The Captain's Mysterious Lady. Mary Nichols

The taller of the two hesitated when he saw her and looked for a moment as if he were going to speak. He was broad as well as tall, handsome in a rugged kind of way, with intense green eyes that seemed to take everything in at a glance, including her scattered thoughts. His tricorne hat covered sun-bleached hair, which was tied back with a narrow black ribbon. As with any gentleman who came to the village from outside it, she wondered if he might be Duncan, but when he sketched her a little bow and proceeded into the inn without speaking, she knew it was not the husband she looked for, for surely he would have spoken to her, taken her into his arms, called her by name?

      The man had looked slightly familiar, as if she ought to know him, or at least was acquainted with him. Did that little bow confirm it? Or was it simply a courtesy? If only she could remember! She went on her way to make her purchase, intending afterwards to visit Widow Twitch, an old lady who lived in a cottage down a lane on the other side of the village who, according to her Aunt Matilda, had known her since she was in leading strings and was also recognised as a wise woman who had the gift of telling the future. Her advice might be worth listening to.

      James had recognised Amy immediately and had been on the point of greeting her, but decided against it. He had wondered if she might remember him, considering he had held her in his arms on the ride from the scene of the accident to the inn. The memory of that had certainly stayed with him. He had spoken to her later and she had remembered his name then, but today, though she had looked at him, there had been no recognition in her blue eyes. Until he had spoken to the Misses Hardwick and ascertained exactly what they wanted of him, he would remain incognito.

      He was glad to see that she looked well. Her cheeks were rosy and her hair, which had been so unkempt and tangled, was now brushed and curled into ringlets, over which was tied a simple cottager hat. She wore a striped cotton gown, a plain stomacher and a gauze scarf tucked into the front of it, an ensemble that would be decried in town, but was perfectly suitable for the country. She had filled out a little too, so that she bore little resemblance to the waif he had held in his arms. It was difficult to believe that her mind retained nothing of her past. Would reawakening her memory, even supposing it could be done, fling her back into that world of fear? She had been afraid, of that he was certain.

      He did not need to eat, having dined at the Lamb in Ely not two hours before, so he left his baggage at the inn where he had booked rooms for himself and Sam, and hired a horse to take him to Blackfen Manor, leaving his own mount to be groomed and rested. He wondered if he might overtake the young lady, but there was no sign of her as he trotted along a well-worn path bordering fields of as yet unripe barley.

      He passed the tower at the gates to the grounds and proceeded up a gravel drive until the Manor came into view. He did not know what he had expected, but the solid red-brick Tudor mansion with its mullioned windows and twisted chimneys was a surprise. He half-expected the drawbridge to be raised to repel raiders, but laughed at his fancies when he saw the bridge down and the great oak doors wide open. He trotted under the arch into a cobbled yard and dismounted at a door on the far side.

      He was admitted by an elderly retainer who disappeared to acquaint the ladies of his arrival and take in the letter of introduction James had been given. He returned in less than two minutes and conducted James to a large drawing room where two ladies rose as he entered. He removed his tricorne hat, tucked it under his left arm and swept them a bow. ‘Ladies, your obedient.’

      ‘Captain, you are very welcome,’ the elder said. She was in her forties, he supposed, tall and angular. The other was shorter and rounder, but both were dressed alike in wide brocade open gowns with embroidered stomachers and silk underslips. They wore white wigs, topped with white linen caps tied beneath their chins. ‘I am Miss Hardwick and this is my sister Miss Matilda Hardwick. We are Lady Charron’s sisters. Please be seated.’

      ‘Glad we are to see you,’ Miss Matilda said, as they seated themselves side by side on a sofa. ‘You will take tea?’

      ‘Thank you.’ He sat on a chair facing them as tea was ordered. While they waited for it, he used the opportunity to look about him. The plasterwork was very fine and so were the wall tapestries, though they were very faded and must have been hanging there for generations. Some of the furniture was age-blackened oak, but there were also more modern sofas and chairs. There were some good pictures on the walls, a fine clock on the mantel, together with a few good-quality ornaments. A harpsichord stood in a corner by the window. Of Mrs Macdonald, there was no sign.

      ‘Have you any news?’ Matilda asked eagerly. ‘Has Mr Macdonald been found?’

      ‘He had not been located when I left the capital,’ James said. ‘The word is out to look for him, but I have come to make your acquaintance and endeavour to discover how much Mrs Macdonald remembers.’

      ‘Absolutely nothing at all,’ Matilda answered. ‘We have tried everything.’

      A servant brought in a tray containing a tea kettle, a teapot and some dishes with saucers, which he put on a table. Harriet took a key from the chatelaine at her waist and unlocked the tea caddy. James watched her for a minute in silence, as she carefully measured the tea leaves into the pot and added the boiling water. They were, he concluded, careful housekeepers, though whether from choice or necessity it was hard to tell.

      ‘Tell us about yourself,’ commanded Harriet, handing him a dish of tea.

      He smiled. He was evidently not going to be taken on face value. ‘My name, as you will have learned from Lord Trentham’s letter, is Captain James Drymore. I am the second son of the Earl of Colbridge. I am twenty-seven years of age and have spent most of my adult life as an officer on board several vessels of his Majesty’s navy. Two years ago I sold out and returned to civilian life.’

      ‘Are you married?’ Matilda asked.

      ‘I am a widower.’

      ‘I am sorry for it,’ Matilda said. ‘But no doubt a handsome man like yourself will soon marry again.’

      ‘Tilly!’ her sister admonished. ‘You must not put the Captain to the blush like that.’

      Matilda coloured and apologised.

      ‘Think nothing of it, Miss Matilda,’ he said with a polite smile—marrying again was the last thing on his mind. ‘It is natural for you to wish to know all about me if I am to be of service to you.’

      ‘Oh, I do hope you can be. Amy will be back directly and you will be able to judge her for yourself.’

      ‘Unless I am greatly mistaken, I have already met the young lady,’ he said. ‘I was on the coach with her when it overturned.’

      ‘You were?’ Matilda put down her tea in order to sit forward and pay more attention. ‘Then you must know all about it. What happened? Did you speak to Amy? Did she speak to you? Who was the man who died? My sister saw his body when they laid it out at the inn before burial and she is sure it was not Duncan Macdonald.’

      ‘Ah, that was the first question I meant to ask you,’ he said.

      ‘We have no idea who he could have been,’ Harriet said. ‘Or what he was doing with Amy.’

      He told them about the journey, the highwaymen and the accident, but left out the fact that their niece was afraid of her escort and that he was known to the highpads. He saw no reason to distress them unnecessarily. ‘Will you tell me about Mrs Macdonald and her husband?’ he asked when this recital was finished. ‘It is necessary to know as much as possible, you understand.’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ Matilda put in. ‘We raised Amy. She is like a daughter to us. She met her husband, Duncan Macdonald, during a visit to her mother in London just over five years ago. We were shocked when she said she was going to marry him. We knew so little about him, except that he was a close friend of her father. She does not even remember that.’

      ‘He is an artist,’ Harriet said. ‘Or so he says, though we have seen nothing of his work.’

      ‘But you did meet him?’

      ‘Yes, the first time soon after they married