The Highwayman's Daughter

by Henriette Gyland

  With wry amusement Rupert watched his cousin and the girl seemingly lost in each other’s eyes. There was no doubt the girl was pretty, if you liked that sort of thing, but there was something else about her, a certain bearing perhaps, that intrigued him.

  He narrowed his eyes and paid more attention to Jack’s paramour, or whatever she was. She was wearing an ugly, plain dress and a tattered old straw hat, which was now dangling on one shoulder, attached to her neck by only a ribbon, but it was her hair, masses of dark curls, which caught Rupert’s eye. It was the same colour as that of the highwaywoman, and her height and stature were similar too.

  ‘I wonder,’ he muttered to himself. Could it be that his cousin had outwitted him and already tracked down the thieving wench? Devil take the man!

  But Jack was letting the woman go. Rupert frowned. If she really was the one who had robbed them, Jack would not have done that. So what exactly was his cousin’s interest in this woman?

  Intrigued, he decided to follow her.

  Hidden behind the hay wagon, he turned his horse quietly and followed the woman at a safe distance down the High Street and past the tailor’s, where Hodges had emerged from the shop with a large parcel under his arm and a surprised expression on his bovine face.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Not now, man, damn it!’ he snarled. ‘I’m on a mission. Take the parcel back to Lampton. I’ll be along later.’

  The valet’s eyes fell on the girl, who was now about twenty yards ahead of his master; then he nodded grimly. ‘Right you are, sir.’

  Rupert grinned to himself. He was known for being a dandy and a bit of a ladies’ man and had made no attempts at refuting this image, though if he was entirely honest with himself, it had been a while since he had encountered a female who really excited him. There was something unique about this one though.

  He told himself that this had absolutely nothing to do with the fact his cousin seemed rather smitten by her.

  He followed her slowly out of town, where a farmer offered her a lift on the seat of his wagon alongside a large number of children. Rupert kept even further back as the brats at the back of the wagon started to pull faces at him. He was tempted to ride up beside them and teach the little varmints a lesson, but the need to employ subterfuge stayed his whip hand.

  Instead he ground his teeth and bided his time.

  At Hospital Bridge the woman got down from the wagon, thanked the farmer and dove into the copse at the side of the road. When the wagon was out of sight, Rupert did the same. There was no sign of her, but Rupert wasn’t concerned. If she lived in the forest, there was bound to be smoke rising from a chimney somewhere.

  Sure enough, he soon spotted a thin grey column rising in the distance and headed in that direction. It wasn’t easy; the forest was at its densest here, and there was no real path, only narrow tracks that could have been made by human or animal alike. He ripped his new stockings on a hostile bramble, and his wig snagged on the branch of a tree, forcing him to go back and retrieve it. Angrily, he snapped the branch in half. He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of his venture.

  Just then he caught the smell of wood smoke and came upon a small clearing. He stopped and surveyed the surroundings. In the middle of the clearing sat a tumbledown labourer’s cottage with a small shack a little distance away. There was no one in sight, but the door was open, so Rupert assumed that the inhabitants were inside.

  He returned to the cover of the forest and under the canopy of the trees he worked his way around to the side of building, where there were no windows. Then he tied his horse to a tree, stroked the animal reassuringly, and crept towards the cottage. It seemed a good bet that this was where the woman had gone, but in order to be sure he needed to get closer. When he was halfway across the clearing, he heard voices. Agitated voices, one female, another of a lower timbre, unmistakeably male.

  A husband perhaps. Or an accomplice.

  ‘… has happened?’

  ‘I’ve been …’

  ‘… followed?’

  ‘… don’t think …’

  Rupert stopped, overcome by indecision. It was one thing to overpower a female, however spirited she might be, but another to take on a burly male accomplice. Or accomplices. Just because he had only heard one man didn’t mean there weren’t others inside the cottage or nearby. Damn it all, why hadn’t he thought to bring a pistol?

  A rustle and a soft nickering startled him. From the shack a horse had stuck its nose out over a makeshift stable door and was eyeing him expectantly. He approached the beast and stroked it on its soft muzzle. The horse, a handsome gelding with a white star below the forelock, pushed gently against his hand and snorted appreciatively.

  ‘What is it, boy?’ Rupert whispered. He had always had an affinity with animals. ‘Don’t they feed you enough? Is that it, hm?’

  The horse gave another low snort and stomped softly in the hay as if in agreement. It made Rupert wonder why he should come upon such a fine specimen by a labourer’s cottage in the forest. Horses were expensive creatures; they required proper feed, not just grass and hay, plenty of exercise and expert care that a labourer couldn’t afford, nor have the time for.

  The animal could be stolen, of course, and if this place was indeed a thief’s hideout, that fitted well enough, but he hadn’t heard of any horses going missing in the area. The theft of a fine horse such as this would cause enough of a stir for the word to go around.

  Another mystery.

  After checking that the inhabitants of the cottage hadn’t discovered his presence, Rupert opened the gate and slid inside the small stable shack. The horse welcomed him with a little nicker and allowed him to run a hand appreciatively over its back and down his flanks. Although the animal was perhaps a little on the thin side, it appeared strong and in good health otherwise.

  Something else caught Rupert’s attention.

  He hadn’t been as close to the highwaywoman as Jack had, and, given his cousin had a rapier at his throat at the time, Rupert certainly hadn’t envied him the position. But whereas Jack might have got a very good look at the woman, Rupert had had his eyes on something else.

  He may not pay much attention to women: courtesans were much like each other, and simpering debutantes bored him rigid. But he knew his horses.

  Like the highwaywoman’s horse, this beast had white markings on its front legs extending from the edge of the hoof halfway up the middle of the leg, a so-called half-stocking. Along with the star and stripe on the nose, the horse’s markings were as unique as Rupert was himself.

  There was no mistaking it; he had found the thieving harlot and her accomplices. But there was no way he could take them down single-handedly, and he didn’t much care to try. He caressed the fine animal one more time, slipped out of the stable, and crept back to his own horse. He would have to come back with reinforcements, and soon, but as no one had attempted to flee the cottage, he suspected the criminals thought themselves safe for the time being.

  They were in for a surprise.

  Cora and Ned packed as many of their belongings as they could carry, leaving behind anything which wasn’t necessary to their survival. Cora collected their few cooking implements in her basket, together with what food they had. The strong, salty smell of the bacon suddenly made her stomach churn, and, swallowing back her revulsion, she quickly wrapped it in a cloth and then hid the two pistols, the blunderbuss and the rapier at the bottom of her trunk.

  What they owned didn’t amount to much, and barely any time had passed before they were ready to leave. Cora saddled Samson, and they bundled as much as they could into the saddle bags, leaving the rest of their belongings to dangle from the pommel.

  They needed to get as far away from the area as possible, and fast. Unfortunately, travelling required money, and although Cora still had a few guineas left she knew it wouldn’t be enough. Holding up another coach might bring some much needed funds, but dared she do it? If she did, she’d be taking an enormous r
isk with her own life, as well as Ned’s.

  Fear settled like a hard lump in the pit of her stomach, coupled with wretchedness – because she couldn’t see any other way. Then she looked at Ned, saw his slumped shoulders and how his chest heaved from the exertions of packing, and made a difficult decision.

  She thought of Lord Halliford. When he’d told her to go, she’d not hesitated for a moment, but her own reaction surprised her. Even though she was still shaken after her brush with the horse, she found herself examining her feelings for him more than the fact that she’d nearly died. The strength of his arm as he’d held back the horse, the heat from his lips when he kissed her hand, the humour in his eyes. Each fragmented scene repeated itself over and over in her mind.

  She must have lost her mind. Lord Halliford had revealed that he knew her identity – knowledge that could mean the death of herself and her father. She knew that Ned would never survive seeing his only child hanged for robbery; if that happened, she’d have his demise on her conscience as well as all her other crimes.

  It was an impossible situation.

  And yet, when she’d looked into Lord Halliford’s eyes, she’d forgotten everything except the mad desire that swept through her. What was the matter with her? Was her brain addled? She could find no other reason for acting like such a fool. Well, no more.

  A coughing fit from Ned brought her back to reality, and his frail, thin body was painful to behold. Cora helped him sit down, but – respectful of his dignity – she averted her eyes until he had the cough under control. It was some time before he was able to speak.

  Ned turned a blind eye to her nightly excursions, pretending that he knew nothing of them, but the silent reproach in his eyes when she endangered herself said more than enough.

  ‘We’ll stay with Mrs Wilton,’ said Ned. ‘Her cottage is closer to the Bath Road, and we can travel as far as Longford tonight. I expect we’ll get passage from there to the West Country on the early coach.’

  Cora nodded, although her mind wasn’t really on their travel plans. Fear still gripped her as she considered her scheme for another nightly excursion. It was too soon after her last hold-up, and the magistrate and his men were bound to be on high alert. Coach drivers would be armed, and passengers very likely too, but for Ned she would risk anything.

  Rupert returned to the clearing in the woods with two loaded pistols and his rapier. The magistrate had proved to be immovable when Rupert had tried to persuade him, bellowing than he couldn’t arrest all and sundry based on a mere hunch and accusing Rupert of wasting his time. In the end Rupert had decided that a gentleman like himself, well-versed in the use of a pistol and a blade, would be enough of a match for a woman and a couple of ruffians.

  However, the place was deserted.

  Hell and damnation! Frustrated, Rupert slammed the door to the cottage so hard one of the rusty hinges came loose from the door jamb. He should have cornered the woman while he had the chance. Now he didn’t even have a name and not a clue as to where she’d gone.

  He could stake out the cottage again in case they returned, or he could take himself off to Newgate to see the condemned highwayman in the hope that he might provide a clue to where the woman and her accomplices might go. It would require a certain amount of finesse, but he already had an idea.

  Chapter Eight

  Jack couldn’t sleep. His mind stayed focused on what had happened earlier – the chase through town, the near-fatal accident with the coach, but most of all his own reaction to the highwaywoman. After tossing and turning for hours, trying unsuccessfully to relax, he finally gave up and pushed the covers aside. He put on a robe and retreated to the window seat, where he stared out into the night.

  But he wasn’t taking in the beauty of the starry sky or the perfect full moon, which shone like a pale silver disc. Before his eyes was the face of Miss Mardell. He ran his hands through his hair, and then cursed loudly when they reached where his queue had been. Confounded hoyden! But he had to smile at her audacity: she was magnificent.

  Frowning again, he channelled his thoughts back to the woman’s face, and her eyes in particular. The colour of her irises was unusual, a light grey-blue, like the moon above him. But it was something more than just her eye colour that was fascinating him: it was the combination of those eyes, her hair, and her build too. He was sure he’d seen that combination somewhere before, but where? Why did it tug at his memory so?

  He jolted upright and nearly tumbled off the window seat when the answer came to him. After dressing quickly, he lit a candle and left the room. The two springer spaniels, Lady and Duke, who slept outside his bedroom door, stretched, yawned and then followed him eagerly, tails wagging. Jack bent down and fondled the ears of one of them, a tan and white female with deep brown eyes and a chocolate-coloured nose.

  Lady had been with him from when she was a puppy, and she was an excellent hunting dog. She had borne him two litters, of which he had kept only Duke. In contrast to his mother, Duke had a lot to learn; he moved hither and thither on the carpeted stairwell as if pretending to be on the scent of something – hell, anything! – to please his master.

  Jack gave a sharp command. ‘Here, Duke, heel!’

  The spaniel slunk back to his side with a sheepish expression, and with a friendly nudge Lady put her offspring in his place.

  With purposeful strides Jack made his way to the family portrait gallery with the dogs trotting at his heels. When he got there, he ignored the paintings on the walls, depicting illustrious ancestors of both sexes, and traversed the length of the elegant room to a narrow door hidden in the panelling. It had no handle, but as the son and heir of the Earl of Lampton, he knew the secret of the opening mechanism. All he had to do was insert one finger into what looked like a fault in the wood and the door opened.

  As a mark of the housekeeper’s efficiency the well-oiled lock sprang open without a sound and, ordering the dogs to lie down in the gallery, Jack stepped inside the small storage room. It smelled faintly musty, and he resolved to do something about the dampness in the room at the first opportunity.

  The room housed the china and silver service the Blythe family used only for special occasions, together with a couple of large vases, a dining chair in need of reupholstering, and extra candle-holders.

  There was also a large painting facing the wall which had been placed here around the time Rupert and Alethea came to live with them. The only reason he knew about its existence was because he used to hide from his governess in the store cupboard when she wanted to test him on his Latin verbs. Jack turned it around and put it on the dining chair, then held up his candle to study it more closely. The gilded pinewood frame had been attacked by woodworm, the paint was peeling, and in places it looked as if mice had been feasting on the canvas, but the face of person in the portrait was discernible enough. Captain Cecil Francis Blythe: the earl’s first cousin, the black sheep of the family – and Rupert and Alethea’s father.

  And there, at last, was the answer to Jack’s conundrum – the captain had luminous grey-blue eyes, so dazzling it was as if the painting had its own source of light. Just like Miss Mardell. In his mind’s eye he recalled their intensity when she had met his gaze, demurely at the apothecary’s, flashing with defiance in the yard of the coaching inn, and alight with longing matching his own after he’d rescued her from being trampled by the horses.

  From their first encounter he had sensed a special bond between them, and here was the evidence that his mind hadn’t been playing tricks on him – as well as the answer to why the memory of her eyes had kept him awake. Not only did they hold a special beauty for him because they belonged to her, but it would also seem that she might be distantly related to him, albeit on the wrong side of the blanket. The colour was surely too unusual for it to be a coincidence, and thinking about it, Miss Mardell bore a certain resemblance to Alethea as well – the black curly hair; the tall, slender frame and the magnolia skin.

  Jack frowned as wonder
at his discovery turned to shock and anger on Miss Mardell’s behalf. Who was her mother, and how exactly did she know the captain?

  I can guess, he thought with a contemptuous snort. Miss Mardell was clearly poor: if they were related, then someone in his family must have done wrong by her. His father had taken Rupert and Alethea under his wing on the death of their parents so perhaps if there was a family connection he could be persuaded to show Miss Mardell some generosity too, that way she wouldn’t have to risk her life trying to provide for her family.

  But if they were related, would this get in the way of his budding friendship with Miss Mardell? If her mother had been wronged by the captain, Miss Mardell would likely resent his family, and rightly so. For her sake he needed to get to the bottom of this and prise some information out of his father. A secret like this was bound to be known to the head of the family.

  Unfortunately the earl was called away on business to London, and it wasn’t until late the following evening that Jack finally had a chance to speak to his father alone. The earl had retired to the library and looked up when Jack entered this sacred space. Bookcases of carved mahogany with glass doors lined the room, a large roll-top desk stood against the wall between two large windows, and a colourful Turkish rug lay in the centre of the floor. Jack breathed in the scent of leather from the many bound volumes on the shelves, and was immediately transported back to his childhood, when, on a rare occasion, he had been allowed to sit with his father in the study, reverently turning the pages of one of the precious books.

  This evening, however, he noticed the piles of paper on the earl’s normally tidy desk, and for the first time it struck him perhaps his father might be finding it difficult to keep on top of the paperwork. The earl was getting old.

  His father sat in a wing chair in front of the marble chimney piece. A decanter and two glasses stood on a side table of gilded pinewood between the chairs.