The Captain's Daughter

by Minnie Simpson

  Amy drifted over to her window seat and sat on the carpet next to it. So much had he inspired and encouraged her that she had avidly written many poems, and decided to become a poet, and she had started to write an account of her father’s time in the army. She would sit with him in his study while he recounted his adventures and displayed his artifacts which had once been meaningless shelf decorations but which had grown to have a much deeper meaning.

  Back at the beginning of last year, when the snow was still on the ground, he’d sat in his big stuffed sofa chair and thrilled her and Emma with tales of derring-do as they snuggled beside the roaring fire. She didn’t know if the years that had passed had caused the tales to grow, but a little embellishment didn’t hurt. And later, when she was alone in her room, she had written it all down. But that was all over and gone now. Tears of sadness ran down her face mingled with tears of anger and frustration at Turpin and what he had done to her father.

  She raised the seat of the trunk where she kept her papers. For near onto a year she had been unable to bring herself to look at them. They were too much a reminder of happier times when she still had her father. When her father was still whole and not the shell he was now. She grabbed the deep stack of papers about half way down and struggled to bring the bundle out onto the carpet where she could see them better.

  Setting them on the floor beside her, she started to lower the lid but stopped. Uppermost on the remaining stack of papers was a drawing of a horse. It was a sleek young stallion, shiny and black. Well he wasn’t shiny in the charcoal picture, but that is the way she remembered Turpin all these years ago when she was the same age as Emma was now.

  She picked up the picture as she fought back tears with a sniffle. Her teacher back then was Abbé Berjon, a slight, intense, pale man who looked like a youth but was considerably older. He taught her and Mattie the prerequisite subjects but his first love was art. What the significance of the title was, if it was a title, she had no idea. Almost anyone in France who spends any time as a novitiate can use the title, and from what she had learned almost every Frenchman above the station of a ploughboy has been a novitiate in his youth.

  Berjon instilled in her a love of drawing, especially with charcoal and pastels, but he didn’t remain long. His place was taken by Mrs. Poundstone, a friendly middle-aged lady who was slightly overweight but jolly and friendly. When old Aunt Hyacinth, her mother’s maiden aunt, was no longer able to teach Emma, then Emma joined Amy and Mattie in Mrs. Poundstone’s little class.

  Mattie was especially fond of the teacher since she only gently dispensed the academic subjects but loved especially to teach more domestic subjects. But everyone loved Mrs. Poundstone. No one disliked her. Amy had been inspired by Abbé Berjon and his almost fanatical love of art, despite the fact that she never saw him smile and was puzzled by his almost feminine appearance and demeanor. And she was inspired by Mr. Coleridge, who was somewhat more human and was a true scholar. In a way they had been like bookends to Mrs. Poundstone’s much longer tenure. Her early teacher had been Great Aunt Hyacinth whom she mostly remembered as a bit fussy, just like her mother. Amy didn’t know what had happened to Aunt Hyacinth. She hadn’t thought of her in years. She decided she must ask her mother.

  Amy got up from the carpet with her armload of literary papers and carried them over to the desk. As she worked her way through them, she became determined to finish her father’s memoirs. She owed it to him as a tribute and an expression of her love. If he really was her father.

  The moment the thought occurred she felt as if she were a traitor. How could she even think such a thing? He was her own beloved father. Emma and Mattie were her sisters, and her mother was...” But were they? They certainly had never treated her as other than an intrinsic part of the family. Or was she just trying to convince herself of that? She turned that thought over and over in her mind, but could not recall anytime they had treated her even a tiny bit differently. Yet, if she were adopted, her mother knew and her father knew, or he did before his accident last year.

  One sunny June morning, a few days later, Amy sat on one of the wrought iron benches amidst the roses and blooming summer flowers. She had put a wad of papers from the time Mr. Coleridge was her tutor in a portfolio that belonged to her father. The poet and writer was beginning to arise from the dead. In the last few days she had reread her father’s adventures and was stimulated to begin work on them once more after her nearly one year hiatus.

  So occupied was she with her father and Sir Frank’s adventures in Flanders that it was a few moments before she snapped back to the here and now and woke up to the fact that someone was calling her name from the vicinity of the stables. It was a strange, croaky voice.

  Carefully placing her precious papers back in the portfolio and latching it shut, she went over to the stables clutching her leather bundle.

  “Did someone call me?”

  “Yes. Over here.”

  It was Emma’s voice this time that was coming from the stable.

  So Amy went over to the stable. In the stable, standing just inside the empty stall that normally housed Bucephalus, was her sister.

  “You’re not a horse, why are you in your horse’s stall?”

  “I can’t be too careful. Mrs. Parkhurst has been way too wide awake lately.”

  Amy looked around.

  “Where is Bucephalus anyway?”

  “I had Daniel hitch him to the trap. It’s around behind the stables.”

  “And I suppose you would like me to go with you to the back of the stables?”

  “Well... Yes, but we must be careful. There are those who seek my soul.”

  “I am sure there are... is.”

  Bucephalus, who was in fine spirits that morning lightly galloped in the direction of Camp Hill. The poor horse was probably glad to get the opportunity since he had been largely confined for the last two or so weeks, except for the short walk Daniel took him on each day.

  With the portfolio against the footrest and her feet resting securely on it, Amy looked at Emma.

  “I reckon we’re headed to Camp Hill since I notice your telescope lashed to the tail board. Another lazy morning surveying the surrounding country, or are we here to spy on Hillfield House? If so, it isn’t my doing this time.”

  “Neither Sister Amy. We have purpose this morning.”

  “Really, and what is that purpose?”

  “Do you know who William Roy is?” asked Emma.

  “No, I don’t know who William Roy is.”

  “I found some papers in father’s study that Sir Frank left father. They’re from the Royal Society.”

  “How do you just find papers in father’s study? He may not be well, but he is still neat.”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “No you won’t, Emma Sibbridge. You’re impossible.”

  “Actually they’re from a couple of years ago. Anyway, William Roy is a Scot who has been working ever since the rebellion of 1745 on creating ordnance maps of the Scottish Highlands and later the rest of Britain. Among the papers was an ordnance map drawn by Mr. Roy that includes this part of England. The map hasn’t been published yet but Mr. Roy left a copy with the Royal Society when he gave a speech there.”

  “So Mr. Roy left it with the Royal Society and Sir Frank purloined it from the Society and stashed it in father’s study and you purloined it from father. It seems we have a matter of miscreant behavior going on here. Wait until Mr. Roy hears about that.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” said Emma firmly, ‘besides Mr. Roy died last year. But if you will just listen to me instead of continually interrupting me and treating me like a child, I’ll explain why we are here.”

  She looked accusingly at Amy who just smiled innocently.

  “I was looking at the map this morning while Mrs. Parkhurst was... What I noticed was that we should be able to see the village of Etting Howe from atop Camp Hill according to Mr. Roy’s map.”

  Whether it w
as their power of observation, or lack of it, or an imperfection in Mr. Roy’s preliminary ordnance survey map, the village of Etting Howe refused to make an appearance and so after about half an hour the master spy Emma Sibbridge had to admit defeat and sadly agree to return home to the open arms of Mrs. Parkhurst.

  On the way back home, Amy suggested they take a look at the River Arne. So they left Bucephalus, whose enthusiasm for galloping had substantially abated, munching the grass by the side of the road. As all horses and smarter cows can tell you, the grass always taste better if it is somewhere else.

  When they made their way along the path to its bank they found the River Arne was almost back to normal. Rivers, especially gurgling, rippling, bouncing ones, tend to be a little spellbinding. After watching it for a few minutes, Emma was ready to go home.

  Amy had been looking at the old mill. This was the mill where Ben in peasant guise had made insulting drawings of her. This was the mill where she and Emma had seen the strange light, or had they just imagined it?

  “We need to take another look at the mill,” said Amy with a frown.

  “We need to get back home. It’s almost time for lunch,” Emma observed.

  “It’ll just take a few minutes. Remember the strange light we saw in it.”

  “I am remembering the strange light. The more I think about it, the more I think we better get away from here.”

  “Don’t be silly, Emma. Do you hear anything? Do you see anything?”

  “If you mean, do I see the crazed killer hiding in the mill, of course not. That’s why he is hiding so we can’t see him until we fall into his trap. Do I hear anything? Yes, I hear a little voice saying: Get away. Run before it’s too late.”

  But Amy was already fording the river. Reluctantly, Emma followed.

  Inside the old ruined mill the berserk killer was nowhere to be seen.

  “If someone has been using this to hide from the king’s men, there should be some evidence of it.”

  But Amy could find nothing. Taking a stick, she methodically dragged it through the dirt of the mill floor but could find no sign of a fire that someone might have covered with dirt to hide the evidence of their use of the old building.

  She was about to suggest they head home for lunch when Emma said: “Take a look at this Amy.”

  Emma was looking at something that was gleaming in the dirt. She scratched away the dirt with her hands to reveal a lady’s pendant. She lifted the golden pendant from the dirt of the mill floor so Amy could see it better. Immediately, Amy began to dig with the stick to see if she could uncover more hidden treasures, but there was nothing else there.

  “Some thief must have accidently dropped it,” Amy reasoned. “In the dark he must have not noticed. Perhaps he, or maybe they, as they trampled about, must have kicked dirt over it. If they didn’t notice it missing that means they had more valuables.” She paused and in a hushed voice said: “This is where the highwaymen must hang out. You are right, Emma, we should get out of here. Bring the pendant. We must try to return it to its rightful owner.”

  “What if the highwaymen miss the pendant and come back looking for it?” asked Emma nervously.

  “They won’t know who found it. They’ll probably start accusing one another. We will be quite safe, but I don’t think we should come back here for a while. We better wait until the king’s men catch them.”

  As they made their way back to the house, with Amy holding the reins, Emma who had been polishing the pendant, opened it. She looked up at Amy.

  “There is an inscription inside the pendant,” Emma said in a hushed voice.

  “What does it say, Emma?”

  “To my beloved Esther.”

  “Amy,” her mother said as the family sat down to eat lunch, “there is a letter on the stand in the hall for you. It is from Sir Anthony.”

  Amy knew her mother would never tolerate her reading the letter before she ate lunch with the family, so she made short work of her lunch, excused herself while her mother was speaking to her father, and escaped the dining room before her disapproving mother could object.

  Up in her room alone, she broke the seal with Ben’s signet impressed in it, and eagerly read what Ben had to say. His letter opened with the usual greeting that a man of his station used to address a woman whether she was married, or was unmarried like Amy.

  Madam,

  I have been most earnestly striving to address your mystery, Amy. Even to the neglect of my own affairs. Do not feel any guilt about this as my efforts have been driven by my own curiosity.

  So far I have eliminated all but the captain and his wife from serious consideration. I cannot see at this time how it could be any of the others. There doesn’t seem to be anything significant about them, although I would never dismiss them completely.

  I have been fortunate to find out where the coach was swallowed up by the river and its sad victims were drowned, but I have more inquiries to make and then I will have much more to say.

  Your obedient servant

  Benjamin Anstruther

  That’s all? she said to herself. He could have told me more. Where did the captain and his wife drown? Amy would have no option but to wait until Ben chose to divulge more information. And she hungered for more.

  As she sat at her writing desk tapping the letter on it in annoyance, an idea came to mind. They were now getting into summer. The London season ran from the beginning of the year until late June. The Sibbridges were forced to sit most of it out here at home because of their delicate finances, but there was still time. If they could go to London she could track Ben down. He couldn’t refuse to pay them a visit and she would find out much more about the captain and his wife.

  “Mama,” she said when she found Lady Sibbridge in the sitting room, “I know the London season is over in two or three weeks, but couldn’t we go there for just a little.”

  She knew she could never bring up their financial situation to her mother. It was one thing they must never mention, although they were all painfully aware of it. The hidden query between the lines in her question was Don’t we have enough money for just a little time in the capitol?

  “No, dear, we cannot go there because Sir Frank and Lady Ramsey have invited us to visit with them in Bath. Besides, we cannot really go to London because of your father’s present state. We do not want his old friends to see him that way.”

  Mattie’s eyes lit up at her mother’s words. Most young ladies greeted with joy and delight a visit to Bath where parental strings were much looser and the chance to meet with other young people, and that definitely included young gentlemen, on its streets, at its bathhouses, and its gardens was a hundredfold that of London where things were much more formal, except for regulated visits to Vauxhall Gardens.

  Amy was devastated. She knew the attraction of the invitation was that her mother felt comfortable with staying with the Ramseys in Bath, whereas she felt that in London they had to engage a residence for their visit. Amy was miserable. She felt that Ben had no reason to visit Bath, whereas he had reason to come to Stockley-on-Arne because his home was here. She might not see him in months, she fretted to herself.

  Amy ran to her room in tears and threw herself on her bed. But then she soon got up and went to her desk. Her mother’s announcement gave her a good reason to write to Ben and tell him they were going to Bath. In fact, this might work out well, because if he did choose to pay a visit to Bristol he could stop by in Bath since it was but a slight detour on a journey from London to Bristol. With these thoughts she began to feel much better.

  And there was another advantage. She had felt reluctant to tell Ben about the Frenchman who visited their house with the Ramseys and claimed to be a nobleman being pursued by the agents of The Committee of Public Safety. She was worried he would look on her as a fretful girl hiding from phantoms, and Amy did not want to appear weak. Now she could speak frankly in her letter.

  With considerable satisfaction she ended her letter with
what she considered was a justifiable tease after the way he had abruptly ended his letter leaving her wanting more. Oh by the way, she wrote, I visited Hillfield House to warn you of the Frenchman’s presence, but you were not there. When I returned home my sister Emma informed me that one of the Frenchman’s henchmen followed me to your house.

  She signed and sealed the letter and sat back in her chair with a satisfied grin. Now we will see what Ben will do.

  Chapter 14

  “Oh dear,” fretted Amy’s mother, “it’s been daylight for more than two hours now, and we have to get to Maidenhead before dark.”

  “Don’t worry so much, mother. It’s just after six, and it should take about ten hours at the most to get there. The sun doesn’t go down for another fifteen hours, so we should get there long before dark.”

  Her mother, who when worried did not like her fears to be punctured, mumbled: “We better, after what happened to poor Frank and Estella.”

  “What happened to Sir Frank and Lady Ramsay?” Amy was trying to remember what horrible thing had happened to the Ramsays that she couldn’t remember.

  Her mother paused, clearly trying to remember what she meant by making that remark. The thought had at some point lodged in her memory without her brain actually indexing it. And then it came back.

  “That horrid, frightening, crowd at the inn.”

  “The noisy travelers that were singing too loud?”

  Her mother rather obviously felt that Amy was not taking the revelers at the inn as being the clear threat that they were, so she left for the kitchen to find out how Mrs. Pemberton and Effie were doing with the food hamper.

  As she left, Amy could hear her mother mumbling about how Amy would learn when she got older... What she would learn as she got older, Amy was not privileged to find out as her mother’s voice faded away.