The Captain's Mysterious Lady (9 page)

‘Oh, I think I can manage to furnish a small house without trouble,' he said. ‘Do not think of that.'

 

They arrived at Downham to find it was market day and the town was crowded. Leaving the pony and gig at the stables, they set off on foot. It was then he realised she was nervous of crowds; she was pale and shaking, though manfully trying to overcome it. Without speaking, he took her hand and tucked it under his elbow and put his free hand over it, to reassure her.

The feel of his hand on hers was warm and protective and she turned to smile at him, thankful that he under stood without either of them speaking. She did not know what it was that made her so fearful, nor why she should experience it again now, after a perfectly relaxed and peaceful ride. ‘What shall we look at first?' she asked, determined to be practical.

‘Bedding,' he said. ‘After all, I can manage without furniture for a day or two, but if I am to move into the Lodge tomorrow, I need to have something to cover me. And Mrs Landis too will need to be comfortable.'

‘You mean to move in tomorrow?' she asked in credulously.

‘Why not? There is no sense in staying at the inn when I have a perfectly good house nearby, is there?'

They found a stall selling goose-feather quilts and pillows, another linen sheets and blankets, which he paid for and arranged to be delivered, then moved on. ‘I doubt we will find sofas here,' she said. ‘But my aunts tell me there are ware houses in Wisbech and Lynn that will be more likely to have what you want—'

She stumbled suddenly and he caught her to steady her, wondering what had caused it. She stood still, unable to go on, and he noticed that her eyes were riveted on something or someone in the crowd. All he saw was a market square lined with stalls and thronged with people of all kinds, men, women, young and old, rich and poor. Her gaze seemed to be directed at a couple of rough-looking men, but they had turned and hurried away, disappearing in the mêlée. For an instant he was reminded of Smith and Randle, and if she had not been with him he would undoubtedly have gone chasing after them, just as he had chased after every other likely pair for the last two years.
He shook himself. He had no reason to believe they were in the fens, none at all, and he was being fanciful.

‘Do you know those two?' he asked, nodding in the direction they had disappeared.

‘Who?'

‘There were two men at the end of that row of stalls. They seemed to engage your attention.'

‘No, I do not think so. But then, I cannot be sure, can I?' She was grateful he was there because she could not stop shaking. ‘You must think me very foolish to start at every stranger who looks at me. I fear I have been too sheltered at the Manor since the accident.'

‘No, my dear, not foolish,' he said. ‘But I think we have done enough for now. Let us go home. We can shop for the rest another day.'

He took her arm and guided her back to the posting inn where he bought them a dish of coffee to drink while the pony was re-harnessed to the gig and fetched round to the front.

 

She was silent on the return journey, but he did not try to make her talk. Something had troubled her, a returning memory invoked by the sight of those two men. Perhaps she was thinking of the two high way men who had held up the coach. They had been cloaked and masked, but had she recognised them in spite of that? Gus Billings had known them. The mystery was no nearer being solved, but he would not give up. It had engaged his interest to the exclusion of everything else. He gave a quirky smile; if Sam had not gone to London, he would undoubtedly have had more to say about a pair of appealing blue eyes.

A
my went over to the Lodge the next day to see how Mrs Landis and her cleaning women were faring, and found them very busy. The house keeper was dealing with a large quantity of pots, pans, crockery and provisions she had ordered and which had just arrived by carrier's wagon. The cleaning women were busy with buckets of water, mops and feather dusters. Already the difference was remarkable.

As soon as he heard her voice in the kitchen, James hurried there to see her, telling the house keeper to rustle up some refreshments for her and bring them to the drawing room.

‘Oh, no, Captain, Mrs Landis is far too busy to wait on me,' Amy pro tested, earning a grateful look from the house keeper. ‘I only came to see if there is anything I can do to help, not to create more work.'

‘We are managing very well,' Mrs Landis said. ‘But I thank you for the thought.'

‘I am off to Wisbech where I am told there is a warehouse full of useful articles,' James said. ‘Would you care to come with me to choose what we need?'

‘Yes, I should like that. Are you going now?'

‘As soon as I have harnessed the horse. Can you be ready?' he asked.

‘Yes, I will go and tell my aunts and wait at the drawbridge for you.'

 

It was the first of several such outings, both to Wisbech and Lynn. Over the next few days they bought two sofas and a pair of elegant low tables, chairs, fire screens, a clock and can de la bra for the drawing room, a desk and book shelves for the book room, clothes presses, dressing tables and mirrors and candle stands for the bedchambers, discussing what was needed, even arguing a little about their preferences in which he nearly always let her have her way, and gradually the Lodge was becoming a comfortable home for a gentleman. Not the most elaborate or costly that could be had, certainly less than the son of an earl might expect, but James professed himself more than satisfied. On all the trips they learned a little more about each other and established a comfortable rapport, although none of it helped to restore her memory. It certainly did nothing to solve the mystery of the absent husband.

A wagon had arrived from the capital with his clothes and other personal effects, so James was able to dress according to whatever he was doing. He would come up to the Manor to dine with Amy and the aunts dressed in beautiful coats and waist coats, well-cut breeches and snow-white shirts and always the same simple pin in his pristine neck cloth.

He was an amiable dinner guest, an entertaining raconteur and knowledgeable about events in the capital and indeed the rest of the world, but he was still something of an enigma to Amy. In the middle of some discourse, she would notice his eyes cloud over as if he were remem
bering something that gave him pain and he would put a hand up to the pin in his cravat, before appearing to shake himself out of it. And sometimes his opinions about the punishment of criminals seemed hard and in flexible, but she suspected that underneath that exterior was a softer man.

 

This was borne out on a trip to Ely. In spite of its vast and magnificent cathedral, Ely was little more than a village, dominated by the river that was its chief means of communication. Produce imported from abroad at Wisbech and Lynn was brought by river, and the harvest of the fens—reed, fish, water fowl—came to Ely to be sold at its market. On Sundays and holy days, the people came from all over the area to worship under its octagon lantern. James and Amy had spent some hours exploring and were on their way back to the Lamb where they had left the gig when they saw a boy speeding towards them through the crowd, followed by a man, shouting, ‘Stop, thief! Stop that boy!'

Not wishing to be bowled over by them, Amy stood aside, but James took two long strides and had the boy in his grasp. He was not above ten years old, barefoot and dressed in rags. His arms and legs were thin as sticks, but even so he kicked and squirmed in an effort to free himself. All in vain; James held him fast.

‘Much obliged to you, sir.' The boy's pursuer, who was as plump as the boy was skinny, had reached them and stood before them, panting for breath. ‘The black guard has stolen my dinner.'

‘Your dinner?' James asked mildly, though not relaxing his hold on the boy.

‘Yes. A fine meat pie in a cloth. I put it on the wall by the staithe while I shook hands with a friend and asked
him how he did. Quick as lightning, the pesky thief nabbed it and was off.'

‘What have you done with it, boy?' James asked, giving him a little shake.

‘I never had it.'

‘Do not lie, you wicked boy,' the man said. ‘You've eaten it.'

‘How could he?' Amy felt she had to speak in the child's defence. ‘He could hardly eat it and run at the same time.'

‘Please keep out of it,' James told her. ‘There is gravy down his shirt front.'

‘I dropped it,' the boy said, and began to cry.

Amy could not contain herself. ‘I have no doubt the poor child was hungry. You can hardly blame him.'

‘I do blame him,' the man said. ‘Hand him over to the Watch at once.'

‘Captain, I beg of you not to do any such thing,' Amy said, lifting her appealing eyes to his. ‘The poor boy must have imagined the pie had been left on the wall and forgot ten. Can you not let him go? After all, it is not our business to arrest anyone, let alone a child.'

‘Hey!' the man said. ‘The boy is my prisoner. I am the injured party and I want justice done.'

‘Here is your justice, sir,' James said, handing him a guinea. ‘You may buy a week of dinners with that. I will under take to punish the culprit.'

The man took the coin and strode off towards the market place, leaving the boy with James and Amy. ‘You are not going to hand him in, are you?' she asked. ‘Oh, please do not.'

‘Children have to learn right from wrong,' he said, then smiled suddenly. ‘But I doubt he will learn that in
prison.' He squatted down beside the boy. ‘What is your name, boy?'

‘Joe Potton.'

‘Well, Joe Potton, if I let you go, will you promise to behave in future? No more thieving.'

The child nodded. James found a sixpence in his pocket, which he put into the boy's hand. ‘Now, off you go and do not let me catch you stealing again.' In the blink of an eye the child was gone, disappearing down an alley before anyone could change their mind.

‘You are making me soft, Mrs Macdonald,' James said, knowing perfectly well the child would steal again as soon as the opportunity arose. ‘All we have taught that boy is that crime does sometimes pay.'

She laughed. ‘You were the one who gave him sixpence, not I.'

‘I know,' he said with a wry smile. ‘But you were no doubt right. He took the pie because he was hungry and, having dropped it, was still hungry. Could I leave him like that?'

‘I think you are not as severe as you would have us believe,' she said. ‘Underneath I believe you to be a compassionate man.'

‘Perhaps where children are concerned. They are not born wicked and learn only what adults teach them. But grown men who steal and murder, that is a different matter.' He spoke so vehemently she turned to look at him.

She saw that clouded look in his eyes again and noticed how rigid he held his jaw, and came to the conclusion that something had happened in the past which still troubled him. She longed to ask him about it, but his demeanour did not invite questions and they returned to the inn in silence.

 

By the time they were in the gig and on their way home, he had recovered his good humour and was talking about the Lodge and how comfortable he felt there, which he attributed to the help she had given him. ‘It is down to the excellent work of my little home maker,' he said, surprising himself and making her laugh. And in that happy frame of mind they arrived back at the Manor.

He spent a few minutes exchanging civilities with the Misses Hardwick and then took his leave. After he had gone, Amy told them about the little boy and the way the Captain seemed to be intractable about handing him over to the Watch at first, but then gave in to her entreaties to let him go and gave him a sixpence. ‘He said I was making him soft,' she said. ‘And he called me his little home maker. That was a quaint thing to say, do you not think?' They chuckled over it, but Aunt Harriet saw fit to remind her that she was a married woman and should not encourage the Captain in such familiarities, which quite took the shine off the outing.

In spite of that, Amy would not be put off her role as adviser and helpmate over the furnishing of the Lodge. It gave her something useful to do, and for a little while, choosing colours and materials and selecting a few pictures and ornaments took her mind off her troubles. She would go for several hours, sometimes a whole day, without thinking about her loss of memory, until someone said something that reminded her and then her lovely eyes would become shadowed with sorrow for a time, but then James would say something to her about the Lodge and she was herself again.

 

One day, about a week after their trip to Ely, she was making her way to the Lodge through the copse when
she realised she was being followed. Thinking it might be some of the village children, she turned with a laugh, ready to run after them. It was not children, but two men who dodged behind the trees as she turned. She was sure they were the same two she had seen in Downham Market the first time she and the Captain had gone shopping together. She started to run, bursting into the Lodge without knocking, just as James came out of his book room.

He hurried towards her. ‘Amy, what is wrong?'

She flung herself into his arms, oblivious to the fact that he had called her by her given name. He held her, not knowing what had caused her distress, but prepared to hold her in his arms until she had calmed enough to tell him. Her unpowdered hair was soft beneath his chin and smelled of lavender. He resisted the temptation to put his lips to it. ‘You are quite safe,' he murmured. ‘I will let no one hurt you.'

‘I'm sorry to be such a ninny,' she said, drawing away from him. ‘I was so frightened.'

‘That I could see,' he said gently. ‘Now come into the drawing room and tell me what happened.' He led her into the room and they sat together on the new sofa with his arm still about her. She did not object; indeed, she hardly seemed aware that it was there.

‘I was being followed. It was those two men.'

‘Which two men?'

‘The two I saw in Downham Market when we went to buy your bedding.'

‘Are you sure? Did they speak?'

‘No. I ran.' She laughed shakily. ‘What a bumpkin I am. I should have con fronted them, asked what they were doing on the estate. Sent them away.'

‘No, you did the right thing. If they had turned nasty…' He did not elaborate on that prospect, but went to the side
board to pour a finger of brandy into a glass. ‘Now sit there and sip that while I deal with them.'

He strode off to the copse, which was not thick enough to conceal anyone for long, but could find no one there. He went up to the Manor without coming across a soul and then came back and searched all round the Lodge and in its out buildings, but found no evidence of intruders.

‘There is no one there,' he said, returning to Amy who was sitting exactly where he had left her, though she appeared some what calmer.

‘I did not imagine them.'

‘I am sure you did not, but knowing you had seen them trespassing, they no doubt made good their escape.'

‘I was afraid they were after me.' That was her biggest private fear, that she was mixed up in something disreputable.

‘Why do you say that?' Had she remembered something, something that truly terrified her? His thoughts went to the man in the coach and the two high way men. He was almost sure she had recognised them even though they had been masked. Could it be the same two men, and, if so, how did she know them? He did not voice his thoughts, not wishing to frighten her even more nor put memories in her head that were not real ones.

‘I don't know, it was just a feeling I had. What do you suppose they were after?'

‘A rabbit or two for the pot, perhaps. Or work. Or alms.'

‘They were unkempt, but not ragged and certainly not half-starved. But you are no doubt right and I am being silly,' she said with an attempt at a smile.

‘Not at all,' he said gently. ‘After what you have been through, I am surprised you are not more timid.'

‘How do you know what I have been through?' she asked sharply.

‘I meant the high way men and the coach overturning and the death of your escort, not to mention losing your memory.'

‘Oh, that. I wish I could remember what happened before that. Why did I lose my memory? Why can I not even remember my own husband? If it had not been for the aunts telling me they had met him, I would have doubted his existence. Surely I would know, inside myself, if I were married? And yet, I do not. What is my forgetfulness hiding from me? Are those two men part of it?'

‘I cannot tell,' he said. ‘But it would be a wise pre caution to have an escort when you go out, even to come here, though my own feeling is that they were simply ne'er-do-wells out for what they could find.' He tried to be convincing, but even in his own ears he did not sound very sure.

He took the half-empty glass from her fingers and put it on a side table, then took her hand to bring her to her feet. ‘Are you feeling better now?'

‘Yes, thank you.' She was still a little fearful, but his presence beside her was re assuring. Was that why she had flung herself at him in that unladylike manner? He had not batted an eye at it, but held her in his arms and com forted her. And she had allowed it! As a married woman she should feel ashamed of her actions, but somehow she did not—which was another question that needed answering when her memory returned. ‘I came to help you put up the pictures we bought.'