The Captain's Return. Elizabeth Bailey

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      “No, I think we must vindicate Solomon,” decided Jane, in an abrupt about-face, dropping Becky’s pebble back among its fellows. “Unless his cousin has a reason to lie for him, it must be true. And one can scarce blame him for concealing it before this. I mean, if one had a father whose conduct was so excessively shocking, one would be at pains to hush it up. And Solomon Burneck has always condemned the Marquis. He has forever been quoting that piece from the Bible which instructs us that every dog must have his day. Yes, Solomon is certainly innocent.”

      Annabel could not help laughing. “You are readily convinced, Jane. I only hope you may not be made to look nohow by yet more dreadful revelations that prove him guilty beyond doubt.”

      Before either of her visitors could answer this, a call from the kitchen interrupted them. A woman of dour aspect, tall but sturdy of figure and clad in the grey low-waisted gown of a servant, came hurrying towards the group under the tree.

      “What is it, Janet?”

      “It’s the reverend from Abbot Giles, ma’am. He’s got a gentleman with him.”

      Annabel rose. “Mr Hartwell? Here in Steep Ride? I wonder what he wants with me?”

      The other two ladies were looking equally puzzled. Beyond one welcoming visit, when Annabel first came into the neighbourhood, she had usually seen the Reverend Mr Edward Hartwell only on Sundays. And that at his church in Abbot Giles, when she attended the service. Indeed, she had the intention of going there tomorrow. Otherwise, Mr Hartwell had called upon her only on the occasion of Rebecca’s birthday, bringing a gift—a most kind attention—but she would not celebrate her third until November. Yet here he was.

      “I had better go in to him. Is he in the parlour, Janet?”

      “He said not to disturb yourself, for he’s coming out.”

      And indeed, the vicar was to be seen coming around the corner of the house at that moment. He was a man in his forties, dark-clad as befit his calling, who walked with an energetic step and had usually a cheerful air about him. But as he approached, Annabel thought he was looking a trifle solemn, and a shaft of dismay shot through her.

      It was evident that his demeanour had struck her guests just as oddly. Charlotte sounded fretful.

      “What can have happened?”

      “Lord, is someone dead?” muttered Jane.

      Annabel’s instant thought was of her daughter. But that was ridiculous. Becky had been with them throughout. Besides, she was still happily engaged in locating pebbles to add to the trove on the bench.

      Then it must be Papa. Heaven forbid it was his untimely demise! They had been at outs, but she could not cease to love him. Only surely it would be Mr Maperton who came to break such news. The lawyer was in her father’s employ. Or was it indeed Mr Maperton who had asked Mr Hartwell to break the news? Had not Janet said that the vicar had a gentleman with him? Only there was no gentleman in sight at this present.

      These rapid thoughts had barely passed through her mind when the reverend gentleman was upon her, bowing to the other two ladies, and then fixing Annabel with a gaze of gentle austerity as he took hold of both her hands.

      “I had hoped to find you alone, Mrs Lett.”

      Instantly, both Jane and Charlotte were up.

      “Shall we—?”

      “I am perfectly ready to—”

      “No, no,” said Mr Hartwell, turning briefly in their direction. “On second thoughts, it may be as well for her friends to be at hand in such a situation as this.”

      Annabel was silent, unable to think beyond the impending horror of what she was going to be told. The vicar’s eyes came back to hers, and then passed on to Janet.

      “Ah. Perhaps it would be sensible for your maid to remove the infant? Your attention, my dear, cannot be upon her well-being in this extremity.”

      “Extremity?” It was both sharp and low.

      Mr Hartwell smiled his reassurance. “There is no cause for alarm, Mrs Lett. I am the bearer of tidings more shocking than distressing.”

      These words did nothing to allay Annabel’s fears. She turned with that automatic action which drives one through emergencies.

      “Janet, take Becky into the house.”

      She watched her maid walk across the grass and scoop up her daughter. Rebecca protested, and a slight delay was occasioned by her insistence on Janet’s gathering up the carefully selected store of pebbles from the bench. When the maid had slipped them into the pocket of her apron, there was yet recalcitrance. But Janet murmured soothingly—of cake, Annabel suspected—at which her daughter’s protests ceased abruptly and she allowed herself to be borne away.

      “Sit down, Mrs Lett.”

      Annabel sat down, vaguely aware that her two friends did likewise. She stared up into the vicar’s face, noting that his air of solemnity had been replaced with an edge of excitement.

      “Pray tell me quickly,” she uttered rapidly. “This suspense is more than I can endure.”

      He dropped back a pace, letting go her hands. “Mrs Lett, I have been requested to break to you a piece of news which may, in its production of joy, prove overwhelming.”

      Benumbed, Annabel repeated it. “Joy?”

      “Dear me, this is harder than I thought for,” said the reverend gentleman, his portentous air deserting him. “Nothing in my experience has prepared me for such a situation as this. I hope I may be forgiven if I mangle the task. Mrs Lett, my news is nothing short of miraculous. Your husband is alive.”

      Annabel hardly heard the murmured expressions of astonishment. Her voice was faint.

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Your husband, Mrs Lett!”

      Annabel stared at him, blank with incomprehension. What husband? She had never been married, for she was a fallen woman. Rebecca was the nameless product of an act of lunatic passion. What in the world could the man be talking of?

      He seemed to read her thought. “I am speaking of Captain Lett.”

      “Captain Lett?” repeated Annabel stupidly. But there was no Captain Lett!

      “You believed him dead,” went on Mr Hartwell earnestly, and with growing eagerness. “But it appears that the report was false. He had been severely wounded, and taken prisoner. He was able to get a message to his regiment, and negotiations were begun which ultimately ended with his release.”

      “Oh, Annabel, how fortunate!” came from Charlotte. “I am so happy for you.”

      Annabel’s eyes turned towards her. Had she gone mad? Of all people in this village, Charlotte surely knew that she was not who she said she was. They had never overtly spoken of it, but hints enough had been passed for Annabel to know that Mrs Filmer had guessed the true situation, which had made it abundantly clear that her own was just the same.

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