Rebeccah and the Highwayman

by Barbara Davies

  “Humph!” But after a moment the set of the maid’s jaw softened and she unfolded her arms.

  “Were my own clothes too badly cut up to be saved?” asked Kate, round a mouthful of food. “A shame if so, for they cost me a pretty penny.”

  The maid crossed to the tall boy standing against one wall and crouched. As she pulled open the bottom drawer, the scent of dried lavender filled the room. “Mistress Rebeccah asked me to mend and launder them.” She pointed. “Your boots and sword are here too. Will cleaned them.” She paused and looked uncomfortable. “We mislaid your tricorne. It must still be on the Heath.”

  “No matter. That was kind. Thank you.” She sipped her chocolate without enthusiasm. She had never really acquired the taste for it - just as well considering how expensive it was.

  Mary shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I have duties to attend to. Is there anything else?”

  Kate smiled and shook her head.

  The maid left her to eat her breakfast in peace.

  It felt good to be wearing her own clothes, thought Kate, as she pulled on her hose and breeches and stamped into her boots. She felt far less … vulnerable.

  She pondered whether to bind her breasts, then thought it would be good practice. At first her shoulder objected and made the going awkward, but she persevered and was tying the final knot in the strip of cotton when the door opened and Rebeccah entered.

  The young woman let out a muffled apology, halted, and averted her gaze - but not before taking a good look at the half-dressed highwaywoman, Kate saw with a smile.

  She pulled on her shirt and began buttoning it. “You may look now.”

  Rebeccah did, her cheeks slightly pink. “You should have waited for Mary to help you,” she chided. “You will break open your wound.”

  “I have been in the habit of dressing myself since I was a child.”

  Kate reached for her waistcoat. The colour had faded - the result of much soap and scrubbing, she presumed - but Mary’s stitches were almost as tiny as Kate’s own, and the darned hole was only visible if you looked for it. “Nice,” she murmured, slipping her arms through the armholes and buttoning it up.

  “Are you planning to leave today?” asked Rebeccah, trying and failing to hide her dismay.

  “What, and forego the pleasure of your company sooner than I must?” Kate shook her head and was charmed to see the other woman’s frown disappear. “But go soon I must. For every day deprives you of your bed and risks your reputation.”

  And I am coming to realise that it is one thing to take advantage of an older, married woman such as Alice, wise in the ways of the world, but quite another to trifle with the affections of an innocent whose future depends on her unsullied good name.

  Green eyes blinked at her and soft lips pursed. Kate turned away before the urge to take Rebeccah in her arms and kiss her got the better of her.

  The clip clop of hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels drew her over to the window, and she stared down. A coach and four had stopped outside the Dutton residence. The footman jumping down and running round to open the nearside carriage door seemed familiar. She chewed her lip as she tried to place him.

  Rebeccah joined her by the window in a rustle of long skirts. “Oh!” Her hand flew to her breast. “It can’t be!”

  Kate’s heart sank as she recognised the woman emerging from the carriage. The resemblance between her and the man in Rebeccah’s pen-and-ink sketch was obvious. “Your sister has returned.”

  Rebeccah nodded.

  “Then I must leave at once.” Kate glanced to where her baldric and sword lay. It was fortunate indeed that she had got dressed.

  The door opened and Mary rushed in. “Mistress Rebeccah,” she called, then stopped as she saw her mistress standing by the window. “Your sister …”

  “Is returned a day early. I know.”

  The maid glanced towards Kate. “We must get you away from here at once.”

  Kate reached for her coat, which like her waistcoat was slightly faded and bore signs of darning. She began to ease it over her wounded shoulder.

  “Wait!” cried Rebeccah. Kate threw her an enquiring look. “Dressed like that you will attract too much attention.”

  “Then what do you suggest? For your gowns -” Kate’s eyes tracked from the diminutive gentlewoman to her even shorter maid, “- will not fit me.”

  Rebeccah frowned then her brow cleared. “Will is of a size with Kate, isn’t he, Mary? Does he have a spare set of livery?”

  The maid’s eyes lit up. “A coat and wig should be enough, Madam. I will fetch them at once.” As she darted out of the bedroom, Kate turned to Rebeccah for an explanation.

  “People rarely look twice at anyone wearing livery. They will assume you are a servant, going about Dutton business.”

  Kate’s look of frank admiration made Rebeccah flush.

  When Mary returned a few moment later, Kate allowed herself to be helped into a blue coat that was slightly too large around the shoulders but otherwise a good fit. She tied back her own hair and let the maid cram the footman’s wig on her head.

  “How do I look?”

  “It’s not level.” Rebeccah adjusted the wig and stood back. “Something’s still not right, Mary.”

  Kate thought she knew what it might be. She darted into the dressing room, mixed some of the kohl from Rebeccah’s toilette with face powder, and rubbed a little of the concoction into her upper lip, chin and cheeks to darken them.

  “Better,” agreed Rebeccah, when Kate emerged.

  The tramp of footsteps on the stairs and the sound of servants’ voices made Mary turn to her mistress. “You must greet your sister, Madam, or your presence will be missed.”

  “I know.” Rebeccah threw Kate a stricken glance. “Oh, this is too bad! Had I foreseen your departure would be so soon and such a hasty one … And your wound barely healed …”

  “I will do well enough, Rebeccah,” interrupted Kate. “Look to your own safety. For you must not be seen in my company.”

  “But …”

  “Fare well.” Kate bowed, and if it lacked her customary panache, perhaps she could ascribe it to her wound rather than to dismay. I may never see her again.

  Whatever Rebeccah was about to say in reply was cut short by her maid’s frantic, “Hurry, Madam.”

  She bit her lip and curtseyed - a gesture that touched Kate’s heart - then started towards the door. She had gone barely a step before she paused and looked back. “See her safely to the back door, Mary.” Her voice cracked.

  “I will, Madam.”

  Downstairs, a woman’s voice was calling, “Beccah. Where are you? Come and welcome your sister.”

  “And make sure no one sees her.”

  “They are waiting for you, Madam.”

  “Oh!” With a stamp of her foot, a last glance at Kate, and a muttered. “God keep you safe,” Rebeccah disappeared out the door. Moments later came an excited squeal and the sound of the two sisters greeting one another.

  Mary crossed to the door, and pressed her ear against it. “We will wait for them to retire to the drawing room,” she said, “then I will take you down.”

  Kate tucked under her arm the bundle she had made of her coat, baldric and sword, and waited. At last Mary opened the door a crack, peered round it, and threw it wide.

  “The coast is clear.” She slipped through.

  With a last wistful look at Rebeccah’s room, Kate followed, placing her feet where Mary did to avoid the creaking stairs and pressing herself against the wall when the butler came into view then fortunately went about his business. The door to the drawing room was closed as they scurried past, or she would have tried to catch another glimpse of Rebeccah.

  In the basement, Robert the coachman looked up from shining a harness, did a double take at Kate’s appearance, winked at her and went back to his polishing. Mary led Kate to the back door, which opened into a yard.

  Kate stood, one booted foot
on the first of the stone steps that led up to the square, while Mary rattled off directions to the Mews and Clover’s stall in a low voice.

  “My thanks,” she whispered. “I will send back Will’s coat and wig as soon as I am able.”

  Mary looked round anxiously, then made a shooing gesture.

  “Tell your Mistress,” said Kate, knowing that she was breaking a cardinal rule, but unable to resist, “that I am greatly in her debt. And should she ever require my assistance, she can reach me at ….” She whispered Alice’s address in Mary’s ear. “Have you got that?”

  The maid blinked, owl-like, at her then nodded.

  “Or if I am not there, leave word with Mr Elborrow, the landlord of the Rose and Crown, and it will reach me.”

  Men’s voices wafted from the door leading to the kitchen “Titus is coming,” hissed Mary. “You must go. Now!”

  So with a last reluctant glance at the house in St James’s Square, Kate did.

  ***

  Part 2

  IN THE SHADOW OF TYBURN

  Chapter 1

  Clover greeted her stall and the inhabitants of those on either side of it with a contented nicker. Kate grinned at the mare. Conditions at the Dutton stable in St James’s Mews had been good, but there was nothing like familiar surroundings and smells, she supposed.

  “Glad to be back, eh, girl?” She patted the smooth black neck, but Clover tossed her head and pulled away. She was either still annoyed with her owner or impatient to be untacked.Probably both, thought Kate.

  “Get away from that horse!” came a trembling voice.

  She turned to find herself face to face with the lethal end of a pitchfork. “And a good morrow to you too, Tom.” She arched an eyebrow.

  The stableboy blinked at the highwaywoman, then flushed beetroot red. “Beg pardon, Madam. I didn’t recognise you.” He lowered the pitchfork.

  “Took me for someone’s manservant, did you?” She gestured at her borrowed wig and blue coat. He nodded. “As you were meant to.” She winked.

  His eyes lit up with curiosity but he knew better than to try to satisfy it. He licked his lips and said instead, “Shall I untack and feed her?”

  Clover returned Kate’s enquiring glance with a dark one of her own. “That would be a kindness, Tom. For she hasn’t forgiven me for letting someone else ride her and I have no hankering to have my feet stamped on.”

  She felt in her pocket for a coin before remembering the coat wasn’t hers. Her own was sadly crumpled when she withdrew it from her saddlebags - she hoped the worst of the creases would shake out. Rummaging in a pocket produced a half-a-crown and she flipped it to the waiting stableboy, who tucked it in the pocket of his dirty apron with a murmur of thanks.

  He put down his pitchfork and set to work untacking Clover. As though to emphasise the personal nature of her grudge, the annoyed mare was as good as gold.

  Kate sighed, slung her saddlebags over her left shoulder, then winced and slung them over her right shoulder instead. At the livery stable exit, she paused and turned.

  “I likely won’t be needing her again until tomorrow night,” she called.

  Tom looked up from placing Kate’s saddle in the corner of Clover’s stall and gave her a nod. “Very good, Madam.”

  Kate stopped at the top of the last flight of stairs to catch her breath and reflect on how out of condition she had become. As she gazed at the door to her landlady’s rooms she felt a strong inclination to turn round and go back the way she had come. She squashed it, squared her shoulders, and reached for the door handle.

  Alice was sitting down, which was just as well. When she saw the tall figure standing in her doorway, she swooned and slumped forward across the table and open account books.

  “Alice!” Kate rushed forward, took a cold, limp hand between hers, and tried to chafe some warmth back into it. “‘S Death! Are you unwell? Alice!”

  But already, red-tinged eyelashes were fluttering open and colour was returning to cheeks so pale the freckles stood out in stark relief. A thankful Kate helped the other woman sit up.

  “You’re alive!” Relief filled Alice’s eyes, and a smile curved her mouth. Her obvious delight at Kate’s return made Kate feel ashamed, as did the dark shadows beneath Alice’s eyes. “Won’t you kiss me?”

  Alice raised her face invitingly, and Kate obliged, though her kiss was clearly more perfunctory than the older woman would have liked. Kate straightened, pulled off the borrowed wig, which itched abominably, and scratched her scalp.

  “Why are you dressed like a footman?” asked Alice, registering Kate’s apparel.

  “It’s a long and convoluted tale and I will tell you about it later.” She eased herself out of the blue coat and hung it over the back of a chair, aware that Alice was watching her every movement.

  “And why are you favouring your left shoulder?”

  For answer, Kate loosened her cravat and unbuttoned the top buttons of her shirt to reveal the bandage beneath.

  “Oh!” Alice’s hand flew to her mouth. “I knew something was wrong. Why else would you not return to me? Why else would you send no word?”

  The landlady’s words piled guilt on top of shame, and Kate concentrated on rebuttoning her shirt. “Fellow was handier with his pistol than he had a right to be,” she joked.

  “Who shot you? Josselin? A dragoon?”

  “Neither.” Kate grimaced. “A fellow Tobyman, would you believe? Whoever said there is honour among thieves was talking poppycock “

  “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you, Kate.”

  “I know.”

  “I keep telling you it’s too dangerous.” Alice stood up and began to pace. “But do you ever listen?”

  “Alice -“

  “Night after night dashing ‘Blue-Eyed Nick’ -” her tone was mocking “- must risk her life, and for what?… Danger? Excitement? Some inner compulsion to get your neck stretched? And what about me, Kate? Stuck here, waiting, worrying about what might happen to you. Do you ever, for one second, spare a thought for what I must be going-“

  “ALICE!”

  The landlady stopped midsentence, and looked at Kate.

  “I’m sorry for causing you any distress. Truly. ‘twas wrong not to let you know sooner that I was well, though the truth of it is I was incapable of doing so for several days. … But what’s done is done, and there is no point continuing in this fashion. Come now, we are friends, are we not? Let us not fall out over this.”

  “‘Friends’!” Alice’s mouth twisted.

  A sudden wave of weariness washed over Kate. She pulled a chair towards her and slumped onto it.

  “Kate?” She looked up to find a concerned Alice bending over her. “What is it?”

  “I have tried to do too much today, that is all.” She managed a reassuring smile. “A little rest and I will be my old self once more.”

  “Your wound …”

  “Nearly finished me,” admitted Kate. “But do not fret. I am over the worst, and fast recovering.”

  She stood and made her way through to the bedchamber. Sinking onto the edge of the bed, she made a half-hearted attempt to take off her boots. Alice had followed her through, and she tutted, turned her back towards Kate, straddled each leg in turn, and eased off the boots.

  “Thank you.” Kate stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes against the daylight coming through the sash window. But her hopes for peace and quiet were shattered as Alice began to cluck around her like a mother hen.

  “Aren’t you going to take off your shirt and breeches?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like me to make you some broth? This weakness could merely be hunger.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Perhaps your wound … How is your shoulder?”

  Kate suppressed the urge to hide her head under a pillow. “It aches a little.”

  “I could change the bandage…”

  “That is unnecessary.”

  “You loo
k flushed. Shall I get you a cold compress for your brow?”

  “No.”

  “Then let me brush your hair. You might find it soothing.”

  Kate opened bleary eyes. “Just let me rest, Alice. I am tired to the bone.”

  The other woman looked affronted. “I was only trying to help.”

  “I know.”

  That response mollified Alice a little. “Very well.” She pushed a stray strand of red hair behind one ear then pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down. “I shall sit here, as quiet as a mouse, and keep you company while you sleep.”

  “Thank you.”

  Silence fell, but even that seemed pregnant with Alice’s desire to be of service. Kate wondered if her landlady would be even more offended if she asked her to leave the bedchamber. Fortunately, before it could come to that, there was the sound of knocking from the other room.

  “Who can that be?” wondered Alice crossly. Kate didn’t open her eyes but she could hear the flounce in the other woman’s step as she rose and went to investigate the caller at her front door.

  An indistinct murmur of voices drifted through. Whatever the conversation concerned, it ended with Alice shouting, “Oh very well, Mr Wilson. I’ll see what I can do. But really, I do think you could have made some effort to sort it out yourself before coming whining to me.”

  Quick footsteps approached. “I have to go out, Kate,” said Alice. “To fetch the nightsoil man. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  She kept her eyes closed. “Is it the cesspit again?”

  “Ay.”

  The two cellar rooms were the cheapest lodgings available in the 4-storey tenement building that Alice had inherited from her late husband. They also had the quickest turnover of tenants. The reason for both wasn’t hard to find. The rooms lacked light, were damp and low-ceilinged, and when the cesspit in the back yard got too full (which happened whenever the nightsoil collection man fell behind schedule) were prone to invasion by turds. Evidently, the Wilsons had just learned of this last drawback firsthand. Kate pursed her lips. That probably explained the pungent whiff she had detected as she came up the stairs.