Mary Nichols – The Captain's Mysterious Lady (страница 10)
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 her again. ‘It seems to me, Mrs Macdonald, that your loss of memory stems from your life in London. Perhaps you ought to return there.’
‘I have thought of that,’ she said slowly. ‘But something in me rebels at the idea. I find myself shaking at the prospect and can only conclude I am afraid.’
‘Oh. Do you know what you fear?’ he queried, his interest flaring.
‘No. The unknown, perhaps. Aunt Matilda says I must not think of going until I feel more confident. And there is no one to accompany me. Neither aunts are good travellers and they do not like London with its noisy crowds. I keep hoping my husband will arrive and the mystery will be solved.’ She sighed. ‘My aunts are convinced I was on my way to visit them, and I can think of no other reason why I should have been on that coach, and I do not want to leave until I find out why. Perhaps I arranged to meet my husband here.’
‘Perhaps.’
They rode on in silence for some minutes, watching the river traffic. There were several boats loaded with reeds and sedge, being towed by patient, plodding horses to Ely to be made into baskets of all kinds and for use as thatch. Other boats were loaded with produce from the black fertile soil: cabbages, carrots and turnips, a crop recently introduced, which found a ready market in London. There were also flowers and eels by the barrel load. Later in the year there would be cherries, apples and grain. He listened to her melodious voice telling him of these things and realised that her childhood was slowly coming back to her. How long before the rest of her memory returned, and would it bring with it pleasure or pain?
‘Nearly everything goes by river,’ Amy went on. ‘Much better than the roads. They are especially bad because the peat shrinks as it dries out between the ridges of clay and causes bumps and hollows.’
He chuckled. ‘Yes, I can vouch for that. The coach that brought us to Highbeck was throwing us all over the place. And as for riding bareback…’
‘Especially when trying to keep an unconscious woman upright. You must have found it very difficult.’
‘Not at all,’ he said gallantly. ‘It was my pleasure. I am glad you took no lasting harm from it.’
She laughed. ‘From the ride? None at all, you looked after me very well. If only I could remember—’ She stopped, suddenly recalling the feel of being in his arms, the strength and warmth of him, and felt the colour rise in her cheeks.
‘Patience,’ he said, echoing her aunts. ‘I do not think you should try to force it.’
Her agitation was calmed as they came to a wide expanse of reed beds and water whose ripples reflected the rays of the sun. ‘Black Fen,’ she said. ‘There were many more fens like this before the fields were drained. It was a huge undertaking and in some areas is still going on, with men digging ditches and emptying the water from the fens into them. That is why the fields are divided by dykes, not hedges. The reclaimed land is very fertile.’
‘But people still live by the water?’
‘Yes, shooting ducks, gathering reeds and sedge for thatching and baskets, catching eels, which are sent to the London markets in barrels. In winter the fen floods the surrounding land and in spring when the water drains away we have excellent pasturage.’ She dismounted at the water’s edge and pointed to a tiny cottage on the edge of the lake that looked as if it were about to tumble in, so lopsided was it. Beside it was a landing stage where a rowing boat was moored. ‘A ferryman lives there. He will take you wherever you want to go.’
He jumped down to stand beside her. ‘Perhaps one day I will hire a boat to explore the water and bag a few ducks.’
‘You mean to stay a while, then?’
‘Yes, I think so. My business is like to take longer than I thought.’
‘This is a rather remote place for a city gentleman to have business,’ she said.
‘It is not business in that sense,’ he said, wondering whether to tell her why he had come to Highbeck, but they were getting along so well, he did not want to introduce a discordant note. He was learning more about her all the time; the more he was with her, the less he could believe she would consort with criminals. ‘It is more of a personal nature…’
‘I am sorry, Captain, I did not mean to pry,’ she explained hurriedly. ‘I am forever asking questions. Since the accident, I have been reading all I can about Highbeck and the Manor, about the artistic community in London, the news of what is happening abroad, quizzing everyone who comes to call, anything to help me to remember and understand who I am. Please forgive me.’
‘My dear lady, there is nothing to forgive.’ He was saved from going on because she was turning to remount and he hurried forward to bend and offer his clasped hands, lifting her easily into the saddle when she put her foot into them. She picked up the reins and settled herself while he mounted his stallion, then they proceeded in silence until they reached the village again, but it was a companionable silence neither seemed inclined to break.
As they were passing the church, he wondered if there was anything to be learned there. ‘Shall we go inside?’ he suggested.
They tethered their horses and went into the cool interior of the church. Although not large, it was a beautiful building. They knelt to genuflect and then wandered about, reading the names on the memorials, many of them of the Hardwick family. ‘We go back a long way in the village,’ she said, pointing to a plaque commemorating Sir Charles Hardwick, who died aged forty-six in 1645. ‘I wonder if he fought in the war between King and Parliament. Perhaps he died in battle.’