A Fateful Wind (15 page)

“I will.” His voice broke with a raspy cough.

Jenna moved the cloth over to his mouth, her body freezing as she noticed the blood on his lips. With sudden clarity, she realized how serious his injuries were. He was hovering on the brink of death. She brought the whiskey bottle once more to his dry, cracked, pale lips, willing him to drink some of the pain alleviating liquid.

“What is it?” he asked drowsily.

“I just remembered our first kiss,” she replied, hoping the memory of happy times spent together would help take his mind off everything.

He let out a small laugh, his body flinching with the effort of it. All of a sudden his hand gripped hers, pulling her closer into him. “I think I’m going to die.”

“No, Trystan! I won’t let that happen. I won’t let you die.” Her body once again racked with sobs.

“Shush,” he whispered. “I don’t feel anything anymore. I don’t feel any pain. I can’t even feel my legs.”

She looked down at the gaping wound in his thigh in disbelief. “Tis just the whiskey,” she lied. “It’s doing what it’s supposed to, that’s all. You’re going to get well. I won’t let you die.”

With a sense of sudden urgency he spoke, his voice hoarse. “I have a letter inside my coat pocket. Will you read it to me? It’s from Australia.”

She nodded, reaching cautiously inside his jacket, taking out the bulky envelope from his pocket. Inside, she pulled out the letter and opened it to read. “Dear Trystan, I am sorry for the delay in writing to you. The ship to Australia took many, many weeks and the journey was horrific for a lot of the passengers. But I am safe in New South Wales now. The ship pulled into Sydney Harbour. What a different world it is from Cornwall! The land is hot and dry. Heat like you’ve never known before and the earth is red, truly red. There are creatures here I have never seen or heard of before. Dangerous in that they hold much venom. Snakes, spiders and lizards are everywhere. I have been sent out to a mine east of Sydney on the other side of the Blue Hills. There are flies everywhere that would eat the skin from your bones were you not suitably equipped.

Fortunately, I am underneath in the mines for ten hours a day and still cannot get through all the work. There is enough work here for the whole of Cornwall and good money to be made. Australia is a young country and I have already fallen in love with her, as I know you would, too, if you came.

Oh, Trystan, I wish to have you here with me in New South Wales, to experience all I have. The beaches are nothing like Cornwall, the waves are double the size and long stretches of golden sand span as far as the eye can see. I have only been once, when I first arrived, but I foresee great things for myself here. Being underground in the mines is but a temporary measure until I prove myself as someone worthier to the mine boss. He is a fine fellow, also a Cornishman from Redruth, and he has a lovely daughter, but I can’t write of her yet as I am still trying to drum up the courage to speak to her! I am enclosing a one way ticket for you to come and join me. The mine boss paid for half of it as he is eager to have your skills here. Mother will understand and I have put it in a little letter for her. Please use the ticket and come to Sydney. This is a fine land and I am happy and well. Your loving brother, Peter”

She folded the letter neatly and pulled out the ticket to Sydney, showing it to him. His body trembled uncontrollably as the tears poured down his cheeks.

“He is well,” he spluttered. “He is not dead.”

Jenna nodded, her smile dissipating as she noticed the red liquid oozing from his mouth.

“I can go now,” Trystan managed, obviously finding it harder and harder to talk. “I can go peacefully now, knowing he is still alive.”

His grip lessened in her hand as she felt his fingers grow colder, the life slowly seeping away from him.

“Jenna, I want you to take that ticket. I want you to have this ticket and go to Australia. I want you to have the adventure you have always wanted, a better life for yourself than what you could have had here with me. Please, as my dying wish, take the ticket.”

His gaze fixed on hers, pleading. She held the envelope in one hand, his hand in her other and nodded, not wishing to argue in the last moments of his life. She kissed him lightly on the lips, the dry coldness of his skin sending shivers throughout her body. His hand suddenly loosened in hers and, as she pressed her cheek to his face, she realized Trystan had died.

Chapter Twenty-One

Jack opened one eye sleepily, an annoying tapping on his lower leg waking him from his deep slumber. “Go away.”

“See, I told you ‘e was just a tramp,” a small London voice said. “They just got lucky finding that piece. E’s just an old pick-pocket of a vagrant. I’m orf to find someone wiv a bit more money than this old geezer.”

Jack heard the sound of tiny feet running away from where he lay, but the annoying tapping continued against his leg.

“Ere, mister, wake up. You’ll get run over by a cart if you lay ere much longer.”

“I said go away,” Jack repeated irritably. “Now bugger off. I’m trying to get some sleep.”

“You can’t sleep ere governa. This is the street,” the small voice exclaimed. “And someone’s already nicked your watch.”

Jack sat up with a start, rubbing his eyes and staring incredulously around him. “Where am I?” he asked the young boy still kicking his calf.

“London, mister. Soho. I reckon you’ve been too friendly with a bottle of whiskey,” the young boy said cheekily.

Jack gazed around him, surprised to see the same street that had been marred with a dingy fog the night before now full of people, carriages and market vendors.

“Good, God. Don’t tell me I slept here all night.”

“I don’t know, mister, but some boys nicked your watch and some money,” the small boy said again. “And it weren’t me this time.”

Jack patted down his pockets, finding them empty. He looked over to the small boy who stood at his feet. He couldn’t have been more than seven -- a small, wiry, black haired street urchin. He was filthy, dressed head to toe in rags. No shoes upon his feet, his toenails encrusted with grime from the dirt laden streets.

“It wasn’t me, mister.” The boy wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand. “I told ‘em you were nothing but a pick pocketing tramp yourself, but they wouldn’t believe me.”

Jack sighed angrily. His head pounded and his back and neck felt stiff from his night of sleep on the damp, stony pavement. A group of boys ran by, shouting and screaming as they kicked a ball over at his head.

“Ere, watch it!” the street urchin shouted bossily at them, placing his small hands on his hips. “He’ll ‘ave yer guts for garters he will.”

Jack stifled a small smirk at the boy’s feistiness. “Here, help me up.” The boy extended his small, grungy hand and helped Jack to his feet. “Now, can you point me in the direction of the King Henry’s Arms Hotel?”

“The King Henry’s Arms Hotel? Are you sure?”

“Yes, very sure. I know it’s around here somewhere.”

The boy shook his head. “Sorry, guvnor. I don’t fink you can be staying there. That’s too posh for the likes of us.”

He smiled down at the urchin and winked. “Never judge a book by its cover.”

The boy shrugged. “Whatever you say, mister. I ain’t gonna argue wiv ya.”

“So where is it?”

“It’s down the other end of Oxford Steet, ain't it? The posh end.” The boy pointed toward a distant street.

Jack placed his top-hat on his head, tipping it toward the small boy. “Thank you very much, young man.”

“Is that it?”

“What do you mean is that it?”

“Is that all I get for protecting you from all the muggers? I’ve been standing over you since I saw those boys pick pocket ya at seven this mornin’ and I don’t get nuffink for all me troubles?”

Jack looked down incredulously. “But I don’t have anything, remember?”

“But you must do if you’re staying at such a posh ‘otel.”

“I’m sorry young man, I don’t. Thank you for all your troubles, but I’m afraid they’ve been in all in vain. I don’t have a penny.” He offered a brief smile and, turning around, stalked off miserably in the direction of his hotel.

As he walked down Oxford Street trying desperately to lull the pounding throbbing in his head, he felt the distinct impression several times of being followed. Each time, he would turn his head, glancing over his shoulder, surveying the throngs of people on the busy street. But no, there was no one out of the ordinary there. Just people milling around, going about their daily business in the bustling city of London. Feeling pleased and more than relieved he finally saw the welcoming sign of the King Henry’s Arms Hotel ahead. Walking through the entryway door, the pleasant smell of wealth wafted up, replacing the destitute stench he had been unfortunate to pass out in.

The calming solitude of his hotel room comforted him. Wearily, he climbed out of his grimy clothes, lifting a freshly laundered shirt laid out for him by the maid to his nose. He breathed in the clean scent before ringing for hot water to be brought up for his bath. He gazed at the reflection of the strange man in the mirror and chuckled.

You need to pull yourself together, Jack
, he reprimanded the stranger. I thought you vowed never to let a woman have this effect on you! Come on man, forget that crafty damsel in Cornwall. Forget them all. You should have known that woman would be nothing but trouble, they all are. You’re best off alone to concentrate on your adventures and build your empire in America.

At the thought of America, he felt a little of his excitement returning. Ah, America! That’s where his future lay. Not here in London living the life of an alcoholic degenerate.

A knock sounded at the door and the pretty blond maid entered, pouring the steaming hot water into the bath-tub. She looked at him as she finished, her coy expression insinuating he may have some other request. Jack toyed with the idea of having her wash him, but even her mane of golden curls held little appeal to the memory of Jenna’s raven hair.

“Thank you.” He nodded kindly. “That will be all.”

The maid gave a flippant curtsy and left, leaving him alone. With great relish, he climbed into the tub, the sudsy bubbles enveloping his body. With a relaxing sigh, he laid he head back on the edge of the tub, allowing the sweetly scented warmth to sooth his hangover. After a while, he felt enough energy to clean himself and remembering where he had slept the night before he not only washed, but scrubbed his skin with the cotton cloth until his arms and legs appeared pink and rosy.

He jumped, startled, as he heard a knock come again on his hotel door. With a knowing smile, he pictured the pretty blonde maid on the other side, no doubt laden with an excuse to catch a glimpse of him as he lay naked and soaking in the tub.

Well, why not
, he thought, the heat of the bathtub unexpectedly making him feel a little more generous.

“Come in,” he shouted, waiting to hear the creak of the door as it opened. Again the knock came softly on the door. “Come in.” He said it louder and more impatience this time. Still, the door did not open. Feeling annoyed at having his leisurely soak disturbed, he splashed out of the tub, wrapping one of the fluffy towels warming by the fire around his waist. He stomped to the door, leaving a trail of wet foot prints behind him and flung open the door way.

“I’ve come for wots owing to me, mister,” the little voice said, as the grubby street urchin placed his hands on his hips and screwed his face up in a vain attempt to look menacing.

“I beg your pardon?” Jack said, amazed at the audacity of the small boy.

“I said I’ve come for wots owing to me.” The small boy barged quickly past Jack’s legs and seated himself at the desk.

He started to ring to have the boy thrown out when he saw the outline of the boy’s ribs through the thin graying shirt he wore. His legs hung like threads of string out of the bottom of his calf-length tattered trousers. His feet were covered in dried pieces of blood, the tell tale wounds of shoeless feet tramping the dirty glass littered streets of London. For a brief moment, he imagined Lady Emmeline being in his position. He smiled to himself, remembering the way she fussed over him when he was a young boy not much older than the street urchin who sat in front of him.

And you have to admire his gumption
, Jack thought to himself, watching the boy survey the richness of the hotel room. “Where are your parents?”

“Dead,” the boy replied very matter-of-factly.

“Well, where are your guardians?”

“I ain't got no guardians, mister, just meself. That’s all.”

“You mean you have no one looking after you?” Jack asked incredulously.

“I’m well enuff able to look after meself. I’ve been doing it since I was six.”

“And how old are you now?” He found the idea of a young boy out alone on the cruel streets of London completely unfathomable.

“Seven and three quarters,” the boy replied with pride.

He suppressed a smile and reached for the bell to ring for the maid.

The boy's eyes suddenly became very large. “You ain't gonna call for the constable are you mister?”

Jack shook his head. “No, but I am going to get you something to eat. What would you like?”

The boy stared up in amazement. “Anything? You mean I can have anything?”

“Within reason. I don’t think caviar would suit your young palate.”

The boy licked his lips in deep contemplation. “I would like roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, carrots and roast spuds.”

“And for ‘afters?” Jack asked, rather enjoying the paternal instincts he felt.

“Sticky toffee pudding with custard.”

“Very well.” Jack placed the order with the pretty blonde maid who eyed the street urchin with suspicion. Taking the maid aside, he related the incidents of the morning and nodded his head as the maid told him the boy looked like he could do with a good wash. “Indeed,” he agreed. “I didn’t think of that.”

The maid came back with more hot water, grabbed the young boy by his ear and threw him in the bathtub, ignoring his hot-headed screams.

“This ain’t fair,” he squealed as she covered him from head to toe in soap and began scrubbing him feverishly. “I only came for wots owing me, not a scalding ‘ot bath.”

“Well, you can’t eat here if you ain’t clean,” the maid retorted, scrubbing his head.

Jack gingerly lifted the torn, grubby clothes the boy stepped out of with disdain. They were pickled in fleas and covered in dirt. “Whatever should we do with these, Millie?”

“Burn them!”

“Burn ‘em!” The boy screeched. “Them’s the only clothes I ‘ave. You ain’t gonna burn ‘em. Over my dead body!”

Jack threw his head back, laughing heartily. “Dear boy, I won’t send you out into the streets with nothing on your back. How about we send for my tailor and buy you some new clothes.”

The young boy nodded gladly and the maid shrugged. Taking Jack aside, she whispered, “Sir, I don’t mean to pry, but this child is obviously a little criminal. You best watch him. These street kids give London a bad name.”

“Thank you, Molly. I will bear that in mind.”

“Well, I aint telling you wot to do, just givin’ you some friendly advice.” Molly walked back to the boy, wrapping him in a big towel as he climbed out of the tub.

“Molly, will you send notice to Mr. DeVilliars, the tailor, that I need him here as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.” Molly curtsied as she dressed the boy in one of Jack’s shirts. “Now I think the kitchen should have that roast beef done.”

Jack waited for the roast beef being laid out in a steaming hot pile in front of the boy. He watched as the child wolfed down the fragrant meal, barely stopping for air.
This boy hasn’t had a decent meal in weeks
, he thought as the child pushed in forkfuls of food to his already full mouth.

“What’s your name, boy?” he asked as the child scraped the last pieces of food from the plate.

“Charlie. Charlie Weeks.”

“Well, Charlie Weeks, I have a business proposition for you.”

“A business proposition?” Charlie’s face glowed with curiosity.

“Yes, Charlie. Since you did such a splendid job of protecting me from all the pickpockets and now that I see you scrub up quite nicely after having a bath, how would you like to work for me for the few weeks I have left in London?”

“Doing what and for how much?”

“Running errands for six pence a week, plus food and I will buy you a new wardrobe of fashionable young men’s clothes.”

After what seemed to be much contemplation, the boy stood and shook Jack’s hand. “Charlie Weeks, sir, pleased to make your acquaintance.”