by Mary Nichols
James rode back to the inn in contemplative mood. He found himself going over and over what had happened on the fateful day when he and Mrs Macdonald had been travelling companions. She had behaved strangely, her face a mask, lacking animation, but the eyes were a different matter. Her distress was obvious in them. To under take a journey of that length with no baggage and no money was reckless and foolish, and indicated she had left home in a great hurry, though whether voluntarily or not, he could not say. Lord Trentham had said the house she lived in had been a shambles and he had gone and seen it for himself before leaving London. Some thing had happened there, something violent. But that did not necessarily mean she had come from there when she boarded the coach. It could have happened after she left.
The man with her had been a queer sort of escort, a rough character with no manners at all, one of the lower orders, someone a lady would certainly not choose to take care of her. Where had they met? What hold did he have over her? He was certainly known to those two high waymen. Did she know them, too? She had certainly been afraid of them, but any young lady would be frightened under the cir cum stances, so that did not signify. And where was her husband? The mystery intrigued him, the more so because a lovely and seemingly innocent young lady was involved. But was she innocent? Was she perhaps an even better actress than her mother?
He had been dealing with the criminal fraternity long enough to know you could not tell by appearances. Some seemingly innocent young ladies were bigger criminals than the men, deceiving, thieving, pretending to be the victims of the crime when they were the perpetrators. He had come across such women more than once and had hardened his heart to turn them in. But was Mrs Macdonald like that? Had she been fleeing from justice when he first met her? The more he thought about it, the more he realised he would not rest until he had the answers to all these questions.
He arrived back at the inn to go over it with Sam, but his servant had no more idea than he had what had happened, and he was more wary. ‘Sir, ’tis my belief you’re being conned by a pair of fetching blue eyes,’ he said.
‘Why do you say that? Our presence on that coach could not have been predicted, nor that I should visit Mr Fielding when I did.’
‘True,’ Sam admitted. ‘But you didn’t have to say you’d come here, did you?’
‘I was curious.’
‘Ah, now we have the truth of it. And I’ll wager my best wig you wouldn’t have been so eager if she had been an old witch with long talons and a pointed chin.’
James laughed. ‘Witches fly about on broom sticks, they do not need coaches.’
Sam appreciated the jest. ‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘I am going to have supper at Blackfen Manor. I suggest you get to know the locals. You never know what you may learn.’
‘You will need your best coat, then. ’Tis as well I fetched everything out of your bag and hung it up in your room to let the creases drop out.’
‘Good man. I think I will sleep for an hour or so. I am wearied with travelling. You may rouse me at six o’clock with a dish of coffee and hot water to wash.’
Promptly at seven, he was shown into the drawing room at Blackfen Manor where the three ladies waited for him. They had obviously taken trouble with their attire; Mrs Macdonald in particular looked very fetching in a gown whose colour exactly matched her eyes and, though wigless, her hair had been carefully curled and powdered. He executed a flourishing bow. ‘Ladies, your obedient.’
They curtsied and Aunt Harriet bade him be seated, offering him a glass of homemade damson wine while they waited for supper to be served.
‘Are you comfortable at the inn, Captain?’ Amy asked. He had, she noted, taken trouble with his appearance. Gone was the man in the buff coat and plain shirt; here was a beau in a coat of fine burgundy wool, trimmed with silver braid down its front and on the flaps of the pockets. Rows of silver buttons marched in a double line from the neck to well below the waist, though none of them was fastened. His waist coat was of cream silk, embroidered with both gold and silver thread, above which a frilled neck cloth cascaded. A silver pin nestled in its folds and a quizzing glass hung from a cord about his neck. He wore his own hair, arranged with side buckles and tied back with a black ribbon.
‘Yes, it suits me well enough, thank you.’
‘Where do you live? Ordinarily, I mean.’
‘When I was at sea, I had no permanent home, so my wife stayed with my parents at Colbridge House in London, but just before I left the service I bought a small country estate, near Newmarket, intending to settle down there. But it was not to be.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘My wife died.’ He spoke flatly.
‘Oh, I am so sorry, Captain,’ she said, noticing the shadow cross his face and the way his hand went up to finger the pin in his cravat. ‘I would not for the world have distressed you with my questions.’
‘Do not think of it, Mrs Macdonald. It happened while I was away at sea. I did not even see her before the funeral.’
‘That must have been doubly hard for you to accept.’
It surprised him that she used the word accept and had hit upon exactly how he had felt, still felt. ‘Yes, it was.’
‘That is all we can do, is it not?’ she said. ‘Accept God’s will, though we do not understand why it should be. I have to accept there is a divine purpose in my loss of memory, but for the moment it eludes me.’
He was grateful for her insight and for the way she had changed the subject so adroitly, allowing him to become business like again. ‘I have no doubt your memory will return, perhaps suddenly, perhaps slowly, little by little.’
She blushed suddenly remembering the only memory that had flitted into her mind earlier that day, that he had held her in his arms. When and why? And had she been content or outraged? She was glad when the butler came to announce that supper was on the table, and the Captain offered his arm to escort her into the dining room behind the aunts.
It was a big oak-panelled room with heavy dark oak furniture that had probably been there since Elizabeth was on the throne. They took seats at one end of a long refectory table and were served with soup, followed by a remove of boiled carp, roast chicken, braised ham, peas, broccoli and salad, together with several kinds of tartlets.
‘Do you know if those two criminals have been brought to book?’ Amy asked, after they had all helped them selves from the dishes, and was surprised when he appeared startled.
‘Two criminals?’ he repeated to give himself time to digest what she had said. Surely she knew nothing of Randle and Smith? It was not that he wanted to keep his quest for them a secret, but simply that if she had known of them, it would give the lie to her loss of memory and set her firmly among the ne’er-do-wells.
‘Yes, those two who held up the coach. My aunts are sure they stole my baggage, for I had none when I arrived.’
He breathed again. ‘Oh, those two,’ he said. ‘No doubt they followed us and looted the coach after we left it. It was in a sorry state and everything scattered. Unfortunately we were not able to gather anything up.’
‘There, I was sure that was what had happened,’ Harriet put in, busy cutting up the chicken, ready to be offered round. ‘You would never have set off without a change of clothes.’
‘It is strange that so momentous an adventure can have slipped my mind,’ Amy said. ‘You would think it of sufficient import to be unforgettable, would you not? Were they masked? How did they speak? Did they injure anyone? Were they gentlemanly?’
‘Certainly not gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Rough spoken and in black cloaks and masks, impossible to identify. They were armed and each fired once, but hit no one. I think they took pity on you, for after they had robbed me, they let us go.’ He was, he realised, being sparing of the truth. He did not want to give her night mares.
‘Did you lose much?’ she asked.
‘A few guineas that were in my purse. The rest of my money and valuables I had conceal
ed about my person.’
‘How clever of you!’ she exclaimed.
‘I do a great deal of travelling, Mrs Macdonald, and have learned to be as cunning as the criminals.’
She wondered why he travelled and if he had more knowledge of lawbreakers than he had admitted. He might even be one of them, for all she knew. Except of course her aunts had accepted him as being known to Admiral Lord Trentham, who had sent a glowing introduction. That, of course, could be a forgery. How suspicious and untrusting she was! Had she always been like that or was that something she had learned recently?
‘But you have not heard of them being apprehended?’ she queried.
‘No, unfortunately I have not.’
‘Tell me again about the man who died. What manner of man was he?’ Amy asked.
‘I know nothing of him. He boarded the coach with you and your tickets were in his pockets, so one supposes he was looking after you. He certainly bought your refreshments whenever we stopped.’
‘So I was totally dependant on him,’ she mused.
‘It would seem so.’
‘How did I react to his death?’
‘You were unconscious and knew nothing of it at the time,’ he pointed out.
‘How long was I unconscious? And how did I get from the over turned coach to the inn?’ she pressed.
‘I rode one of the coach horses with you in front of me. Have you no memory of that?’ he asked curiously.
‘None at all,’ she said swiftly. But that was her memory. A slow ride, cradled in front of him on a horse with no saddle. She had felt warm and protected, with his arm about her and his coat enveloping them both. She did not remember arriving at the inn, so she must have drifted into unconsciousness again. ‘How difficult and uncomfortable that must have been for you.’
He noticed the colour flood her face and felt sure she had remembered it. How much more was she concealing? He would have it out of her, one way or another, before another day was out. ‘It was my privilege and pleasure,’ he said, lifting his glass of wine in salute to her and looking at her over its rim.
Quizzing him was making her feel uncomfortable and she changed the subject to ask him what he thought of the village and its surrounds, to which he replied he had not yet had the opportunity to explore, but intended to do so when his business permitted, and on that uncontentious note they finished their meal with plum pie and sweet-meats.
He declined to stay in the dining room alone and repaired with them to the drawing room for tea. Noticing the harpsichord in the corner, he enquired if anyone played it.
‘I used to years ago,’ Matilda said. ‘But I have not touched it in years. Amy is the musician here.’
He turned to look at her. ‘Will you play for us, Mrs Macdonald?’
She went over to the instrument, sat herself down at it and, after a moment’s hesitation, played ‘Greensleeves’ with unerring ac curacy and sensitivity. As the last notes died away, she turned towards him, eyes shining. ‘How strange that I remember that,’ she said. ‘I know I have always loved music, just as I know I love flowers and can tell their names and recognise birds by their song.’
He smiled. ‘That is a good sign, don’t you think. And can you ride?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘I love to ride.’
‘Then would you like to ride out with me tomorrow and show me the countryside? I am sure I shall enjoy it the more for having you to guide me.’
She readily agreed and, having arranged a time for him to call, the evening was brought to an end. He took his leave and rode back to the inn, feeling more benign than he had done for years.
Chapter Three
Amy, dressed in a riding habit consisting of a dark blue jacket, a tight waist coat, a full petticoat and a broad-brimmed hat with a curling feather, was ready and waiting for him when he arrived at the appointed time next day, riding the huge black stallion on whose back he had entered the village the day before. His riding coat was the same one, though his shirt and neck cloth were fresh. His boots had received the loving attention of his servant. She greeted him cheerfully. ‘You are in good time, Captain.’
‘It would be a grave discourtesy to keep a lady waiting,’ he said, sweeping off a tall beaver hat with a silver buckle on the front of it, and bowing from the waist. His queue of fair hair had been tied back with a narrow velvet ribbon, although a few strands, shorter than the rest, curled across his forehead and about his ears. It was a style that the elite of London would have deplored, but she had come to the conclusion he was not a slave to fashion. She rather liked it. She liked everything about him.
A chestnut mare had been saddled and brought to the door where a groom helped her to mount. ‘Now, Captain, where would you like to go?’ she asked, picking up the reins.
‘I am in your hands, madam. I do not know the area. All I can say about it is that it is very flat and there is a prodigious amount of water.’
She laughed as they trotted over the draw bridge and down the short drive to the lane. ‘Yes, but have you ever seen such skies? As a child I used to think the clouds were mountainous seas with great galleons sailing upon them. Sometimes their sails were pink and purple, sometimes golden or blood red, if the sun was behind them. I would imagine them having a great sea battle and the red ones were ships on fire. And such rainbows we have, you would never believe.’
‘You remember all that?’
‘I must do. How strange! I did not realise it until I spoke of it. You must be good for me, Captain—already you have helped me recall something.’
‘Then perhaps, as we ride, you will remember more.’
She was more animated than he had seen her before, as if she revelled in her returning memories, but they were of her child hood, triggered by her surroundings, not the more recent events, which, unless he missed his guess, had been the cause of the forgetfulness. Resurrecting those might bring her pain. He was still not sure that he was wise to interfere, especially as he admired her spirit and courage and would hate to see either subdued. He did not want to see her return to the frightened dejected young woman she had been when he first met her. It would serve her best to take it slowly.
They rode through the village with its church and vicarage, its inn at the cross roads and double row of thatched cottages, acknowledging the greetings called by the few people who were about. Most were at their work. Leaving the village behind, they turned off the main road along a path beside the river whose banks were lined with willows, their graceful fronds swaying in a gentle breeze. At the edge of the water yellow flags held proud heads above the duckweed. Swans and mallards sailed placidly along, ignoring the man in the rowing boat with his huge load of cut reeds. Above them a few fleecy clouds punctuated the blue of the sky.
‘How peaceful it is,’ she said, as they brought their mounts to a walk. ‘I think I love this spot above all others.’
‘But you lived in London, did you not?’
‘Yes. My husband needs to be in the capital because that is where he obtains his commissions. He is an artist, you see.’
‘Do you remember that?’
‘No. It is only what I have been told.’
‘What manner of artist is he? Landscape or portrait, or perhaps he is an illustrator or caricaturist?’
‘That, I am afraid, I cannot tell you.’
He reined in to negotiate a large puddle and then drew along side her again. ‘It seems to me, Mrs Macdonald, that your loss of memory stems from your life in London. Perhaps you ought to return there.’
‘I have thought of that,’ she said slowly. ‘But something in me rebels at the idea. I find myself shaking at the prospect and can only conclude I am afraid.’
‘Oh. Do you know what you fear?’ he queried, his interest flaring.
‘No. The unknown, perhaps. Aunt Matilda says I must not think of going until I feel more confident. And there is no one to accompany me. Neither aunts are good travellers and they do not like London with its noisy cro
wds. I keep hoping my husband will arrive and the mystery will be solved.’ She sighed. ‘My aunts are convinced I was on my way to visit them, and I can think of no other reason why I should have been on that coach, and I do not want to leave until I find out why. Perhaps I arranged to meet my husband here.’
‘Perhaps.’
They rode on in silence for some minutes, watching the river traffic. There were several boats loaded with reeds and sedge, being towed by patient, plodding horses to Ely to be made into baskets of all kinds and for use as thatch. Other boats were loaded with produce from the black fertile soil: cabbages, carrots and turnips, a crop recently introduced, which found a ready market in London. There were also flowers and eels by the barrel load. Later in the year there would be cherries, apples and grain. He listened to her melodious voice telling him of these things and realised that her child hood was slowly coming back to her. How long before the rest of her memory returned, and would it bring with it pleasure or pain?
‘Nearly everything goes by river,’ Amy went on. ‘Much better than the roads. They are especially bad because the peat shrinks as it dries out between the ridges of clay and causes bumps and hollows.’
He chuckled. ‘Yes, I can vouch for that. The coach that brought us to Highbeck was throwing us all over the place. And as for riding bareback…’
‘Especially when trying to keep an unconscious woman upright. You must have found it very difficult.’
‘Not at all,’ he said gallantly. ‘It was my pleasure. I am glad you took no lasting harm from it.’
She laughed. ‘From the ride? None at all, you looked after me very well. If only I could remember—’ She stopped, suddenly recalling the feel of being in his arms, the strength and warmth of him, and felt the colour rise in her cheeks.
‘Patience,’ he said, echoing her aunts. ‘I do not think you should try to force it.’
