Rebeccah and the Highwayman

by Barbara Davies

  Anne crossed herself with a shaking hand. “Why couldn’t we have decided to stay at the coaching inn?”

  Why indeed? thought Rebeccah. But now was not the time for recriminations.

  “If only your father were here,” murmured their mother, ashen-faced.

  Had John Dutton been here he’d probably have been at as much of a loss as the rest of them, reflected Rebeccah wryly.

  “We must stay calm,” she said, though such a thing was easier to say than do. She had heard terrible tales of horses slaughtered, of victims robbed, beaten, and left for dead, but she kept that to herself. “Robert and Titus may yet succeed in driving them off. And if they do not, well … if we give them what they want, they should have no reason to harm us.” She didn’t dare pop her head out the window to see what was going on. A horse neighed, and the carriage lurched forward then stopped.

  Silence descended. Rebeccah clasped her hands tightly and exchanged a frightened glance with her mother and Mary. Anne had closed her eyes and was muttering ‘The Lord Is My Shepherd’ under her breath.

  The carriage rocked. A series of thuds followed.

  “Our luggage?” wondered Rebeccah aloud.

  Anne looked outraged. “They’ll smash that decanter Uncle Andrew gave Mama.”

  “It doesn’t signify,” said their mother. “Andrew can buy me a new one.”

  Then came a long pause that seemed to go on forever.

  Anne’s eyes blinked open and she looked round hopefully. “Perhaps they have taken what they want and gone -“

  Footsteps crunched towards the carriage. The handle beside Rebeccah turned and the door was wrenched open. Rebeccah put a hand to her mouth and shrank back in her seat.

  A stranger peered into the carriage, one hand resting on the sword hilt at his left hip, the other brandishing a pistol. “Ladies.” A kerchief over the bottom half of his face muffled his voice. Behind his mask his eyes were bright and startlingly pale, though it was hard to make out their colour in the moonlight.

  Mary let out a gasp. “Blue-Eyed Nick!” Oddly, her terror seemed to ease at the sight of him.

  “You have heard of me, Madam?” Amusement coloured the intruder’s voice as he turned to regard the maid. “I’m flattered.” He doffed his tricorne and bowed, and Rebeccah saw that, regardless of the fashion for wigs, his hair was his own, long, and black, and tied at the nape of his neck.

  “My apologies for any inconvenience,” continued the highwayman, straightening, “but I must ask you to hand me your valuables.” He turned once more to Rebeccah, and thrust his upturned hat at her. “Let’s start with you, Madam. That pretty trinket around your even prettier neck.”

  Her hand rose to her pearl choker necklace, then stopped as a thought occurred to her. “Our coachman and footman,” she managed. “Are they hurt?”

  “Give him what he wants, Beccah” urged her mother, her voice fearful.

  “They were well the last I saw.” The man’s tone was neutral. “If you would care to step outside and see for yourself, Madam?” He put his hat back on and held out a gloved hand.

  “Stay where you are,” hissed Anne. “Who knows what the blackguard will do to you once you are in his clutches.”

  The eyes behind the mask grew cold. “You have my word, she will not come to harm.”

  “The word of a murderer?”

  The highwayman ignored Anne’s question and turned his pale gaze on Rebeccah once more. Suddenly the cramped carriage that she had longed all day to escape had never seemed more desirable. Robert and Titus. She sucked in her breath, and with as dignified an air as she could manage, took the proffered hand, glad it was gloved since in the confines of the carriage she had removed hers.

  Her fears that he might take liberties with her person proved unfounded as he handed her down to the hard ground and stood back. Only now that they were on the same level did she realise how tall the fellow was.

  He gestured towards the rear of the carriage. She followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw two figures lying there, hands bound behind their backs. Beside them lay the Dutton luggage, which had been opened and rifled, and the servants’ discharged weapons.

  “Your pardon, Madam,” called a dejected Robert. “He was too much for me.”

  Movement in the open doorway of the carriage proved to be her mother peering out. Rebeccah gestured reassurance and glanced round. A single black horse was cropping the grass by the side of the road. One man managed to best two?

  “A lurching seat and a trembling hand can throw off a man’s aim,” said the highwayman, as though divining her thoughts. “Do not think too badly of them.”

  The comment brought a string of obscenities from Titus, and Rebeccah felt her cheeks heating in response. Pulling a kerchief from his pocket, the highwayman strode over, stooped, and stuffed it in the footman’s mouth. Titus continued swearing, but now Rebeccah couldn’t make out the words.

  A highwayman defending my honour, she thought, with a sense of unreality. Bless me!

  “Now we have settled the matter of whether I am a murderer,” continued Blue-Eyed Nick, “perhaps we can get back to that trinket?” He took off his hat once more, upturned it and held it out.

  His effrontery triggered her temper. “Perhaps not a murderer, Sir, but a common thief who preys on helpless women,” she blurted, then wished she hadn’t. But the eyes behind the mask crinkled with amusement not anger and she let out a breath in relief.

  “Thief I may be, but common?” He chuckled. “As for you, Mistress … Rebeccah, wasn’t it?” He seemed to relish saying her name. “‘Helpless’ is not the first word that comes to mind.” Again he waggled the hat.

  She remembered her instructions to the others. The highwayman was behaving pleasantly enough, if verging on the familiar, but who knew what turn his temper might take if she didn’t give him what he wanted? Best not to try his patience. She reached up and undid the clasp, then dropped the pearl choker necklace into the hat.

  “Thank you. Those too.” He pointed at the matching peardrops in her ears. When they had thudded into the hat alongside the necklace, he picked one up, examined it, and said, “Exquisite.”

  “Your opinion, Sir, is irrelevant.” Was that a snort of amusement? To her annoyance, her cheeks grew hot.

  “Are you well, Beccah?” It was Anne this time peering out of the carriage.

  “I am,” called Rebeccah. “And Robert and Titus are both safe, though bound.”

  Anne turned to relay the information to her companions.

  “The ring too.” The highwayman pointed to the signet ring.

  “No!”

  The pistol came up and he took a step towards her. “I did not give you a choice.”

  “Take it by force if you must.” Hot tears spilled down her cheek. “But I will not give it willingly. For it was my father’s and he is dead.”

  It had started out as any other Tuesday. Distant shouts of “Four for sixpence, mackerel,” and “Cherries ripe-ripe-ripe,” had woken Rebeccah, and she threw back the sheets and stretched, then walked through into the little dressing room that adjoined her bedroom to use the close stool. Back in the bedroom once more, she rang for her maid, crossed to the window and drew the curtains.

  The streethawkers were standing by the Square’s central garden, looking daggers at one another and striking poses to display the wares in their wicker baskets to best advantage. Rebeccah scratched her head and yawned, and pitied a little milkmaid going from house to house with her heavy pails.

  As she gazed down at the bustle two floors below, her thoughts turned inwards. Perhaps she should go shopping? Father’s birthday was fast approaching and she had yet to buy him a present. He could always use more gloves.

  “Twelve pence a peck, oysters,” yelled a new voice. A crookbacked little man had joined the other streethawkers and was receiving resentful looks. A liveried footman appeared and hurried towards him, examined the contents of his basket, then beckoned him toward
s the basement of one of the houses.

  Someone’s having oysters for dinner.

  A knock at the bedroom door made Rebeccah turn. “Come in.”

  The door opened to reveal the plump figure of her maid. “Good morrow, Madam.” Mary took a firm grip on the ewer and curtsied.

  Rebeccah smiled. “Good morrow to you, Mary.”

  “Am I to dress you now, Madam?”

  She nodded and led the way through into the dressing room. Mary busied herself filling the basin on the washstand with hot water from the ewer.

  “I thought … the brown faille?”

  “A good choice, Madam.”

  While Rebeccah washed and dried herself, and put on her stockings and shoes, Mary took the embroidered gown from the rack and shook out its creases.

  “I might buy my father some gloves for his birthday.” Rebeccah allowed herself to be eased into her corset, underskirt, overskirt and stomacher. “What do you think?”

  “I’m sure anything you buy him will be appreciated, Madam.” The maid combed Rebeccah’s hair and pinned it up. She cocked her head to one side to assess the result, and gave a nod. “There.”

  Rebeccah glanced at her reflection in the looking glass. “Thank you, Mary. That will be all.”

  “Very good, Madam.” Mary curtseyed and hurried out.

  Rebeccah’s father was just finishing his dish of chocolate, his close-cropped head looking naked without its wig, when she descended to the dining room on the first floor.

  George the butler bowed at Rebeccah’s entrance, and murmured, “Tea, Madam?” He knew she preferred it to chocolate. Receiving an affirmative, he hurried away.

  “Morrow, Beccah.” Her father gave her a fond smile. “You are the first down, as always.”

  “Good morrow, Papa.” She kissed his cheek, pulled out a chair next to him, and sat down. “Are you well?”

  “Indeed I am. Shan’t be able to keep you company this morning though, my dear, for I have business to attend to. That ship from the West Indies has finally docked.”

  She helped herself to bread and butter and a couple of slices of cold mutton. The butler reappeared with a steaming pot of tea and poured Rebeccah a dish. She nodded her thanks and began to eat.

  “And what are your plans for today?” Her father wiped his lips on a napkin.

  Rebeccah finished chewing then swallowed. “I expect Anne and I shall go shopping.”

  “You young women and your shopping.” He gave her an indulgent smile and stood up. “Then I shall see you at dinner.”

  With that he left the dining room and she heard his shoes clattering down the stairs. Ten minutes later her mother and still bleary-eyed sister joined her and she forgot all about him.

  After breakfast, Rebeccah and Anne drove to the Royal Exchange. While downstairs it was the noisy haunt of merchants like her father, its first floor boasted an array of nearly 200 small shops, most specialising in apparel. Anne bought herself some silk stockings shot through with gold and silver thread, ribbons, and a fan. Rebeccah contented herself with finding a pair of snug-fitting gloves, and the Jessamy butter her father liked to use to give the leather suppleness and fragrance.

  Mission accomplished, they drank tea in an India House and returned home in time for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. When her father didn’t appear for his dinner as promised, Rebeccah wasn’t unduly perturbed. Quite often business detained him. He was either at the Docks, supervising the unloading of cargo, or at the Exchange, or reading the papers and gossiping with his friends in Lloyd’s coffeehouse.

  She spent the afternoon playing cards with her mother, taking a dish of syllabub, and keeping a weather eye on Anne, who since it became known that her father intended to settle his business and the bulk of his fortune on her, had started receiving calls from admirers. Rebeccah didn’t think much of any of these potential suitors for her sister’s hand, but then Anne’s tastes had always differed from her own.

  When suppertime came and went, though, and it began to grow dark, and there was still no sign of her father, Rebeccah began to worry. From the constant glances towards the door, her mother was concerned too. When at last the senior footman came to announce a gentleman, “a Mr Edgeworth,” her heart gave a thump and her mother’s face paled.

  “Isn’t he father’s clerk?” asked Anne. “Whatever can he want at this hour?”

  “Show him in, please, Will,” ordered Mrs Dutton, standing up. Her mother’s hands were visibly trembling, and Rebeccah stood next to her and gave them a comforting squeeze.

  “It may be nothing serious,” she cautioned. Her mother didn’t answer. Her gaze was fixed on the door, which opened to admit the slightly oldfashioned young man Rebeccah had met once at her father’s place of business. He took off his hat, bowed, and regarded the three women gravely.

  “Mr Edgeworth,” managed her mother. “To what do we owe this honour?”

  “I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mrs Dutton.”

  Anne’s eyes widened. “Why, what has happened?”

  Her mother sank into her chair and Rebeccah threw her a concerned glance, before motioning Edgeworth to continue. If the news is as bad I fear it is, I must be strong for all of us, for certainly Anne and Mama will not take it well.

  “This morning … at the Docks … Mr Dutton complained of gripping pains in his chest and left arm, but the attack passed and he thought no more about it.” Rebeccah wondered if Edgeworth’s tricorne would survive the violent kneading he was giving it.

  “Is he dead, Sir?” Her blunt question drew shocked glances from everyone in the room.

  “Uh … ” Edgeworth grimaced. “Yes, Madam. I regret to have to inform you that at 3 o’clock this afternoon Mr Dutton passed away.”

  Her mother’s wail almost deafened Rebeccah, and she turned to comfort her. But Anne beat her two it. The two clasped one another as though it were all that stood between them and insanity. And perhaps they were right.

  So. Papa has gone to join dear William. A lump formed in Rebeccah’s throat. No more would he stride along the London streets, avoiding sedan chairs, calling out greetings to friends and acquaintances, doffing his tricorne to the ladies, and always tap … tap … tapping that ivory-topped walking stick of his.

  He’ll never see the gloves.

  “I can assure you that everything that could be done was,” continued Edgeworth, trying not to look at the weeping women, and mangling his hat still further. “We sent for a physician, but by the time he arrived there was nothing he could do.”

  “I am sure you have nothing to reproach yourself for, Sir,” managed Rebeccah. She blew her nose and stood up straighter. Papa always said I was the strong one. Now is not the time to prove him wrong. There are preparations to make. “May I enquire where… he … is now?” In other circumstances, Edgeworth’s open relief at her self-possession would have made her indignant.

  “I took the liberty, Madam, of conveying your father’s… ah … mortal remains here. They are outside, in a carriage.”

  “I see.” She gnawed her lower lip and considered. Her father had always said his clerk was a fount of knowledge. “May I ask … do you have any advice as to an undertaker?”

  Edgeworth produced a small rectangle of card from the pocket of his coat. “I can vouch that this is a reputable firm, Madam.”

  She took it and glanced at the morbid picture of a shrouded figure. Eleazor Malory, Joiner …. Coffins, Shrouds, Palls, and all things necessary to funerals …. “Thank you, Mr Edgeworth. I can see why my father relied so heavily on you.” He shuffled his feet at the compliment.

  “Shall I ask the footmen to bring Mr Dutton into … um, the Parlour?”

  Rebeccah glanced at her sobbing mother and sister and saw no help would be forthcoming from that quarter. “If you would be so kind.” She tapped the card. “And if you would also be so kind as to ask Mr Malory to present himself at his earliest opportunity?”

  “As you wish, Madam.” He bowed then, and
excused himself, and Rebeccah set about comforting her mother and sister and getting them both to bed.

  Much later, after the undertaker had been and gone, she went down to the parlour to gaze at her father’s body, now laid out in his Sunday Best, and to give vent to her grief.

  When the worst of the storm of weeping passed, she noticed the garnet signet ring glinting in the candlelight. Her father had known she admired it and promised she could have it when he died - so she removed it and put it on.

  From that day to this, the ring had never left Rebeccah’s finger.

  “Have pity!” Her heart raced. “It can mean nothing like as much to you as it does to me.”

  For a long moment, the highwayman’s eyes drilled into her. Then he gave a single curt nod and stepped back. “Very well. You may keep the ring.”

  There was a roaring in her ears, and she felt distinctly giddy. A hand under her elbow steadied her. “Are you well?” She waited for her heart to slow. “Mistress Rebeccah?” Since he seemed set on an answer, she nodded. After a moment more, the supporting hand withdrew.

  She wiped away the tears, conscious that her nose must be red, and her cheeks unbecomingly flushed, and then annoyed with herself for being concerned with such matters.

  “Let us return to the carriage,” said the highwayman, gesturing. “I still have business with your companions.”

  He helped her up, and while Rebeccah took her seat proceeded to deprive her sister of a pearl necklace and bracelet (a gift from Mr Ingrum), and her mother of her purse, her watch, and a diamond hairpin.

  Mary had only sixpence in her pocket. The highwayman flipped the coin, caught it, and handed it back to the maid with a bow. “Your need appears to be greater than mine.” Anne frowned at this show of favouritism, but said nothing.

  By now the tricorne was full of Dutton jewellery and the highwayman whistled to the black horse, which trotted over and stood quietly while he emptied the contents into a saddlebag. He donned his hat, put one booted foot into the stirrup, and mounted up.

  Rebeccah gaped, as he drew his sword and rode towards the rear of the carriage. He cannot intend to hurt them now, can he? She leaned out the door and peered towards the two servants.