Belinda

  Title Page

  BELINDA ~ A CRUEL PASSAGE WEST

  by

  BRYAN CAINE

  Publisher Information

  Belinda ~ A Cruel Passage West published by

  Chimera Books Ltd

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Digital edition converted and published by

  Andrews UK Limited 2010

  www.andrewsuk.com

  New Authors Welcome

  Copyright © Anonymous

  first printed in 1996

  reprinted in 2006

  The right of Bryan Caine to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

  Advisory Note

  This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Introduction

  ‘Do not be alarmed!’ hissed the freak as he cupped her cheeks and stared into her wide eyes. ‘Yes – I am a man! And because I need to dress as a woman I have been pilloried and run out of more towns than you could ever imagine!’

  Belinda couldn’t speak. Never before in her life had she seen or heard of such a thing.

  ‘My nuns know what I am – and they still love me.’ Once Salmacis could see she wasn’t going to scream or struggle he continued. ‘I see in your eyes great compassion, Belinda.’ One hand slipped furtively to the back of her head and pressed so gently she barely noticed. ‘I sensed it the instant I first set eyes on you. Do not forsake me out of ignorance. Do not forsake me like all the others.’ As Belinda continued to stare confusedly up into the hypnotic eyes the other hand gripped the base of the rigid cock and aimed it at her slightly parted lips. ‘Do not reject me, Belinda…’

  Chapter One

  Within minutes of Belinda landing in Virginia and meeting her wonderful new husband-to-be, he lay dead at her feet and the thugs who had stabbed him were advancing with intent to do the same to her.

  Belinda’s escape from a life of degradation and cruelty in Liverpool, her yearlong dreams as she awaited her journey to the American Territories of 1850 and her horrific voyage on a tobacco boat to Norfolk, Virginia, had all been in vain. Nineteen year old Belinda Hopeworth was now totally alone and helpless in a harsh and strange land, and was about to die a most horrible death herself…

  Chestnut-haired, beautiful, with a full figure and a lively and intelligent personality, Belinda had had a happy life in spite of her mother dying from tuberculosis when Belinda was just thirteen years old. Her father and brother had run the family cotton clothing manufactory on the outskirts of Liverpool with sufficient expertise to enable them to live in a small mansion house in the suburbs, and all of Belinda’s basic needs had been generously provided for.

  But being of a somewhat independent mind, she had earned herself a worthwhile amount of pin money by giving music lessons. The fact that her father had been able to afford to buy her a grand piano and a harp had helped her little business enormously, and life for her was as near perfect as any life could be.

  Her little world collapsed when first her father and then her brother had been arrested and imprisoned. The business had been struggling in the face of cheap imports from the empire, and her father, an otherwise honest man, had become desperate. He had started sending the same bills twice to his larger clients, and unfortunately for him, for a while their accounts departments had been paying him double for the same supplies. ‘Unfortunately’, because if he had been caught out at the beginning it would have been accepted as human error. But when a new office manager spotted and queried the double invoicing, it had not taken long to discover that this fraud had been going on regularly for well over a year.

  Soon the bailiffs took possession of the elegant house and garden that had been Belinda’s home, and, of course, her beloved and vital musical instruments. Within a few weeks she had been reduced to living in a stinking damp basement close to the River Mersey. Many clients abandoned her because her family was now classed as criminal, and those who stayed with her eventually faded away through natural wastage as the pupils achieved the required standard or became bored with music. She was a resilient girl, but in her reduced circumstances and with her family’s black record, she found it impossible to acquire new clients and quickly approached desperation.

  But luckily for her survival prospects she had another talent of which she was unaware. There was something about her pretty but tragic face that attracted certain gentlemen; gentlemen who had started talking to her as she wandered the dusty streets and had invited her to their drawing rooms to provide the particular services that they were especially interested in.

  Virtuous in virtually every respect, Belinda had nonetheless allowed herself to lose her virginity to a horse groom when she was still sixteen. She was a sensual girl who often had strong sexual thoughts that could take over her mind, especially when inflamed by certain sights or sounds. However her very moral middle-class upbringing caused her to fight against what she guiltily considered to be her basest instincts, and she thus had an almost permanent struggle taking place inside her. The joy of her first orgasm had quickly given way to bitter feelings of shame and self-disgust, and she had vowed never again to do such a thing if she could possibly avoid it.

  It had been a shock to her to discover exactly what these well-to-do men who invited her home were interested in, but her lack of other means had led her to accept the pain and humiliation that they had inflicted on her. What she found most heartbreaking was not the physical sensation, which she had started to tolerate very early on, it was the miserable amount of money with which the gentlemen – and in two cases ladies – had rewarded her. A half a day of being smacked, spanked, whipped, caned and, most horrible of all, indecently fondled, would only earn her just enough to pay her rent and buy her a minimal amount of food for half a week.

  Her worst client had been a man who had a short cane made of stainless steel, specially manufactured for him by a famous firm of sword makers to his own design. Its lash across her soft white bottom was the most vicious agony, and afterwards when almost dying with the burning pain she had requested payment he had thrown her out with the utmost contempt. He shouted at her that she was a disgusting whore, and so low was she that he would no more think of paying her than he would think of paying a maggot-infested dog’s turd.

  Poor Belinda had fled that wealthy gentleman’s city centre house in tears, and bumped straight into a man who was handing out broadsheets. Taking one from him by way of apologising for nearly knocking him over, she hurried back to her basement and read the small advertisements printed on each side of the coarse paper. She became more and more intrigued as she read, for all of the advertisers were gentlemen in America who were looking for English wives to join them. And from these she chose a natural-born American of thirty-five years of age with his own home and business in Virginia, an orphan who had made a decent life for himself, a man called Bill Wandle.

  Their correspondence lasted a year, the return trip for each pair of letters taking around two months, during which time she had to continue to eke a living as best she could, which mainly meant playing the submissive role to clients who wished to strip h
er, beat her and generally humiliate her to their heart’s content. She became partly inured to this treatment but could not wait for the day when she could set off for the magnificent new life that the wonderful sounding Bill was offering her.

  At last the letter she had longed for arrived. Kind-hearted and considerate, Bill had arranged for her to take passage on a tobacco merchantman that plied directly between Liverpool docks and the small but bustling port of Norfolk in Virginia. He had done this at extra expense, partly to save her from the cramped filth and misery of the immigrant boats, and partly so as she would land closer to his home in Virginia, rather than having to go to New York as was normal with the third class passenger ships.

  The four week trip would have been quite pleasant, with few other passengers and plenty of room, if a thief on board, panicking at the prospect of discovery, had not chosen to hide some purloined trinkets in Belinda’s bedding. The caning she had received from the bo’s’n on her bare bottom in front of the rest of the ship’s complement had been vicious but she had borne it stoically, telling herself it would be the last beating she would ever receive in her life. She did later have the pleasure of watching whilst the real thief – also a young woman – received the same punishment when she was finally caught. But what really stung Belinda was that nobody, from the Captain down to the passenger who had denounced her, offered the tiniest word or gesture of apology.

  But all unhappy thoughts fled as she leant over the ship’s side whilst it tied up amidst the bustle and the bales of cotton and tobacco at the Norfolk waterside. Bill, standing on the quay, had quickly identified her and had shouted happy introductions as he waited alone for her to disembark. She was relieved to see that he had a pleasant round face and was clearly as good-natured a man as his letters had implied.

  She hurried down the gangplank as soon as it was lowered – her luggage was no more than her handbag and the full-length green and white dress and brown boots that she was wearing. Bill, abandoning all formality in his joy at seeing her beauty, had hugged her very full bosom tight to his chest, lifted her off the ground and swung her around, to the amusement of the roughly dressed but good-natured dockside loafers.

  ‘Belinda!’ he cried, ‘I cannot believe my luck!’

  ‘Oh Bill!’ she cried back, her eyes swimming with tears of joy, ‘I just know we’re going to be so happy for the rest of our lives together!’ She knew she sounded melodramatic but she was too happy to care. She had also inwardly marvelled at Bill’s strange accent, having imagined that Americans spoke like English people, but it was curiously attractive and added to his appeal.

  ‘Honey,’ he had called her, to her amusement, ‘my carriage is just around the corner away from the port area. I’ve been waiting three whole days for you to get here and I had to station it somewhere out of the way. But it’s all hitched up and the horses are rearing to get you back to my little old estate,’ he cried out joyfully.

  A few minutes later they were sitting up in his buggy and he was just about to take the whip from its holder when two big and very rough-looking men in torn leather clothes approached from out of the shadows and gripped the two horses by their halters.

  ‘You ain’t going nowhere ‘less you all hand over your money now!’ shouted one of them. ‘So give it here and then you can get!’

  Horrified and in fear of her life Belinda went to throw down her handbag which contained around twenty pounds in English money; her whole life’s savings. But Bill stopped her.

  ‘Just hold on there, honey,’ he ordered in a firm voice. ‘If we give into crime now then there’s no future for America.’ And with that he leapt to the ground and hurled himself at the nearest of the two thugs. The man fell backwards under the assault, but before the shocked Belinda could scream a warning the other man had run at Bill with a big knife. It flashed in the sun and Bill fell to the ground, clearly dead.

  For a moment everything stopped. Belinda stared in shock at the cadaver of that wonderful man who had represented so much hope for her. But then the wheels of life started moving again and the two villains looked up at her. She screamed at them and threw her bag at their faces. They picked it up – but then started walking slowly towards her.

  ‘Can’t have no witnesses now, can we?’ said the one Bill had assailed. His accomplice, the knifeman, grinned his agreement. They walked closer. In terrified desperation Belinda snatched the whip from its holder and with a simple double movement lashed both of them across the face. As they fell backwards screaming she continued the movement of the whip and cracked it over the horses’ backs. Already nervous from the violence, they leapt into action and took off at an alarming speed up the hill and away from the port.

  Just before they hurtled around the bend that would take them out of sight of the waterfront, the distraught Belinda looked back and saw the two murderers going through Bill’s clothing and then dragging him to the bushes beside the road.

  Almost blinded by tears of grief, disappointment and terror, she kept the horses at a flat out gallop for several hours until, rounding a sharp bend on a hillside, the buggy turned over after hitting a pothole. Belinda flung herself free but the buggy rolled over the side of the road and hung down over a sheer drop. It was threatening to drag the terrified horses with it but Belinda was able to free their harnesses. As the carriage crashed to the valley below the horses stampeded away and had soon disappeared from sight.

  Now Belinda was truly lost, alone, penniless, utterly miserable and nearly three thousand sea miles from home. As she trudged tearfully down the dusty road her mind drifted. The life she had left behind suddenly seemed more appealing than this nightmare, she thought as bouts of mourning the murdered Bill Wandle alternated with the crushing disappointment that her own new life was also dead and buried. She had never really minded the spankings and canings, she tried to convince herself, even if it did tend to involve a lot of unwelcome sexual attention. If only she had stayed in Liverpool.

  A resilient girl, her spirits rose gradually as she tramped wearily along the trail, until they had bucked up to reach a level of mere numb misery. She then recalled her last visit to her brother in prison, when she had told him of her intentions of going to America, having told her heartbroken father the day before. But brother Charles had been happy for her, and had told her that they had an Uncle Albert who was well established in a town in California. It had a Spanish name which she couldn’t remember, but she clearly recalled that Charles had told her it meant ‘The Angels’ in English. He said that Uncle Albert was a very enterprising type and would be sure to be doing well. If she had any difficulties she should contact him. Charles didn’t know the address but said The Angels was a tiny town and she would have no trouble locating him once she reached there.

  Now Belinda was torn. She knew from the maps of America she had studied whilst anxiously waiting for her husband-to-be to send for her that there were over two thousand miles of uncivilised land between her and the West Coast. But she also knew there were nearly three thousand miles of equally uncivilised ocean between here and Liverpool. With no money Belinda had no choice, and she staggered on towards the setting sun. If nothing better happened on the way, then she was California bound. And if there was nothing there for her then Uncle Albert could ship her home. And, she swore, she would never be ill treated by anyone again.

  After another hour she had just passed a minor crossroads when her heart sprang into her mouth at the sudden thunder of hooves from behind. There was no cover alongside the road at this point and as she panicked a very expensive carriage driven by a highly aristocratic-looking man came to a sharp halt beside her in clouds of dust.

  Dark complexioned, black-eyed and sharp featured, dressed smartly in black with a top hat, he beamed down at her.

  ‘I say!’ he cried, ‘A beautiful damsel clearly in distress! My dear girl, do climb aboard and let’s hear your story!’

  And with that he j
umped down and helped Belinda up. An experienced girl, she did not miss the significance of his patting her rather sharply on the bottom as she climbed aboard, but she had come to expect that sort of thing from almost every man she met.

  He did not touch her after that though, and she poured out her sad story to him as they trotted along in the shiny black buggy. He showed great sympathy, and told her she must return to his tobacco plantation for the night at least. Very English, his name was Lord Raven and he claimed to be the biggest and the best slave owner in Virginia. He said he had maids and butlers, all Negroes, but if she was interested in staying on he would welcome an English housekeeper to run the household.

  ‘But let’s see how you fit in!’ he shouted cheerfully as, at dusk, they drove through the arched timber entrance of his vast plantation and started the hour-long trot along his drive to the house.

  Later that evening Belinda was delighted to find herself sitting with Lord Raven at his table, dressed simply but decently in a thin floral-patterned low-cut gown that had been fished out for her from the loft. She was pleased at the way in which it showed off her full soft bosom to the best effect. The tobacco plantation’s house was quite sumptuous and the dining room was beautifully furnished with a number of natural wickerwork and cane chairs and side tables. The large polished wooden dining table had a small banquet heaped upon it and she ate heartily of a refreshing fruit called a water melon followed by a choice of meats which included beef, duck and pork as well as boiled potatoes and cabbage – all very comfortingly British. This meal was luxury to Belinda after her recent experiences and Lord Raven was a generous and entertaining host. She felt more than just a surge of gratitude as she looked at him. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the suggestion of a sinister nature behind his handsome smile, Belinda could not help feeling greatly attracted to him, in an innocently romantic way. She kept pondering what her answer should be if he were to make any advances towards her. She hoped he wouldn’t, because she suspected that she could be eventually persuaded, and she really preferred to avoid that sort of thing until she was married. His face was handsome if a little sharp-featured and autocratic now that she could see it in clear dust free light, but he had dressed immaculately for dinner in a black velvet jacket, patterned cravat and thin black trousers of an uncertain silky material, and there was little about him to repel any healthy young woman.