The Truth

© Jane Lark Publishing rights belong to Jane Lark,

this 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

Richard

She did beat him, after a long game, watched over by Rita, who sat near them, silent, despite Richard’s occasional verbal prodding to join the conversation.

“Checkmate!” Emma called, smiling gleefully. He had not let her win, he’d fought hard, but she’d been running rings about him for an hour, keeping him on his guard and fighting to stay in the game.

He leant back in the chair, smiling too. “You are very good, I admit defeat.”

“So tell me,” she said then, leaning forward and gripping the arms of her chair, smiling in a very open way and enchanting him once more. “After we have played chess for the three weeks and I become tired of this, what do you have up your sleeve next? What new thing shall you come up with to disperse the boredom?”

Damn. The corners of his lips lifted higher, raising his smile to almost match hers. A number of things slipped through his mind but her mother would frown upon them. “If I tell you, Miss Martin, it would no longer be a surprise and therefore the impact on the boredom would be slighted.”

She laughed, genuinely. He was relieved to hear it. His efforts this afternoon had eased her sorrow, for a while anyway.

Yet the feelings in him were more than a relief to lift her mood and help her. The emotions inside him had been swelling over the weeks since they’d come about The Cape, rising and falling, washing over him like the waves on the sea. There was a sexual need still, but she was a scarce woman on a ship, that said nothing, yet the protective urge within him, and like, and interest––her conversation, her quick mind––and she amused him with her wit––but there was something else too. An emotion he could not grasp. But it was that last which was the largest and strongest emotion, sometimes it swelled so high it stole his breath away. As it did now. It was because he cared about her, and sometimes that knowledge punched him in the stomach, knocking the air out of him.

He rested back in his chair for a minute and watched her, his fingers covering his lips as he felt the brow of the wave sweep over him and pass on.

She watched him too, her smile pulling up the edges of her lips. She made a perfect portrait with her bonnet removed and her pale blonde hair catching the sunlight that reached through the long windows of the cabin. Her hair was plaited in loops, which fell from her crown.

Colour bloomed in her cheeks.

He might not have touched her at all in the last couple of weeks, but he had made sure she knew his interest had not waned, he’d not hidden his liking for her from his gaze and it was that which she was looking at now, and smiling at, and blushing in recognition of.

Sweetheart, the word he’d used to her once was still there, she was very dear to him. The wave of emotion rose again and came over the top of his head, soaking him.

Guilt passed the image of June through his mind. She would be laughing at him, if she saw him, in a judging way, and if she had seen him playing chess she would have mocked him outrageously. ‘The great Richard Farrow playing chess with a girl.’ But Emma’s youth improved her beauty and the intelligence of her mind made her anything but a girl, and she was not really a girl anyway, she was young, yes, but not a girl. She was a woman. His body constantly reminded him of that.

June… She had been his companion for years––vibrant and a relief from business. He’d liked her company, been amused by her, laughed with her often, and argued with her outrageously at times. He’d felt fondness for her. She’d pleased him. But his feelings had never gone deeper than that. He could not imagine playing chess with June. After five minutes she would have been frustrated with the game and swept the pieces from the board, in a temper. He knew he could not go back to her. His mind was made up. He would end his relationship with June.

It would be a shock to her, she’d be hurt and upset, but she’d always known the place she had in his life. She was his mistress, no more, and he’d not been her first protector. She’d fought hard to win his interest and keep it for as long as she had and she had satisfied him for a long while. But she’d known her position was a finite thing. They were friends who shared a bed, nothing more. There were no deeper feelings on either side. Yet she would feel slighted, he knew, especially when she realised he was capable of deeper feelings.

He had always thought himself incapable of truly caring for another person––until now.

Yet he also thought June had feared this when they’d parted. She had told him not to look at anyone else, in her mocking manner, that genuinely threatened. But she had already known that too long had passed. They were not attached, if their relationship was to last he would have felt more attached. It was only her determination to keep him that had made him stay.   

He sighed and looked away from Emma as the day cabin door opened. “Joseph…”

“Sorry to interrupt, I need to look at the charts.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No, I just wish to check the course and reset us if necessary.”

Reset the course. That is what Richard was doing. He would write to June from London. Perhaps it was the coward’s way out, but it would save them both the pain of an emotional argument. She would be angry, then she would cry and plead. She would not be June if she did not do those things. It was her way. Yet he knew within a month she would be with another man, and probably someone he knew, to try to jab him for his disloyalty and she would be just as happy with that man’s attention, and gifts, as she had been with Richard’s. She would be even happier when she bragged to Richard about those gifts. As she had done to the man before Richard, showing off the jewellery Richard had dress her in.

He would give her three months to leave the house he’d bought for her to use, though, and he’d give her money to settle elsewhere. He would write to his accountant in Calcutta and have the man manage both the payment and June’s departure. He would sell the house, then. He’d not keep another mistress.

A new decision suddenly shot through Richard and grasped at his heart. He wanted a wife.

He stood up, looking at Emma. “Would you like to see where we are, and see how Joseph plots our progression.”

She smiled brightly. Giving Emma information and knowledge was like giving June jewels. Emma’s expression could not be made brighter if he gave her diamonds.

To be continued…

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 Truth

© Jane Lark Publishing rights belong to Jane Lark,

this 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

Emerald

After a while Emerald heard the men retire and the sounds about her became only the ship creaking as it rocked on the sea. The noises had become as familiar and reassuring as her father’s voice had once been.

The next morning, when the cabin boy brought their water for washing, Emerald asked him for fried bacon. She hoped it would stir her mother’s hunger. When their breakfast arrived the smell of the bacon and chocolate was glorious and it filled the cabin.

Emerald took the tray from the boy and turned to her mother, who Rita was helping to sit upright. “Will you eat something?”

“I will do my best, sweetheart, that chocolate does smell good.” Her mother smiled.

At least she was trying today.

Emerald set down the tray and then perched on the edge of her mother’s bunk, smiling too. She cut up the bacon while Rita poured the chocolate.

Even if her mother just drank the chocolate that would be good. But she did eat some bacon and even a couple of bites of bread, as Emerald ate her breakfast and spoke of India and her father.

An hour later, when Mr Bishop knocked on the cabin door, Emerald was hopeful and feeling better than she had done for days.

“Do you wish to sit out on the deck?” he asked.

Emerald looked back at her mother. “Mama?”

“Not today, dear. I shall rest and tonight I will join you in dining with the gentlemen, you cannot stay in here all the time nursing me, Emma. Sit out on deck with Rita. I will sleep and preserve my energy for this evening.”

Emerald did not know whether to be happy or sad. But her mother had eaten breakfast and she must intend to continue making an effort to eat if she would dine with the men. “Very well.”

She looked back at Mr Bishop. “Thank you, we shall be ready in a moment.”

He bowed his head, in an informal acknowledgement as he smiled at her. All the senior crew had become even more like friends since The Cape. Yet it would have been difficult not to become close to them in the confines of the ship.

She picked up a bonnet, slipped it on and tied the ribbons, then wrapped a shawl about her shoulders.

“Are you sure you are well enough to be left alone, Mama?”

“Rita may come back and check on me occasionally.” Her voice held a note of tiredness.

Simply eating breakfast had taken all her mother’s energy. But Emerald was already looking forward to the evening, to having her mother sit beside her at the table. She leant and kissed her mother’s forehead. “Rest, Mama, I love you and Papa loves you. You’ll get better because neither of us shall accept anything else.”

When Emerald straightened her mother caught her hand. “I love you too, dear, very much.”

*     *     *

Emma was standing by the rail looking out at the sea. Richard strode across the quarterdeck to join her, a smile tugging at his lips.

She was a beautiful ornament for his ship. Perhaps he ought to have her cast in wood and placed at the stern to keep him entertained on future voyages.

The wind caught her skirts, sweeping them sideward, framing her figure, revealing the length and shape of her legs. Those legs still haunted his dreams, as did the feel of her fingers gripping his hand in the middle of the night, and the memory of their fingers weaving together as he’d read to the women, sitting beside by Emma’s bunk. Those moments seemed an age ago now.

But since then he had withdrawn from her a little and stopped being indiscreet. He had not touched her in weeks, not even offered his arm. Because Joseph and Duncan had mistaken his intentions and he’d feared gossip developing below decks. They’d assumed his interest had leaned towards marriage, it would lead nowhere. It was merely admiration. She amused and enthralled him, no more than that.

Yet despite his renewed caution, his hunger for the girl was not dulled, it grew daily. So to pacify it he did not wholly keep his distance, he continued to have some contact with her every day, in the guise of entertaining the women; he often played cards with them or read aloud. After all his men had duties on the ship and he did not, so who better to entertain them, it was the perfect excuse.

He walked to her side, dismissing Mark with a nod and stood against the rail next to her, gripping it with both hands to control the temptation to hold her arm. “Miss Martin,” he stated, looking out to sea and not at her. “I see Mrs Martin remained in the cabin again today. How is she?”

Her head turned to look at him.

He looked t her. Her face was framed by the wide rim of her straw bonnet. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes. She had not been sleeping. He sighed out a breath. She was worried about her mother. Justifiably. Duncan was worried too. But her mother was adamant she’d recover enough to reach London and refused to tell her daughter the truth. Lying to Emma was torture.

“She ate breakfast,” Emma answered,” She is sleeping now. She has agreed to dine at your table tonight, if we may?”

“You may,” he answered, longing to grip Emma’s hand and offer comfort. It was a strange man standing in his body. He’d never known much compassion until he’d met her. His eyebrows lifted though. He was surprised to hear Catherine would able to sit at the table. Her health had become worse in the last weeks, not better. Life seemed to be gradually ebbing from her body, like sand trickling through an hour glass. “Yet, is she well enough?”

“She is resting now so she will be.”

He wondered if this was a reaction to the outcry they’d heard in the women’s cabin last night. It had clearly been Emma shouting, and shouting at her mother not the maid.

Catherine must feel the burden of watching her daughter suffer. And Emma was clearly suffering. Her pain was etched on her face in a constant frown, creasing the jagged line of the raw scar her injury had left on her forehead.

“Would you like to walk with me?” he offered.

“No not really,” she looked upward at the rigging. “I am mortally sick of strolling about a space no larger than Papa’s drawing-room at home. I wish there was somewhere new to go.” To take her mind of her mother––he heard the words she did not speak.

“A stroll about the poop-deck then,” he jested.

She met his gaze again, the pale blue a cold colour suddenly. “Hilarious,” she answered with a hollow humour.

“Cards then?” he suggested softly.

“I am tired of those too.”

“Chess?” he said, watching her face, his eyes absorbing every detail.

“Chess? I didn’t know you had a set aboard.”

“I was saving it for just this moment; the moment you became bored of every other option.”

She laughed. It was a hard won, half-hearted laugh.

“The board is set into a low table in the day cabin.”

“Then let’s play. I am glad of anything that is something new to do.”

“Very well then, I shall thrash you at chess. You had better be prepared for it.”

“You have never succeeded when playing cards. I think it is you who ought to prepare to be thrashed. I always beat my father.”

He smiled and shook his head at her. She was forever valiant, she would not be put down, and she would probably win too.

To be continued…

 The Marlow Intrigues