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

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

Chapter Eight

Emerald

The next three weeks passed slowly, merging into monotony as there was so little to do, with only the occasional storm to add interest and difference to each day. Though those storms were nothing compared to The Cape, they were mild disturbances in an otherwise brisk sea. They did not even bring on Rita’s sea-sickness. The Cape seemed to have cured her.

After only a week Rita had been back to full health and the pain in Emerald’s head had reduced, though the wound itched, which Dr Steel said was a good sign as it meant it was healing. Her mother was still in bed. Then by the end of the second week Emerald’s bruises had faded to yellow stains and any pain left was merely discomfort from the pulling of the stitches, which Dr Steel insisted stay in one more week. Her mother was no better.

When the third week came Emerald’s stitches were removed but a growing fear was gnawing at her. Her mother was weaker––frailer––and her breathing seemed difficult. Something was really wrong. Yes, she had been thrown about as they traversed The Cape and unwell before, but surely after three weeks she should feel at least a little better.

Whenever Emerald had broached the subject of her mother’s health with Dr Steel at the end of the first and then during the second week, he’d brush it aside, telling her not to fret. Then Mr Farrow had said, “listen to Dr Steel he knows what he is doing”. They had saved Emerald’s life. She trusted them. She wanted to believe them––but her mother was not getting better.

“Stop worrying,” Mr Farrow had ordered one afternoon as they promenaded about the quarterdeck.

He’d spent more time with her and her mother since The Cape. He would sit with them some afternoons, reading or playing cards. Or sometimes just with Emerald as her mother slept. Emerald felt close to him. He spoke of her father and their business, asked her about the things which interested her, and when she questioned him, he shared his knowledge of the world. There was a look in his eyes when she met his gaze, a smile and intensity which whispered to her––though there was now nothing in his manner, apart from the time he spent in her company, which indicated a particular sense of closeness on his part. Yet there was the look in his eyes.

At night, though, when she lay in her bunk in the dark, his face hovered in her imagination beside memories of his embrace, and she heard the endearment he’d uttered as he’d carried her, ‘sweetheart’. Then she thought of all the conversations they’d had and all he knew and had seen. She longed to have seen and done the things he had, and those thoughts always drifted into her dreams, with the steady rocking of the ship. He interested her in a way no one else ever had, she enjoyed their conversations––and when they talked, for hours at a time, she stopped worrying about her mother.

When the sun set on the Monday of the fourth week, Emerald’s mother was still in bed and she left her dinner entirely untouched.

Emerald’s patience broke.

She had dined with the men in the second week after The Cape, because her mother insisted on it, but after a few days she had stopped doing so because her mother ate nothing if Emerald was not there. So since then, each night Emerald was faced with the battle of making her mother eat, as well as facing that battle in the morning, and at luncheon.

“Mama, you have to eat something. You peck at your food, moving it about the plate and put nothing in your mouth. Do not think I don’t notice. The weight is falling off you.” She had expressed those arguments and sentiments, numerous times, over so many meals, urging and pleading. But tonight she attempted to feed her mother, only for her mother to keep pushing Emerald’s hand, and the fork, away.

“You have no more flesh to lose! Why will you not eat?” Emerald shouted.

The men’s voices in the day cabin next door fell silent. They had heard her. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Mama, you have to eat to live. Where will you get your energy from to get well? It is no wonder you are so lethargic, no one can live without food.”

“Emma,” her mother gently held Emerald’s wrist refusing the fork again. “I am exhausted, let me rest.”

Her mother’s fingers were skin and bone, her cheeks were sunken and her skin, grey. She had become little more than a skeleton.

Tears suddenly welled in Emerald’s eyes.

Her mother’s fingers lifted and pressed against Emerald’s cheek, seeking to offer comfort, but Emerald’s focus was not averted. She met her mother’s gaze and whispered, “Will you eat some of the ham if I cut it smaller?”

“I’ll try, dear, a few pieces, that’s all, sweetheart. I’m too tired.”

Emerald’s gaze fell as tears rolled on to her cheeks and she cut a piece from the slice of salted ham. “Tell me what is wrong? I don’t understand why you are ill. Why are you not feeling better? You should be well enough to eat, or is it not eating that has made you so ill?” She looked up and held out a tiny piece of the ham on the tip of the fork.

“Emma, darling, do not upset yourself.” Her mother’s hand lifted again, and her thumb brushed away one of Emerald’s tears. “It is the journey that is all. I am getting older and it takes longer to recover. I shall bounce back in a few days, you’ll see.”

She ate only four pieces of the ham. She would hardly bounce back to good health on four tiny pieces of ham. But Emerald then helped her lay down and she almost immediately fell asleep.

Emerald let Rita undress her, watching her mother sleep as she listened to the rumble of the men’s voices next door. Fear formed a deep, dark, empty space in her heart.

She slid between the sheets on her bunk and lay there, listening to her mother’s breathing and the men talking as Rita prepared for bed.

It felt as though a lifetime had passed since they’d left India. India felt not only distant but unimaginable.

She longed to go back. To be at home with her father. He would be fretting too if he were here. Her father would insist her mother ate. But he was not here and Emerald was. She was the only person who could insist her mother fought against whatever this was. Emerald had to keep her mother fighting, for her father as well as herself, he would be broken hearted if… Emerald could not bear to complete the thought. It was unimaginable. She would not let anything happen to her mother.

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 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

And now available – The Reckless Love of an Heir #7

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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

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

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

Emerald

Two days later Mr Farrow came below deck to visit Emerald and her mother with a smile splitting his lips.

He still had the look of a pirate, no matter that he wore his neckcloth, waistcoat and his shirt sleeves were down. It was the colour the sun had lifted in his skin.

She knew now, though, that beneath his tanned skin and his arrogant, self-assured façade was a trustable, likeable, considerate man.

She smiled too and swung her legs over the edge of the bunk so she could sit upright and look at him. Her stocking clad feet rested on the floor. She was clothed, as was Rita, though they remained down here with her mother. They were all still a little fragile. He looked down at Emerald’s toes peeping from beneath her dress then up to her face, his smile broadening.

He was very captivating when he smiled. It caught in his dark intuitive eyes. If he had smiled more genuinely like this in Calcutta her friends would have swooned at every ball.

Her smile broadened too. They had been sharing many smiles these last two days; smiles that seemed more like a secret conversation and private touches when he sat beside her bunk. Every time he read to them her hand found his – or perhaps it was his that found hers. She didn’t really know who led this thing that had begun between them or even what it was, she was fighting the urge to think about it and just letting it be. There was nothing particular to be defined in smiles and touches of hands and so she was waiting to see what might become of such things.

Nothing. She was to be married in England.

“What do you say to going back up to your cabin?”

“That I would like to go,” Emerald answered, “please.” Being below deck felt like being buried in the bowels of a giant fish. They had no light.

He turned his smile to her mother. “Are you well enough, Catherine?”

“I’m sorry, Richard, I doubt my legs will carry me.”

“They do no need to, I shall.”

“Then I would certainly appreciate a more comfortable bed.”

“It is agreed then. Prepare to move. The cabin has been cleaned and is nice and fresh and ready for you as soon as you are ready -.”

“We are ready now?” Emerald responded, standing. But she moved too quickly and as she did so the room took a quarter spin. She reached for the pillar supporting the bunks and found herself gripping Richard’s arm.

He grasped hers too.“I’ve got you. I’ll carry you up too, Miss Martin. In fact…” he looked at Rita, not letting go of Emerald’s arm, “I’ll carry you all, seeing as Rita must be just as weak. If you give me a moment, I’ll fetch some help.”

He let go of Emerald and left them then. She sat down.

After a couple of minutes he came back with Mr Bishop.

Richard said they’d take her mother first. Emerald had not seen Mr Bishop since he’d brought them below deck. None of the men other than Dr Steel and Richard had visited them here . She supposed it was inappropriate of Richard to have done so as they had lain abed in their nightdresses and yet without his company she would not have endured it.

Richard lifted her mother, still wrapped in blankets, and bid her to put her arms about his neck. She looked very light, thin. She was fading away. When they were back in their cabin Emerald decided she’d concentrate on making her mother eat.

With Mr Bishop holding the door, Richard carried her mother out.

Richard took Rita next. She resisted Richard’s insistence on picking her up and remained on her feet, letting him support her on one side with Mr Bishop hovering at the other.

When Richard returned, he was alone. He leant down to Emerald, smiling. “You, I am definitely picking up.”

“I am not protesting,” she responded, slipping her arms about his neck, her heartbeat thundering.

He lifted her with one arm beneath her knees and the second about her shoulders, the muscle bracing in his shoulders as he moved. Emerald held him tighter.

“How are you?” he whispered.

The warmth of his breath brushed over her lips as he met her gaze and a shiver twisted through her, but not from the cold or fever, it was with a sense of expectation. “Much better, just a little dizzy and my head still thuds with pain at times, but other than that fit-as-a-fiddle.”

His smile broadened. “You do amuse me, Miss Martin.”

“And you I, Mr Farrow, now I have broken through your surly looks and found the man with a sense of humour beneath them.”

“Good God is he there somewhere, a man who might laugh? God help me, do not tell my men.” He looked at the door not her.

“See,” she whispered, resting her head against his shoulder as he shifted her weight, grasping the door handle.

His embrace was a familiar feeling still. The dark nights when he’d held her would always stay with her.

When he carried her along the narrow hall she imagined her friends laughing, as they would if they could see the fearsome Mr Farrow with her draped about his neck.

Her right breast brushed against his chest as he walked. The sensation stirred up an awareness of how much closer she would like him to be – very close. She’d never kissed a man. She would like to kiss Richard.

Her fingers lifted and stroked over his clean shaven jaw. He smelled nice, of soap today.

He did not look down at her.

She continued to try and torment him, running her fingers from his cheek to his nape and then into his soft dark hair.

He said nothing and continued to look ahead. He was only making the game more amusing.

Her fingers ruffled his hair, then she ran just her fingertips along the line of his jaw to his lips.

He took a deep breath then said quietly, “Very amusing.” They had reached the stairs to the quarterdeck, the door above was open and voices filtered through. “My men are up there, Miss Martin, would you have them see me thus and think you fast?” His pitch was all business man Mr Farrow once more, not Richard.

She smiled regardless, speaking to Richard. “Fast?” she mocked, “God forbid!” She looked up and stroked his hair flat, though, setting it to order.

An amused sound left his throat, even though he had sounded unamused before. “You are a witch, Miss Martin, do you know that? You put men under a spell. My entire crew have fallen beneath it. Now hold on tight.”

She did, gripping his shoulders with both hands and bracing herself, lifting her head from his chest. But as he took the first step, resting his elbow on the rail as he climbed, she answered, “Should I not be a siren – while we are at sea. Is it not a siren who enchants men to their deaths?”

“God woman,” he complained still in his business voice, “will you never learn? Cease casting ill omens on my ship. You do not mention Sirens; mention them and you’ll hear them call.”

“Are they real then?”

He continued climbing the stairs, not looking at her but ahead of him.

“They are. They are enchanting noises you hear in the night and can never explain. It is like St Elmo’s fire.”

“What is St Elmo’s fire?”

“A miracle,” he answered in an amused tone again as they reached the deck and a breeze caught at her hair. It wrapped about them both. “It is coloured lights,” he progressed, “they dance in the rigging and in the sky when you sail north, like mystical fay creatures. You can see them but never touch them.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” He looked down at her and smiled as they crossed the deck.

“Good afternoon, Miss Martin!”

She looked up, Mr Prichard had called from the poop-deck. Mr Swallow was standing up there too.

Mr Swallow, lifted his hat a little. “Miss Martin!”

“Good day, Mr Swallow! Mr Prichard!” She lifted one hand and waved.

“Siren,” Richard whispered through the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t mention the name, you’ll curse your ship,” she said as her fingers gripped the back of his neck.

“You curse my ship, sweetheart,” he answered as he reached the cabin she shared with her mother and Rita. Mr Bishop stood before it, holding the door open.

Richard walked on and carried her through. Their moment to speak privately was gone as he set her down on her bunk..

But he had called her, sweetheart, so she had not imagined this thing between them. He had been flirting with her.

Her mother lay in her bunk. She smiled at Emerald and Emerald smiled back intensely happy – even though her father was not here and this was not Calcutta.

She looked up at Mr Farrow. “Thank you.”

He gave her a heartbreaking smile, then shook his head at her for her mischief. “Rest, Miss Martin, and preserve your strength, tomorrow you may all sit out on deck if you wish. We are travelling up the west coast of Africa now and if we’re lucky we’ll hit no storms, you’ll be safe from sea-sickness for the rest of the passage.”

He was a rotten liar, of course they would hit storms, they had weeks of travel yet. But she liked him more for his kindness in trying to cheer them up.

“I remember you saying you had a pack of cards aboard. Can we have them? Can we play?”

His eyes flooded with benevolence. “You may have them but I have work to do today so I cannot join you. Mr Bishop will bring them to you. We’ll play a game another time.”

She was to be cast off then, now that she was no longer so very ill. A sense of being cut by a little knife pierced Emerald’s skin, and yet when he turned to her mother, behind his hip, he touched her shoulder. The gesture was brief, an instant only, a slight reassurance that he had not forgotten, that was all, yet as she glanced across the cabin she saw Mr Bishop watching. His expression blanked when he caught Emerald’s gaze and he looked away, in the same moment Richard’s hand lifted… Of course Richard was Mr Bishop’s employer. Mr Bishop would neither comment nor cast judgment anymore than Rita had in their small cabin below deck when she had seen Richard hold Emerald’s hand.