Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
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
The Captain of Betrayal
Claudia Stone
Copyright © 2018 Claudia Stone
www.claudiastone.com
Copy Edited: E.C. Hamilton
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in written or electronic form without the express consent of the author. Characters and places are fictional and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For Poppy and Alex, for letting me borrow your names.
CHAPTER ONE
My Dear Horace,
I know that it has been many years since we last spoke, and I know that you would prefer this silence between us to stretch on a few years more—if not for an eternity. Alas, I do not have many years left. In fact, I fear that lately I have been measuring time in far smaller units and that there are not many days, let alone years, left in your old flower girl.
Thirteen years ago you betrayed me so cruelly that the scars your actions left on my heart still pain me to this very day. Worse still, you sent your brother to do your dirty work, with words of apology and a bag of coins to buy my silence. You were the worst kind of coward Horace, though I hope the years have made you braver. I know that you felt your actions were justified. You thought that your family would not have accepted me and my humble origins even when you were just the second son, but you resisted their scorn. Then, when after tragedy you became the heir and the chances of them accepting me became even less, you betrayed me for your title.
You discarded me, despite our love, despite the life that we had planned together, and the life that we had created together.
For we had created a life, dear Horace, and I named him James--for my father, not yours. When you cast me aside for your title, you also cast your son aside. I like to think that I kept his existence a secret from you out of some noble inclination to protect James from your rejection, but if I am honest, I was merely being prideful, for I wanted nothing more to do with you—even if it meant consigning myself to a life of poverty.
I remember so well that day in Cornwall, when you told me that you had never felt love until you met me. I believed at the time that the same was true for me; that is until I met James. I have never loved anyone as much as I love our son, and I go to my grave knowing that no person shall ever occupy a space in my heart such as James does.
Alas, I am writing to you, Horace, because I am going to my grave. The good doctor says that I have a month at the most and that I must set my affairs in order. I have no property, no worldly goods or gold coins to leave behind me, but I will leave behind my son.
I wish to die knowing that he will be looked after, which is why I am writing to you, Horace, after all these years. I am not asking for recognition of what transpired between us, for that was nothing but two signatures on a piece of paper between two souls, who might as well have been strangers, for all it meant to you in the end. All I am asking is that you agree to feed, clothe and school the boy--acts which you do not have to carry out yourself, merely ensure that they are carried out.
I await your reply, though I beg you, don't leave me waiting too long. Time, as I have mentioned, is not on my side.
Your ever faithful,
Flora
CHAPTER TWO
Polly Jenkins was born fighting. When she tumbled into the world, just over a month early, on a dark evening in the bitter November of 1798, the midwife who attended her mother had declared her good as dead.
"I've a box of tea that weighs more than her," she'd muttered ominously, as she passed the babe into her mother's arms. This was not a promising statement, for the price of tea was still exorbitant despite the recent Commutation Act, but Margaret Jenkins ignored the insinuation and greedily held her daughter to her chest.
"She won't feed well, not at that size," the laying-in woman had morbidly offered, as she had gathered her instruments together. "Perhaps best to call for a priest, if you're that way inclined."
Margaret Jenkins had not been that way inclined, and instead she had called for her husband Ted, who was miraculously sober for once. This was to be the first miracle of the night, Peg decided.
"I'll need a bag of sugar," she commanded, knowing that her husband, while big and burly, was intimidated by the sight of blood--and there was plenty to be seen.
"What you need that for?" Ted grumbled, but he was half way out the door as he did so, so he did not hear Margaret's reply.
"Because this little fighter's only taking her thirty seconds," Margaret whispered, stroking the as-yet-unnamed Polly's cheek. "She's not out yet."
Margaret's father had been one of London's most famous boxers, having trained with the famous Jack Broughton and fought in his amphitheatre on Oxford Street. As a child, Margaret had seen her father ply young sportsmen with sugar-laced milk mixed with raw eggs, to help build their strength. Indeed, she had seen the late Peter Bromwell supply her own husband with the concoction, and Ted was the size of an Ox.
For the first few weeks of Polly Jenkin's life, her mother lovingly fed her sweetened milk and egg yolks, ignoring people's protests that she was fighting a lost cause, until eventually baby Polly had lost the appearance of a wizened rodent and had instead taken on the cherubic look of the babe she was.
During these few weeks, Ted--who originally hailed from up North--declared his intention to move Margaret and his daughter to Newcastle, to escape the grime and smoke of the capital.
"The fresh air from the Tyne will do the bairn the world of good," Ted had assured Margaret; though when they arrived in the North Eastern town, a heavy cloud of smoke, as thick as any London could offer, hung over it and Margaret realised that her husband had merely wanted to escape London and the memory of his boxing career--which had been unillustrious, to say the least.
"Fifty defeats in fifty bouts," Ted would roar, each Friday evening, when he would stumble home from the docks with half his wages already spent in a tavern. "Fifty blimmin' defeats. And me, with the best right hook in all of England."
Ted would then go on to demonstrate to Margaret just how powerful this right hook was. Mostly he would hit her a few digs before tiring of the sport, though sometimes he enjoyed a second round and when he did, he conveniently forgot Broughton's Rules and fought in a most unsportsman-like manner.
Despite Ted's frequent violent outbursts, Polly grew up a happy child, knowing only love and adoration from her mother. Margaret was determined that her daughter would be given chances that she had never received, and so she scrimped and saved to send her only child to the local Penny School, where Polly received instruction on how to read, write and count by Mrs Flora Black, at a penny a lesson.
The lessons were held in a make-shift school room in Mrs Black's home on Percy Street, and were attended by over a dozen children, ranging in age from seven to eleven. Mrs Black was a widow--though Polly's mother would oft roll her eyes and tut disapprovingly when this was mentioned--with one son, called James. She spoke in a soft voice with an accent that was far more refined than the Newcastle tongue that Polly was used to and, to the young girl, Mrs Black seemed the epitome of what a lady should be. Polly often t
hought that her teacher might secretly be a Countess, her appearance was so grand in comparison to the poverty beaten mothers of Newcastle who were her only source of contrast.
At the end of each lesson, Mrs Black would read aloud from a story book, before setting her charges free to roam the streets of the city. Inevitably, given the sense of freedom that the end of lessons brought, trouble would break out, usually with Polly at its centre.
She was a slight girl, having never quite caught up with her peers after her early arrival into the world, and as such was often a target for other children who were keen to assert themselves as leader of the pack. Unfortunately for these other children who thought the diminutive girl a soft target, the only thing that was small about Polly was her stature. She possessed a fierce pride and her father's fists, and as such soon earned herself the nickname of Polly the Jack, on account of the fact that she had more than a bit of a Jack Russell about her.
On one particular day, the children had converged on the corner of nearby Newgate Street, which stood in the shadows of Newcastle Jail. The class from the Penny School had been joined by a gang of children of less fortunate circumstances and very soon trouble began to brew. It wasn't the usual sort of rowdy, high-jinx that could be laughed off, but a deeper, more sinister discord, stirred by two boys who were far older than the rest.
The two lads, both coated in the grime and dirt of the streets, had changed the atmosphere completely, turning gentle shoving and jostling into sharp digs and punches. The other children from the Penny School scattered at the turn of events, leaving Polly alone, encircled by a gang of very unfriendly faces.
"Aye up, lass," one of the older boys called with a jeer, "Do you think you can take us all on?"
"I know I can," Polly retorted boldly, despite the hammering of her heart within her chest. If Polly had one attribute it was that she was brave, though this bravery oft bordered on reckless.
The two older boys laughed as the diminutive Polly held up two fists, indicating that she wished to spar, though their laughter soon turned to howls of outrage when Polly delivered a sharp jab, which left one of the boys with a bloody lip.
"You going to let a lass beat you Billy?" an onlooker cried, causing Billy, of the bloody lip, to growl with rage.
"You little—" Billy grunted, throwing himself at Polly, who crumpled under the weight of him. Her ferocity and tenacity stood little chance against the boy, who was a good foot taller and a good stone heavier than her, and Polly quickly began to feel faint, as Billy rained punch after punch down upon her.
She had quite decided that she was a goner, when the entire weight of her assailant was lifted off her in one go. She watched, through swollen eyelids, as a dark haired boy threw Billy to the ground, fended off Billy's friend with a mighty punch to the stomach, and sent the entire crowd of onlookers scattering with a fierce roar.
Only when he was sure they were alone in the dank, cobbled street, did her rescuer turn to help her to her feet. It was James Black; who at eight was a good year older than Polly, and who had been somewhat of a mystery to the young girl since she had begun her lessons. Mrs Black's son usually held himself aloof from the other students of the Penny School, whether at his mother's instructions, or his own inclinations it was not clear. Now he stood over Polly, his dark hair hanging over his forehead and concealing his eyes as he held out a hand to help her upright.
"Thank you," Polly, who though somewhat in a daze still felt a twinge of bruised pride, said gruffly.
"You're welcome," there was an amused smile on James Black's face, as though he knew that his rescue niggled at his damsel in distress. "You probably would have managed to extricate yourself admirably without my intervention, but I thought that I would speed on the process."
Though Polly knew that James was teasing her, a smile broke across her face at his words--a smile that caused her to wince, for her lip was split and one of her teeth felt rather loose.
"Lud, you know some fancy words," she muttered darkly, glaring at him from beneath a swollen eyelid. "Though I suppose it can't be helped, what with your mother being a teacher of sorts."
"It is rather inescapable," James conceded, chivalrously.
The two stood in the street for a moment, eyeing each other, both a little wary of the sense of familiarity that their shared experience had brought.
It could have gone either way, due to Polly's volatile temper, but the young girl gave her new friend a broad--if slightly bloody--smile.
"What say I get us some apples," she declared, wiping her chin with the back of her hand, "As a way to say thank you."
"Do you have any money?" James asked astutely.
"No, but that's never stopped me a'fore."
Polly Jenkins linked arms with James Black and led him toward Haymarket and the farmers' carts, in what was to be the first steps on the road to friendship. From that day on, the pair were inseparable and spent every day, bar Sundays, in each other's company.
After lessons, they would roam the busy streets of Newcastle, from Amen Corner where ministers preached under the spires of St. Nicholas's, to the quay-sides, where drunken sailors fell in and out of taverns at all hours. Every nook and cranny of the city belonged to the pair and soon they felt they belonged to each other.
When Polly's mother passed from a childbed fever, after birthing a second daughter called Emily, it was James that Polly turned to for comfort. As well meaning neighbours kept a vigil in the Jenkins' tiny house on Strawberry Lane, Polly stole out into the darkness in search of her friend.
"I am all alone now," she whispered to the young James when she found him near the stables at Gallowgate. James responded with a clenched jaw and a fierce look, shaking his head as she spoke again. "What am I to do, now there is no one to look out for me but my Pa?"
"You're not alone," James whispered, his choked words barely audible above the dripping sound of rain on straw, and the soft whinnying of the horses from the stables within. "You have me. What am I if not your family?"
"You're not my family," Polly whispered back, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her grubby hand. "You're my friend, my best friend, but we share no blood."
This statement of fact flummoxed James into momentary silence, until a broad smile broke across his face.
"Here," he whispered, reaching into the pocket of his short trousers and extracting a small knife that he carted around for peeling apples and the like. "Give me your hand."
Polly watched transfixed as the dark haired boy took her hand and dragged the knife across her palm, leaving a small slash of crimson on her pale skin. With curious eyes, she watched as her friend did the same to his own palm, before grabbing her hand and holding it so tight that she could feel their blood mixing.
"There," James said with satisfaction after a moment, looking at her with a pleased expression in his deep brown eyes. "Now my blood is mixed with yours and yours with mine. We are family, do you hear?"
"I hear," Polly whispered, her grief momentarily forgotten at the idea that the tall, fearsome boy opposite her was now bound to her life forever.
True to his word, for the next few years James did not stray from his promise to look after Polly, who had been forced to abandon her schooling to look after the baby Sarah. He visited the Jenkins' small house every afternoon after classes, and once Sarah was old enough to be swaddled and brought outside, they simply incorporated her into their explorations of Newcastle. The only thing that James could not help with was the fact that Polly's father had substituted his daughter as a punching-bag after his wife's demise. The dark bruises on Polly's face would not go unnoticed and the young lad would often vehemently swear when he saw them.
"I will run him through with a sword," he would say.
"No, you won't," Polly would reply, as she wiggled her fingers at little Sarah.
"You're right. I will put a bullet right between his eyes."
"You have no pistol."
"Not yet, but when I do...
"
Apart from those occasional dark moments, Polly and James rubbed along nicely, enjoying their childhood adventures together. They both had a fondness for words and Polly would beg her friend to help her with her reading and would often drag him down to Westgate Road, where The Literary and Philosophical Society's library stood. Membership of this prestigious organisation was one guinea a year and was top of Polly's list of things she would do when she was grown up and had money of her own.
"I shall read in the library every morning, then visit with you in the afternoon for tea," Polly informed James one day, as they peered through the windows of the grand building at the rooms lined with books.
"I shall only serve cream buns when you visit," James, who seemed to grow an inch every day and was perpetually hungry, replied. "In fact, I shall only eat cream buns when I'm grown. No more ruddy vegetables for me."
Nothing seemed impossible at that tender age, and Polly believed that though the present had its bleak moments, the future would be bright if she had James at her side. They were both on the cusp of adulthood —James was nearly thirteen and Polly had turned twelve just a few weeks before. Childhood would soon be behind them and Polly worried if the rules of the world of grown ups might hinder their friendship.
"Do you promise you'll still want to be my friend in years from now?" she asked, as another bolt of trepidation hit her on the walk home to Strawberry Lane. Sarah, who was now old enough to walk, but still had not mastered talking, trailed along between the pair silently, their words seeming to fly over her blonde head.
"Of course," James looked startled by her question. "There's nothing in the world that could make me not want to be your friend Polly Jenkins--nothing at all."
Polly smiled at his answer and changed the topic of conversation to lighter things, though as she and James parted ways at Amen Corner, she wondered if he was right. For who knew what the future held?
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