Mary Nichols - The Captain's Mysterious Lady

‘Patience, my dear, patience,’ Matilda said, as Harriet hurried off to confer with the cook about the supper menu. ‘It will all come right in the end, I am sure of it. Now, what will you wear tonight? You must look your best.’

The question gave her another problem. The clothes the aunts had found for her were a mix of some she had left behind when she married because they were worn or outdated, some of her aunts’ that had been altered to fit and some bought on a shopping expedition to Downham, the nearest town. Not wishing to be a financial burden on her aunts, she had been careful not to be extravagant. She could not understand why she had embarked on the journey to Highbeck without money or baggage. Aunt Harriet had said it must have been stolen from the wrecked coach before it had been retrieved, or perhaps the highwaymen had taken it.

That was another thing. The coach had been held up only minutes before it overturned, which must have been a frightening experience, but she did not even remember that. She would ask the Captain more about that at supper. Thinking of supper reminded her of her aunt’s question.

‘I think the Watteau gown we altered will do well enough,’ she said. The soft blue taffeta sack dress had been one of Harriet’s and was not intended to fit closely. Its very full back fell in folds from shoulder to floor and the front was laced over white embroidered stays and finished with a blue ribbon bow just above her bosom. The same ribbon decorated the sleeves, which fitted closely to the elbow and then frilled out to her wrists in a froth of lace. It had been easy to alter it to fit her.

‘Yes, it becomes you well enough,’ her aunt said. ‘Susan will dress your hair and you may wear my pearls. They will be yours one day in any case.’

‘You are so very good to me,’ Amy said, jumping up to hug her aunt. ‘I am not at all sure I deserve it.’

‘Nonsense! Of course you do. You are my dearest niece and have been a joy to me ever since you came to Highbeck as a little girl. Now run along and take a rest before you dress. You must be in fine fettle when Captain Drymore comes back.’

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 undertake 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. Something 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 highwaymen. Did she know them, too? She had certainly been afraid of them, but any young lady would be frightened under the circumstances, 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 broomsticks, 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 waistcoat was of cream silk, embroidered with both gold and silver thread, above which a frilled neckcloth 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 businesslike again. ‘I have no doubt your memory will return, perhaps suddenly, perhaps slowly, little by little.’