The Captain And His Innocent. Lucy Ashford

Pringle was nodding. ‘Oh, indeed,’ she echoed. ‘Overrun. Quite true.’

      ‘In particular,’ pronounced Lady Charlotte, ‘one hears the most dreadful stories of foreigners who come over daily on the packet boats hunting for work, or more likely looking for mischief. The French, in other words. Now that the war is over, I hope that our prime minister and his government will send them all back to where they belong.’

      Miss Pringle let out a little gasp. Ellie rose from her chair abruptly and said, ‘Please excuse me from the remainder of the meal, your ladyship.’

      Lady Charlotte peered crossly at her. ‘What? What? It’s really most irregular of you to retire before I have even begun my dessert!’

      ‘I realise that. But I feel particularly tired today and I really need to go to my room. Pray accept my apologies—Lady Charlotte, Miss Pringle.’

      She made a brief curtsey and hurried from the dining room. Just outside the doors stood the two footmen who pushed Lady Charlotte around in her bath chair. They had their backs to Ellie and were talking. And she felt a sense of cold shock, as their topic of conversation became only too apparent.

      ‘What do you make of the young French girl, then?’ one was saying.

      ‘If you ask me, she’s not as quiet as she looks. Got a spark of liveliness in her eyes, most definitely.’ The other footman chuckled. ‘A pity it’s all wasted here. But perhaps she misbehaved in London...’

      Ellie walked past them and past the antique statues to the stairs, her cheeks burning as she climbed up to her room on the second floor. And as she stood in her lonely sitting room, trapped in that great, cold English mansion, with the footmen’s whispered vitriol and Lady Charlotte’s stark disapproval still echoing in her ears, she felt a hollow emptiness inside.

      She’d been here nearly a week. The thought of another week was beyond endurance. I cannot stay here any longer, she thought. I cannot stay here, where I don’t belong.

      To leave would mean breaking her vow to her father—her promise that she would come to England and be safe. But it had been a huge, huge mistake to put herself at the mercy of strangers.

      She had to get away, and Brussels was the only place she could think of: Brussels and the lodgings where she and her father had stayed for the last few weeks of her poor father’s life. Maybe the kind landlady would allow her to rent her old room again, if it was still free? And surely she could find a job nearby—on a market stall, or in the baker’s shop itself. Then she would be able to visit her papa’s grave at the little church of St Marie every day.

      She pushed aside the heavy curtains and gazed out of the window into the night. After days of heavy rain, the velvety sky was clear at last and far beyond the woods surrounding the Hall’s gardens, she could see the moonlight reflected off the distant sea. Suddenly she remembered the small fishing port she’d noticed on her way here.

      Bircham Staithe, Mary had told her it was called. It lay only a little way beyond the boundaries of Lord Franklin’s estate—less than a mile, she guessed. And once there...

      She had money. She could make up a story to some kind sea captain about how she had to return home now that the long war was over. Surely it would be straightforward to pay for a passage to northern France on a fishing vessel.

      Already she was putting on her walking boots and her hooded cloak; already she was picking up her black leather valise, then she let herself quietly out of her room and stood there listening. The big house was absolutely silent. Making her way swiftly down the narrow servants’ staircase, she slipped out of a side door into the enveloping darkness of the garden.

      Freedom. She drew in deep breaths of the cold night air, but still hesitated before plunging into the shrubbery; because she knew that like most landowners, Lord Franklin kept half-a-dozen great mastiffs as guard dogs, which were let loose from their kennels by his groundsmen after dark.

      Sometimes the dogs were released for only half an hour, though the timing of their outings was changed deliberately each night. But now Ellie reminded herself that she’d heard them in the grounds earlier, as dinner was being served, so surely they would be back in their kennels by now? She took the path through the shrubbery, aware of her pulse racing, but there were no cries of alarm from the house—neither dogs nor servants were giving chase. All was mercifully quiet.

      Ellie had learned, during her travels with her father, to choose her route carefully, then follow it without hesitation. She’d noted on her first day here that beyond the shrubbery, smooth lawns and flowerbeds stretched to the boundary of Lord Franklin’s estate, where the stone wall offered footholds in plenty for her to climb. From there she judged it was only a short distance to the road which led to the little port of Bircham Staithe.

      She crossed the gardens and climbed the wall swiftly in the darkness. All that remained was to listen out for pursuers—and this was what troubled her now, as she hurried along the road that led down to the sea. She thought she’d heard muffled footsteps, in the woods to her right. She stopped, her breath catching in her throat.

      Her thoughts flew to the man in the long grey coat, who’d held her father’s compass in his hand and looked at her as if he could read her innermost secrets. Her heart hammered, but there was nothing now—no sound at all, except the whispering of the wind and the distant hiss of the sea. Perhaps it had been a small wild animal, or a bird scuffling in the undergrowth...

      Four men loomed out of the darkness ahead of her. Four men dressed in the rough garb of fishermen, who’d spread out to bar her escape.

      ‘Well, well,’ the first one said, drawing closer. He wore a short serge jacket and strands of lank fair hair hung around his thin face. ‘What have we got here? Looks like we’ve struck lucky tonight, lads.’

       Chapter Seven

      Luke Danbury was in a smoky tavern down by the harbour of Bircham Staithe, drinking rough ale and playing dice with a group of local fishermen. But his mind was miles away.

      It was several days since Jacques had sailed back to France—heading south towards La Rochelle on the coast—and by now Jacques and his men would be searching. Questioning. Offering bribes, offering threats—all in the probably vain hope that Luke’s brother wasn’t dead, like the rest.

      Suddenly he realised that one of the fishermen was nudging him. ‘Your turn, Captain.’ Luke nodded and gathered up the dice. He threw them awkwardly, of course. He did everything damned awkwardly with his left hand. He remembered the bleak night last autumn when the bandaging was removed for the first time and Luke—low in spirits after weeks of enforced inactivity—had said to Jacques, ‘The next time, I will go to France with you. I cannot wait here any longer doing nothing, when my brother might need me.’

      Then he’d seen the look on Jacques’s face. And he’d known exactly what the Frenchman was thinking, even if he was too kind to say it. You? With your crippled hand? What earthly good would you be to us? You cannot row a boat. You cannot wield a sword, or fire a gun.

      Luke’s dice landed high and he realised that for once the pile of copper coins at his side was growing bigger. Well, there was a surprise. He ordered more ale for them all and muttered, under his breath, ‘Anthony. If you’re still alive, for God’s sake let Jacques find you.’

      And then, Tom Bartlett was at his elbow, with the Wattersons standing big and burly behind him. ‘You’re wanted outside, Captain.’

      ‘Who by?’

      ‘A bunch of local ruffians. And Sam Snaith is their leader.’

      A hushed silence descended on the tavern. ‘Why does he want me?’

      ‘He says he’s got someone interesting for you to meet. A girl—’

      Luke was on his feet.