The Captain and His Innocent

by Lucy Ashford

  All the way through London, Miss Pringle had talked. She had talked through the city’s suburbs and through the green fields beyond Orpington. She had talked all the way through their halts at the various coaching inns where the ostlers raced to change Lord Franklin’s horses.

  Ellie had told Miss Pringle at their very first meeting that she understood English perfectly well; but Miss Pringle insisted on speaking slowly and enunciating every syllable with the greatest care. And Ellie was being driven to the limits of her patience.

  Lord Franklin had announced that although the journey to Kent could be achieved in one day, he felt Ellie would be more comfortable with an overnight stop at the Cross Keys in Aylesford. Ellie had hoped that the evening meal they took in the private dining room there might silence her companion a little, since Miss Pringle keenly enjoyed her food. But somehow, Miss Pringle managed to eat a substantial amount and also produce as many words as ever at exactly the same time.

  ‘Of course,’ Miss Pringle pronounced, ‘Lord Franklin has always honoured my family with his esteem, Elise.’

  Elise was Ellie’s French name, the name she’d been christened with. Her French father and English mother had always called her Ellie; but she didn’t trouble to correct those who preferred to call her Elise, since they were strangers, who knew nothing of her life or her past.

  ‘My dear father,’ Miss Pringle went on through a mouthful of ham and peas, ‘was the vicar of Bircham parish, you know, for many years. And since my papa’s sad death, Lord Franklin—well, no one could have been kinder, or more considerate! It was a great sadness for me to have to leave the Vicarage on Papa’s demise—but Lord Franklin understood perfectly. He said to me, “My dear Cynthia, we cannot have you leaving Bircham, when you have been such a valuable part of its life for so many years.” Those were his exact words! And in the end, Lord Franklin found me a cottage—the very best of cottages, I might add!—in a most superior part of Bircham village. I have really been more than comfortable there, and of course I have had my many charitable works to keep me busy.’

  Miss Pringle leaned closer. ‘But when I heard from Lord Franklin that he wanted me to come up to London to accompany you to Bircham Hall itself and to live there as your companion—well, I was so very honoured. To think, Ellie, that he is your long-lost relative! And as you’ll know, he is off travelling again very shortly. Taking advantage of the end of this horrid war with France to go and observe the art and classical buildings of Paris. Lord Franklin is forever travelling and enlarging his wonderful collection of artistic treasures. Which is, of course, how he met you. In Bruges, was it not?’

  ‘In Brussels,’ Ellie replied tonelessly, pushing aside her plate. ‘If you have no objection, Miss Pringle, I am rather tired and would like to withdraw to my bedchamber now.’

  * * *

  But the next morning, at breakfast, the inquisition started again.

  ‘So...’ Miss Pringle began, over her toast and marmalade, ‘Lord Franklin came upon you in Brussels. But to think, that he should turn out to be your mother’s second cousin—you could not have wished for a luckier stroke of fate!’ Suddenly her eyes fixed on Ellie’s shabby travelling cloak and dowdy bonnet and she said, a little more hesitantly, ‘You know, I was led to understand that Lord Franklin generously furnished you with a quantity of new clothes in London.’

  ‘He did,’ Ellie answered. ‘But I prefer to travel in more practical clothing.’

  ‘Very wise.’ Miss Pringle nodded. ‘Very wise, since you will find, I think, at Bircham Hall that practicality is of the utmost importance.’

  Ellie wanted to ask her what she meant. Was it chilly there? Was it uncomfortable? But it couldn’t, surely, be as frugal or cold as some of the dire places she’d taken shelter in during the last year or more. And then it was time to go out to where the carriage stood in the yard of the inn.

  There, the ostlers, under the careful eye of the coachman, were harnessing up four beautiful greys, and Miss Pringle saw Ellie gazing at them. ‘Lord Franklin keeps only the best, of course,’ she declared, ‘at each posting house. This is our next-to-last change, I believe, and by this afternoon we shall be at Bircham Hall. How my heart lifts at the thought! And there you will meet Lady Charlotte, who is sure to give you a wonderful welcome...’

  Was it Ellie’s imagination? Or did Miss Pringle’s confident tone falter just a little at the mention of Lord Franklin’s widowed mother?

  ‘My mother,’ Lord Franklin had told Ellie, ‘used to come to London occasionally, but never does so now. I have sent word to inform her that you will be arriving at Bircham Hall and have asked her to ensure you will be happy there.’

  But how will Lady Charlotte really feel? Ellie was wondering rather wildly as the carriage rolled on through the Kent countryside. How can she relish the prospect of having a nineteen-year-old French girl—a penniless orphan—suddenly foisted upon her?

  One thing was for sure—Ellie would know soon enough.

  * * *

  They made slow progress, as slow as the previous day. Miss Pringle talked on as the road led them up and down hills, past farms and the occasional village, past fields of sheep, and dark woodland.

  And then, soon after the final change of horses, Ellie could see the sea. The afternoon light was fading, and from the far horizon a low mist was rolling in across the expanse of grey waves; but even so, she pressed her face to the carriage window, realising that between the shore and the road lay a bare expanse of heathland. She glimpsed the sturdy tower of a small and ancient church, and nearby stood a lonely old house with sprawling wings and gables, set on a slight rise and shrouded by stunted sycamores.

  She craned her head to gaze at it, but the carriage was entering woodland again and the house had already disappeared from view. A house of secrets, she suddenly thought.

  Ellie, her father would have fondly said. You and your imagination.

  A sharp pang of renewed loss forced her to close her eyes. By the time she opened them again, the carriage had rounded the next headland and the sea was visible once more. Down below was a cluster of little houses around a harbour, with an inn and a wharf where fishing boats were tied up and men mended their nets.

  Miss Pringle was still talking about Lord Franklin. ‘His family—the Grayfields—can, I believe, trace their ancestry back to Tudor times...’

  Ellie glanced down at her small black-leather valise on the carriage floor. She wondered what Miss Pringle would do if Ellie were to seize her valise, jump out of the carriage, run down to the harbourside and beg one of those fishermen to take her away from England’s cold and hostile shores. I am homesick, she thought with sudden anguish. Homesick for the Paris of my childhood. For the happy times I spent there with my father and mother. I’m even homesick for Brussels, where I endured those last desperate months with my poor, dying papa.

  ‘Oh, look at that mist.’ Miss Pringle was shuddering. Ellie realised her companion was looking out of the window also. ‘And soon it will be dark. January. How I hate January. It’s this sort of weather, they say, that brings out the smugglers. Lord Franklin does his very best to stop their obnoxious trade, but they are desperate renegades. It’s even said they’re in league with the French—and after all, on this part of the coast, France is less than twenty miles away.’

  The fishing village was no longer in sight. The road was heading inland again to carve its way through thick oak woodland, and Miss Pringle talked on. But suddenly she cried out in alarm.

  ‘What is this? Gracious me. Why have we stopped?’

  Ellie noted the fearful expression on her companion’s features. Highwaymen, that expression said. Robbers. Murderers. ‘Please,’ said Ellie. ‘Calm yourself.’

  By then one of the grooms, distinctive in Lord Franklin’s navy-and-gold livery, had appeared at the window of the carriage. ‘Begging your pardon, ladies, b
ut it appears that half the road ahead of us has fallen away, no doubt because of the recent rain.’

  Miss Pringle put her hands to her cheeks. ‘Oh, my goodness. Oh, my goodness...’

  ‘No reason at all to be alarmed, ma’am,’ said the groom hastily. ‘But we need to do a bit of repair work to make sure the way’s safe for Lord Franklin’s horses. It’ll take us ten, perhaps fifteen minutes—no more.’

  The moment he’d disappeared, Ellie leaned forward. ‘Miss Pringle?’

  ‘Yes?’ Miss Pringle had got out her smelling salts and was sniffing vigorously.

  ‘I think I will take advantage of our halt to get a little fresh air.’

  ‘But you took a walk less than an hour ago, Elise, when we last stopped to change the horses! And very soon, we’ll be at Bircham Hall. Can you not wait? Besides, I’m not sure it’s safe for you to wander hereabouts, I’m really not sure at all.’

  But Ellie had already opened the carriage door and was jumping down to the road, with her cloak wrapped tightly around her.

  * * *

  Although it was not yet four, a fierce chill was starting to pierce the air. And the mist! The mist she’d seen out at sea was rolling in across the land now, blanketing the woods that surrounded them with its clammy and sinister air. Though if she looked hard, she could still just see the road ahead. Could see, too, where the left-hand side of the road’s stony surface had fallen away, into the verge that bordered it.

  That, Ellie, is the problem with insufficient drainage, she could almost hear her father saying. And look at the lack of proper foundations! You cannot build a road for heavy traffic merely by throwing a haphazard layer of rocks on top of mud. And of course the Romans knew it was often necessary to dig deep ditches on either side to take away the winter floods...

  At least Lord Franklin’s two grooms were well equipped for emergencies like this. Her father would have approved of that. The grooms couldn’t see her, standing as she was in the shadows beyond the coach; but she could see that one of them had an axe to hew down the nearby saplings, and as fast as he felled them, the other was spreading them across the damaged part of the road to create a surface that would—at least temporarily—bear the weight of Lord Franklin’s coach and horses.

  And as she watched them working, she realised what they were saying.

  Pretty little piece, isn’t she, the girl? And she speaks good English, for a Frenchie.

  Well, her mother was English, I’ve heard. An English trollop, who ran off with a Frenchman.

  I wouldn’t mind running off with that one...

  Ellie’s cheeks burned. So often. She’d heard the same vitriolic gossip so often. Head high, she walked away from them, back down the road they’d come along—and only when she was completely out of sight of both the carriage and the grooms did she stop, realising that her eyes were burning with unshed tears.

  It is the cold air, that is all, she told herself fiercely, dashing them away with her hand. The cold.

  She walked on, remembering seeing the sea and that fishing village. In what direction, she wondered suddenly, did the coast of France lie? South? East? Almost instinctively, she reached deep into the capacious pocket sewn to the inside of her cloak to pull out a small leather box.

  And jumped violently as a tall figure loomed out of the shadowy woods ahead of her. The box fell to the ground, somewhere in the undergrowth beside the road.

  ‘If I were you,’ the man was saying calmly, ‘I wouldn’t run. There’s really not much point, I’m afraid.’

  What he meant was that there wasn’t much chance of escape. From him. Ellie fought her stomach-clenching fear. This man was tall. This man was powerful. Hampered as she was by her heavy travelling clothes, she’d never make it back to the carriage before he caught her. What was he? A highwayman? One of the local smugglers, perhaps, that Miss Pringle had fretted about?

  He certainly didn’t look like a law-abiding citizen. His long coat appeared to have been mended over and over again; his leather boots were spattered with mud, as if he’d walked a long way. Stubble roughened his strong jaw, and his dark wavy hair was unkempt, but his eyes were bright blue and knowing.

  A man to be afraid of. Her heart was already pounding wildly; but she forced herself to speak with equal calmness. ‘You may as well know,’ she said, tilting her chin, ‘that I have nothing about me of any value. If you’re intending to rob me, you’re wasting your time.’

  His eyes glinted. ‘I’m not here to rob you. I’m merely curious. I’d heard that Lord Franklin has a new ward—and you must be her.’

  What was it about his voice—his deep, husky voice—that sent fresh pulses of alarm tingling through her veins? And how had he heard that she was coming to Bircham Hall?

  ‘I am not Lord Franklin’s ward,’ she answered. Keep your breathing steady, Ellie. Look at him with the disdain he deserves. ‘But there is a family connection. My mother was his relative...’

  He came closer. Panicking, she took a step back. ‘Indeed, mam’selle,’ he said softly. ‘to find yourself suddenly in the care of a rich and aristocratic Englishman must have seemed like a fairy tale come true. Lord Franklin is said to be a great collector of foreign objets d’art. And what could be more fitting than for him to return from the Continent with a pretty French girl in his care?’

  She felt her breathing coming tight and fast. She had been a fool, indeed, to have wandered so far from the coach. Play for time, she told herself. Play for time.

  ‘You are mistaken,’ she said steadily, ‘if you think that I would allow myself to be...collected. Lord Franklin took me in his care out of duty, that is all. In other words—no fairy tale. And unless you wish me to assume that your own intentions are unworthy, monsieur, I would ask you to let me pass—this minute!’

  She’d already started to move. But he was quicker, stepping sideways to block her path, intimidating her with his height and the breadth of his shoulders.

  ‘Did you realise,’ he said, ‘that Lord Franklin was a relative of yours before you met him, I wonder?’

  She was momentarily overwhelmed by the hard, purposeful set of his face. By the brightness and intensity of those blue eyes. No. No, she didn’t.

  Memories whirled around her. Memories of a badly furnished attic room above a bread shop in Brussels. Memories of her father lying on a narrow mattress while she bathed his forehead, desperate to cool his fever. The bread-shop owner, the Widow Gavroche, hurrying upstairs to her. ‘Mam’selle, mam’selle—there is an English gentleman here to see you! His name is Lord Franklin Grayfield and he is very fine!’

  Ellie had been alone, with no friends and no money. In danger there. She had thought that she’d left danger behind her now that she was in England—but this tall man who’d come prowling out of the mist reminded her otherwise.

  She had to get away. But that little box...

  Letting her eyes sweep downwards, she spotted it suddenly in the undergrowth. She made a swift move towards it, but he was quicker, and before she could stop him, he had stooped to pick up her small leather box for himself.

  Ellie felt the blood leave her face. ‘That is mine. Give it back to me!’

  He gave her a curious half-smile—and ignored her. Her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs that it hurt. He’d picked up the box with his left hand, she noticed—held it there in his palm, while with his right hand he was turning it slowly.

  He wore a black glove on his right hand. And there was, she realised, something odd about it. Something wrong with it. The first two of his fingers were missing. But he had no trouble opening the box. And Ellie felt slightly sick, as the brass casing of her father’s compass gleamed in the half-light.

  ‘A pretty trinket,’ he was saying approvingly as he gazed down at it. ‘It must be worth something.’

  ‘Perhaps it is
. Perhaps it isn’t.’ Ellie was sliding her hand into the folds of her cloak. ‘But, monsieur, if you’ve any sense at all, you will return it to me—immédiatement—or I swear you will regret it.’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘You’re going to make me?’

  For answer she lifted the small pistol she had in her hand and released the safety catch. She was pointing it straight at his heart.

  His body tensed very slightly, but his eyes still glinted with mockery. ‘Mam’selle,’ he reproved. ‘Really. To go to such extremes... I take it you know how to use that thing?’

  His voice. The rich, velvety timbre of it. Every word he spoke made something shiver down her spine in warning. Made her grip the pistol even tighter. ‘Do you want to find out?’ She forced her voice into absolute calmness. ‘Give me the compass back. Or I shoot.’

  He watched her, his eyes assessing her. Then suddenly he laughed and held the compass out with a small nod. Ellie grabbed at it, her pulse pounding.

  ‘An unusual object,’ he said calmly. ‘A valuable object, I would venture to say.’ He swept her a mockery of a bow. ‘Our meeting has been interesting—but I’ll make no further effort to detain you. And I hope your stay at Bircham Hall is a pleasant one. Your servant, mademoiselle.’

  And he was gone. Into the mist and woodland. As suddenly, and as silently, as he’d appeared.

  She found she was gasping for breath, as if the air had been kicked out of her lungs. She remembered the gleam in his blue eyes as he gazed at the compass. Dieu. Had he had time to look at it? To really look at it?

  With an enormous effort at self-control, she secured the safety catch on her pistol, then slipped it and the compass back into the pocket inside her cloak.

  She hurried towards the carriage, willing her heart to stop thudding. Please God, the compass had only attracted his attention because he thought it was something he could sell. But surely he was no ordinary roadside thief. Who was he? And how did he already know so much about her?