*
Later, after a long time walking alone in the woodland, Len approached Lucia as she sat alone by the fire once more. Lucia pressed her hands together uncomfortably. Len did not like to see Lucia awkward in her presence again. She guessed Lucia feared her disapproval after her outburst of earlier in the day. Len was only undecided as to whether she should reveal her admiration of Lucia’s newfound courage, or not. Lucia had shown a self-confident passion and a stubborn temper, and Len was quite enthralled by these unexpected qualities. But they were unexpected because Lucia was well schooled in not allowing them to show. Should such a change be encouraged in a woman who would soon return to a world where such self-expression was generally condemned? Surely that was the path to social condemnation and, worse, a level of frustration Lucia had not known before.
Len could not stop thinking about Lucia. Although she had spent her time alone with the trees trying to weigh up her trust in Bill and his men, her best strategy for the week ahead, she found her thoughts returned inexorably to Lucia and her earlier defence of herself. Lucia was too proud to explain herself to Bill Wilcock. But could she be induced to talk to Len? Was she flattering herself? Lucia clearly had condemnation aplenty for Bill, the frame-breaker. What was to say she had any more regard for Len, the highway robber? And yet somehow she knew she had to take the risk, presume on the growing friendship she dared to hope existed between them. She looked at Lucia now, perched on the large log, and hoped she would not be humiliated by a rebuff equal to that to which Lucia had subjected Bill earlier.
“What are your reasons?” Len asked in greeting. Her tone was soft but her eyes serious.
“I’m sorry?” Lucia looked taken aback.
“Your reasons.” Len was determined to know more of Lucia now. “You wouldn’t tell Bill, but I want to know. What are your reasons for not returning home?”
“I would not have thought you needed to ask that question.”
Len suspected Lucia was correct. And yet she did not trust her own instincts enough to make the assumption. “Why not? I see that we are both women, Lucia, but beyond that we are hardly the same.”
“No. We cannot compare our families, our upbringings, or even our personalities. Yet I think you understand enough of my reasons. I do not need to explain them.”
“Can you explain them?” Len asked. She saw comprehension in Lucia’s pretty eyes.
“That you ask shows you do not need me to.”
“I can explain my own reasons for leaving my family.” The challenge was necessary; Len wanted to force an answer from Lucia, for her own good if nothing else.
“No, you cannot.” Lucia’s eyes flashed a new confidence. Len caught her breath, not used to being so blatantly contradicted. Defiance transformed Lucia’s face from sweet to striking. “You can explain the facts, the events. You have never explained why you did not do as so many young women have and simply marry the man your father chose and make the best of it. There are whole hosts of wives and mothers across England who do not and have never loved the men chosen for them, and they are tolerably happy. Why was that not enough for you?”
Len did not answer immediately. Though she had recovered from the surprise of Lucia’s newfound self-assurance, the question forced her to reflect. Were there words to explain such things? She drew a deep breath and almost resented that she thought it necessary to explain herself to Lucia. “You are right, of course. I can try to explain it, talk of humiliation and freedom and justice, but nothing truly pins it down.” She levelled her gaze into Lucia’s eyes, almost daunted by the fascination she saw there. The question came to her again: What did Lucia see? An outlandish curiosity to be marvelled at? Or did she see beneath the surface, to the places Len allowed no one access? It was an unnerving notion at the same time as it was alluring, and she did not dwell on it. She turned the interrogation back to Lucia’s reasoning. “But you are not to be forced into a marriage, nor are you unhappy in your life. Those might be my reasons, in their simplest form. They are not yours.”
“No. Yet I have never encountered a man I would willingly promise myself to. I have heard younger women whispering that I will never find a husband now I am old as I am. So I learn to be accomplished. I read French, play the pianoforte, dance well enough. My manners in society are impeccable. And now I see it plain before me—though I sensed it before—that is all my life will be. I will essentially be a failure, to my family and our acquaintance, because I have no husband, am not a mother. I will be an accomplished maiden aunt to my sister’s children. Then I will die. My only escape from this would be to marry a man I do not love and who, for all the good it will do me, might as well have been selected by my father.”
Lucia stopped, as though surprised by her own words. Len remembered that feeling well. The life she described was so familiar, the feeling of suffocation so easy to recall, that Len almost shuddered. The abrupt realisation that there was more to the world, that one’s heart has been constrained and imprisoned, that ignorant contentment is not the same as happiness was something so very difficult to put into words. The sensation was one she could not explain herself. But as she looked earnestly at Lucia and waited for a further reaction, she knew with certainty Lucia’s heart was not so different from her own.
It was a curious feeling. She had liked to think herself unique and alone. She gleaned a certain strength from being isolated in the world, fighting a struggle all her own. Was that something that could—or should—be shared?
“Come on,” she said, standing up and beckoning to Lucia. Time to show the girl a little more of this life she seemed so drawn to.
“Where?” Lucia asked.
Len smiled. “I’m going to teach you to fire a pistol.”
*
When Len removed her pistol from its holster at her hip and handed it to Lucia, its very weight frightened her. They had ventured a little distance from the clearing and were among the taller trees, ankle deep in the fallen leaves. A slight breeze crept around Lucia’s face to ruffle her hair, but she was not cold. The wooden stock of the pistol was smooth and cool, the metal of the barrel colder, more brutal. Lucia held it at arm’s length and regarded it as if it could kill her without her so much as touching the trigger.
“It’s not loaded,” Len said, grinning at her anxiety. Lucia was not reassured.
Len took the pistol from Lucia’s hand, holding it naturally, comfortably. “Watch me load it,” she said, and Lucia did, entranced by the deadly mystery of it.
From a pouch at her side, Len took a small metal ball wrapped in what looked like a patch of cotton, and a horn. Lucia knew enough to recognise the horn contained black powder. She watched as Len poured a little of this into the muzzle of the pistol before dropping the wrapped ball after it into the barrel. She removed a small metal rod from below the barrel and pushed it into the muzzle firmly, twice. Opening the pan of the pistol, she poured a little powder into it, then shut it with a snap. Every action was fluid, second nature. Far from frightened now, as Lucia watched she grew fascinated, even envious of the easy movements of Len’s hands, the knowledge her skilled fingers displayed. Though her fingertips were rough, and more than one scar traced faintly over the back of her hands, Len’s fingers were dextrous and strong and worked with such fluidity and precision that Lucia couldn’t help but feel transfixed. She imagined holding her smaller, paler hand against Len’s, feeling the difference, yet the connection.
Len took the pistol in her right hand and showed Lucia how her fingers were positioned around the stock, her index finger resting lightly on the trigger. “Now watch carefully,” she said, though Lucia was already doing so.
She raised her arm until it was outstretched, straight at the elbow. With her thumb, she clicked something on the pistol. Turning her head, she looked along her arm. Lucia watched her eyes focus on the distance and then on the pistol in her hand. She stopped breathing, and Lucia did the same. Her finger moved on the trigger, and the loud bang made Lucia jump. She
watched Len’s arm absorb the kick of the shot, and a small cloud of smoke floated from the pistol to be carried away on the breeze.
Lowering her arm, Len strode away from Lucia through the trees in the direction she had fired. Lucia hurried after her. About fifty feet away, Len stopped to peer at the trunk of a large tree. She smiled triumphantly and placed her hand on Lucia’s arm, drawing her in to look at the place where the metal ball was lodged in the tree trunk.
“You’ll have to take my word this was the tree I was aiming for, of course,” she said.
“Of course.” Lucia did not doubt her.
“Now it’s your turn,” Len said. A nervous thrill quickened Lucia’s heart.
Before Len passed her pistol to Lucia, she cleaned the barrel with a piece of cloth attached to another metal rod she removed from the pouch at her side. She handed Lucia the pistol once more, and while it was still baffling to Lucia, it did not bear the same menace, now she saw how easily Len had controlled its lethal force. It was not difficult to pour a little powder from the horn Len handed her into the muzzle or to drop the ball in after it. Ramming it home with the short metal rod required more force than it had appeared and gave Lucia her first moment of doubt. Opening the pan to prime it with the powder was equally more difficult than Len had made it seem, and Lucia’s fingers had no strength. Merely loading the pistol seemed like an enormous achievement once it was done, and Lucia felt her face flush with pride.
“It’s nothing if you can’t fire it,” Len said, rather ruining the sentiment that had been swelling Lucia’s heart. She drew a deep breath and raised her arm.
“Firstly, where are you planning on firing it?” Len asked.
Lucia’s eyes scanned the trees ahead. She chose one of the thickest trunks in her view. “At the oak there.”
“Very well. Turn so you face this way,” Len said. She gestured that Lucia should turn sideways to her target. “Now, stretch your arm more, make it straighter.”
A muscle in Lucia’s upper arm trembled as she attempted to do as Len instructed. “No. More than that.” Len grasped Lucia’s wrist firmly with her warm, strong fingers and pulled her arm until it was straight. “There,” she said, as Lucia battled to recover from the sudden shock of Len’s touch and to ignore the burning ache beginning in her shoulder, unused to such manoeuvres. “Now, look along your arm and along the barrel. When you are ready, press your finger on the trigger slowly, don’t snatch at it.”
Lucia squinted along her outstretched arm and over the unfamiliar metal of the barrel in her hand. She saw the thick trunk of the oak ahead of her. She fought the trembling in her aching limb and pulled her finger back on the cold trigger.
The explosion was louder than Lucia expected, and she flinched as the pistol kicked back at her arm like an angry creature with a life of its own. There was a prickling sensation on the skin of her hand, and she looked down at it in consternation.
“It’s just the powder,” Len said, “it burns a little.” Lucia smelled the acrid sulphur of the powder smoke before it drifted away through the trees. She handed the pistol back to Len hurriedly but could not help a wide smile creeping over her face.
Together they went to examine the target, and Lucia was astonished and delighted to see the small metal ball embedded in the thick trunk. “Though you could hardly have missed such a big tree,” Len said. “And the question is, could you do it again?”
Her words struck Lucia as a challenge she could not resist. She wanted to prove herself to Len, show her capabilities and her ability to learn. She wanted Len to be impressed and pleased with her, and not for a moment did she question why she should want the approval of an outlaw. Len was that no longer. She was the woman who saw with startling ease into Lucia’s heart. She was the woman who had opened Lucia’s eyes. She was beautiful.
The realisation struck her suddenly and swiftly. Len was beautiful. It was an odd thing to notice at such a moment. Len narrowed her eyes, and Lucia realised she was staring. Feeling her cheeks grow warm, she quickly turned her attention back to the pistol in her hand.
Lucia fired the pistol several more times that morning, until the procedure of loading the ball and priming the pan were familiar, if not habit. She was elated to find she managed to hit the tree she was aiming at, all but once when her ball disappeared through the forest. By the time Len had mercy and allowed her to return to the clearing, her arm ached in a way she had never before experienced, but she was oddly delighted.
It was not until later Lucia remembered, with a cold shudder of fear, you did not learn to fire a pistol so you could aim at tree trunks.
Chapter Thirteen
But surely you see that is not a practical suggestion? There are the militia, to begin with, let alone the turnpike wardens and various gamekeepers and lodge porters if we were to take that route.” Len glared at Bill Wilcock and hoped he would see sense. Julian and William stood by her side, but they knew she was capable of fighting her own battles. Bill’s men lurked a safe distance behind him, and it was not clear if they were supporting him or merely wanted to hear the discussion.
“We managed to plan well enough without you, what makes you think you can come here now and tell us how to manage better?” Bill showed no signs of backing down.
“Because I have been the terror of travellers in these parts for years, and yet I have not been apprehended. You are a ragtag bunch of stockingers who terrify no one and have thus far been merely lucky not to end in a gaol cell.” Len crossed her arms and refused to give way. She would not risk the lives of her men—of Lucia—and the successful destruction of her father’s workshop because Bill was too proud to recognise when he should bow to someone—even a woman—with better knowledge and experience.
“If we are seen, we can be merely village folk who have been making merry and are on our way to our beds.”
“A gang of men on the roads in the night is enough to arouse suspicion in these times we live in, Bill, you know that as well as I. The county must be protected from the invasion of revolutionary ideas from France. The gentry are terrified of the people. Shadows in the night are shot at. Is that how you want this to end?”
Bill did not answer right away. Len knew she’d won this particular argument, though she suspected there would be more flashpoints with Bill over the remaining days until the raid. He resented her leadership abilities, her calculating mind, the unexpected presence of a gentlewoman in his clearing. And yet he would not send her and the men away. He knew the raid stood more chance of success with Len’s input, and he valued the food and coins she was able to provide his men. She was running low on such things. It was time to go to work again.
Bill looked at his men as if for support. Finding none, he looked back to Len. She raised an eyebrow. “What you say has some merit. I will think on it.”
“That is all I ask.” Len nodded. Bill turned from her and stalked away into the woods. His men trailed after him. Len exchanged a glance with Julian and William, thankful for their loyal support.
“We must ride out tonight. Keep Bill satisfied.”
“You still think it’s worth the risk? Hiding here?” Julian’s question contained no challenge.
“For now.” Len understood. She asked the questions of herself too. Was this all about revenge on her father? She reassured herself over and over again that it was not. This was the safest place to hide for now, the best place to lie low. It also gave her valuable insight into the other goings on in the shadows in the county. She was not so bad a leader that she would let personal revenge take priority over good sense. Was she?
“Tonight. The north road?” William’s mind was clearly more focused on the immediate future.
“No. No risks at all. We take the Mansfield road, east of the Rose and Crown inn. Even if there is only one carriage tonight, it will do for now.”
“There are only we three,” Julian said.
“I know, Julian. But we three have pistols and the element of surprise. It has been
enough before and will be again. No well-guarded carriages. Perhaps we will just look for solitary travellers, even if the rewards are poor. For now we must just survive.”
“And survive we will, unless God wills it otherwise.” William shrugged.
“Thank you, William. Pray that he’s on our side.” Julian grinned and patted William on the shoulder good-naturedly.
Len smiled with them. Then movement in the periphery of her vision drew her eye towards the tumbledown cottage. Lucia was emerging from the crooked doorway with a pail of water, which she emptied onto the forest floor. Len had no idea how Lucia had occupied herself while she had been debating strategy with Bill, but clearly it was in doing some task not usually suited to one of her social standing. She smiled. Then her heart plummeted. Tonight Lucia would remember just what manner of woman Len was, just how this life she was so drawn to was funded. Would Lucia be frightened, condemning? Or worse?
The contemplation of how to inform Lucia about this evening’s plans, and how to be sure she could be left alone with the frame-breakers safely, preoccupied Len for the rest of the afternoon, though she dismantled and cleaned her pistol and helped to gather wood for the fire. She was still very quiet later that night as they cooked meat on a spit in the fire. Clearly Lucia had been washing their scant utensils and plates earlier, for they were suddenly free from the dried remains of previous meals which had clung to them before. Len wasn’t sure whether Lucia would want her to comment on her work or not, or what she was expected to say, so she said nothing.
Just after twilight, Len found Lucia sitting quietly in the doorway of the cottage, keeping her distance from the men. She wanted very badly to sit and talk with her, to explain the reasons why tonight’s action was necessary. She checked herself before she began to speak. Never had she felt the need to explain herself to anyone. It almost caused her to resent Lucia. How could it be that she had such a hold over Len? Yes, she was beautiful, but Len Hawkins was surely too wise and weary of the world to be swayed so far off course by a beautiful woman.
The Locket and the Flintlock Page 17