Chapter 3

N.B. – I’ve decided that, rather than posting my chapters in their original form, (which are actually really long, I now realise) I’ll post them as I write, in smaller, bite-sized chunks, for easier reading. Enjoy!

***

7th June 1838 

Arthur Campbell House, Kensington

Miss Amalie Russell couldn’t believe that the gorgeous man standing in the doorway was the same Adrian from her childhood. The last time she had seen him, he had been a scrawny thirteen year old, with floppy hair and the tendency to break out in acne when told to speak or perform in front of large groups of people. This man gave off the impression of a well groomed lion with barely contained energy in his frame and under his obviously well-tailored tail-coat. He radiated authority. And his midnight blue eyes … no, they were exactly the same as before, holding mischief and kindness in equal parts.

At that precise moment, however, they were masked with awe and astonishment. Yet there was no recognition in his features. Didn’t he realise who she was? Had he forgotten all about her? Of course she herself had changed much over the long years, but she had not forgotten him. While most of her had embraced the adventures of India, a small part of her heart had held on tightly to England and its cool, wet weather. At the centre of that had been the memories of her mother and her blissfully-ignorant summers with Adrian and Anna-Marie.

She had known Adrian then. She knew all about that boy. But she did not know how he had changed over the years. She knew nothing about this altogether-too-handsome man. This man was Mr. Campbell and he was a stranger. So why couldn’t she take her eyes away from his? He seemed to hold her there in his long and predatory gaze.

“Ah Adrian, my boy,” Lord Newham’s rugged voice broke whatever spell that had held Amalie, for which she was incredibly grateful. “You’ve finally graced us with your presence then. Your mother was beginning to doubt whether you would turn up at all.”

“It’s always a pleasure to meet you too, father.” Mr. Campbell’s new deep voice rang through the room and his grin was sly to say the least. But first he manoeuvred his way through the furniture to greet his mother. After a kiss and much petting from Lady Charlotte he turned back to his father, with expectation ripe on his face.

“You remember my old friend Major Russell, lately returned from Hindustan,” Lord Newham stated, as Amelia’s father rose from his place to shake Mr. Campbell hand. “Though, I believe, it is Colonel Russell now, is it not?”

Her father chuckled, “yes, well, being promoted comes with its own perks,” and sent a quick glance towards her. She knew exactly what he meant but refused to acknowledge his teasing by returning his look. Instead she looked at Mr. Campbell, on whose face recognition finally broke out like a midsummer sunrise.

“Uncle William,” it was half exclamation and half question. He gulped, nervous for reasons Amalie could not fathom. “The years have been kind to you.”

Amalie thought that was a bit too much of an exaggeration. Though her father was the picture of health, his once soft face was now rugged and chiseled from the harsh weather of India, and his brown eyes heavy with all the pain they had witnessed over the years.

“Evidently much kinder to you, than to me Adrian,” replied her father, appraising Mr. Campbell just as she had. “You will, of course, remember my sons. Lucas, you childhood playmate, is now Captain Russell, of the 74th regiment. And Zachary here, is the brightest lad that I have ever come across. He has quite a head for languages.” Amelia smiled indulgently at the way her father’s voice was dripping with pride. She felt much of it herself as well and so could not fault him for showing off.

She watched as Mr. Campbell greeted her brothers affectionately. He then came to stand in front of her and before her father could say a word of introduction, Mr. Campbell voiced her nickname, “Amalie”. It was a mere whisper on a breath, and she was surprised she heard it at all. But somehow, the way he said it, seemed so intimate that she could help the colour rising to her cheeks.

“And that beautiful young lady before you, is my daughter, Amelia.”

“Miss Russell.” He gave a small gentlemanly bow. She returned it was a perfectly executed courtesy and raised her hand, just as Aunt Samantha had taught her was befitting a proper young lady in polite English society.

Mr. Campbell took her gloved hand and kissed her knuckles. The action sent her heart all aflutter though she knew he was only carrying out a courtesy. In India, men and women, whether Hindu or Muslim, did not touch hands when greeting each other, and Amelia couldn’t help but think that there was nothing polite or proper about this English custom, but that it was rather invasive of one’s privacy.

“I’m glad to have finally met you again.” Mr. Campbell’s soft words brought her out of her reverie.

“And I, you.” It was a rather short and abrupt answer but she couldn’t think of much else to say with everyone else eyes pouring over them.

But the long awkward moment of tension was broken when Colonel Russell resumed his seat by Lord Newham and took up their conversation from where it had been interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Campbell. Lucas listened in attentively as he had before, adding is own self-important opinion, in Amalie’s mind, every now and then. Mr. Campbell sat down in the empty chair beside her and Amalie turned her head in the other direction to continue talking to Lady Charlotte about her evening gown, only to find that Lady Charlotte had engaged in a discussion with Zack about all the varied languages in India. That annoyed Amelia to no end, because now it meant that she would have to speak to Mr. Campbell and there was enough awkwardness between them as it was. But she remembered the emphasis her Aunt had put on always remaining polite, so she put on her best smile and turned back towards him.

“We have a lot of catching up to do. Fourteen years is a long time, after all.”

He looked rather at a loss for words, and then quite confused as he spoke: “indeed it is.”

His vague answer annoyed Amalie further. She hadn’t said anything too complicated and he couldn’t possibly be that daft. The Adrian she had known had always been rather mischievous and clever, always able to answer all her questions with his superior and knowledge.

“And how is Anna-Marie? I was hoping to see her here today.” She tried again to engage him in conversation.

“She has been Lady Anna-Marie Ellsworthy of Caterham these past three years. She lives with her husband in Camden Town.” A brotherly smile appeared on Mr. Campbell’s lips which went a long way to soften his square features. “I expect to become an uncle in about a months time.”

“Oh, how lovely! Congratulations. I really can’t wait to see her now.”

“Thank you. I’m sure she would love to see you too.” There was a slight pause as Adrian Campbell raked his mind for something else to say. He could not allow the conversation to disintegrate into the awkwardness of a few minutes ago. “Umm, I notice your mother is not here this evening. How is she?”

Amelia’s smile became infinitely more sad and wizened, and Mr. Campbell regretted ever bringing up the topic.

“My mother, God rest her soul, died the year after we moved to India … from cholera.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I truly am. I had no idea.”

“It’s okay. Nobody over here knows and I expected to be questioned quite a lot about it.”

“As far as I can remember, she was a remarkably kind woman. And rather beautiful too. She loved to garden, right?”

Amalie just nodded, rather surprised at the change of his tone and his enthusiasm to speak.

“I remember this one time,” Mr. Campbell continued nostalgically, “we were playing cricket in your garden. I hit a sixer and it shattered one of her clay plant pots…”

“Her favourite white roses, I remember.”

“She was so upset that I actually felt truly guilty about it.”

“I remember how hard it was to make you feel guilty about anything.”

“You’re right of course. But I think what made it worse, that day, was that rather than shouting at us, she took us into the kitchen and gave us all the treacle tarts we were suppose to have for dessert that evening.”

Amalie laughed. She knew exactly how this story ended.

“After finishing your tart, you went right back outside and dug a hole in the middle of the lawn and planted the roses there.”

“Ever since that day, I’ve always wondered at the amazing power of treacle tarts.”

“Hmm, I don’t think I’ve had a treacle tart since I left England. I’ve quite forgotten what they taste like.”

“Really?! We’ll have to remedy that soon. But, excuse my curiosity, what sort of things did you eat in Hindustan?”

“Well, whatever our cook,  Nayla, had a fancy to make really. Which was mostly her native food: spicy curries, chaptis, lentils and all manner of rice dishes. Though, she always went out of her usual routine on Christmas and would make roast whole chicken. But even then, the chicken was marinated in chilli powder, turmeric and God knows what else. I remember father deplored all of it to begin with and kept trying to persuade poor Nayla in his broken Hindi to make, what the English called “civilised food”. But when he realised his children had developed a taste for it, he gave up his struggles.”

“And what do you think of our ‘civilised’ English food, now that you’re back?”

“Well … urmmm…” Amalie glanced surreptitiously at her father, whom she knew was listening to every single word she was say, with his keen miltary ears. In truth, she thought English food to be bland and tasteless, and had taken a dislike to the way the some meat-dishes sat bleeding on her plate. But she didn’t express any of this out loud as she knew it would hurt her father’s feeling, and did not want him to think, for any reason big or small, that she was not glad to be back in England.

Adrian, who had been watching Miss. Russell’s face keenly saw the glance and figured out what was going on in her mind.

“Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter.”

“Your quoting something, aren’t you?”

Adrian chuckled, realising that Miss. Russell had become rather intelligent in their time apart.

“Othello,” he conceded, but seeing her perplexed expression elaborated to: “it’s a play, by Shakespeare….”

“Oh yes, him I’m heard of. Our aunt Samantha had a small volume of his sonnets and she made us memorise many of them when we were children. I didn’t know he had written plays too.”

“Really? Well, here his plays are generally more known than his poems. They’re thought of as the literary pride of Britannia. Tell me, if not Shakespeare, what sort of … stories were you brought up with?”

“Well,”

To be continued…

 

Chapter 2

7th June 1838 

Cadogan Square, London

It was a truth universally acknowledged by all young ladies (and many not-so-young ladies) that Mr. Adrian Campbell, son and heir of Viscount Newham, was currently the most handsome man in London. At twenty seven, he cut quite a striking image walking down Cadogan Square at a very brisk pace. The style of his midnight-blue coat did little to hide the vast breadth of his shoulders and his top hat wasn’t succeeding in preventing the bright summer sun from making his blond hair look even blonder.

But there was nothing bright about his expression and the set of square jaw. His eyes, the colour of ripe blueberries, were hooded and broached no interruption to his purposeful walk. But there was nothing foul about his temper that afternoon. He just didn’t want to be stopped by idle strollers or stared at by giggling girls. At first, the attention he had received from women had been quite amusing, but as time went by it became painfully obvious that Mr. Campbell had no talent for conversing with complete strangers and the amusement of the attentions soon wore off. Unfortunately, he had inherited his father’s shyness, which he covered in a mask of arrogance, as it would not do to have it publicly known that he was a complete nitwit when it came to polite conversation.

By now he was walking up the front steps of the red-brick Streatham House, the London home of the Earl of Farnsworth. Well, he supposed the house now belonged to the Countess, Lady Clarissa, as the Earl had passed away recently. It had had been quite a scandal actually, because the Earl was neither young, but nor was he old. Probably in his forties, the prime of his life in fact. However, as much as the gossips of London wanted to suspect Lady Clarissa of foul play, they couldn’t as she had been in Farnsworth Estate at the time of the death. But still, it was well known that Lady Clarissa and the Earl did not get on well. And there had even been rumours that the Earl was … well … It didn’t signify anyway. He was not here to enquire after a dead Earl but to see the young and pretty Lady Clarissa.

Mr. Campbell knocked on the door, which was almost immediately opened by the butler. He gave his hat to the butler as he was shown into the drawing room, where he usually awaited the arrival of Lady Clarissa. Out of habit he sat on the damask sofa-chair because, despite the old and expensive furniture, it was all rather dainty and only the sofa was big enough for a man of his size. He relaxed and gazed up at the intricate plaster design of the ceiling; it was a better option than to look at the walls. They happened to be adorned with portraits of about ten generations of Earls, that gazed down at anyone in the room with identically disapproving frowns. If only Lady Clarissa would deem to remove those painting, this room would reveal itself to be quite luxurious and of an elegant style. But she wouldn’t. He knew she thought of Streatham House as belonging exclusively to the late Earl. No, she only thought of Farnsworth Estate as home.

It surprised Mr. Campbell that he knew Lady Clarissa so well. Though, on second thought, he shouldn’t have been so surprised, after all, they had been good friends for almost three years now. Mr. Campbell didn’t usually make good friends with a great amount of ease, he seemed to lack the social charm for that. And besides, Lady Clarissa didn’t spend much time in London either. But he and Lady Clarissa had become friends by accident. Quite literally, in fact.

It had been a lovely summer’s day, just like this one. Anna-Marie had only been married a few months when Mr. Campbell had received a letter from her, implying that his new brother-in-law had beaten Anna-Marie. Angered beyond comprehension, of course, Charles Adrian Campbell had saddled his horse immediately and rode hell-for-leather for Caterham Abbey, where she was staying with her husband. He decided to take the direct route and was riding through one of the southern fields of Farnsworth Estate, when his horse reared up suddenly and he fell off. Lady Clarissa, who had been visiting a tenant near-by at the time, heard his yell of surprise and ran out to see what had happened. She offered him help, but already embarrassed for losing his grip on Strom, his Arabian horse, Mr. Campbell had refused any assistance. He had tried getting up by himself and found that he had, somehow, managed to sprain an ankle and a wrist. Only the kindness of her heart had stopped Lady Clarissa from laughing out loud.

Humiliated enough and not one to put his pride before his health, Mr. Campbell had accepted her offer to assist him back to Farnsworth Manor, where she had successfully tended to his injuries. So in return, he had told her about his mission to rescue his sister. She sympathised quite emphatically and soon sent him on his way. But the damaged had been done. By the time they had said goodbye to each other that afternoon, they were already verging on a friendship that would last forever.

When he had finally reached Caterham Abbey, at a much slower pace, he had found his sister and brother-in-law quite … reconciled. It had turned out to be nothing more than a small marital spat among newly-weds. He should have known better, Anna-Marie had always been more on the melodramatic side. But he hadn’t been too furious with her, despite his injuries. Because of Anna-Marie’s letter, he had met a wonderful women and a good friend…

Mr. Campbell’s further reminiscences were interrupted by the entrance of Lady Clarissa, dressed elegantly in her usual widows-black-and-lilac day dress. Her auburn hair was piled neatly on her head and her grey eyes, which had been so filled with apprehension and worry of late, warmed up slightly at seeing him. He rose from his seat out of courtesy; even though she had told him many times that he need not bother. They exchanged pleasantries and sat down opposite each other.

Lady Clarissa prided herself on running a smooth, well oiled, household. So it only goes to say that she had already given orders for tea, sandwiches and biscuits to be brought in before she had entered the room. They spoke of nothing in particular significance until the tea had arrived. As she poured Mr. Campbell a cup she broached the subject that had been keeping her nerves tangled up inside of her and didn’t let her sleep well at night.

“There is less than a month left of my mourning period. Do you still intend to marry me?” She handed him his cup.

Mr. Campbell smiled. It was radiant and Lady Clarissa wondered if he knew how much brightness he brought into her typically dismal and lonesome life.

“Of course I do, Lady Clarissa. In fact, that is why I came here. I wanted to tell you that I’m going to my parent’s home for dinner this evening and I’ll bring up our engagement then.”

“They will probably not approve of me.”

“I know it’s not every day that you hear of a young man marrying a widow, no matter how young and pretty she herself is. But I know my mother and father better than anyone. They love me greatly and trust me too, to make my own decisions. Besides, from what I’ve gathered, my mother likes you quite a bit and thinks you’re very brave to withstand all that you have.”

Lady Clarissa took a sip of her tea to wet her mouth and warm her inside, as if such a simple a thing could fortify her and give her strength.

“We have to do everything properly, in its proper time,” she said finally, her voice laced with resolution. “Everything must be done by the hypothetical book. No one should have cause to question our motives because, honestly, I don’t think I could face any more gossip and scandal.”

Lady Clarissa closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Five and a half years ago, Lord Farnsworth had been the first man to propose marriage to her. She always suspected it was because of her incredibly large dowry. But her father, far too excited about his rise in social status by having an Earl as a son-in-law, agreed immediately without once asking her approval. She wasn’t all too happy about the situation but nobody seemed to care about that, after all, he was an Earl. What more could she wish for, right? Even if she was only eighteen and Lord Farnsworth was twice her age.

They’re wedding was fabulous and the talk of the season due to all its grandeur. It all came out of her father’s pocket, of course. But it wasn’t at all long before she realised that her new husband wasn’t interested in her. In fact, he didn’t seem to be interested in women at all. He had married her for her money and to save face in society. Her father made it abundantly clear that should she leave the Earl, she would not have a family or a home to go to.

Within a week of marriage, Lord Farnsworth deposited her at Farnworth Estate and was back in Streatham House, in London where he spent nearly all his time. Farnsworth Estate was only half a day’s hard ride out of London but Lady Clarissa knew where she wasn’t wanted and stayed where she was put. It was a lonely existence. So she devoted her entire time and energy into the renovation and maintenance of Farnsworth Estate, including all it’s land and numerous properties. All her tenants and the servants at Farnsworth Manor adored her. But for three years her life was a constant challenge, a day to day struggle to think of ways to distract her from the emptiness of her vast house, the empty chairs surrounding her at dinner and her empty bed in the silence of the night.

When Mr. Campbell, quite literally, fell into her life more than two years ago, it had felt like a starved person being invited to a banquet. He was an honourable man, a good listener to boot, and over time she had confided in him all the desolate particulars of her situation and all her grievances. He had been like a candle in the dark solitude that was her life. All the more potent because of its rarity. Lady Clarissa watched Mr. Campbell eat a cucumber sandwich. A rather fitting analogy, she thought, given his mane of surprisingly blonde hair. She sighed.

And then last July, her “husband”, Lord Francis of Farnsworth had the audacity to drop dead. And what is worse, is that he did so while in bed with his valet. What ensued was not worth recalling, even in her own thoughts. In the end, it left Lady Clarissa in a very precarious situation. She was still the Countess of Farnsworth but as she had not been able to produce a male heir, the next in line to inherit the title and the Earldom was a cousin of the late Lord Farnsworth. However, nobody knew where he was and until he was found she would remain the Countess. She had no idea how long that would be. And once the heir had taken his rightful place, she would be left destitute with no money, no connection and no home.

Mr. Campbell was the only one who was privy to the exact details of her plight. And in turn she knew that Mr. Campbell needed to marry soon because his father wanted to attend his wedding, and Viscount Newham’s health had declined very rapidly over the last few years. The solution was rather simple when it finally occurred to Mr. Campbell. He had been very gentlemanly about it, when he offered to marry her once she was out of mourning.

She had deliberated a little while before she accepted Mr. Campbell, just so she could relish the feeling of knowing what it was like to decide her future for herself. But deep down, she knew that no matter what their respective flaws were, their marriage would be good one. After all, they were already good friends, got along quite well, in fact, and he obviously did not mind spending time in her company. And this is far, far more than what can be expected and seen in most aristocratic marriages these days, as the majority are based on either status or wealth. Unfortunately, she knew all too well that this was the truth from first hand experience.

“I beg your pardon, did you say something?” she looked up into Adrian Campbell’s face.

“Wool-gathering?” he asked as an indulgent smile spread across his lips. She nodded since there was no use in denying it. “I just asked whether you intended to attend Queen Victoria’s coronation at the end of this month?”

“My late husband, whatever his faults, took a great interest in the running of parliament. He had been a strong and vocal supporter of the Duke of Wellington and all his Tories. I think he was even a great friend of Sir Robert Peel. And as you well know, the young Queen is heavily influenced by Lord Melbourne and his Whigs. So given that everyone assumes that a wife’s opinion is one and the same as her husband’s, I am hardly likely to be bosom-buddies with the new Queen, despite being a wealthy Countess. I don’t think I even received an invitation to the coronation.”

“Lady Clarissa, when we are married, you will be completely entitled to your own opinion. You have a brain in your head, that’s probably far smarter than mine.”

“Oh come now Adrian, you are far from daft. And as far as I know, you pay very close attention to the running of this country and its politics; aren’t you often seen in your father’s seat in the House of Lords?”

Mr. Campbell knew that she was paying him a great compliment. Not many people thought much of his intelligence because of his inability to properly vocalise all his brilliant ideas to the general public. He gave her a grateful smile.

“So will you be witnessing the grand coronation at Westminster Abbey?”

“My family has been invited and I doubt I could refuse even if I wanted to. Not that I do. But don’t worry, I’ll come here the next day and give you all the gory details.”

“You say that as if you were going to attend a hanging.”

“I don’t see the difference,” said Mr. Campbell with a shrug and Lady Clarissa laughed. It was a quiet, breathy sound. But it was good to hear it nonetheless, because Lady Clarissa couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed. It must be Adrian. He always did make her feel lighter whenever he was around.

***

A few hours later, Mr. Campbell was smartly dressed in his formal evening knit and was in his carriage, driving down the newly re-named Queen’s Gate Road in Kensington. His great-grandfather, the first Campbell to be appointed Viscount Newham, had rather pretentiously named a five story building Arthur Campbell House, after himself of course. It was here, in his family’s London house, that Adrian Campbell had spent his childhood winters before he went to Eton. But as the heir to Viscount Newham, Mr. Campbell had been given the deeds to his own beautiful, detached house on Hamilton Terrace for his twenty-first birthday. And that’s where he planned to stay once he was married.

He was rather glad that he had decided to marry Lady Clarissa. She was intelligent and kind, and he knew that, given time, he could come to love her. This sort of marriage had worked quite well for his parents and he saw no reason why it wouldn’t for him. Thus, it was even more important that he inform them of his plans so that they may get to know Lady Clarissa as he did.

His carriage came to a halt and he alighted, marching purposefully up the steps to Arthur Campbell House. In his mind, he went over the speech he had painstakingly perfected to present to his parents. The door was opened by the butler – good old Clarkson – who, for many years, had let him sneak sweets before dinner when he was younger.

“Master Adrian,” Clarkson greeted as he took Mr. Campbell’s top hat and coat. “They are in the Mint Parlour…”

“Thank you, Clarkson. No need to announce me, I’ll just make my own way in.”

“As you wish, sir” said the butler with a sly grin on his face. Mr. Campbell would have said something, except that Clarkson had always been rather strange and had had a soft spot for him, despite all his childhood pranks.

The parlour door was open, so he entered without making a sound. Inside he found that his parents were not alone as he had hoped they would be. The sofa was occupied by his father and a well tanned elderly gentleman in military uniform. Opposite to them, in a chair, was an equally-tanned younger gentleman, also in uniform but with his back to Mr. Campbell. In the corner sat a pensive looking boy of no more than sixteen. And beside his mother, on the Persian divan, sat a young woman examining her hands. He hadn’t been told that his parents were expecting company tonight. It rather annoyed him. He had planned to speak to his mother and father about Lady Clarissa during dessert, when his father was the jolliest and most statis…

And then she looked up at him.

His breath was snatched away from his lungs. Her hair was coal black, tied up and twisted into a single luscious curl that fell over her left shoulder and hugged her long neck. Her silky evening gown, which was the blue of a sky just after sunrise, only enhanced the sun-kissed glow of her skin. Her full, alluring lips had an obvious tendency to spread into a smile. But more than any of that, it was her eyes that caught hold of Mr. Campbell. They were large, round and innocent, and their colour matched her hair exactly. They were like doe eyes. No, a doe was far too common. This enchanting creature, sitting just a few feet away from him, was far more unique and striking. Thus, it was far more prudent to think that her eyes were like … like a gazelle’s eyes. Never before in his twenty seven years of life, had he been so enraptured by a pair of eyes.

And suddenly, those mysterious black eyes were scrutinising his. Adrian Campbell’s heart began sprinting a hundred meters inside his chest. Any thoughts that he might of had of such a person as Lady Clarissa existing in his life, flew out of his mind and out the window. The centre of his physical world was now focused entirely upon this single, exotic young woman…

***

 

 

Chapter 1

5th January 1838 

Tsim Sha Tsui Harbour, Hong Kong

A dense, northern fog had set in and around the docks, obscuring everything from view. It was only early afternoon, yet the fog gave everyone the eerie feeling that it was just after twilight. But, in all honesty, Lieutenant Warren Lloyd, of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, did not mind at all. He was just glad to be back on solid ground after nearly seven months at sea while on the HMS Marianne, where he was First Mate. The HMS Marianne had been his permanent residence for the last three years and spent the majority of that time roaming the South China Sea. During this last expedition they had captured and some-what destroyed two pirate ships, gave chase to a third that got away and rescued an entire cargo of tea and opium. And now there were here, in Hong Kong, to restock the HMS Marianne, deposit the cargo onto a British trading vessel and make some vital repairs before returning to their reconnaissance post.

So, it came as no surprise that Lieutenant Lloyd was very much looking forward to a few weeks of rest (even if it was in the crowed and murky back streets of Hong Kong), to real hot meals without a single trace of fish in them and to giving the remainder of his left leg ample time for recuperation before he had to put his wooden appendage back on.

But fate was clearly not on his side that day.

After shouting some final orders to his crewmen, but before he had even finished walking the length of the pier, he was intercepted by a young, native man.

“You Lu … Li … you Lloyd?” he ask in his broken English.

“Yes, I’m Lieutenant Lloyd.”

“Urgent message you.” He shoved a crisp white envelope into the Lieutenant’s hands and was off before he could even say ‘thank you’.

“Who’s it from?”

Warren Lloyd nearly jumped out of his skin, but instead, spun around on his peg-leg only to find Officer Cedric Moorland peering over his shoulder.

“Moorland! Why in God’s name are you following me? I nearly pulled a pistol on you.”

Moorland just shrugged, giving him a boyish smile, though he couldn’t have been more than three years younger than the Lieutenant. He put him at around six-and-twenty years of age but no more than that. Lieutenant Lloyd really wanted to give Moorland a scathing set-down but, despite being the most nosiest member of his crew, he was also the most friendliest, with a talent for making people laugh. Something that was greatly appreciated by everyone, especially when you had to spend months upon months at sea with the same group of thirty people.

“So, who’s it from?” Moorland asked again.

Lieutenant Lloyd turned the envelope around and examined the seal.

“From the British Ambassador to Hong Kong, apparently.”

“Sir, you haven’t been dallying with his daughter, have you?”

“Of course I haven’t. She far outranks me and I doubt she would have any interest in a lowly one-legged naval officer. Besides, when would we have had the occasion to meet?…” he was about to continue when he realised something. “Wait, does the British Ambassador even have a daughter?”

Moorland just shrugged again, clearly attempting not to smile. Lieutenant Lloyd glared at him, feeling thoroughly like a fool.

“So, aren’t you going to open it?”

“You know, I’d rather read my correspondence in private, thank you very much.”

“He said it was urgent.”

“Moorland…” Lieutenant Lloyd liked to believe that he had some clout, that his crew members greatly respected him. After all, he wasn’t a man to be trifled with and each crewman knew this. So when Lieutenant Lloyd used that tone of warning Moorland saluted, turned on his heal and headed straight into the fog, the in general direction of the Marianne.

The Lieutenant had only limped a few steps further down the pier when he stopped again. Overcome by curiosity he opened the letter, wondering what the British Ambassador would want with him. Inside was another envelope and a short note from the Ambassador telling him the letter had arrived from London with great urgency. He opened the second envelope in which was a much longer letter, dated almost six months ago. When he finally got to the end of the second letter he swore under his breath. Fate was definitely working against him. There would be no rest tonight for him and his leg.

“Bad news, huh?”

“Moorland! I thought I told you to get back to the ship.”

“Actually Sir, you didn’t tell me anything. That’s why I came back to see if you had any specific instructions for me.”

Lieutenant tried, really tried not to laugh. But a chuckle escaped his lungs nonetheless as he, himself, began walking in the opposite direction to which he had been heading before.

“Umm, where are you going Lieutenant?”

“I thought it was obvious, back to the ship. I need to clear out my cabin.”

“Why?”

“I’m required to return to England immediately, and I doubt I will be back any time soon.”

There was a slight panicked edge to Moorland’s voice as he said “but you’ll need to get a leave of absence from Captain Forster, and I don’t think he’ll be too willing to let you go. He said himself that you were the best first mate the Marianne had ever seen…”

“Don’t worry Moorland. If there’s one think I’ve learnt over these last three years is how to deal with Captain Forster.”

“…and you’ll have to report to the Admiral. You know, he thinks that the only respectful way to leave the navy is death.”

“Well, I don’t think even the Admiral will be able to argue against this,” he replied, holding up the letter.

“Orders from that high up, huh?”

“Something like that.” A wry smile stretched across Warren Lloyd’s lips.

By now they were at the HMS Marianne again. But before Lieutenant Lloyd could limp up the gangplank, Moorland put a firm hand on his shoulder, his face utterly serious for once.

“How soon do you have to leave, sir?”

“In all honesty, as soon as I can.”

Moorland gave him a curt nod, then saluted and preceded Lieutenant Lloyd up to the ship. Even Moorland knew that argument was futile once the Lieutenant had made up his mind.

***

 

Prologue

18th July 1817

“It’s ugly.”

At six years old, Adrian wasn’t a particularly eloquent child but definitely a curious one. He had pushed his little blonde head around his father’s long legs, just to see what all the adults were looking at.

“That is a little baby girl, not an ‘it’,” admonished his mother, Lady Charlotte “and Charles Adrian Campbell, ‘ugly’ is a very mean thing to say. Now apologise to your godfather for insulting his newborn daughter.”

“I’m sorry Uncle William. A gentleman should never insult a lady,” he repeated from routine. Though pink-cheeked, he sent a sceptical look to little bundle in Mrs. Lily Russell’s arms, doubting that ‘a lady’ could ever be that small. To his young eyes, the baby looked like nothing more than a pudgy, red-faced, sleeping thing with fuzzy black hair. The proud new father, Major William James Russell, took no offence and just patted Adrian on the head. Then he bent down and kissed his first child on the forehead.

“No matter what you might think Adrian, she will always be my little princess.” He gazed down lovingly at his small family and then gently took the baby from his wife’s arms.

“I think she’s rather cute, with such tiny hands and feet.” This came from fourteen year old Samantha Elizabeth Russell, who stood to the left of Lady Charlotte in the close circle around Mrs. Russell.

“Of course you have to think she’s cute. You’re her aunty, you don’t have a choice,”  interjected Anna-Marie. Adrian sent a scathing look to his sister who, though a full two years younger than himself, had full control of her vast verbal prowess and was well on the way to being the most annoying four-year-old in existence.

Lord Gregory Campbell, known to most of London as Viscount Newham, tried very hard not to laugh at his daughter’s remark and disguised it quite well by clearing his throat. But then, everyone turned to look at him with expectant faces.

“Have you…ummm…have you thought of a name for her?” he asked rather randomly, fishing for something that would deflect attention off himself. Major Russell looked suspiciously up at the young lord. He had first met him at Eton, when they were just eleven years old and had been best friends ever since. He knew Gregory better than anyone else, knew that his natural shyness was often mistaken for arrogance or snobbery, and also knew that he was the most loyal friend any man could ever hope for. That is why the Campbell family, though far more superior than the Russells on the social scale, were the first to visit his newborn daughter.

“I think we should call her Amalie-short-for-Amelia” suggested Samantha.

“Actually, I wanted to name her Janet, after our mother,” said Major Russell, rocking the baby in his arms as he looked down on his sister.

“Hmm…Amelia Janet Russell. It has a very nice ring to it. I like it very much,” as she said this, Mrs. Russell’s usually soft voice had a tone of finality in it, that broached no argument.

“Well, I think we should all let the new baby and her mummy rest,” said Lady Charlotte, ushering everyone out of the nursery and winking at Mrs. Russell as she left the room. Once they were all in the North Salon, which ironically faced the back of the house and opened up into the garden, Lady Charlotte turned to her two children and said “Adrian, Anna, you both look a bit peachy. It’s a nice sunny day, why don’t you go play in the garden. And play nicely!” but she was too late, the children were already half-wild before they reached the garden door. “And you two,” she said turning to Major Russell and her husband, “keep an eye on them. Make sure they don’t kill each other. In the mean time, I’m going to go and see about dinner and Samantha will accompany me.”

“Umm…maybe I should do that, seeing as it is my humble house,” said Major Russell, feeling that he should be a good host while his wife was indisposed.

“Nonsense. This is something that requires a woman’s touch. You can go play ‘man of the house’ with Gregory over there. Come along, Samantha.” With that Lady Charlotte and Samantha left the room, heading towards the kitchen.

“You have been thoroughly dismissed, my friend,” said Lord Gregory, patting Major Russell on the back.

“Has Lady Charlotte ever been in a kitchen before?” Lord Gregory just shrugged. “You know, sometimes she reminds me so much of my mother that it’s slightly frightening.”

“I remember when I first met your mother, William.” Lord Gregory shook his head in silent laughter. “She really was a remarkable and kind woman, and yes, a little frightening too.”

“I remember, once she remarked that you were more of a Russell than I was.”

“True. But in all fairness, I think of you as more of a brother than my own.”

They both sat down in the lawn chairs and watched silently for a while as Anna-Marie was chased around the garden by Adrian with a ball in his hand.

“You know, I was just thinking,” pontificated Lord Gregory as he turned back to Major Russell, “Wouldn’t it be nice if my son married your daughter? Then we really would be a family.”

“Hmm … It is a nice thought. As with any father, it would be reassuring to know that my daughter was going to a safe and loving home. But, given Adrian’s recent … elegant observation on Amalie’s appearance, well, we have no idea if the two will suit once they grow up.”

“I suppose we’ll just have to wait to find out.”

***

Twelve months later, the Russell family was blessed with another baby. They named him Lucas and Adrian was greatly pleased to learn that this time, the baby was a boy like him. As time went by, Adrian, Anna-Marie, Amelia and Lucas became childhood playmates. They spent most of their summers together, running completely wild in grounds at Newham Park. The glorious, 16th century Abbey at the centre of Newham Park was the ancestral home of Viscount Newham.

While at the Abbey, the foursome shared tutors, horse riding lessons and trips into Beckton village. However, the children’s favourite pass-time was to play two-aside cricket. But it was no ordinary cricket. They often would add their own rules just to make things interesting. It was fun and loud and they probably lost more than a hundred cricket balls over the years. Though, for obvious reasons, whoever had Adrian on their side was sure to, eventually, win the game. On rainy days, they usually spent their time playing hide-and-go-seek. They could spend hours and hours playing this because, after all, the Abbey had many places to hide. Adrian, being the oldest, knew the Abbey really well and was the best seeker around. Amalie, on the other hand, was a rather ingenuitive hider and never hid in the same place twice.

There were also times when they played apart. Anna-Marie took Amalie in as her own little protégée and taught her all there was to know about dolls and tea parties. She also had a cat named Coocky, that Amalie loved dearly and played with whenever she got the chance. In the mean time, Adrian and Lucas became well versed in the art of terrorising the Abbey staff and aggravating their respective sisters.

But unbeknownst to children, change was on the horizon.

In 1824, soon after Amelia’s seventh birthday, Major Russell received an urgent missive from General Fitzwilliam. His division and all the regiments within, were moving to Hindustan on behalf of the East India Company. Major Russell was to accompany them. Orders were orders and must be obeyed. Loathed to be separated from his family, Major Russell, Lily and Samantha decided together that they would all move to India and settle there, despite the fact that the newest member of the Russell family, Zachary, was hardly two years old.

And so, one fateful August day, the Russells and the Campbells said their final goodbyes, not knowing if they would ever see each other again.

 

Welcome

Dear Reader,

I have dedicated this blog to writing my new historical (and some-what romantic) novella Honour & Honesty. The reason I decided to write this is actually an accumulation of many different things from this last year: the books and blogs I’ve been reading to actual event in my own personal life.

This is also the first time I’m writing a story online, and given my other obligations, I’m not exactly sure how long it will take me to complete this novella. However, I do have a fully-planned, detailed outline of the plot and so each post will be a new chapter of the novella.

As I hold firm with the idea: “never judge a book by its cover” (or rather “a blog by its template” in this case) I would not expect you, dear reader, to begin reading this without some sort of indication as to what it is all about. So if I were to write a blurb for this novella, it would go something like this:

When the alluring Amelia Russell returns to London after a long absence, all of Adrian Campbell’s ideas, plans and theories on marriage are turned upside down and shaken vigorously. He becomes stuck between a rock and a hard place, with his priced honour most at stake.

But on the other side of the world, in the murky docks of Hong Kong, Lieutenant Warren Lloyd receives an urgent but mysterious message requiring his immediate return to England.

As the varied lives of four young people cross, the value of Honour and Honesty will play a great role in love, heartbreak, family ties and scandal.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I’m enjoying writing it. If this is not your usual cup of tea then that’s fine, I won’t hold it against you. But if you have an ideas, opinions or constructive criticism then I’d definitely love to read it, so leave a comment in the section below. Thank you.

Nida

P.S –  you can also find me on my other blog: lifeasiknowit-nida.blogspot.com