The Highwayman's Lady

by Ashe Barker

  “So you were in the Americas all this time?” Phillip regards me over the lip of his goblet, one dark eyebrow raised.

  I nod and busy myself in taking another slug of my ale. With luck, he may accept my story at face value and not opt to dig for more detail.

  “I have recently acquired property there, in Virginia,” my brother continues. “Is that a location you know?”

  “Not an area I am familiar with myself, but I have heard there is much wealth to be made in the states further north.” This at least is true.

  “My land is mainly good for farming, I gather. I could grow tobacco, but prefer cattle and horse breeding. Those are pursuits I can understand.”

  “Why did you purchase property so far away?” I am puzzled. I do not recall Phillip demonstrating such an adventurous disposition, at least not in matters of business. And as long as I am quizzing him, he may not interrogate me.

  “I did not purchase it. I won several thousand acres at cards and decided to retain my interest rather than disposing of the land at once.” He glances up at his wife. “Perhaps we shall go there, my dear. It will offer some welcome respite from the children.”

  She pats his shoulder, offering reassurance. “I am sure they will become less taxing in the fullness of time. Indeed, I have heard the indigenous tribes in the New World can be every bit as troublesome. You might not find much improvement and it is a long way to go in search of peace and quiet.”

  “You are right, as ever.” He returns his attention to me. “So, where in the Americas, exactly, did you travel? And what occupied you there?”

  Ah, so much for my brief diversion then. I have no option left but to depart from the truth, at least in the matter of timescales. “I remained with The Young Pretender for the first year and a half, then decided to explore further afield. I was mainly in the southern states and gained employment managing a cotton plantation. I returned to Britain but recently.”

  “You were homesick?” enquires Beatrice.

  It is as good an explanation as any. I nod. “I found I craved our temperate climate, not to mention our fine ale and excellent whisky. So I boarded a ship bound from New Orleans to Nassau and from there to London and here I am.”

  “You managed a cotton plantation? What on earth do you know about cotton, Francis? Or indeed any form of agriculture? It was all we could ever do to convince you of the merits of skirting a hayfield rather than trampling the crop under the hooves of your mount. How did you manage to convince any owner who valued his profits to employ you?”

  Excellent question. Trust Phillip to hit my least defended flank with such precision. I reach for my goblet again, in need of a few moments in which to formulate my response.

  “I have changed since last I saw you and I have learnt a great deal on my travels. Cotton farming involves labour, much labour, unskilled in the main. An army of workers requires to be organised, commanded. I may not be a farmer, but I can command an army well enough. A few hundred slaves and a couple of dozen peasant overseers offered no challenge at all.”

  “You were involved in the slave trade?” Phillip makes no attempt to conceal his distaste, though the practice is both widespread and lucrative throughout the colonies.

  “No, not directly. And I do not hold with unnecessary cruelty so the slaves under my control were well treated.”

  My brother’s response is a dubious-sounding grunt. I am grateful for Beatrice’s intervention.

  “We are delighted to see you home at last. Are we not, Phillip?”

  At the absence of immediate and enthusiastic support for her assertion, Beatrice urges her husband’s agreement by means of a sharp nudge with her elbow. It appears to work. “Indeed so. Most gratified. And now that you are home, how long do you intend to grace us with your presence, little brother?”

  “Now, Phillip, let us not be chasing him off before he has even had chance to draw breath. You are welcome to remain with us as long as you like, Francis.”

  “Thank you, Beatrice. I thought I might stay for a few weeks at least.” Until this moment and despite my words to Imogen just a half hour ago, I had no such solid intention. My plans appear to be crystallising fast.

  Beatrice beams at me. “Oh, that is good news. Phillip would welcome your aid in managing Kirkleven, would you not, sweetheart? Your experience in the New World will come in useful. We would be delighted to learn of how matters are conducted across the ocean, minus the slavery, of course. I doubt that practice would find much favour with our farmhands.”

  My brother’s pensive features suggest he is already contemplating the tasks he might put my way. I resolve to find something to occupy my time whilst I am here or there is a real danger I might find myself harnessed to a plough.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A month has passed and Gray has been as good as his word. He said he would contrive to avoid me and he has done so. He has been most diligent in this endeavour. When in the house, he tends to spend his time either in his own chamber or in the library. If I should enter the library, my usual haunt in the afternoons, he makes his excuses and vacates the room, though he leaves strict instructions regarding the lifting of books. It is his habit to rise late so he invariably misses breakfast with the rest of the household and is rarely to be encountered at lunchtime.

  The evening meal is the one occasion when the family gathers and Gray will join us in the dining room if he is at home. As often as not, though, he is absent from the table, his seat opposite mine unoccupied. When he is present, the silence between him and me is almost palpable. I cannot miss the calculating expression on Phillip’s face as he observes the awkward exchanges, nor Beatrice’s distress at the continuing hostilities.

  Of course, my beloved cousin has no idea what lies at the root of the discord in her home and although I long to confide in her I gave my word that I would not reveal the identity of my baby’s father. Any attempt to explain the cause of the discord between myself and her brother-in-law will lead dangerously close to revelations I prefer not to make. So I remain silent—the destruction of my blossoming friendship with Beatrice just one more offence to lay at Gray’s door.

  Gray has not joined us this evening and the talk is of his regular absences.

  “My dear, is it really necessary to send Francis to Edinburgh quite so regularly? Surely we could conduct our affairs perfectly well without so many trips? Could not your business associates attend you here on occasion?” Beatrice makes her enquiry as she hands the platter of potatoes across the table to her husband. “I am sure Francis would appreciate more opportunity to relax with his family.”

  Sir Phillip helps himself from the plate. “Thank you, my sweet. I fear though I cannot claim the credit for occupying my brother’s time. He is not engaged on affairs of mine. Indeed, he has made it his business to avoid the estate or our commercial interests as much as he possibly can. I rarely encounter him and cannot recall any occasion when he has represented me at any meeting in the capital.”

  Beatrice regards her husband, astonishment writ across her face. “But, I was sure… So, where does he go then?”

  “I have not the slightest notion, my dear.” Sir Phillip turns to me. “Imogen, can you enlighten us at all as to what pressing engagements might occupy my brother most evenings?”

  I look from one to the other, shaking my head. “No, I have no idea. Why would I? He does not confide in me.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Sir Phillip. “In fact, you and Francis barely exchange a word. Is there some quarrel between the two of you? Is it you he is avoiding, perhaps?”

  “Me?” I parrot.

  “Surely not,” exclaims Beatrice. “What on earth might they have quarrelled over? They hardly know one another.”

  “Quite so,” allows her husband. “It is just that I sense a certain—tension—between you and my brother, Imogen, which has not diminished in the weeks he has been here. Indeed, I would say it has intensified. Is it my imagination?�
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  There can be few individuals walking this earth less inclined to flights of fancy than Sir Phillip Kirkleven. Even so, I find myself murmuring words to the effect that he is probably mistaken in his observations.

  “I see.” Sir Phillip does not press the matter. He finishes his meal and takes his leave. “I have papers to review before bedtime, my dear. Please, remain here and have Masterson bring more wine. I shall see you later.” He kisses his wife on the cheek and bows politely to me. “Until tomorrow, Imogen.”

  Left alone in the dining room, Beatrice and I sip our wine in silence as Masterson clears away the debris from the meal. Her eyes are on me, considering, turning matters over in her head. I swear I can almost hear the cogs whirring. At last the manservant leaves and she places her goblet on the table.

  “My husband is not imagining things, is he?”

  “Beatrice?”

  “Do not treat me like a fool, Imogen. I deserve better than that.”

  I drop my gaze to peruse my rounded stomach. The evidence of my predicament grows more prominent with every day that passes. I cannot afford to alienate my benefactress and I would not wish to. Beatrice has been kindness itself and she is right. She does deserve much better than this from me.

  “I am sorry.”

  “But you do not deny that there is something amiss between you and Francis. Very much amiss?”

  I shake my head, hoping she will not press me on this.

  “Are you prepared to tell me what lies at the root of it?”

  “I prefer not to, if you will permit that.”

  She lets out an exasperated sigh. “You will have your reasons, I know, for your silence on this matter and I have decided to trust your judgement. All I ask is that you make an effort to heal whatever rift has developed between you and Francis. It is not just Phillip who has observed it. The children have asked questions too.” She leans forward, her expression serious. “Francis is dear to me, as are you, Imogen. You are both equally welcome here. I cannot bear this discord within my household and I will not have it affecting everyone else. Please, for my sake, try to get on with Francis. I would hate for him to feel he must leave us again in order to restore peace at Kirkleven. My husband may appear gruff and somewhat hostile to Francis but do not be fooled. He loves his brother, as do we all. We want Francis to stay and we would love you to make your home here too. But this—awkwardness cannot continue. Do I make myself plain?”

  I nod, contrite. This is the first time Beatrice has chosen to remonstrate with me, though heaven knows I have given her cause enough. I should never have allowed the situation between Gray and myself to be so obvious to those around us.

  “Thank you, Imogen. Please be assured I do not hold you solely responsible. I am quite prepared to have a similar conversation with Francis, when next I encounter him.”

  “Please, do not do that. It is my fault and I shall speak to him. I will make matters right.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am. Definitely. I will not let you down.”

  She reaches across the table to take my hand. “I know that, my dear. I have every faith in you.”

  * * *

  Later that same evening I lie on my bed, sleepless. The maid has assisted me out of my gown and petticoats and into my cotton night rail. The girl then brushed out my hair before banking up the fire for the night. A trio of candles flicker on the dresser but otherwise the room is in darkness. The entire house is silent, nothing to divert me from the cacophony of thoughts that riot unchecked around my head.

  If not engaged on business for Sir Phillip, what pressing need takes Gray from the house night after night? Where does he spend his evenings? With whom? Doing what? I am starting to form an uneasy conclusion.

  I hope, desperately, that he has not resumed his previous occupation, but if he has not, why does he remain in Scotland at all? From what Sir Phillip said I must assume Gray entertains no serious interest in carving out a role for himself at Kirkleven. He has made his intentions as far as I am concerned crystal clear. He wishes to have nothing to do with me or the baby I am carrying.

  And that being so, what gives him the right to extract the promise he had from me? If he does not care, why did he punish me when he believed I had endangered myself and my baby and threaten further retribution if I should offend again?

  I am ready to make peace with him if that is possible. I have no choice; I promised Beatrice. But I require some answers too. First and foremost, I require reassurance that he is not about to get himself shot in the course of some robbery gone wrong, or worse still, bring the county constabulary hammering on our door intent upon a hanging.

  The clock out on the upstairs landing strikes twelve. The entire household is long abed, but I have not yet heard Gray return. That is not in itself surprising, I do not always hear him come home, though I must confess I do take an interest in his comings and goings. I know that he often enters through the kitchens and comes up the back stairs and I conclude that must be the explanation.

  Given the situation between us, I do not know when I might get the opportunity to talk to him if I do not take steps to force such a confrontation. I see nothing else for it; I must go to his chamber and seek him out.

  Thus resolved, I scramble from my bed and reach for a robe to wrap around my thickening body. I pick up the candelabra from the dresser and use the flickering tapers to light my way along the corridor, passing the clock that I heard a few minutes earlier. Halfway there it occurs to me that I should have thought to locate a pair of slippers before creeping from my room, but it is too late now. I quicken my step and reach Gray’s door.

  Should I knock? I lift my hand to rap lightly on the panel, but think better of it. Despite the quiet I would not be surprised to see Masterson trotting along the hallway to investigate the sound. The man seems to be everywhere. I lower my hand again and rest it on the doorknob. I turn the handle and push.

  The door opens with a slight creak, to darkness on the other side. The only illumination is the glow from the fire that is dying in the hearth. It is clear at a glance that Gray is not within. I step back, intending to close the door and return to my chamber, then think better of it. I am here now and the hour is so late he must return soon. I slip inside and set my candlestick down on the table beside his bed.

  This room is a little smaller than mine, but just as well furnished. The large oak bed dominates, covered with a dark embroidered bedspread and framed by thick, heavy curtains to keep out draughts. A few possessions lay scattered on the table where I placed the candles—a kerchief, a pair of heavy leather gloves, a quill, and a pot of ink, though I see no parchment.

  Clothing is folded neatly and stacked on top of a chest beneath the shuttered window. I infer that Gray is a tidy individual who like me, prefers to keep his belongings neat and ordered. At least we have that in common.

  The clock on the landing chimes the quarter hour. Perhaps I might write him a brief note, requesting his company at his earliest convenience on a matter of some importance. Had a sheet of paper come to hand I might have settled for that, but there is none to be found in the small desk, so instead I perch on the edge of his bed to await his return.

  * * *

  “Imogen? Are you all right?”

  I mutter something and roll onto my other side.

  “Imogen, wake up. What are you doing here?” A hand on my shoulder gives me a shake, not hard, but determined.

  “Leave me alone. I am sleeping.”

  “Aye, I can see that. The question is, why are you doing it in my bed?”

  “What?”

  “Why are you sleeping in my bed, Imogen? Not that I object, particularly, it is just something of a surprise to find you here. I might have returned home sooner had I known what awaited me here.”

  His final remark penetrates my fuddled consciousness and I come fully awake, remembering the reasons for my precipitous decision to beard the lion in his d
en. I have bridges to build and peace to make. But first, there are questions I need to ask him.

  “Where have you been? What time is it?”

  “A little before two o’clock, I believe. Are you quite all right, Imogen?”

  “Yes, I am perfectly fine.” I sit up, shivering a little as my wrap slips from my shoulders. “Where did you go until this time?”

  “You are cold.” He strides over to the hearth, his outdoor cloak still flowing around his lithe body, and tosses another log onto the dying embers. A few moments spent poking and prodding see the flames crackle back into life. Gray returns to the bed and sits beside me. “There, that is better. But if you intend to remain here may I suggest you get beneath the covers?”

  “No, you may not,” I exclaim. “I am not here to, to…”

  “To spread your luscious thighs and entreat me to fuck you? I confess, I expected you to arrive at that conclusion some weeks ago, but better late than never.”

  “You are disgusting.” As am I, it would seem since my pussy is moistening in a manner best described as disgraceful. I tilt my chin at him, resenting the effect he has on me. “No, I am not here for that. I wish to talk to you.” I clutch my robe under my chin as though to protect myself from his crude remarks and wish my quim did not dampen so at the ideas he has planted. I refuse his invitation to snuggle under the covers, though I confess the prospect is not without its attractions. The room remains distinctly chilly despite Gray’s attention to the fire.

  “I am tired, Imogen. May I suggest we talk in the morning? Now, if you are quite sure you do not intend to make use of the bed, perhaps you will not object if I do.” He stands and removes his cloak, then takes a seat to pull off his knee-length boots. They are mud-splattered, I note. His hat dangles from a post at the foot of the bed. At my continuing silence he proceeds to remove his thigh-length jacket and loosens the wide leather belt slung around his hips. I blink, recalling the three agonising licks of that same leather strap across my tender buttocks the first night he came upon me in my own chamber.