The Lodestone

by Charlene Keel

  THE LODESTONE

  By

  Charlene Keel

  Copyright 2005 by Charlene Keel

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and situations contained herein are purely from the author’s imagination, except for actual historical figures, and are not intended to represent any real living or deceased individuals and/or situations.

  All rights reserved, Except for the use in any review, any reproduction and/or distribution of this work, in whole or in part, by any means including but not limited to print, mechanical, electronic, audio, video and film recording, photocopying and performing on stage, is strictly forbidden. For permission, contact the author at ckeelchar@aol.com.

  Chapter One

  Summer’s End, 1828

  Only when he had found the source, where the water bubbled up between two rocks from an underground spring, did Drake Stoneham permit his horse to drink. Those in power, at least in some cities, were making efforts to improve methods of sanitation but he knew country folk still tended to throw their slops in the stream. Direct from the source, though, the water was fresh enough. He held his wineskin under deep and filled it; then he cupped his broad hands and used them to satisfy his own thirst.

  After tethering his horse to a plum tree already laden with the promise of summer’s bounty, he stripped to his breeches, hanging his fine lawn shirt and doeskin coat on his saddle horn. Lying on the grassy bank, his head and shoulders full into the stream, he washed the dust of the road from himself as best he could. Water clung to his black beard when he rose, making it sparkle in the afternoon sun like the wing of a raven. When he had dressed once more, he took from his saddlebag the bit of hard bread, cheese and sausage left from the day before and settled himself beneath the tree to eat.

  The old hag and the parson had told him there was an inn a few miles past the village of Oakham, but he’d not been able to find it and was forced to spend another night sleeping like a beggar in the forest. Not that it was anything new to him; he had suffered it well enough through the years in his majesty’s service, fighting Napoleon’s troops. But he had long since grown accustomed to a comfortable room, a downy coverlet, a soft feather mattress, and more often than not, a supple, yielding wench with whom to share the accommodations. A sudden urgency swept through him as he realized how long it had been since the last one, but soon he’d have this damnable business wrapped up and could settle in somewhere until he was needed in London.

  It amused him to realize that the years in France after the war had spoiled him for the rough life. He had so easily grown accustomed to the luxuries enjoyed by a gentleman of substance—the best food, the best wine, the best gaming houses and the best women. His skill with the cards and with billiards, a game that first became fashionable in the court of Louis XIV, as well as his expertise with the sword, had secured for him an unchallenged place in French society. If he didn’t dislike gambling so much, he might have regretted investing his money in importing goods from France, Italy, Turkey and the orient. It was hard work—although he didn’t mind that as much as the confounded traveling hither and yon. But his investments had served him well and he had only to get to Tyne Dock in the north and sign an agreement for the purchase of the new ship, and he’d have vessels originating from Newcastle, Liverpool and London. With that business completed, he could spend the summer and early autumn in the countryside reading, resting, honing his gaming skills, and designing the new life he was making for himself. The architects had turned his sketches into plans, and builders were hammering and sawing his ideas into reality, even now, in one of the most fashionable streets in London.

  In early December, the finest decorators that could be imported from Paris would put the finishing touches on Stoneham House, and it would be the grandest, most elegant gaming establishment in England, bigger and even more luxurious than Crockford’s. Drake would live in separate, though equally grand, quarters in St. James Street where once, as the illegitimate child of a fishmonger and a shop girl, he had hardly dared to set foot.

  When he was but six years old, his father’s wife had turned his mother out onto the streets. While his father would not recognize him as son and heir, he did allow Drake to sleep in the back of the shop where he’d also been set to apprentice. Then suddenly, his father died, leaving young Drake to slave for years for his heavy-handed, resentful widow.

  When Drake left London as a penniless youth of fourteen, he vowed never to go back unless he took a fortune with him. He never saw his mother again but he’d learned that she died in Newcastle more than a decade ago, in a brothel disguised as a boarding house for ladies. And in that same house, she’d left behind a young girl, defenseless and destitute. Drake had spent years trying to find his sister, only to be frustrated again and again. In the last missal he’d received from his secretary, Mr. Collins, the most recent lead appeared to be genuine. Drake was closer to finding her than he’d ever been.

  The war had hardened and matured Drake. Afterwards, in the victorious years in Paris, he had learned to talk, drink, gamble and dress like a gentleman, preparing for his return to London where he would wrest his living from the swells who, ripe for the plucking, deserved to have someone relieve them of the fortunes with which they had become so fashionably bored. But before he could permanently reclaim the city of his birth, he must see his future secured against all odds. He wanted to find his sister, and he hoped to have that other business settled as well. Again, he cursed the irony of it—to be searching for two women, worlds apart from each other, neither of whom he could bed.

  “Think on it, lad,” Jimmy Parker’s words came back to Drake as, his meager refreshment finished, he stretched his lean, muscular body out on the grass beneath the trees. “A deathbed promise hangs heavy on the heart of any man.”

  “I’ll do it for you, Jimmy,” Drake had vowed. “I’ll do it, as soon as this miserable war is over.”

  When the end of the war came, after Drake had served under Wellington at Waterloo, getting back to England was not as desirable as he’d thought it would be. By that time, he was twenty years old, and he had developed a craving for fun that only a veteran of battle can understand. He’d gone instead to Paris; and he’d never found, in all his thirty-four years, a city to compare with the delights of Paris after the victory.

  As he accumulated a store of winnings, he made brief visits to Italy and England to see to his investments and eventually he had returned to make England his home; and while continuing the quest for his sister, he intended to fulfill his promise to his old army mate. Finding Oakham had been easy enough. Even finding the rough stone cabin where Jimmy had once lived with his parents and brothers took little time.

  “Go to the tinsmith’s cabin,” Jimmy had told him on the battlefield, now so long ago. The man’s last few breaths were labored as blood filled his lungs, slowly drowning him. “My mother’ll tell ye where to find her. Give her this. Tell ’er I’ve cherished it these long years . . . tell her me last thought was of her. Give ’er me bit of pay. Tell her I would’ve come for her . . .”

  His words had trailed off and a deafening silence had enveloped the field where the encampment of homesick, lonely combatants was made for the night. A deathbed promise made to a dying man by a lad who was little more than a boy.

  Once more he reached into his saddlebag, this time taking out an old music box, a bit larger than his fist, that he’d wrapped in what was left of the woolen scarf Jimmy had given him on the battlefield. A few notes trickled forth as he opened it and withdrew a small bag of gold sovereigns. Gently, he lifted the false bottom of the box to reveal a hidden compartment. It held a roughly hewn gold wedding ring; a heart-shaped lodestone through which a small hole had been bored so that a black silk ribbon could be stru
ng through it; a single sheet of folded parchment and a miniature portrait of a pretty young girl. Moving the ring and the bit of magnetized rock aside, he took out the fragile paper. It was a marriage certificate, and tucked within its creases was a lock of auburn hair. These few treasures were all that was left of Jimmy Parker, and they belonged to his widow, if Drake could find her.

  He had shown the marriage certificate to the old woman who had answered the door of the tinsmith’s cottage, but she was not Jimmy’s mother, nor any relation to him. When he had asked if she knew where the Parkers could be found, she only waved him away, pointing down the road to a little church. Next to it was a graveyard.

  “She died of the fever,” the old hag had whispered through decaying teeth. “And ’er ’usband sold this place to me.” Jimmy Parker, she’d told Drake, had been taken to fight in the King’s army and as far as she knew, he never had a wife. In fact, he’d been run out of Oakham for trying to marry above himself.

  Drake had stopped next at the church but the young vicar, who’d been with this congregation for only a few months, had not known the Parkers. The parson checked the church records, however, and found that a Mrs. Ellen Parker, age fifty-seven, had indeed been buried eighteen years previous. She’d been James Parker’s mother, but no record of his marriage could be found. The Reverend Jefferson’s words faltered when he looked at the marriage certificate, for a dark bloodstain concealed the bride’s surname. “Perhaps if you know her maiden name?” he queried.

  Drake explained impatiently that there hadn’t been time on the battlefield or during the long marches to indulge in such trivialities, nor would he be likely to remember the name, in any case. He was bone tired by then and the parson told him how to reach the Eagle’s Head, where he could find lodging, some hot food and a bath.

  “And the wrong directions, no less!” Drake exclaimed, returning the document to the music box, which he wrapped again and put back into his saddlebag. “Well, Jimmy . . . I tried.”

  He would keep on trying, even though it had been over eighteen years since the mysterious Ramona had seen her dear Jimmy. If she were at all like the women of his wide experience, Drake mused, she had by now formed a liaison with another man. At best, she would have assumed Jimmy dead and likely wouldn’t welcome mementos from the past. But he didn’t mind having an excuse to linger in the country. Perhaps at the inn, he could get a lead on Jimmy Parker’s widow.

  **

  Young Sam stood in the doorway of the Eagle’s Head Inn, watching the innkeeper’s granddaughter with longing. Sunlight streamed through the window and played across Cleome’s hair, which had the sheen of brightly polished copper; and her complexion glowed as if touched with the dew itself. Her full, rosy lips curved upward over perfect white teeth, and her blue eyes danced merrily in her grandfather’s direction. Just eighteen, she was the most beautiful creature Young Sam had ever seen. A bright smile lit her face as she pulled the large leather-bound record book across the registry desk with one hand. With the other, she pushed William Desmond out of her way.

  “I keep the books here, Granda,” she said, smiling with mock reproach, her porcelain cheeks infused with a delicate pink. “We’ll have none of your shortcuts.”

  “When did I ever take shortcuts wi’ the books, lass?” he teased.

  “When have you not?” she quipped. “Go on, now. It’s almost time for the afternoon coach.”

  Smiling, William turned towards the door and Young Sam forced his gaze away from Cleome. “The coach be pullin’ round, sir,” the groom said quietly. “And Molly’s got out again.” Cleome’s low gasp sounded like a siren song in his ears, but he went on to the old man. “Shall I ride over to Easton’s and bring her back, then?”

  Already, Cleome was taking off her apron. Everyone knew that next to her mother and her granda, she loved Molly and the colt more than any other living things.

  “Sir Laurence will have her shot!” she cried. “You know what he said.”

  It was the worst possible time for the mare to be up to her tricks, with the afternoon coach arriving. But Molly took little heed of any timing except the one nature had built into her loins. She had gotten loose two years before and had taken a fancy to one of Lord Easton’s stallions, the result of which business was at that moment prancing in the stable yard, eager for his ride with Cleome.

  Sir Laurence Easton could have demanded Epitome as his right but he had remarked indignantly that he had no desire to dilute the line of a champion with the colt of a plow mare. Major Domo, Easton claimed proudly, was a direct descendant of the famous Eclipse, a racehorse that had sired three winners. Lord Easton advised William Desmond that he would not allow the seed of his prize stallion to be scattered so indiscriminately about the countryside.

  Young Sam had gained a new respect for the master when William replied that it was too bad Lord Easton’s ancestors had not felt as particular about their own wayward seed. Enraged, the laird of the magnificent Easton estate declared he would have Molly destroyed if he caught her on his property again.

  “Wait, Lass,” William said, putting a hand out to stop Cleome. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No,” she answered, hastily tying the pink ribbons of her straw bonnet under her chin. “You’ll make matters worse, Granda. Considering how many times you’ve emptied Lord Easton’s pockets at cards, he doesn’t need cause to become angrier than he will be if Molly has got to Major Domo again. And if there’s anyone who can give him cause, ’tis you.” As if to ease the sting of her words, she stood on tiptoe and quickly kissed his wrinkled cheek. Young Sam could only imagine the feel of her soft lips.

  “Then take Old Sam,” William ordered. “I’ll not have you go there alone. ’Tis not seemly you should go a’tall, but if you must, then you’ll not go alone. I’ll tell him to ready the cart while Young Sam puts a saddle on Epitome.”

  “Very well, but he’ll never keep up,” she agreed as she flew through the door, her skirts flapping about her ankles like the wings of an angry swan. She and Epitome would leave Old Sam and the cart trailing in a cloud of dust, but it was clear she didn’t intend to waste any time arguing with her grandfather. “Hurry, Samuel!” Cleome called out to Young Sam with growing vexation. “Or we’ll find Molly lying in her own blood!”

  He ran ahead of her to the stable but he had scarcely got the bridle over the head of the stamping, impatient colt, when Cleome burst through the door.

  “There’s no time for that! Help me up.”

  “But you must have your saddle, miss,” he said, hoping to have her close to him for a moment, alone in the stables, where he could breathe in the sweet, velvety scent of her. But she was as skillful on bareback as she was in the saddle, so it would be useless to try and persuade her. He had wanted to volunteer to go with her to Easton Place but knowing what the master’s answer would be, he’d kept his silence. Mr. William would point out that he was needed at the inn, to help the guests on their way. He knew the truth in that, for he and his kin had served the inn for three generations. But how he wanted to watch Cleome ride bareback through the woods to Easton’s.

  He leaned over and formed a stirrup with work-roughened hands; and in one swift movement, she had placed a dainty foot in it and was mounted on Epitome’s back. Such a featherweight she was that Young Sam felt hardly any pressure on his hands at all. He swore inwardly as she straddled the horse, her skirts billowing about her and finally settling mid-calf, making him burn for her all the more.

  “Hold her, now!” Old Sam’s voice rang out behind them as he rushed in. “Miss Cleome, give me a moment to hitch up Dobbin. Hold that monster’s bridle, Samuel.”

  “Yessir,” Young Sam said, tightening his grip as Old Sam scowled at him. He knew what his granda was thinking but he didn’t care. He knew as well as anybody that he could never have Cleome, not for keeps at any rate. In their narrow-minded hamlet, he could sooner marry the wanton serving wench, Fanny. At least that ’un had her father’s name, without havin
g to borrow it. But thoughts of having Cleome, and having her soon, had been occupying his mind lately. She had grown up and grown well.

  Epitome jerked his head away as if demanding to be off but Young Sam held him firmly. Cleome patted the horse’s neck and whispered soothingly, not even noticing how close the groom was leaning. He had but to reach out and his hand would brush her thigh, and such a movement could be taken for an accident. Her nearness made him drunk or half-demented—and her just the by-blow of a tinsmith, a pans and pots man who’d ended his sorry life fighting Napoleon for the king. At least the Eagle’s Head and surrounding land would go to her some day; and more than once, Young Sam had considered sacrificing his good name in exchange for such a dowry.

  But then there was her ma to be considered and according to Fanny, the woman had lost her mind over losing Jimmy Parker. What man wanted an insane mother-in-law whose condition, mayhap, would be passed on to the next generation.

  In her efforts to pacify the prancing colt, Cleome’s soft hand brushed against Young Sam’s strong, callused one, and the quick thrill of it almost paralyzed him. As Cleome took off down the lane toward Easton Place, her slippers fell off her feet, which she then dug into Epitome’s sides, urging him on. Young Sam leaned over to pick up her shoes, and the heat of desire engulfed his loins and coursed through his body like a bolt of lightning.

  Chapter Two

  As Drake untied his horse and led him away from the stream and through the thick copse of trees that edged it, he heard a sound like rolling thunder. A rider galloped past him on the lane, and his horse whinnied in protest as a cloud of dust kicked up around them. An oath escaped Drake’s lips as the grime of the road clung to him once again. Who the devil would ride a horse at such breakneck speed?