The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter

by Mary Ellen Dennis

  As Rand made ready to speak, Elizabeth’s lips formed the familiar words. She had labored for hours over the opening line: “What a low creature I am, lower than the worms wiggling at my feet.”

  “I don’t mind going to my death,” Rand said.

  Obviously, he was improvising. Perhaps she shouldn’t have used the words “low creature.”

  “I’ve known thirty-five good years,” Rand continued. “I’ve known some fun, much excitement, and a measure of sadness. I’ve also known the love of a beautiful woman. What more could any man want?”

  Did Elizabeth fancy it, or did he raise his eyes to her? She was so shaken she couldn’t be certain, for with his defiant gesture Rand had effectively placed the noose around his own neck. Yet even while she abhorred his act, she admired his refusal to conform, his insistence on remaining true to himself no matter what the price.

  Several ladies fainted. An angry murmur, like a hot wind, swept through the room. Prisoners were supposed to beg for mercy, to tremble, and be carried weeping from the court. This devilish man was not behaving like a proper criminal!

  “If it were possible,” Rand said, “I’d return England to a time when the wealthy felt a moral obligation to care for and protect the poor, not blame them for their poverty and work them into an early grave.”

  The crowd murmured again, but this time Elizabeth heard a vague undertone of assent.

  “I won’t miss England, sir. On the contrary, I’ll be glad to be shed of her.”

  Judge Herriott bellowed for Rand to be removed from the premises.

  Elizabeth stared at her slippers. It was over. Rand would die as splendidly as he had lived, but he’d die nonetheless.

  Lifting her head, she spotted Billy’s stricken face among the spectators. Even Tom had lost his usual aplomb. Dorothea coiled a curl of hair around her finger, while Walter looked as satisfied as if he’d just completed a ten-course dinner.

  How different the result might have been without the murder charge, thought Elizabeth, digging her fingernails into the flesh of her palms. Juries sometimes reduced the value of stolen goods in order to lessen a crime and spare a defendant the gallows, but they wouldn’t mitigate murder.

  Melancholia gripped her. If only she hadn’t shot and killed Robert Whitney.

  ’Tis I, not the judge, who sentenced Rand to die!

  ***

  Five days later, Elizabeth and Billy entered the exercise yard leading to the Debtors Prison. Mud sucked at the wooden-soled pattens which elevated her feet and increased her height. As she struggled across the yard, she gripped Billy’s arm with one hand, her basket of food with the other. Angry clouds swarmed around the cupola topping the clock turret and nearly obliterated its weather vane. To Elizabeth, the enormous prison appeared as forbidding as the gathering clouds, and all her instincts screamed that she turn back. But Rand was locked inside the Condemned Cell—or “Pompeii’s Parlour,” as the locals called it.

  “These damnable shoes,” she muttered. “Maybe we should have devised a more practical disguise.”

  She, Tom, and Billy had long pondered the best way to sneak her inside. Should she dress as a cleric? A law clerk? Doctor? Barrister? Rand’s sister? Mother? Grandmother? Ultimately, they had decided that the safest strategy was simply to blend with all the others who daily viewed the condemned man. To that end, Elizabeth was clothed as a servant. She wore a plain wool dress, white apron, and a frilly mob cap above one of Lilith’s old wigs, powdered gray.

  Now she ran her hands across the padding she’d added to increase her girth. She had also powdered her lashes and brows, so that they faded into her face. She no longer cared if she looked pretty. On the day of Rand’s execution, she would look her most stunning, and Walter Stafford could bite his codpiece!

  When they finally reached the front steps, Billy said, “I’ll enter after ye do, Bess. That way, ye won’t be suspect.”

  The Debtors Prison contained two stories, as well as a basement level located above ground. Rand’s cell was in the southeast corner of the basement.

  “Once inside, you’ll see the line,” Tom had told her last night during their solemn meeting in Middlethorpe’s garden. “The place is swarming with Stafford’s men, but they shouldn’t pay you any heed. Rand’s expecting you, and the guards usually allow you more time when you bring food. Even so, you’ll only have a few minutes.”

  Elizabeth waved good-bye to Billy, just before entering the cold, cheerless prison day room. She felt vulnerable, terrified, but if she wanted to visit Rand, she must brazen it out.

  Odd’s bones! There are as many guards as spectators!

  She spotted Lord Stafford’s London servant, Grosley, who had positioned himself so that he could see anybody enter or leave. Grosley inspected her, but judging from his bored expression he didn’t recognize her.

  The line inched forward. Two warders guarded Rand. One stood in front of the metal-studded cell door, a second against the opposite wall. The door was open only wide enough to allow one person at a time access, and the guards often questioned or searched individuals.

  I hope to God they don’t search me. I’m wearing more stuffing than a mattress.

  Repeatedly, Elizabeth had imagined her meeting with the warders, how she would speak and act, how easily she would slip past them into the cell. Guards were supposed to be notoriously stupid. She shook her head. If guards were stupid, all highwaymen were chivalrous and all women ached to marry wealthy men. These guards didn’t look stupid. They looked vigilant.

  She could see Rand, seated on a bed frame supported by stone blocks. He was reading the last volume of Castles of Doom. Generally, after a perfunctory glance at those entering, he returned to the novel, though Elizabeth noticed with annoyance that he smiled at the most beautiful women.

  When she finally reached the warder, she paid the customary four-shilling fee. “I’ve brought the prisoner food, sir.”

  Elizabeth held up her basket, which the guard promptly yanked from her hand. The second warder eyed her suspiciously. “Where do ye know the prisoner from?” he asked.

  “I used to work at the Silent Woman, sir.” Elizabeth had concocted an entire fictional background, should the need arise. “Master Turpin came in sometimes. He always tipped me well for services performed, and I found him right handsome.”

  The guard snorted. “You and half the wimmen o’ York!”

  “’Tis Master Remington,” the first warder corrected, returning her basket.

  Reaching in, Elizabeth removed a mince pie. “Would you like this, sir? I’m a fine cook. All the gents say so.”

  The warder took the pie and waved her inside.

  Rand looked up from his book, then down again. No smile for me, Elizabeth thought. Aloud she said, “I’ve brought you food, Master Remington.” Then, lower, “I have long imagined someone like you in my novels.”

  Rand’s head jerked up. Rising, he walked toward her.

  “You’re very thin, sir,” she said fretfully, even though her pulse quickened and her head spun. “I want t’ fatten you up.”

  “And you look like the lass who could do it.” Whispering, he added, “You look dreadful, Bess. I’d never have recognized you.”

  “That’s reassuring,” she whispered back. “I think.”

  He led her to the bed and she sat beside him. A thin mattress covered the iron frame. Rand shouted that he wanted more time with her, then removed the contents of her basket—umble pie, an apple, a hunk of cheese, bread and butter pudding.

  “I couldn’t hide a file. Tom said I might be searched.” Elizabeth looked around the small cell. A stone table possessed a circular central hole, which served as a stove. In addition to a window covered with bars, a hanging iron lantern shed light upon the whitewashed brick ceiling and stone walls. A corner fireplace provided a smoky blaze and a flicker of warmth.


  Now that she was finally close to Rand, she had difficulty meeting his gaze. It wasn’t only shyness due to their many weeks of separation. It was shame.

  Following her failure to bribe Skully, she should have confessed her guilt. Instead, she had rationalized—and validated—her actions. One, she could better serve Rand if she was free. Two, he might hang anyway and she’d only swing by his side. But she knew now that, save for the murder charge, he might very well have been pardoned.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “For what, Bess?”

  “Whitney. If I had confessed—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If you had confessed, I would have disallowed your divulgence. I was there, remember? I could conjure up more details than your writer’s mind could ever possibly conceive.”

  “Not true,” she retorted, uncertain as to whether she should be reassured or irritated by the slur on her talent.

  “We haven’t much time.” Rand covered her hand with his, then positioned her skirt so the guards wouldn’t detect this minor intimacy. “Has Billy informed you of our latest plan?”

  “No,” she said, surprised. Did Billy believe she might betray Rand? “I think we can rule out a royal pardon,” she added sarcastically.

  Rand grinned. “Rebellious to the end, the chapbooks will say. The only thing that makes better copy than a penitent highwayman is an arrogant one.” Lowering his voice even more, he said, “Billy slipped me a fine sharp knife, which I’ll hide behind the buttons of my waistcoat. Before they put the prisoner in the cart, they usually remove his irons and bind his wrists with a cord. While heading for Tyburn, I’ll force the blade against the cord. Once I leap from the cart, I may be able to lose myself in the crowd.”

  “God’s breath, Rand! They didn’t remove your chains for the sentencing. The iron band about your waist possessed more tentacles than an octopus.”

  His hand tightened in hers. “I don’t want you to attend the execution, Bess. Stay at Middlethorpe. Should I fail to escape, or should I die on the gallows, Billy will contact you. Otherwise, we need a place to meet afterwards.”

  Should I die. He said it so casually, as if he were discussing a character in one of her novels.

  “We could meet at the peel tower,” she said. “All the charges have been dropped against me, so after the”—she swallowed—“after the hanging, I can return to the White Hart. Aunt Lilith said Father spends most of his time at Wyndham Manor. The inn is run by a caretaker now. He won’t bother me.”

  “I’ll come to you at the peel tower, or the inn, though I can’t say when. If my escape from the cart is thwarted, we shall have to rely on the hangman. But even if we successfully bribe Master Hodges, my neck will be stretched. Once I’m resurrected, I don’t know how long it will take to recover and—”

  “What if you hang, Rand? I mean, really hang?”

  “Tom and Billy have repeatedly informed Master Hodges that, should I fail to be resurrected, his life will be cut short. All the money in the world won’t help Hodges if he’s dead.”

  “Are you absolutely certain you can trust Tom?”

  “I don’t trust anyone save you.”

  Elizabeth winced. Was Rand being sarcastic? Or did his words mean that he was giving her a second chance, a chance to wipe out the betrayal against Ranulf, spawned by Lady Jane?

  “Tom played Judas once,” she said. “He could do it again.”

  “If he does, I’ll be dead and unable to regret my mistake.”

  “Stop treating death as a joke!”

  One of the warders poked his head inside. “Time’s up.”

  Reluctantly, Elizabeth stood. She stared into Rand’s mesmerizing blue eyes and longed to stroke his beard.

  The guard yelled, “Hurry it along!”

  “Midnight, Bess,” Rand whispered urgently. “Wait by your window, or at the peel tower, every night. Until I come for you.”

  Fighting back tears, she stumbled from the cell into the hallway.

  “You!” the guard called.

  Heart in her throat, Elizabeth turned.

  He held up her basket. “You forgot this.”

  Forcing a smile, she retrieved the basket and hurried toward the entrance.

  She was so upset she didn’t look for Billy in the day room, but rather plunged outside into a vicious storm. Sleet slashed the courtyard. Mud exploded in angry bursts. Dropping her basket, Elizabeth sped down the prison steps. Suddenly she halted, as if stopped by an invisible wall. From the corner of her eye, she saw a tall man standing beneath a black umbrella.

  Half a dozen lawmen immediately surrounded her.

  “Damn,” Elizabeth breathed, waiting for the tall man to reach her. Water streamed from his umbrella, obscuring his face, but she’d stake her life on his identity.

  “I knew you’d show,” Walter said.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “Your walk. I’ve been watching from a side room every day, freezing my arse off. And while I must compliment you on a rather successful disguise, I have made it my business to study mannerisms. How could I ever forget yours when I run everything about you over and over in my mind?”

  Sleet drummed upon the fabric of Walter’s umbrella. Despite the frozen rain that slanted sideways and stung her eyes, Elizabeth saw his face spasm.

  “Where did you hide? At your aunt’s? At Wyndham Manor? Here in York, under my very nose? That seems most like you, my dear, and I both detest and admire you for it. Who would have thought that a woman could have such a lively, determined intellect?”

  Raising her chin, she faced him defiantly. “You can’t hold me against my will. You’ve dropped all charges. I’m free to go as I please.”

  “You’re free to do as I please. Charges can be reinstated.”

  “That’s absurd! Rand was already found guilty of Whitney’s murder. You once told me that I couldn’t have it both ways. Well, you can’t either.”

  “Charges can also be falsified.”

  “I’ve talked to my barristers,” Elizabeth lied. “They told me the accomplice accusations would never hold up in court.”

  “Perhaps. But I can charge you with stealing.”

  “What have I stolen?”

  “My pocket watch and my ruby ring. There are many who will swear they saw both items in your possession.”

  Silently cursing Walter, Elizabeth took off her mob cap and wig, both impossibly soaked by the downpour. “Even I can figure out that you don’t want me to hang,” she said, thinking she could be as brave as Rand. “Which means your threats are just bluster.”

  Walter’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you insist on goading me?” Handing his umbrella to a lawman, he reached out as if to touch her, then abruptly dropped his hand. “You’ve been a worthy adversary, Elizabeth, I will admit. For a woman you have a good mind, though you’ve driven me to distraction.”

  “You pursued me from the very beginning. I merely wanted to be left alone.”

  “Enough talk! You’ve been like a sickness with me, but not anymore.” Grabbing her arm, he dug his fingers into her flesh.

  At that moment, Billy bounded down the steps. “What’re ye doin’? Get yer hands off her, ye bloody bastard!”

  Billy rushed toward them, but Walter nodded to his men, one of whom slammed Billy on the side of the head with his pistol. Knees collapsing, Billy fell face down in the mud.

  “Turnbull threatened me and will be gaoled until after the execution,” Walter proclaimed, his voice triumphant. “That way I can make certain he doesn’t ruin my plans. And you, my dear Elizabeth, are going to be caged again.”

  Temper beyond control, she swung wildly, hitting Walter’s nose. One of the lawmen pinned her flailing arms behind her. Sleet slashed her cheeks as she faced an enraged Walter.

  “You’re going to pay for this,”
he said, dabbing at his bloody nose with his handkerchief.

  “You don’t frighten me,” she said with false bravado.

  Squeezing her nape with his fingers, Walter propelled her across the exercise yard. “I want one thing from you, Elizabeth, and one thing only. I want you to witness your highwayman’s execution. I want to savor your expression as you watch him hang. After that, I’ll count it among my greatest joys if I never set eyes on you again.”

  Thirty

  Behind the grimy panes of the inn’s window, York Minster rose like a mountain, so close Elizabeth could barely see the top of its spire. In a few short hours, Rand would be executed.

  Unable to sleep, she had watched the Minster’s stones change from dove-gray to cream. Stained-glass windows sparkled in the sunrise. Like a woman in the bloom of youth and just as short-lived, she thought, as the bright colors abruptly faded.

  Her fingers picked at the peeling paint on the window ledge. Whatever youth she had left was passing, her life was passing, and without Rand nothing remained except desolation and the threat of Walter. In truth, Walter was like the mistletoe that clung so prettily to a tree while sucking the life from it.

  Slouched in a chair before the room’s lone door, Grosley stretched his shanks. His mission was to make certain Elizabeth did not leave this nameless inn, located on some nameless side street. Turning her back to him, she tried for the hundredth time to reason her way through this present predicament. If he failed to escape from the death cart, Rand would expect the resurrection plan to proceed. But what if Walter had tortured Billy and learned details? Elizabeth knew all about torture from her research on The Dreadful Secret of Good King Stephen. The rack. The Iron Maiden. The Scavenger’s Daughter. Billy might be tough, yet even hardened knights had sung like nightingales at the very sight of such torture devices.

  Thumbscrews would be less elaborate but just as effective.

  Fortunately, she had been spared any torture device. Walter didn’t believe that a man would confide in a woman, and he was very nearly right. Hadn’t Billy kept his silence? Rand, however, had always regarded her as an equal, which was one of the reasons she loved him.