The Captain's Daughter (15 page)

As Eben instructed Leonard to take
the coach to the coachbuilder, Emma earnestly asked her mother if she could go
with him and watch the repair of the lamp. Actually, as was her usual custom
when making a request her mother would be shocked at, as was common with a
great many of Emma’s requests, she addressed it to her father. He looked at
Emma with a smile, and Amy got the feeling that he understood. She quickly
dismissed the feeling which she felt was just wishful thinking. It had been
several months since their father had shown any clear cognition when spoken to
by a member of the family.

Before their mother could object,
Amy broke in.

“You can come with me, Emma, since
I will have to pay for the repair of the lamp. Emma can keep me company while I
wait for the repair to be completed, that would be a good idea, Mother, would
it not? I don’t want to be alone in a coachbuilder’s yard at dusk in a strange
town.”

She grabbed Emma’s arm and swept
her out of the front door of the inn before their mother could really work it
all out in her mind. If she had, she might have instructed them to give Leonard
or Eben the money for the repair, but by the time their mother thought of this,
Amy, Emma, and young Leonard were gone.

They wheeled the coach into the
coachbuilder’s courtyard where he was waiting for them and commenced work on
the lamp right away.

While Leonard looked on with a
vacant grin, Emma immediately began to pepper the poor man with questions. Amy
looked on for a short time and then wandered over to the gate of the yard. The
summer day was drawing to a close as twilight descended on Maidenhead. Bridge
Road was now filled with a crush of vehicles of all kinds in fear of being
abroad on the Bath Road after dark.

Amy shrugged, relieved that they
had found lodging for the night, especially for the sake of her mother who
feared the violence on the highways that once had been improving until the
horrific violence in France seemed to spill over the English Channel at times.
Her thoughts drifted again to the strange nighttime occurrences at home of
late, until she was interrupted by Emma calling her over to pay for the repair
of the lamp. A lamp that might not be needed since there was no way they would
travel at night on this trip.

It was
almost dark when they returned to the
Greyhound Inn. After a tasty dinner of roast beef before a roaring fire, they
repaired to their room. June was now approaching the heart of summer but
tonight it was quite cool. Amy had to practically drag Emma to the room so
intrigued was she with the inn and its patrons who now crowded every table
including the one the Sibbridges had just taken leave of. The fire cast
mysterious shadows on the beamed ceiling which was so unlike their ceilings at
home.

When they entered their room, the
landlord, who had been engrossed in conversation with Lord and Lady Sibbridge
was just taking his leave.

He nodded at Amy. Emma was looking
so intently at him it evidently caused him to feel a need to speak to her.

“And how are you, milady?”

“Our tutor taught us that King
Charles was in Maidenhead just before he was beheaded and Sir Walter Raleigh
was tried here.”

Her comment was not what he
expected for someone of her age, and at first he seemed unsure of what to say,
but then the host in him took over.

“About Sir Walter Raleigh, I know
not. That was earlier, but I can tell you that King Charles before he died
stayed the night with his children at the Greyhound Inn.”

He looked over at Amy’s mother and
father. Did Amy note a look of discomfort in her mother’s face?

“It is a true fact,” continued the
landlord addressing Amy’s parents, “that King Charles spent the night with his children
at this very inn.”

Amy was not sure what an untrue
fact might be, but she saw that this was not the first time the landlord had
told this tale as he was clearly warming up to his story.

“It was a warm summer’s day in July
of 1649 when King Charles, a prisoner of the parliamentary forces, was brought
to this inn. His three small children had been brought here earlier in the day
by the Earl of Northumberland.

“The King rode in his coach through
the streets of Maidenhead to the cheers of the crowds who strew his way with
flowers. One would have thought they beheld a conquering monarch, not the poor
prisoner of his enemies which he truly was.”

Amy was both impressed and amused
by his dramatic flair, which she told herself is useful in a landlord especially
if you’re promoting something in the past of your own establishment.

Their landlord looked almost
tearful and was like someone remembering a long ago scene they had once
witnessed.

“When the King reached the inn, the
Earl could not restrain the royal children as they rushed outside and flung
themselves at their father clinging to his knees. The King led them inside and
sat them by the fire as he asked after their welfare and how they were being
treated, just as any loving father would do.

“There was one present whose
identity was unknown to the King or to the others that stood by. It was brave
Oliver Cromwell himself who had come in disguise to look on as King Charles met
his children. No one knew him, but all saw the tears that ran down the
stranger’s cheeks. The Lord Protector himself later told Sir John Berkeley as
to how it had been the most moving meeting he had ever seen.”

“And then he, Cromwell, cut the
King’s head off,” chirped Emma.

The innkeeper didn’t know what to
say but their mother did. Lady Sibbridge seldom yelled. Fretting and
complaining was more characteristic of her approach to problems. This time she
yelled. Emma spoke no more until after the innkeeper was gone.

After a few confused false starts,
the innkeeper worked his way back into his tale of King Charles and how he sat
all his children on his knee, and they wept for their father and he comforted
them. He told how the King and his children slept at the inn, and took leave of
one another early next morning. That was the last time the King and his weeping
children ever saw one another. The landlord told his story with drama, pathos,
and dramatic pauses, and at the end, when he was about to leave, he turned and
looked solemnly at Sir Anthony and Lady Sibbridge.

“That warm July night of 1649, the
King and his children slept in this very room,” and so saying the landlord
slipped out through the open door.

After he was gone, Amy’s mother
stood transfixed for the longest time, and then said with a faraway look in her
eyes: “Just imagine, we are privileged to stay in the very same room as our
beloved king and his dear, sweet children.”

She looked about to cry. Emma
looked as if she desperately wanted to say something but was biting her tongue.

As they prepared for bed that
night, Emma said not a word, until their mother took one of the candles burning
in its holder and left the room obviously in search of the privy.

“Now Emma,” said Amy, “what have
you been burning to tell us?”

“I haven’t been burning to tell you
anything,” said Emma nonchalantly, adding quickly, “King Charles I and his
children could not have spent the night in this room.”

Amy looked at her with a highly
quizzical look.

“How could you possibly know that?
You weren’t there—here.”

“That is true,” answered Emma, “but
neither was the inn.”

“It was too!” said Amy with
annoyance, and not a little puzzled at catching Emma in an error. “Now that
everyone’s talking about it, I distinctly remember Mr. Coleridge telling us of
King Charles meeting his children at an inn called The Greyhound just before
his execution.”

In truth, no matter how much she
tried, she could only remember fragments of what they were taught about King
Charles, or any other history, but she vaguely remembered the word
greyhound
and knew it was in some other context than a fast canine.

“King Charles did meet his children
at the Greyhound Inn, but they did not stay the night in this room because the
Greyhound Inn burned down in 1735. But,” Emma continued much more emphatically,
“even if it had not burned, he still could not have occupied this room,
because...”

Emma paused.

“All right, Emma.”

“Because,” Emma continued, “the
King met his children at the Greyhound Inn as that was the place where the two
parties agreed to rendezvous, but they left after the meeting. They did not
sleep here—there that night. And another thing, the children would not have run
to their father and clung to his knees, except for Prince Henry who was six or
seven. There were three of the King’s children present, little Prince Henry,
and the other two were Princess Elizabeth and Prince James. Prince James was
around sixteen years old and Princess Elizabeth was about fifteen. The only way
they could have clung to their father’s knees was if they were on
their
knees.”

“Fine,” Amy said somewhat mischievously,
“now you’ve ruined the landlord’s story.”

“What is really sad,” Emma added
quickly as she heard their mother at the door of the room. “Young Princess
Elizabeth died the next year.”

As their mother entered the room,
Emma resumed her silence clearly pouting at her mother yelling at her earlier.
Mattie was asleep and their father was sitting in a chair dozing. Their mother
mumbled to their father and he got into bed. She joined him and blew out her
candle. So Amy got into bed and blew out the candle next to the bed. This left
the room in darkness with only a hint of moonlight sliding in through the
shutters on the window.

“Hey,” shouted Emma, “I’m not
undressed yet.”

“I know,” said Amy and then
pretended to be asleep.

But after a couple of minutes, as
Emma sat on the other side of the bed with Mattie sandwiched in the middle, she
felt she had to ask a question that had just come to mind.

“Emma.”

“I’m here, sitting on the bed,
striving mightily to get changed into my nightclothes, in appalling darkness,
because my wicked older sister cruelly blew the candle out.”

“I’ve been trying to remember, but
I don’t recall Mr. Coleridge telling us that the Greyhound Inn burned down. And
he was our teacher only last year.”

“He didn’t. I learned it from the
coachwright. He told me that and a lot more about Maidenhead.” She paused, then
continued, “But I must withhold the information lest I scare my family.”

My sister is just jesting
,
Amy said to herself.
At least, I think she is just jesting.
And then Amy
fell asleep and dreamed of bumpy roads, and things pleasant and unpleasant. She
dreamt of highwaymen, devious Frenchmen, and a letter of warning that was never
finished. And then she stopped dreaming and slept deeply all through the night
until the next morning.

The next morning
, as the Sibbridge coach rolled out
of Maidenhead and into the Maidenhead Thicket headed south, Amy was relieved
when her mother admired its wild ruggedness. Clearly, no one had told her that
it was the most dangerous place in all of England for highwaymen.

The seventy-seven mile journey to
Salisbury was uneventful if rather bumpy. It had been raining and the roads
were muddy. The horses were not able to make very good time and it was past
mid-morning before they reached Reading the first large town on their journey.
They stopped for victuals in Basingstroke, and it was early afternoon before
they were on the road to Andover, the last large town before Salisbury. It was
nearly six o’clock by the time the coach rolled through Andover and headed for
Salisbury.

When they finally arrived at the
home of Lady Sibbridge’s cousin, Alexandra Meckle it was well past ten and
already dark. All the Meckles were awaiting their arrival. Charlotte Meckle
proved a very sweet lady, but very businesslike, so after greetings and
refreshing of family acquaintances, and some complaints by Amy’s mother, she
herded everyone off to their rooms.

The Meckles had never met Emma’s
tutor Mrs. Parkhurst, so Amy’s mother introduced her. Mrs. Parkhurst greeted
them with a kind of restrained grumpiness. Eagerly awaiting to be introduced to
the Sibbridges was a youth about two years older than Emma, Mrs. Meckle’s
nephew, Aloysius Coelbourne.

One great surprise to Amy and her
family that went unnoticed by the Meckles, was when Sir Anthony Sibbridge
briefly greeted the Meckles. Late last year, their father’s lucid moments had
quickly declined and since February of this year had been non-existent. For
about four months now, anything he said bore no relationship to the subject at
hand or any question he had been asked. Amy could not be sure his brief
greeting to the Meckles had not been just a coincidence, but she hoped and
prayed it was some small hint of an improvement in his condition. She
desperately wanted her father back.

The next morning she was awakened
by the maid. Mrs. Meckle had sent her to see if Amy and her sister Mattie were
still alive. When Amy surveyed the room she saw that Emma was gone. Mattie was
still asleep, a testimony of how tiring the journey had proved, since Mattie
was far and away the most excited about the trip to Bath.

It was a sunny and warm day and Amy
and Mattie chose to eat breakfast on the terrace. Amy loved her sister, but
Mattie’s conversation was not the most interesting to Amy since it was so
narrowly focused. After a few days visiting their relative they would be on
their way to Bath, and the huntswoman in Mattie was salivating over the
prospect of encountering her favorite game animal, young gentlemen.

Now, Amy had absolutely no aversion
to young gentlemen, but she could never summon up the singleness of purpose and
unwavering dedication to the subject that Mattie possessed.

As Amy and Mattie were finishing
their breakfast, Emma and young Aloysius rounded the corner of the house and
came up to them. Aloysius greeted them with the somewhat stiff politeness of
youth.

“Amy,” said Emma, “Aloysius has
been telling me of some ruins outside of Salisbury called Stonehenge.”

“I’ve heard of Stonehenge, and I
believe you have too, Emma.”

“Yes, but Aloysius says they are
only about six miles from town. Do you think mother would let us go there?”

“We can certainly ask, I don’t see
why she would refuse.”

“Aloysius has this book.” said Emma
as Aloysius held the book up for all to see, “called
STONEHENGE A TEMPLE
RESTOR’D TO THE British DRUIDS
by the Reverend William Stukelely. It tells
all sorts of wonderful things about Stonehenge and the Druids.”

“Reverend Stukeley says he is a
Druid,” interjected Aloysius.

“He’s also the vicar of All Saints'
Church at Stamford in Lincolnshire,” added Emma.

“...he’s also a Druid, that’s what
he says,” added Aloysius.

“I know where Stamford is,” said
Amy. “After all, it’s only a few miles north of where we live. Anyway, if we
get a chance to finish breakfast, I’ll speak to mother about it.”

Emma and Aloysius wandered off with
such words as trilithons, horseshoes, and bluestones floating in the air around
them.

With breakfast finished, Amy was
about to rise when her mother came out onto the terrace through the French
windows helping their father who was walking stiffly as he had been doing since
his accident.

He slid his arm from her mother’s
grip and sat stiffly upright across from Amy as Mattie surrendered her chair.
Mattie kissed her father on the forehead and left.

“Good morning, father,” Amy greeted
him watching intently for any sign of recognition.

He stared at her for the longest
time in a way that made her uncomfortable, and then slowly and hesitantly said
in a soft gravelly voice: “Good morning, Amy.”

He spoke not another word to her
all that day, but she was thrilled and filled with hope and expectation. Her
mother looked on pleased but said nothing.

As Amy rose and to take her leave,
Emma and Aloysius sauntered past casting an offhand greeting at Sir Anthony and
Lady Sibbridge. They were preoccupied discussing a certain Mr. Simpson who
lately had established a pump manufacturing company in London and how his pumps
had been recently used to pump water out of some site of historic interest.

This reminded Amy of their earlier
request. To her surprise her mother, who was in a rare good mood, readily
consented but reminded Amy that her Cousin Alexandra would need to be
consulted.

The next morning with the coach
already loaded with a hamper of food and blankets for the visit to Stonehenge,
and Emma and Aloysius already eagerly waiting in the coach, her mother, Cousin
Alexandra, and Sir Anthony walked over to where Amy was standing. Mattie
already had declined the invitation to go.

“Cousin Alexandra and I have
decided to stay here and gossip, but your father wants to go with you.”

That was a surprise.
Mother must
be communicating with father
. What did that mean? Was her father now able
to have a coherent conversation? If he was going with them on their excursion
to Stonehenge she should be able to find out.

When they arrived at the ruins no
one else was there except an old woman and three men on horseback who were just
leaving. Amy climbed from the coach and helped her father to step down, then
holding his arm to steady him she turned to look at Stonehenge. Amy was struck
with awe as the giant monoliths towered above her. She had seen engravings of
Stonehenge but the monument seemed much larger in reality than she had
anticipated from the pictures.

As she helped her father to walk
over the uneven ground to the great stones, Emma and Aloysius strode past in an
intense conversation, although that indeed seemed usual for them. Aloysius
appeared to be advocating the Romans as the builders because they alone had the
ability to do such noble things and the Britons were too primitive to construct
such an edifice especially since, as the Reverend Stukeley had brilliantly
observed, the stones were intentionally oriented in such a way that the
midsummer’s sunrise sent its light directly over the Heel Stone and into the
center of the monument.

In what seemed like a touch of
national pride, Emma demanded to know why Aloysius was so quick to dismiss the
intellectual abilities of his own ancestors. Aloysius, in turn, announced he
wasn’t certain that the ancient Britons were his ancestors inasmuch as the
modern Englishman was descended from Anglo-Saxon invaders in later centuries.
The last thing Amy heard was Emma’s stern inquiry as to how he knew that he
wasn’t the survivor of ancestors who were Britons.

Amy was smiling at their intense
crossing of verbal swords. It had already become clear to her that this was
their normal mode of conversation and contained not the tiniest hint of malice.
They clearly loved one another’s company. She was musing on both Emma and
Emma’s new found friend and the height of the monolith that stood towering
above her when she was startled by a raspy voice that seemed half-way to being
a cackle.

“It was Merlin that done it.”

She turned to look at the source.
It was the old woman she had noticed earlier. And the old woman not only had a
cackley voice, a not very clean shawl bunched over her head, but closely
resembled drawings of witches Amy had seen. Her father was staring up at the
top of the stone and seemed not to have noticed the old woman.

“What did you say?” asked Amy.

“It was Merlin that brang the
stones all the way from Ireland. ‘E made ‘em fly, ‘e did.”

Aloysius and Emma had just
completed a circuit of the monument and had arrived in time to hear the old
woman’s remark. They stood silently as the old woman rasped and cackled an
alternative folk history of the constructing of the great stone circle. When
she was through, Amy gave her a sixpence and the old woman left muttering to
herself and headed in the direction of a young couple who had just arrived in a
trap and were some distance away.

“That story was made up by Geoffrey
of Monmouth in the twelfth century,” announced Aloysius. To make sure he
understood that everything he knew she probably knew even more, Emma began to
recite everything she remembered about Geoffrey and his writings. This did not
in any way bother Aloysius, in fact, it seemed to delight him. As the two young
people wandered off again, Amy helped her father to sit upon one of the stones
reclining on the ground.

“Are you comfortable father or
would you prefer to return to the coach?”

They always spoke to Lord Sibbridge
as if he understood, but they were rather certain he did not. It was therefore
a surprise to Amy when he answered seeming to understand her inquiry.

“I am just fine here, my child.”

“Did you understand what I said,
father?”

He looked at her. “Yes, why would I
not understand?”

He was clearly in one of his rare
lucid moments which she prayed might continue. Her father was looking around as
if trying to see someone.

“Mother remained with Cousin
Alexandra. They have a lot to talk over,” said Amy supposing he was looking for
Lady Sibbridge.

Her father stared at her intensely.

“Your mother did not die.”

“Yes, mother is with Cousin Alexandra,
likely talking about us,” Amy said with a smile, but her father’s comment
seemed strange. Perhaps just an old man whose mental powers were confused
somehow thinking she might think Lady Sibbridge had passed away, but Amy was
not sure.

It was a rare thing nowadays, but
she had a conversation with her father that morning sitting among these stone
testaments to a thousand years of history and more. Something that once was
routine and unremarkable had become something that was thrilling. It’s true
that most of the time the old man was confused and most of what he had to say
bore little relationship to her questions or really anything that made sense,
but tiny snips of it did.

As they rose to return to the
coach, he put his arm around her and drew her close.

“Do not fear, baby girl, do not
fear. We will keep you safe. The bad man will not find you.”

As she helped him back to the
coach, she asked what he meant, but he was adrift again, and it is likely what
he said had no meaning but was just the meanderings of a mind that had lost its
way.