The Reluctant Escort. Mary Nichols

Stacey Manor where the simplest of clothes would be perfectly adequate. She had been right, of course. There was nothing to do, except walk and ride and read, and make occasional visits of a charitable nature to the local villagers.

      Pinning up her thick hair was not easy but she achieved it in the end, though one strand refused to be confined and curled lovingly into her neck. She left it there and went down to the withdrawing room.

      Lady Connaught, dressed as always in unrelieved black on account of being widowed thirty years before, sat in a high-backed chair by the hearth. Her visitor stood facing her, with his hand on the mantel. He turned when he heard Molly come into the room. She wasn’t sure whether his smile was one of amusement or pleasure, but was gratified that he smiled at all.

      He had changed out of the grubby clothes he had been wearing and was now in biscuit-coloured pantaloons and a blue superfine coat, beneath which was a canary-yellow waistcoat with brass buttons and a cravat of white muslin, cleverly tied. He had shaved and his hair had been washed and brushed until it shone. He was now Molly’s idea of a man about town and the war-like fantasies she had been weaving about him faded to be replaced by others.

      He was part of the Prince Regent’s court and had been sent to rescue her, to take her to London to be courted by all the eligibles and marry the most handsome and attentive of them all. She might be presented to the Queen at one of her drawing rooms and everyone would say how well she looked.

      She knew she should not indulge in these daydreams; it was foolish and childish, as her mother had told her often enough, but they lightened a dull afternoon when there was nothing else to do. Dreams were no substitute for reality and it was the reality she craved.

      ‘Molly, come and meet…’ Her ladyship paused and looked at him for a moment as if unsure of his identity, then went on, ‘Captain Duncan Stacey. Duncan, this is Mrs Benbright’s daughter, Margaret. You remember Harriet Benbright, do you not?’

      Molly did not see the look which passed between them, nor did she hear his murmured comment as she dropped a very deep curtsey before moving forward, wondering if he recognised her as the girl he had seen on the road. She hoped he would not mention it, because it would spark off a jobation from Aunt Margaret and that would be too mortifying. Besides, she didn’t want him to think of her as Miss Molly Madcap, but as a woman with whom he could enjoy social intercourse.

      She looked up into his eyes and realised that he was trying to convey a message in them. It was a kind of reassurance and she gave him a conspiratorial smile which startled and then charmed him.

      ‘Your servant, Miss…’ In the middle of taking her hand and bowing over it, he paused. ‘Forgive me, I do not know which one you belong to.’

      He was referring to her mother’s three husbands, she realised. ‘I should have thought it was obvious,’ she said. ‘The first one, Monsieur Martineau, of course. Mama was only seventeen when she married him and I was born less than a year later. It is why we are more like sisters than mother and daughter, so Mama says. If I had been the child of Mr Winters or Colonel Benbright, I would still be a child, would I not?’

      ‘Of course,’ he said, stifling an inclination to laugh. ‘How stupid of me not to have worked that out for myself. Miss Martineau, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.’

      ‘Sit down, both of you,’ her ladyship said. ‘Dinner will be served at three. We don’t keep London hours here.’

      ‘No, I did not think you would,’ he said. He turned to Molly. ‘Miss Martineau, are you enjoying your stay in Norfolk?’

      ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said.

      ‘But it is somewhat dull, I think.’

      ‘Sometimes.’

      ‘How do you amuse yourself?’

      She looked up at him sharply, wondering if his query was leading up to some comment about wandering about the countryside in bare feet. ‘I walk and ride and read, and visit the cottages. The people are very poor, you know, and we must do what we can for them.’

      ‘Indeed, I do know. It is commendable that you are concerned about them; isn’t that so, my lady?’

      ‘Yes,’ her ladyship said. ‘Though there is little we can do about the weather and it is the heavy rain that ruined last year’s harvest.’

      ‘And the end of the war,’ Molly put in. ‘All those soldiers coming home and needing work. No wonder they riot.’

      ‘Do they?’ he queried. ‘Hereabouts?’

      ‘Everywhere. You must have been out of the country not to have known about it. But perhaps you are one of those soldiers yourself. I collect you are a captain.’

      ‘I am, yes.’

      ‘Were you in any big battles?’

      ‘Indeed I was.’

      ‘Which ones? Tell me all about them. Have you ever seen Napoleon Bonaparte? Or spoken to the Duke of Wellington? How much do you think the different styles of leadership of Napoleon and the Duke contributed to the final outcome?’

      ‘Styles of leadership?’ he echoed, taken aback. It was not a subject he would have expected someone of her years to show an interest in.

      ‘Why, yes. Napoleon likes to march to battle with a great deal of noise and show and banners flying, while the Duke hides his men away and does not reveal himself until the last minute. He also dresses in a very nondescript way and Napoleon struts like a turkey-cock. Is that not so? Do you think Wellington learned his tactics from Agincourt? Henry V hid his bowmen behind palisades until the enemy was almost upon them, didn’t he?’

      ‘Goodness, so many questions all at once,’ he said. ‘I hardly know where to begin.’

      ‘I shouldn’t answer any of them,’ Lady Connaught put in drily. ‘It will only lead to more. Molly’s curiosity is insatiable.’

      ‘But that is how we learn, is it not?’ Molly said. Ever since she had been taught to read by her father, she had devoured everything she could lay her hands on, whether suitable or not. Simple moralising tales given to her by her nursemaid were soon replaced by novels, both good and bad, and the contents of her succeeding stepfathers’ libraries.

      Geography and horticulture and ancient history were digested along with the rudiments of wine-making. And from Colonel Benbright’s vast collection of military books she had read about war and military campaigns and those who directed them. ‘I have read about such things,’ she told the Captain. ‘But it is not the same as talking to someone who was there.’

      ‘Some things it is better not to know,’ the Captain said. ‘I shall certainly not enlighten you or I shall be blamed for giving you nightmares.’

      ‘You think I am so lily-livered I have to be protected from anything disagreeable? I assure you, Captain, I am not so lacking in imagination that I do not realise that some things in life are very unpleasant. One must learn about the bad as well as the good.’

      ‘But better not dwelt upon,’ Lady Connaught said. ‘Duncan, you may escort us in to dinner and I do not want to hear another word about the war. You may tell us what is going on in London instead.’

      They moved into the dining room and over a frugal meal of turbot, game pie, vegetables and a fruit flummery Duncan regaled them with the latest gossip from the capital, including the Prince Regent’s long dispute with his wife Caroline, and Princess Charlotte’s love match with Prince Leopold, a story that delighted Molly, who had a very romantic streak in spite of her hoydenish ways. But he had been to no social gatherings and could tell them nothing of the latest fashions.

      Duncan stayed behind to smoke a cigar and drink a glass of port after the meal but soon joined them in the withdrawing room where they played three-handed whist until it was time for Molly to retire.

      ‘You will be staying?’ she enquired, when she bade him goodnight. ‘I shall see you tomorrow? You can