Page 1 of The Captain of Betrayal
CHAPTER ONE
My Dear Horace,
I know that it has been many years since we last spoke, and I know that you would prefer this silence between us to stretch on a few years more—if not for an eternity. Alas, I do not have many years left. In fact, I fear that lately I have been measuring time in far smaller units and that there are not many days, let alone years, left in your old flower girl.
Thirteen years ago you betrayed me so cruelly that the scars your actions left on my heart still pain me to this very day. Worse still, you sent your brother to do your dirty work, with words of apology and a bag of coins to buy my silence. You were the worst kind of coward Horace, though I hope the years have made you braver. I know that you felt your actions were justified. You thought that your family would not have accepted me and my humble origins even when you were just the second son, but you resisted their scorn. Then, when after tragedy you became the heir and the chances of them accepting me became even less, you betrayed me for your title.
You discarded me, despite our love, despite the life that we had planned together, and the life that we had created together.
For we had created a life, dear Horace, and I named him James--for my father, not yours. When you cast me aside for your title, you also cast your son aside. I like to think that I kept his existence a secret from you out of some noble inclination to protect James from your rejection, but if I am honest, I was merely being prideful, for I wanted nothing more to do with you—even if it meant consigning myself to a life of poverty.
I remember so well that day in Cornwall, when you told me that you had never felt love until you met me. I believed at the time that the same was true for me; that is until I met James. I have never loved anyone as much as I love our son, and I go to my grave knowing that no person shall ever occupy a space in my heart such as James does.
Alas, I am writing to you, Horace, because Iamgoing to my grave. The good doctor says that I have a month at the most and that I must set my affairs in order. I have no property, no worldly goods or gold coins to leave behind me, but I will leave behind my son.
I wish to die knowing that he will be looked after, which is why I am writing to you, Horace, after all these years. I am not asking for recognition of what transpired between us, for that was nothing but two signatures on a piece of paper between two souls, who might as well have been strangers, for all it meant to you in the end. All I am asking is that you agree to feed, clothe and school the boy--acts which you do not have to carry out yourself, merely ensure that they are carried out.
I await your reply, though I beg you, don't leave me waiting too long. Time, as I have mentioned, is not on my side.
Your ever faithful,
Flora
CHAPTER TWO
Polly Jenkins was born fighting. When she tumbled into the world, just over a month early, on a dark evening in the bitter November of 1798, the midwife who attended her mother had declared her good as dead.
"I've a box of tea that weighs more than her," she'd muttered ominously, as she passed the babe into her mother's arms. This was not a promising statement, for the price of tea was still exorbitant despite the recent Commutation Act, but Margaret Jenkins ignored the insinuation and greedily held her daughter to her chest.
"She won't feed well, not at that size," the laying-in woman had morbidly offered, as she had gathered her instruments together. "Perhaps best to call for a priest, if you're that way inclined."
Margaret Jenkins had not been that way inclined, and instead she had called for her husband Ted, who was miraculously sober for once. This was to be the first miracle of the night, Peg decided.
"I'll need a bag of sugar," she commanded, knowing that her husband, while big and burly, was intimidated by the sight of blood--and there was plenty to be seen.
"What you need that for?" Ted grumbled, but he was half way out the door as he did so, so he did not hear Margaret's reply.
"Because this little fighter's only taking her thirty seconds," Margaret whispered, stroking the as-yet-unnamed Polly's cheek. "She's not out yet."
Margaret's father had been one of London's most famous boxers, having trained with the famous Jack Broughton and fought in his amphitheatre on Oxford Street. As a child, Margaret had seen her father ply young sportsmen with sugar-laced milk mixed with raw eggs, to help build their strength. Indeed, she had seen the late Peter Bromwell supply her own husband with the concoction, and Ted was the size of an Ox.
For the first few weeks of Polly Jenkin's life, her mother lovingly fed her sweetened milk and egg yolks, ignoring people's protests that she was fighting a lost cause, until eventually baby Polly had lost the appearance of a wizened rodent and had instead taken on the cherubic look of the babe she was.
During these few weeks, Ted--who originally hailed from up North--declared his intention to move Margaret and his daughter to Newcastle, to escape the grime and smoke of the capital.
"The fresh air from the Tyne will do the bairn the world of good," Ted had assured Margaret; though when they arrived in the North Eastern town, a heavy cloud of smoke, as thick as any London could offer, hung over it and Margaret realised that her husband had merely wanted to escape London and the memory of his boxing career--which had been unillustrious, to say the least.
"Fifty defeats in fifty bouts," Ted would roar, each Friday evening, when he would stumble home from the docks with half his wages already spent in a tavern. "Fifty blimmin' defeats. And me, with the best right hook in all of England."
Ted would then go on to demonstrate to Margaret just how powerful this right hook was. Mostly he would hit her a few digs before tiring of the sport, though sometimes he enjoyed a second round and when he did, he conveniently forgot Broughton's Rules and fought in a most unsportsman-like manner.
Despite Ted's frequent violent outbursts, Polly grew up a happy child, knowing only love and adoration from her mother. Margaret was determined that her daughter would be given chances that she had never received, and so she scrimped and saved to send her only child to the local Penny School, where Polly received instruction on how to read, write and count by Mrs Flora Black, at a penny a lesson.
The lessons were held in a make-shift school room in Mrs Black's home on Percy Street, and were attended by over a dozen children, ranging in age from seven to eleven. Mrs Black was a widow--though Polly's mother would oft roll her eyes and tut disapprovingly when this was mentioned--with one son, called James. She spoke in a soft voice with an accent that was far more refined than the Newcastle tongue that Polly was used to and, to the young girl, Mrs Black seemed the epitome of what a lady should be. Polly often thought that her teacher might secretly be a Countess, her appearance was so grand in comparison to the poverty beaten mothers of Newcastle who were her only source of contrast.
At the end of each lesson, Mrs Black would read aloud from a story book, before setting her charges free to roam the streets of the city. Inevitably, given the sense of freedom that the end of lessons brought, trouble would break out, usually with Polly at its centre.
She was a slight girl, having never quite caught up with her peers after her early arrival into the world, and as such was often a target for other children who were keen to assert themselves as leader of the pack. Unfortunately for these other children who thought the diminutive girl a soft target, the only thing that was small about Polly was her stature. She possessed a fierce pride and her father's fists, and as such soon earned herself the nickname of Polly the Jack, on account of the fact that she had more than a bit of a Jack Russell about her.
