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, 6, 7, 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

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

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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 twelve

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

Emerald

“Mama, what were you talking to Mr Farrow about?” Emerald had asked the question once on deck only to be interrupted by a polite intrusion from Mr Prichard who’d descended from the poop-deck to commandeer the conversation.

But now, alone in their cabin again, her mother answered. “Nothing of any importance, sweetheart, he was merely asking after my health.”

Emerald sighed, the needle for her embroidery poised in midair, her other hand gripping the frame.

He’d drawn up a chair and touched her mother’s arm. She had gripped his hand. It had looked as though they were having an intimate conversation. It did not appear a passing enquiry about her health.

Her mother had been equally silent about speaking with Dr Steel yesterday. But he had said nothing new, just told Emerald not to worry, that her mother was enduring.

Emerald worried regardless. Her mother had become quieter since yesterday–sorrowful.

But defying Emerald’s fears, when Emerald began dressing for dinner, her mother announced she would join her.

Rita looked surprised.

“No do not make a fuss,” her mother said, “I can manage to sit at a table and eat a meal. I am not an invalid.” She seemed like an invalid, though, when she dressed–moving slowly, her breathing shallow, and she sat down regularly.

“Mama, you need not come. I will dine in here if you wish?”

“Nonsense, there is little enough to do on this ship. You need entertainment and variety. We will dine with the men.”

Rita chose to stay in the cabin and therefore it was Emerald who offered her arm. Her mother leaned heavily on it. “Mama are you sure you are well enough to sit at a table? I am not asking it of you?”

“No, my dear, but I ask it of myself. I am not a fragile thing, I never have been, your father will be disappointed with me if he knew I have lain abed.”

“He would be worried,” Emerald chastised, “nothing else.”

“Well I would have neither you nor him worry over me. I shall muddle on and you will be happy.”

Emerald did feel brighter having her mother there again. They were seated as they’d been the first night, sitting either side of Mr Farrow, who spent most of the evening speaking with her mother as he’d done then. Though one thing had changed, her mother was using his Christian name.

While her mother and Mr Farrow talked the other men kept up an animated conversation, regularly ensuring Emerald was included with one question or another.

She realized she felt comfortable among them. Mr Farrow’s senior crew were becoming a second family to her and the confines of the ship–home.

When the meal was over, Mr Prichard proposed a game of cards.

But her mother shook her head, looking very pale. “I’m sorry gentlemen, you will have to excuse us, perhaps another night, but I am still a little too tired this evening. Emma, darling, would you help me?”

Emerald rose to take her mother’s arm but Mr Farrow had already done so and was helping her rise.

“Shall I escort you to your door, Catherine?”

Her mother glanced up at him. “Yes, indeed, I would be grateful.”

Emerald walked the few steps to their cabin in silence behind them. But when they reached it she passed them, opening the door, looking at Mr Farrow as Rita came to help Emerald’s mother. “May I stay on deck a moment and get some air, Mr Farrow?”

He looked at Emerald when her mother let go of his arm, a question hanging in his eyes. She did not understand the look, though. “Yes, of course, Miss Martin. Goodnight, Catherine.” He bowed to her mother, then offered Emerald his arm. She accepted it and her fingers surrounded firm muscle beneath his evening-coat as the door shut behind them.

Anxiety pulsed through her. He confused her. She had disliked him. She was scared of him, of his officious nature. But then there had been his moments of kindness. And all her feelings were surrounded with a physical awareness of his close proximity.

She did not have the same reaction when she took Mr Bishop’s muscular arm.

“A stroll about the deck, Miss Martin?” he offered, patting her gloved hand with his before commencing walking.

“Thank you.” Her fingers clutched his arm in a way which was not ladylike, in response to the panic she suddenly felt in her stomach. She had asked him to accompany her with a single intent. In a rush of words she simply asked him what she must, “What did you discuss with my mother today?”

He looked at her, one half of his face illuminated by an oil lamp hanging from the poop-deck, the other in darkness, his expression cloaked.

A pain struck her in the chest. He is not going to say. And if he would not tell her and nor would her mother, what did that mean? She felt like weeping and screaming all at once. “Mr Farrow, please tell me what is going on?”

“It is private, Miss Martin,” was all he said as they reached the far rail. Then he stopped and pointed out into the darkness. “Out there, is Madagascar,” he progressed, blatantly changing the subject, “too far away to see in the darkness, but we are passing it now.”

Sighing, she let go of his arm, then gripped the rail, looking out across the sea. It was never-ending black, swelling beneath them, rocking the boat like a mother rocking her child’s cradle, inky fluid rolling and rising, glistening in the moonlight, while above them the breeze billowed the sails. It toyed with the curls Rita had set in Emerald’s hair too, brushing them across her shoulders in a soft caress.

“Do not fret over it,” he said then, his tone stiff but kindly. But immediately afterward, before she could ask any questions, he pointed up at the stars, a million pinpricks in the sky, “See there, that is Orion, it will help guide us home,” changing the subject again

He went on to point out groups of stars and name them, the signs of the zodiac, but she did not really listen. She was not going home. India was home; she’d left it behind her. Her happiness over dinner faded. The ship was not home. She wanted to be with her father, she loved her mother but she wished they had never left. She wanted to go home. The thought of the marriage she faced in England became an intolerable threat of torture. Perhaps if she could not love this man, or if he decided he could not love her –her father would welcome her home in Calcutta and let her carve a life out for herself there instead. Of course she could not work, never that, but something–.

“Miss Martin.” Mr Farrow touched her shoulder to recapture her attention. She could tell he knew she had not been listening. He did not bother to recommence his explanations but looked at her directly, his eyes dark, his face illuminated by only the silver moonlight. “I should warn you, in a few days we shall reach The Cape. The seas will be very rough as we pass about it. I expect your mother and your maid to become ill again. All the men will be on deck. You must keep to your cabin until we are through the worst.” He stopped speaking, but his eyes did not look away from hers, “I’m sorry, Miss Martin,” he said. They were heartfelt words.

She shook her head, not understanding anything it appeared anymore. “I’m sure we will manage.” She turned away and walked towards her cabin, leaving him to follow. She did not stop to say goodnight to him but slipped inside the cabin before he caught up. Inside, her mother was already lying down and asleep. Rita was busy tidying clothes.

To be continued… (Sorry for the couple of weeks absence unfortunately I was unwell 🙂 ) I hope you are all having a good Christmas holiday!