The
Captain’s
Daughter
by
Minnie Simpson
ERAMONT
publishers
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or the author’s representatives.
Copyright © 2015 Eric Aitken
Eramont, publishers
Contact: [email protected]
eramont.com
DLA
Dedication
The Captain’s Daughter
~~~~~
The author dedicates
this story
with love
to
Louise
Who was truly
the inspiration
for this novel
And who is Louise?
She knows who she is
and that is all that matters.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Back in 1793, quite a few words and expressions were different from what we use now. Therefore some of the language has been changed to make it easier on the ears of modern readers.
There are readers who may complain that they cannot find the village of Stokely-on-Arne, or the River Arne, on their maps. They just don't have the right maps.
Chapter 1
The captain wept. Wrinkled eyes moistened. A lock of grey hair was pushed back and a single tear, just one tear, ran down a weather-beaten, salt stained cheek that had seen nary a tear in a long, long time.
On a worn and scratched desk in the captain’s cabin sat an opened strong box with the ship’s log lying closed atop a pouch with a name scratched on it and the other contents of the box. On the desk lay a partially written letter. It consisted of just a few lines.
As the ship lurched and swayed, the storm grew worse apace. The letter was illuminated by one oil lamp, which was affixed to the desk so it would not fall, and shatter, and let its fiery contents escape. A second oil lamp hung from the low slung roof of the cabin and violently swayed, flung back and forth by the tempestuous seas, firing long slender shadows, like spears hurled by unseen hands.
Suddenly, once and then a second time, the sway of the ship stalled violently as if a giant hand slammed against the starboard side of the hull.
The captain raised a weary head, placed the letter atop the log, and holding the desk for balance, rose and staggered the two or three steps to the cabin door. The strong box sat unlocked and open.
When the handle of the cabin door was turned, the storm tried to push its way inside, and it tried to prevent the closing of the door as the captain pulled it shut with great effort and then climbed the three steps to the deck, clutching both rails. But the fierce gale was crouching in wait.
As the captain stepped onto the deck it attacked, driving its victim to the rail of the ship, and looking down into the dark, stormy sea. The captain turned holding the rail in a death grip and looked at the aft deck above the captain’s cabin.
There would have been a full moon tonight but for the storm clouds that left the sky heavy and overcast during the afternoon and the dark night. The gale pulled and yanked at the rigging trying to pull it loose. Every mast and timber in the ship creaked and groaned as the ship fought its adversary to stay alive.
The captain strained to see the aft deck. Very dimly old Sam was barely visible at the wheel. Earlier as the storm approached and promised to be a “big ‘un”, Sam had sent the young quartermaster below and taken the wheel himself. The first mate, head hung, had left the deck and gone below. No navigation would be needed this night.
Tonight was about survival, and Sam knew how to survive. The ship must face into the waves or it will be swamped and die a watery death. But the waves could not make up their mind amongst themselves which way they wanted to go. The waves fought one another, but they all fought the old ship. Sam stood feet wide apart, body lashed to the wheel, an old warrior fighting a last great battle.
If he did not succeed, if they did not survive, the ship would be lost, the cargo would be lost, all aboard would breathe their last in a cold watery grave. And there would be another victim who was not on the ship.
Amy tapped her foot on the stone pathway next to the bed of marigolds. Old Hubert was being irritating. He sat kneeling on the earth at the edge of the flowerbed and pulled a weed.
“It isn’t dangerous,” she insisted. “I’ll be careful. I know what I’m doing.”
After a moment drawn out much longer than a moment should be, old Hubert took a deep wheezy breathe, stretched over and pulled another small intruder from the midst of the bed. Then without looking up said: “Now Miss, your father wouldn’t approve. After Turpin threw him, ‘e said I mayn’t let any of you ride ‘im. That horse is a devil and ‘e must not be ridden. ‘Kill someone ‘e will,’ your father said.”
“Daddy was just annoyed because he was thrown. Turpin didn’t do it with ill will. He’s just...just...”
“A devil. That one be a devil,” broke in old Hubert, eyeing a third very tiny weed which stood frailly amidst a circle of marigolds, which stared at the weed like a circle of angry aunts and old maids.
“No! He’s young and full of energy. I want to ride him,” she demanded standing as rigidly upright as possible with her right hand on her hip. She, the daughter of Sir Anthony Sibbridge, and he the recalcitrant and stubborn gardener. No, wait. He wasn’t the gardener. Young Kenneth was the gardener. He was the stablehand. No, Daniel was the stablehand. She wasn’t sure how she would describe Hubert. He was old and feeble and had been there forever. Yes, she knew what he was. He was annoying and pigheaded.
The moment the thought went through her mind she felt guilty and not a little ashamed. She liked old Hubert. Everyone liked old Hubert. But right now he wouldn’t saddle up Turpin so she could ride him, strictly against our father’s wishes—no, her father’s orders. She didn’t like that. But she knew she could get old Hubert to come around. All it needed was a little more wheedling.
“I’ll be in trouble with your father should ‘e find out.” Old Hubert sadly shook his head as she mounted young Turpin.
Turpin was sleek and black and had a look in his eye, even as he stood still and well-mannered for the moment.
“Daddy won’t find out,” she reassured the old man who was still shaking his head from side to side. “He isn’t as concerned about things as he was.” They both knew w
hat she meant.
Hubert slapped Turpin on the rump. It was really more of a pat, but Turpin took it as a call to action and took off like a shot from a cannon. He did not, however, head for the meadow as any more sane horse would, but instead headed in the wrong direction straight into the garden. He galloped, careened is really more like it, down the garden path, shot past the sundial and the little pond, and headed down the long drive.
Emmaline, Amy’s twelve-year-old sister was at the sundial experimenting with a caterpillar. Emmaline, or Emma as everyone called her, looked up from her scientific endeavors as a black blur shot past her, and watched as her sister, a white blur clinging to the reins, flew down the wide drive and disappeared amidst the trees. Then Emma nonchalantly resumed her analysis of the caterpillar.
“Emma!” The woman with the voice as hard as steel was looking for her. “Emma!”
Emma tried to blend into the sundial as if she was a statue sculptured next to it. She stood hunched over the sundial motionless.
“Emma... Oh there you are. I just do not know what to do with you my child. You know that you have not finished your lessons.”
“You know you have-not-finished-your-lessons,” Emma mocked under her breath with as squeaky a voice as she could muster in a loud whisper.
Mrs. Parkhurst, Mrs. Charlotte Parkhurst, her tutor marched up to her.
Emma turned, feigning surprise. “Oh, Mrs Parkhurst, I didn’t see you. I was just about to come back in to finish my lessons. There are so many of them and I felt like I was going to faint and I just had to get some fresh air.”
“Hrrumpt,” said Mrs. Parkhurst as she took a firm hold of Emma’s arm.
Emma tried to squirm free to no avail, as her tall, manly tutor marched her up and into Broomlee Park Manor her family’s imposing home.
Inside the house, she firmly marched Emma past her mother, who for some reason was in the front hall fussing over Mathilde, Emma’s seventeen-year-old sister, Mattie. Or more accurately she was fussing over Mattie’s dress which she was to wear to the ball that evening at Brewminster Hall, which was just north of town.
Meanwhile, Amy was still clinging desperately to Turpin’s shiny black mane as he had decided to run several circles as if he were in the ring of a circus. Obviously tiring of that bit of fun, he straightened out and again headed directly down the drive towards the road.
Oh, please, please, Amy pleaded to herself, don’t let him turn right at the Stockley road again. I’m still not over the last time. It was so embarrassing.”
Turpin evidently didn’t hear her because the horse was evil enough to have done just that again if he knew how she felt. He had obviously enjoyed standing in the middle of the village square snorting and shaking his head while the people of the town gathered around to help Amy up, physically more or less fine, although her dignity was severely injured.
She was thankful when he circled to the left and away from town, as she still clung to his mane. Her relief was only brief before she began to wonder what he had up his sleeve, or would have had up his sleeve if horses had sleeves.
Amy you’re a silly goose for worrying like that. The only place down the road is Hillfield House and nobody is living there at the moment except the servants. Turpin will soon run out of energy and graze in the meadow and then I can lead him home before Daddy finds out we’re gone.
In actuality, she had never successfully led Turpin anywhere, but Amy was a very optimistic young woman.
Her musings were interrupted when Turpin made a sudden turn to the right and seemed about to commit suicide by crashing into the trees at the side of the road.
“Turpin, what are you doing,” she squeaked and then realized that he was heading down the old path to the river, which was overgrown since no one used it any more.
Turpin was approaching the River Arne at a furious pace. Amy braced herself ready for him to plunge into the shallow waterway, splash his way across it, and ride up the opposite bank.
This was not his intention, however, because when he reached the edge of the river, they abruptly came to a halt. Or more accurately, Turpin came to an abrupt halt. Amy however did not. In a move that would have made a French acrobat proud she flew right over Turpin’s head, which he had thoughtfully dipped down with a shake and a snort, through the air in a very impressive ark, and right into a pool in the middle of the river.
That was a good thing. Not the flying through the air part, but the coming to a landing in the pool, because the River Arne was not especially deep. In fact, most of it was only a few inches deep, and those few inches mostly gurgled pleasantly over rocks.
Despite all the fun things that had happened to Amy in the last minutes—moments—she still, at some level realized this. As she sat in the pool of water with copious amounts of it escaping her thick red hair and draining down to thoroughly soak her dress, because yes, Amy had gone riding in her dress, she was thankful that she was in the middle of the River Arne out here where nobody could see her unlike that last incident where she was right in the middle of Stockley-on-Arne on market day.
Then she heard the laughter. It was on the opposite bank. She strained to see through the water that was still running down her face from her abundant locks. The blurry figure standing just below the old ruin was dressed in rough brownish tan clothes.
She was indignant. How dare some swain, some farmer’s ploughboy, laugh at a lady. She must discover whom he works for and have a firm talk with his master. Well, maybe not, she didn’t want him to lose his livelihood, and besides she was perfectly capable of dealing with him herself.
“Ploughboy,” she growled, “if you were any kind of a man you would come to a lady’s aid and not just stand there dumbly watching her drown.”
“I am so sorry, miss,” he said, and she was sure she saw a smirk on his face, “but I did not realize you were drowning. Let me help you.”
“No, no just stay where you are.” He did not look sorry and she had the distinct feeling he was making fun of her.
For the first time she noticed he was holding an artist’s palette. An artist! That was much worse than a ploughboy.
“Seriously, Miss, do you need help? I tend to refrain helping ladies when they find themselves in a humiliating situation unless they ask for help, because it often just embarrasses them more.”
“Well, for one thing,” Amy spoke through clenched teeth as she stood up in the pool, shedding amazing amounts of water from her thoroughly soaked dress, “for one thing, I am not in a humiliating situation. I am not humiliated. I’m just a little inconvenienced. That is all.”
“And the other thing,” he quizzed.
“Oh, the other thing?” She shook her headed causing numerous drops of water to go flying, reminding him of a wet dog trying to shake itself dry. “Never mind. I forget what I was going to say.”
“Were you going tell me you never get embarrassed?”
“Well, I don’t,” she said firmly. “Are you a painter?”
“If you say so, and yes I am as you can see from the easel before which I stand.”
“Have I seen anything you painted? What is your name, anyway? Are you famous?”
“I have tried my level best to make sure no one has ever seen anything I have painted. My name is Ben, and I’ve also tried my best to avoid being famous.”
“Well , Mr. Ben,” she said dripping with sarcasm, but in an condescending manner, “my name is Amaryllis Sibbridge, my father is Sir Anthony Sibbridge, and he is the lord of these lands upon which you are trespassing, or will be trespassing on if you come across the river.”
She paused, waiting for him to speak because now he knew he had offended a lady. He was obviously severely wanting in manners because he said nothing, and just stood there smiling with his tousled black hair wantonly framing what she had to admit to herself was a rather handsome face.
“You must have another name,” she said imperiously.
“I do indeed have another name, Miss.”
“It is Andrew, Miss.”
She felt like he was still mocking her although she couldn’t quite pin down in his attitude what gave her that feeling, so she just turned around and marched with as much dignity as she could considering her resemblance to a wet mop, back to Turpin, who had been taking everything in.
“Turpin,” she said with command exuding from every pore, “we are going back home, and you are not going to give me any trouble.”
Turpin was evidently impressed, because he meekly let her lead him home. Or maybe, it was just because he’d had enough fun for one day.
Chapter 2
That night, Brewminster Hall was ablaze with what seemed like a thousand candles. They sparkled like fairy lights in Amy’s eyes, and especially in Mattie’s eyes, as they entered the grand ballroom.
Their hostess came over to greet them.
“Mildred, how wonderful for you to come, with your lovely daughters.”
“We’re most gratified to be here, Penny.”
Lady Mildred Sibbridge, Amy’s mother, and Lady Penelope Brewminster were longtime friends, and living in the country they usually dispensed with all formalities unlike the more dignified city folks. Of course, in the countryside everyone, for the most part, had long known one another and there were no newcomers around to feel left out if they greeted one another by their first name.
“Oh,” Lady Brewminster said, looking at the Sibbridges, “Emmaline isn’t with you.”
A country ball was not as age restrictive as in the city. Among the local gentry everyone attended the balls, because there weren’t that many folks of the acceptable station in life to attend.
“Emma’s a little young to attend,” Amy’s mother replied as she saw out of the corner of her eye when Susan Swindon grabbed her ten-year-old Elliot’s arm to make him cease using the ballroom as a race track. “Although the reason we made her stay home this evening is because she didn’t do her lessons. She was disappointed, but we just had to make her remain and try to catch up on her studies. I don’t know what to do with that child. I swear, she just doesn’t want to learn.”
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