Rebeccah and the Highwayman

by Barbara Davies

  She thrust the now much lighter purse back in her pocket. “Thank you, Jane.”

  Beau yawned, got up, approached his mistress, and lay down again, his chin resting on her shoe. “You great lump!” Jane bent and scratched him behind one ear.

  Kate smiled. “I must go.” She put on her hat and rose, setting the chair rocking. Her hostess made to get up too. “No, stay and pet the brute. I know my way out by now.”

  She made her way towards the door, then stopped and looked back. “10 tomorrow morning?”

  Jane smiled up at Kate and nodded. “In her Sunday Best.”

  Kate took the last flight of stairs at a run, turned the doorknob, and flung open the door. The room was empty. She closed the door behind her, slung her baldric and sword from the hook, and placed her hat on it too.

  “Is that you, Kate?” called Alice.

  She turned as the redheaded landlady appeared in the bedroom doorway. “No, it’s Good Queen Anne come to ask you to be her lady in waiting.”

  Kate drew close to Alice and kissed her, losing herself in the pleasant activity for a moment before pulling back. “My day went well. How was yours?”

  Alice grimaced. “The Wilsons have done a flit, and taken my furniture with them. Now I have to find new tenants for the ground floor and re-furnish the place too.”

  Why anyone would want to steal the worm-ridden stuff that Alice provided in her cheaper accommodation, Kate couldn’t imagine, but she kept her thoughts to herself. “You’ll manage. You always do. … Here.” She pulled out the painted fan. “I bought you this.”

  Alice’s eyes went wide in delight and she took the fan, unfolded it, and regarded the design from several angles. “How pretty! Thank you.”

  “Maybe you could show your gratitude later … in more tangible form,” suggested Kate, enjoying the blush that rose to the older woman’s cheeks. The image of a younger, prettier face, cheeks suffused with a delicate blush, green eyes made brilliant by tears, rose unbidden.

  I wonder where Rebeccah is now.

  A rap on the nose brought her back to her surroundings. “Hey!” She pushed away the folded fan and the hand holding it.

  “You hold yourself in high esteem indeed, my bold Highwayman, if you think you can buy my favours with a mere painted fan.” But Alice’s eyes were twinkling. “Now if you were to buy me a good supper at The Rose and Crown, and some decent wine to go with it …”

  Kate draped a lazy arm round Alice’s shoulders and sucked the stem of her pipe.

  The Rose and Crown served an excellent meal for a shilling, so they had dined on Mrs Elborrow’s oyster pies, and afterwards, Alice had downed a pint of best claret while Kate savoured her favourite ale.

  “Let me clear these away for you.” The buxom barmaid, whose name was Nan, began to clear away the plates, making sure that Kate got an eyeful of her ample charms. Alice stirred and muttered something indignant. Kate gave her shoulder a consoling pat and winked at Nan, then exhaled a puff of smoke.

  The snug was full tonight, the chatter, laughter and fiddle music almost deafening. In the far corner, just visible through the blue tobacco fug, a rake and his whore were kissing and fondling. In another corner, two gamesters had shoved back their chairs and were standing glaring at one another across the card table. There were fights here most nights - Kate had started a few herself.

  John Elborrow, his staff, and many of the regulars knew her identity, but since most were footpads, thieves, fences or informants themselves, they turned a blind eye. Occasional sums of money also helped to quiet wagging tongues. Here Kate felt at ease, whether dressed as a man or a woman. The fact that several Mollies were also regulars, and turned up from time to time in women’s clothing didn’t hurt.

  The fiddler reached the end of his jig and called out, “Give us a song, Kate.”

  “Ay,” called John Stephenson, a friend and fellow highwayman. “Give us ‘the Female Frollick’.”

  She sighed and looked at Alice, who grinned and mouthed “Go on.”

  “Very well.” Kate withdrew her arm and stood up, the action bringing a cheer from onlookers. She made a mock bow, took an open stance and a deep breath, and launched into the first verse.

  “You Gallants of every Station,

  give ear to a Frollicksome Song;

  The like was ne’er seen in the Nation,

  ’twas done by a Female so young.

  “She bought her a Mare and a Bridle,

  a Saddle, and Pistols also,

  She resolved she would not be idle,

  for upon the Pad she did go.”

  Those who knew Kate’s identity let out a shout of approval, and from behind the bar, Nan batted her eyelashes. What would it be like to have Rebeccah looking at her like that? Kate banished the stray thought, and took another deep breath.

  By the time she had finished the song, she needed something to wet her whistle. As she sat down, to roars of applause, and the fiddler struck up another jig, Alice pushed Kate’s cup towards her and smiled, her gaze fond.

  “You have a wonderful voice, Kate,” she said. “You should sing more often.”

  She took a gulp of her ale and patted the landlady’s hand. But even as she did so, she realised that Alice’s praise meant little.

  Why is love always beyond my reach? Now lust … I know what that’s like. She glanced towards the corner of the snug, but the rake and his whore had vanished.

  Feeling suddenly depressed, she signalled to Nan for a refill. The barmaid dimpled, nodded, and hurried round the bar with a jug of ale.

  “Are you well, Kate?” Alice was frowning at her.

  She forced a smile. “Fit as a flea, my dear.”

  ***

  Rebeccah gazed out of the drawing room window. It was another sunny morning, and for the next fortnight Londoners of all classes would be flocking to Bartholomew Fair. Her family and friends considered themselves too genteel to attend such a disreputable event, though, and she couldn’t possibly go on her own - cutpurses plagued the ground at West Smithfield, taking advantage of the crowds and noise. Not that it would match up to her fond childhood memories anyway, she consoled herself.

  Papa had taken her to the Fair when she was eight, too young to notice the drunks and brawlers and the harlots plying their trade. To Anne’s annoyance, the treat had been for Rebeccah alone, meant to soften the blow of imminent departure to Mrs Priest’s boarding school in Chelsea. Papa hadn’t left her side as they walked through the chattering, laughing crowds, seeing everything there was to be seen.

  Rebeccah had been almost sick with excitement at the colourful clowns, acrobatic tumblers, jugglers, ropewalkers, and a broadsword fighter challenging all comers. She hadn’t liked the freak shows then and still wouldn’t - the unfortunate grotesques on display might amuse some (those who drove to Bedlam for entertainment) but drew only pity tinged with revulsion from her. She would probably appreciate the strolling players’ satire more now though. Then, she had preferred a squeaky-voiced puppet show called ‘Punchinello and the Devil’.

  Her father had bought her some pork crackling from a food stall, then wiped the grease from her fingers and presented her with a poppet in a fashionable striped silk dress - she still had the doll somewhere. She had refused to be parted from it even while on the flying coaches, whose swinging had made her giddy. The memory of that wonderful outing had seen her through those awkward first days at boarding school.

  I wonder if Blue-Eyed Nick will be at the Fair.

  It was hardly surprising that the highwayman was in her thoughts. Across the room, Anne was recounting to her two admirers the details of the robbery two nights ago.

  It was odd how her sister’s recollection of the encounter on Blackheath differed so markedly from Rebeccah’s. The brief encounter with the highwayman had metamorphosed into a half-hour life or death tussle with the Devil himself, and he had made off with half the Dutton family heirlooms. Titus’s attempts to defend his employers also seemed to grow with e
ach telling … and there had been many such. Odd how Robert the Coachman had disappeared from the story. Odd also, how all mention of the highwayman letting Rebeccah keep her father’s signet ring had vanished too. Anne believed Blue-Eyed Nick must have mistakenly believed it of no value. Rebeccah, however, was convinced the reason was different - quite simply, the highwayman had taken pity on her. She had given up trying to set the matter straight though, as it merely earned her a glare and an acid rebuke about defending vermin.

  She sighed and watched the two men fawning on Anne. She knew from bitter experience that, when her sister was absent, they made sheep’s eyes at other women. Papa had done Anne no favours by making her sole heiress to his business, though he thought he had.

  He’d confided his reasons to Rebeccah one day not long before he died. Perhaps he was feeling guilty about the small marriage portion coming to his youngest daughter. “It’s like this, Beccah. William’s dead and Anne’s the oldest.” He sighed. “Sad truth of it is, your sister don’t have your looks. You’ll do well enough, but …” He scratched his nose. “Can’t have her turning into an old maid, can we? Two birds with one stone, d’you see? Anne gets a husband. Dutton’s stays in one piece.”

  “He should have known better,” murmured Rebeccah. Marriage for the wrong reasons is worse than no marriage at all.

  “Who should have, dear?” Her mother was sitting next to her, sewing.

  “Papa. If it wasn’t for him, those dolts wouldn’t be after Anne.”

  “Are you referring to Mr Filmer and Mr Ingrum?” Mrs Dutton plied her needle. “They are pleasant enough young men, Beccah.” She threw her daughter a sideways glance. “You must not let envy get the better of you.”

  “Envy!” Her exclamation drew curious glances and she lowered her voice. “Why should I envy Anne the attentions of such shallow creatures?”

  “If they are shallow, let us hope that is to the good. For with your father gone, Anne needs no one’s approval but her own.” She sighed. “If only your brother had lived.”

  “Beg pardon, Mama.” Rebeccah squeezed her mother’s hand. “I didn’t mean to reopen old wounds.” William had died five years ago, returning from the East Indies on one of his father’s ships. They still missed him, especially Anne. Without his benevolent presence, she had become more self-absorbed than ever.

  “Well, we must not expect the world for Anne,” resumed Mrs Dutton. “As long as her husband is kind, keeps her in funds, and gets her with child swiftly, so she has plenty to occupy her….”

  “Mama, how can you say that?”

  Mrs Dutton bit off the thread and reached for a bobbin of a different colour. “Because it’s true.”

  “What about love?”

  The older woman glanced at Rebeccah and smiled. “You always did have overly romantic notions, Beccah. Where you got such foolishness from I have no idea.”

  “But you loved Papa, didn’t you? I know he loved you.”

  “Not at first, dear. That came later.” Mrs Dutton glanced at Anne and exchanged a smile. “I’m sure your sister will find things just the same.”

  Rebeccah kept her scepticism to herself.

  “What did you think of that nice young man in Chatham?”

  She blinked at the change of subject. “I beg your pardon?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Beccah! It’s time you stopped concerning yourself with your sister’s marriage prospects and thought more about your own. What did you think of Mr Dunlop?”

  Rebeccah considered the dull young man who, while she had been staying at her Uncle’s, had kept seeking her out when she would rather be alone. “Mr Dunlop doesn’t want a wife, he wants a brood mare. All he could talk of was horses and life in the country. … And the fact that he wants a house full of children. … That’s when he wasn’t talking about architecture of course. Apparently there are some particularly fine examples of Norman churches in his county.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Mama, I cannot marry him. I’d die in childbed, or if not there then of boredom. Besides, he’s fat and has a double chin.”

  Her mother chuckled. “Not that fat. You are too particular, Beccah. You must lower your sights.”

  “Do men ever lower theirs?”

  “You cannot blame them for being concerned about financial matters, dear. But there are other considerations. Your face and figure are acceptable, thank heavens, and you have other assets besides your marriage portion. I didn’t agree with your father sending you to Mrs Priest’s - education only makes a woman dissatisfied with her lot - but I own that it instilled in you many of the accomplishments desirable to a husband.”

  Rebeccah doubted any gentleman would appreciate her calligraphy, but held her tongue. “Then why aren’t gentlemen queuing to ask for my hand?” Her question was only half in jest.

  “Be patient. Once Anne is married, it will be your turn. We will find you a man who is moderately wealthy, kind, well mannered …”

  Rebeccah tuned out the rest of her mother’s list. I don’t want ‘kind’, I want passionate. Someone whose merest look can start butterflies in my stomach and make my palms damp. A pair of pale eyes popped into her mind’s eye. Oh, go away!

  Silence brought her back to her surroundings. Her mother was looking at her. “Well?”

  “Er …” She tried to remember what they had been talking about.

  Mrs Dutton rolled her eyes. “Really, Beccah. Sometimes I wonder where your wits are. I was asking you whether you wish to come with me to Hampstead, to take the waters this afternoon. Anne has agreed to come.”

  Bartholomew Fair would be much more to my taste. “Of course, Mama,” she said aloud. “I’d love to.”

  ***

  Kate ducked an overhanging branch, and straightened in her saddle.

  “What rich pickings will tonight bring us, eh, girl?” She guided Clover round an old oak tree then, as the wood opened up ahead, kneed her into a trot. “Enough for me to hang up my mask for good?”

  The toss of the mare’s head was probably just irritation at a horsefly, but Kate chose to interpret it otherwise.

  “No,” she agreed. “Then I will settle for refilling my purse.” She hummed a few bars of ‘The Female Frollick’, her thoughts rewinding the events of the day.

  She had spent an agreeable if expensive morning and afternoon with her mother, who had once more forgotten Kate was her daughter. Fortunately Martha always recognised her as a familiar face, and trusted Kate enough to accompany her to Bartholomew Fair.

  There, as Kate had expected, her smiling, vague mother had proved irresistible to pickpockets. Like wolves picking out the weakest member of the herd, they arrowed towards her, eager to cut the strings of her purse. They would have known better than to mess with Blue-Eyed Nick, but with her hair pinned up, and dressed in a mantua, she was unrecognisable to all except those who knew her well, and few of those were at the Fair.

  The would-be predators soon learned that, for all her ladylike appearance and lack of a sword and pistols, Kate was more than able to defend her addled companion. By the time the second thief retired, nursing a black eye and broken wrist, a warning to give the tall woman a wide berth was spreading like ripples over a pond throughout West Smithfield. Her mother had been untroubled by thieves for the rest of the day.

  Delighted by the childlike pleasure with which Martha greeted everything, Kate had let her watch every attraction, paid the entrance fee for every booth she desired to enter, fed her sweets from various food stalls (and hoped they wouldn’t spoil her appetite). At last, though, the hustle and bustle and endless walking made Martha fretful, and they retired to a cook shop for dinner and ale.

  It was nearly four o’clock when Kate delivered her tired-but-happy charge into the welcoming arms and paws of Jane Allen and Beau, and decided it was less exhausting robbing a stagecoach.

  It had been a good day, she reflected. She hoped the night would turn out as well.

  She reined in Clove
r at the edge of the heath, well away from the handsome houses that were springing up as welltodo folk decided this was an agreeable spot to spend their summers. To the south lay London, looking beautiful in the moonlight and deceptively serene considering its stench and bustle.

  Hampstead was a popular watering hole, and the gentry flocked here on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays in search of diversion. After taking the medicinal spring waters, some would gather to gossip and smoke in the coffeehouse, while those with a passion for the English country-dances that were all the rage could go to the adjacent Assembly Room. Most would have travelled back across the heath in daylight or, if after dark, in convoy, but with luck there might still be some foolhardy straggler making his way back to the city alone.

  The mare tossed her head. “Easy, girl.” Kate patted Clover’s neck and peered through her mask’s eyeslits. “Can you hear something?” She cocked her ear, and after a moment heard what Clover must have - the clop of hooves and rumble of wheels.

  She pulled the kerchief over her nose and mouth, drew her pistols and waited. When the carriage came into view, she blinked at it in astonishment. “Surely not!”

  Kate stood up in her stirrups for a better look. The four horses were identical to those pulling Rebeccah’s carriage, and the servants were undoubtedly the same.

  She took off her hat and resettled it, to give herself time to think. Her heart was racing. Just because it was the same coach and four, it didn’t mean that the young woman was aboard.Someone else could have hired it.

  She sat back in the saddle. It would be rash to attack the same coach twice. This time they would be ready for her. But if Rebeccah is aboard….

  A sudden urge to see those blushing cheeks and green eyes again overtook Kate, and before she could stop herself, she had dug in her heels and urged Clover forward, angling the mare to intercept the approaching carriage.

  In the event, repetition worked in her favour. The coachman and footman were so startled to see the same highwayman attacking them, they fumbled (and in the footman’s case dropped) their weapons. By the time the coachman had got his blunderbuss cocked and ready, Kate had brought the team of horses to a halt and was pointing her pistol straight at him.