The Wicked Waif

by Lancaster, Mary

  There were many arguments against hasty marriage, of course, not least his own views up until Tillie’s passionate plea. If she still wanted it when marriage was possible, it was not a gift he could deny her.

  In the meantime, he was content to lounge around the Grant’s group of friends and simply enjoy Tillie’s presence. It was the supper dance getting underway now.

  “Major Doverton,” a waiter said respectfully.

  “Yes?”

  “There are two gentlemen in the foyer asking for you.”

  “Can’t you bring them in to the ballroom?” Dove asked.

  “Oh, no, sir, they don’t have vouchers. And they wish to speak to you in private.”

  Dove turned to go with him. “Who the devil are they?”

  The waiter presented a card. “The older gentleman gave me this.”

  Dove glanced at it, but it didn’t give much away.

  Mr. Matthew Dawlish

  Linley House

  Lancashire.

  In the foyer, which was markedly quiet after the noise of the ballroom, he discovered two gentlemen waiting in the chairs near the door. They rose as he strode toward them, one of late middle years, stocky of build, short-necked but well-dressed. The other had the same build but with greater height.

  “I’m Doverton,” Dove said briskly. “How might I assist you, gentlemen?”

  The older man bowed. “Thank you for meeting us. We called at your barracks and they told us you were here. I apologize for interrupting your evening, but I’m afraid our business will not wait. Forgive me, where are my manners? My name is Dawlish, Matthew Dawlish. This is my son, Luke. We own the Linley Mill, near Liverpool.”

  Dove’s eyebrows snapped together. He began to have an inkling of who they were and why they were here.

  “Colonel Farnsworth approached me,” Mr. Dawlish said. “And I’m dashed glad he did. I think you might have found my niece.”

  This was not quite how Dove had imagined the discovery would go, and now the possibility was upon him, he was unsure what to do. Glancing around, he saw one of the young lieutenants emerging from the men’s cloakroom.

  “Heath,” he called. “Send Dr. Lampton out to me, if you please.”

  While Heath bolted to obey, Dove turned back to the men who were most probably Tillie’s family. “Did the colonel explain the situation? That the young lady we found has lost her memory? Most probably due to a head injury. It is possible, even if she is your niece, that she will not know you. In fact, before we decide how best to introduce you, perhaps you can provide some kind of evidence that your missing niece is the lady we found?”

  The younger man, Luke Dawlish, scowled as if offended to have his word doubted. But his father put his hand in his coat pocket and brought out a miniature portrait which he passed wordlessly to Dove.

  A young, black-haired girl with large, laughing grey eyes and a wide smile. His stomach clenched, for it could not be anyone but Tillie. She was younger in the picture, perhaps only fifteen or sixteen, but she had changed little in basic appearance.

  “What?” Dr. Lampton said brusquely, joining them.

  Dove showed him the portrait. “We seem to have found Tillie’s family. Mr. Dawlish is her uncle.”

  “And guardian,” Mr. Dawlish said, “since the death of her father a year ago.”

  “What is best?” Dove demanded of the doctor. “To wait until tomorrow and warn her in the hope her memory returns steadily? Or shock her with a meeting tonight?”

  “Best for her memory, or for her person?” Lampton asked.

  “I’m afraid,” Mr. Dawlish said firmly, “that I insist on seeing my niece tonight.”

  Dove glanced at Lampton, who shrugged. “The shock may work best to bring back her memory.”

  There was something about this that he did not like. Unease twisted through him. But he had no reason to keep her from them. He nodded once.

  “I’ll bring her to you,” Lampton said abruptly. “And I’ll bring Kate for familiarity. You stay there, too, Major. We don’t want her frightened.

  “She is here?” Dawlish said, brows raised. “She has made friends in your community?”

  “Several,” Dove said. “You seem surprised.”

  Dawlish pursed his lips. His son shook his head in a sorrowful kind of way.

  “Alas,” Dawlish said, “although my niece has a good heart, she does not make friends easily. She is not terribly…stable.”

  “She does not sound at all like the lady I know, who has dealt with the most frightening adversity with spirit and calmness. After the initial terror, but then she was pulled out of a wooden box in the sea. During a storm.”

  Mr. Dawlish looked genuinely shocked.

  His son blurted, “She’s afraid of the dark.”

  Dove’s fist clenched in renewed fury at whoever had shut her in that box. Had they known of her fear when they did it? Was it these men, her own family, who had done it? He could see no reason as yet, and besides, he could swear the older man at least was taken by surprise.

  “How did she even get aboard the ship that went down?” Dawlish demanded.

  “We don’t know,” Dove said distractedly, for a positive deputation was emerging from the ballroom—Dr. Lampton, the Grants, and Tillie—and walking across the floor.

  Tillie saw him first, and her face lit with pleasure even before the quizzical expression dawned in her eyes. He moved aside, allowing her a clear look at the men. Her gaze merely flickered over them and back to Dove.

  He took her hand. “This is Mr. Matthew Dawlish and Mr. Luke Dawlish.”

  “How do you do?” she said politely.

  “Don’t you know us, Matilda?” the older man said sadly.

  “Matilda?” she repeated, as though startled. A frown formed between her brows as she stared at them more closely.

  “We believe,” Dove said, “that this is your uncle and cousin.”

  Her breath came in pants, though whether because she couldn’t remember or because she could, wasn’t very clear.

  Her cousin took a step toward her, holding out his hand. “Come, Matilda.”

  At once, she fell back, almost falling against Dove in her panic. Her fingers clung to his so fiercely it hurt.

  “Matilda,” Luke said, apparently both shocked and hurt. “You must remember me. I’m your husband.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Husband? Oh no, no!” Blood sang in Tillie’s ears. If it hadn’t been for the sure grip of Dove’s fingers, she would have fainted. As it was, this felt like some pleasurable dream turned suddenly into a nightmare.

  Dove was to be her husband, her lover. Not this affronted stranger, whose hand fell at her hoarse exclamation.

  “She doesn’t remember you,” Dr. Lampton said calmly. “She doesn’t remember anything before the storm.”

  “She does!” Luke burst out. “She’s just pretending!”

  “Luke!” his father admonished. “Don’t let your disappointment make you say unbecoming things that you will regret.”

  “Why would she pretend?” Dove asked quietly.

  “She wouldn’t,” Dawlish said firmly. “My son is young and in love. He has been crazy with worry about her and now with disappointment that she does not remember.”

  Even in her agitation, Tillie thought he looked more peeved than crazed with love and anxiety. More than that, though she remembered nothing about him—and didn’t want to—she had a strong feeling of revulsion, of some connection that made her fear she truly did know him. And the older man who claimed to be her uncle.

  Raising one trembling hand to her forehead, she stared from her uncle to her cousin, searching for something that would unlock her memory, that would bring sense to the nightmare.

  “Come with us,” the older Dawlish said gently. “We’ll look after you, now.”

  Her fingers convulsed on Dove’s hand. She could not look at him, knew only that she could not go with these strangers. Would not go. Every instinct shrieked
against it.

  “Might I suggest,” Dove said, “that for the lady’s sake, you move a little more slowly? Allow her at least one more night with Mrs. Grant while she absorbs the new shock.”

  “That would be best,” Lampton said, nodding wisely. “I believe she will remember now in her own time. Call at the vicarage, perhaps, let her familiarity with you grow until it connects with her memory.”

  “How long will that take?” Luke demanded.

  Dr. Lampton shrugged. “Who knows? I believe you have set something in motion, so I suspect it will not be long at all before all becomes clear.”

  “We do need to return,” Mr. Dawlish said. He tugged at his lower lip. “But we can certainly wait until tomorrow.” With a kindly smile, he held out his hand.

  Hesitantly, Tillie took it for the briefest moment and slipped free. Luke made the same gesture. She had to force herself rather harder, but she managed to shake hands with him, too, however briefly. As they walked away to the door, she stared after them in silence.

  “Oh, Dove,” she said brokenly as the door swung closed behind them. “I cannot be married to that man!”

  His tightening fingers were his only answer. He was not looking at her, but she knew he would not desert her, whatever the pain. He looked sick, as if he had been punched in the stomach.

  “We will find out,” Lampton said firmly. “Don’t worry. We won’t desert you yet. Go back with Kate and rest.”

  Mr. Grant called to the doorman to send round their carriage. At Mrs. Grant’s encouragement, she forced herself to let go of Dove’s hand and walk with her to the cloakroom which was, fortunately, empty.

  “Is it true?” Tillie blurted, dropping onto a chair and kicking off her dancing slippers. “Do I look like them?”

  “Not really,” Mrs. Grant admitted. “But that means very little.” She reached out and caught Tillie’s hand as she picked up her slippers, spreading it on her lap. “More significant might be that you never wore a ring. Nor is there a mark where one would have been. But again, that means little. You could have lost the ring at sea, or not worn it the day you boarded the ship. And the wedding could have been too recent for any mark of a ring to show.”

  “I have to remember.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “But God help me, I don’t want to now. I don’t want to know if I’m my cousin’s wife.”

  “Because of Major Doverton?”

  She nodded once. There was no point in denying it, and she didn’t want to. “If I have hurt him again, if he loves me and I am that man’s wife…”

  “Hush.” Mrs. Grant’s arm came around her. “Be strong, my dear. You will remember, and then we will know what to do. You have friends.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, giving the vicar’s wife a quick hug in return. She dashed her hand across her eyes before donning her outdoor shoes and reaching for her cloak.

  There was only time for one brief moment with Dove as he handed her into the carriage outside the assembly rooms.

  He held her hand in both of his and then kissed it. “Sleep well, my love,” he breathed, and she wanted to laugh because she knew she would not sleep at all. She clung to his hand a moment too long. Although she could not speak, she was sure he knew what she was trying to say.

  And then her hand was cold. She sat in the carriage beside Mrs. Grant, and the door closed with a bump before the horses moved off.

  *

  As it turned out, Tillie was wrong. She did sleep, a strange light sleep by the glow of the lamp, hovering on the verge of knowledge and memory. As before, she was flooded only by feelings, and yet when she awoke, the memories crowded in and she remembered everything.

  Afterward, she never knew how long she lay there, battered by her own life, by the awfulness that had come just before the storm, and the happiness of what had come after. Her first new thought was that she had to tell Dove, and with that she sprang up, washed and dressed as best she could without a maid to lace her up.

  She knew she should take Mrs. Grant with her for propriety, but as she passed the main bedchamber, she heard Kate cooing to the baby and knew she was feeding her. Tillie couldn’t wait. She hurried downstairs and left the house, all but running around to the hotel in the relentless rain. There, she instructed the first cab driver to take her to the barracks and jumped in before she remembered she had no money to pay him.

  Blushing, she hoped Dove would not mind paying for her.

  An officer strode out the front door as she stepped down from the cab. He glanced at her and then, eyes widening, he came straight to her.

  “Miss Tillie,” Captain Grantham said in clear surprise. “May I assist you?”

  “Could you please find Major Doverton? It is really quite urgent I speak with him.”

  “Dove isn’t here,” Grantham said.

  She blinked. “Isn’t here?” Why had she not considered that? She swallowed. “Do you know when he will be back?”

  “Not until tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

  For some reason, that floored her as none of her memories had managed to. Of course, Dove had every right to go wherever he wished, or wherever he was sent by his commander. But she could not help feeling very alone, and more than a little hurt that he had gone the very morning after she had been discovered by her family.

  It was a lesson in self-reliance.

  “Can I help?” Grantham asked.

  “Thank you,” Tillie said firmly, “but no. I shall speak to Major Doverton when he returns.” She turned back to the cab, then paused to say over her shoulder. “Perhaps you’d tell him I called?”

  “Of course.” The captain handed her in and closed the door. “Send for me if you need to,” he urged.

  “Thank you.” But in truth, there was only one person she felt could help her.

  Only as they drove back down to Blackhaven did it strike her that if she told the truth, she might not be believed. Her breath seemed to vanish. Worse than that, it might well put her in danger. And everyone else who knew. Including Dove…

  *

  Dove had returned from the ball rather earlier than his comrades, for it seemed to him suddenly there was no time to waste. And his first priority had been to get some sleep. However, striding past the officers’ mess, which at first glance was empty, he’d caught sight of a solitary figure with a glass in front of him. Blackshaw.

  Other matters closer to his heart clamored for attention instead, but he had never shirked his duty. After only a moment’s hesitation, he walked in and poured himself a glass of brandy before he crossed the room and sat down opposite Blackshaw.

  “Good health,” he said, raising his glass.

  Blackshaw toasted him back somewhat sardonically, but he did not appear to be so drunk or pugnacious. All the same, Dove wouldn’t know how to proceed until the other man spoke.

  Blackshaw played with the stem of his glass. Slowly, he raised his blood-shot eyes to Dove’s, a desperate challenge in them, along with a huge dose of misery. “I should sell out, shouldn’t I?”

  “Do you want to?” Dove asked.

  “It would only be fair. I’m not the officer I wanted to be.”

  Dove shrugged. “Neither am I.”

  Blackshaw’s lips twisted. “But you’re the hero of the regiment, everything we all aspire to.”

  Dove lifted his glass and drank. “It gets out of proportion. The truth is, we act and react in the moment. I could just as easily have legged it.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Not that day.” Dove looked at him. “I took part in many engagements, many battles. I did not always cover myself in glory. No one does. You, I think, are hampered in that you only fought in one. And it was a big one. The next time will be different—better or worse, who knows? But it will be different. The question isn’t about the past but the future. Do you want to remain in the army? You will be a baron one day, I gather. You can choose. But make sure you do it for the right reasons. It will make you a better soldier.” He smiled. “Or
a better baron.”

  Blackshaw thought about that for a little until his eyes came back into focus on Dove. “You’re not really a stuffed shirt, are you?”

  Dove grimaced. “No. I’m just a soldier like you wondering what the future holds.”

  Blackshaw reached out and they clinked glasses.

  *

  After barely two hours of disturbed sleep, Dove rose in the dark, and by the light of a single candle, scribbled hasty notes to John, Colonel Gordon, and Dr. Lampton. After which, he saddled his own horse and rode for Manchester. Changing horses frequently, he arrived in Manchester not long after midday, and by asking directions several times, found his way to a rough back street alehouse called The Brown Jug.

  A few men sat drinking and smoking pipes, but it was not a lively establishment—at least not at this hour. The floor had been recently swept and in all, it was not as bad a place as Dove had expected.

  No one paid him much attention as he wandered up to the counter, behind which, a man was rolling an ale cask into place.

  “What can I get you?” the man asked, straightening.

  He was unexpectedly young and good looking, although he seemed very weary and his hair was too long. More interestingly, his hand had been amputated at the wrist.

  “A pint of ale, if you please,” Dove said.

  While the man poured it, Dove watched him. He hadn’t expected to find Trent this easily.

  “I don’t suppose,” Dove said, “that you know where I could find one George Trent?”

  “Depends who’s asking.”

  “I am,” Doverton said, swinging off his cloak to reveal his uniform. “I wrote you a letter. Major Doverton of the 44th.”

  The man glanced at him with only a shade more interest and pushed his beer across the counter. “I can’t read.”

  He was silent a little longer. Dove chose not to help him. After a moment, the man said, “I knew a man in the 44th. Tom Gunn.”

  “You saved his life as I understand it.”

  George Trent blinked. “You been talking to him?”

  “A little. I understand you have a mutual friend in Annie Doone.”