A Highwayman Came Riding

by Joan Smith

  She hardly knew what made her say it. She disliked brandy. It was the way Macheath was taking over. The sensible thing would be to continue the few miles to Chertsey. Their hostess would understand their disarray when she heard their tale. Really the duchess was behaving very oddly.

  Macheath gave a start at Marianne’s answer. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Quite sure, thank you.”

  “From the quantity of tea you badgered Ned for, I took you for a tea drinker,” he said, examining her with suspicious interest.

  “I was hoping to relieve Ned of his pistol,” she replied.

  “Ho, she is a regular tea granny,” the duchess said. “However, after such an ordeal as you have put us through this day, a glass of well-watered brandy will do her the world of good.”

  “I’ll have your drinks sent up,” Macheath said before exiting.

  When the door shut behind him, Marianne sighed. She knew her duty was to help the duchess with her bath before taking care of herself. So she was pleasantly surprised when a few moments later two maidservants accompanied the men carrying the water abovestairs.

  “The captain says we’re to help you with your bath, ladies.”

  “That was well done,” the duchess said. “Now you won’t have to wait until I am finished to have yours, Marianne. I suggest you get out of that damp gown at once. You look for the world like a drowned cat. And so do I, I daresay.”

  “I don’t need any help,” Marianne said. She was accustomed to taking care of herself and knew she would be uncomfortable with someone helping her undress.

  The duchess, who always relished having as many people at her beck and call as possible, at once took charge of both maids.

  Marianne was still in the bath when her trunk arrived. She had begun by washing the mud from her hair. Next she washed her body and luxuriated awhile in the warm, relaxing tub, grateful to have a quiet moment to herself. Fully bathed, she wrapped herself in a soft bath sheet and opened the trunk. One of the maids came to take her soiled clothes belowstairs for cleaning. She toweled her hair as dry as she could.

  Because her traveling suit was a shambles, she wore her second best gown, a sarcenet of Wedgwood blue that matched her eyes, with a white lace fichu at the throat. The silk stockings, a rare treat purchased especially for the wedding, felt luxurious as she slid them on. The blue kid slippers went with both this gown and her wedding outfit. When she was dressed, she arranged her hair at the toilet table. After its washing, it glinted coppery in the candlelight. The dampness turned it to a mass of curly tendrils that billowed like a cloud around her face. Her eyes glowed with excitement. She was “in looks,” as her mistress would say.

  As she ran the comb through her curls, she wondered if Macheath would be dining with them. Nothing seemed impossible on this bizarre day. What was he up to? He must know the duchess could and would report him as soon as she was up and about. Why did he not run while he had the chance? Perhaps he had already left. If so, it was gentlemanly of him to have helped them before leaving, but she regretted that he couldn’t see her now. The last time he had seen her she looked like a drowned cat.

  When she went through the adjoining door to the duchess’s room she saw Her Grace lying in bed, dressed in her nightgown. She looked every one of her eighty-two years. Her pale face was lined and drawn; her eyes were hagged. Marianne knew then that they would be dining right here. The duchess would take a tray on her lap in bed, and Marianne would sit at the little desk by the window. Macheath would not see her looking pretty.

  The brandy arrived at the door, a bottle with just one glass. A teapot and one cup were on the tray as well.

  “The captain said you would prefer tea, ma’am,” the servant said to Marianne.

  Anger warred with pleasure, for while she much preferred tea, she resented that the captain had taken this last chance to show his power over her.

  “Quite right. You are too young for brandy,” the duchess said, apparently forgetting that she had approved it. She took a sip of her brandy neat and smacked her lips in approval. “I shall have a piece of chicken and some bread in my room in an hour,” she said to the servant. “That is all I want tonight. These weary bones need rest.”

  “The same for me,” Marianne said, fighting down her disappointment.

  During the intervening hour, Marianne wrote a note to the countess who was to have been their hostess at Chertsey, saying they would not be stopping after all and apologizing for the inconvenience.

  “No need to give a reason,” the duchess said.

  Marianne sat with her mistress, listening to a deal of complaining and nonsense. As the brandy in the bottle lowered, the old lady became more rambling and voluble. Macheath was a villain one moment and a hero the next. The duchess could think of nothing but him. It was much the way Marianne felt herself.

  “You know what he is about, of course,” the duchess said. “He thinks to humor me by these attentions so that I shan’t report him. A free room and a glass of brandy will not pay for my diamonds, however. I shall speak to the constable first thing in the morning.”

  “Why not send for him tonight?”

  “I am giving Macheath a chance to repent and do the right thing, Marianne. I am not one to hold a grudge. If he returns the necklace, I shan’t report him. I think it is what he has in mind. I have brought him to see the error of his ways. Why else did he keep harping on it earlier? You recall his warning of highwaymen. It is obviously preying on his mind. There is some good in the lad yet. A pity such a handsome young whelp has gone to the bad. How easily he bore me over the water in his strong arms. If only he were not a thief—and if I were fifty years younger.” She sighed and took another sip of the strong brandy. “Good stuff. It is not diluted with caramel water as I get in Bath.”

  The dinner tray arrived and Marianne settled in for exactly the sort of evening she would have at home, except that here she sat at the desk instead of the duchess’s table. The duchess gobbled down her meal in a minute. When it was gone, she said, “Now for a little reading.”

  It was Marianne’s cue to pick up the current journal and read to her. The duchess’s eyes were not strong enough for reading by candlelight.

  “Bother, we don’t have a journal. Nip downstairs and get one, Marianne. They will have some at the clerk’s desk. And inquire how my carriage and team are coming along, while you are there.”

  Marianne welcomed the chance to get out of the room. She saw the other guests just going down to dinner, ladies and gentlemen dressed in their evening finery. The low-cut gowns looked immodest to Marianne. The gentlemen’s shirt collars were too high, their jackets nipped in too sharply at the waists. But Bath was a city of elderly folks. This must be the fashion in London.

  Macheath did not wear such exaggerated jackets, though. She did not see Macheath. She got the journal and asked the clerk if he would send to the stable to see how the duchess’s rig and team were progressing.

  The companion of a duchess was treated with respect. The George and Dragon did not get many noble customers.

  “Have a seat while you are waiting, ma’am,” he said, indicating a row of aging upholstered chairs by the wall.

  She sat down and entertained herself by watching the guests come and go. It was strange they were all couples, mostly youngish. There were no older pairs, no families with children, no old bachelors or spinsters. Perhaps there was some sort of party going on. She was still there five minutes later when the front door opened and Macheath stepped in.

  He was dressed for evening in a bronze velvet jacket with a tumble of lace at the cuffs and looked not only handsome but distinguished beside the other guests. A certain air of dignity, of what she could only call breeding, hung about him. It was there not only in his toilette but in his walk, which was self-confident without being a swagger. In the folds of his cravat a yellow stone, topaz or yellow diamond, twinkled. A long greatcoat the color of sand, cut in the new Spanish style called a Wellington mantle
after the hero of the Peninsular War, lay open. Another change of clothes confirmed that he lived nearby. When he saw her, Macheath stopped and stared, then rushed forward.

  “Miss Harkness! What are you doing down here alone? I hope nothing is wrong.”

  “No indeed, Captain. I came to pick up a journal to read to the duchess. I am just waiting for word on how the carriage and team are doing.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone in a place like this.”

  “But it is a perfectly respectable inn—is it not?”

  “It is not exactly the Clarendon,” he said, mentioning one of the finer London hotels. “I shall stay with you until the clerk returns. I daresay the duchess is eager to be on her way, eh?”

  “She is. I would have thought you would be gone long since yourself, Captain. This cannot be a healthy place for you.”

  “I came to have a word with Her Grace before leaving. Has she reported me to the constable yet?” He didn’t sound frightened, only curious.

  “She plans to do it first thing in the morning, before we leave.”

  “Why did she wait?”

  “I believe she wanted to speak to you before doing it.”

  “I’ll have a word with her now—as soon as the clerk returns.”

  The clerk returned shortly to report that the carriage was not damaged and the horse’s leg had been poulticed. Beeton felt that it could continue on its way tomorrow, if he went at a slow pace.

  “Shall we go upstairs now?” Macheath said and took Marianne’s arm to accompany her across the lobby.

  A few heads turned to watch the young couple. For the thirty seconds it took to traverse the lobby, Marianne felt like one of the fortunate ladies she had been envying, with a handsome beau or husband on her arm.

  “You didn’t tell me whether you enjoyed your tea, Miss Harkness,” Macheath said with a quizzing smile.

  “Why did you change my order?”

  “You are too young and innocent for the dissipation of brandy. That is a brew for scoundrels— and duchesses. I felt I might be the cause of it. I have enough regrets, without that,” he said rather wistfully.

  His tone and the way he looked at her suggested he was sorry for the trouble he had caused her. She waited a moment, but when he didn’t say more, she tapped on the duchess’s door and stepped in. The duchess’s health had deteriorated further since Marianne had left. Her face, twisted into a grimace of pain, was a ghastly gray shade. The blankets were in a knot as she writhed on the bed.

  “Oh my God! She’s had an attack!”

  Macheath took one searching look at her and said, “No, she’s sick to her stomach.”

  He grabbed the tin wastebasket by the desk and rushed forward. He helped the duchess into a sitting position as she leaned over the basket and cast up her accounts. When she had emptied her stomach, she collapsed against the pillows to catch her breath.

  “I have been poisoned,” she said a moment later in a feeble voice. “It must have been in the brandy. You aren’t feeling sick, Marianne?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Macheath glanced at the nearly empty bottle. “How much did you drink?” he asked.

  “Only a few sips,” she lied.

  “About eight ounces, to judge by the bottle. You’re lucky you didn’t poison yourself.”

  He rang for a servant and put the offending wastebasket in the hall. Marianne bathed the duchess’s face and tried to make her comfortable.

  “Shall I call a doctor?” she asked her mistress.

  “I believe I can sleep now. There was something I wanted to say to Macheath.”

  “I wanted to speak to you as well, Duchess.”

  “Tomorrow,” she said with a deep sigh. “Call on me tomorrow, Captain. I am too tired now.”

  “We’ll leave you,” he replied, and taking Marianne’s elbow, he led her through the adjoining door to her room.

  “Thank you again, Captain,” Marianne said. “How did you know what ailed her?”

  “I’ve seen more than a few men in the same state.”

  “I wonder what else you have seen,” she said, gazing at him bemusedly.

  His dark eyes sparkled into hers. His fingers brushed up her arm from her elbow to settle on her shoulder with an engrossing intimacy. “Many sights of wonder—but I never before saw a girl like you, Marianne,” he said softly. Then he closed the door, and she was alone with him.

  Chapter Nine

  Marianne felt a wild fluttering in her breast. She told herself it was fear, perfectly natural fear at being alone with a criminal, but she didn’t fool herself. Those eyes glowing softly into hers held a different sort of danger.

  She schooled her voice to calmness and said, “It would be best to leave the door open in case Her Grace wants me,” and opened the door.

  She peeked across to the duchess’s canopied bed and saw by the flickering light of the lamp that her eyes were closed. The stertorous snorts were already beginning, indicating a peaceful sleep. It would be the effect of the brandy.

  “There goes that excuse,” Macheath said with a devilish grin.

  “I shall get the journal. I might as well read it until bedtime.” She took a step forward. Macheath put his hand on her arm to detain her. His fingers felt like a branding iron.

  “I have a different idea,” he suggested. “It is not yet nine o’clock. Let us go below and have dinner.”

  “I have already had dinner, Captain,” she replied in a prim voice that tried to conceal her interest. But the flush on her cheeks and the gleam in her eyes betrayed it. The fingers on her arm loosened and she drew her arm away.

  “You call a chicken leg and a crust of bread dinner, after your strenuous day? I saw your tray in the other room.”

  “You don’t miss much!”

  “I missed my dinner. I had planned to invite you and the duchess to join me in my parlor, but by the time I arrived, the duchess was already in bed. You could keep me company, have a glass of wine while I eat. Come now, you are all dressed up. Confess you would like to go belowstairs and show off that charming gown.” He spoke of the gown, but it was her face, with its halo of shining curls, that he gazed at—with a long, lingering perusal of her eyes and lips—until she felt warm and unaccountably nervous.

  “I shouldn’t leave Her Grace.”

  “She’s sound asleep!”

  “She might awaken.”

  “Not for several hours yet. There’s a bell cord by her bed. She has only to give it a pull and a servant will come running.”

  Marianne wavered under the force of temptation. Familiar with her Bible, she knew how Eve must have felt in the Garden of Eden. The duchess would sleep until morning. It was not quite nine o’clock. She did not usually retire before eleven. She could sit alone, reading the journal and listening to the duchess snore, or she could go below and spend an hour with an extremely handsome, dashing highwayman who made her feel beautiful and desirable for the first time in her life. She would not dare to do such a thing in Bath, where all the old cats knew her and would gossip, but no one knew her here. Being on holiday seemed to relax the rules of acceptable behavior.

  He saw she was wavering, and to convince her he said, “I have something I would like to discuss with you, Marianne. Something important.”

  The “Marianne” seemed to lend a new familiarity, almost an intimacy, to their acquaintance. She remembered the duchess’s words, that Macheath might want to return the diamonds. “Something important” sounded as if she could be right. If this was the case, Marianne had something important she wished to say to him as well. She might be able to talk him out of this sinful life he led. It seemed wrong to refuse such a possibility of reforming a criminal.

  “Very well,” she said, “but I should leave Her Grace a note, in case she awakens and I am not here. She will be worried, you know.”

  “By all means, leave her a note.” He reached in his pocket and handed her a pencil, drew out a notebook, and tore off a sheet.


  Marianne wrote in perfect copperplate, “Your Grace: I have gone belowstairs to have a word with Captain Macheath. I shan’t be long. Marianne.” She tiptoed into the next room and put the note on the bedside table under the lamp, turned the wick down low, and tiptoed back to her room.

  “Aren’t you going to lock your door?” he asked as they left.

  “Oh, should I? I don’t have anything worth stealing. I never stayed at an inn before. Since I’ve been grown-up, I mean.”

  “There are folks who would steal the buttons off your nightgown.”

  She gave him a pert grin. “True, but as you will be with me, where is the danger?”

  He clamped his hand to his heart and cried, “Touched to the quick!” in melodramatic accents. “Still, best to be sure. I am not the only highwayman on the prowl. We’ll lock the duchess’s room as well.”

  She returned and got the keys from the duchess’s toilet table. Macheath locked both doors and they went belowstairs. He led her through the lobby to a snug little private parlor with a cozy fire blazing in the grate and a table laid for three. This reassured her that he had intended to include the duchess in the invitation, and made her more comfortable. The lamps were turned down low. She glanced around at the hunting prints on the wall, the indifferent carpet on the floor, and the miniature sideboard holding pewter plates and some dishes.

  A bottle of red wine was open on the table. Macheath showed her to a seat and poured two glasses. A waiter came to the parlor to take their orders.

  “They do an excellent beefsteak here,” he tempted. “Why don’t you try a little?”

  “I’ll have dessert with you later,” she said.

  “A sweet tooth, eh? I suspected as much. My sister is the same.”

  “You have a sister!” she exclaimed.

  “Two, along with a mama and, once upon a time, a papa, though I don’t remember him well. Did you think I was hatched from an egg in a cuckoo’s nest?”

  Macheath’s having sisters seemed to normalize him in some manner Marianne couldn’t quite comprehend. “I’m an only child,” she said vaguely.