Tempest of the Heart

by Jocelyn Kirk

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Tempest

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  I stumbled toward the cliff. The ledge became closer and closer, and then I was standing on the last bit of soil, which shifted under my weight. A gull shrieked above me. The bird appeared so free, floating on the breeze. Suddenly, I did not want to die. I took a step away from the cliff, but one of my feet slid forward on the wet earth. I screamed as I lost my balance and tipped outward toward the abyss.

  A sharp pain stabbed my shoulder as a force dragged me backward. I cried out and fell, and a man hauled me through the grass despite my struggles. Before I could rise, he pinned my arms to my sides and bound them with rope.

  Tempest

  of the Heart

  by

  Jocelyn Kirk

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Tempest of the Heart

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Joyce E. Back

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2019

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2597-2

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2598-9

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Janie

  Chapter One

  Caemre, Wales

  July 10, 1830

  Just before I awoke, I dreamt of my old bedchamber at North Commons Abbey. Pale blue damask draperies swayed gently, stirred by the summer breeze from the open windows. The soft voices of passing servants murmured in the hall, and a clock ticked faintly.

  The dream faded, and I awoke in my tiny chamber in a cottage far, far away from Kent, where I had resided to the age of twenty-one. I awoke, as always, with a face red from crying in my sleep. I awoke to the same turmoil of emotions—the endless anger and the deep sadness.

  I pulled myself out of bed and opened the curtains of the one window. A gray, rainy day met my gaze, although it was early July and the weather for the past several days had been unusually hot. Mist shrouded the meadow of gorse and broom and the Irish Sea rolling below the rocky cliff.

  “Cassandra!” came the demanding call of Lila, my elder sister. “Mattie has breakfast on the table!”

  I washed my face and pulled on a dark blue muslin frock. Another wearisome day awaited me.

  At table, Mattie placed a boiled egg and toast in front of me. My stomach churned, and I had to turn away and swallow a great deal of tea before attempting to eat.

  Lila scowled at me. “Pray, eat your breakfast, Cassandra. You have grown thin, dangerously thin. I told our dear mother I would watch over you, and I will see you partake of your entire meal before you rise from that chair!”

  I stared at her and grinned. Judging from her expression, my grin portrayed my hatred perfectly. It was no doubt the grin of a wolf as it prepares to devour a fawn. I stared at her and grinned until she looked away, and then I rose, threw my plate on the floor, and walked outside.

  My feet chose their direction along the cliff, following a path through the meadow. The rain had stopped, and the sun brightened the sky toward the east. The fresh cool air soothed my immediate anger, but the deeper rage burning inside me forged a new thought. There was a means of escape from my misery if I had courage to take it. Escape was there…among the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.

  I had taken this walk several times. The land rose and gradually the cliff became higher. Then the hill curved downward, eventually leading to a low point in the cliff with a rocky path down to the sandy beach that separated the sea from the crags at the base of the escarpment.

  I reached the top of the hill and looked out at the sea. It would be easy to walk toward the edge of the bluff and take that last step, the step that would lead to a moment of airy freedom and then a quick death. Escape…

  I stumbled toward the cliff. The ledge became closer and closer, and then I was standing on the last bit of soil, which shifted under my weight. A gull shrieked above me. The bird appeared so free, floating on the breeze. Suddenly, I did not want to die. I took a step away from the cliff, but one of my feet slid forward on the wet earth. I screamed as I lost my balance and tipped outward toward the abyss.

  A sharp pain stabbed my shoulder as a force dragged me backward. I cried out and fell, and a man hauled me through the grass despite my struggles. Before I could rise, he pinned my arms to my sides and bound them with rope.

  “Let me go!” I screamed, but he towed me farther toward the meadow and propped me against a wind-twisted pine.

  “Stop screeching,” he said in a calm voice. “I will undo these knots when you become calm and promise to stay away from the cliff. The rain makes the edge very dangerous—but perhaps that was its appeal to you.”

  His final sentence was pronounced almost as a question. I stopped thrashing against the ropes and stared at him. He crouched on the ground in front of me, a man of about thirty years of age, handsome in a sun-and-wind-burned way, wearing the cotton trousers and loose shirt of a tradesman, but whose speech accent was of the Irish gentry.

  I took a breath and spoke calmly, but with a trembling voice. “Sir, my foot slipped at the edge of the cliff; that is all. You saved my life, and I owe you much gratitude. However, if you do not untie me immediately, I will express my thanks by kicking you as hard as I can!”

  He laughed and moved closer to me. I sat quietly as he leaned over and loosed my bonds. I rose with as much dignity as I could muster, disdaining the hand he offered to assist me. I brushed my skirt and straightened my hair.

  “Are you quite recovered?” he asked. “Shall I escort you home?”

  I stopped fussing with my hair, lifted my skirt, and curtsied to him. “I am Mrs. Stanfield,” I said, “and I assure you I am quite well. May I know your name?”

  He bowed. “John Carter. My cottage is just over that rise. Perhaps you’ve seen it if you often walk this way.”

  “I do not recall it,” I replied. “And now, Mr. Carter, I will bid you good day. Thank you for your timely rescue.”

  I turned to walk away, but he called out, “Mrs. Stanfield, I believe it will be best if I walk with you. Where do you dwell?”

  “Caemre Cottage.”

  “I know that house; it is at least a mile from here. I had better accompany you.”

  “As you wish,” I replied, “but it is quite u
nnecessary.”

  “Walk to my house with me first,” he replied, “so I can put away my clamming equipment. It will take only a moment.”

  “Your clamming equipment? What is that?”

  He pointed to a pile of buckets, rakes, and ropes a short distance away. “I dropped them when I ran to the cliff to assist you. I was going to catch my dinner.”

  “What on earth are you speaking of? I have not the pleasure of understanding you.”

  He stared at me. “What do you not comprehend?”

  “The term clamming. I have no idea what that refers to.”

  “You did not grow up by the sea, then.”

  “No. Kent, but inland, near London.”

  He smiled. “A fine country. I was there once, and the gardens reminded me of Ireland.”

  I grimaced, unable to help myself. “Yes, very fine indeed.”

  “You have unpleasant memories of the place, perhaps?”

  “Indeed I have. But never mind that; enlighten me as to the term clamming and the use of all those buckets and such.”

  “Have you enjoyed fried oysters?”

  “Certainly. In London.”

  “A clam is like an oyster. Each can be fried or made into stews.”

  I tilted my head. “And what has that to do with clamming and those pails?”

  John Carter laughed. “You do not know how clams and oysters are harvested?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then. Instead of taking you home, I will help you down the cliff to the sea, and you shall learn firsthand. You might wish to try some clamming yourself.”

  What did I have to go home to but a constantly nagging sister and the bitter memory of being forcibly exiled to a damp cottage near the village of Caemre, too far south of Aberystwyth to enjoy any of its gaieties! Lila would greatly disapprove of my lesson in clamming, and that in itself made me determined to undertake it.

  “Very well, Mr. Carter. You may teach me all about clamming.”

  “Come then. The tide will soon make it impossible.”

  Carter handed me a bucket and took the rest of the equipment himself. We followed the meadow path to the low point in the cliffs, scampered down the rocky trail, and halted at the edge of the sea.

  One can hardly refrain from a sense of awe when the great, gray, rolling ocean is at one’s feet. I stared outward, forgetting my purpose in being there.

  Mr. Carter gestured outward toward the restless water. “Ah, the sea! She is a beautiful but harsh lady. She gives, and she takes away. She is sometimes sweet but can lose her temper and punish all who dare approach her.”

  “Very poetic, Mr. Carter.”

  “I am Irish, Mrs. Stanfield. Poetry is in my soul.”

  We gazed at the thrashing waves for another moment, and then Mr. Carter took off his boots and rolled up the legs of his cotton trousers. I half turned away but peeked back at the spectacle, for there was only one man in the world whose legs had ever been exposed to me—my husband, whom I had abandoned, paying a harsh price for doing so.

  “Your lesson is about to begin, madam,” said Mr. Carter with a bow. He seized a rake and a canvas bucket and waded into the sea. When the water reached his waist, he turned and waved at me.

  “Now, Mrs. Stanfield,” he shouted, trying to be heard above the ocean’s constant refrain, “in order to capture a clam, I will rake the sand.”

  I removed my boots and waded into a few inches of water, feeling the sand shift under my feet and the cold waves refresh my toes. “The clams live in the sand?” I called.

  “Indeed they do. Ah! My rake has struck something!”

  Mr. Carter carefully pulled his rake up and held aloft a white object. “A fine clam!” he shouted.

  I stepped farther into the waves. My skirt swirled about my ankles and dripped with cold salt water. Carter waded toward me, and together we examined the clam.

  “It does not look like an oyster.”

  “No, but it is every bit as tasty. One can dredge it in egg and flour and sauté it, or chop it and make it into a chowder.”

  I sighed. “I wish I could capture a clam.”

  “Why can you not? Come, I will tie a rope about your waist and fasten the other end to one of those boulders so the undercurrent will not drag you out to sea.”

  “But my skirt…”

  “The village women twist their skirts and tuck one corner at the waist. I could assist you, but you would probably slap my face.”

  Without waiting for any reply from me, Carter seized a rope and tied it about my middle. He wrapped the other end around a barnacle-encrusted boulder and knotted it firmly. He turned his head as I attempted to wrap my skirt and tuck it into the rope to hold it in place. My legs were then in full view to above the knee. I blushed and giggled—what would Lila say if she could see me!

  Mr. Carter, keeping his eyes courteously from my legs, took my hand and helped me wade into the deep water. I shrieked but kept moving forward until the restless waves were slapping at my waist. Suddenly, the water lifted me, and I felt weightless! It was delightful, and I laughed out loud.

  Carter’s eyes widened as he regarded me. “Have you never bathed in the sea, Mrs. Stanfield?”

  “No, I have not! Oh, it is delightful!” The clams were forgotten as I enjoyed my new experience.

  “I thought fashionable ladies were at least allowed to use bathing machines.”

  I laughed mirthlessly. “My father would never allow it, and my husband’s mother made such a fuss about it that he—my husband, Mr. Stanfield—would not allow it either.”

  “Was your father a clergyman?”

  “No, a baronet. But a more appropriate term for him would be martinet. His opinions as to the appropriate behavior of women had their roots in the Dark Ages!”

  “One wonders why some men can feel powerful only by suppressing the spirits of all around them. But come, let us fill our buckets with clams. When the tide turns, we must run for the cliff path, for it roars in rapidly.”

  I took the rake he offered and pushed it about in the sand. I breathed heavily as the water pulled at me and tricked my eyes. After about ten minutes, I had found nothing, while he had filled half his pail. In annoyance, I threw my rake. It sank to the bottom, and Mr. Carter had to use his rake to retrieve it.

  “I cannot find any clams!”

  “You are too easily thwarted, Mrs. Stanfield. Let me show you—”

  “I did not come here to be insulted!”

  “That was not an insult. If you cannot find any clams, take two actions: Move away from where you are clamming and try a different area. Also, dig deeper with your rake.”

  I huffed away from him but remained in the sea. I am not sure why I stayed; perhaps it was due to the fact that Mr. Carter was the first person to treat me with kindness. Indeed, he had saved my life, the greatest kindness of all!

  I followed his instructions and immediately pulled forth a clam. I was so excited, I dropped it from my rake and had to scoop it again. Mr. Carter waded to me to admire my catch.

  “ ’Tis a fine clam! A few more of that size and you can make a lovely chowder.”

  I clapped my hands with joy. How silly, I thought, as I raked vigorously, that I, Miss Tenley of North Commons Abbey, and then Mrs. Stanfield of London and Kent, born to be a leader of society—that I should feel happier catching a clam than I had ever felt in the salons of the best of the ton!

  The time raced by as I filled my pail with clams. But the wind strengthened, and goose bumps rose on my bare arms. The water surged onto my chest, and a force pushed me toward shore, while the receding waves sucked at my ankles.

  Just as I became aware of these alterations in the currents, Mr. Carter made his way in from the deeper water, where he had been trying for some oysters that were clinging to underwater rocks. “Come,” he said abruptly. “The tide has turned.”

  I had been at Caemre Cottage long enough to be acquainted with the rapidity of the incoming tide. I did not argue
but simply followed Carter to shore. I pulled the rope from around my waist and hurried to the path leading to the top of the cliff, with Mr. Carter right behind me.

  At the crest, we turned and watched the water surge into the beach we had just abandoned. It had begun to mizzle, and I shivered with cold.

  “Come, Mrs. Stanfield,” said Carter. “I must take you to my cottage. You cannot walk home in this rain.”

  My skirt dripped, and my hair scraggled down my back. I must have looked a wild woman.

  “I will make you a hot lemon drink,” said Carter as we turned to go.

  “Why? Will it prevent a chill?”

  “No, but it will take the smile from your face!”

  I touched my face, feeling the upward curve of my lips, and Carter grinned. When had I last smiled? I could not recall. It seemed so very long ago that life had afforded me any pleasure—and that pleasure had been purchased at too high a price.

  Mr. Carter and I turned our steps inland. My sodden muslin garments clung, and I had to hold my skirt well aloft in order to walk. I trudged down the narrow path after Carter, carrying my bucket of clams in one hand and holding my drenched skirt high with the other, tripping over every hummock and root. I should have been miserable—why was I not? I was wet, cold, and exhausted, but a jolt of energy enlivened my steps. Each breath fired my senses as if I had been in a sleeping death like the princess in the fairy story. But it was not a kiss that had awakened me. Perhaps nearly dying had made me see every moment of life as precious.

  I glanced at the man ahead of me. His soaked clothes hugged his body, and I admired his lean muscular outline. He turned and smiled at me, and I blushed at being caught gazing at his figure.

  We approached Mr. Carter’s home from the rear, for it fronted the lane that my own cottage faced a mile away. A neat picket fence enclosed a riotous kitchen garden, with fruits and vegetables sharing the space with roses and daisies. Mr. Carter threw open a gate, and I preceded him into the garden and along a stone walkway to the kitchen door of the dwelling.

  Inside, I looked about curiously. The cottage was smaller than Caemre, but its air of comfort and homeliness was charming. The kitchen was tidy, with iron pots suspended on hooks, a coal stove, and a cabinet containing English china. I followed Mr. Carter through the simply furnished dining room and into the parlor. He immediately placed a quilt on a thickly upholstered chair and bade me sit. He then took another quilt from a trunk in the corner and wrapped it about me before lighting a wood fire in the room’s great stone fireplace.