The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter

by Mary Ellen Dennis

  Undying love. She would clutch at those two words like a talisman.

  Huggins approached her. “You will not be subjected to the indignity of irons, Miss Wyndham. Your sapphire bracelet should cover all customary fees. I’m not greedy, my dear. You may keep your other jewels until such time as they are needed.”

  The lantern oscillated, casting the keeper’s bull-like head in half light, half shadow, and Elizabeth imagined Huggins as one of the devil’s minions.

  “I’ll have a proper fire laid,” he continued, “and you’ll be allowed to move freely about the prison, which is a privilege afforded a lucky few.”

  About to ask why Lord Stafford allowed the privilege, she held her tongue. Perhaps Huggins himself had stretched the rules. Perhaps he felt compassion for a woman who would soon have her neck stretched. Unfastening the clasp, Elizabeth handed him Lilith’s bracelet.

  “For your diamond tiara, I’ll throw in two, no, three blankets, and some fresh bread and water on the morrow.”

  “Cheap at twice, no, three times the price,” she said, fumbling at her tiara.

  After Huggins left, Elizabeth listened to the crack of the outer door as it locked, the scraping of the exterior bolts, and the clink of Rand’s chains when he shifted position. She unfolded the three thin blankets and shook them vigorously, as if to redeem them from their foulness. Then she stretched out on one of the reed-thin mattress and stared at a patch of night, framed in the barred window opposite the bed.

  When Walter took her to trial, it would be as an accessory. He had never alluded to the bounty hunter’s death, which meant he didn’t know anything about it. Or the bounty hunter hadn’t died. I should not have embarrassed Walter in front of the prince, she thought. If I had not punctured Walter’s vanity, he might have spared me Newgate.

  I wish I could have punctured more than his vanity!

  She squeezed her eyes shut. She had once considered Walter a trifling fiddle-faddle of a man. She had even prevented Rand from shooting him. And yet, had she been spared Newgate, her reward would have been rape, a brutal, almost unimaginable violation of her body and her mind.

  “I prefer Newgate,” she whispered fiercely, trying to bolster her courage and control the unbidden tears that trickled warmly down her cheeks, veered toward her icy ears, and dampened her tangled hair.

  According to Huggins, Stafford had orchestrated her incarceration. She wondered why he had gaoled her with Rand.

  She contemplated joining Rand, but she needed time to regain her emotional strength. She must show him that she could be as brave as he, as brave as Zak, as brave as a man.

  Finally, with the dawn, she rose from the bed and walked toward him.

  “Such a dismal countenance,” he chided.

  “Please don’t tease.”

  “If I don’t tease, I’ll weep. For you.”

  “If you weep, I’ll weep.”

  “Then I won’t shed one tear.” He stared up at her. “You must be damned uncomfortable, my love. If I’m Captain Queernabs, you’re Mistress Tight Corset.”

  “I’m Mistress Can’t Breathe. Are the guards watching us?”

  Rand shook his head.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know if they had apertures, or something equally odious.”

  “Bess, we are located above the prison gate. By Newgate’s standards, we have luxurious quarters, but the Castle is also the most impregnable, so the guards have no need to watch us.”

  “All right.” She threw off her gown, unfastened the tapes of her whalebone pannier, and dropped it to the floor. Feeling exposed in her chemise and petticoat, she reached behind her for the laces on her corset.

  “I wish I could play ladies’ maid,” Rand said, rattling his chains.

  “No need. If I can just manage this damn knot.” Her arms and shoulders began to ache from her twisted position. “Why the bloody hell don’t they make corsets that tie in front? There! I’ve done it!” She took one deep breath, then another. Finally, she divested herself of the corset and shrugged her gown back on. “A long time ago, a lifetime ago, someone told me that wigs were the biggest fashion nuisances ever created, but I disagree.”

  “Come here, my pretty little prison mouse.”

  Rand extended his arms, and she could see that his wrists were already chafed from the irons. Situating herself across his lap, she kissed each wrist in turn.

  “Maybe I should get you with child, Bess. According to our esteemed keeper, ’tis one way to escape the gallows.”

  “Always you jest! Always you tease! Is there nothing that frightens you?”

  “Yes. Your estrangement. I cannot live without you.”

  “Nor I you.” She sighed. “If we hang, we hang together.”

  “We won’t hang.”

  She snuggled against him until the prison ordinary arrived, bearing a Bible and an irritatingly unctuous manner. Elizabeth found the Rev. Mr. Warren’s interminable smile particularly annoying. Whether discussing damnation, sins of the flesh, or London’s abominable fog, Warren’s smile never wavered.

  Rand retreated to the ends of his chains, where he made a great show of examining the fireplace bricks. Elizabeth answered Warren’s questions in monosyllables. Should she be condemned to hang, he would write the pamphlet that would be sold to the masses, and she didn’t want to supply him with pertinent details. Not that the truth made any difference.

  After the Rev. Mr. Warren departed, the turnkey opened the door to visitors, and Billy Turnbull burst in. “I’ll kill Tom!” he bellowed. “Pox-ridden bastard! He’s disgraced the family name and I’m shamed t’ call him kin.”

  Tossing a full purse of coins toward Rand, Billy walked over to Elizabeth and handed her the morning paper. “Me cousin Rand’s already something of a bigwig, Miss Wyndham, but you’re not even mentioned, which is probably yer beak’s doin’.”

  “Mayhaps Stafford means to free you, Bess.”

  “And mayhaps we’ll have hasty pudding for breakfast on the morrow.” She scanned the columns and saw that she was referred to as “an accomplice.” Handing the paper to Rand, she addressed Billy. “I don’t know how to thank you for your timely arrival the night before last.”

  He blushed to the roots of his hair, and Elizabeth remembered that he had seen her naked, her shift ripped by Stafford’s avid hands.

  “No need t’ thank me, Miss Wynd—”

  “Bess. Please.” She gestured toward the purse. “Where did you get so much money on such short notice? Not at pistol point from some unsuspecting lord, I trust?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Damn! You’re as dense as your cousin. Haven’t you figured out cause and effect? Robberies cause you to be locked up. The effect is that you’ll hang.”

  “My cousin made his money boxing,” said Rand.

  Her cheeks flamed. “I’m sorry, Billy.”

  Picking up Warren’s Bible, Billy flipped through its pages. “Revelation might have some proper words of redemption, cousin.” Closing the book, he handed it to Rand, then left the room.

  “What was that all about?” Kneeling, Elizabeth retrieved the Bible from Rand. “I surmise Billy hasn’t suddenly acquired religion.” The book opened to a page in Revelation, marked by a small watchmaker’s file.

  Rand snapped shut the Bible. “We’ll read scripture together later, Bess.”

  “What are you going to do?” she whispered. “Hold Newgate hostage with a file? I don’t think Huggins will be impressed.”

  Rand grinned. “Oh, ye of little faith. Trust me, sweetheart. This might even be fun.”

  “Fun?” She shook her head. “Everything’s an adventure with you, isn’t it?”

  “I enjoy a dare. So do you. Admit it.”

  “Not recently. What is your plan, my love?�
��

  “I don’t have one. But I’m working on it.”

  “That makes me feel so much better.”

  “Good. As soon as I come up with something, you’ll be the first to know.”

  ***

  That afternoon they were visited by the Duchess of Newcastle, accompanied by a bevy of beautiful court ladies.

  “Is he not as handsome as I told you?” Katherine swept toward Rand, her skirts billowing, her large fur muff resting against her stomach. Her green eyes sparkled and her cheeks were flushed.

  Elizabeth hated her.

  Withdrawing her right hand from her muff, Katherine extended it toward Rand. The ladies fluttered their fans and giggled while a turnkey watched from beyond the door.

  “I’m delighted you dropped by for a chat, my lady,” Rand said, sitting back on his heels. Despite the chains, his movements were graceful.

  “I do apologize for that outrageously high reward my husband offered. Charles has no sense of humor. Neither does Lord Stafford, for that matter. I, on the other hand, would enjoy being accosted by you at any time.”

  Katherine’s friends whispered behind their fans.

  “Actually,” said Rand, “I was flattered by the size of the reward. I would hate to be undervalued. If I’m to hang, I don’t want to hang cheaply.”

  “I don’t want you to hang at all, Sir Highwayman.”

  “Neither do I, my lady. Nor do I intend to.”

  “You are frightfully dangerous, aren’t you?” Katherine moved so close, her skirts billowed against Rand’s legs. “I like that in a man.” Leaning forward, she kissed him.

  Rand lost his balance and made a grab for the muff. Then his hands sought the floor behind him.

  Katherine’s friends giggled and poked each other while Elizabeth retreated to the fireplace. Imagining Katherine’s neck in her hands, she twisted her fingers.

  “I have dreamed of you every night since we met.” Rising, Katherine stepped away from Rand. Her gaze touched upon Elizabeth’s discarded underclothes, whereupon her delicate brows arched.

  “My sister,” Rand explained. “She’s called Mouse.”

  “Mouse. Aye. ’Tis apt.” Katherine crinkled her exquisite nose. “I’m going to be in London until the first of the year, Sir Highwayman. If you are ever in Westminster, I do hope you’ll contact me.”

  After Katherine and her entourage had departed, Rand beckoned Elizabeth to join him.

  She shook her head. “If I had a pistol, Sir Highwayman, I’d shoot you, most probably between your legs.”

  “I thought we were beyond jealousy. I’m as faithful as an old dog and you know it.”

  Elizabeth heard the turnkey close and bolt the door against further visitors. She felt an almost monastic isolation until she focused on Rand. He patted his lap. “Come here, mouse. I’ve something to show you.”

  “I’ve seen what you have to show me and I’m not interested. Save it for Katherine.”

  “Don’t be difficult. I’d rather spar with you than fight.”

  Reluctantly, she approached him. “You’re not nearly as irresistible as you and your duchess think you are.”

  “Speaking of Katherine…” He reached beneath his rump and retrieved a long nail, a small hammer, and a chisel.

  Elizabeth felt her eyes widen. “But how did she pass them? I didn’t see anything.”

  “The tools were hidden inside her muff. For a writer you aren’t very observant.”

  “I was busy watching your mating ritual.”

  Once again, he patted his lap. “I’ve robbed Stafford twice, challenged him to a duel, and played a damnfool croupier. Would I do that for any other woman, including the Duchess of Newcastle? When will you believe how much I love you?”

  Sinking to her knees, Elizabeth buried her face against his shoulder. “I do believe, Rand, truly I do.” Most of the time.

  ***

  Walter Stafford entered the room. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from drink, his face taut and lined as if he had aged a decade in three weeks.

  Elizabeth had been stretched out upon her bed, awaiting Rand’s return from an interrogation. London’s lawmakers were convinced that Rand had hidden his booty, and he toyed with them, refuting their allegations with a wink and a jest. By that method, he secured a brief respite from his heavy chains.

  Now Elizabeth rose and retreated to the fireplace, which flickered and smoked. Beyond the barred window, fat snowflakes drifted and the sky was as gray as ashes.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Walter said.

  Elizabeth didn’t respond. She felt like the mouse Rand had taken to calling her, insisting that she was his favorite companion, just like the mice who befriended the men trapped below. What trap did Walter have in mind? What kind of cheese would he use to bait the trap?

  “I cannot stand you in this hell-hole anymore, Elizabeth. Robbers. Murderers. Pickpockets. Underworld scum, all coming and going precisely as they please, all on the lookout for vulnerable women to ravage. That’s one of the reasons why I locked you up with Remington. I thought he might afford you some protection.”

  Walter’s explanation didn’t ring true, thought Elizabeth. How much protection could a chained man offer?

  “One reason, my lord? Do you have others?” The room was so cold, her breath plumed in front of her face.

  “By now you must hate your blasted highwayman,” he spat. “Even your jewels are gone. I assumed he had you under some kind of spell, which would be broken by the tribulations of your close quarters.”

  Elizabeth regarded Walter warily. He appeared sincere. However, once again he had overplayed his hand. He might have a keen knowledge of the male species, but he tended to underestimate women, especially a woman in love.

  She had been about to retort that close quarters only made them stronger, more certain of their love for each other. But if she said that, Walter might very well separate them.

  “Rand and I fight day and night,” she admitted, her voice deceptively low. “You have achieved your purpose, my lord, so you might consider removing him from the Castle.”

  Elizabeth held her breath, dreading Walter’s reply. Had she gone too far?

  “I’d rather remove you,” he said.

  “To what? Stone Hold?”

  “No. The Dales. Come home, Elizabeth. There’s no real evidence that you were anything but an unwilling accessory, and I don’t want you to suffer any longer. I need but say the word, and you’ll be freed.”

  Astonished, she took a few steps backwards. “And what is the price for your generosity?”

  “I plan to take a wife, the wealthy widow I once told you about. You will become my mistress. It won’t be the prolific existence you could have enjoyed, but I’ll set you up in your own cottage. I expect you’ll birth a few bastards, unless I tire of you quickly. It’s your job to see that I do not. You might even call it your life’s work. With all those bastards, a lack of servants, and the anticipation of my visits, I doubt you’ll have much time for scribbling.”

  “Dear God, you want to break my spirit. If you think I’ll agree, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  “I’m a graceless loser, my dear, especially since I’ve had so little practice at it.” Walter paced back and forth, as if he wore Rand’s chains. “You will succumb.”

  “Never! I’ll stay here and take my chances in court.”

  “If you do, you’ll hang. They’ll put you in a cart, most likely along with several other felons. You’ll be forced to ride backwards, a rope around your neck. The cart will set out from Newgate, but you’ll stop outside St. Sepulchre’s to hear the bellman’s final proclamation. Then he’ll hand you and the other condemned souls a floral wreath, which you will clutch in your hands—your shaking hands—as the cart wends its way down Snow Hill, up High Holborn, past St. Giles, up to Oxford
Road. ’Tis a long route, Elizabeth, agonizingly slow, and the street will be lined with people, all anticipating your death.”

  “I’m to be tried in York, not London.”

  “That doesn’t matter. The final result will be the same.”

  “Rand won’t testify against me, and I’ll plead my case eloquently,” she said with far more conviction than she felt. “I work with words, I’m not unknown, and the courts, especially up north, don’t like to hang women.”

  “They do it all the time.”

  “Not on such flimsy evidence. How can you tie any of Rand’s robberies to me?”

  “I can’t. But I know you murdered Robert Whitney.”

  Elizabeth blinked. So the corpse had a name. “Who on earth is Robert Whitney?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me. Whitney is the man you shot. I’ve kept my peace because he was vermin, but if you stubbornly persist, I’ll unleash Peter Skully. Skully saw your face and heard Remington shout your name, and Skully will testify that you killed his partner.”

  “It was self-defense and I can prove it. Was Robert Whitney not found with a gun in his hand?”

  “Of course. But he wasn’t a threat to you, Elizabeth.”

  “How can you say that? He was sneaking furtively into my room and—”

  “Your highwayman’s room. If you were not Remington’s accomplice, you would have helped in his capture. Instead, you primed your pistol. You cannot have it both ways, my dear.”

  For a moment she fumed silently. Then she said, “Do you honestly believe I could become your mistress, you”—she remembered Billy’s epithet for Tom—“pox-ridden bastard!”

  Walter dug his fingers into her arms, his fingers pinching. “You told the prince not to beat you. He said he would never harm anyone so lovely, but I don’t embrace George’s scruples, and I can beat you where it doesn’t show. Since your beauty is your main asset, it is mine as well.”

  Releasing her, he withdrew his silver pocket watch from his waistcoat, and she envisioned the jeweled watch Rand had stolen, the one that still lay hidden beneath the dirt and stones at the peel tower. “Whatever assets I possess are my own,” she said, resisting the urge to scratch at his face. “Not yours. Nor any man’s.”