The Captain And His Innocent. Lucy Ashford

as they crossed the bridge over a river, she had her first view of the Hall—stately and foursquare, with flambeaux burning on either side of the huge, pillared entrance, as if in defiance of the January night.

      Lord Franklin’s country residence. It was magnificent. It was haughty and forbidding. ‘Oh, look,’ cried Miss Pringle, who was peering out of the window, too. ‘Here we are at last, Elise. And I see—goodness me!—that all the staff are outside, waiting to greet you!’

      Indeed, Ellie had seen them all there in the cold: the maids in black and the footmen, straight as soldiers, clad in Lord Franklin’s livery of navy and gold.

      All waiting for her. Ellie’s heart sank.

      But Miss Pringle practically bubbled with excitement. ‘Such an honour for you!’ she murmured as the grooms hurried to hold the horses and lower the carriage steps. ‘Such a very great honour! And look—here is Mr Huffley, his lordship’s butler...’

      ‘Miss Pringle. Mademoiselle.’ The butler made a stiff bow to them as they descended from the carriage. ‘It is my pleasure, mademoiselle,’ he went on to Ellie, bowing again, ‘to welcome you most heartily to Bircham Hall. Allow me to present our housekeeper, Mrs Sheerham. Our cook, Mrs Bevington. The senior housemaid, Joan...’

      The maids curtseyed to her, the footmen bowed their heads to her; all politeness, all decorum, despite the fact that their breaths were misting in the chilly air. For their sakes Ellie got through the ceremony as quickly as she could, then followed Mr Huffley up the stone steps to the house.

      And only then did she remember that there was somebody else she had yet to meet.

      ‘Lady Charlotte will be expecting you,’ Miss Pringle was whispering at her side. ‘I declare, I cannot wait to see her ladyship again.’

      The entrance hall was huge and cold, its walls hung with coats of arms and stags’ heads. All kinds of statues stood on either side of the hall: reclining figures of smooth white marble, stone busts set on pillars, precious relics that must, Ellie realised, have come from the ancient civilizations of Greece or Rome or Egypt.

      It was a proud house, thought Ellie to herself with a shiver. All these priceless objects from the past seemed to be there to declare the history, wealth and importance of those who dwelt there. And in the midst of all this, as if claiming her own right to be a part of the grandeur, was a lady in her early seventies, with a lace-trimmed cap perched on her iron-grey hair and a gown of black. She sat in a bath chair. Two footmen were on either side of her, standing stiffly to attention.

      ‘Your ladyship...’ breathed Miss Pringle to her, sweeping an extravagant curtsey.

      And Ellie was suddenly dry-mouthed as she made a low curtsey also. Nobody had told her about the bath chair. Nobody had told her...

      She rose from her curtsey, aware that Lady Charlotte was raking her with hard eyes. ‘So you must be Elise Duchamp,’ she said, distaste for the foreign name etching every syllable. ‘I am Lord Franklin’s mother. I gather he has decided to banish you to Bircham? So much, I imagine, for your hopes of trapping my son into marriage.’

      Ellie was shocked not just by the nature of the attack, but by its vicious suddenness. Never—never had she thought of Lord Franklin in that way. Dieu du ciel, he was surely over twice her age! ‘I do assure you, my lady, that nothing could be further from the truth!’

      Lady Charlotte wheeled herself close, forcing Ellie backwards. ‘Are you really telling me that you never intended to make him your prize? Some people might—just might—believe you. I don’t, as it happens. Just remember, Elise—I shall be watching you.’

      Her ladyship glanced up at Miss Pringle. ‘It’s almost five o’clock. I hope, Pringle, that you’ve shown some common sense for a change, and told the girl that we dine at six? We do not indulge in town hours here.’ She beckoned to the two footmen, who throughout all this had stared blankly ahead. ‘Take me to my room. Now.’ And Ellie watched speechless as the footmen wheeled the elderly lady away.

      How could she have allowed herself to be brought here—trapped here like this? Why had she entrusted herself to these people?

      Yet how could she have resisted her father’s last desperate plea as he lay dying? You must go with him, Ellie, to England. You must.

      ‘Papa,’ Ellie had argued. ‘We don’t know him. We cannot be sure.’

      But her father had insisted. Lord Franklin will keep you safe, as I have never been able to, he’d said. Promise me...

      Miss Pringle still hovered, all of a flutter. ‘What an honour for you, Elise,’ she was saying brightly. ‘How wonderful to be welcomed to Bircham by Lady Charlotte herself.’

      But her hands were trembling, and Ellie realised that Miss Pringle was afraid of Lady Charlotte. Terrified, in fact. And then the housekeeper was there—Mrs Sheerham—saying to Ellie, ‘May I take you to your room, ma’am?’

      Ellie followed her, quite dazed.

      * * *

      She found that she had been allotted a spacious suite on the second floor. Her trunk and valise had already been brought up and placed in the bedroom that adjoined the private sitting room.

      She went over to them quickly, to check that the valise was still firmly locked. Looking round, she noted that thick curtains were drawn shut across all the windows; fires had been lit in both rooms and a dozen or more wax candles banished the darkness. The luxury of it all stunned her.

      ‘I hope everything is to your taste, ma’am?’ Mrs Sheerham was still standing by the door.

      ‘Yes. Thank you, it’s—it’s wonderful.’

      ‘Very good, ma’am.’ Mrs Sheerham’s expression softened just a fraction with the praise. ‘You’d no doubt like some tea and someone to help with your unpacking? I’ll see that a maid comes up to you shortly.’ She left and Ellie began to slowly remove her cloak.

       Lady Charlotte hates me. She never wanted me here.

      She’d barely had time to lay her cloak on the bed, when there was a knock at the door, and a girl in a black dress and white apron entered hesitantly.

      ‘My name is Mary, miss!’ She bobbed a curtsey. ‘Mrs Sheerham, she asked me to come up and see to you. And I’ve brought tea for you.’ Mary darted out again and came back in with a tray of tea things, which she set down on a small table in the sitting room, while Ellie stood back, hoping the girl wouldn’t guess that—before being taken under Lord Franklin’s wing—she had never had a personal maid in her life.

      ‘Now, while you drink your tea,’ Mary went on, ‘I shall start to unpack your clothes, shall I?’ Her eager eyes had already settled on Ellie’s trunk and valise, then fell a little. ‘But is that all?’

      Ellie knew that most ladies of quality travelled with so much luggage that often a separate carriage was required for it. ‘There’s only the one trunk, I’m afraid, Mary,’ she answered quickly. ‘And, yes, I’d be grateful if you would unpack it.’

      ‘And what about the bag—?’

      ‘No,’ Ellie cut in. Mary was staring at her in surprise. ‘I mean,’ Ellie hurried on, ‘that there’s very little in the valise. My clothes are all in the trunk. So if you would put them away, I would be most grateful.’

      ‘Of course, miss!’ Briskly Mary set about unpacking Ellie’s clothes and hanging them in the wardrobe, or folding them into the various chests of drawers that were ready-scented with sprigs of dried lavender. As she did so, she exclaimed over the silk gowns, the velvet pelisses, the exquisite underwear. ‘Oh, miss. Are all these from Paris?’

      Ellie shook her head. ‘They’re from London. Lord Franklin was kind enough to arrange for a modiste to make them for me.’

      Mary