The Captain's Daughter

by Minnie Simpson

  “I don’t remember hearing her say anything. Oh dear, do you think they will be angry at us for not going to see the prince.”

  Amy was not sure who was supposed to be angry but reassured her mother that there would be so many people in Cambridge to see the prince, who seldom appeared in public and usually resided in Germany, that no one would notice their absence.

  When they were near the end of the picnic it began to cloud up, so Lady Sibbridge began to fear they might get caught in a downpour and set her mind on getting back home as quickly as possible. Amy doubted any sudden violent rainstorm and rather suspected that her mother was disappointed that the picnic hadn’t been more of a success.

  Amy herself was a little disappointed. Despite her confrontation with Ben a few days previously, she had held on to the hope he might appear at the picnic out of respect for her family even if he was upset with her. And she had now begun to feel he had a right to be upset since she felt she had behaved abominably. All during the picnic, she had continually glanced at Hillfield House hoping to see him riding their way, but to no avail.

  As the servants were loading the picnic hampers back into the wagon, Emma suddenly called out “Look!”

  Turning in from the road and making its way carefully up the hill was a coach.

  “That’s Frank and Estella’s coach,” said her mother, and when it arrived it did indeed prove to be Sir Frank and Lady Ramsey.

  “Estella and I are sorry we could not come earlier,” Lord Ramsey said to everyone present but with a special nod to Amy’s father, the silent figure at every meal, “but I had some urgent business to attend to up north. We are in a hurry to get back to London, but we wanted to stop by on our way because we have something for Emma.”

  “Emma,” said Lady Sibbridge in a voice that combined surprise with curiosity.

  “Yes, Emma,” said Sir Frank as he extracted a bundle that was about five feet long and wrapped in heavy cloth.

  Emma took the bundle from him and setting it on one of the Roman boulders unwrapped it. Inside the bundle was a telescope. Emma was ecstatic. Amy glanced at her mother who, while she did not share Emma’s joy, did not say anything.

  Sir Frank then went over to Amy’s father to speak quietly to him while Lady Ramsey exchanged a few pieces of gossip with her mother. Amy joined Emma to admire her new possession.

  The telescope came with a portable polished wooden stand. After Emma expressed profound appreciation to her benefactor, Sir Frank and Lady Ramsey left to hurriedly return to London because of Lady Ramsey’s fear of brigands on the London Road.

  Emma was about to set up the telescope when her mother once again, casting fearful looks at the accumulating clouds overhead, announced they must return home hastily.

  After they descended the slope carefully from the Roman Camp to the road, they were approached by a rider from Hillfield House. It was one of Ben’s servants and he handed a note to Lady Sibbridge.

  Her mother examined it and then read it out loud. It was simple and to the point.

  Dear Lord and Lady Sibbridge, I must sincerely offer my apologies but I am unable to attend your picnic today because I have been called away. With deep respect, Benjamin Anstruther.

  Emma looked sympathetically at Amy whom she knew was saddened that Ben had not come to the picnic, and wounded that the note did not even mention her name.

  When they arrived home, her mother hurried in the house to get warm, since it was now completely overcast and had turned chilly.

  “Come with me,” Emma invited Amy.

  “What is it, Emma?”

  Emma retrieved the telescope from the wagon. Assuming she wanted help to take it into the house, Amy lifted the stand declining Daniel’s offer to assist. But instead of taking the telescope into the house Emma put it in the trap.

  “What are you doing, Emma?” inquired Amy.

  “I, or rather we, are going to take the trap back to Camp Hill and try out my telescope.”

  “We can’t, Emma, Mother will never allow it. She thinks we’re headed for a storm and would get struck down by lightning or drown in a torrential downpour.”

  “We won’t tell mother,” Emma declared. “You’ve dragged me around repeatedly in the last two weeks, now it is my turn. You have to come with me.”

  Amy glanced uncomfortably at the house. But she knew that right now her mother would be sitting in front of a nice roaring fire thawing out from the picnic. Emma had a point. She did owe her after what she had put her through of late.

  They only went part way up the slope at Camp Hill but it was high enough for Emma to get a good view with the telescope mounted on the trap. While Emma examined the landscape, Amy was deep in thought. How would she get back on Ben’s good side after what she said? She recalled a recent sermon the minister had delivered on the very subject of speaking with care and discernment.

  She didn’t remember where the scripture was except that it was near the end of the Bible, but she remembered clearly what it said mainly because she didn’t quite understand it at first. Even so the tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things. Behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth! The minister said it was saying how great a woodland a little flame can set ablaze, and the tongue is just like that. She had to agree her tongue was indeed like that. She had really started a forest fire, in fact...

  “Who is that?”

  Emma’s excited exclamation brought her train of thought to a shattering halt.

  Amy jumped to her feet and looked through Emma’s telescope. A figure was riding in the direction of Hillfield House. From the distance she could not make out the face but the figure looked familiar. To Amy it was unmistakable. The rider was clearly Ben.

  Quickly pushing Emma on to the seat of the trap and setting the telescope and its stand on the floor, Amy grabbed the reins and urged Pansy forward even before she had sat down. She had to catch up with Ben before he reached the house and hid from her, which she convinced herself he would try to do.

  Bouncing furiously down the slope while Emma hung on for dear life to the seat and to her precious new possession, they soon reached the road and then Amy drove poor Pansy in the direction of Hillfield House.

  When they reached the house the figure was coming from the stables and about to go up the steps to the front door. But he turned around as she ran towards him yelling: “Ben!”

  It was not Ben. The rider who she convinced herself looked like Ben was a stranger.

  “Oh,” she spoke in a gasping voice. She had never seen this man before.

  He did have a similar build to Ben, in fact, he looked just a little like Ben, at least from the distance. And he appeared to be wearing Ben’s clothes.

  “You’re not Ben,” she said in a small voice.

  “That is true, Mademoiselle, I am not Sir Benjamin if that is who you mean by Ben.”

  “Who are you?” she asked deeply puzzled, and then almost immediately realized that might be considered an impertinent question to ask someone who did not know her and was, she supposed, going into what was in some respects his own house.

  “Mademoiselle, I might well ask that of you.”

  Once again she felt that she was slipping into her ‘setting mighty woodlands aflame’ mode. She apologized very emphatically and it must have worked.

  The stranger gently told her that his name was ‘Pierre’ and that he was Ben’s secretary and Ben is away attending to business matters. But Amy was puzzled. If Pierre is Ben’s secretary who was the other man dressed in a scholarly fashion. She asked Pierre who the other man was. Pierre after a long pause where he appeared uncertain what to say, finally told her the man was one of Ben’s clerks.

  Amy was aware that her questions were very much out of place because she had no right to ask these things, but her innate and burning curiosity drove her to go where angels fear to tread.

  She told him she didn’t know Ben had a clerk, or for that matter needed a clerk. She realized that she had Pier
re at somewhat of a disadvantage. He didn’t know who she was and because of her bold and really impertinent boldness he didn’t know if she had the right to ask these things. He was clearly uncomfortable and tried to excuse himself.

  “I must go now. I have work I must do for Sir Benjamin.”

  As he turned towards the door of the house, he seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something. Abruptly, he turned back to Amy.

  “Mademoiselle, I cannot explain this right now but I would much appreciate it if you would not tell anyone of our meeting.”

  Immediately after he spoke he seemed to have doubts if his request was a wise one. Amy watched him enter Hillfield House. She returned to the trap completely mystified. She summoned Emma who was hunting down some hapless lifeform in the bushes, and left for home. They could feel drops of moisture gently alighting on their faces.

  By the time they reach home, it was beginning to rain, albeit lightly. Amy helped Emma unload her precious telescope and then she took the trap around to the stable. Old Hubert who had suspended his weeding in deference to the rain, looked up at her approach.

  “There be someone to see you.”

  “Who?” she asked puzzled.

  “He be a man in what looked like sailor’s clothing, but old and worn. I sent him to Mrs. Pemberton cuz he was not rightly attired for the front door of a respectable house.”

  Amy found Mrs. Pemberton in her domain where she ruled.

  “Is there someone her to see me she asked the cook?”

  “An old man came a while ago. He had a package for you. But he had to leave to catch the coach back to London.”

  “Why did he want to see me?”

  “I don’t rightly know if he wanted to see you. He had a package he wanted to give you. Or, the way he put it, he was told to deliver it to you in person.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  “He wouldn’t tell us. All he would say it must be put into your hand. We had to assure him that we would unfailingly deliver it to you before he was willing to leave it.”

  “Who could possibly be sending me a package?”

  “Effie, get Lady Amy’s package,” she instructed. “I put it away for safekeeping,” she told Amy.

  Effie quickly produced the package which was wrapped in an old piece of rough cloth. When Amy unwrapped it, she found an old dingy looking leather pouch. On the pouch as if scrawled by a sharp object was one word in large letters: Amaryllis.

  Clutching the pouch, Amy sat down at the large kitchen table. She carefully examined it turning it over. She was almost hesitant to open it. This old worn pouch had come out of nowhere, and yet her name was scrawled on it in large letters. It was her name and yet it gave no evidence of being freshly or recently carved into the leather. The writing wasn’t soiled but it still did not look of recent origin.

  After hesitating for a minute, she knew she must look inside. Amy carefully opened the pouch, and after looking at the contents for a few moments, she slid them out gently onto the table.

  The pouch’s contents consisted of three items, an old yellowed newspaper, a folded sheet of paper, and a small tarnished locket. She looked over the newspaper with its front page which consisted of advertisements, and then she unfolded the letter and read it. There were only a few lines and it clearly had not been finished. She read the date on the newspaper. It was nearly twenty years old. Outside, the rain was now coming down in earnest rattling against the kitchen windows.

  Amy picked up the three items and returned them to the pouch, and then she went slowly up to her room.

  Chapter 8

  Amy had just finished placing the pouch and its strange contents on the writing desk in her room when Emma looked in at the door way.

  “Effie was dusting my room and said you received a pouch from an old sailor, with a newspaper and a letter in it. What is that all about?” asked Emma.

  “That is the question, Emma. Come and look at this stuff.”

  Emma came over to the writing desk and looked wondering at the items.

  “So you got an old pouch, with an old newspaper, from an old sailor. How do you know it wasn’t some confused old man that just left you some old junk?”

  “Well firstly, according to Mrs. Pemberton he said he came by coach to Stockley-on-Arne and was returning to wherever he came from by coach. And he asked for me by name, and look, my name is on the pouch.”

  Lifting it up Emma took it over to the window and examined the pouch carefully. The rain beat hard against the window. It sounded as if the rain was turning into hail. Taking it back to the desk she took Amy’s ivory handled letter opener and scratched a line on the pouch.

  Looking at Amy with a puzzled expression she said: “Look at the difference between the scratch I just made and your name.” She paused. “Amy, your name was scratched on this pouch long ago.”

  She rubbed the fancy A in Amaryllis, and then rubbed the mark she had just made, using her thumb. Flexing the empty pouch she twisted it in several directions.

  “Look at these.”

  Amy looked at where Emma was pointing. The pouch was covered with white circles. They were so faint Amy had not noticed them.

  “These are salt stains, but from a long time ago,” said Emma most seriously. “The pouch must be very old and it’s made of Russia leather. Russia leather is saturated with birch oil when it is first made, but the pouch is still flexible, which means it was kept well oiled but the surface is dry so it has been a long time since it was last oiled. The little hole in the flap matches this mark on the pouch. It must have had a double button to keep it closed, but that is long disappeared.”

  “Emma, how do you know all this?”

  “I read it in one of the papers I got from Sir Frank Ramsey.”

  “Just don’t tell mother, she might not understand.”

  Emma did not seem to be listening.

  “Effie said a sailor brought it to you but this isn’t the type of pouch that is normally used on ships.”

  Amy decided not to ask Emma how she knew that, she decided Emma clearly knew everything because of her addiction to reading.

  “I wonder,” said Emma dramatically, “if it was owned by a pirate. This type of pouch is a hunting pouch, so how did it end up at sea? Maybe somehow you are related to pirates.”

  “You are my sister, so if I am related to pirates then so are you.”

  “But why does the pouch have your name?”

  “That is what I would like to find out, Emma. Perhaps the newspaper or the other things in the pouch will tell us the answer.”

  Typical of many newspapers of the time the front page was mainly advertisements and the news items were inside. Emma perused the ads and only briefly glanced at the inside of the newspaper.

  “Almost all these advertisements are for ships or activities related to shipping.”

  “That is what you would expect Emma, since it is the Bristol Gazette and Public Advertiser and Bristol is a great seaport. Notice the date of the paper.”

  “Thursday, May 20, 1773.” Emma spoke in a hushed tone. “It’s about twenty years old.” She paused and then looked up at Amy. “All of these items must have been put in the pouch twenty years ago.”

  Emma examined the locket and the letter.

  “Read the letter Emma and tell me what you make of it. Emma read it slowly and carefully.”

  Dear Beloved Child, I have long struggled over whether to write this letter. Having decided to do so, I now find I must pen it with great urgency since the time is much shorter than I expected. Yet I do so with trepidation. There are things you need to know, but this knowledge could expose you to great danger, because there are those who would not wish you to learn what I am about to reveal...

  Emma looked at Amy. “The letter is unfinished, in fact it looks as if it was just begun to be written when the writer was interrupted.”

  “Exactly. But it cannot have been written to me. I was a baby when it was written. No one would wri
te a letter to a baby since that just would not make sense.”

  “Maybe it was written in advance and you were intended to read it when you grew up. I’ve read that has been done.”

  “The problem with that, Emma, is why would a stranger write me a letter telling of danger, but not write to my parents. Who would write me such a letter and why? What could that danger possibly be? You did notice that the letter was addressed to Dear Beloved Child. The letter was not addressed to me.”

  “How can you be sure of that, Amy?”

  “Look at our life, Emma, and where we live. Just tell me how I could possibly face any danger that would not face Father, or Mother, or you, or Mattie. Why just me? Why not my parents?”

  “I don’t know. But that letter was written by someone for a reason. And someone, likely the writer of the letter, wrote your name on the pouch twenty years ago when you were just a little baby. And they included an old newspaper. It must all add up somehow.”

  “Well, if it does, Emma, I just don’t see how.”

  Emma was examining the locket again. Suddenly, it clicked open. Inside was a miniature of a baby.

  “Let’s go and show these items to mother,” suggested Amy, as she put them back into the pouch.

  They found their mother in the sitting room working on her embroidery. She did not mind rain as long as it was the usual British drizzle but when it became intense she became religious. She never said as much, but Amy always had the impression that heavy and intense rain combined with hail and thunder and lightning somehow suggested to their mother that the Apocalypse was imminent. She was visibly nervous and agitated.

  “Mother.” Amy tapped her mother on the shoulder to get her attention. “Look at this.”

  She looked up at her daughter. “What is it dear?”

  “Look at this.”

  When Lady Sibbridge saw the old timeworn pouch, she wrinkled her nose in disgust and drew back as if it was some diseased object.

  “Oh dear,” she said sounding perturbed, “what is that dirty old thing.”

  “An elderly sailor left this for me while Emma and I...”