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‘You were unconscious and knew nothing of it at the time,’ he pointed out.
‘How long was I unconscious? And how did I get from the overturned coach to the inn?’ she pressed.
‘I rode one of the coach horses with you in front of me. Have you no memory of that?’ he asked curiously.
‘None at all,’ she said swiftly. But that was her memory. A slow ride, cradled in front of him on a horse with no saddle. She had felt warm and protected, with his arm about her and his coat enveloping them both. She did not remember arriving at the inn, so she must have drifted into unconsciousness again. ‘How difficult and uncomfortable that must have been for you.’
He noticed the colour flood her face and felt sure she had remembered it. How much more was she concealing? He would have it out of her, one way or another, before another day was out. ‘It was my privilege and pleasure,’ he said, lifting his glass of wine in salute to her and looking at her over its rim.
Quizzing him was making her feel uncomfortable and she changed the subject to ask him what he thought of the village and its surrounds, to which he replied he had not yet had the opportunity to explore, but intended to do so when his business permitted, and on that uncontentious note they finished their meal with plum pie and sweetmeats.
He declined to stay in the dining room alone and repaired with them to the drawing room for tea. Noticing the harpsichord in the corner, he enquired if anyone played it.
‘I used to years ago,’ Matilda said. ‘But I have not touched it in years. Amy is the musician here.’
He turned to look at her. ‘Will you play for us, Mrs Macdonald?’
She went over to the instrument, sat herself down at it and, after a moment’s hesitation, played ‘Greensleeves’ with unerring accuracy and sensitivity. As the last notes died away, she turned towards him, eyes shining. ‘How strange that I remember that,’ she said. ‘I know I have always loved music, just as I know I love flowers and can tell their names and recognise birds by their song.’
He smiled. ‘That is a good sign, don’t you think. And can you ride?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘I love to ride.’
‘Then would you like to ride out with me tomorrow and show me the countryside? I am sure I shall enjoy it the more for having you to guide me.’
She readily agreed and, having arranged a time for him to call, the evening was brought to an end. He took his leave and rode back to the inn, feeling more benign than he had done for years.
Chapter Three
Amy, dressed in a riding habit consisting of a dark blue jacket, a tight waistcoat, a full petticoat and a broadbrimmed hat with a curling feather, was ready and waiting for him when he arrived at the appointed time next day, riding the huge black stallion on whose back he had entered the village the day before. His riding coat was the same one, though his shirt and neckcloth were fresh. His boots had received the loving attention of his servant. She greeted him cheerfully. ‘You are in good time, Captain.’
‘It would be a grave discourtesy to keep a lady waiting,’ he said, sweeping off a tall beaver hat with a silver buckle on the front of it, and bowing from the waist. His queue of fair hair had been tied back with a narrow velvet ribbon, although a few strands, shorter than the rest, curled across his forehead and about his ears. It was a style that the elite of London would have deplored, but she had come to the conclusion he was not a slave to fashion. She rather liked it. She liked everything about him.
A chestnut mare had been saddled and brought to the door where a groom helped her to mount. ‘Now, Captain, where would you like to go?’ she asked, picking up the reins.
‘I am in your hands, madam. I do not know the area. All I can say about it is that it is very flat and there is a prodigious amount of water.’
She laughed as they trotted over the drawbridge and down the short drive to the lane. ‘Yes, but have you ever seen such skies? As a child I used to think the clouds were mountainous seas with great galleons sailing upon them. Sometimes their sails were pink and purple, sometimes golden or blood red, if the sun was behind them. I would imagine them having a great sea battle and the red ones were ships on fire. And such rainbows we have, you would never believe.’
‘You remember all that?’
‘I must do. How strange! I did not realise it until I spoke of it. You must be good for me, Captain—already you have helped me recall something.’
‘Then perhaps, as we ride, you will remember more.’
She was more animated than he had seen her before, as if she revelled in her returning memories, but they were of her childhood, triggered by her surroundings, not the more recent events, which, unless he missed his guess, had been the cause of the forgetfulness. Resurrecting those might bring her pain. He was still not sure that he was wise to interfere, especially as he admired her spirit and courage and would hate to see either subdued. He did not want to see her return to the frightened dejected young woman she had been when he first met her. It would serve her best to take it slowly.
They rode through the village with its church and vicarage, its inn at the crossroads and double row of thatched cottages, acknowledging the greetings called by the few people who were about. Most were at their work. Leaving the village behind, they turned off the main road along a path beside the river whose banks were lined with willows, their graceful fronds swaying in a gentle breeze. At the edge of the water yellow flags held proud heads above the duckweed. Swans and mallards sailed placidly along, ignoring the man in the rowing boat with his huge load of cut reeds. Above them a few fleecy clouds punctuated the blue of the sky.
‘How peaceful it is,’ she said, as they brought their mounts to a walk. ‘I think I love this spot above all others.’
‘But you lived in London, did you not?’
‘Yes. My husband needs to be in the capital because that is where he obtains his commissions. He is an artist, you see.’
‘Do you remember that?’
‘No. It is only what I have been told.’
‘What manner of artist is he? Landscape or portrait, or perhaps he is an illustrator or caricaturist?’
‘That, I am afraid, I cannot tell you.’
He reined in to negotiate a large puddle and then drew alongside her again. ‘It seems to me, Mrs Macdonald, that your loss of memory stems from your life in London. Perhaps you ought to return there.’
‘I have thought of that,’ she said slowly. ‘But something in me rebels at the idea. I find myself shaking at the prospect and can only conclude I am afraid.’
‘Oh. Do you know what you fear?’ he queried, his interest flaring.
‘No. The unknown, perhaps. Aunt Matilda says I must not think of going until I feel more confident. And there is no one to accompany me. Neither aunts are good travellers and they do not like London with its noisy crowds. I keep hoping my husband will arrive and the mystery will be solved.’ She sighed. ‘My aunts are convinced I was on my way to visit them, and I can think of no other reason why I should have been on that coach, and I do not want to leave until I find out why. Perhaps I arranged to meet my husband here.’
‘Perhaps.’
They rode on in silence for some minutes, watching the river traffic. There were several boats loaded with reeds and sedge, being towed by patient, plodding horses to Ely to be made into baskets of all kinds and for use as thatch. Other boats were loaded with produce from the black fertile soil: cabbages, carrots and turnips, a crop recently introduced, which found a ready market in London. There were also flowers and eels by the barrel load. Later in the year there would be cherries, apples and grain. He listened to her melodious voice telling him of these things and realised that her childhood was slowly coming back to her. How long before the rest of her memory returned, and would it bring with it pleasure or pain?
‘Nearly everything goes by river,’ Amy went on. ‘Much better than the roads. They are especially bad because the peat shrinks as it dries out between the ridges of clay and causes bumps and hollows.’
He chuckled. ‘Yes, I can vouch for that. The coach that brought us to Highbeck was throwing us all over the place. And as for riding bareback…’
‘Especially when trying to keep an unconscious woman upright. You must have found it very difficult.’
‘Not at all,’ he said gallantly. ‘It was my pleasure. I am glad you took no lasting harm from it.’
She laughed. ‘From the ride? None at all, you looked after me very well. If only I could remember—’ She stopped, suddenly recalling the feel of being in his arms, the strength and warmth of him, and felt the colour rise in her cheeks.
‘Patience,’ he said, echoing her aunts. ‘I do not think you should try to force it.’
Her agitation was calmed as they came to a wide expanse of reed beds and water whose ripples reflected the rays of the sun. ‘Black Fen,’ she said. ‘There were many more fens like this before the fields were drained. It was a huge undertaking and in some areas is still going on, with men digging ditches and emptying the water from the fens into them. That is why the fields are divided by dykes, not hedges. The reclaimed land is very fertile.’
‘But people still live by the water?’
‘Yes, shooting ducks, gathering reeds and sedge for thatching and baskets, catching eels, which are sent to the London markets in barrels. In winter the fen floods the surrounding land and in spring when the water drains away we have excellent pasturage.’ She dismounted at the water’s edge and pointed to a tiny cottage on the edge of the lake that looked as if it were about to tumble in, so lopsided was it. Beside it was a landing stage where a rowing boat was moored. ‘A ferryman lives there. He will take you wherever you want to go.’
He jumped down to stand beside her. ‘Perhaps one day I will hire a boat to explore the water and bag a few ducks.’
‘You mean to stay a while, then?’
‘Yes, I think so. My business is like to take longer than I thought.’
‘This is a rather remote place for a city gentleman to have business,’ she said.
‘It is not business in that sense,’ he said, wondering whether to tell her why he had come to Highbeck, but they were getting along so well, he did not want to introduce a discordant note. He was learning more about her all the time; the more he was with her, the less he could believe she would consort with criminals. ‘It is more of a personal nature…’
‘I am sorry, Captain, I did not mean to pry,’ she explained hurriedly. ‘I am forever asking questions. Since the accident, I have been reading all I can about Highbeck and the Manor, about the artistic community in London, the news of what is happening abroad, quizzing everyone who comes to call, anything to help me to remember and understand who I am. Please forgive me.’
‘My dear lady, there is nothing to forgive.’ He was saved from going on because she was turning to remount and he hurried forward to bend and offer his clasped hands, lifting her easily into the saddle when she put her foot into them. She picked up the reins and settled herself while he mounted his stallion, then they proceeded in silence until they reached the village again, but it was a companionable silence neither seemed inclined to break.
As they were passing the church, he wondered if there was anything to be learned there. ‘Shall we go inside?’ he suggested.
They tethered their horses and went into the cool interior of the church. Although not large, it was a beautiful building. They knelt to genuflect and then wandered about, reading the names on the memorials, many of them of the Hardwick family. ‘We go back a long way in the village,’ she said, pointing to a plaque commemorating Sir Charles Hardwick, who died aged forty-six in 1645. ‘I wonder if he fought in the war between King and Parliament. Perhaps he died in battle.’
‘Perhaps. Many did,’ he said. ‘But here is another Sir Charles. This one lived from 1627 to 1676. And yet another. It seems that every eldest son was Charles. No, I am in error, for here is a Sir Robert. He was born in 1660 and died in 1720.’
‘I believe he was my grandfather.’
There were others, younger sons, sisters and daughters and they spent some time studying the inscriptions and figuring out who was related to whom before leaving and resuming their ride.
At the crossroads by the inn, she chose another way to return to the Manor. ‘Then you will have seen all there is to see,’ she told him. ‘Another day you might like to ride further afield to Downham Market or Ely, which are the nearest towns. Or there is Lynn and Wisbech, both busy ports, but a little further off. You see, we are not so isolated as people from the great metropolis believe.’
He laughed. ‘You are a great advocate for the area, Mrs Macdonald. I saw a little of Ely as we passed through on our way here. The cathedral looks worth a visit.’
‘Indeed it is.’
‘I shall endeavour to visit all the places you spoke of while I am here and if you would be my guide, I shall enjoy it all the more.’ Once again he surprised himself that he still knew how to pay a compliment to a pretty woman.
She turned to look at him, unaccountably pleased by the flattery. He was undoubtedly still mourning the loss of his wife—it showed in the way he spoke of her and the way his eyes clouded at unspoken memories—but in spite of that he knew how to make himself agreeable. Was he perhaps the person Widow Twitch meant when she spoke about someone being sent to help her? But why should he? His own business would surely be more important to him. No, she decided, anyone helping her to regain her memory would be someone known to her, who knew her and could enlighten her about herself, someone who also knew her husband. Perhaps Duncan himself. If only he would come! Until he did, she found it difficult to believe she was a married woman. Why did she still feel so fearful? A tight knot of apprehension lodged itself in her stomach. Had she taken more note of Widow Twitch’s words than was healthy? Whom should she trust?
In the space of a quarter of a mile, the countryside had changed. Away from the water were lanes with hedges of hawthorn, bramble, elder and climbing convolvulus, alongside fertile fields and meadows where cows grazed. There was even a small copse of trees. They passed a farmhouse and some tiny cottages. She pointed to one standing a little apart from the others. Chickens and pigs rooted in the small yard and a cat sunned itself on a low wall. ‘Widow Twitch lives there,’ she said, pointing with her crop. ‘She is the local wise woman.’
‘And have you consulted her?’
‘Yes, but she spoke in riddles. She talked about a search for treasure.’ She paused suddenly. ‘Oh, that is not what you are searching for, is it?’
He laughed. ‘No, I have not been lured here by the prospect of riches. Tell me, what treasure did she mean?’
‘I have no idea, but people are always visiting the area looking for King John’s lost gold. She surely did not mean that? And what would it have to do with me?’
‘I have no idea. As you say, a riddle. What else did she say?’
‘She talked of trials to come and a death. I found it all very disturbing,’ she confided.
‘Take no note of it. I am not inclined to believe anyone can look into the future. If they did, we should all be better off, do you not think? We could avoid the pitfalls life throws at us and embrace only the good things.’
‘Perhaps she was talking about something that had already happened. The death of that man on the coach, perhaps.’
‘Perhaps. Have you started to remember anything of him at all?’
‘No. And Aunt Harriet definitely did not know him. She has a strong stomach and peeked at him when he was laid out for burial. Aunt Matilda is the more squeamish of the two and would not look.’
‘You are very fond of your aunts, are you not?’
‘Indeed, yes. Since the accident I have come to know and love them all over again and am quite certain I always did. It is not Highbeck or Blackfen Manor that frightens me.’
‘But you are frightened?’
‘Yes, a little, but I think it is only of the unknown.’
‘That may be said of everyone. Perhaps that is why wise women are so much in demand,’ he commented drily.
‘Yes, I suppose I was very silly to go to her.’ She sighed.
They were clattering over the drawbridge into the courtyard. ‘Will you come in and take refreshment?’ she asked, as a groom hurried forwards to take her reins and help her dismount.
‘Thank you.’ He jumped down, threw his reins to the groom and followed her indoors.
They found the Misses Hardwick in a small parlour where one was sewing and the other reading. They rose to greet him, bade him take a seat and ordered refreshments to be brought.
‘Did you enjoy your ride, Captain?’ Matilda asked him.
‘Yes, indeed. We have explored the village, looked upon the fen, investigated the church and talked of how people about here make their living, including…’ He paused to turn to Amy. ‘What was the wise woman’s name?’
‘Widow Twitch,’ she said.
‘Oh, she is harmless enough,’ Harriet said as the refreshments arrived and she set about making tea and handing out little almond and cherry cakes. ‘There are some who believe every word she says, but it is my contention she fabricates most of it. Every young girl would like to believe a rich handsome man is coming to carry her away and every young man dreams of finding a pot of gold. It is nonsense, of course.’
He smiled and looked at Amy, who flushed a becoming pink. ‘We came to the same conclusion, did we not, Mrs Macdonald?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, looking from Harriet to Matilda, who was shaking her head imperceptibly. It was Aunt Matilda who had suggested calling on the old lady and Amy supposed she did not want to be scolded for it.
‘I wonder if you can tell me if there is a house to let hereabouts,’ James said, addressing Miss Hardwick. ‘You see, I think my business may take longer than I thought and it would be more convenient to have my own establishment. It need not be very large, I do not intend to entertain on a grand scale and I have only one servant at present.’ How much of this idea was a conviction that the answer to the riddle lay in Highbeck and how much to a reluctance to go back to his own empty home, he was not prepared to speculate.
‘One cannot run a house with one servant,’ Miss Matilda put in.
He acknowledged this with a slight bow. ‘I shall take on more as necessary.’
Matilda looked at Harriet. ‘Harriet, what about the Lodge?’
Her sister looked thoughtful for a moment, then brightened. ‘Do you know, I think that is a capital notion. If it is occupied, it might keep Cousin Gerald off our backs.’ She turned to James. ‘Our cousin has been trying to persuade us to move out of here into the Lodge. He calls it the dower house.’
‘He may call it what he likes,’ Matilda said hotly. ‘We are not dowagers and he cannot treat us as if we were. He has no right to dictate to us. The Manor is ours unentailed, whatever he might think or say.’
‘Now, now, Tilly,’ her sister admonished. ‘The Captain does not want to hear of our troubles.’
That they had troubles was news to Amy. She had met Sir Gerald Hardwick once, soon after the accident. He called to see how she did, which she thought very civil of him, but he had had no patience with her loss of memory and thought browbeating her would restore it in no time. Aunt Harriet had sent him on his way, saying, ‘Amy will make a full recovery, no doubt of it, so you may take your rapacious self back to Ely.’ Amy had thought that was somewhat harsh, but her aunt said he deserved it, a statement she had been obliged to accept, knowing nothing of what had gone before.
James bowed. ‘I would not wish to cause dissent between you and your relation,’ he said. ‘I can look elsewhere.’
‘Indeed you will not,’ Harriet told him. ‘You will be doing us a good turn if you move into the house.’
