Chapter 1

The year was 1791, my name was John Alfred Trelawney, and I was only 20 years of age, but already my life had been full of drama. My mother had died in childbirth, as had my twin brother. My father had taken an instant dislike to me; it was as if he blamed me for my mother’s death. He tolerated me until I was 10 years old and then sent me off to sea. I had spent ten years in the employment of Captain J Leonard.

I had spent a couple of years as a cabin boy learning the ropes, no pun intended before I eventually climbed to the heady heights of Petty Officer. We sailed mainly around the Mediterranean Sea, trading in anything that would make the grizzled old captain a few gold sovereigns. We traded silk, wool, spices and weapons. I took to it like a duck to water.

I had left my father’s estate as a sallow, scrawny youth but I was now returning as a man. I was as brown as a berry, fit as a fiddle and as strong as an ox. Ten years of fighting the sea, the weather, and the rogues of the sea whilst trading around various ports in the Mediterranean Sea had seen me change from a boy to a man. I had been away from home for too long, and now the time was right for me to return.

My ship had docked at Plymouth and I was on my way back to the family estate. My father was Squire Alfred John Trelawney who was Lord and Master of a 750-acre estate near Charlestown in Cornwall. I had packed my sparse belongings into a small sea chest and had then managed to beg a lift on a small coastal trader heading toward Mevagissey, a small fishing port near to my father’s estate. I figure that having lost me to the sea for so long my father’s hatred may have been tempered slightly.

We sailed into the harbour in Mevagissey at about midday. Once we had docked, I walked the few miles around the headland to the gates of my father’s estate. The gates were locked shut, so I climbed over the high dry stone wall and headed up along the lane that led to the manor house. As I walked up along the front lawn, I saw the front doors of the big house open, and a figure dressed in black stood on the front step. It was Arthur Jacobs, who was my father’s estate manager. I called out a greeting to him.

“Can I help you boy?” he called back. I bridled at being called a boy, I dropped my sea chest to the floor and whipped the sweat from my brow.

“I am here to meet with the squire,” I responded. It was obvious he did not recognise me, it had been quite a while to be fair.

“I am not sure who you are, boy, but you are not welcome here,” Jacobs shouted, his voice far from friendly. I tried to reply but he interrupted me.

“If I were you, lad, I would get off the estate while you can still walk off it,” he replied angrily and with that, he nodded to the corner of the building.

The two estate workers were approaching with a menacing look in their eyes and thick wooden staves in their hands. They were upon me before I had time to say anything. The first of the men swung hard and high, the wood whistling over my head as I ducked. Almost at the same time, my clenched fist drove into his stomach, smashing the wind from him and, as he doubled over, my knee smashed into his face. A crunch and the curse issued from his mouth told me his nose was broken. He dropped to his knees and I kicked out at him, catching him on the chin. His head snapped backwards and he was out like a light.

His accomplice was no more of a threat. His first blow caught me full on the shoulder, and I stumbled slightly as I lost my balance for a second. As he shaped to strike again, I kicked out, my booted foot catching him high on the inner thigh, he howled with pain and dropped his guard. I was about to smash my fist into his podgy face when a voice called out.

“Stop, Master John, stop, Sir. I beg of you,” it was a woman’s voice.

I dropped my fists and turned toward the voice, a voice that I recognised from my childhood. It was a voice full of kindness and then suddenly there was a flash of light and everything went black before I hit the floor.

My eyes started to clear and I was looking up at a white ceiling. The back of my head throbbed and, when I reached around and rubbed it, I felt a large lump. I looked around the spartan room. It was dark but I could see I was on a bed, and in the corner of the room there was a table with a water jug and bowl. My mouth felt like it was filled with dry sand. I tried to stand up to get a drink of water but my legs were wobbly and, as I slipped off the edge of the bed, my knees buckled beneath me, and the room went dark again.

The sun streaming through the window must have awoken me. I looked around and saw the owner of the voice sitting on a chair at the foot of the bed. It was Mrs Jacobs; she was the owner of the voice I had recognised. Mrs Jacobs was my father’s housekeeper and wife of his estate manager. She had been just like a mother to me in my younger years. She smiled at me and offered me a cup of water that I drained with gusto. Her eyes were full of tears as she refilled the cup from the water jug.

“Please don’t cry for me, Mrs Jacobs,” I groaned, “twas a lucky blow that felled me, but I am sure I will be as right as rain in a few days.”

This comment brought forth floods of tears and Mrs Jacobs sobbed uncontrollably. I tried my best to console her but she was distraught. Her sobs must have been very loud as Jacobs soon appeared at the door. He took his wife by the arm, and led her out of the room and returned within a few moments.

“Are you feeling okay, Sir,” Jacobs enquired.

“A bit sore, Arthur, but I should be okay in a day or two,” I replied. “Why the heavy-handed approach to visitors, Arthur?”

“I am so sorry, Sir; the estate has been the target of several attacks by vagabonds in recent months, so the lads are on guard 24 hours a day just in case of trouble,” Jacobs explained. “And we did not recognise you; you are so grown up, Master John.”

“Its okay, Jacobs, it’s been a long time and I am sure there was no malice intended,” I replied, “I hope the two estate workers are okay.”

“A little embarrassed and a bit of wounded pride but on the whole, they will be fine. “ He smiled. His hand extended and we shook like old friends. Jacobs had been like a big older brother to me in my youth, we had roamed the estate together before my departure.

He apologised for not recognising me and I accepted his apology with good grace.

“So, Arthur, where is my father? I should like to see him.” My question seemed to cast a dark shadow over Jacobs’ face.

“Let’s go into the study, Master John. I think we need to talk.” The tone of Jacobs’ voice seemed a little sad and that worried me.

I stood up gingerly, with tottering steps, and with Jacobs helping me. I managed to get into the book-lined study. The next few hours changed my life forever. Jacobs filled me in on the recent history of the estate, of my father’s fall to his death from his favourite horse while out hunting the previous year. He told me of his attempts to trace me after my father’s death. He filled me in on all that had happened during the eight years I had been at sea. I walked into the study as Master John and walked out a few hours later as Squire John Trelawney, Lord, and Master of the Trelawney estate.

That night I slept on and off, tossing and turning, and the night seemed to fly past. The morning was bright and sunny so I slipped into my trousers and shirt and then walked barefoot to the front steps. I looked out over the estate - looked out over my estate. It was my land, as far as the eye could see, the land, and everything on it belonged to me. In a way, my heart was full of sadness and regret at the loss of my father and, at the same time, I was filled with excitement for my future as Squire of the Trelawney manor.

I turned to walk back into the house. Mrs Jacobs was in the hallway. We exchanged smiles. I had known Amy Jacobs all my life, she was only ten years older than me, but out of respect I still called her Mrs Jacobs

“Good morning, Mrs Jacobs,” I said cheerfully.

“Good morning, Sir, and what a wonderful morning it is,” she replied. “So Master John ... Sorry, Squire Trelawney, what’s it to be first? Your breakfast, or your bath.”

I opted for breakfast before the bath, as I was ravenous. Mrs Jacobs ushered me into the large oak-panelled dining room. I sat at the end of the highly polished oak dining table. Mrs Jacobs bustled away to the kitchen, and within moments, I was aware of a maid being in the room. She laid out the table in front of me.

At first, her appearance did not catch my eye, but when she poured me out a large mug of milk, I took in the view. She was a rosy-cheeked country wench, blond and well built. I put her age at twenty-one or perhaps a tad younger. As she served my porridge and then my bread and jam, I admired her more and more. Her black and white maid’s uniform did little to hide her figure; her large bum and big bosom immediately drew my attention.

I had just finished my breakfast when Mrs Jacobs came back into the dining room.

“Squire, Sir, would it be okay if I left you in Mary’s capable hands?” she asked. “I promised the vicar I’d help him to clean out the church today.”

“Of course it’s okay, Mrs Jacobs.” I nodded my approval.

“Well, then, Squire, your bath is ready and there is more water heating on the stove. When you need it, just give young Mary a call and she will top it up for you.” With a curtsy and a smile, Mrs Jacobs was gone.

It was only when Mrs Jacobs had gone that I realised I was unsure where the bathroom actually was. It had been a long time since I had lived in the house. I asked Mary to show me the way, her swaying hips and big bouncy bum made me excited as she led me up the stairs to the bathroom and I decided that I would have her before the week was out. Once in the bathroom, Mary pointed out where the towels were kept and she showed me the pull cord for the bell that would attract her attention if I needed anything.

Mary closed the door behind herself as she left and I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the warm water. Lying back, I wallowed in the soft water. I had been around and had sampled one or two women in the foreign ports the ship had visited, but I would not say I was an experienced lover. I pondered these thoughts and debated on whether Mary would be receptive to my charms. She certainly was built for comfort and fun. I wondered if she was experienced in the art of lovemaking.

I started to think back to the few girls I had bedded on my travels, including a lovely big French girl that had been the best lover I had ever had. She did things with her lips and tongue that would make your eyes water. The effect it had on my body was inevitable, and I decided that as I was alone I would give myself a bit of a helping hand so to speak. I had not had more than perhaps three or four strokes when I heard the door swing open, and Mary walked into the room.

She smiled at me knowingly before asking if I would like more hot water, which she poured in at the foot of the bath. Then to my surprise, she asked if I needed any help, perhaps my back needed scrubbing. I was more than a little taken aback with her offer but still, it was a very nice offer. I accepted without hesitation. She may have been my maid but I did not want to offend her, after all. Mary grabbed the bar of soap and a washcloth. I was soon leaning forward as the comely wench scrubbed, then rinsed my back, shoulders, and neck, her hands stroked softly over my skin.