MOONSTONE OBSESSION
by Elizabeth Ellen Carter
Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Ellen Carter
ISBN: 978-0-9874417-3-7
First published 2013 by Etopia Press.
This edition published 2018 by Business Communications Management
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, locales and events is entirely coincidental.
2018 Edition License Notes
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person other than through an authorised lending program, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, or not obtained through an authorised lending program then please return to your favourite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s rights.
Cover Design by Dar Albert.
eBook Edition Formatting by Business Communications Management | bcm-online.com.au
Dedication
To my mother, Elizabeth Ann, who spent a lifetime loving books and who taught me to do the same.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to editor Kyle A Lewis, who believed in this story. Thank you too to my darling husband.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
About The Author
Prologue
Off the north coast of Cornwall
February 16, 1790
Captain Francis Armsden stood erect, hands behind his back, legs braced. The rocking movement of the two-masted brigantine grew more violent as the storm built up over the Celtic Sea.
He was proud of his ship, The Pandora, which was filled with the best of English manufactured goods—dinner services from the Staffordshire potteries, bolts of the finest wool, copper, iron and brass tools, and engines.
A commercial treasure created by the Industrial Revolution, en route to the New World.
Captain Armsden watched his men tighten the rigging, giving the square-rigged vessel stability in the rising wind and seas. With quick, economical movements, they worked to maintain control of the vessel as it battled the rising swell and blustering gale. February in Cornwall was, for sailors, a savage time of year in a savage part of England. Miscalculations saw many a ship run aground on the rocky coast, with cargo and lives lost by the score.
Snatches of conversations were ripped away by the wind as the sailors responded to barked commands of officers to steady the course—far enough away from the coast to avoid the rocks, but close enough to watch for the beacons that stood high on the cliffs.
The captain yelled to one of the officers for his telescope.
Stepping closer to a lantern, Armsden checked his pocket watch, a bright shining piece, a marvel of engineering precision, and a gift from his wife of 30 years. Three hours out of the safe harbour of Bristol, by his estimation. They should be sighting the lighthouse near the mouth of the River Camel at Padstow in the next short while.
Pulling his telescope to full extension, the captain scanned the coast.
There on the headland, rather fainter than he had expected, a light.
“About! Fifteen degrees starboard,” he called. The cry carried forward to the helmsman to make adjustment to their course.
Armsden frowned as the falling rain became torrential, obscuring the light. Murmuring thunder increased in volume. The veteran sailor wasn’t afraid of much, but he’d long learned to trust his instincts, and tonight they told him something was wrong.
A gale force gust hit the brigantine broadside, pushing it closer to the coast. At that moment, lightning momentarily revealed the scene before the Pandora—rocks directly in front of her, all glossy black with pallid sea foam slithering back down their length.
The captain's command of hard to port was lost in the lightning's accompanying thunderclap, but by then it was too late; a noise louder still ripped through the howling gale and pounding surf as the Pandora’s hull breached.
The sailors frantically adjusted the rigging, trying to pull the vessel away before further damage could be done. Then another gust, followed by a powerful wave, dashed the ship, causing it to tilt on a sickening angle from which it failed to return fully upright.
Armsden did not need to consider his next command. “Abandon ship!”
Members of the crew dropped into the water, struggling to dodge broken timbers, tangled rigging, and containers of merchandise that would now never see their intended homes.
A wave sweeping across the deck cast Armsden into the water. He pulled himself to the surface, fought quickly out of the heavy coat that would drag him down and, with powerful strokes, headed toward shore.
Eventually, the waves churned him onto the beach.
Battered and cut by the rocks, wounds stinging from the brine, the captain forced frigid, wet air into his lungs and scrambled onto the shingle, a mean piece of land edged by tall precipitous cliffs. Turning to the sound of footfalls, he heard screams cut short.
In a nightmarish scene lit now by almost constant flashes of lightning, Armsden saw the cause of their misfortune—wreckers! Some were already pulling wave-swept cargo to shore; others used knives and swords to slay the defenceless crew.
A man stepped in front of the captain. He was dressed roughly but efficiently for the weather in a long, dark oilskin coat. His upturned collar and broad-brimmed hat obscured his features. In his hand, a pistol.
The powder flash was the last thing Francis Armsden saw. His watch being removed from his waistcoat pocket was the last thing he felt.
Chapter One
London
12 May 1790
Every window of Chesterfield House in London’s fashionable Mayfair was ablaze with light. The strains of orchestra music wafting through the open windows welcomed those fortunate enough to be attending the ball thrown by the Viscount of Chesterfield for his good family friend James Mitchell, Lord Penventen.
Or, rather, hosted by the Countess of Chesterfield for her good friend Lady Christina of Penventen to mark her only child’s return from the Americas.
Ladies in expensive silks and frothy laces stepped sideways to accommodate their wide skirts designed to emphasise tightly corseted waists and draw attention up to the display of cleavage that for many young, and not so young, women, threatened to spill over the low cut, square necklines.
Men in fitted breeches, elaborately designed waist coats, and jackets added further to a
riot of colour among the fabrics.
Outside, Selina Rosewall steadied herself as the carriage rolled to a stop under the portico of the grand townhouse.
Feeling the gaze of her brother William beside her, the young woman turned to face his amused look. Brunette ringlets tickled her ears as she turned, and the weight of drop earrings—sapphire and diamond ear bobs, a wedding gift from her father to her mother—swung pendulously with the movement.
“Close your mouth dear sister. How on earth will you attract a husband if you look like a frog trying to attract flies?” teased William.
At once Selina's expression turned serious.
“I know how important tonight is to you, Bill. I promise not to be an embarrassment.”
“You could never be an embarrassment, Selina, I was only teasing,” he said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “You look beautiful. Maman would be proud.”
Selina blushed. Her brother smiled in return.
Although she would have been loathed to hear it, most of all from her brother, Selina was a strikingly pretty young woman. When she smiled, her sparkling blue eyes held people in thrall.
At twenty one years, she ought to have been married, perhaps to a sea captain like her brother or late father, perhaps a well-to-do merchant, or dammit, as her brother was fond of saying, at the very least have a gaggle of suitors from which to choose. But while other girls at the age of sixteen were being courted, Selina had been nursing their widowed and ailing father as William spent months at a time at sea, trying to hold the family business together.
She knew her brother’s teasing words were light-hearted and made in jest, but there was truth behind them. With her sister-in-law expecting another baby—her fifth—finances were tight, and William could not be expected to support a spinster sister as well as his own expanding family.
Selina straightened in her seat. Tonight was an important opportunity for William to establish business relationships, and perhaps receive some aristocratic patronage. Her role was to portray her brother in the best possible light.
She would not disappoint him.
A footman opened the carriage door, offering a white gloved hand to aid Selina from the conveyance. She took one last look down at her gown. It was a much narrower silhouette than those worn by many of the other fashionable women this night.
The fact was Selina’s dress was adapted from a ball gown belonging to her sister-in-law, Sarah, that had been purchased in the first year of her marriage to William. Selina had owned no dress suitable for an occasion befitting royal patronage. Everything she had was practical clothing for running her father’s house or her recently worn mourning clothes following his death.
William had kindly offered to buy his sister a new gown, but she could not justify the purchase and agreed instead to try on Sarah’s old dress.
Fashioned in shimmering sky blue silk, pink satin ribbon roses trimmed the edge of the festooned overskirt that had been raised to reveal the buttermilk cream lace that decorated the petticoats. The same lace adorned the sleeves at the elbows and the neckline to lend an illusion of modesty to the low-cut bodice.
The gown had been altered to fit Selina and the only concession to the current fashion was the addition of a moderate amount of padding to the seat and hips to aid the spread of the cascading skirt. Only the truly wealthy wore the elaborate bustles that made the wearer appear nearly as broad as they were tall.
Selina had been dismayed when she tried the refitted gown on a few weeks earlier.
After turning this way and that to examine its fall in the mirror, she had eyed her sister-in-law’s reflection askance.
“What?” Sarah Rosewall had responded from her chair in the drawing room. “You look beautiful! No man will be able to keep his eyes off you.”
“Well,” Selina replied, “if my conversation is lacking perhaps my bosom will provide sufficient entertainment.” She looked down at herself ruefully. When she walked, she feared exposing her breasts altogether.
“Perhaps I should add a kerchief,” she mused, tugging the neck once again.
“You will do no such thing!” Sarah scolded. “You’re a beautiful young woman. Show off your figure, flirt, and enjoy the attentions of young men. You’re too young to dedicate yourself to spinsterhood.”
Selina looked at her sister-in-law nursing her youngest child, a girl. Sarah’s peaches and cream complexion matched her sweet nature. She was only four years older than Selina, utterly in love with her husband, and more than content with her role as wife and mother.
“Perhaps that’s not the life for me,” she said, hating the wistfulness she heard in her voice, “but I have to be practical. I’ve imposed on you and William long enough. At the end of this summer I will apply for a position.”
Sarah merely nodded and rolled her eyes. The discussion was a familiar one, and one topic Selina could not be dissuaded from. She had only agreed to go to the Penventen ball in the first place at the insistence of her brother.
So tonight, in London, far from the family home in Bristol, Selina stood and resisted the urge to tug at the dress.
“Ready?” William asked, offering his arm.
Selina took it and gave a smile, not quite her full generous smile, but William accepted it, allowing for her nervousness. Together they approached the luxurious townhouse filled with the treasures of Philip Stanhope, Viscount of Chesterfield.
The viscount was a gentleman not given to philanthropic works, instead dedicated to decorating his own life. Nonetheless, so far as Selina could see, Stanhope was a man of exquisite taste.
They walked to the gallery along imported Indian carpets hand-knotted in jewelled coloured wool and stopped at the prize of the home—an intricately carved curved staircase complete with cast bronze balustrade that had been bought at auction following the death of the Duke of Chandos.
William paused at the centre of the balcony. Like the experienced sea captain he was, he took the time to survey the scene before him. He drew Selina’s attention to a gaggle of young women elegantly coiffed with white wigs twelve inches tall, sporting elaborately coloured and styled gowns with skirts many times the size of the wearer.
“In the purple is Charlotte, the Princess Royal. Over to your right...” he nodded to two men in powdered wigs “is the Prime Minister, Mr Pitt, talking with our host Philip Stanhope, Viscount of Chesterfield. The man with his back to us is, I believe, James Mitchell, Lord Penventen of Cornwall.”
“And the man about to join them?” asked Selina, nodding at a distinguished but wan-looking gentlemen in his thirties now including himself in the group's conversation.
“That is the Member for Yorkshire, Mr Wilberforce.”
“The abolitionist William Wilberforce?”
“The very same.”
Selina allowed herself a smile. Despite her nervousness, she was now looking forward to the evening.
“Well, one can be certain that conversation at supper won’t be dull,” she murmured.
Oh, to speak with these interesting men, if only for a moment, she thought.
* * *
At one end of the ballroom, Lady Christina Mitchell sat with her contemporaries, the dowagers and society matrons, watching the younger guests dance.
She gave a sidelong glance at her son.
He’d grown into a handsome man of twenty-eight years, so much like his father in looks, but his five years in Pennsylvania away from polite society had coarsened him, and he had returned with a certain eccentricity in his thinking she no doubt found somewhat alarming.
Tonight though, Lord Penventen appeared to be on his best behaviour. He was dressed immaculately in tan breeches, an azure blue watered silk waistcoat lightly embroidered with silver thread, a crisp white shirt with a little too few ruffles than was fashionable, and a fitted jacket in a slightly darker blue than the waistcoat.
His hair, a rich dark brown the same colour of his eyes, was tied with a black velvet ribbon. For the life of her, Lady
Mitchell could not persuade her son to wear a wig.
James had returned to England following his father’s death a little over a year ago, but since had steadfastly refused to take his place at the family estate in Cornwall, instead preferring to manage his business interests from London.
It was time he wed, his mother had decided, and tonight she was pressing the claim of the usefully connected Abigail, Lady Houghall, lady-in-waiting to Charlotte, the Princess Royal.
But James Mitchell had a keen ability to read people—a handy skill in both cards and business negotiation—and knew that a sop to convention, such as agreeing to attend this ball tonight, would go a long way to appeasing his mother. Her harping was becoming a distraction he could ill-afford; much better to mollify the woman, even if only momentarily, he decided.
Still, events such as these bored him, no matter how necessary, and being bored put him in a mischievous mood. James sipped his champagne and watched as the elaborate and mannered baroque dance came to an end.
“Lady Abigail appears free,” he heard his mother whisper.
Yes, he could see that. He sipped from the flute again as the young woman with the alarmingly high white pompadour curtsied to her dance partner, all the while regarding him through lowered lashes.
Lady Abigail was the accomplished coquette. Her curtsy was low enough to give her dance partner a generous view, but nothing to suggest impropriety. James knew this lady was aware she was being observed, and not just by his devilishly handsome self.
She wore a gown that was the height of fashion, newly imported from Paris from the same couturier as the princess royal. Her pink, cream, and mauve striped gown was trimmed in gold satin bows that embellished the bodice from bust to waist. When she moved, smaller bows in the same colour flittered and danced like butterflies across the expanse of pleated fabric on the skirt.
Abigail’s parted lips were daubed carmine red, a vivid slash of colour on a white painted face. Her grey-green eyes made larger with the expertly applied smoky eye shadow and eyebrow pencil.
James decided now was the time to make his escape.
“Perhaps the next dance mother, I’ve just spotted someone I need to speak to.”
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