A Fateful Wind Read online

  A

  FATEFUL

  Wind

  By Suzette Stone

  Copyright © 2015 Suzette Stone

  Cover design © 2015 by Pixelstudio

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews – without written permission from its publisher.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2015 Suzette Stone

  All rights reserved.

  Http://www.suzettestone.com

  Table of Contents

  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 Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  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

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter One

  The sound of the laughter and noise of the party below faded into the distance as Lady Emmeline stepped out onto the ivy laced balcony. She lifted her chin to feel the warm Midsummer Eve’s breeze on her face. Her cheeks still burned with the humiliation of overhearing the Countess of Devon’s revelations to fellow party-goers about Lord Penrose. Emmeline knew well of her husband’s infidelities. However, she hoped he had the decency to keep it well hushed from the public and the well heeled members of the aristocratic social circle she moved in. She could have strangled that gossiping countess who sat there like a rotund swine, guzzling Emmeline’s imported food as though it were going out of fashion.

  Emmeline sighed and surveyed the garden that stretched in front of her. The scent of honeysuckle penetrated the balmy night air, sweetening the Manor House, a home all too often mired in sarcasm and hatred. Her married life was far from perfect, but at her age trying to ignite the passion she and Lord Edwin never shared seemed futile. At times it seemed far easier for Lord Edwin to receive his comforts from the well stocked bosom of one of their servant wrenches rather than Emmeline herself. She never embraced the art of making love. Instead, she found far more pleasure in throwing lavish parties and ensuring her and her husband topped the list of social circles all over England. For her husband to go and tarnish their image now with his blatant philandering was unforgivable.

  A knock sounded at the door as Emmeline’s personal servant entered.

  “My lady, the Countess of Devon is requesting more wine.”

  “You mean it’s all gone?” It surprised Emmeline even the glutinous countess could consume so much.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Emmeline rolled her eyes, surveying the beautiful young girl in front of her. She wondered if her husband had taken advantage of the creamy white flesh, the young pert bosom and the flock of jet black hair Jenna Penworthy kept hidden under her servant’s cap. Possibly so, but then Jenna Penworthy didn’t strike her as the type to succumb to her masters wishes in that respect. Her eyes held a certain innocence that didn’t appear as though she had let any man, let alone Lord Edwin, deflower her. Emmeline knew her young servant would marry her child sweetheart in less than a month. Trystan Trezies was indeed a lucky man for Jenna encapsulated the dark hair and piercing blue eyes Cornish women were renowned for. No, she hoped, with any luck Jenna Penworthy had been spared from her husband’s rambunctious philandering.

  “Jenna. Please let the countess know Lord Edwin is retrieving a delicious vintage from his cellar, which I am sure she will find most appetizing!”

  “Very well, my lady,”

  Emmeline poured herself a stiff brandy and splashed her face with water. She needed to pull herself together and put on a brave face. God knows it was a face she presented many times in the past. She was a creature who spent her whole life in the public eye, having been reared from one of the wealthiest landed aristocratic families in Cornwall. She would not allow some disparaging countess to darken her reputation. This was after all her home, her party, her county. If the Countess of Devon thought it humorous to spread malicious gossip then she was a fool and severely underestimated Emmeline’s power within the aristocratic social scene of England. Feeling better, Emmeline smoothed down her hair. She took another swig of brandy and made her way to find her lusty husband. She knew just where to locate him.

  Penrose Manor was a medieval masterpiece, a remnant from the days when pirates swept the Cornish coast. A cunning labyrinth of hallways, cellars and secret passageways led deep underground. One such passageway had been built as a haven for the smuggled booty that came in from treasure laden ships during the Tudor period of Elizabeth. The narrow passage led deep beneath Bodmin Moor, opening up in a mysterious cave at Porthcurrnow Cove where the Atlantic rollers brought in many a ship laden down with contraband. She loved the history her ancestors held at Penrose Manor. Although unused, she made sure the secret passageway never fell into decay.

  As she made her way down one such passage, Emmeline heard her husband before she saw him. The grunts sounded muffled from behind the thick oak doors, but she knew what those particular grunts entailed. Normally she would have waited for him to emerge, innocently of course, from his favorite hobby, but tonight she was in no mood to play artificial games. With a forceful knock, she opened the heavy door where the repulsive vision of her husband greeted her. The swine lay spread out on the bed like a stout bull terrier, the sweat pouring off his purple rotund face, whilst he tried in earnest to keep up with the two young maidens sprawled naked on either side of him. He sat up in shock as she stood calmly at the edge of the bed. The two servants screamed and reached for their clothes, rushing past the aloof mistress of the house.

  “Two this time, Edwin?” Her voice calm, she fixed an icy gaze on her groveling husband. "My, my, wherever do you get your energy?”

  * * * *

  Jenna stared into the night sky. The moon appeared from behind a cloud, illuminating the moorland pathway in front of her. Many a night she walked the well worn pathway across the barren moors from Penrose Manor to her home in the miners cottages. She never normally felt afraid. She knew this part of Bodmin Moor like the back of her hand, knew to stick to the pathway to avoid the bogs which claimed many a drunken tin miner. However, tonight she was filled with an apprehension that startled her and she walked faster than normal across the granite dotted landscape. The cragged mount of Sharptor towered against the moonlit sky. It seemed imposing in the darkness as it cast an almost foreboding shadow over the village below.

  Jenna sighed, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders, shuddering as the cool night breeze whipped around her petite frame. She tried to understand why she felt so uneasy. The party at the Manor seemed to go well, except for Lady Penrose retiring halfway through to her bedroom. She pondered whether Lady Emmeline k
new what a scoundrel her husband was and how he made Jenna feel so uneasy when he gazed lustily at her. She often felt perplexed at the odd couple the Lord and Lady made. Lady Emmeline conveyed a kindness and refined taste, whereas Lord Edwin emanated the savagery of a tyrant, bullying all bound to him in servitude. For the female servants, his bullying transgressed into matters of a sexual nature, whereby he quelled his lusty appetite by forcing his way into the bloomers of many a young maiden. Jenna felt lucky to have thus far escaped Lord Edwin’s desire. But she knew she couldn’t fend him off much longer. As she carried out her chores, awareness of his perverse gaze caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand up in fright.

  As the miners cottages came into view, relief washed over Jenna’s body. The familiar flicker of the fireplace shone through the window, but Jenna felt a brief moment of sadness. Soon she would be leaving this house and her girlhood behind her to marry Trystan. Could this explain her sudden feeling of apprehension? She felt as though she were saying goodbye to her freedom by marrying a man she had known all of her life. What had she seen of other men and, more importantly, what had she seen of the world? She knew of little beyond this small part of Cornwall, except for what she discovered during occasional outings to Plymouth or Truro. She tried so hard to quell the wildness making her eager to escape the small rural village she had called home for the past eighteen years. She yearned for adventure. Instead, she was heeding her father and her sister's wishes by marrying Trystan and joining the other wives in the tiny tin mining village. Jenna felt anxious she would wake up in forty years and be in the same place, doing the same thing without feeling the excitement of living a life of adventure. But she loved Trystan. At least she thought love was supposed to feel like this.

  She remembered the first time Trystan kissed her. Jenna had sensed his nerves as they walked across the moorland down toward the valley where the river camel meandered its way through the Tamar Valley. It was harvest time and celebrations were a plenty as the crops were industriously packed up and stored in barns for winter time. The fields were scattered with bales of hay, crisp and golden lit by the autumnal sun. Sheep grazed the meadows, growing out their coats of wool in time for winter. The springtime foals, which once danced with an uncertain foot, now galloped boldly across the dells.

  Trystan, his eyes not making contact with her, turned to face her, as he whispered how much he loved her, how he longed to marry her, how he wished to make her his wife. Then he kissed her, timid at first, his lips barely grazing hers until the passion he once kept hidden within his heart burst forth and his lips hungered after hers with a fervent desire. Oh, how Jenna wished she could still feel the way she did that day as he held her face between his hands and sent her heart soaring for the clouds. Where did that fire go? Why, all of a sudden, did she feel as though she were embarking on a journey leading to heartbreak and doom?

  She lifted her hand to her throat. Her fingers searched for the locket her mother had thrust into her small hands as she lay by the lake fighting for her life. She felt the etching of the rose on the front, worn down over the years. Opening it, she saw her mother’s beautiful face looking back as though she were still alive and still there to help her daughter in a way only a mother could. She noted the turquoise eyes, so reminiscent of her own, gazing deep into her, questioning, searching, and understanding.

  "Oh, mother," Jenna pleaded, searching the stars above. "Please help me to do the right thing. Please, just send me a sign, something, anything to help me love Trystan as passionately as I once did. Please mother, help me banish these stupid wanderlust thoughts I have and learn how to be a good wife and mother just as you were to father and me."

  Chapter Two

  Jack Bartholomew stood anxiously at Plymouth Hoe. He felt the anger curse through his veins, his patience running thin. The Atlantic crossing had not been good. He should have known the moment he left Boston his travel would not be an easy one. Volatile storm clouds covered the city in a blanket of rage. Lightning bolts struck with violence on the ground below. Thunder resonated across the harbor with a menacing bellow. At times, the ship rocked so violently tables and chairs flew clear across the gallows. Jack had barely been able to hold onto his tumbler of whiskey, let alone the wife of a well known New York Senator who whispered sweet nothings in his ear whilst easing her well-educated vixen hands into his bursting trousers.

  For the first time in years, Jack Bartholomew felt pleased to be back on English soil. He took a deep breath of the early summer morning air. The smell of cockles, crabs and freshly caught fish made his stomach growl. Plymouth Hoe bustled with activity, even at this early hour. Fishing boats rocked against their moorings, oblivious to the scrambling of the fisherman on the pier unloading their morning catches. Peasant women sat on the docks, cooking batches of cockles and filleting the huge baskets of fish being unloaded. The seagulls hovered overhead, ducking and diving as the scraps were thrown into the seaweed laden water below.

  Jack, once again took out his pocket-watch. 7:45! Where the hell was his cousin? Had he not told him seven on the dot! He was eager to be on his way to Penrose House. Back to the tin mines to gather up the information and men he so desperately needed in America. Excitement cursed through his veins as he reflected on the previous five years spent overseas. When he left Cornwall, he vowed he would never again rely on the earth for his fortune. But how his feelings had changed! America held for him masses of untapped fortune from copper and tin mining and his competition were inadequate in their experience. But Jack, weaned on tin, knew its value, its hardships, its pitfalls and its gain. The Penrose family had made their fortune from Cornish tin. Now he was going to make sure that same skill would lead to even greater fortune in America.

  The clang of horse hooves on the cobblestone road interrupted his thoughts.

  “Cousin, finally! I thought you fell into the Tamar and drowned beneath the weight of that ale filled belly!” He stalked over. His irritation disappeared at the sight of his portly cousin stepping from the lavish stagecoach.

  “Jack. Look at you! You look so, so…”

  “American?” He winked, smoothing the ends of his black moustache between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Yes, I suppose you do. Whatever that means! But you look well, Cousin, very well. These past five years seem to have served you very nicely.”

  “And you, too, Edwin. Still a fine figure of a man, I see!”

  “And more besides.” Edwin laughed, patting down his protruding stomach. “How is America?” He climbed up into the stagecoach and sat opposite his cousin. “And most importantly, how are the women?”

  “Ahh, the women….” Jack closed his eyes, recalling the tempestuous beauty who straddled him that very morning. “The woman are, what you might call, bold. Yes, bold, talented and very, very beautiful.”

  Edwin laughed, taking a swig from the silver flask in his coat pocket and handing it to Jack. “I see from the twinkle in your eye that your love for the fairer sex has not diminished.”

  “No, cousin. There is not a woman in America, nor the whole world, in fact, who can capture my attention long enough to cause me to be faithful. But I do have fun whilst trying them all out.”

  * * * *

  The six hours to Penrose house sped by as the men talked of America, Cornwall, the tin mines and Jack’s adventures overseas. As the stagecoach reached North Hill, the men stopped to stretch their legs. Jack stared in amazement at the bleak landscape of Bodmin Moor stretching out before him.

  “You know, Edwin. As a child, this place seemed so huge, so vast and wild. But compared to America, it seems tame. Funny isn’t it? When you are young everything seems so untouched and so new. That feeling vanishes as you grow older. But in America, I have that same feeling of youth. That there’s a whole country out there just waiting to be explored.”

  “And countless women I daresay quipped Edwin.

  “Do you know, cousin, I think you have got worse!” Jack laughed as he remembered
his cousin’s lusty appetite. “Wipe that lecherous grin off your face. Remember, I have come here to work, not spend my time wrapped in the arms of one of your servants, or some bored tin miner’s wife. Well, maybe not all the time.”

  Chapter Three

  Penrose Mines buzzed with the news of Sir Jack Bartholomew’s return. Recently, a number of ‘Cousin Jacks’ as they were called, bade farewell to Cornwall and went overseas in search of fortune and a better life. Australia, America and even Mexico were welcoming young Cornish men and the tin and copper mining skills they possessed. Trystan Trezies had a hunch Sir Jack Bartholomew was on a recruiting mission. He didn’t like the feeling. Only last year his brother left for Australia and the mines of New South Wales. They received no word from him since. Through his mother’s sobs, Trystan promised her he would stay in Cornwall and not succumb to the false lure of riches in new lands. However, his mother failed to realize Trystan held no desire to leave Cornwall anyway. He loved the land and, even though the work was hard and at times precarious, he loved the mines. In the few years he had been employed at Penrose Mines, he worked his way up to become one of the foremen and resolutely resolved he would become Mine Captain by the age of twenty-four. That should provide a more stable income for himself and Jenna and, most of all, the family he planned to have with her.

  At the thought of Jenna, he stopped working and gazed into the long tunnel that stretched before him. Jenna. How beautiful she was. How he loved her. At times he couldn’t believe his luck to have found a woman as angelic as Jenna to marry. He could hardly wait until their wedding next month. Day after day he tried to imagine what it would be like to feel her body beneath him, to wake up next to her every morning and know she belonged to him. It didn’t seem possible in a few weeks time he would be married. But, through all the happiness and excitement, he struggled to understand Jenna’s recent apathy toward the wedding preparation. True, her father went slightly overboard, paying from his meager miner’s wages an extravagant wedding gown he could ill afford. But, as Trystan pointed out to Jenna when she felt the silk between her fingers and shook her head with shock, she was the last of her father’s daughters to be wed. And one daughter who would not have the comfort or the admiration of a mother sitting in the front pew of the small village chapel as her other sisters did. That was a luxury which no price could be put upon. Trystan knew her father would be saddened at his youngest daughter leaving the house, which made the thought of Sir Jack Bartholomew’s impending fortune draped invitation of emigration even more irritating. Did the man not realize people had families here? Ties that led back through generations and generations.