Elizabeth Bailey - The Captain's Return

She had not been seen in fashionable circles since. Like the fictitious Captain Lett, Annabel Howes had disappeared without trace. And until he had thrust himself back into her life this afternoon in her little garden in Steep Ride, Annabel had neither heard from nor set eyes on Captain Colton from that night.

In the small ground-floor room, Captain Colton lay as wakeful as his reluctant fictitious spouse. He had thrust the casement open as far as it would go, but it was still stuffy. The truckle bed could scarcely be said to accommodate his large frame with any degree of ease, but it was not this discomfort that was keeping sleep at bay. He had been in far worse situations, and had slept like the dead—or so Weem claimed. But he had much to ponder.

He had set himself a task that looked likely to prove well-nigh impossible. There was little of the Annabel he had been pursuing in the creature who had accorded him such resentful acceptance this day. Acceptance? It could scarce be called that! Had he not carried out his plan of campaign, she would certainly have thrown him out.

Whether he was glad of having done it was another question entirely. He had thought—naïvely, he was forced now to admit—that the feeling he had for Annabel would be with him unto death. Certainly the intervening years had done nothing to dim its strength.

But in ruthless honesty, Hal conceded that it had been dealt a severe blow by his first sight of the stranger Annabel this afternoon. Had he driven himself through battles and arduous campaigns in Spain and Portugal, holding her image sacred in a determined bid to win her in the end, only to find at the last that he had mistaken his own heart?

Where was the girl who had given herself to him in the torrid heat of mutual passion when last he had seen her? Had he carried a false picture of that night, building in his imagination upon the actuality so that he cherished an exaggerated memory? The sequel he remembered all too well.

Returning distraught to his lodgings, he had discovered orders to rejoin his regiment in Dover the next day, from there to embark at once for Spain. He had chased like a demented fool in the early hours to the Howes town residence, only to find the knocker off the door and the shutters up. A sleepy retainer had been roused at last to his furious banging, from whom he had learned that the master was gone out of town.

There had been nothing he could do but write—letter after letter. And for months nothing had come. He had thought that Annabel was punishing him by her silence. Until the letters came back in a package, unopened except for the first. That had been torn in two.

For a while Hal had given up. But when nearly a year had gone, his heart as desperate as ever, he had again written. And the letter came back with its seal intact. After that, he must now suppose, Annabel had been established here in this village. Had he written, she would probably not have received the letters.

From her hasty words today, he must suppose that she never had received them. Howes had played him false! No doubt leading Annabel to suppose that he had never made any attempt to contact her. Small wonder that she had reacted to his arrival with resentment.

He must show her the letters. At the least let her not think him basely treacherous.

Only that seed of doubt lingered. Hal wished he had not been so hasty. If Annabel no longer loved him—if he, let it be said, could not love the woman she had become—then of what use was his presence here? Perhaps he ought, after all, to pretend that he had been recalled to his regiment. It had been Annabel’s suggestion. Thrown at him in anger it was true, yet it had merit.

His arrival would establish her respectability in the neighbourhood. He would meet his obligations, whatever happened, with any financial aid Annabel thought proper. He might remain a few weeks, put on a pretence of familial harmony, and withdraw again with no harm done.

His hardened honesty gave him a mental kick. No harm done! Was there not harm enough in his throwing Annabel back into an episode in the past which he had no doubt at all she had done her best to forget? No, he must face it. He had compounded his original fault by appearing in this way.

On this painful thought, he began to drop asleep, a half-formed resolve in his mind to talk bluntly to Annabel the following day, and assure her that he intended to withdraw from the vicinity as soon as was decently possible.

In the morning, however, in search of hot water with which to wash and shave, he blundered sleepily into the large room, looking for the kitchen, dressed only in shirt and breeches. Here he encountered a small child playing on the floor.

The infant was dressed in a nightgown, and a pair of large blue eyes regarded him solemnly out of an adorable little face surrounded by a mass of curling locks that matched almost exactly the colour of his own.

Hal’s heart lurched. The babe! A girl? Devil take it, why had no one said it was a little girl? Something seemed to kick him in the chest. His daughter. This was his daughter!

The child continued to gaze up at him, the wooden horse and cart motionless under her still hands. She did not appear to be afraid. Hal dropped to his haunches.

“Hello! What’s your name?”

At that, she looked coyly, and one small hand reached up to her mouth, slipping a finger inside.

Before Hal could repeat his question, the gaunt woman who seemed to be Annabel’s only servant appeared in the doorway behind. Her gaze was anything but friendly, her tone sour.

“Her name’s Rebecca.”

The infant removed the finger from her mouth, and piped up. “Becca.”

“She can’t say it right, so we call her Becky mostly.”

Hal smiled at the child, and held out his hand. “How do you do, Becky?”

His daughter looked at the hand, and back up to his face. Then she scrambled up, and ran to embrace the dour maid’s legs.

“She’ll be shy of you to start with, sir,” volunteered the maid, leaning down to pick up the child.

Hal rose. “No doubt.”

The woman clearly knew his identity. And strongly disapproved of him, if he was any judge. He changed his tone to one of command.

“I’ll be glad of some hot water, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

Annabel’s clear voice spoke from the stairway to one side. “It is a great deal too much trouble. Janet has enough to do without fetching water. You’ll find a tin jug on the stove in the kitchen.”

She came down the stairs. Without glancing at Hal, she went to Janet and took Rebecca. “I’ll see to her. Has she had breakfast?”

“No, ma’am. There’s eggs on the boil. I’ll show the Captain his water, and then bring them in.”

Hal thanked her, and followed her through the doorway, glancing once at the little girl as he went. A warm glow filled his breast. Hardly did he notice the reflection that passed through the back of his mind. That the resolve he had made in the night had been abruptly shattered.

By the time Hal had performed his ablutions, there was no sign in the house of either Annabel or Rebecca. He was requested to sit at the table in the window where a cover had been set for him, and was regaled with eggs and ham by the grudging maid. She informed him, upon enquiry, that the mistress was gone out.

“To church perhaps?”

He received a look that would have been insolence in any subordinate of his. “It’ll be a while yet before she does that now, sir.”

It was said with meaning, and Hal gritted his teeth. The implication was plain. Now that her alleged husband was home, it would be thought odd indeed if the “Letts’ did not attend church as a family. Hal guessed that the Reverend Mr Hartwell would assume Annabel to be yet too much overcome by his arrival to be at service today. It struck him—not without a degree of self-blame—that it would have been hard indeed for Annabel to confront the inevitable gossip.