by Mary Nichols
She turned to look up at him and for the first time he saw animation in her lovely eyes. It made her suddenly beautiful and vulnerable as well. There was hope in that glance, which quickly turned to despair when her companion seized her arm and led her away to a table in the corner where he pushed her roughly into a chair and ordered food.
‘They’re a rum pair, ain’t they?’ Sam said, as they seated them selves at another table.
‘Who?’
‘Those two over there.’ He nodded imperceptibly in their direction. James noticed she was pushing the food about on her plate, but not eating.
‘Yes, there’s something not right there.’ In spite of a reputation he had for being hard and unbending, he could still sympathise with anyone in trouble and he felt sure the young lady was in trouble.
‘You ain’t thinkin’ of doin’ somethin’ about it, are you, Cap’n?’
‘And let Randle and Smith get away again?’ As he had done so often before, he imagined his wife’s terror at being con fronted with the gunmen and his anger surfaced again. Those two were going to pay for their crimes and pay heavily. That was his true errand, not rescuing women who might or might not need rescuing. And what would he do with her if he did separate her from her escort? He could hardly take her with him. ‘We still have a long way to go,’ he said, as a waiter put their food in front of them and he ordered a tisane to be taken to the young lady. ‘We will see what transpires.’
What actually transpired was something not even he had expected, though why he should be surprised when the coach was later held up by high way men, he did not know; it was a common enough occurrence. It had been fully dark by the time they reached Cambridge where the parson left them, and he had wondered if the man and the girl would stop there, but they must have been in as great a haste as he was, for they had elected to go on. The journey north through Ely had been uneventful and they were proceeding as fast as the coachman dared go along an extremely bumpy road with the river on one side and a spindly stand of trees on the other, when two men brandishing pistols appeared from the copse on horse back and commanded the driver to stop. The coach pulled up so sharply they were all flung against each other. The girl gave a little cry to find herself in James’s arms, as a man with a black kerchief about his lower face opened the door and waved a pistol at them. ‘Out!’ he commanded. ‘We’ll have your valuables or your lives.’
James helped the girl to alight and put his arm about her shoulders to support her. When the pistol was waved at him, he thought it expedient to hand over his watch and a purse containing a few guineas. The robber took them and stowed them away inside his voluminous cloak, then turned to the other occupants of the coach. Catching sight of the man who had boarded the coach with the girl, he promptly fell about laughing. ‘Here, Jerry,’ he chuckled. ‘Look who’s turned up.’
His accomplice, who had been keeping his eye on the coachman, appeared beside him. He, too, had his face covered so that only his eyes were visible. ‘Gus Billings, as I live and breathe, and the lady, too. Now, there’s an interesting turn of events.’
James felt the girl’s shoulders stiffen under his hand and heard her stifle a small cry. She was shaking and only his arm about her was stopping her from sinking to the ground. He gave her shoulder a little squeeze of reassurance.
‘I’m only doin’ your biddin’,’ the man called Billings told the other two. ‘If you want to lay yer hands on you know what, you’ll allow me to get on with it.’
‘And who is this?’ Jerry waved his pistol towards James, who did not flinch, though the girl did, quite violently.
‘Dunno, do I?’ Billings said.
‘I am the Honourable James Drymore, Captain of his Majesty’s navy,’ James told him in his haughtiest voice. ‘And I advise you to allow us to proceed or it will be the worse for you.’ It was an empty threat; there was nothing he could do to stop them. His pistol was in his coat pocket and he could not reach it without taking his arm from around the young lady and he was afraid if he did she would collapse in a heap at his feet. Sam had no weapon.
The masked riders laughed and beckoned Billings to join them. He went reluctantly but, after a few whispered words, he came back and, taking the girl’s arm, wrested her from James and pushed her back into the coach. It was then James tried to reach into his pocket for his pistol, but a shot whistled past his ear. ‘Get back in the coach and be off with you,’ the first high way man ordered. ‘And think your selves fortunate I’m feelin’ generous today.’
They resumed their seats, the horses were whipped up and they were on their way again.
‘Madam, are you all right?’ James asked the young lady.
‘Leave ’er alone,’ Billings said. ‘Can’t you see she’s upset?’
‘Indeed I can, but I do not think it is I who upset her.’
‘Being held up by robbers is enough to overset anyone.’
‘True. But I notice you were more surprised than overset. The scoundrels were known to you.’
‘Please,’ the girl pleaded. ‘I thank you for your concern, sir, but I am perfectly well.’ Which was very far from the truth, but she evidently did not want him taking the man to task.
He looked across at Billings, who was eyeing him warily. If the fellow were to drop his guard, he might be able to over power him with Sam’s help. But if he did, what in God’s name would he do with the young lady? And how could he be sure those two high way men were not following them? The coachman must have had the same idea, because he was driving at break neck speed, relying on the moon and a couple of carriage lamps to light his way. Further conversation was almost impossible as they all hung on to the straps and endeavoured to stay in their seats.
When they stopped for a change of horses at Downham Market, he would endeavour to part Billings from the young lady long enough to interrogate them both separately, James decided. Whatever he discovered he would report to the local constable, though it would be impossible to give a description of the robbers, considering the night was dark and they were masked and shrouded in cloaks. No one was safe on the roads while men like those two waylaid travellers. He was glad he had had the fore sight to hide his precious cravat pin and most of his money in a belt about his waist and keep only a little in his purse. It was a common practice and he wondered why the thieves had not known it, or, if they did, had not searched him. He supposed they had been taken aback to find an acquaintance on the coach and their exchange with him had put it from their minds.
His musings came to an abrupt halt as the coach wheel dipped into a particularly deep pothole, seemed to right itself and then lurch off the road. In spite of the coachman’s heroic efforts, he could not bring it back on course and it went over and slid down the embankment, accompanied by the sound of frightened horses and splintering wood. The coachman yelled, Sam swore loudly, Billings screamed and then was silent. The girl uttered not a sound, as the vehicle came to rest on the steeply sloping bank only inches from the river.
James, who was thankfully unhurt, climbed out of the wreckage and turned to help the young lady. She was unconscious, which accounted for her silence, but was mercifully alive. He picked her up and laid her gently on the grass, then turned to the others. Sam was climbing out, looking dazed but otherwise unhurt. Billings must have broken his neck; his head lolled at an unnatural angle and he was clearly dead. The coachman, who had been flung into the river, was climbing out, dripping wet weeds in his wake. James went to help him while Sam and the guard saw to the horses.
One was clearly dead, another had struggled free and was in the river, swimming strongly for the other side. As soon as the other two had been released from the traces, one scram bled to its feet and galloped up the road in the direction from which they had come. The fourth, though clearly terrified, was unhurt and allowed itself to be led up on to the road. Once that was accomplished, everyone stood and surveyed the wreck. It was certainly not going to take them any further.
‘Do you think tho
se devils are behind us?’ the coachman queried, as James bent to tend to the young lady. She had a nasty bump on her temple, which would account for her passing out, but he could detect no broken bones. She would undoubtedly be bruised and sore when she regained her senses.
‘No tellin’, is there?’ Sam said. ‘And they’d be no help, would they?’
‘No, but the sooner we get away from here the better.’ He was trying to wring the water out of his wig, but it was a sorry mess and he gave up the idea of replacing it on his head and stuffed it in his equally wet pocket.
‘How far is it to the nearest village?’ James asked, glad he had given up wearing a wig. Opportunities for having one cleaned and dressed were few and far between while he was chasing criminals all over the country, and now his own hair was so long and thick no wig would stay on it. Usually he tied it back with a narrow ribbon, but if he was dining out, he allowed Sam to roll a few curls round some stuffing and powder it.
‘Highbeck’s four mile or thereabouts,’ the coachman said. ‘We’d ha’ bin calling there in any case.’
‘Right, then I’ll ride the horse and take the young lady up in front. The rest of you can walk.’
‘She’s out cold, she’ll not be able to hold on,’ Sam put in. ‘And the ’orse ain’t exactly quiet, is ’e?’
‘I can steady it with one hand, if you tie her to me.’
As no one had a better idea, this was done. He replaced his hat, which he had found in the wreckage of the coach, and mounted up, stilling the horse’s protests with calm words and firm knees. Sam fetched a strap from the boot and tied it round the lady’s waist and lifted her up to him. He slipped the loop over his head and put his arm through it, cradling her to his side, inside his coat. ‘Right, she is secure enough. I’ll see you all at the inn.’ He picked up the reins and set the horse to walk.
He could feel the warmth of her body through his shirt and realised it was the closest he had been to a woman since he had last held Caroline in his arms, the day he had waved her goodbye to go on his last voyage. He stifled the half-sob, half-grunt of anger that rose in his throat and looked down at the slight figure in his arms. Her head was nestling on his chest as if she knew she was safe, but her face was paler than ever. She should have started to come round by now, but she was still unconscious, though every now and again she gave a low moan and he prayed she had come to no lasting harm. He dared not make the horse hurry.
Her escort was dead and could not be questioned now. Did that mean she was free of trouble? When she came to her senses, he would have to find out what was going on, who she was, where she came from, then restore her to her family. If she had a family. She had no means of identification on her, no luggage, no purse, nothing but the clothes she wore, now filthy and torn. He had been through Billings’s pockets, but he’d had nothing either, except a few shillings and two coach tickets, destination Highbeck. That was the name of the village he was heading for. Did that mean she was nearly home? Or was it Billings’s roost? The questions plagued him as he clopped onwards, cradling the unconscious beauty in his arms. For she was beautiful, he realised, and her skin, except where it was bruised by the accident, was smooth and creamy. Her scarf had come loose and he could see the top of her breasts peeping from her stomacher. They rose and fell with her even breathing and for the first time in an age, he felt a frisson of desire. He pulled himself together, wishing she would regain her senses, but if she did and realised where she was, she would be mortified. Would she be as frightened of him as she had been of Billings? he wondered, not liking the idea.
It was dark by the time he reached the village. A dog barked loudly from a farm house on his right; another answered from the church yard on his left. He clopped on. A few cottages straggled along the road until he came to the cross roads and here there was light spilling from the open door of an inn. He reined in, slipped the strap from around his neck and called for the landlord to come to his assistance; he could not dismount until someone took his burden from him.
A man came out carrying a lantern. ‘Make haste, man,’ he told him. ‘The lady has been injured. She must be put to bed. Is there a doctor hereabouts?’
‘Not before Downham, sir. My wife will see to her.’
James gently lowered the girl so that the inn keeper could take her, then he dismounted and took her back to carry her inside.
The innkeeper’s wife hurried forwards. ‘What has happened?’
‘The coach over turned four miles back,’ James told her. ‘There’s a dead man and a dead horse. The coachman, the guard and my servant are following on foot. They will all need bruises and cuts seeing to and sustenance when they arrive, but first a room and a bed for the young lady.’
‘This way, sir.’ She led the way up a flight of stairs where she pushed open the door of a bedchamber. ‘Will this suffice?’
He looked about him. Although it was small, the room and the bed hangings were clean. ‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Do you need anything else? Hot water? Food and drink?’
‘All of those things when the lady regains her senses. Unfortunately she has been unconscious for some time and I do not even know her name.’ He put his burden on the bed.
‘My goodness, I know her,’ the lady said, peering down at the unconscious woman. ‘She used to live at Blackfen Manor, hard by here, when she was a child. I disremember her name—it was some time ago, you understand—but I know the ladies at the Manor, Miss Hardwick and Miss Matilda Hardwick.’
‘Then send for them at once. They will know what to do.’
The girl on the bed stirred and moaned and opened her eyes. ‘Where am I?’
‘At the King’s Arms in Highbeck,’ James answered. ‘You had a nasty knock on the head when the coach overturned.’
‘Coach?’
‘Yes, you were travelling on it. Don’t you remember?’
‘No. Where was I going?’
‘Coming here, I think.’
‘Why?’
‘You have kin at Blackfen Manor,’ the innkeeper’s wife put in. ‘I expect you were coming on a visit.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘It is hardly surprising,’ James said. ‘You were knocked out.’
‘Who are you?’ she asked him.
‘Captain Drymore, at your service,’ he said. ‘I was travelling on the same coach. Now you must rest. We are going to send word to Blackfen Manor for someone to take charge of you. I will leave you in the care of our hostess and come to see you again later.’
The innkeeper’s wife accompanied him to the door. ‘Was she travelling alone?’ she asked.
‘She had an escort, but he’s dead,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know whether to tell her that or not.’
‘We should tell the ladies when they come.’
He left her to tend to the girl’s bruises and went downstairs again to find the others had arrived and were making them selves comfortable in the parlour with a quart of ale each, while food was prepared for them. ‘What now?’ Sam asked when he joined them.
‘She is known to the innkeeper’s wife. It appears she has kin close by and someone is going to fetch them to take charge of her,’ James told him.
‘Thank the Lord for that, for a moment I thought we were going to be saddled with her.’
James realised, with a jolt, that her predicament had driven the main purpose of his journey from his mind, but it was time he began to think of it. ‘And you wouldn’t want that, would you, my friend?’
‘To be sure, it would put a spoke in the wheels. Has she got her senses back?’ Sam asked.
‘Yes and no. She is conscious, but still too dazed to know what has happened to her. No doubt the sight of her relatives will be all that’s needed.’
‘Then we go on?’
‘To Peterborough?’ James queried vaguely, his mind still half with the mystery of the girl.
‘Yes, had you forgot where we were going and why?’
‘No, I had not
and I’ll thank you to mind your manners.’
‘I beg your pardon, Cap’n sir, but you must admit you can’t be worrying about that one upstairs when we are so close to success.’ Sam was almost as determined on catching those two as he was, knowing what it meant to him.
‘How do you know we are close to success?’
‘We know they were on that coach and going to Peterborough, don’t we?’
‘Just because they paid the fare to Peterborough, does not mean they meant to travel all the way there. They could have left the stage anywhere to put us off the scent again. Or they may have gone on some where else,’ James pointed out.
‘And they might have been held up by those two highpads. That would have delayed them, don’t you think?’
‘Very true, but in the absence of evidence to the contrary we will head for Peterborough.’
‘I took the liberty of making enquiries, Captain, and there’s a coach coming through at first light which will take us on to Downham Market. And there are connections to Peterborough.’
‘Good. We can’t do anything more here.’
After they had eaten, James went up to speak to the young lady and take his leave of her. She had swallowed a little supper, he was told, but she was still dazed. ‘She’ll be fine as nine pence when the Misses Hardwick come to take care of her,’ the innkeeper’s wife said, as they stood outside the bedchamber talking quietly.
‘You have sent word to them?’
‘Yes, but they are maiden ladies and will not venture out at this time of night. They will be here in the morning.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ He was torn between staying and leaving. It was curiosity mixed with pity and a feeling of responsibility that made him want to stay and see her safely with her kin, while the determination to find his wife’s killers and see them hanged drove him relentlessly.