The Wicked Waif

by Lancaster, Mary

  Trent’s gaze fell. “You got some odd friends for an officer.”

  Doverton said nothing, just took a long draught of ale. After several seconds, Trent’s eyes lifted reluctantly. “She keeping well?”

  “Not really, no.”

  The man scowled. “Why not? You ain’t taken advantage of her, have you?”

  Doverton lifted one disbelieving eyebrow. “I have not, no.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Trent demanded, bristling.

  “It means she bore your son a couple of weeks ago and the pair of them barely survived.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Trent sat down abruptly on a cask, his face changing color. “I didn’t know. God, I didn’t know. Is she doing better?”

  “Apparently. But her future is hardly rosy.”

  Trent gave an unamused laugh. “Neither is mine.”

  Dove looked around. “Have you worked here long?”

  “Since I was a nipper, off and on.” Trent sighed. “It was my da’s. I took the king’s shilling to get away from it, but I always knew it would suck me back in. And it did. About as soon as I got home, the old man up and died, leaving me to support my old mum with one hand. Nothing to do except keep this place going,”

  “And Annie?”

  Trent flushed. “Couldn’t bring her here, could I? Besides, I told her a lot of nonsense about getting taken on as a solicitor’s clerk and earning good money. Made myself sound respectable and prosperous to impress her.” He grimaced, curling his lip in self-deprecation.

  Dove set down his half-empty mug. “With respect, Trent, Annie has a few more serious issues than your self-importance. Her family don’t want her, since she’s disgraced. What do you think happens to girls like Annie when they have no respectable way of earning enough for her and the child to eat?”

  Trent whitened. “I don’t want that for her. Or the baby.”

  Dove picked up the mug and took another drink. “Then you’d better decide what to do about it.” He set the mug down again, delved into his pocket for a few coins, which he dropped on the counter. “She’s staying at the hospital in Blackhaven for the next couple of days at least. You can find me at regimental headquarters.”

  “I can’t leave this place,” Trent said as Dove made for the door.

  Dove ignored him.

  “Sir?” Trent said desperately.

  Dove glanced back at him.

  “Tell Annie she’s the best girl I ever had.”

  “Tell her yourself,” Dove said.

  Outside, he untied his horse, which was attracting rather too much interest from some street urchins, mounted up, and rode away. He wanted to be in Liverpool by tea time.

  *

  “There you are!” the vicar said in relief. Dressed to go out in his great coat and hat, he had opened the front door just as Tillie walked up the garden path to the vicarage. His keen eyes searched her face. “I thought I had failed at the first asking.”

  “Failed to do what?” Tillie asked, walking past him into the house.

  He closed the door behind her. “Look after you. You haven’t been to see your uncle and cousin, have you?”

  “God, no,” she said with an involuntary shudder. “Though I suppose I could have run into them. Would you mind very much paying the cab?”

  When the vicar returned, she was still standing where he’d left her, deep in thought. He took her cloak and bonnet and hung them up with his own. “I think meeting your family alone would have made you uncomfortable. Come into the breakfast parlor.”

  She followed him somewhat lethargically and was surprised to see not only Mrs. Grant but Dr. Lampton, both of whom greeted her with smiles of relief. Amidst the confusion of her own thoughts and fears, their concern touched her.

  “Were you worried about me?” she asked, forcing a smile. “Thank you, but there is no need. I only went to find Major Doverton. He’s away for a few days.”

  “That’s why we were worried about you,” Mrs. Grant said. “He left in the middle of the night, in a great hurry, apparently, not even taking his batman with him, but he took the trouble to write to both Tristram and Nicholas here to ask them and me to look after you while he was gone.”

  “And not to let you go with the Dawlishes,” Grant added, “unless you specifically asked to, and remembered everything before the storm.”

  “I’m afraid that isn’t the case,” Tillie said. She didn’t want to lie more than necessary to these people who had treated her with such kindness, knowing nothing about her. She swallowed. “Did Major Doverton not write to me?”

  Grant urged her into the chair beside his wife and helped her to some eggs and ham. “No, and I expect that was deliberate. The thing is, just about everyone must have noticed that he has been …courting you, for want of a better expression. And so, the revelation that you are married puts you both in a rather awkward position with regard to propriety and reputation.”

  She stared at him. “But I don’t remember marrying Luke!”

  “What exactly do you remember?” Dr. Lampton asked. His sharp gaze was unblinking.

  Tillie shook her head. Tears started to her eyes because she was lying to them. “Nothing,” she whispered.

  “Then you don’t know who hurt you, who put you in that box on board The Phoenix?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then that will be our line of defense,” said Grant, who had once been a soldier. “Surely it would not be good for her to be sent to them, remembering nothing?”

  “As her doctor, I would strongly advise against it,” Lampton said, rising to his feet. “And since we don’t actually know that they’re Tillie’s family, we’d all be failing in our duties if we gave her up to them without more proof than a miniature portrait which could, after all, have come from anywhere. I have to go over to Henrit later, so I’ll have a word with Winslow while I’m there. It would do no harm to have him on our side.”

  Tillie gazed at him in wonder. She was right to protect them, for they were protecting her.

  “But you must cooperate with us, Tillie,” Mrs. Grant said urgently. “No more wandering on your own. And if Tris and I are not in, you must not receive them here.”

  “That will not be a problem,” Tillie assured her. And then the tears prickled again. “I do so appreciate your kindness to me.”

  “Oh, you are now our favorite mystery of the winter,” Mrs. Grant said lightly. “Surpassing even that of Elizabeth’s governess before Christmas.”

  “Kate,” Lampton objected from the door.

  Mrs. Grant laughed. “There is always something going on in Blackhaven.”

  “That much is true,” Dr. Lampton said, with a brief bow to the room. “I’ll call back in the evening.”

  “Wait, are we not all dining with Elizabeth at the hotel this evening?” Mrs. Grant said.

  “Is that a good idea?” Grant asked doubtfully. “The Dawlishes are staying there.”

  Lampton’s gaze fell on Tillie. “A little cooperation goes a long way. She should meet them, in the safe company of her friends. Until she remembers. Are you agreeable, Tillie?”

  Tillie nodded. If her uncle and cousin saw and heard that she still remembered nothing, then her friends would be safe, at least while she worked out what on earth to do.

  Lampton frowned. “In fact, I have to see one of the hotel maids who’s sickly. I think I’ll call on Mr. Dawlish while I’m there and explain the situation. Until this evening!” He left abruptly enough to leave a swirl of air behind him.

  Tillie returned to chasing pieces of egg around her plate without a great deal of enthusiasm. “Where has Major Doverton gone?” she asked.

  “He didn’t say in his note,” Grant replied. “Just that he would be away for a couple of days. I assume it’s duty because he’s left his brother here, too, and Colonel Gordon must be aware of his absence.”

  Mrs. Grant reached for the coffee pot. “Yes, but what duty would require him to start in the middle of the night w
hen he clearly wasn’t planning such a thing when we last spoke to him? It’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? I think it has something to do with Tillie and the Dawlishes.”

  At that, a stream of warmth tricked through Tillie’s heart. Of course, he would not have abandoned her to her fate. After all, he had warned the Grants and Dr. Lampton to look after her. He just hadn’t realized that someone needed to look after them.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tillie spent the rest of the day helping the Grants in their charitable works. They ran a kitchen twice a week to feed homeless and injured soldiers, and Tillie helped cook and serve the soup. Besides which, she listened to their unlikely stories, laughed at their jokes, and even broke up a fight before Grant could get there and bell the protagonists off in no uncertain terms.

  As well as keeping her occupied, the work brought its own rewards, and Tillie walked back to the vicarage with Mrs. Grant in a happier frame of mind.

  “You have a natural way with them that they like,” Mrs. Grant said. “I think you must have done this kind of thing before.”

  “I might,” Tillie agreed. “Equally, I might have been on the receiving end of such charity.”

  “I doubt it.” Mrs. Grant cast her a quick glance. “Do you think Mr. Dawlish could be your uncle? A wealthy mill-owner? It would explain your education and the good clothes you were wearing when you were found.”

  “I suppose it would.”

  “You don’t sound happy about it.”

  “I suppose I thought I would remember family,” she said evasively.

  “Or were you wishing you were a gently-born lady to be a suitable match for Major Doverton?”

  Tillie flushed. “Am I so obvious?”

  Mrs. Grant took her arm. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he cares what your origins are. He has been around the world enough to value people for who they are and what they do.”

  “But he would care about me being married to my cousin. You don’t think that’s why he bolted, do you?”

  “No,” Mrs. Grant said firmly. “And he didn’t bolt. He hastened.”

  Tillie couldn’t help frowning in worry. “I hope his journey was not too arduous… Did you know him before he was wounded?”

  Mrs. Grant shook her head. “By the time I had settled in Blackhaven, he was recovered and put in charge of the second battalion. I gather he never speaks of it, but I believe he was wounded while saving his men. Tris says he was awarded the Army Gold Medal and the Peninsular Cross during the conflict. I don’t think he finds many things too arduous!”

  Not then, perhaps. But he was still dying of that wound, and no one seemed to know it.

  *

  They met before dinner in Princess von Rheinwald’s rooms at the hotel, and Tillie was introduced to her four-year-old son, who was protesting loudly about going to bed—until Dr. Lampton came in. The child rushed at him with unexpected joy. And Tillie saw quite another side to the grumpy doctor, who threw the boy up into the air and let him ride on his foot into his bedchamber, escorted tolerantly by his nurse.

  When he came back, he accepted a glass of sherry from the princess with a quick, tender smile. This was, decidedly, a town of odd marriages. The doctor and the princess, the vicar and the wicked lady…for that was how the infamous Lady Crowmore had been known before she had married Tristram Grant, then merely a country curate. Perhaps there was hope for the major and the mill-owner’s daughter, too.

  “You go ahead,” Dr. Lampton said. “I’ll just have a look at Tillie’s wound and then we’ll join you.”

  While she sat in an armchair, he removed the dressing—artfully hidden in her hair—and pronounced it healing very well.

  “I’ll take the stitches out in the next day or so,” he said. “For now, we’ll let the fresh air get to it.” He sat down on the nearby chair and held her gaze. “Is there anything else you would like to tell me? About what or who you remember?”

  She almost told him, for he gave a strong impression of kindness and utter efficiency, as though he could take care of everything. But he couldn’t. Even Dove couldn’t.

  She shook her head. “There is nothing. But… I did want to ask you something else. Are you Major Doverton’s doctor?”

  To her disappointment, he shook his head. “Most of the military men have gone back to Dr. Morton since he came home from the Peninsula. I never saw the major before that either. Why?”

  “If a man was badly wounded—oh, say two and a half years ago—so that no one thought he would survive, only he did… Would you think it possible he could still die of that wound?”

  “Of course. But without details or examination, it is impossible to say. A wound could be the cause of death in days or in fifty years. Are you trying not to break confidences?”

  She nodded once.

  “Military doctors are more familiar with those kinds of wounds than I,” Lampton said. “But, have him come and see me.” He paused in the act of rising. “In fact, where battle wounds are concerned, there is another physician of my acquaintance who might be more help. I’ll see if I can arrange it.”

  “Thank you.” The greater problem might well be getting Dove to cooperate with such an arrangement, but she clung to the hope.

  “I spoke to Mr. Dawlish this morning,” Dr. Lampton said as they walked toward the door. “And explained the harm it could do to remove you at this moment from your comfortable surroundings. He has agreed to wait another couple of days while meeting with you occasionally in the hope of finally jolting your memory. I also told him both the magistrate and I would need proof of the relationship before we could formally release you from our care.”

  “Oh, well done, sir, thank you!”

  “Mr. Dawlish did tell me that you had had problems with nerves before. That you could be unstable and unreasonable. Is that something you feel?”

  “No,” Tillie said indignantly. Then, swallowing, she added with difficulty. “That is, I don’t remember. I could have been. But I don’t feel I’m of a nervous disposition. Perhaps I’ve changed.”

  “It’s an odd thing,” Lampton observed after a moment. “I can see no reason for pretending they are your family. If you are not their niece and wife, respectively, why would they want to claim you were?”

  “I have no answer for you,” Tillie said with difficulty.

  “Of course you don’t.” He closed the door behind them and offered his arm. “Let us join the others.”

  Dinner was a pleasant meal, with plenty of interesting conversation as well as laughter and banter, for they were all clearly clever and well-read people. Tillie was quite quiet, not because she felt overawed but because her mind kept slipping to other matters—Dove. Her family. Captain Smith. But mostly Dove.

  “Will you read the banns for us on Sunday?” Dr. Lampton said once with his usual abruptness.

  “Since it is the only way to get you in my church, yes,” Grant said at once. “Then you have set a date for the wedding?”

  “Three weeks on Monday,” Lampton said, “if you can oblige us. We have found a house in Blackhaven that suits Elizabeth, and I have arranged with an old friend to take care of my patients during our wedding trip.”

  “Where will you go?” Mrs. Grant asked eagerly.

  “Italy. Perhaps Greece.”

  “With the war over, we may go where we like,” Elizabeth said happily. “And it will be so wonderful to come back to Blackhaven.”

  “What will you do with Andreas?” Mr. Grant asked.

  “Leave him here with his nurse and governess,” Elizabeth said. “A hostage for the townspeople so they know Nicholas will come back!”

  To Tillie, it all sounded rather wonderful. She thought wistfully of her own marriage to Dove. Such an event seemed a lifetime away. And Dove didn’t really have a lifetime… Unless Dr. Lampton or his friend could work another miracle. Tillie would be happy to nurse him devotedly until his last breath. But she would far rather he lived to travel and give her children, an
d enjoy life with her…

  “Here comes your uncle,” Grant warned, a smile still on his face, no doubt for her uncle’s benefit.

  Tillie’s heart gave an unpleasant lurch, jerking her back to reality. She did not turn her head but only a moment later, her uncle walked into view. Luke was with him. They bowed civilly to everyone, and with equal politeness, Kate introduced the Princess of Rheinwald. Her uncle’s eyes widened with awe. It seemed he actually had to drag his gaze away from her after another, much lower bow, in order to look at Tillie.

  “Matilda, how are you?” he asked unthreateningly.

  “I feel well, thank you,” Tillie said, allowing a shade of nervousness into her voice. In the circumstances, it wasn’t difficult. Inside, she shook with anger and all the residual fears of what they’d done to her. “I simply don’t remember anything. I’m sorry, but you are strangers to me.”

  “And yet these strangers are your friends,” her uncle said sadly.

  “And your husband has to make an appointment just to exchange passing pleasantries,” Luke said resentfully—and a shade too loudly. Several people at the next table looked toward them with interest.

  “Luke,” her uncle scolded, and yet Tillie thought it was deliberate. So there would be no fuss when they took her away. Oh, he was her husband. I expect he was just tired of waiting for her to remember. One can’t blame him. Only her friends would make a fuss. Whether or not it made any difference in the end.

  “I’m sorry,” Tilly said again. “This is difficult for me, too.”

  “It must be,” Dr. Lampton said. “Mr. Dawlish, what did you do today?”

  They made polite conversation for about five minutes. Tillie did not join in, but kept her gaze demurely low, which was difficult when Luke stared at her like a cat with a mouse. She wanted to glare back to prove she wasn’t afraid of such a cruel, vile bully. Yet, she had to remind herself that she didn’t remember such behavior, that she didn’t remember anything or anyone before Dove and the people now seated beside her.

  “Perhaps we could call on you tomorrow, Mrs. Grant?” her uncle suggested.

  “I have a better idea,” the vicar’s wife said at once. “We have tickets for the theatre tomorrow evening. Perhaps you would like to join us during one of the intervals?”