The Captain's Mysterious Lady. Mary NicholsЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Did you lose much?’ she asked.
‘A few guineas that were in my purse. The rest of my money and valuables I had concealed about my person.’
‘How clever of you!’ she exclaimed.
‘I do a great deal of travelling, Mrs Macdonald, and have learned to be as cunning as the criminals.’
She wondered why he travelled and if he had more knowledge of lawbreakers than he had admitted. He might even be one of them, for all she knew. Except of course her aunts had accepted him as being known to Admiral Lord Trentham, who had sent a glowing introduction. That, of course, could be a forgery. How suspicious and untrusting she was! Had she always been like that or was that something she had learned recently?
‘But you have not heard of them being apprehended?’ she queried.
‘No, unfortunately I have not.’
‘Tell me again about the man who died. What manner of man was he?’ Amy asked.
‘I know nothing of him. He boarded the coach with you and your tickets were in his pockets, so one supposes he was looking after you. He certainly bought your refreshments whenever we stopped.’
‘So I was totally dependant on him,’ she mused.
‘It would seem so.’
‘How did I react to his death?’
‘You were unconscious and knew nothing of it at the time,’ he pointed out.
‘How long was I unconscious? And how did I get from the overturned coach to the inn?’ she pressed.
‘I rode one of the coach horses with you in front of me. Have you no memory of that?’ he asked curiously.
‘None at all,’ she said swiftly. But that was her memory. A slow ride, cradled in front of him on a horse with no saddle. She had felt warm and protected, with his arm about her and his coat enveloping them both. She did not remember arriving at the inn, so she must have drifted into unconsciousness again. ‘How difficult and uncomfortable that must have been for you.’
He noticed the colour flood her face and felt sure she had remembered it. How much more was she concealing? He would have it out of her, one way or another, before another day was out. ‘It was my privilege and pleasure,’ he said, lifting his glass of wine in salute to her and looking at her over its rim.
Quizzing him was making her feel uncomfortable and she changed the subject to ask him what he thought of the village and its surrounds, to which he replied he had not yet had the opportunity to explore, but intended to do so when his business permitted, and on that uncontentious note they finished their meal with plum pie and sweetmeats.
He declined to stay in the dining room alone and repaired with them to the drawing room for tea. Noticing the harpsichord in the corner, he enquired if anyone played it.
‘I used to years ago,’ Matilda said. ‘But I have not touched it in years. Amy is the musician here.’
He turned to look at her. ‘Will you play for us, Mrs Macdonald?’
She went over to the instrument, sat herself down at it and, after a moment’s hesitation, played ‘Greensleeves’ with unerring accuracy and sensitivity. As the last notes died away, she turned towards him, eyes shining. ‘How strange that I remember that,’ she said. ‘I know I have always loved music, just as I know I love flowers and can tell their names and recognise birds by their song.’
He smiled. ‘That is a good sign, don’t you think. And can you ride?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘I love to ride.’
‘Then would you like to ride out with me tomorrow and show me the countryside? I am sure I shall enjoy it the more for having you to guide me.’
She readily agreed and, having arranged a time for him to call, the evening was brought to an end. He took his leave and rode back to the inn, feeling more benign than he had done for years.
Chapter Three
Amy, dressed in a riding habit consisting of a dark blue jacket, a tight waistcoat, a full petticoat and a broadbrimmed hat with a curling feather, was ready and waiting for him when he arrived at the appointed time next day, riding the huge black stallion on whose back he had entered the village the day before. His riding coat was the same one, though his shirt and neckcloth were fresh. His boots had received the loving attention of his servant. She greeted him cheerfully. ‘You are in good time, Captain.’
‘It would be a grave discourtesy to keep a lady waiting,’ he said, sweeping off a tall beaver hat with a silver buckle on the front of it, and bowing from the waist. His queue of fair hair had been tied back with a narrow velvet ribbon, although a few strands, shorter than the rest, curled across his forehead and about his ears. It was a style that the elite of London would have deplored, but she had come to the conclusion he was not a slave to fashion. She rather liked it. She liked everything about him.
A chestnut mare had been saddled and brought to the door where a groom helped her to mount. ‘Now, Captain, where would you like to go?’ she asked, picking up the reins.
‘I am in your hands, madam. I do not know the area. All I can say about it is that it is very flat and there is a prodigious amount of water.’
She laughed as they trotted over the drawbridge and down the short drive to the lane. ‘Yes, but have you ever seen such skies? As a child I used to think the clouds were mountainous seas with great galleons sailing upon them. Sometimes their sails were pink and purple, sometimes golden or blood red, if the sun was behind them. I would imagine them having a great sea battle and the red ones were ships on fire. And such rainbows we have, you would never believe.’
‘You remember all that?’
‘I must do. How strange! I did not realise it until I spoke of it. You must be good for me, Captain—already you have helped me recall something.’
‘Then perhaps, as we ride, you will remember more.’
She was more animated than he had seen her before, as if she revelled in her returning memories, but they were of her childhood, triggered by her surroundings, not the more recent events, which, unless he missed his guess, had been the cause of the forgetfulness. Resurrecting those might bring her pain. He was still not sure that he was wise to interfere, especially as he admired her spirit and courage and would hate to see either subdued. He did not want to see her return to the frightened dejected young woman she had been when he first met her. It would serve her best to take it slowly.
They rode through the village with its church and vicarage, its inn at the crossroads and double row of thatched cottages, acknowledging the greetings called by the few people who were about. Most were at their work. Leaving the village behind, they turned off the main road along a path beside the river whose banks were lined with willows, their graceful fronds swaying in a gentle breeze. At the edge of the water yellow flags held proud heads above the duckweed. Swans and mallards sailed placidly along, ignoring the man in the rowing boat with his huge load of cut reeds. Above them a few fleecy clouds punctuated the blue of the sky.
‘How peaceful it is,’ she said, as they brought their mounts to a walk. ‘I think I love this spot above all others.’
‘But you lived in London, did you not?’
‘Yes. My husband needs to be in the capital because that is where he obtains his commissions. He is an artist, you see.’
‘Do you remember that?’
‘No. It is only what I have been told.’
‘What manner of artist is he? Landscape or portrait, or perhaps he is an illustrator or caricaturist?’
‘That, I am afraid, I cannot tell you.’
He reined in to negotiate a large puddle and then drew alongside