The Captain's Daughter (London Beginnings Book #1)

by Jennifer Delamere

  Nate smiled, knowing this gruff remark was in fact high praise.

  “There is one more thing, I believe, that we might need to discuss before you go,” the colonel said.

  Nate looked at him expectantly. “Yes, sir?”

  “Since you’ve already served a term of seven years, and now that you have—quite rightly—risen to the rank of a non-commissioned officer . . .”

  His voice drifted off. Nate could not remember seeing the colonel hesitate like this before.

  Gwynn cleared his throat. “In the army, as you know, we are not entirely unaware of matters of the heart, such as they might affect our men.”

  Nate’s gut clenched. Now he knew where this was going.

  “There was, I believe, mention of a sweetheart? If you wish to marry and bring your bride with you to India, I will not refuse my permission.”

  He paused, looking to Nate for a response. Most likely he expected gratitude. Having his commander’s permission meant that Nate could be married “on the strength.” The army would provide services for his wife and extra pay for him to support her. It was a privilege not granted to everyone. Nate knew, however, that the colonel would not be offering it to him if he knew the truth about how Nate’s former “sweetheart” had already affected the regiment.

  Nate set his face to an impassive mask, hiding the anger that still filled him at the thought of her. He said evenly, “I thank you, sir, but there is no one.” Seeing the colonel’s eyebrows lift in surprise, Nate amended, “What I mean to say is, there is no one now.”

  Gwynn’s lined face softened with sympathy. “Was there some calamity—?”

  “Nothing like that, sir.”

  No, the woman in question was alive and well. It was Nate’s dream of a future with her that was dead.

  Understanding dawned in the older man’s eyes. “The ladies can be fickle. But you are young, and there will be time enough for those things. May I offer you a word of advice?”

  “Sir?”

  “As you are unencumbered, use this opportunity to focus on your career. Given the speed with which you advanced to sergeant, and given your leadership capabilities and the way the other men look up to you . . .” He seemed to be pausing for effect. Nate was trying to follow the man’s line of thought, but he was still wrapped up in thoughts of her. “Not many enlisted men obtain commissions, but I believe you can join that group of honored few. Once we are established in India again, I think it not unlikely that the rank of second lieutenant might be offered to you.”

  For a man from the rank and file to become an officer was a rare thing indeed. When Nate had first enlisted, he’d had just such a lofty goal in mind. Things had changed quite a bit since those optimistic early days.

  Nate shook his head. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t see how you can consider me fit for such an honor.”

  “Because of what happened in Peshawar? Nonsense. All men make mistakes. It’s what they do afterward that shows their true mettle. You fought back the attackers and saved Sergeant Danvers’ life. Those are actions befitting an officer.”

  Gwynn’s assessment of the incident—which became the army’s official record—placed far more emphasis on Nate’s heroism than on his mistakes. Given Nate’s good record and the army’s desperate need for men, this decision was understandable. The colonel knew that while Nate had been on guard duty that night, he’d missed critical signs of an enemy attack. But he didn’t know that Nate’s lapse of attention had been caused by his distress over being jilted via a letter. Fortunately for Nate, the colonel hadn’t pressed for details. It had been easier to ascribe the error to the usual causes: fatigue or boredom.

  But Nate knew the truth, even if he’d not admitted it to anyone. In his own estimation, he had a long way to go to be worthy of a commission. “Thank you for your good opinion of me, sir.”

  The sharp old colonel easily recognized Nate’s equivocation. “Don’t shrug off the idea so quickly,” he advised. “Give it more thought. You may see things differently in time. You’re a conscientious and loyal soldier, just as your father and grandfather were before you. Think of the honor you would do to their memory, as well as the higher service you could extend to your queen and country.”

  His commander was perceptive. He knew his reference to the Moran family history would have a special appeal. Nate thought of his grandfather, who had fought Napoleon’s army as a mere lad of sixteen. Nate’s father, too, had been a soldier, serving honorably in the Crimea. Both men would have been proud to see Nate’s rise to a commission. That was something they’d never done, even though each had received honors for bravery. When Nate was a young recruit, he dreamed of becoming an officer. But that was before he learned for himself all the things about life in the army that his father and grandfather had never told him.

  Nevertheless, Nate was honor-bound to return and prove himself a worthy soldier. He gave the colonel a curt nod. It was the best he could do.

  “Very good. I will say no more for the present.”

  A train whistle sounded in the distance, signaling the approach of Nate’s train.

  Gwynn extended a hand. “Good-bye, Moran. We’ll see you in January.”

  The colonel’s strong handshake sent a burst of pain up Nate’s arm. But Nate held the grip. The hand is healing, he told himself. It’s nearly there.

  Ten minutes later, Nate leaned back in his seat as the train pulled out of the station. He let out a tired sigh as he watched the landscape speed by. The day had already been full, but Nate’s work wasn’t over yet. He’d risen well before dawn in order to complete the most vital of his duties at Jamieson’s stable, make this trip, and still be back in London by nightfall. Working at the ostler’s—a stable of horses for hire—was enough to fill a man’s day, but now Nate was working nights, too. He’d taken his brother’s job backstage at a theater to hold the position until his brother’s broken leg healed. He could not afford to be late. Not with his family depending on him.

  It had been good to see his family again after nearly seven years. Nate was glad, too, that he’d been here to help in their hour of need. Even so, he ached to be away again. It was time to finish what he’d begun in the army and to right the mistakes he’d made.

  It was time to leave London, too. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Ada chose to marry a prosperous merchant instead of facing an uncertain future with a mere soldier. That didn’t mean he wanted to spend week after week seeing her happily ensconced on the arm of another man. Nor could he forgive her for the manner in which she had jilted him, and for her letter’s disastrous consequences. She had come through the experience unscathed, but Nate’s life would never be the same.

  He crossed his arms and tried to settle into the most comfortable position he could find. The train ride would give him time for a nap, and he knew he’d better take it if he wanted to keep his wits about him tonight. The last thing he needed was to injure himself because he’d wasted good sleep in agitation over the past. Nate was pretty sure he’d get more sleep if—no, when—he returned to the army.

  The town clock was tolling four when Rosalyn walked into Linden. She sent furtive glances toward the people around her as she made her way up the main street to the railway station. She had not been a frequent visitor to this town, so she had no real reason to worry she’d be recognized. Even so, every one of her senses remained on high alert.

  The railway station was busy. Sidestepping a young boy trying unsuccessfully to lead a very large dog, Rosalyn made her way to the ticket booth. The clerk sitting behind the iron grill was an older gentleman. His gaze skimmed past her, perhaps looking for her male escort. Realizing she was alone, his eyes returned to settle on her. “Where to, miss?”

  “When is the next train to Bristol?”

  He checked the schedule on the wall next to him. “Seven o’clock.”

  Rosalyn looked toward the station gate as she considered the potential hazards of waiting here for three hours. Down
the road she saw a puff of dust rising. There was no reason to suppose it was Mr. Huffman, of course, and yet she kept staring, straining her eyes as she waited for the vehicle to crest the rise.

  Moments later, Mr. Huffman’s carriage came into view. She also—thankfully—heard the whistle of an approaching train.

  “What train is that?” she asked the clerk.

  He frowned. “You don’t want that one if you’re going north. It’s going south—bound for London.”

  “I’ll take it,” she said, pulling money from her reticule.

  This would work. It had to work. Surely she had not gone through all this for nothing.

  She took the ticket and turned away from the booth. As she set off for the crowded platform, Rosalyn kept her back to the station entrance. She sidled up to a group of two men and three women standing together, chatting excitedly about the things they were going to see when they got to London. Rosalyn did her best to blend in, to appear as though she were traveling with them.

  The train came to a stop, its brakes squealing, smoke and steam pouring out in all directions.

  “Miss Bernay! MISS BERNAY!” The imperious voice of her former employer carried across the crowded platform. Rosalyn did not turn, hoping he would think himself mistaken.

  “MISS BERNAY! Come here!”

  Why was he not advancing toward her? She risked a glance in his direction. He had been stopped by a burly gate attendant. Mr. Huffman gestured, pointing at her, but the guard held his ground. He directed Mr. Huffman toward the ticket counter, clearly telling him he must buy his own ticket before he could access the platform.

  Rosalyn waited impatiently as a large family with several toddlers and seemingly endless baskets and bundles exited the railway car before she could enter it. When the carriage door was clear, Rosalyn ran up the two steps and inside.

  She took a seat by a window facing the train platform, unable to look away. Surely Mr. Huffman would not attempt to drag her off the train? Did he have the authority to do so? Would anyone here listen to him?

  She waited anxiously as seconds ticked away. It seemed as though time itself was suspended, the large hand on the station clock refusing to move. Yet inexplicably, he did not reappear at the gate. Had he given up that easily?

  In a moment, she was able to guess the reason for his delay. An elderly couple, moving very slowly, hobbled through the gate. Perhaps they’d been at the ticket counter, holding up Mr. Huffman’s ability to buy a ticket. The train whistle blew. It was about to leave. Rosalyn’s heart leapt with joy at the sound.

  The platform guard hurried forward to help the elderly couple onto the train, closing the door sharply behind them just as the train began to pull forward. Rosalyn craned her neck as the train gathered speed to keep the platform in view for as long as she could. She had just enough time to see a frustrated Mr. Huffman race onto the platform before the train left him and the station far behind.

  As the countryside became a blur, Rosalyn pulled her gaze away and looked down, surprised to see that her hands were trembling. She took several slow, deep breaths, trying to get her heart rate and her breathing back to normal. After hours of walking a knife’s edge, relief washed through her. For better or worse, she was on her way to London.

  CHAPTER

  2

  ROSALYN WOKE from a dreamy doze. She noticed her fellow passengers collecting their things and ladies readjusting their hats. She had no idea how they knew the train was approaching London. The windows might just as well have been made of lead, for all the view they afforded. Dense fog blocked out the last of the waning sunlight.

  But then the high brick walls of Paddington station rose up out of the gloom, and soon the train squealed to a stop. Rosalyn stood and stretched. Taking hold of her carpetbag, she followed the other passengers off the railway carriage. Once on the platform, she tried to get her bearings—it was hard to do, given the murky light and the bustle of people all around her.

  “Would you be needin’ help, miss?”

  Rosalyn turned at the sound of a man’s voice, expecting to see one of the porters. Instead, she saw a lean man in faded corduroy trousers and a heavily patched coat, a worn cloth cap pushed back on his head. He must have been around thirty years of age. His smile was pleasant enough, although one of his eyeteeth was badly chipped.

  Surprised at being addressed by a stranger but not wanting to turn away help, she replied, “I’m looking for the ticket booth.”

  “But you’ve just arrived!” He moved closer. “Where else would ye be needin’ to go?”

  The man spoke with a soft lilt that Rosalyn recognized as Irish. Although there was nothing overtly threatening about him, his nearness made her uncomfortable. He smelled of hair tonic and some other odor that she suspected was whisky.

  She took a step back. “I believe I see what I need over there.” She gestured vaguely in the direction everyone else seemed to be heading and began to walk, praying the man would take the hint and stay behind.

  Instead, he fell smoothly into step with her. “Now don’t go takin’ offense. I meant what I said about helpin’ you. For example, if you were needin’ a place to stay—”

  “I am only passing through,” Rosalyn replied curtly.

  She picked up her pace, relieved to see there was no line at the ticket counter, and marched up to the clerk. Her self-appointed “helper” was not rude enough to join her there, but neither did he leave. He stood a few feet away, making no effort to hide his interest in what Rosalyn was doing.

  In a low voice, Rosalyn said, “Please tell me when the next train leaves for Bristol.”

  “Bristol?” The clerk did not pick up on Rosalyn’s desire for confidentiality. He spoke loudly, perhaps to make himself heard above the din around them. Rosalyn flinched. From the corner of her eye, she saw the Irishman frown and scratch his head. No doubt he was confused at her odd actions.

  “That’ll be the mail train. It leaves at 11:45.” Mistaking her look of disappointment for misunderstanding, the clerk clarified, “Just before midnight.”

  Midnight. Rosalyn looked at the large clock on the wall. That was nearly six hours from now. What would she do in the meantime? Her growling stomach gave its vote. She had eaten nothing all day, but she did not dare leave the station, and the food for sale here was bound to be costly. She took a deep breath, considering. “Have you a ladies’ waiting room here?”

  “Why, naturally, miss. We have every comfort here at Paddington.”

  “So you have a place to take tea, as well?”

  “Yes, miss. We also offer service for the ladies in their waiting area.”

  Rosalyn made up her mind. Waiting here would have to do. Men were not allowed in the ladies’ waiting area, so she would presumably be able to shake off the attentions of the fellow behind her. “How much is a ticket, please?”

  The clerk rattled off the range of prices. Even a third-class ticket seemed an outrageously large portion of the money Rosalyn had left.

  The Irishman joined her then, using his bulk to force her away from the ticket window before she could pay the clerk. “Surely you’re not wantin’ to spend six hours alone in an uncomfortable waiting area?”

  Rosalyn said frostily, “Were you eavesdropping on my business, sir?”

  He merely grinned. “Let me buy you a meal. There’s a friendly place not five minutes from here.”

  Taken aback by the man’s forwardness, Rosalyn began to refuse.

  He took hold of her arm. “Don’t say no out of hand. Let me warn you: traveling at night is dangerous for an unescorted young lady.”

  At his touch, Rosalyn felt a surge of real fear. How was she to get rid of this man? She looked toward the ticket booth, but the clerk was now busy with other customers.

  The Irishman’s grip tightened. “You’d be wise to take an offer of help when it’s given.”

  Quite suddenly, a soldier stepped between them, forcing the Irishman to relinquish his hold on Rosalyn. “I don’t
believe the lady is interested in your particular brand of help.”

  The soldier was impressive—tall and broad-shouldered, his well-polished boots and bright red coat providing a stark contrast to the other man’s shabby appearance. In normal circumstances Rosalyn might have thought him handsome, although at the moment his face was marred with a scowl.

  “And what business is it of yours?” the Irishman shot back. He seemed undaunted even though his opponent stood half a head taller. “No one asked you to come buttin’ in.”

  The soldier didn’t even spare him a glance. He was studying Rosalyn, taking her in from top to toe, from the dirt on the hem of her gown to her dusty carpetbag. “Are you new to London? Just arrived?”

  The Irishman gave him a shove. “The lady is with me. Leave us be, or I’ll call the police.”

  The soldier grabbed the other man’s coat and pulled him up sharply. Rosalyn noticed a long scar running down the back of his right hand. “The police!” the soldier said acridly. “Yes, why don’t you go ahead and do that.”

  “Please stop!” Rosalyn exclaimed. She was grateful for his intervention, but the scene was rapidly turning ugly. “I will thank you both to leave me alone.”

  The soldier looked stung by her words. “You don’t understand. I’m trying to help—”

  He was cut off by a shrill female voice. “Oh, my dear, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

  Rosalyn froze in astonishment as an elderly lady, moving swiftly despite the use of a cane, came up and enveloped her in a hug. Over the woman’s shoulder, Rosalyn saw the soldier’s grip on the Irishman slacken. The look of confusion on both men’s faces mirrored what she felt. Why did this woman think she knew Rosalyn?

  “I’ll bet you thought your old Aunt Mollie had forgotten about you. But it was the fog! Oh my, it is nearly impossible to see in front of one’s face.” Still holding her close, the woman rasped in Rosalyn’s ear, “Pretend you know me, dearie. It’s your best hope of ridding yourself of these troublemakers.”