Secrets of a Heart

By Samantha Garman

London, 1815. At the age of nineteen, Blaine Whitmore loses everything dear to him in a brutal assault on his family line. Left with nothing, he finds himself aboard a merchant ship sailing far from home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: IndieReader
• Release date: Feb 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493562626

Samantha Garman

Indie author Samantha Garman lives in Brooklyn--way too close to a donut bakery. After seven years in the hospitality industry, she had enough horror stories to write a book. Tales of New York Waitress is now available. Stalk her on Facebook (Samantha Garman-Author), Twitter (@samgarman), Instagram (sammgarman), or Tumblr (http://samanthagarman.tumblr.com). You can also visit samanthagarman.com but she rarely updates it.

Book preview

Secrets of a Heart

by

Samantha Garman

Copyright 2013 Samantha Garman

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*****

Prologue

London, England

Fall of 1815

Dawn was two hours gone, yet the sky was charcoal black as sheets of rain poured down the circular stone walls of Neville Prison. Though the exterior was forbidding and most who entered never left alive, it still did little to discourage law breaking. The condemned apprehensively awaited their fate in tiny, cold, somber cells that overlooked the scaffolds in the spacious courtyard at the center of the horseshoe shaped institution. The last days of their unfortunate lives were shared with rats and screams from the hopeless; their final view would be from atop the gallows, scrutinizing the beautiful, expansive exit where free men roamed the streets of London, where they, themselves, would never walk again.

Wet mud caked the boots of every man, woman, and child in the square. Everyone was soaked through and through, yet it did not diminish the palpable excitement scuttling through the crowd.

Despite the torrential downpour, hundreds of people were entering through the prison’s only entrance, packing as close to the gallows as space would allow. They were expectantly awaiting another public execution, much like a child anticipates the dawn of a holiday morning.

The sound of pelting rain and conversation did not drown out the churning thoughts in Blaine’s head; his belly full of turmoil and angst. He did not bother pushing the wet clumps of coarse, black hair out of his ocean blue eyes. Wading through three-inch deep mud, he moved to the back of the fervent crowd. He was taller than most, and his sight of the gallows was not compromised by the mob that waited for the hangman to deliver the prisoner.

This was peasants’ theater, a reprieve from their miserable lives, a pardon from the daily drudgery and monotony. It took little to rouse their thirst for another man's blood.

Through the din of rain and the clatter of carts on the street, Blaine could hear the occasional yell of some drunken lout hungrily expecting bloodshed, and grimaced in disgust. These people reminded him of ancient Romans, impatiently awaiting the onslaught of gladiators who would fight to the death for mere sport.

Human beings are cruel. Like fate itself, he thought bitterly.

The rain began to lighten, and from between two stone walls on the far side of the courtyard, a gigantic hangman clad in soiled leathers and heavy, black cloth emerged. He led the prisoner forcefully toward the scaffold, not once considering kindness, as it was not his nature.

The convict stumbled and fell face first into the mud, hands bound before him.

The crowd’s cheer was deafening.

A sharp tug on the prisoner’s chain forced him to scramble to his feet. It was an awkward movement, and with his hands shackled, balance was not easy to find. His face and clothes were covered in mud, yet he straightened his spine in resolution as he continued the slow path toward his death. He was tall, and at any other time he would have worn arrogance like a shield. There was no need for it now.

Traitor! a random man from the throng called out. The onlookers went wild, screaming, taunting and throwing rotting vegetables and rocks.

Despite the barrage, the prisoner remained upright with a distastefully bored look on his face, until one rock struck his forehead with a heavy blow. A wide gash spread across his brow. Blood trailed down his face, mixing with rain and mud and running into his eyes.

The provost trailed discreetly behind the prisoner, along with a priest who would bless the traitor’s blackened soul in the moments before death.

How ironic, Blaine thought. Bless a man before killing him.

The elegant man slowly trudged up the steps of the platform, blood flowing freely from his wound.

Growing restless, the mob impatiently awaited the commencement of the hanging, and Blaine felt his blood course rapidly through his veins as the sight before him began to unfold.

The criminal was maneuvered over a spot on the gallows where two planks would eventually open, causing him to fall a few feet. If Luck were on his side, his neck would snap, killing him instantly; but if Luck were to desert him, the man would slowly strangle to death instead.

The hangman placed a thick braided rope around the prisoner’s neck, pulling it snug.

The throng roared with impatience. They were demanding blood, not caring whether it was for retribution or a cheap thrill.

Unrolling a scroll, the provost began to read, Thomas Charles Whitmore, Earl of Grisham, you are hereby declared guilty of high treason against the British Crown. You have been found guilty of selling English secrets to Napoleon Bonaparte. Your title is hereby stripped from you, and your wealth and lands forfeit to the Crown.

Stepping forward, the priest made the sign of the holy cross and then quietly began to recite the Last Rites for those about to die. As the priest read aloud, the criminal took a deep breath and began to scan the crowd.

Blaine’s blue eyes locked with the traitor’s, though he wondered how the man could see anything through the blood clouding his vision. A look of calm seemed to spread across the prisoner’s face just as the priest finished his speech. There was no time for fear as the hangman pulled the lever, which released the mechanism, causing the traitor to fall through the gallows floor. The rope snapped taut.

The sanguine mob erupted into cheers, shouting in jubilation as the prisoner kicked wildly and fought the pain of the inevitable. Flailing turned into spasms of a dying man succumbing to his final silence, and the crowd quieted. Only the sound of air being forced through a crushed windpipe could be heard through the entire square.

Finally, the felon was dead, legs dangling like a pendulum slowly pulling his body back and forth on the rope from which he hung.

Blaine’s eyes refused to leave the still form, watching as blood soaked the rope that took the man’s life.

Luck was not with him today.

Thomas Charles Whitmore, Blaine’s father, had died a tragic and gruesome death.

***

Another spectator of the hanging listened to the thunderous cheers of peasants and smiled cruelly. He enjoyed the spectacle immensely.

Escaping the squalor of the mob, he walked away from the gallows and into street traffic. Trudging briskly down the slick, uneven cobblestone, he jumped into an awaiting unmarked coach. He waited impatiently, completely unmindful that he was dripping rainwater on the coach’s worn, black fabric.

There was a quick tap on the cab door. He pushed it open and a medium-sized man with a long scar on his right cheek quickly scrambled inside and shut the door. The spectator grimaced in distaste as a revolting odor reeked from his new companion.

You saw the traitor’s son? the spectator asked without prelude.

The scar-faced man grinned. Yea, the lad looked as though ’e was about te cry.

The spectator pulled out a small leather purse of gold coins, and tossed it to the scar-faced man across from him. Here is half as promised. You will receive the other half after the deed is done.

A moment passed as the scar-faced man held the purse in his hand, weighing its contents. Satisfied, he tucked the purse into a grimy, tattered coat. How’ll I prove it an’ get the other half of my gold?

The spectator sneered in distaste at the scruffy man before him. Greedy desperation disgusted him like nothing else. The boy carries a family dagger. It has the family crest on it. Bring it to me and I will consider it proof that he is dead. Only then will you have earned the other half of your gold.

With a tip of his soiled hat and a crooked smile, the scar-faced man was gone as quickly as he had come.

Soon, the spectator thought, soon it will be done.

***

After the hangman lowered the body of his father to the ground, Blaine finally turned away. Anger and pain swirled in his belly, clawing their way up his throat. It took all his resolution not to be sick on the street.

The sight of his father’s hanging would haunt him for years to come.

Slowly dispersing, the peasants were returning to the grind of their wretched lives.

Blaine had nowhere to go, no one to care if he came home or not. He had no wife, no children and now the last family he had in the world was gone.

Mindlessly, he let his feet carry him toward the wharf. Perhaps he could find a seedy tavern in which to hole up and forget the day, though he thought there was not enough brandy in existence to blot out the memory.

Dock workers, doxies and sordid men looking for disreputable dealings came to the docks. The buildings in the area were crumbling, grimy, and in no way respectable establishments. In a past life, Blaine would never have found himself looking for such a place in which to drown his despair. But this night, it was exactly what Blaine hoped to find.

There were no longer welcoming embraces in his circle of friends and acquaintances. His life of privilege was lost to him now.

He found a nondescript tavern and immediately ducked into it. Swarthy seamen and the women they were trying to coerce into bed littered the room. Blaine approached the long bar and set down a few coins in front of the barkeep.

Will this buy me a bottle of brandy? Blaine asked, hearing the hollowness in his own voice.

The barkeep chewed on a matchstick a moment and then answered in a thick accent that sounded like a bastardization of Scottish and sea-hand, It will. But no’ the best. Ye need more money if ye want a better bottle, laddie.

Blaine had very little left in the way of gold, so he shrugged acceptingly.

Bottle of second-rate brandy and an empty glass in hand, Blaine promptly took his new acquisitions into the corner and sat.

It would be a long night, and he had a terrible bottle of brandy to get through.

***

Blaine’s head spun with cheap liquor and anguish. He could not believe he was sitting alone in a dingy tavern along the wharf, a place where no gentleman would ever go. Gentleman. He reviled the word. He was no gentleman, not any longer.

Weeks ago, scandal had erupted when Blaine’s father, the Earl of Grisham, had been accused of treason. The Crown had no sympathy when it came to traitors. The Earl was imprisoned immediately, and then had a speedy trial that was nothing more than a formality. He was found guilty and only a few short days later, he was hanged.

As soon as Blaine heard the accusations against his father, he had sought out Lord Rivington. Blaine requested the man’s aid in helping him prove his father’s innocence, for Blaine did not believe for an instant that his father was guilty. Blaine had hoped Lord Rivington would stand by him, considering Lady Juliana, Lord Rivington’s daughter, was engaged to marry Blaine.

Instead, the Rivington butler had patronizingly informed Blaine that Lady Juliana and her father were not at home. As Blaine turned to retreat, he saw a pair of pansy blue eyes belonging to his fiancée peeping out from the salon curtains. It was a knife to Blaine’s gut, realizing that his fiancée would never again be seen with him in public.

Later that afternoon at the Grisham family townhouse, Blaine received a tersely worded note from Lord Rivington, breaking off the betrothal between Blaine and his daughter. Blaine needed no explanation. He was the son of a man found guilty of high treason. It was only the beginning of society turning against him. His noble blood was tarnished beyond repair. The aristocracy were cruel to their own when scandal was in their midst. They turned their back on anyone they deemed unworthy as though disgrace was a rabid, incurable disease that could be caught and transmitted through the ranks.

No one had believed the Earl of Grisham to be innocent of his crimes; no one except his son. How am I to verify my father’s innocence? I have no wealth, and all my friends have deserted me. I do not even know where to begin! Blaine thought dismally, taking another sip of the foul drink.

It was rapidly becoming clear to Blaine that he had nothing left except a small purse of coin and the irreplaceable dagger his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday. Soon, a raging hangover would join his purse and dagger, but for now he kept nursing his brandy.

He no longer had a home, inheritance or any existing wealth save the coins he carried, and he would never escape his father’s reputation. Blaine had lived as an entitled heir his entire life, but now that future had been cruelly snatched from him; he had no knowledge of how he was to survive. Perhaps he could make his living as a gambler. Yes! Move to America and spend his time wandering from tavern to tavern in hopes of winning enough money to live.

He grimaced. He was only a moderately skilled card player.

Maybe he could find work in some wealthy American’s stables as a groom.

Groom. The idea was ludicrous. He knew one thing for certain; he could not stay in England. Disgraced, he would have no chance to build a new life or the means to discover the truth about his father. Doors that were once open to him would be shut firmly in his face and locked.

The vision of his father’s path to the noose and the vicious throng plagued him. He could still see his father’s eyes finding him in the crowd through a haze of blood. Blaine could still hear the sound of air being strangled through a closed windpipe and the sight of legs dangling lifelessly played over and over again in his mind.

Surely, he would have nightmares for years to come.

Taking another long pull of brandy, the liquor burned his throat. At the age of nineteen, Blaine had been drunk a handful of times and only with friends at one of the gentlemen’s clubs he used to frequent and to which he belonged. He was thankful no one knew him in this part of town. For this, he preferred solitude and anonymity. Those around him would not care if he got foxed and passed out in a grungy alleyway, exposed to the cretins of the city.

Spiraling deeper into depression, he gripped his glass tightly. He looked longingly at the potent, amber liquid and hoped it would wash over him like a massive ocean wave and obliterate his musings. Not even second-rate brandy was a strong enough escape.

Serves me right for not having enough coin for a proper bottle, he thought miserably.

Blaine was lost in a melancholic reverie, unaware that he had caught the attention of two men who had entered the tavern. Physically, they could not be more different; one was short and wiry with a long scar across his right cheek, and small, rodent eyes that darted around the room. His companion was tall, muscular and oafish, with a thick unruly beard. He did not look at all intelligent and it was clear from his size that he was used to intimidate people.

The short, scarred man whispered something to his large accomplice, who eagerly nodded and focused his large, dull eyes on Blaine.

Blaine could not be more conspicuous; his clothing was of the highest quality despite it being wrinkled, and his boots, though worn, were made of fine leather, unaffordable to all but the wealthiest of men. He did not belong, and he could not have been more obvious about it.

As the two crooks sauntered toward him, the murmur of low conversation masked their footsteps. Blaine eventually looked up from his drink, his eyes glassy and bloodshot.

The stubby, scarred man smirked, showing many missing teeth. The few that remained were black and rotted. The long red scar curving the length of his right cheek made the man even uglier. His closely cropped hair showed the odd shape of his skull.

Well, well, well. Look what we ’ave ’ere. Ye ever seen boots like these, Joe? the scar-faced man asked his gargantuan friend.

Joe scratched his bushy chin and said, No, siree. Look at ’em. Fine leather if I do say so myself.

From the looks of ’em, I think they might fit me, Scar-face pronounced with a grin.

Blaine peered at the man’s feet and drunkenly commented, It does not look like those stubby pegs will fit into these boots.

There were some sniggers from other patrons in the tavern, but then the room grew unsympathetically quiet. The salty seamen wanted to see how the situation would play out. The young gentleman was outnumbered and out of his element. Yet, some of them could not help but admire his pluck at picking a fight with the likes of two murderous-looking blokes.

Scar-face turned red from Blaine’s insult, and Blaine was clearly too foxed to hold back a smile.

"Gimme yer boots, now," Scar-face demanded in a slow drawl that failed to hide his fury.

No, Blaine responded pleasantly.

Leaning over, Scar-faced placed one hand on the heavy wooden table and nearly growled. Gimme those boots, or I’ll have Joe ’ere take ’em from ye—and believe me, ye won’t be likin’ ’is method.

Blaine recoiled from Scar-face’s repugnant breath.

The boots were worn, but well cared for. They were of the finest quality available, and cost as much as a year’s wages for most commoners. Price and affection aside, there was no way Blaine would give them up to some lowly thugs.

Go to hell, Blaine shot out blearily, before he could stop himself.

Without hesitation, Scar-face lunged for him and managed to grab Blaine’s coat lapel on his journey over the table.

The two men fell backward with a crash. Blaine’s head smacked against the filthy tavern floor, bright, dancing stars clouding his vision. He was underneath Scar-face who wasted no time bashing him in the nose.

A resounding crunch, instant pain and a spurt of blood told Blaine his nose was broken, but he had no time to think about it. As he attempted to fight back and throw Scar-face off of him, something heavy and dense collided with his skull.

At once, he was pitched into darkness.

***

Blaine woke with a throbbing head and nose. Slowly, he opened his eyes, the ground beneath him rocking profusely. He tried to sit up as his stomach rolled with nausea.

Wakin’ up now are ye’? a gritty, baritone voice asked.

Blaine looked up and squinted. The sun was beating down in full force, and he could not stifle a groan of pain, his throat parched from thirst. Where—where am I? he groused.

"The Andromeda."

The man was squat, muscular, and completely bald. He sported a large gold hoop through his left ear, but Blaine could not tell the age of the brown and weathered face. He was a formidable looking chap, but wasted no time reaching down to give Blaine a friendly hand up off the deck.

Blaine’s feet were cold and bare, yet his sluggish brain made the connection; his boots were gone. He looked at his feet and said quite simply, Bloody hell.

The man nodded. Aye. I found ye just as two pretty boys looked te work ye over with a knife. No doubt they’da slit yer neck an’ thrown ye inte the sea.

My thanks for your help, Blaine replied. His hand went to his body to see if anything other than his nose was broken or damaged.

He discovered his priceless, family dagger was missing and then let out a stream of curses that would make even the saltiest sailor proud. The dagger had not only belonged to his father, but it was also Blaine’s last remaining possession that had any sort of sentimental value. It had been a gift from William the Conqueror to the Whitmore family as a reward for their loyalty.

What am I to do now? he thought desperately. There was no one who could help him—no one to care if lived. Perhaps he should have let me die.

Where are you bound? Blaine asked, wincing as he gingerly caressed his shattered nose.

West Indies an’ the Americas. We sail today.

The Andromeda was bustling with swarthy sea hands performing various tasks. Saltwater and the stench of sweat pierced Blaine’s aching nose. He could hear men yelling commands and grunting as they worked. Some deck hands were braiding splices into rope, hammering wooden pegs into places Blaine could only guess the purpose of, and busily mopping and scrubbing every surface of the ship. It appeared as though this crew was well versed in sea travel and would be ready to shove off from the docks soon.

You are the captain, I presume? Blaine asked.

Aye. Griff Hawthorne at yer service. Griff bowed mockingly and grinned as though he were performing a delicate curtsy.

Blaine’s jaw tightened, and he looked around. Though Luck had been against him yesterday, perhaps she was at his side now.

Might you have need of another hand? I will work hard and earn my keep. Blaine had nothing left except the clothes on his back, and he realized he could not stay in England. He had no home, no family and he could not spend his time drinking alone in a tavern for the rest of his life. He did not have the coin, for one thing.

Who knew what sort of trouble might find him if he stayed? Some other ruffian might take it upon himself to kill him just for his coat buttons, hoping they would fetch a moderate price. Griff was Blaine’s only hope for survival.

Stroking his beard, Griff looked Blaine up and down. He reached out quickly, his hand locking onto Blaine’s. Just as I thought. Ye’ve never done a lick of ’ard work in yer life. Yer no good te me unless yer willin’ te change that.

I could not lie even if I wanted to. My hands say it all, anyway, Blaine thought. The ship swayed, and Blaine’s stomach rolled again. Nausea made him hesitate before he admitted quite simply, That is true, sir, but I have nothing left to lose. My bare feet will attest to that.

Griff laughed suddenly and then slapped Blaine hard on the back. Blaine pitched forward from the force.

Ye look as green as a young lad ye do, an’ ye’ve got soft years on ye, Griff observed. If ye’ve truly got nothin’ left te lose I can use ye, but ’tis a ’ard life on the sea—Aye, I’ll give ye a chance. Ye got a name, lad?

Blaine thought for a brief moment about his name, Blaine Sebastian Grayson Whitmore. That man is dead. My name is Sebastian Grayson. You can call me Gray.

"Welcome to The Andromeda, Gray. Soon ye’ll get sea legs an’ calluses. Yer back will grow strong. Ye’ll sleep anywhere ye can an’ no’ care a lick, an’ I promise ye this lad—ye’ll earn yer keep if ye wish te stay on this ship. Griff gestured to Gray’s torn and bloody jacket and brown breeches. Ye can forget about yer life o’ leisure. As o’ this moment, that life is gone."

Gray smiled without humor. It most certainly is.

***

Sea life might just kill the lad, Griff thought as he watched Gray bend over the rail. It was only Gray’s third day aboard The Andromeda, and he was still sick as a dog. He spent most of his time retching violently into the sea. Even when there was nothing left to throw up, the sounds of his dry heaving were unmistakable. When the seasickness momentarily abated, Gray was absorbing everything there was to know about sailing. He did not shirk duties or appear incompetent. At least to Griff.

Griff instructed his first mate, Chester, to teach Gray the basics. Chester was a seasoned veteran of the sea who looked and smelled the part. He was stocky and barrel-chested, his dirty brown hair tied back.

Why do I ’ave te do this? Chester grumbled.

"Yer the best alive with a dirk, dagger or cutlass an’ ’e could benefit from yer expertise as it were," Griff said.

Chester frowned. Ye think flattery will change my mind?

Absolutely. Griff smiled good-naturedly. They both glanced at Gray who was hanging over the side of the ship.

When Griff had taken stock of Gray, he had only noticed his expensive clothing and soft hands. Gray was tall, but there was no way to know if would ever build the muscle that went along with life at sea. After a few days of retching, Gray was thin, his cheekbones sharply etched in his face, and he was bordering on gangly. Any more heaving and he really would be just bones.

Fer the love o’—! What’re ye tryin’ te prove? That ye can take any coddled weaklin’ an’ turn ’im inte a man? Chester gritted out.

Griff smirked as he looked at the stout, weathered seaman and then back at Gray. Perhaps ’e’ll no’ make it, but watchin’ ’im try is awful good fun fer me.

They stopped long enough to observe the young man push himself off the railing and attempt to stand. He was pale, shaking and visibly ill, but he was obviously trying as best he could to hold it together.

Gray ’as te last at least te the next port. I found the poor sod dead drunk along the docks an’ saved ’im from getting’ ’is throat slit. I brought ’im aboard an’ gave ’im a pair o’ my boots. ’E ’as te stay on long enough te pay m’back fer those. They’re one o’ my favorite pairs.

Chester finally smiled, showing surprisingly white teeth in a craggy, pockmarked face. Ye plan te work the lad te the bone, don’t ye? If ’is stomach don’t finish ’im off, ye will.

Aye. I think it’ll be good fer our young gentleman. Ye need te teach ’im te defend ’imself.

Chester raised his eyebrows. Now ye expect me te take this scrawny excuse fer a man an’ turn ’im inte a sailor?

Ye sure as ’ell can try.

Why don’t I just start prayin’ fer a miracle now? Chester demanded.

If ye think anyone’s listenin’, go right ahead.

The sound of gagging reached their ears.

’Ow much more can ’e throw up? Chester asked in amazement. There’s nothin’ left!

Start trainin’ ’im immediately. Give ’im somethin’ else te focus on an’ then maybe ’is belly’ll calm down.

Wobbling like a newborn colt, Gray tried to stand upright but failed miserably.

"I