by Mary Nichols
‘The Young Pretender does not have the money, men or arms to mount another invasion. I am persuaded it is nothing but idle gossip.’
‘Can that possibly have a bearing on my loss of memory, do you think?’ she asked, suddenly looking worried. ‘Everyone assumed the trouble was in London and I was coming here on a visit, but supposing it had a more sinister reason?’
‘I believe you are being fanciful.’
‘Perhaps. But Widow Twitch was right. I have to know.’
‘Then you must put the rosemary under your pillow,’ he said, smiling broadly.
‘You are teasing me!’ she exclaimed.
‘Yes, for I put no faith in the old lady’s remedies. And the idea you could be involved with the Jacobites is pure fantasy.’
Her worried expression vanished. ‘You are right. Aunt Harriet always used to say I had too much imagination. Lets us pack these things away again and venture out. I do believe the rain has stopped.’
They went outside and wandered round the garden paths, noticing how green the grass was and how fresh all the plants were, after which he fetched his gun from where he had left it in the hall and took his leave, striding away through the trees to the Lodge. She watched him go and wondered what Widow Twitch had meant when she said he was looking for peace of mind. He had admitted, when they first met, that he was searching for something. She returned indoors and took out her drawing to study it.
Yes, there was something in his expression that indicated he had other things on his mind besides bagging a few ducks. And it must be rooted in Highbeck—why else would he have come to such an out of the way spot? He had mentioned the Jacobite rebellion of five years before, but that was over and done with and though it must have been frightening for those in the path of the advancing rebels, they had never reached as far south as the Wash. She must have been living at Highbeck at the time because it was before she married, but she could not remember it. She looked again at what she had drawn and ran her finger over the Captain’s face, just as if it were his real flesh and blood she touched and gave a little shiver. She liked the man, liked him very much, and she wished she could banish his haunting look of sadness.
She had another night mare that night, more vivid than any that had gone before. She was in a room looking out of a window, watching for someone. Behind her there was a bag full of gold and silver coins and sparkling jewellery and on top of it a wicked-looking knife. There was a man there, but he was not substantial enough to recognise, although she felt his menace. He took her by the shoulders and started to shake her. He kept on shaking her, yelling, ‘Where is it?’ Terrified she reached behind her and picked up the knife, raising it above her head. And then she woke up to find herself sitting up in bed tangled in the bed curtains. The tears were flowing down her cheeks and her right hand was clenched tightly as it would have been if grasping a knife.
Was she reliving something that had really happened? Had she used that knife on the man? Killed him and fled to the sanctuary of Blackfen Manor? Was that why she was so fearful all the time? Afraid of retribution? Did those two men she had seen know about it? Had they followed her intent on vengeance—or possibly black mail? But no one had seen the men except her, so perhaps she had dreamed them, too. Only she could not stop herself coming to the conclusion that there was something in her past that was evil. Was she a bad person? Had she done something so terrible she had blotted all memory of it from her mind?
She made herself open her hand and lay it flat, half-expecting to see it covered in blood. There was nothing wrong with it. Feeling along the bed, she pulled the rosemary from beneath her pillow and threw it as far from her as she could. If remembering was going to come back to her through terrifying dreams, she did not want to remember.
She tried to go back to sleep, but could not. She lay tossing and turning, longing for James to come and hold her in his arms as he had before, to soothe her and tell her not to worry, because he would look after her. Not Duncan, her husband whom she could not remember, but James, whose comforting presence she could recall very clearly. That was an added complication. She found herself thinking of him constantly, thinking of his masculine good looks, his warm smile, his gentle teasing, the feel of his touch, the sound of his voice. It was impossible to think of Duncan that way because for her he did not exist.
Morning came at last and she rose early, dressed and went out into the court yard, but she dared not go beyond the draw bridge. She paced about until she heard the servants stirring and went indoors to help prepare the aunts’ breakfast trays, then she had her own break fast and wandered about waiting impatiently for them to come down stairs. Her dream had lost some of its terror, but it would not go away altogether. It hung over her like that cloud she had drawn on the fen, threatening a storm, a storm of unpleasant recollections she was sure.
Aunt Harriet was the first down and, after commenting on Amy’s early rising, disappeared into the kitchen to confer with the cook about the day’s menus. It was only when Aunt Matilda came down and they gathered in the little parlour that all three were able to have some conversation together.
‘Why were you up so early, Amy?’ Harriet asked. ‘Could you not sleep?’
‘I had a dreadful night mare and could not go back to sleep after it,’ she admitted.
‘You should not have eaten that cheese at supper time,’ Harriet said.
‘I do not think it was the cheese,’ Amy said drily.
‘What, then? Oh, do not tell me you put that rosemary under your pillow? Foolish, foolish child!’ Harriet exclaimed.
‘What did you dream about?’ Matilda asked curiously.
She told them. Matilda put her hand to her mouth with a little cry of horror. Harriet simply sniffed and said she would have something to say to Widow Twitch when she saw her.
‘But it must have had some basis in truth,’ Amy said. ‘I did not conjure it out of the air. Did I use that knife? Am I a wicked person? Am I being searched for to be arrested and punished? If I am, then I am putting you both at risk for aiding me.’
‘I never heard such nonsense,’ Aunt Harriet said, as Johnson, the first footman, came to announce Captain Drymore was at the door.
‘Show him in,’ her aunt said, then to Amy, ‘We shall see what he has to say about your dreams.’
James entered the room and bowed to them. ‘Good morning, ladies,’ he greeted them, looking from one to the other. Harriet was tight-lipped, Matilda was bright-eyed, but poor Amy looked as troubled as she had when he first met her. ‘What is amiss? Have you seen those two men again?’
‘No,’ Harriet said. ‘Our niece has had a disturbed night.’
‘Oh.’ He turned towards Amy, one eyebrow raised in enquiry.
‘It was only a bad dream,’ she said. ‘Do sit down, Captain. We are forgetting our manners.’
He sat on a chair facing Amy. ‘Does that mean you have remembered something?’
‘I do not know. If it was a memory, it was so dreadful, it is no wonder I wished to forget it.’
‘Memory, pah!’ Harriet said. ‘Cheese before bed, more like. Amy has a foolish notion she has done something wicked and is going to be punished for it.’
‘Tell me about it,’ he prompted Amy gently. ‘But only if you can bear to repeat it.’
She went over it again and with each telling it seemed to lose some of its terrors, especially now he had come. ‘Tell me it wasn’t real,’ she finished. ‘Tell me I did not use that knife. Tell me I am not wicked.’
‘I am sure you are not,’ he said. If that were the case, she would never have implicated herself by telling him of her dream and putting the idea of a stabbing into his head. ‘You did not dream you actually used the knife, did you?’
‘No…’ It was said hesitantly.
‘There you are, then.’
‘I always did say my niece had too much imagination,’ Harriet said. ‘And that proves it. What have you been reading, child?’
‘Nothing, exce
pt some of the papers in the cupboard in the book room. There were documents about the house being sequestered by Cromwell’s Parliament and being returned when Charles regained the throne,’ Amy went on.
‘That happened a hundred years ago. They would surely not have given you bad dreams,’ Harriet commented.
‘We did touch on the Jacobite rebellion and the possibility of Prince Charles invading again.’
‘We?’ Harriet enquired with a raised eyebrow.
‘Yes, the Captain was with me. It was while you were sleeping yesterday afternoon.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps I should not have gone to the cupboard.’
‘There is nothing there that is not already known. We have nothing to hide.’
‘I wonder if we ought to meddle with Mrs Macdonald’s memory,’ James murmured. ‘Perhaps it were better to let sleeping dogs lie.’
All that did was to convince Amy that he knew more than he was saying and it was not good. Oh, when would this torment end? And what was Captain James Drymore really doing in Highbeck? And those two men she had seen, who were they? Everything was closing in on her. She felt unable to breathe. Standing up suddenly, she said, ‘I must go out in the air.’
They watched her run from the room. ‘Go after her, Captain,’ Matilda said. ‘She needs reassurance. I will stake my life she has done nothing wrong and you must convince her of it.’
He caught up with her as she crossed the draw bridge. ‘Amy, where are you off to?’
She spun round to face him. ‘I do not know. To Widow Twitch. Yes, that is it, to see the wise woman.’
‘No.’ He grabbed her arm. ‘She will fill your head with more nonsense and I do believe your dream was nothing more than a mix of several unrelated matters. The two men who frightened you, Mrs Twitch putting ideas into your head, our talk of sieges and Jacobites, even the big cloud you drew.’ He smiled. ‘Put it all in a pot and give it a good stir and what do you have but a disjointed dream?’
‘Oh, I wish that were so,’ Amy cried.
‘Of course it is so. Now, my dear lady, you are to put it from your mind and come with me to help me decide where to put my pictures. And we shall leave space for the drawing you did of me. If you would be so kind as to allow me to have it, I shall have it suitably mounted.’
‘It is not good enough to be hung.’ He had diverted her thoughts and made her relax and she smiled a little tremulously, but it was a smile.
‘Oh, it most certainly is. But I want the cloud with the cherub put in first. Now, will you come?’
‘Gladly.’
He offered her his arm and she took it and they walked side by side over the draw bridge towards the copse of trees. ‘I need my little home maker,’ he said quietly. ‘Without her, the Lodge is nothing but a place to stay.’
‘You are very good to me,’ she said, wondering why he had suddenly said that. To make her feel better, she supposed, and he had succeeded in that. ‘When I feel only half a person, you make me feel whole again.’
‘Then I am glad.’
‘But you must not let my problems divert you from your own business.’
He felt a sharp pang of guilt about not finding his wife’s killers and that was unfinished business he must attend to. Once nothing would have deflected him from seeking retribution, but just lately that fury had abated somewhat—because of Amy? ‘I have deferred that for a time. I will go back to it when the time is right.’
‘Would you like to tell me about it?’
He put his hand over hers on his sleeve. ‘One day I will. But now I have some pictures that need hanging.’ He took her hand and tucked it under his arm and thus they arrived at the Lodge. Her night mare was for got ten. Almost. It was an idyll he knew could not last. One day she would remember everything and he was afraid it would bring her more distress.
Chapter Five
‘Miss Hardwick, there is a Mr Gotobed at the door,’ the footman said. The three ladies were in the with drawing room, the aunts were discussing a letter they had had from their lawyer and Amy was putting the cherub into the cloud on her sketch before giving it to Captain Drymore.
‘What manner of man is he?’ Harriet asked.
‘A gentleman by the looks and sound of him, madam. Brown silk coat with pearl buttons, close-fitting breeches with ribbons at the knees, and shoes with silver buckles and red heels. He’s wearing a full toupee with end curls and a prodigious amount of jewellery, though I can’t say that it’s real.’ All three ladies smiled at this; Johnson prided himself on his powers of observation.
‘Did he state his business?’
‘Not to me, madam, but he did say he comes recommended.’
‘Then you had better show him in. And stay within call, in case we should need to order refreshments.’
The aunts put aside their correspondence, smoothed down their skirts and straightened their wigs, by which time the footman announced, ‘Mr Martin Gotobed.’
The gentleman strode into the room, swept his three-cornered hat under his left arm, and executed an elegant leg. ‘Ladies, your obedient.’
‘What can we do for you, sir?’ Harriet asked.
‘I am on a tour of the area and I have heard that Blackfen Manor is an exceptional example of a Tudor manor house and hoped that you will do me the honour of showing it to me. I hope I do not disturb you.’
‘You do not disturb us, sir, but from whom did you hear about the Manor?’ Harriet enquired.
‘Why, from Mr Duncan Macdonald.’
‘What did you say?’ Amy cried, in her agitation dropping her crayon on the floor, where it rolled at his feet. He picked it up and presented it back to her with a bow. ‘You have spoken to him?’
‘Indeed, yes, we are well acquainted with each other.’
‘When did you speak to him? Where is he? Is he coming here?’ The questions tumbled from her.
‘As to the last, I do not know, madam, nor as to his present whereabouts. I spoke to him, let me see, when was it?’ He appeared to be teasing her and she did not like that. ‘I do believe it was three months past. It could have been a little longer or perhaps not quite as long. I imperfectly recall the exact date.’
‘Was he well? What did he say to you? Did he mention me? I am his wife,’ Amy said.
‘I had deduced that, madam, from his description of you. He said I might find you here and to convey his everlasting devotion.’
‘Why does he not come himself? Is he ill?’ Amy asked worriedly.
‘He has not been enjoying the best of health,’ the man murmured.
‘What is the matter with him?’
‘Why, madam, I thought you knew.’ Mr Gotobed raised an eyebrow.
‘No. I…’ She hesitated. She was not sure of this man at all and was unwilling to tell him of her own troubles, but she needed to know what had happened to Duncan.
‘Our niece has not been well herself,’ Aunt Harriet put in. ‘She is staying with us while she makes a full recovery. If you know anything about Mr Macdonald, then pray tell us quickly.’
‘He and I were together in the infirmary. He had sustained a knife wound.’
Amy gave a little cry of distress and fainted, falling sideways off her chair on to the floor, scattering crayons and sketch book. In the pandemonium that followed Gotobed hurriedly bowed his way out and said he would return at a more convenient time to enquire as to the lady’s recovery. The aunts ignored him, being more concerned with bending over Amy, flapping their fans over her face and begging her to wake up.
He had no sooner gone from the room than James arrived. The front door was open and there was no footman in at ten dance. He could hear little cries of distress coming from the drawing room and hurried there, not waiting to be announced.
He found Amy prostrate on the floor, the aunts kneeling beside her, heads down, wide skirts billowing about them, so they looked like slumbering swans. Susan hovered uncertainly. He rushed over to join them. ‘What has happened?’
‘She swooned clean away when
that man said he had spoken to Duncan. She ought to be put to bed and the physician called, but we cannot lift her.’ She looked up and noticed Susan. ‘Go and fetch Johnson and one of the other men—’
‘No need for that,’ James said, stooping to pick Amy up in his arms, which he did effortlessly. ‘I will take her.’
They were too distressed to protest and followed him as he carried his burden upstairs and gently laid her on her bed, with her aunts and Susan bringing up the rear. By this time she was stirring and a low moan escaped her lips.
‘Lie still,’ he said, watching a little colour come back to her paper-white face. ‘You have had a shock.’
‘That man…’
‘He has gone,’ Harriet said, as Susan went to the washstand to wring a cloth out in cold water.
‘Gone! Oh, no!’ Amy tried to scramble up, but a hand from James gently pushed her down again. ‘But I have to talk to him, I have to find out…’ Did she really want to know that she had stabbed her husband? The knife in her dream: she had used that, hadn’t she? Why? Why? Why? How badly was he hurt? Who had taken him to the infirmary? Which infirmary? Was he still there or had he been discharged? No wonder he did not want to come to see her, if she had done that to him. Yet, according to their visitor, he had sent his everlasting devotion to her. And who exactly was Mr Gotobed? A thief taker sent to bring her to justice? She could not stop shaking.
‘If I had known what he would say, I would never have received him,’ Aunt Harriet said. ‘I cannot have people coming here without a by your leave and frightening you like that.’
‘Who was he?’ James asked.
‘He gave his name as Mr Martin Gotobed,’ Matilda said from the other side of the bed, where she had pulled up a stool and was sitting holding Amy’s hand. ‘He said he was on a tour of the area and wanted to look round the Manor. We did not think anything of it. People are always calling and asking to be shown round. But when he said he had been recommended by Duncan, of course it upset poor dear Amy.’
‘I can imagine.’ He was looking down at Amy. She was shaking and clearly terrified. ‘Did you know the gentleman?’
