Neither of them was inclined to venture far into the woods. They lingered instead at the very edge, with a view over the countryside before them, and allowed the weak winter sun to fall delicately onto their skin. It was the time for light and hope, not darkness and secrets.
They were silent a lot that day. Tension grew as the day wore on, the hours of waiting beginning to seem interminable. Lucia knew that in any other circumstances she would be delighted to spend this time alone with Len. But Len had withdrawn more and more into her own thoughts, and Lucia could think of no suitable ways to break the silence. Everything she thought of to say sounded trivial and inconsequential compared to the thoughts she imagined to be tormenting Len’s mind. But she kept her hand in Len’s or on her thigh, never wanting to lose contact with her.
Their morning encounter with the corporal of the militia had truly brought the frightening reality of Len’s life home to her. She had seen the eager expression in his eyes, his sheer contempt for anyone outside the law. He was the sort of man who would take delight in watching a frame-breaker or highway robber in their death throes on the gallows. By not letting go of Len now, Lucia felt she could keep her in the world, protect her from such men. Len was warm, living, breathing, moving. No one would dare take that away from her, surely?
The sun was setting and the approach of night bringing an ominous chill to the air when they mounted Oberon and rode in the direction of the planned rendezvous with the other frame-breakers, Julian, and William. Lucia wished they did not have to. And yet she was swept along with the momentum and did not voice her wish. There was a workshop to be righteously raided, a daughter’s revenge on her father to be enacted, and she would have a part in it.
She allowed that feeling to sustain her, until she saw Julian and William waiting at the crossroads with Bill Wilcock and his men. Seeing their faces again reminded her of the harsh truths of this life, the realities of this night. She leaned back in the saddle against Len and hoped the wave of sheer terror would pass.
Chapter Sixteen
They rode slowly, Bill and his men walking alongside them, mostly through the woodland parallel to the road. Though they had spent the last week surrounded by winter trees, these unfamiliar ones seemed to crowd around them, dark and menacing, as the sun set and the sky above darkened further. Len shuddered with the recollection of their escape from the militia just last evening. Eventually they reached a place where the trees suddenly parted ahead of them and allowed them to see much more of the sky. The ground changed under Oberon’s hooves, and Len knew they had reached the turnpike.
A stone way-marker was visible in the gloom. She peered at it and managed to decipher that, as she had expected, they were close to the village of Giltbrook, though she could not read the number of miles given below. Without the cover of the trees, she felt horribly exposed and vulnerable. She cursed herself for the level of anxiety that gripped her heart. Was it because tonight she finally gained the revenge she had longed for over her father? Or was it because Lucia was warm in front of her on Oberon’s sturdy back?
It was not long before they were off the road again, in fields. Bill did not give his directions in words, he merely gestured which direction they should ride. Len was content to trust him as their guide. The knot of tension in the pit of her stomach was tightening. She leaned forward against Lucia. She was rewarded when Lucia loosened her grip on Oberon’s mane and reached backwards to touch her leg gently.
There was no moon, the sky was too heavy, and the countryside was entirely black, without shadow or definition. As they skirted a field of winter crops, Len felt the cold tickle of a snowflake against her face. The snow was falling only lightly, but it clung to the velvet of her cloak, and its wetness against her exposed face only added to the sensation of her blood becoming gradually frozen.
She willed her body to feel the thrill of what she was about to do. Usually her senses were alert and keen, her heart beating fast, her temperature climbing. The approach of danger, the anticipation of the need to fight or run, usually made her feel more alive. And tonight she felt as though she was dying. The raid, her father: they were almost forgotten. Her focus was the woman who was now so solid and warm in her arms, but later tonight could be lost to her, a phantom memory, a reminder of what she could never have. Death had snatched Hattie from her. Life would tear Lucia from her arms. After tonight Lucia could not stay with her, however much she desired it. It was impossible. And yet her hopeful mind insisted on trying to think of ways in which it could be. Did Lucia ponder the same things? Or would she truly be glad to return to the safety of her home and allow comfort and familiarity to take the place of love?
Len lost all bearing as to how many minutes had passed or which direction they travelled. But she sensed her former home, her father’s workshop, ahead of them in the night.
Abruptly, Bill led them to the right, into a copse of woodland. Suddenly dark shapes were moving in front of them, and a lantern flickered quickly, was obscured, and then shone once more, before being extinguished. This was the expected signal.
“How many of you?” Bill addressed the closest of these shadowy figures.
“Eleven,” the man replied. These were the workers, the men who sat at their frames labouring by day and broke the frames of their masters by night. Bill and his men were their leaders, the ones who plotted the raids, but it was these men who lent the real element of terror to the spate of frame-breaking across the county. These were ordinary men, not outlaws. If ordinary, ignorant workers could turn to such measures, no property and no person was safe. Or so went the terrified whispers. Len was sure Lucia was well acquainted with those myths.
Lucia’s eyes strained in the darkness to see the faces of these mysterious labourers, but it was difficult to make out more than vague shapes. She shuddered involuntarily at the stuff of nightmares made flesh before her. Len touched her shoulder briefly then dismounted, giving Lucia her hand so she might do the same. Lucia did not let go of Len’s hand at once. She longed to ask how Len was feeling, to demand to know what would happen after the raid. She did not want to leave Len, to go home. And yet tonight was the night their time together was due to end. She must return to her father and sister. If she refused, would Len allow her to stay? And how would she tell her father? It was a terrible predicament she could not resolve. But she could not bring herself to ask Len either. Not now, with so much tension and danger in the air, with the raid on her father’s workshop imminent. Lucia squeezed her hand tightly, hoped to convey her love and reassurance with that touch. Len squeezed back, and Lucia’s heart beat just a little faster.
Lucia was glad of the leather boots as she stood on the leaf-littered floor. The ride had made her cold to the bone, and she shivered. Julian and William had dismounted beside them, and now they crept through the trees, shadows with rustling footfalls to either side of them, to where the narrow thicket thinned once more.
She heard Len draw in her breath deeply as they peered through the trees. Ahead of them, down a slight slope, was a red-brick, dark-roofed, rectangular building, two storeys tall. Long, white-framed windows stretched the entire length of the building. This must be the workshop operated by Len’s father. Beyond the workshop, across a small open space, the shadow of a large house could be seen to loom, its illuminated windows eerily bright in the dark.
Lucia looked at Len. “Yes,” Len whispered, “that was my home.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. There was clearly no time for sentiment now.
Lucia was handed the reins of the three horses. “Stay here until we return,” Julian instructed. He thrust a pistol into her hand and she looked at it in renewed horror. “It is already loaded,” he said. “Fire it if you are in danger or to warn us if you see anyone approaching.”
“Of course.” He nodded his head briefly, an acknowledgement, she thought, of his trust in her.
“You must come back,” she said to Len in a softer whisper. Every moment mattered. Even if they were to part tonight, it
would not be now, in these circumstances.
“I will,” Len said. Her gloved hand pressed Lucia’s quickly before she went to stand close to Bill. He handed her an axe. Lucia looked at the blade and trembled. Bill himself was holding a heavy-looking hammer. She had previously wondered at their lack of weapons or instruments to damage the machines. Clearly the labouring men had brought such implements with them. Perhaps they had been hidden in the copse for days. She knew relatively little of the plans leading to this point, yet they swept her along as much as they did any of the men here. All around Lucia lurked men with axes and hammers in their hands. She looked at Len with her axe and wanted to cry out, to beg her to return to her, not to do this. She bit her lip and choked back the ache in her throat.
Lucia did not even see the signal Bill Wilcock gave, but suddenly, as one, the men began to move stealthily out of the trees. In just seconds they were but shadows, Len indistinct among them. Lucia watched the dark shapes moving quickly down the hill, approaching the building. Her heart was pounding, and with every part of her soul she willed them forward, since the quicker their work was done, the more quickly they would return.
She lost sight of them as they reached the workshop building, for the entrance was on the side she could not see from her vantage point. Oberon shuffled beside her, his nose pushing at her shoulder. Absent-mindedly, she reached up to stroke his soft, warm muzzle. William’s mare was restless and pulled a little at her reins.
Lucia thought she heard a muffled sound from the direction of the workshop. The dark windows told nothing of what occurred inside, but it came again, a faint crash. In alarm, she looked to the house with the lighted windows, Len’s father’s house, the place she had grown up in, been imprisoned in, and finally been cast out of. There was no sign of anything amiss.
Silence fell over the scene before her. She felt she was looking at a painting. Everything was still; it was impossible to imagine what occurred behind the windows of the workshop. Her eyes returned to the lit windows of the house. She could well imagine the scene within, after all, it was not so very different to the one she lived every day of her life. Lucia saw the limits of that life then, so very clearly. That small patch of light was contained within the walls and windows, while outside the darkness and countryside stretched so far. There was a world beyond those walls, just as there was a life beyond those constraints. Len had known and she had seized it. Lucia knew now this was what she had always waited to know. Only she doubted she could ever cling to this larger life with such tenacity as Len had.
*
Though it was dark in the workshop, it was not difficult for Len to make out the shapes of the square stocking frames positioned evenly around the room. Besides, Len had been here before, many times. The smell was the same as she remembered: the oil of the machines, the slight damp from the floor. She was even sure she could smell the perspiration of the men who worked away their days in this space.
Usually, the workshop was loud with the clattering, clanking, and creaking of the machinery. A rhythmic, repetitive, regular sound, which seemed to get inside your head and rattle inside your skull until you could think of nothing else. Tonight, though, this was replaced by the tramp of men’s boots on the wooden floor. Once they were all inside, there was a long moment of silence. And then the first crash, as one of the frame-breakers brought his hammer down on one of her father’s frames.
Then all hell broke loose. As one, the men began to pound the machines with their hammers and axes. Len hesitated, briefly awed and even a little afraid of the fury unleashed around her. And then she remembered. She allowed the anger into her own heart out of the locked place where she’d kept it these past years. This was why she was here. To confront the anger she’d never been able to, to wreak her own revenge on the man who’d thought he had power over her life. The man who had beat her. The man who had made her what she was, an outlaw, forced to risk her life daily. Now, although he would not know her hand in it, she would strike at what mattered most to her father. His business.
She gripped the axe in her hands more fiercely and moved closer to the nearest frame. She raised the axe, loving the power of its weight in her hands. It was above her head and she swung it downwards. It struck the frame with a splintering of wood and the clash of metal against metal. The impact jolted along the wooden handle of the axe and jarred her shoulders, seemed to bruise her hands. But she tugged the heavy blade free of the machinery and raised it again. As she slammed it down against the frame again, she realised she was crying out in her fury and tears were streaming over her cheeks. She could never achieve a real revenge against her father, but at least, here and now, she could claw back some satisfaction and self-respect.
For so long she’d repeated to herself that she’d made her own choices, chosen to choose. She’d tried to explain it that way to Lucia. But deep down, part of her doubted that. If her father had been different, kinder, would she have sought out the same freedoms? Would she have chosen thievery and a life in the shadows? Or contented herself with the small freedoms the life of a wealthy woman allowed?
As she crashed the axe into the frame again, feeling the muscles in her arms beginning to burn, she also tried to let go of those doubts. She destroyed her father and the image of him. She destroyed the darkness in her heart, the festering place full of blame—for her humiliation, for her separation from Hattie, for Hattie’s death, for her physical pain, and for the necessity of her life of crime. From this moment on she would cease to blame her father and take ownership of that life. She would make her own choices, be responsible for her mistakes, and win the true freedom she was still searching for. And she would present that to Lucia and offer her the chance to choose, in a way she had never been able to.
She raised the axe and brought it down one more time. The machine groaned, and some part of it fell onto the floor with a thud. Suddenly her arms were very tired. Just thinking of Lucia seemed to soothe the fierce rage in her heart, and breaking the frame seemed less imperative. It was already done. Why waste anything more on it? It was time to think of what waited for her outside. Of beautiful Lucia.
Len knew Lucia expected to return home to Foxe Hall tonight or the day after. And return she would have to, since she had a family who truly cared. Yet Len had begun to imagine ways in which they could still see each other. She had started to believe the impossible was possible after all, with a little creativity. She was in no doubt that she loved Lucia. Did Lucia truly love her back? She wanted to believe it. She knew the course of the night and of the next day would answer her questions.
She started to make her way towards the door to the workshop. She wanted to be out of this place of toil and machinery, out from under her father’s roof, and in the night-time she shared with Lucia. The other frame-breakers apparently took her retreat as some sort of signal, for the rest of them began to move with her. It was done. Len did not even glance behind her as she left the workshop.
*
Lucia looked back to the workshop. At first everything was still. Then she saw a dark figure appear around the corner of the building and begin to make for her position. Another followed and the weight began to lift from her heart. It was done. She looked for Len but could not tell one man from another as they came closer.
A noise and a movement caught the corner of her vision. She turned back towards the house. Her heart froze. She was in time to see two men running hurriedly towards the workshop. One of them shouted, whether in alarm or warning she did not know. There was something in his hand. Lucia peered through the darkness, trying to make sense of what she saw. She cried out loud as she realised he held a musket, which he brought to his shoulder. Fear coursing through her, she seized the pistol Julian had pressed into her hand and fired it into the night.
The noise echoed from the trees. Lucia cast the pistol onto the floor among the leaves. The men closest to her, now aware of the danger, were running more quickly towards the woodland. Still Lucia looked for Len; still she
did not see her. She knew her to be one of the indistinct shapes struggling towards her, and clenching her fists, Lucia willed them to move more quickly.
Another shot rang out in the night, this time from the direction of the workshop. Lucia saw a man fall, the shadow at his side turning to assist him. A cry caught in Lucia’s throat. She longed to run out from the trees, find Len, touch her, know she was safe. She twisted the reins of the now-agitated horses in her hands and forced herself to stay hidden in the woodland.
Lucia saw the flash as the second man fired and the next shot pierced the night. Already some of the men had made it into the woods. As another, breathing hard, rustled past, she turned to look, hoping always to see Len, or Julian, or even William.
She focused her attention back towards the men still scrambling away from the workshop. There was a dark shape slumped on the ground halfway between the workshop and the treeline, and her eyes fixed to it. A man lying motionless in the grass. All feeling left her limbs. Was it a man? Or maybe a woman in breeches, boots, and cloak?
Another shot rang out.
One man, a straggler, had been apprehended near the workshop and struggled in the arms of the man who had fired the most recent shot. “Not Len.” Lucia murmured it defiantly. She could not imagine Len being captured, nor struggling in that man’s arms. Her gaze returned to the motionless hump in the grass and her head swam.
“Miss Foxe!” An urgent shout from close by. Julian appeared next to her and she looked to him eagerly. She heard her own cry of horror as she saw Len, half-fainting in his arms. Even in the black night Lucia could see her pallor and the place where her shirt and waistcoat were hideously dark with wet blood.
The Locket and the Flintlock Page 23