strangers must have been screaming with grief and loneliness on the inside. She had left her father behind, lost her mother and then he had stolen her innocence, and now she was supposed to marry a man she did not know. She must be struggling to make sense of it all.

When he’d arrived in India he was only a little older than her, but he had known he was arriving to undertake a job, and he’d had things to prove. He’d proven them.

She had come here against her will, she had wanted more than to just be a man’s wife.

He had taught her not to trust and probably scared her into wanting less. He sighed out in irritation with himself.

He hoped her father’s journey here would be quick and that the strangers would treat her well. But most of all that he would win her back.

The carriage swept about the corner of a street into another square. A square that he remembered in as much detail as the palm of his hand. His gaze reached across the central green park, looking between the trees to the ornate town house on the opposite side. His heart struck with the hard pounding of a blacksmith’s hammer, that beat in his veins.

Was he truly going to do this after all these years. He had promised himself he would never come back.

The carriage rolled on about the square as Richard’s gaze clung to the house.

The warmth and scents of Calcutta came into his mind. It would be the rainy season now. The air would be heavy with the smell of thirst quenched vegetation and the roads thick with mud.

He breathed out the breath he had not realised had trapped itself in his lungs. He was not the youth who had left, he was a man who had seen and done things that others dreamt of and he had made a fortune while doing it.

The carriage pulled up in front of the large, shining black door.

There was no door knocker in place. It could be a reprieve, it could have been taken down because none of the family were in London.

Richard opened the door of the carriage and stepped out. Then turned and looked up and paid his fare. The driver set the break and climbed down to help Richard lift his trunk off the back.

Richard’s father would have an apoplexy if he was watching from a window. But Richard had helped the driver with that in his mind, to deliberately infuriate the old man. Richard had not grown up in all ways.

He left his trunk on the pavement and ran up the short set of steps to the front door, as the carriage driver climbed back up to his seat.

Even if his family were not here a servant would be minding the place.

As the carriage pulled away, Richard knocked on the door.

His hand fell and he stood silently for a moment, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

No one came to open the door.

He knocked again, louder. The servants were probably below stairs. His hand fell once more and he waited.

The door remained resolutely shut.

All his fear and anger about returning to this place irrupted in impatience and he struck the door with the side of his fist, making the wood jolt, until he heard a voice in the hall.

“A moment!”

Richard ceased his onslaught.

The door opened but only by a narrow gap. “The family are not receiving.”

Richard’s palm pressed on the door and pushed. He did not recognise the footman, but it had been twelve years since Richard had last crossed this threshold. “I am a part of the family. I am Richard Farrow, eldest son of the Earl.”

The door opened by another foot or so, under the pressure of Richard’s palm.

“Who is it?” An angry masculine growl came from behind the door. But it was not the tone of an old man, not his father. “Have people no respect…” The voice complained.

Richard pushed harder and the footman conceded, stepping back as the door opened wide.

“This gentleman, my Lord, claims to be Lord Richard Farrow.”

Richard looked to where the footman was looking. Something that felt like a fist struck him hard and the pain shot through from his jaw into his skull as he gripped at the door to stop himself from falling. The second blow he was ready for. His hand grasped his brother’s wrist and he stared at Frederick.

Fredrick glared at him with the heartless, vicious anger that Richard had known in his youth – in their father’s eyes.

Richard threw Frederick’s hand aside. “There is nothing like a warm welcome back into the heart of my family…”