Rebeccah and the Highwayman

by Barbara Davies

  “Stand up,” she heard Blue-Eyed Nick order. Made awkward by their bound wrists, the coachman and footman struggled to their feet. “Turn around.”

  Moonlight flashed on honed steel, and Rebeccah put a hand to her mouth as the rapier snaked out and sliced cleanly through their ropes. Her gasp drew his head round towards her, then those pale eyes were holding hers once more. The kerchief hid his expression, but she thought he was smiling.

  “Has the rogue gone yet?” hissed Anne behind her.

  He touched his sword to his hat in a mock salute and rode away.

  “Did you hear me, Beccah?” Her sister’s voice was impatient. “Has that vermin gone?”

  The highwayman increased his speed to a canter, then to a gallop, and disappeared into the darkness. Rebeccah stared after him, puzzled by the conflicting emotions he had stirred in her.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “That vermin has gone.”

  Home at last, thought Rebeccah.

  As the coach and four rumbled around the central garden in St James’s Square, she saw that while most of the houses were dark, their residents presumably snoring in their beds, one had all its lamps blazing. The carriage had barely pulled to a halt in front of it when the front door opened and servants wearing relieved smiles poured out to greet them.

  They handed down the occupants, and helped Robert and Titus to unload the luggage and carry it indoors.

  “We feared something awful had happened to you!” exclaimed the butler, as Rebeccah followed her sister into the hall, the tension in her shoulders easing as familiar surroundings engulfed her.

  “Something awful did,” said Anne, allowing her maid Nancy to relieve her of her wrap and gloves. “A highwayman attacked us on Blackheath, and we are much the poorer for it.”

  Nancy’s eyes widened.

  “No one was badly hurt,” added Rebeccah hastily. “Robert took a black eye and Titus has split his lip, but other than that we are safe and sound.” She handed her gloves to Mary.

  “Something to calm our nerves wouldn’t go amiss,” said Mrs Dutton, joining her daughters in the hall. She discarded her outergarments and started up the stairs. “We’ll take brandy, George,” she called. “In the drawing room, if you please.”

  The butler nodded.

  Rebeccah grimaced. “Sherry for me, please.” She started up the stairs after her mother.

  For all it was a warm night, a fire was burning in the drawing room hearth. Her mother stood rubbing her hands in front of it, as much for the comfort of routine, Rebeccah suspected, as to get warm. She crossed to one of the easy chairs and sank into its depths, easing off shoes that had grown tight, and wiggling her toes.

  The butler entered, with a silver tray on which were several full glasses. Rebeccah accepted hers with a nod of thanks, took a sip - the lingering taste of pickled onions made the sherry taste rather strange - and stared into the flames.

  “Bless me, what a day!” She pressed a hand to her aching temple.

  “Indeed.” Anne took an easy chair beside the fire. “A broken carriage wheel and a highwayman.” She sipped her brandy and gave a ladylike shudder. “And to think that only this morning we were breakfasting in Chatham, with no thought of the ordeal ahead.”

  “Just as well,” said their mother. She drained her brandy and reached for another. The butler’s face remained impassive.

  A knock at the door proved to be the senior footman. “Excuse me, but Mary has just told me what happened, Madam. Do you wish me to inform the Sheriff of your losses? If so, we should lose no time.”

  Mrs Dutton blinked at Will then looked to her two daughters for advice.

  “Indeed we should, Mama,” said Anne. “The sooner that rogue is brought to justice, the better.”

  “Yet we were robbed after dark,” objected Rebeccah. “So recompense for ‘daylight robbery’ will not apply. Is that not correct, Will?”

  “I fear so, Madam.”

  “Disgraceful!” said Anne. “But the sheriff can at least set the constables after the fellow. ‘Blue-Eyed Nick’, indeed!” She gulped her brandy too quickly and spent the next minute coughing.

  Rebeccah considered Mary’s instant identification of the highwayman, presumably from the paleness of his eyes. “It will make little difference, for I suspect the constables know of him already.” She turned to regard her mother who was still standing by the fire. “Tomorrow is surely soon enough for any notification.” She took another sip of her sherry and thought longingly of her bed.

  “We must also post a reward for the return of our property,” added Anne.

  Rebeccah opened her mouth then closed it again.

  “You do not agree, Beccah?” asked her mother.

  “In my opinion,” she said, aware that all eyes were on her, “it would merely be throwing good money after bad. For even if our property should be found … which is unlikely … the finder’s reward would swallow up half its value.” She glanced down at her finger, where the garnet ring glinted red in the firelight. “Though I regret our losses, Mama, you must admit that nothing he took had any sentimental value.”

  “My necklace and bracelet were a gift from Mr Ingrum!” protested Anne.

  “Precisely.” Rebeccah’s murmur elicited an outraged stare.

  Mrs Dutton sighed. “There is some sense in what Beccah says, Anne.” She put her empty glass on the mantelpiece and turned to the waiting footman. “A message tomorrow morning will be soon enough, Will. Thank you.” He bowed and left the drawing room. “As for you, George, you may tell everyone below stairs that we shall be retiring shortly.”

  “Very good, Madam.”

  When the butler had collected the empty glasses and departed, Mrs Dutton gave Rebeccah and Anne a rueful smile. “For we are all more than ready for our beds, aren’t we, my dears? But if I don’t dream of being robbed and ravished by some masked villain, it will be a wonder!”

  ***

  Chapter 2

  A sedan chair was hurtling along the pavement towards Kate.

  “Make way,” puffed a redfaced bearer. “I said: make way, there.”

  She gestured rudely, checked no heap of horse droppings was lying in wait, and stepped into the road.

  She had set aside today to take care of financial matters. First stop was the pawnbroker. Fencing cullies were best haggled with by members of their own sex, she’d learned from bitter experience. So as she remounted the pavement and strode along Drury Lane in the morning sunshine, she was wearing her working clothes, minus the mask and kerchief.

  That someone might rumble her gender was a risk, especially in daylight, but male attire, her height and the deeper voice she adopted, along with the smudge of coal dust on her upper lip, would encourage people to take her at face value. And those few Londoners already familiar with the features of ‘Blue-Eyed Nick’ were unlikely to turn ‘him’ in.

  She stopped at the sign of the three golden balls of Lombardy, and peered through a grimy window bearing the lettering: ‘Wardrobes bought in Town and Country. By Henry Flude. Unredeemed Goods sold Wholesale and Retail.’

  The interior was empty, so she turned the door handle and went in.

  “Won’t keep you a minute,” came a shout from the rear of the gloomy shop. Kate busied herself bolting the door and turning the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’.

  “And what can I do for… Ah, it’s you.” A little man with a crooked nose, his wig askew, beamed up at her in pleased recognition. He rubbed his hands together and zeroed in on the hessian sack lying at her feet. “What have you got for me, Nick?”

  Heaving the sack up onto the counter, she unknotted its neck and reached inside. “These.” She pulled out a silver snuffbox, placed it on the counter, then reached into the sack again.

  By the time it was empty, the counter was covered with loot. Rings jostled hatpins, buckles, bracelets, and necklaces; brooches elbowed aside snuffboxes and lockets; a gold watch crowded a silver sword; silk pocket mouchoirs looked down their noses
at ribbons; and bringing up the rear was a full-bottomed wig made of human hair.

  Flude’s eyebrows shot up. “Didn’t think wool-snaffling was your lay!”

  Kate grinned. “The fellow annoyed me. Once his head was bared to the breeze, he proved more amenable.”

  The pawnbroker chuckled and examined the wig. His gaze turned inwards, and she could see him doing mental calculations. “I can give you … 30 guineas for the lot.”

  “Hanged if you do! That wig alone is worth eight.”

  “Brand new, maybe, but …” He cocked his head and regarded her, like a robin viewing a worm.

  “Forty-five,” countered Kate. “That’s fair and you know it.”

  Someone rattled the front door, then banged on the window and yelled, “Open up.” Flude glanced round, saw it was only a blowsy young woman with a baby on her hip, and ignored her.

  “You’re forgetting the risk I’m running. Not to mention my overheads … Thirty-five.”

  “The risk you’re running? Devil take it, Henry! Forty. And that’s my lowest.”

  “Done.” He shook her hand so heartily, she knew he had got the best of the deal. Pox take him!

  While Flude went behind the counter to open his strongbox and retrieve Kate’s money, she wandered around the shop, peering at the trays of jewellery and bric-a-brac, racks of used clothing, wigs draped over dummy heads. Outside, the woman had resigned herself to a long wait.

  A delicate, painted fan took Kate’s fancy. She fingered it, wondering if Alice would like it.

  “She’ll love it,” said Flude. She turned to see find him grinning at her. He winked. “I’ll take the two shillings out of this, shall I?” He pointed at the coins stacked on the counter in front of him.

  Kate sighed. “Very well.” She put the fan in the pocket of her coat, pulled out the empty coin purse, and flung it at him. When he’d transferred the money, she pulled the purse’s drawstring tight, and stuffed it in the other pocket. “Until next time.” She tipped her hat.

  “Always a pleasure.” He nipped ahead of her, turned the sign to ‘Open’, and drew back the bolt.

  “At those prices, I’m certain of it.”

  The woman with the baby brushed past Kate, digging an elbow in her side as she did so. Kate turned to give the hussy a piece of her mind, only to find the woman bent on giving Flude a royal flea in his ear. Chuckling, she left them to it.

  Kate’s next stop was the Clerkenwell Road.

  Unlike its grubby neighbours, the little house’s windows gleamed in the sunlight, and its front step had been freshly scrubbed. She rapped the doorknocker and waited.

  The rosy-cheeked young woman in the starched apron did a double take when she took in the ‘gentleman’ standing on her doorstep, then she chuckled and stood back.

  “Kate,” said Eliza Wagstaff. “A welcome surprise. Come in.”

  She ducked her head under the low lintel and stepped inside, then waited for the other woman to close the door, before following her through to the kitchen. There, she placed her tricorne on a well-scrubbed dresser, and flopped down in a vacant chair.

  “How are you, Eliza? The last six months seem to have treated you well.”

  “I am well, thank you. And you?”

  “As you see.”

  “I worry about you, you know.” Eliza looked grave. “You take such risks …”

  Kate shrugged. “I’m careful.” The words ‘more careful than Ned’ hung unspoken between them.

  “But where are my manners? Would you like some refreshment? … No tea, I’m afraid, but there’s chocolate, and ratafia biscuits -“

  “Nothing for me, thank you.”

  Eliza sat down. While the clock ticked and the fire in the hearth crackled the two women studied one another’s faces, both apparently satisfied by what they found.

  Kate smiled and sat back in her chair. “How’s the boy?”

  “Well.” Eliza traced a circle on the table with a finger. “More man than boy now. Seventeen last month. You won’t believe how fast he’s growing. Looks more like his father everyday.” She sighed.

  “Bunhill is still treating Adam well?” The old clockmaker would have Kate to deal with if he wasn’t - it was her money that had paid the premium for the apprenticeship.

  “Yes.” A smiled curved Eliza’s lips. “He’s of the opinion that Adam will make a fine clockmaker. Says he’s strong and quick with his hands.”

  An image of her older brother groping every pretty young woman he met sprang into Kate’s mind and she chuckled. “Just like his father.”

  Eliza’s smile faded and she dropped her gaze. “Sometimes I wonder, if Ned hadn’t got me with child…”

  And if losing his apprenticeship as a consequence hadn’t set him thieving, and the jail fever hadn’t been rife in Newgate….

  “Lord knows, I loved my brother, Eliza, but if it hadn’t been that it would have been something else. He just wasn’t cut out to be an apprentice shoemaker. Why my parents ever thought he was….” Kate rolled her eyes.

  “You are probably right.” Eliza’s smile returned. “Adam has more application that his father, thank heavens!”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  But it was time to get down to business, so Kate pulled the heavy purse from her coat pocket and plunked it on the table. “For you and the boy.” She counted out 20 guineas, mostly in crowns, and pushed the coins across the table.

  Eliza’s eyes widened. “You are so good to us.” Her voice was humble. “Thank you with all my heart.”

  “None of that,” said Kate. “We both know Ned would have wanted me to look after you and his child.” They also both knew that, without Kate’s help, Eliza would be earning her living on her back, and her son, in all likelihood, would be a thief. “I’ve told you before,” continued Kate, “when Adam is a fully-fledged clockmaker, he may support you both, but until then…” She pulled the drawstring tight and slipped the purse back into her pocket.

  An awkward silence fell, then Eliza cleared her throat and changed the subject by enquiring, “And are you still sharing rooms with … Alice, wasn’t that her name?”

  Kate nodded. “Ay.” Rather sheepishly she pulled the painted fan from her pocket. “I bought her this. Do you think she’ll like it?”

  Eliza regarded her with a smile. “Of course she will. It’s from you.”

  “And you, Eliza,” said Kate, more to change the subject than anything, “Has no gentleman caught your eye yet?”

  “As it happens …. For the first time in years, there is someone. His name is George … George Parker.” She blushed and threw Kate an anxious look. Ned wouldn’t have expected Eliza to remain chaste, so she nodded encouragement. Eliza brightened. “He’s six foot tall, and has the most lively brown eyes, and he lives a few doors down. He’s a tailor by trade …”

  With an inward sigh, Kate sat back and resigned herself to a long recital of the many accomplishments of Eliza’s new beau.

  Kate listened to a nearby clocktower striking three and frowned at the mustard spot she had just spotted on her cravat - a memento of the dinner she had bolted at a little cookshop in Aldgate Street. This was her last appointment. She hoped it would go as well as the others had.

  The cottage door creaked open.

  “Mistress Milledge.” The big-breasted woman in the shabby gown didn’t bat an eyelid at Kate’s odd attire, just stepped back and beckoned her inside.

  For the second time that day, Kate ducked her head to avoid a low lintel and followed a woman through to her kitchen. Whereas Eliza Wagstaff’s kitchen had been the picture of order and well-scrubbed cleanliness, this room was chaotic, and in need of a clean. It was also warm, comforting, and smelled of tobacco and dog. Rather like its owner.

  Beau the lurcher was sprawled on the rug by the hearth; he uttered a wheezy groan by way of greeting. Kate grinned at him, then took the rocking chair that didn’t have a sewing box and square of red silk lying on it.

  “How is she
?” She took off her hat and placed it in her lap.

  “Upstairs, resting.” Jane Allen took the other chair and resumed edging the handkerchief as they talked. “Do you want me to bring her down?”

  Kate shook her head and indicated herself. “Better not.” Dressed like this, she looked like her brother, or so she’d been told. The last thing her mother needed was to be reminded of him. “One of her bad days?”

  Martha had occasional moments of lucidity. When she did, the memory of what she had lost - a husband and six of her seven children - returned and made life almost unbearable. It was better when her wits were addled. Then she was like a child, happy and carefree. She also no longer recognised Kate as her daughter, but that was a small price to pay.

  “Her memory is clear as crystal,” confirmed Jane. “Fortunately, it won’t last. It never does.”

  Kate fiddled with her hat. “I was thinking of taking Mama to Bartholomew Fair tomorrow. But if you think it will be too much …”

  “Not at all.” The other woman beamed approval. “It will be just the thing to cheer her mood.”

  When her mother had first lost her wits, well-meaning friends had suggested Martha belonged in Bedlam for her own safety. But Kate had rejected that notion out of hand and searched for an alternative. She found it in Jane Allen. Thank God I did!

  Kate relaxed, leaned back in her chair, and began to rock. Beau huffed and flipped his tail out of harm’s way. “That’s settled then. If you could have her ready by ten…. I’ll buy her some dinner as well.”

  Jane nodded her agreement, bit off the thread, and set aside the handkerchief and sewing box.

  “I’ve brought you this month’s money,” said Kate, pulling the purse from her coat pocket. Jane nodded her thanks and let Kate count the usual ten guineas into her palm. “Do you need anything more?”

  The other woman thought for a moment, then shook her head. Kate opened her mouth, but Jane forestalled her, “Rest assured, Mistress Milledge, if there is ever anything your mother needs, I will send to let you know at once.”