The Captain's Disgraced Lady. Catherine TinleyЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter One

      Dover—March 1815

      ‘Come along, Mama—it’s this way.’

      Juliana moved confidently along the wharf, ignoring the rain, the sailors, dockworkers and passengers. She wore a fashionable travelling gown of dark-green merino, which clung to her form, and a fetching hat with a small feather stuck in it at a jaunty angle.

      ‘You there!’ Her voice was strong, clear and assured.

      ‘Yes, miss?’ The docker doffed his hat, despite the rain.

      ‘We require a carriage—a good carriage. It will take us to Ashford tonight, then on towards Surrey.’

      ‘Yes, miss. Right away, miss.’

      ‘The porter will bring our luggage. We shall require a place to wait, out of the rain, while our luggage is brought from the ship.’

      ‘Er, yes, miss. You won’t want to go to the Swan—it’s not for the likes of you. You’d be better suited to the King’s Head.’ As he spoke, the docker indicated the King’s Head, failing to conceal his horror at the thought of two gently bred ladies wandering into the Swan in broad daylight. Juliana tried not to smile.

      ‘Thank you.’ Her voice gentled. ‘See, Mama? Did I not tell you all would be well?’

      Her mama did not look convinced. She glanced around fearfully, clinging to her reticule as if convinced it would be stolen from her at any moment. Juliana sighed inwardly. Her mama’s anxiety was even worse than she had anticipated. She needed to get her indoors and offer her reassurance. Ignoring the spring rain, which was getting heavier by the minute, Juliana marched purposefully to the inn, her mama following in her wake.

      The King’s Head had seen better days. The sign over the door was a little faded, as was the wool rug on the floor of the taproom. The wooden panelling and gloomy portraits on the walls gave an air of an age gone by, but the stone floor was clean and the brass taps shone.

      The landlord, assessing their quality at a glance, bustled forward to welcome the two ladies. Inviting them to follow him out of the common taproom to the cosy parlour, he asked for their requirements—tea, cakes, and the fire to be built up. As usual, Juliana took charge, making her requests politely but firmly. They were to have sole use of the parlour. The tea should be served very hot, with an additional pot of hot water.

      Mama sank into the nearest chair with an attitude of great relief.

      Juliana immediately went to her. ‘Oh, Mama! You look fagged to death. And I have dragged you across the sea when you never wanted to come. You know I could have travelled to visit Charlotte with just a maid to accompany me. You did not have to come! Here, let me put this cushion behind you. Your tea will be here directly.’ She threw an imperious glance at the landlord, who quickly absented himself in pursuit of the hottest tea he could procure. Good! Now she could spend the next hour or so seeing to her mama’s comfort, soothing her and ensuring she was relaxed enough to cope with the next part of the journey.

      Juliana knew exactly what her mama required, for had she not done this many times before? Mama needed solitude—the parlour door closed against strangers, along with hot tea and reassuring words.

      Mama waited until the door had closed behind the landlord, before declaring tremulously, ‘I do not mind, Juliana. Well, that is to say... I cannot claim I wanted to come, but I could not let you travel by yourself, all the way across the sea. Why, you have never been to England before!’

      Juliana sighed, remembering the many hours of agonised debating. Mama had wanted to accompany her, yet had also not wanted to. Juliana had bitten her lip, not having wanted to influence her mother, content to travel with her or without her. It had been months before Mama had made a final decision.

      ‘And I have told you before, I can look after myself, Mama. Why, I have travelled from Brussels to school in Vienna with just a chambermaid for company, many times!’

      ‘That is different.’

      ‘How is it different? I—but, no, let us not go over this again. You are here and you are weary, and I should make you comfortable. Should you like to lie down for a while?’

      ‘I confess I still feel as though the ground is rolling under my feet, as it was on that awful boat! I declare I thought we would all end up in the sea, it was so stormy! I should like to sit here for a little while, before we continue on.’

      Juliana looked at her mother doubtfully. The crossing had been an easy one, the sea smooth. The rain had only started as they approached Dover. Mama had stayed in the cabin the whole time, not actually being sick, but expressing strong disapproval of the sea and everything associated with it. Juliana had paced the deck, exhilarating in her first sea voyage, inhaling the sea, immersing herself in the experience.

      Perhaps this was why they had never travelled home to England before. Although Juliana was used to her mama’s nerves, she did seem to be reacting particularly badly to her sea journey. Mama rarely left their home city of Brussels, but had made the long journey to visit Juliana in Vienna the previous year, accompanied by her devoted maid, Sandrine. Strange to think Mama had grown up here, in England, yet Juliana had never even visited.

      Until now. Juliana’s dear friend Charlotte—her best friend from the school for young ladies—had moved to England and was now married, and Juliana had not seen her for more than a year.

      Tea was the solution, Juliana decided. Mama would rest here awhile, in solitude, then they could continue their journey.

      * * *

      Captain Harry Fanton, darling of the Thirtieth Foot Regiment, strode into the King’s Head, glad to get out of the rain. The sea crossing had been smooth enough, but he was frustrated at having to return to England when his fellow officers were busy preparing to take on Napoleon again. His colleague Evans followed diffidently. Harry was rarely seen without a smile or a light-hearted remark, but today, his usual good humour seemed to have left him. Harry drummed his fingers impatiently on the high bar. ‘Landlord!’

      Harry had lodged many times in the King’s Head and the landlord recognised him and his colleague immediately.

      Ignoring the landlord’s effusive greeting, Harry informed him, curtly, that they required overnight rooms, as well as the use of the parlour.

      Wringing the corner of his apron, the landlord explained haltingly that the parlour was in use, that two ladies—a mother and daughter just off the packet from Calais—had need of the parlour for an hour while they awaited their carriage and—

      ‘Tosh!’ said Harry. ‘Why, we have shared the parlour before, with many fellow travellers! We shall speak to these ladies and all will be well! Come, Evans...’ he nudged his portly, sandy-haired friend ‘...follow me!’

      Knowing his way about, Harry led the way unerringly to the parlour. The landlord stayed at the end of the hallway, still clutching his apron for comfort. Ignoring him, Harry scratched on the parlour door. His friend, experiencing sudden qualms, baulked.

      ‘Dash it, Harry, we need not intrude. Perhaps