The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter

by Mary Ellen Dennis

  As if to confirm her last thought, Tom said, “Grandmother told us the crowd didn’t care. They were overjoyed.”

  “After Mum’s death and Zak’s release, our grandmother stayed in London t’ help raise us,” said Billy. “Our father, God rot his twisted soul, died some years later.”

  “He was hanged?”

  “No, Miss Wyndham. He was knifed by a Bow Street Runner. They say that when the blade pierced me dad’s gut, gin flowed from his belly and soaked the street.”

  Elizabeth’s hand closed over Billy’s fist. She had meant her gesture to express compassion, but the words she summoned surprised her. “I know I’ve seen you before, Mr. Turnbull. Have you ever visited the Dales?”

  Billy shook his head. “Jacob… me dad did. He said the moors was bleak and lonely. He said the sheep was prettier than the wimmen. Now that I’ve met you, Miss Wyndham, I can see that Jacob lied through his teeth.”

  “Did you not attend your brother’s execution, Mr. Turnbull?” Elizabeth asked, sidestepping the compliment. “I, myself, could not watch.”

  “’Twas too quick, Miss Wyndham. Rand told us all about it…” Billy paused, his eyes slits. “We owe Lord Stafford a grudge.”

  “Not me,” said Tom. “I plan to remain law-abiding, though I could be corrupted for a good price.” He appraised Elizabeth, giving credence to a sexual innuendo. “My cousin has all the luck with the ladies, Miss Wyndham.”

  She didn’t know whether to thank Tom or smash his skull with a parasol. Since she didn’t possess a parasol, she murmured the socially acceptable, “Indeed.”

  After bidding the brothers good-bye, Rand and Elizabeth continued their stroll across the bridge. Mind reverberating with frightful images of “scofflaws” living aboard an abandoned ship, Elizabeth clutched his arm. She wanted to rush back to their little room and lock herself in until she and Rand could flee London. Walter was wrong. Highwaymen didn’t get caught because they were lazy. They got caught because they never knew when to quit. Rather than tempting fate, they taunted it.

  “We must leave London,” she said. “I don’t care about some tomb in Southwark Cathedral, or a past that died five hundred years ago. We must visit Beresford, then flee England. The only thing left for us is to take up residence in some foreign country where we shall live long enough to grow old and respectable.”

  “Where is your courage, Bess? I love you for your sense of adventure, and I can’t imagine either of us growing old and respectable. I think I’ll buy you something to lighten your mood.” With a dismissive wave, he disappeared inside one of the shops.

  Tempted to follow, cursing him for leaving her without his protection, Elizabeth drifted toward a board of posted notices. Her eyes probed advertisements for the current theatre attractions, the latest fairs, the menagerie and armory at the Tower of London. There were handbills seeking the return of stolen articles. One headline announced:

  Five hundred guineas reward for the arrest of a highwayman using the name John Turpin

  Damn! Walter knew Rand by that name! She snatched the sheet from the board. No portrait, but Rand’s description followed, as well as a list of his crimes, including “the kidnapping of a gentlewoman, Miss Elizabeth Wyndham.” Any interested parties were to contact the Bow Street Runners, or Lord Stafford at One George Street.

  Wildly glancing about, she imagined she saw accusatory eyes everywhere. Then she saw Rand striding toward her, a grin on his face.

  “I had something printed up and…” At her stricken expression, he stopped mid-sentence. “What is it?”

  “Handbills! ’Tis for certain they’re all over London. We must get out of here right now, head for Dover. Damn! The horses. First we must return to the Strand, I mean the inn—”

  “Calm down, Bess.”

  “I won’t calm down. Don’t tell me to calm down. You may place little value on your life, Rand, but I don’t want to die. Five hundred guineas means we’ll both end up swinging from a hangman’s noose. I love you, just like Franny loved her Jacob, but when they kick the bucket out from under my feet, I won’t be lighthearted.”

  “Hush! We’ll leave directly after Southwark Cathedral.”

  “I don’t give a hang about your blasted cathedral! Hang. That’s funny, Rand. Hang!” She began to laugh, a high, shrill wail.

  “Unless you want to draw attention to us, you’d better control yourself,” he said. “Please.”

  “I feel ill,” Elizabeth mumbled, swallowing her laughter. She swayed and would have fallen had Rand not reached out and caught her.

  “Lord, you’re burning up. Lean on me, sweetheart, there’s a good lass.” He hailed a post chaise and helped her inside.

  “I’m sorry, Rand. I despise illness of any kind, but—”

  “You caught a chill from the river, that’s all.”

  That wasn’t all. Her eyes hurt, even her teeth hurt, and her limbs felt as if a giant hand was kneading bread dough. “Walter knows we’re here,” she murmured feverishly, waving the handbill.

  Rand removed the paper from her fingers. “We’ve known all along that Stafford might be in London, Bess. But this doesn’t mean he knows we’re here.”

  “He’s probably given handbills to every pawnbroker, stable hand, informer, and innkeeper, including ours. By the time we reach our lodging, ’twill be swarming with lawmen.”

  “I’ve never been much good at reading in the dark.” Rand reached for the window shade, hesitated, then held the paper up to his nose. “Now I know where Stafford lives, which is more than he knows about us.”

  “George Street. He told me so. He also told me that highwaymen always get caught.”

  “John Turpin doesn’t exist, love,” Rand soothed. “And as far as the physical description goes, dozens of people, including my cousin Tom, match it. Five hundred guineas is a princely sum. I’ll wager I enraged the Duke of Newcastle beyond endurance.”

  “If you had not kissed his wife, the duke would have dismissed the robbery. What are a few baubles to a duke? You wager with our lives. You wager with our love.”

  “Hurry, driver!” Rand shouted. “Bess, we shall be home soon.”

  “We do not have a home,” she whispered, just before her head lolled against his shoulder.

  ***

  Rand handed Elizabeth a venison pie, cheese, and an apple he had purchased from various street vendors. “You can’t stay cooped up here forever, Bess.”

  “I’ve been ill.”

  “You were ill for one afternoon and one night. Then your mysterious malady disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared.”

  “Are you saying that my illness was a sham?”

  “No. I think it was brought on by the handbill and your fear of Stafford.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. “You’re probably right, but I felt unwell, and that’s the truth.”

  “Of course it is.” Gently grasping her by the shoulders, he pulled her from the bed, guided her toward the table, and forced her to sit. “You must eat something.”

  “I cannot.” She crumpled a piece of cheese between her thumb and finger. “When you’re gone, I’m certain you’ll never return. I imagine you picked up by one of Walter’s spies, then hauled off to Newgate or the Fleet. I imagine us hanged.”

  “Would you rather starve to death?”

  “Don’t tease.”

  “That wasn’t a tease. Look, I know London well enough to slip past anyone as easily as a mouse in a hole. Believe it or not, nobody pays me the slightest heed.”

  She saw that despite his words he seemed upset. “What’s amiss now?” she cried, dreading his answer.

  “I made some inquiries concerning Charles Beresford. He’s gone, Bess.”

  “Gone? Where?”

  “He set sail for America. Creditors were circling his home like buzzards, only there was no corpse to
feed upon.”

  “You visited his home?” The thought of Rand’s daring, and his foolishness, mitigated her anger at Beresford. “But you could have been captured. The handbills must be all over London… even Stratton Street.”

  With a shrug, he stoked the fire, then poured them each a glass of claret.

  Clutching the goblet’s stem, Elizabeth tried to control her shivers. Rand had sought out Beresford on her behalf, but she never would have given him permission had she known his intent.

  Permission, hah! Rand thrived on danger and excitement. Her words would not have dissuaded him. Wasn’t that one of the reasons she loved him? Because she couldn’t bend him to her will? But she couldn’t bend Walter, either, and she didn’t love him.

  She wondered why she didn’t feel more rage toward Charles and Penelope, even though she now realized that they had always lived beyond their means. Her drum was probably an expense they could ill afford. Unless they had used her money to finance it, she thought with a mental huff.

  True, she had suspected Charles’s duplicity, but deep down inside she hadn’t really believed it. God’s nightgown! Had he at least published the last volume of Castles of Doom?

  Elizabeth pictured the Gainsborough painting and Penelope’s costly bronzes, just before it hit her. B.B. Wyndham, Daughter of the Quill, was as poor as a church mouse. And yet, to her surprise, she realized that Elizabeth Wyndham was far more concerned with Rand’s recklessness. Gone were the days when she could wave an account rendering in front of noses and feel satisfied. Gone, just like Charles and Penelope Beresford, damn their souls!

  Rand retrieved his wool coat from the wardrobe and wrapped it around her shoulders. Immediately, she felt a bulky packet press against her breast. “Your coat, the inside pocket,” she gasped. “More handbills?”

  “Handbills? Lord, I forgot.” He pulled a newspaper from the pocket, then smoothed the paper and placed it upon the table.

  Elizabeth looked down. The headline on the front page read:

  Rand Remington declares his love for Bonny Bess, this Monday, 22 October, 1787.

  “I had it printed especially for you,” Rand said, his fingertips brushing back the dark, silken hair that shaded her eyes. “I thought it would please you as a memento when we’re old and respectable.”

  “Old and respectable,” she echoed. “That was a tease and one I don’t appreciate, though I do thank you for the headline.” She groped for the apple, bit into its ruddy skin, then spit. “This tastes of coal smoke. Everything here smells and tastes peculiar.”

  “I promise we’ll leave London tomorrow, Bess.”

  “Why not now?”

  “We must visit Southwark.”

  This time anger did rage through her. “When we’re caught, I shall denounce you! I shall say horrid things about you, and you’ll deserve them all!”

  “That’s exactly as it should be. I’d expect you to do no less. Nobody will blame you if you play the innocent.”

  Instantly deflated, she cried, “I wasn’t serious!”

  “I was.”

  She heaved a deep sigh. “Have you seen any more of those wretched posters? London’s covered with them, isn’t it?”

  “The only thing London is covered with is soot. Believe me, if I thought we were in any real danger, I’d leave immediately.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. You’d woo danger, just like you wooed me.”

  “I didn’t have to woo you, Bess. You chased me across the moors until I had no choice but to succumb.”

  “If Walter should find us, we’re both as good as dead.”

  “Only I, Bess. The posters made no mention of the bounty hunter, which means one of two things. The man didn’t die, or Stafford would rather ignore the law than see you hanged. Either way, you’re safe.” He refilled her goblet. “Drink, love. I’ve never seen anyone who can remain as sober as you, even after a full bottle’s worth. If I were so inclined, I’d place you inside a tavern, challenge the most boastful cock-a-whoop, then wager.”

  “Don’t you dare.” She offered him a thin smile. “Over the years, I’ve developed a good head for wine.”

  “A good head is one thing. You’re a bottomless pit. Drink up, Bess.”

  Outside, London’s church bells tolled the hour. Glancing toward the window, Elizabeth could see nothing but a patch of black sky, though it was impossible to say whether the blackness occurred from the lateness of the hour or the polluted clouds.

  She drained the wine from her goblet, then shifted her back against the slats of her chair. “I wish I could change the past, Rand. I wish I could make all the ghosts go away.”

  “On the contrary, my love. You have a way of resurrecting even more.” He walked over to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel.

  The flickering flames cast his hair in red, played across his rough features, and silhouetted the line of his chest through his shirt. Grabbing a poker, he stabbed at a log.

  Elizabeth knew his resurrection remark referred to Evesham and Southwark. What would they encounter inside the cathedral? The answer to their quest? Or even more ghosts?

  Rand poked at the log until it disintegrated into a hundred glowing coals. Elizabeth wished she could pulverize her trepidation so easily.

  What the bloody hell would they find at Southwark?

  Twenty-one

  Southwark Cathedral’s square tower, sided with four steep pinnacles, disappeared into a porridge-thick fog. Near the cathedral gate a priest read a burial service, his words directed toward a coffin being lowered into a poor hole, halfway across the cemetery. The huge pit contained several tiers of caskets, but wouldn’t be closed until it was completely filled, which made the resultant odor unbearable. Pinching her nose, Elizabeth rushed past, heading toward the sanctuary of the cathedral nave. But the stench from the poor hole lingered like a bad dream.

  The nave was draped in shadows. Surrounded by the chilled stones, Elizabeth shivered. From her research on Castles of Doom, she knew the original church had been rebuilt in the early thirteenth century. Although she had never written one word about its interior, it appeared vaguely familiar. A charwoman dusted the great stone screen behind the high altar in the choir, a screen Elizabeth knew had been added to the original structure. A curate showed a portly gentleman the tomb of the medieval poet, John Gower, while a handful of worshippers knelt in the chantries. Otherwise, the cathedral was empty.

  Reluctant to move forward, she hung back in the shadows. Some of the cathedral’s effigies were painted, some arranged in lifelike poses, others in attitudes of death. Hoping to postpone the ultimate shock of recognition, Elizabeth studied the various stone faces. When Rand bent forward to read the name from yet another brass plate, she said, “That isn’t them.”

  He straightened. “Who is them? I thought we were looking for Ranulf.”

  “Of course we are.” But she knew that wherever they found Ranulf, they would also find Janey.

  Upon approaching the north transept, Elizabeth’s heart raced.

  “Maybe Navarre isn’t at Southwark after all,” Rand said, entering the transept behind her. “The historian who told me was ancient. Perhaps he was confused.”

  “No. I think not.” A vision flashed through her mind—the image of a fair-haired woman atop a bay mare, followed by a two-wheeled cart drawn by black horses. In the cart rested the coffin bearing the woman’s husband.

  We shall find Ranulf and Janey tucked inside a chantry, she thought, as the tap-tap of her boots echoed off the vaulting. Beneath her shirt and breeches, her flesh felt cold, clammy, yet perspiration beaded her brow, soaked her breast binding, and dampened the masses of hair hidden by her hat. Rather than the gown she had worn during her boat ride, she had chosen a man’s garb. That way, should Walter lurk anywhere nearby, she might escape detection.

  Circling the transept, peering into e
very dark corner, Elizabeth’s dread intensified. “They’re not here,” she cried. “They should be here.”

  The curate passed by, alone now. Elizabeth ran toward him. “Father, where are they?”

  “Who?”

  “Ranulf and Janey. They should be over there, in that corner, in this transept.”

  The curate shook his head. As if appealing for help, he glanced toward Rand. “I’m sorry. I have no idea what the young man is talking about.”

  “Ranulf Navarre,” Rand clarified. “One of the leaders of Simon de Montfort’s rebellion.”

  “Ah! Ranulf the Black and Jane of Winchester. Due to their great age, they’ve been moved to a more prominent place, closer to the central altar.”

  Elizabeth raced forward until she saw them. Then she knelt on the icy paving stones in front of the tomb chests. Time had ravaged them both. Their faces were chipped and worn, nearly unrecognizable. Once they had been flawless. Once she had traced the outline of Ranulf’s smooth, cold profile.

  Now she ran her fingers across Ranulf’s broken nose and cheekbones, caressing the pocked and damaged granite. With an almost inhuman effort, she suppressed the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her, most especially the desire to weep. If she began to weep, she’d never stop. She had already shed too many tears for Ranulf, cried herself to sleep more nights than there were seasons of the moon.

  Rand’s hand rested on the crown of her hat. “Ranulf Navarre, 1220–1265,” he read from the brass plate. “Jane of Winchester, 1235–1270. So that’s how it ends.”

  “They chopped you to bits, just like Simon. I saw it happen, from Evesham Abbey. I don’t know why they didn’t put your head on a pike, as they did the rest of the leaders. Instead, the monks brought your head back to me.”

  Rand closed his eyes, as if visualizing her words. But he couldn’t know what she’d seen. He had been dead by then. He couldn’t know what she’d done, or how she had felt when the flickering line of torches made their way down Green Hill—the torches that lit the way for the monks who had carried Ranulf’s mutilated body back to her.