by Mary Nichols
‘I do not recognise the description,’ Harriet said. ‘And I know all the men who live hereabouts.’
‘Until we know who they are, we must all be careful,’ Matilda said. ‘I will warn the servants. The maids must be accompanied by one of the men servants when they go out, and you, Amy, must not go out alone.’
‘So I have told her,’ James said, smiling at Amy and making her heart turn over. He was so gentlemanly and caring towards her, when he had no reason to be at all. But, oh, how grateful she was. ‘I will make it my task to escort Mrs Macdonald when she wishes to go out and about. With your permission, of course.’ He bowed to each aunt in turn.
‘But what about your business, Captain?’ Amy said. ‘You must not neglect that for me.’
‘It can wait,’ he said. ‘Your safety and ease of mind are more important.’
She felt her face go scarlet. Such fine compliments from a gentleman to a lady, but she should remember she was married. The worst of it was she did not feel married. She did not really feel anything at all. Except empty. She was like an empty jug waiting to be filled. Captain Drymore could fill it with his compliments, his kind words and secure arms, his smiles and courtly manners. What then would happen when her memory returned and there was no room inside her to receive it?
‘We are very grateful,’ Harriet said. ‘We know Amy will be safe with you to guard her.’
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I should like to take Mrs Macdonald out on the fen tomorrow if the weather holds.’ He turned to Amy with a smile that sent a warm glow flooding through her. ‘You recall I talked of taking out a boat and shooting duck?’
‘I remember that very well,’ she said. ‘I remember all that has happened since my aunts brought me here after the accident, every little thing. It is what went before that is haunting me like a ghost, a wraith with no sub stance.’
‘I see,’ he said, impressed by the way she expressed herself. He could almost feel her loss himself. ‘Then will you do me the kindness of accompanying me?’
She hesitated only a moment, thinking of those two men, but how could they hurt her out on the fen in a rowing boat protected by a man with a gun? With Captain Drymore she felt safe. ‘I shall be de lighted.’
‘Then will ten o’clock in the morning be convenient?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘I will have Cook make up a picnic for you,’ Matilda said.
He thanked her, bowed and took his leave. Amy turned back to the aunts. Harriet looked a little disapproving, but Matilda was smiling.
The weather held and they set out for the river at Highbeck with James carrying the picnic basket in one hand and his gun under his other arm. The ammunition was in the pocket of his plain buff coat. Amy looked fetching in a light blue, wool round gown and a wide-brimmed straw hat tied under her chin with a wide ribbon. In her hand she carried a little case, which contained her sketch book and char coals.
At the staithe, James hired a rowing boat for the day and they were soon making their way upstream. Amy dabbled her hand in the current and watched him as he propelled them with the long, firm strokes of a man who knew how to get the maximum distance from each pull of the oars. They fairly skimmed along, past the river side cottages, the slow-moving barges, the stately swans that it was unlawful to kill because they all belonged to the crown, towards the open water of the fen.
Once out in the middle he stopped rowing and allowed the boat to drift, while he looked about for a duck for the pot. There were several about, but it was so peaceful, with not a sound but their occasional quack, he could not bear to shatter it with the noise of a gun going off. Instead, he sat with his hands still on the oars, his gun idle at his side, and watched her draw. Once again he was struck by her loveliness. She had discarded her hat and her hair was brushed and loosely tied back with a blue ribbon. It framed a perfect oval face whose complexion was clear, her cheeks a natural rosy pink. Living in the country was good for her.
She appeared at ease; no terror marred her lovely eyes, as it had the day before, and he was glad of it. But he ought not to forget that he had been asked to try to restore her memory, to find out why she had lost it in the first place. It was a task he was relishing less and less. If she could be content without knowledge of her past, then ought he to leave well alone? He did not want to know about it. He wanted her just as she was, a young, innocent girl. This thought brought him up short. What did he mean he wanted her? Had he for got ten she was married? Had he for got ten his beloved Caroline and his vow to exact retribution on her killers?
He had always managed to remain aloof before, to be cool and committed to the job in hand; now he was a mass of contradictory thoughts and emotions. He ought to board the first stage back to London, forget all about Highbeck and Blackfen Manor and its inhabitants, and resume his search for Smith and Randle. But how could he abandon the lovely girl beside him?
She looked up from her sketch pad and saw him watching her, a strange expression on his face, of contemplation, of anger, of pain perhaps, as if something had suddenly made him sad. It was the look she had seen once or twice before and it puzzled her. She smiled. ‘What are you thinking about?’
The sound of her voice brought him out of his reverie and he shook himself, almost visibly. ‘Nothing of any moment. I was enjoying the tranquillity.’
‘Yes, it is peaceful here. It is a different world from the bustle of the towns, as if God meant to keep a corner of the country all to himself and allow no one to disturb it. I feel very close to Him here, even more than I do in church.’
‘Then I must not shatter the peace by killing His birds.’
She laughed. ‘But that is why you came out here.’
‘It was only one of the reasons and the easiest to cast aside.’
‘You needed to think?’
‘Yes, I needed to think,’ he confirmed.
‘And have you reached a conclusion?’
‘No, except that we cannot hurry nature and should not even try.’
‘I am beginning to think like that about my memory.
The harder I try to recall things, the more they slip from my grasp. Could I be happy never remembering?’ she asked a little wistfully.
‘Only you know that, my dear.’
She looked sharply at him; he appeared unaware of the manner in which he had ad dressed her, just as he had not noticed calling her Amy the day before. Ought she to discourage such familiarity? But she did not want to introduce a discordant note by standing on her dignity. Besides, had she any right to dignity? ‘I don’t know. There are days, like today, when I think I might be content without a past. At other times, when something upsets or frightens me, like those two men, I want to know everything and I feel angry as well. Very angry.’ She stopped suddenly and hurriedly stowed away her sketch pad and crayons. ‘But we do not want to talk about my problems today. Let us find somewhere to eat our picnic.’
He picked up the oars and set off for the bank on the far side, which looked inviting. It proved ideal. There was a gentle sward of grass sloping down to the water’s edge, shaded by a hawthorn in full flower. He rowed in as far as he could and then jumped out, to pull the boat up into shallower water. Then he returned for Amy and, picking her up in his arms, waded the last yard or two on to dry land.
She was not heavy and he stood for several seconds, savouring the feel of her, remembering how he had picked her up after the coach crash and how helpless she had been then. She was not so helpless now, but still vulnerable, still needing protection. He set her on her feet and then he stripped off his coat and spread it on the ground for her to sit on before returning to the boat for the picnic basket and her drawing case.
They unpacked the hamper together, exclaiming at the great quantity of food that had been provided for them. ‘There is enough here for an army,’ she said, pulling out chicken legs and meat patties, ham, bread and butter, sugar plums and a bottle of homemade cordial. It was best to ignore the strange sensations she h
ad felt coursing through her when he picked her up. He had only done it to keep her feet dry, she told herself firmly.
They ate well and when they could eat and drink no more he sprawled on the grass while she leaned against the gnarled trunk of the hawthorn, surrounded by its dropped white petals, and brought out her sketch book to finish her drawing. She was surprised to find she had a talent for it. The Captain came to life under her busy fingers, his firm jaw, thick blond hair, his muscular arms resting on the oars, his plain brown coat with its pearl buttons, his long legs in well-fitting breeches. He exuded strength and masculinity. But there was also a softness about him, a gentleness it was difficult to portray and she had to try several times before she managed to capture his expression. Thoughtful, sad, but steely, as if anger were only just below the surface of his gentility. Not a man to make an enemy of, but a staunch ally when in trouble, she was sure of it.
She finished the figure and began on the surroundings, the water and reeds, the ducks and swans, the great fen sky overhead. Today there were few clouds, but she added one or two like the galleons in full sail just as she had de scribed to him, one darker and more menacing than the rest. She put a face in that, an anonymous face, not recognisable as anyone she knew. She was so en grossed she did not notice that he had stirred and was sitting at her elbow looking at what she had drawn.
‘My God! What a talent!’ he said. ‘You have got me to a whisker.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Who is that?’ He pointed at the cloud face.
‘No one, just a face, giving the cloud a personality. I thought I’d draw another with a cherub in it, just to balance it.’
‘Yes, but I think you should leave it for another day because the wind is getting up and we shall soon have real clouds and I think it might rain. Time for our idyll to end.’
Absorbed in her drawing, she had not noticed how much cooler it was becoming and quickly set aside the drawing and helped him pack the remains of the picnic away, throwing the last of the bread and pastries to the ducks, who fell on them squaw king and quarrelling. She laughed as she watched them, while he put on his coat, then he picked her up and waded out to sit her in the boat, jumped in himself and rowed them back to the staithe.
They had left the boat with the hirer and were walking back to the Manor when they met the bent form of Widow Twitch, carrying a bundle of herbs she had gathered. She stopped in front of Amy. ‘Good day to you, Miss Amy. You have a fine gentleman escort, I see.’
‘Yes, this is Captain Drymore. He has moved into the Lodge.’
‘I know. He’s a-searchin’ for peace o’ mind.’
James laughed. ‘Tell me something I do not know, good woman.’
‘It’ll only come to you when you stop lookin’ for it.’
‘I will bear that in mind,’ he said, humouring her.
‘And is it the same for me?’ asked Amy.
‘Yours is a different case. You must find what you have lost.’ She pulled a sprig of one of the herbs from her bundle and offered it to her. ‘That’s rosemary for remembrance. Put it under your pillow when you go to sleep.’
Amy accepted the token. ‘Thank you. And will that restore my memory?’
‘It might help. I give no guar an tee,’ the old woman said.
‘I’ll wager she won’t,’ James murmured as they went on their way.
‘She means no harm.’
‘No, but harm can come without her meaning it.’
‘Are you saying my memories might hurt me? Or perhaps other people?’
He shrugged. ‘Who can tell? But the old lady had a point about finding something when you have given up looking for it. I have frequently found that to be the case. I have lost a buckle or some such thing and it has turned up after I have decided to use another pair. Have you not found that so?’
She laughed. ‘Yes, often.’
‘Then what the woman says is not so strange after all, and does nothing to prove she can see into the future.’ He took her arm. ‘I do think we should hurry. The sky is becoming very black and that is something the good Widow Twitch did not warn us about.’
It began to rain heavily as they were passing over the draw bridge. They ran the last few yards across the courtyard and dashed indoors as a great clap of thunder echoed behind them.
‘You had best stay until the rain eases,’ Amy told him. ‘Let us find the aunts.’
The aunts repeated Amy’s invitation to stay and, as dinner was about to be served, an extra place was soon put on the table and they sat down to eat together.
‘Did you enjoy your day on the fen?’ Harriet asked James, handing him a tureen of soup from which to help himself.
‘Exceedingly.’
‘And how many duck did you bring back for the pot?’
Amy laughed. ‘None. He did not want to disturb the peace with a gun.’
‘That is something I would have expected from Amy,’ Harriet said. ‘She is soft-hearted, but a grown man, and a military man at that, declining to disturb a few ducks, is indeed unusual. If everyone were like that, there would be a great deal of hunger hereabouts.’
He grinned wryly. ‘I stand rebuked,’ he said. ‘Another time I will let pop and bring home a dozen.’
‘Oh, I hope not,’ Amy said. ‘They are such beautiful birds.’
‘And did you enjoy your picnic?’ Matilda asked Amy.
‘Indeed we did. We moored on a lovely spot on the other side of the fen and sat under the shade of a hawthorn. I did some drawing and the Captain snoozed.’
‘I did not,’ he pro tested. ‘I was thinking. And I watched you draw.’
‘Amy is an accomplished artist,’ Matilda told him. ‘I do not know how good her husband is, for I never saw any of his work, but I doubt he is any better than she is.’ She turned to Amy. ‘What did you draw?’
‘The fen and the sky and the Captain in the boat.’
‘After we have finished our meal, you must show it to us.’
‘We met Widow Twitch on the way back. She said I must continue to strive after my memory and gave me a sprig of rosemary to put under my pillow. She also told the Captain he must stop searching for peace of mind, because it would only come once he did,’ Amy told her aunts.
‘All nonsense,’ James said, dismissing it. ‘My mind is perfectly at peace, especially here with good friends who entertain me royally.’
‘Thank you,’ they murmured in unison and on that note they finished their meal. The aunts went to have an afternoon nap and, as it was still raining, Amy offered to show James round the Manor. ‘That is if you have nothing else you would rather do,’ she added.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I should like a guided tour.’
He was already familiar with the drawing room and dining room and the wide hall with its blackened staircase, but very little else and was intrigued by the number of small rooms whose function did not seem at all clear. One was used as a sitting room for the ladies on informal occasions, one as a book room, lined with shelves of old books, another as a store room; yet another was cluttered with coats and capes, boots and old guns, some of which could not have been fired for years. In one corner a spiral stone stair case led down to a cellar where the wines and pre serves were kept. To one side of this was a low door. Amy opened it to reveal a cavity in what appeared to be the exterior wall. ‘A priest’s hole,’ she said. ‘Or so they tell me.’
‘Or perhaps an early privy. I doubt a priest’s hole would have so obvious a door.’
‘You may be right, but a piece of heavy furniture pulled across would conceal it, would it not?’
‘Perhaps, but then the poor man would hardly be able to breathe.’
She led the way upstairs, creeping quietly past the aunts’ bedchambers and pausing before the door of another. ‘That is my room,’ she whispered, and moved on. ‘There are several guest rooms and dressing rooms along here and round the corner at the end is another stair case down to the servants’ quarters and further
along another to the upper floors. We do not use those rooms, but there are some fine views. Shall you like to see?’
‘Lead on.’
The stone stair case was in one of the corner turrets and had small slit windows, which he assumed were meant for guns or bows and arrows to be used in defence. The whole place was like a small castle, though built of brick, not stone. Halfway up a corridor led to more rooms, smaller than those below and only half-furnished. At the top was a small room with windows on all four aspects. From this lofty point they could see the round tower on the edge of the estate and, moving to the opposite side of the room, the roof of the Lodge showing between the trees. Far below them the water in the moat was being pounded by rain.
‘I should not like to lead an attack on this fortress,’ he said. ‘You can be seen coming for miles and, apart from that small stand of trees, there is no cover. The only way of overcoming the defenders would be to starve them out.’
‘I had not thought of it like that. To me it is simply a comfortable home.’ Amy laughed.
‘That is because its occupants have made it so.’
‘You have made me curious. Shall we go down to the book room? I believe there are documents there which might tell us more.’
He followed her down stairs and into the book room where she found a key in a desk and unlocked the door of a cupboard. It was packed with rolled-up parchments, some of them very old. They laid them on the floor and knelt down to go over them. There was a charter from Queen Elizabeth that was yellowing with age, which James said they should not disturb. Some, more recent, revealed that the family had been on the Royalist side during the Civil War a century before. The second Sir Charles Hardwick was put in prison by Cromwell’s men, but never charged, and was released and his estate returned to him when Charles II returned to take up his throne. ‘It is that king’s great-nephew who caused the recent Jacobite Rebellion,’ he said, aware of how intimate they were, kneeling side by side on the floor.
‘And there is talk that it will flare up again.’