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

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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, 67, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16

Chapter Seven

 

Emerald

Emerald’s fingers lifted to brush something from her forehead when she woke. It was cold and wet–a rag had fallen on her brow. She was hot, very hot, the air itself felt as though it was burning and she couldn’t catch it in her lungs. She was suffocating; the hot air pressed down on her. She saw red and light images moving about from behind her closed eyelids, people, no not people, angels, walking about with their wings folded. The red turned to white everywhere. She began shivering then, shivering with cold and they were not angels it was snow. Snow had fallen in Calcutta. Her father had a painting of a snowy landscape. He had said snow was very cold to touch. She opened her eyes catching a deep breath, not knowing who she was or where she was. The room was dull grey. The light was fading. The room was narrow and small. Something was above her, the ceiling within an arms length. She felt trapped, imprisoned. She sucked in a deep breath then cried out, suddenly afraid and screaming into the air of the small unfamiliar room.

“Hush, you’re mother’s asleep.” A deep voice resonated through her head, ringing in her ears. Pain throbbed. She could hear her own blood beating. It was deafening. It hurt to breathe. It hurt in every nerve, every limb and every muscle. She wanted to cry from the pain.

“You need to drink.” The voice said. She thought she should know it, but she couldn’t quite catch a hold of the memory, her head was in so much pain. “Sit up a little. Take the medicine and then you need to drink the water.”

“Do I?” she murmured.

“Yes, you do, Emma. You need to do everything that I and Dr Steel say, do you understand.”

I? I? Who was I? “Dr Steel?” she whispered.

“My doctor, you are on my ship and in my care and you are damned well going to conquer this bloody fever. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Drink this medicine, disgusting as it is, and then some water.”

She moved as his arm slid beneath her shoulders, lifting herself and pressing to his chest. Her cheek rested against clean fresh cotton. He smelt of sea and air. Mr Farrow, his name returned to her mind.

She gripped his hand and a small bottle pressed against her lips. She drank. The bitter liquid ran into her mouth in a rush as he tipped the bottle. It was revolting but she remembered the taste, she had drunk this before.

“Now have some water.” His deep voice ran through her veins.

The water was cool and refreshing. She gulped it, taking several long sips. Then he drew it away. “Not too much, I don’t want you to be sick. You need to keep it down. You can rest again now.”

Suddenly she was free of him and cold again, lying amongst a tangle of cotton sheets that clung to her skin. She was in so much pain. A sob escaped her lips, she rolled to her side and returned to the whiteness and the angels walking through Calcutta.

 

Richard

Emma was fractious and rolling about, tossing the sheet off as fast as he could put it on. Her arms and legs flailed as she murmured God knew what, waging a bloody war against her fever.

He’d admitted to himself over two hours ago, he was scared. They’d fought the elements of The Cape with an entire crew. She was fighting her storm alone, wrestling with death.

They’d left the worst waters behind hours ago. Half the ship was at rest, worn out by their battle. He’d slept five hours through the afternoon and then come here as soon as he’d woken, praying the news was good. It was not. She was worse again, far worse.

Duncan prophesied that if she survived the night she’d probably recover but he’d equally said there was a strong possibility she might not survive it. Richard’s heart had felt odd ever since he’d heard those words, like it was hanging in suspense, waiting, not knowing whether to beat or not. Yet it was beating in a steady rhythm which he felt in every artery as he sat here beside her, watching her breaths, counting them, fearing each one would be her last.

She could not die. No man could have that much ill luck – to lose a man’s wife and daughter in a single voyage – because he was certain he would lose her mother during their journey. Catherine looked weaker by the hour, just has her daughter had become increasingly delirious.

For God sake, he looked aloft, lifting his gaze to the Almighty, not using his name in vein but calling upon him. For God sake, this could not be. He would not let it be.

What was he, the master of death now? Richard mocked, looking back at the young woman in the bunk. Her skin was scarlet and when her eyes had opened they had been bright, vividly shining with fever and unseeing. She could be within minutes or hours of death, or her fever could peak and she’d ride the crest and return to them.

Her teeth started chattering again and she groaned, not awake but in a half dream like, half trance like state.

Duncan had spread a poultice on her wound a few hours ago, trying to draw out the poison in her blood and placed the damp cloth over it, which Richard had been rinsing out and replacing at intervals. She kept pushing it off.

He wished she’d just lie still.

Her leg flung off the covers and hung over the edge of the bunk again, his gaze lifted from her naked shin to the lower thigh that dangled before his eyes, a slender long limb, pink with fever. He rose and lifted her leg, placing it back beneath the covers. Her skin was hot and yet like silk, and her scent high yet sweet and tantalising. He’d never smelt a woman’s scent as sweet as hers. It was a heady drug to a man’s senses. It teased – and tempted.

He sat down and his heart thumped hard in his chest. “You had damned well better survive, Emma Martin,” he whispered in a determined voice.

Her mother slept behind him in the lower bunk and her maid in the upper one. He could hear their breathing and the creaking of the ship, the latter sound a familiar comfort, the former a disturbing intrusion.

He had not wanted them on board.

“If you make me give your father the news that you’ve expired I shall not be happy,” he concluded, redeeming himself in his eyes as he pressed the damp cloth against her forehead again.

“Father,” she answered on a breathy groan, rolling away from him. She’d spoken of her father often in her torment and called for her mother. Other names he vaguely recalled from India had passed her lips too, her young friends. Mentally she’d been back in Calcutta. He wished she was there now. He wished she had never set a foot aboard his ship. He would never forgive himself if she died, that was a simple fact. He had become responsible for her. The weight of it was the tight grip about his heart.

He decided she ought to have more water. Duncan had bid him to get her to sip it often. He lifted the pole from the edge of her bunk and let the loose end drop to the floor, then rested one hip on the bunk as he’d done half a dozen times tonight. “Emma?” he said quietly, “you need to have another drink. Will you sit up?”

He watched her face in the light thrown by the oil lamp he’d hung up. He was leaving it burning constantly tonight so that if there was any change in her condition he’d be easily alerted. Not that Duncan could do much to help her if she worsened. She either survived now, or she did not.

“No,” she moaned, pushing him away.

“Yes,” he said in a firmer tone and set his arm beneath her shoulders to help lift her head.

“I want to go home, Mama, to India,” she sobbed as he cradled her head in the crook of his arm. She ceased resisting and rolled into him, grasping his shirt where it hung loose at his side. “May we go home?”

Compassion filled Richard  He’d never known an emotion like it. It poured in to him, like it ran from the lip of a jug and he was the cup it filled. His arms surrounded her, and he held her tight. “You’ll get home, sweetheart. You will. We’ll get you home one day. But for now just drink the water and then we’ll get you to England safe and later we’ll get you home.”

He let her go and leant back to pick up the metal cup. “Here.” He held it to her lips.

Her warm fingers gripped the back of his hand, as they’d done time and time again tonight. Her touch had become a familiar thing. Her hot breath brushed the skin on the edge of his wrist as she opened her mouth to drink. Her temperature was intense, like a furnace burned inside her. She gulped the water, he let her have several mouthfuls then took it away and drank the last himself, before setting it aside. Drinking the water which she’d drunk, felt like drinking communion wine – it was probably a sacrilege to say so, but it touched him somewhere in his soul.

When he began moving off the bunk she grasped his shirt more firmly. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me. You’re all I have.” It was a statement of madness, the fever speaking, she didn’t even know who he was and yet the pain in her voice made him stay. He brushed her hair back from her brow. It was tangled and wild, matted with blood, sticky with salt from the waves on deck and dampened by sweat and the cloth he’d lain over her forehead.

“Hush,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

She pressed into his side, clinging like a barnacle to the hull of his ship, this girl who knew what it was to love and be loved so much so she would sacrifice herself, her desire for more, to please her parents. She had boarded this ship for her mother, not for herself. She would probably even take the last foolish step and marry her parents’ choice for her, to make them happy.

How different it was to the life he’d known, he’d severed any contact with his parents at one-and-twenty and walked away. He would never have done what they’d wished. Yet they had never liked him let alone shown any love to him.

She gripped the material of his shirt tighter, the material brushed his skin as her fingers curled into a fist. His stomach muscle became taut. She started to bloody shiver again.

He held her closer.

He would be inhuman not to feel for her. He was human. He was a man, made of blood and bone and flesh – sinful – lustful – damned – flesh.

He should move. His body heat was only heightening her fever.

He did not, saint like, he stayed where he was, fighting for his sanity – or sinner like.

He nursed the strange mix of lust and emotion in his stomach and chest as he let her cling to him and he stroked her hair in reassurance, murmuring soothing platitudes and promising all would be well. He could not leave her fighting this alone.

Even if she survived, though, all would not be well – her mother was dying and there was no denying that.

When Duncan touched Richard’s shoulder to wake him a few hours later, Richard was still sitting, on Emerald’s bunk with his back against the supporting pillar and Emma’s head pillowed on his stomach as his hand rested on her hair.

Thank God it was Duncan who’d seen him thus and not her mother.

“Richard.” Duncan acknowledged in a whisper, neither his voice nor his face showing any sign of judgment as he leant over and pressed his palm to Emma’s forehead. “She’s cooler,” he stated in a swift jubilant announcement as his hand lifted and drew back. “The fever’s broken.”

Richard’s hand slipped from her hair to her forehead. She was. It had. He couldn’t even begin to describe the rush of relief racing through his blood. He felt like weeping as he lifted her off him, then he climbed off the bunk. “She was distressed,” he said in explanation to Duncan, not offering anymore words. He wished to be out of the cabin, he needed to be alone. He needed to be somewhere where he felt able to express what the hell had been going on inside him tonight – with a shout, or a growl or a fist slammed against the table in his room, or… tears.

But before he could leave the room, Duncan gripped his forearm and stopped him. “Richard, those of us who know you well can see what is happening to you, especially those of us who have experienced the same. I shan’t judge you for falling for the girl.”

“Is that what I am doing?” Richard answered dryly, pulling his arm free. “Thank you for informing me.”

Duncan laughed softly. Richard did not.

To be continued…

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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

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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 paperbackand, yes, there are more to come  🙂 

CompleteCollecvtion_Facebook_Advertv5

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 thirteen

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, 67, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

Emerald

It was early evening a week later when they hit the rough water. Mr Bishop rapped on their door an hour before the sea became choppier, telling them to stay in their cabin. They were to sleep in their clothes, he’d said, just in case the ship fell into trouble and everything which was moveable should be secured. He’d even given them leather straps to secure themselves into their bunks. He had knocked at four in the afternoon, by five the ship was rising and falling to the point it was impossible to stand. By six, Rita was kneeling at the end of Emerald’s bunk, gripping its edge and praying in a quiet chant. The leather strap secured about her middle tied her to the frame of the bunk . Emerald sat at its head the leather strap across her middle as she gripped the bunks edges and watched her mother.

Her mother was lying flat, secured by three leather straps and her teeth were gritted, as though she fought pain or a desire to be sick every time the ship rocked .

The ship was being tossed about on the sea like a matchstick.

The aft of the boat rose up suddenly tipping Emerald back, while her mother slid further up the bed and Rita squealed. Then the ship went over the wave’s crest, rocking forward, casting them all the other way, before almost immediately tipping to the portside and then rocking starboard.

Her mother was pale and Rita was a sickly grey.

Mr Bishop had said it could be hours or days before they passed about The Cape, it depended on the winds and waves. At the mercy of nature they could do no more than run the course.

Emerald started praying too, it was the second occasion on this journey she’d called upon a deity she’d never fully believed in. If there was a God, he was obtaining her attention in the style of Jonah.

The aft suddenly dropped away. Rita screamed and Emerald’s gaze spun to the window. The ship plunged downward into the trough of a wave, as though the swirling sea would swallow them up.

The men on this ship travelled this route time and again. How could they bear it? Why would they return?

“We are coming back via Egypt, Mama, on a steamship.” Emerald cast at her mother as the ship swept up and over the crest of the wave.

Her mother’s answer was a weak smile. Prostrate, her fingers gripped at the top leather strap.

“I am going to be sick!”Rita cried. She scrabbled loose from the leather strap and grasped hold of the bucket that had been hung from the wall. The moment she did so the ship rocked portside and tossed Rita to the floor.

She lay there unmoving.

Emerald slipped free of her strap too, reached for the bucket and pulled at the knot which held it. Once it was loose, she slid off the bed, holding the end of the bunk with one hand and the bucket in the other as the boat rocked back. Their trunks were secured below decks and the drawers locked. Rita did not even try to rise from the floor, but braced her back against one bunk and pressed her feet on the other while Emerald leant over and held the bucket out. Rita grasped it and was horribly sick.

Emerald looked at her mother.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” her mother whispered in apology, “I feel ill too.” Weakly, she began struggling with the first strap.

Emerald moved to undo it. There was another bucket secured near her mother and as the buckle slid free her mother sat up, gripping it as though she had been trying not to be sick for the last hour and could hold it no longer. Placing an arm about her shoulders, Emerald felt a sudden wave of nausea herself as they rocked sideways again.

Oh she wished this journey over. They had weeks to go yet. “I am never doing this journey again,” she whispered to her mother.

“Nor I,” her mother answered on a half laugh, pressing her wrist to her mouth.

“I’ll fetch you a handkerchief.” Emerald whispered, letting go of all support and bending to unlock the drawer which contained them as the ship righted itself for a moment. But then the aft dropped downward into a deep trough again and Emerald went with it, falling backward. There was nothing she could do, she had no time to clasp anything, the ship whipped her back and she fell hard, her bottom hitting the floor first, but even as it did the boat tipped sideward and unable to get her arm down in time to stop her fall, her head hit the wooden frame of her bunk. Everything went dark.

When Emerald’s eyes opened, Rita was leaning over her. The smell of sickness hung in the air and nausea twisted through Emerald’s stomach. “Miss?” Rita stroked back Emerald’s hair. It was a strange thing for her to do. But then the cloth touched Emerald’s forehead and she realised Rita was pressing a handkerchief against her head. The ship rocked, casting them both against the end of the bunk.

Emerald banged her shoulder. “I shall be black and blue,” she whispered.

“You’re head will not stop bleeding, Miss.”

Emerald’s fingers lifted to her forehead. She felt a large damp gash. When she looked at her fingers they were covered in scarlet blood. She felt sick again. Rita pushed the handkerchief into Emerald’s hand and was sick.

“Emma, darling,” her mother leant over the edge of her bunk. “You will need stitches in that wound.”

Emerald clasped the handkerchief near her head, it was damp and red, and now it no longer pressed against the wound, blood ran down Emerald’s face, dripping onto her dress and onto the floor. She wiped it away with the handkerchief, her thoughts spinning, unraveling, fraying. She took a deep breath, fighting the nausea. “I’ll find Dr Steel.”

“You should not go on deck!” Rita cried as Emerald struggled to her feet. The room span as well as rocked.

Dr Steel would help her. He would mend her head and send help. “I’ll find him and come back,” she said swaying towards the door as the boat tossed her from side to side.

“Emerald!” her mother shouted, gripping the rope her bucket hung from as she twisted around trying to catch hold of Emerald’s arm. She could not reach her though and Emerald did not stop. Her thoughts were focused solely on finding Dr Steel and bringing help.

When Emerald pulled open the cabin door she was immediately struck by a wave cresting and breaking over the rail near her. Blood and stinging salt water smeared her vision, as she turned and shut the door.

When she turned around she saw men everywhere. Four men had a rope tied about their middles, the other end secured to the jib of a sail as they fought to strengthen its grip against the wind. They had furled the highest sails and were just sailing under the lowest and the largest as the wind caught it one way and then the other. Mr Bishop was across the deck, yelling orders over the noise of the wind and waves, as three men were descending from the rigging.

The ship rocked to port again as a wave hit on the starboard, throwing spume across the ship. Emerald lost her balance and fell sideways, landing sharply on her hip and skidding across the soaked deck.

“Miss Martin!” Mr Bishop’s eyes had been brought from the rigging to her.

“Miss Martin!” he yelled again.

He was wearing a calf length oiled leather coat. When he came towards her his movement was slowed by the swaying of the ship, casting him one way then the other. “Miss Martin?” He said more urgently as he neared and then he looked back over his shoulder at one of the men on the deck behind him. “Tell Mr Swallow I have Miss Martin on deck, I’ll be back in a moment.” The man behind him moved instantly, half running, half sliding to the poop-deck steps.

Mr Swallow must be up above. She couldn’t see from her position.

“Miss Martin?” Mr Bishop said again, bending over her and clasping her arm.

It was not only sea-water and blood in her eyes but tears too. Another wave threw itself onto the deck, sweeping over them both, the spume engulfing her. She hung on to Mr Bishop’s forearm as the wave swept away. “I cut my head. I need Dr Steel,” she shouted over the noise of the wind in the sails, as his face loomed near.

His eyes looked at her wound.

“Come, I’ll get you below decks.”

The tight grip on her arm helped her struggle to her feet, dizzy and disorientated.

Mr Bishop’s arm came about her shoulders and continued to hold her up as he urged her to walk across the deck, in the opposite direction from her cabin. Together they swayed across the ship.

“Mr Bishop!” Someone yelled from the poop-deck. Emerald looked up, her vision was blurred but she could see Mr Swallow leaning on the rail, yelling orders at the men on the quarterdeck. Mr Prichard was at the wheel, with two men beside him putting their weight into holding the ship steady. Then she saw Mr Farrow, standing to the other side, observing everything, his feet planted wide, one hand gripping the rail, steadying himself. His shin length leather coat was unbuttoned and it caught the wind, sweeping about his legs. The look on his face was a mask of determination and his eyes were on her. “Mr Bishop! Get that woman off the damned deck!” He yelled, gesturing with his hand.

She’d been dismissed.

Mr Bishop’s grip on her shoulder and her arm tightened and he half dragged her towards a door that must lead to the lower decks.

Like the steps to the poop-deck, those going down were steep, almost sheer. A wave swept onto the deck behind her, and onto the first step. Emerald slipped. The wave washed her down and stole Mr Bishop’s grip from her arm. She tried to grasp the rail, but forgot her hand was clutching the handkerchief so she was unable to catch it. She slid down the rest of the stairs, her bottom bumping on each step, and landed on crumpled legs in a heap on the floor. More sea-water swilled down on top of her before Mr Bishop pulled the door shut behind them.

Emerald feebly pressed the bloodstained handkerchief against her head and wept. This ship and this journey had defeated her.

“Miss Martin…” Mr Bishop was beside her, squatting on his haunches, his back pressed to the wall in the narrow passage way. “What happened?” His arm was about her once more but he did not urge her to stand.

She looked at him through blood and tears, the scarlet covered handkerchief slipping to her cheek. “My mother and Rita are sick. I tried to help. I fell. I was unconscious. I–.” Her words ran dry.

“Come, we’ll get you to Dr Steel. Can you stand?”

“Yes, I did not hurt my legs.” But even so she was glad that he helped her rise. “What about my mother and Rita?”

His arm about her shoulders, he pressed her onward. “Let us get you to Dr Steel and then I shall worry about Mrs Martin and your maid.”

The two of them swayed along the passage, bumping into one side and then the other, but Dr Steel’s cabin was not far, in the fore of the ship, at the end of the passage.

“Miss Martin?” Dr Steel stated, looking up as the door swung inward. He stood over a seated crewman and was wrapping a bandage about splints on the man’s forearm. The man’s teeth were gritted.

“Miss Martin needs stitches, as you can see, Dr Steel,” Mr Bishop stated.

“Sit her down, Mr Bishop.” Dr Steel looked back at his task, speaking while he worked. “Can you stay with her a moment, she looks faint. I’ve nearly finished Gibbs here.”

“Aye, I’ll stay.”

Emerald sat, willingly letting the men take control. Her thoughts were muddled and her heart raced as blood still streamed down her forehead.

“May I use this cloth,” Mr Bishop said to Dr Steel. “I can start cleaning the wound.”

“Yes, yes indeed,” Dr Steel replied, glancing back.

Mr Bishop’s fingers were under her chin, lifting up her face, his other hand dabbing the damp cloth against her skin. “The bleeding is slowing,” he said to her. Emerald shivered as a chill seeped through her damp clothes.

She caught hold of Mr Bishop’s forearm. “My mother? Rita?”

“We will get you sorted and then I’ll go back and bring them down.”

Both men balanced easily no matter that the ship rocked back and forth and sideways as they worked. With their legs braced wide they moved with it, shifting their balance.

“I want to go home,” she whispered to Mr Bishop as he worked, the cloth patting softly against the wound, wiping away the blood, his touch soothing her nerves.

He laughed, “Sadly that’s not a possibility, Miss Martin, but we’ll be about The Cape soon enough, the winds good, and then you’ll forget the experience.”

“I’ll never forget it,” she whispered in answer.

The door crashed open, swinging inward suddenly. It made Emerald jump with shock, then clasped Mr Bishop’s forearm.

“What the hell are you doing out of your cabin! On the bloody deck, for Christ’s sake! Have you no sense!”

Mr Farrow filled the aperture of the open door with a God like appearance. The anger in his eyes, and the rage in posture, awed her in a away that was part fear and part admiration. He was dressed in an open shirt without a neckcloth or waistcoat and his long oiled leather coat hung loose.

Perhaps was more pirate than God.

But in either case she was duly afraid.

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

IMG_6159[1]

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 paperbackand, yes, there are more to come  🙂 

CompleteCollecvtion_Facebook_Advertv5

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