“It’ll be half-a-crown,” she warned. “Seven-and-six if you want a certificate and entry in the Fleet register.” Kate dropped Rebeccah’s hand - Rebeccah felt the loss at once - and pulled some coins from her coat pocket. The landlady glanced at them. “Good.” She pursed her lips. “But where are your witnesses?”
“They’re late,” lied Kate. Rebeccah glanced at the clock, whose hands seemed to have stopped at 9 a.m.
“If they don’t turn up,” continued the landlady, “we can provide a couple, but it’ll cost you.”
Kate nodded.
“Right. I’ll fetch the Parson.” With that, the woman left them alone together.
Kate turned to Rebeccah. “How are you faring?”
She forced a smile. “As well as can be expected until we have Anne safe.”
“We’ll find her.” Blue eyes pinned her. “Don’t lose heart.”
“I won’t.”
The door creaked open and in came a fat little man in a soiled surplice carrying a pile of blank marriage certificates, almost certainly fake, under his arm. Such was his girth, he looked like a black and white cannonball. He beamed at them. “A fine day for a wedding, ain’t it?” There was ale on his breath.
He placed the certificates, which carried the royal arms but lacked the official stamp, on the table beside the prayer book, then turned and appraised the two women. “A handsome couple you make too.” Rebeccah didn’t dare look at Kate.
The parson’s gaze turned calculating. “Has the tavern keeper told you my charges?”
“Yes,” said Kate.
“Good.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, will you be wanting just the basic ceremony or the certificates and a register entry too?”
“Neither. For we are here not to marry but to gain information.”
“What?” His smile disappeared. “Do you mean you have got me here under false pret-“
Kate flipped a silver coin and caught it, earning the parson’s undivided attention. “You can still earn yourself a shilling.”
He licked his lips and considered. “Make it a shilling and sixpence.”
“Agreed.” The highwaywoman pulled out the additional coin. “In the last twenty-four hours have you married a couple by the name of Anne Dutton and Titus -” She paused and glanced at her companion.
“Ward,” supplied Rebeccah.
The parson’s gaze turned inward and Rebeccah held her breath. “Don’t think so,” he said at last, dashing her hopes.
Kate jingled the coins. “‘Think’ isn’t good enough, Sir. Don’t you record all the particulars in your pocket book?”
The little man hesitated then nodded.
“Hand it over.”
His cheeks flushed. “Hanged if I will! It’s private.”
Kate chuckled. “I won’t tell anyone if you’ve insulted them. My word on it.”
“Why should I take your word if you won’t take mine?” he grumbled.
Kate pretended to consider, then pulled out another sixpence. “Is this a good enough reason?”
There was a pause, then he grunted. From somewhere he produced a ragged pocket book and handed it to Kate. She passed it at once to Rebeccah, and while Kate gave the roly-poly parson his two shillings, a trembling Rebeccah opened the pocketbook.
The light was poor so she moved a few steps closer to the dirty window. The pages were foxed, the handwriting crabbed and in places almost illegible, made more so by bad spelling and ink blots. Each entry noted the details of the couple getting married, and included personal remarks, such as ‘NB The woman was bigg with chyld, and they wanted the certifycate antidated.’ She glanced up and saw both Kate and the cannonball watching her.
“The most recent entries,” reminded Kate.
“Sorry.” Rebeccah riffled through the flimsy pages until she found the entries for yesterday and today. Anne’s name was nowhere to be found, and none of the jotted descriptions matched her or Titus. With a sigh she closed the pocket book.
“Nothing?” asked Kate.
She shook her head.
“Ah well.” The highwaywoman took back the book and handed it to the parson. “Our thanks, Sir.”
He sniffed, tucked the pocket book and certificates under one arm, and sauntered out, presumably to quaff more ale. After a moment, Kate and Rebeccah followed him.
“What about the wedding feast?” called someone as they made their way back through the smoky bar, which was busy even though it was still early.
“Ay.” The blowsy landlady gave them a hopeful smile. “Our bride cakes are a bargain at sixpence.”
Kate shook her head and strode on. Rebeccah hurried after her, catching her at the street door. Together they emerged into the open, the stink of the Fleet Ditch making Rebeccah want to gag.
“What shall we do now?”
Kate took her elbow and urged her towards the first of the streets adjoining the Farringdon Road. “Thirty-nine to go,” she muttered.
“Pardon?” Rebeccah blinked up at her.
“There are about forty marriage houses in all,” explained the highwaywoman, with a look of apology. “Come, my dear. We have no time to lose.”
Rebeccah’s feet hurt. In the last hour they must have covered miles, tramping up and down the streets and stinking alleyways that surrounded the Fleet Prison, entering each tavern and brandy-shop that doubled as a marriage house. The Red Hand and Mitre, the Swan, the Lamb, the Horseshoe and Magpie, the Bishop Blaise, the Two Sawyers, the Fighting Cocks, the Bull and Garter, the King’s Head … her own head was spinning with their names, and if she never saw the inside of another marriage house it would be too soon. But what choice did she have? They had still found no trace of her sister.
“Don’t give up hope yet,” counselled Kate. “That we have not found Anne could be a good sign. For your footman will have woken sober this morning and may have had a change of heart. Even now, she could be safe at home.”
Rebeccah pursed her lips. “Do you think so?”
The highwaywoman hesitated, then sighed. “No. Titus could also feel he has gone too far to retreat.”
“Alas, knowing him, that sounds all too likely. But thank you for trying to raise my spirits.” Her back ached from all the walking but a rest was out of the question until they found her sister. “So. Where shall we try next?”
Kate resettled her tricorne, took stock of her surroundings, then pointed. “There.”
At the end of the alleyway was the most unprepossessing marriage house yet. The windows were so grimy you could barely see through them, and the sign of the joined hands had faded until it was barely visible. Rebeccah squared her shoulders and marched towards it. Kate’s longer legs easily overtook her, and she opened the door with a flourish and ushered Rebeccah inside.
“Can’t go in there,” growled the bearded man behind the bar, as Kate headed towards the back room. “Parson’s busy.” She ignored him and pressed on, Rebeccah hard on her heels. “Are ye deaf?” He came out from behind his bar, hands bunched.
Kate stopped and turned. “No. I heard you.” Her tone was measured, but there was something dangerous in the blue gaze that made the landlord stop, uncertain, and Rebeccah draw in a sharp breath.
“Tom,” called the landlord, his frowning gaze fixed on Kate. “Sam.”
At his summons, two unsavoury characters looked up from their playing card, then lumbered to their feet. One produced a club and began to smack it rhythmically against his palm.
Kate rested her hand on her sword hilt and arched a provocative eyebrow. The morning’s frustrations had worn away the last of the highwaywoman’s patience, realised Rebeccah with a jolt, and she was spoiling for a fight.
“Please, there’s no need for violence.” She stepped forward, hands raised palm outward. “We just need to ask the parson something and then we’ll be on our way.”
Thwack, thwack went the club, while the landlord regarded Rebeccah with puzzlement. A well-bred young gentlewoman must be quite a r
arity in a rough establishment like this. “‘At’s as may be, Madam,” he said. “But I don’t like yer friend’s manners. ‘E needs teaching a lesson.”
“Are you volunteering?” asked Kate with a sneer.
“Oh, stop it!” A cross Rebeccah backhanded the tall woman in the belly, eliciting a surprised grunt. She turned back to the landlord. “You’d be wise not to cross h…him. Don’t you recognised him?” She jerked a thumb at Kate.
“Now ye come to mention it, there is something familiar.” The man scratched his beard. “‘Anged if I can put me finger on it, though.”
“Imagine a mask,” said Rebeccah helpfully, “and those blue eyes peering through the eye slits at you.”
The landlord’s eyebrow’s shot up and he took a nervous step back. “‘S wounds, but ‘e’s the spitting image of Blue-Eyed Nick!”
The two bouncers looked at one another, then at Kate. They seemed less confident than they had.
“His reputation as a crack shot is well deserved,” added Rebeccah, for good measure.
The landlord bit his lip. “A word with the parson’s all ye want?” Rebeccah nodded and glanced at Kate who after a pregnant pause nodded too. “And ye’ll pay for breakages?”
“Ay,” growled Kate, and to Rebeccah’s relief she let her hand drop from the sword hilt.
“Very well.” The landlord retreated behind his bar. “Let ‘em through, lads.” Tom and Sam exchanged a glance, shrugged, then went back to their cards.
Rebeccah smiled warmly. “Thank you.” The landlord gave her a grudging nod.
After a moment she and Kate resumed their progress towards the back room. Kate turned the handle, and opened the door.
There were five people in the makeshift chapel - a lean as a whippet parson in a black coat and hat, an overrouged harlot in a red gown and a chap-handed washerwoman in a mantua that had seen better days (presumably the witnesses), a wide-eyed Titus Ward, and a young gentlewoman wearing velvet slippers.
“Anne!”
At Rebeccah’s glad cry, her sister turned, and would have fallen had the footman beside her not steadied her. “Beccah!” Her voice was slurred, her movements uncoordinated.
“She’s been drugged,” said Kate. “Look at her pupils.”
Anger surged through Rebeccah and she rushed forward. Titus cursed, hooked an arm round Anne and pulled her in front of him like a shield.
“You’re too late. She’s my wife.” He glanced at Rebeccah’s sister and grinned. “Aren’t you, my love?”
Lord save us! Rebeccah halted, feeling as though she had been hit in the stomach.
“I’ll make her your widow if you don’t let her go,” threatened Kate, pulling out her pistol. A loud thud was the open Book of Common Prayer falling from the startled parson’s fingers.
“The Devil you will!” From somewhere Titus produced a wicked looking knife and pressed it to Anne’s throat. Her eyes were glazed and she remained statue still.
Better paralysed terror, thought Rebeccah, than an attempt to free herself that would surely put her life at risk.
“Release Anne I said.” Kate cocked and aimed her pistol at the only bit of Titus now visible - the top of his head.
“No!” Rebeccah stretched an arm towards the highwaywoman. “You could hurt her.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
There was hurt in those blue eyes, and Rebeccah remembered the words she had spoken so blithely a few moments ago: ‘a crack shot’. Did I mean that? A memory surfaced, of a masked rider galloping across the heath, and a pistol shot tearing apart the night and saving her from harm. Wordlessly, she let her arm drop. Kate nodded then turned her attention back to Titus.
“For a start, why should we take Titus’s word for it?” Kate glanced at the trembling parson. “Have you pronounced them man and wife?” He opened and closed his mouth like a fish. “Speak up, man.”
“N… not yet.” His reply was almost drowned by Titus’s shout of “Liar!” He frowned at the footman, then continued rather prissily, “The gentleman had made his vows, ‘tis true, but the lady had yet to make hers.”
“Ah. Not wed then.” Kate gave a satisfied nod. “A close run thing, though, and no thanks to you.” Her voice dripped contempt. “Could you not see that the bride was being forced against her will?”
The indignant parson drew himself up to his full height. “She seemed amenable. I thought -“
The tension proved too much for the harlot hired to witness the marriage. She shrieked, lifted her scarlet skirts and dashed out the open chapel door; after a moment’s hesitation, the washerwoman rushed after her.
“Christ’s wounds!” yelled Titus. “Come back, the pair of you. I paid -“
Kate lunged past Rebeccah and yanked the distracted footman’s knife hand away from Anne’s throat. “Take her.” Tearing Anne from his grasp, Kate shoved her towards Rebeccah.
“Oof!” The collision almost sent both sisters flying.
Preoccupied with steadying a shrieking Anne - the sudden wrench had penetrated her drug-induced stupor - Rebeccah was only peripherally aware of what was going on. She heard a sickening crunch, then what sounded like something heavy crumpling to the floor.
By the time Anne was calm again and Rebeccah was able to take in her surroundings, Kate was standing over a supine Titus, his nose oddly flattened, his chin, cravat, and waistcoat drenched with blood. The knuckles of Kate’s right glove were also bloody.
“Is he …?”
“Dead to the world, maybe, but he’ll live.” Kate flexed her fingers then tucked her unfired pistol back in the waistband of her breeches.
Rebeccah couldn’t think what else to say so contented herself with, “Oh.”
“Where am I?” slurred Anne. “Is Titus here? I seem to remember … ” Her brows knit, but after a moment her eyes lost their focus and dreaminess returned.
“There, there, my sweet.” As Rebeccah chafed her sister’s hands she felt the presence of a wedding ring. It was cheap and nasty, and she eased it off and flung it at the footman - it bounced off his waistcoat and skittered into a corner of the chapel with a clink. “You’re safe now.” She turned a concerned glance on Kate. “What drug can he have used?”
“Poppy juice, I expect. It’ll wear off.” Kate addressed the parson again. “Give me your pocket book. There must be no record of this.”
“What?” He gaped at her.
“You heard me.” She held out her hand and tapped a booted foot. Reluctantly, he produced the slim volume. Kate flipped through it, found what she wanted, and tore out a page.
“You can’t -“
“I just did.” As the parson subsided, muttering, she put the folded page in her waistcoat pocket then handed back his book. “Anything else?” He gaped at her. “Signatures, certificates …” He shook his head. “If I find out later that you’re lying …” Her glare made him flinch.
“That’s everything, cross my heart.”
“Good.”
“I don’t feel well.” Anne’s murmur reclaimed Rebeccah’s attention. Her sister’s complexion had gone a greenish-white, she saw with some alarm.
“Faith!”
Somehow Kate was on the other side of Anne, draping her arm over her shoulder and helping Rebeccah to support her to a corner, where she was violently sick.
“That’s pleasant,” said the parson.
Kate ignored him and said over Anne’s bowed head, “She’ll feel the better for it.”
“Will she?” asked Rebeccah.
Stumbling footsteps and the parson’s exclamation made them turn. Kate was the first to glance to where Titus no longer lay and put two and two together. She cursed, and began to free herself from Anne.
“Leave him.” Rebeccah was glad to see the back of the footman.
“But -“
“He has too much of a head start, and besides we must get Anne home and into Mary’s care.”
The tall woman hesitated, clearly torn between wanting to chase th
e footman and to help Rebeccah with her sister. In the end, Rebeccah’s needs won. “Very well.” Kate took a firmer grip on Anne’s arm and between them they got her to the door. The Parson didn’t offer to help.
Glances and muttered asides followed their progress through the bar towards the tavern exit. Tom and Sam glanced at their bearded employer for instructions. The landlord blinked at the two unevenly matched figures supporting a swooning woman between them, shook his head, and went back to mopping his counter top.
Rebeccah was glad she had Kate to help her - Anne was heavier than she looked, and on her own, Rebeccah would have been struggling. She tightened her grasp on her sister’s waist, and noted with relief that Anne’s colour had improved. Kate must have been right about the vomiting.
“They say that’s Blue-Eyed Nick,” stage-whispered a bulbous-nosed drinker, looking away when Kate’s keen blue gaze raked him.
“Lud!” exclaimed his companion, a woman whose numerous patches drew attention to her pock-marked cheeks rather than the reverse. “She’s wearing slippers!”
Anne squirmed in Rebeccah’s grip. “Do I know you?” Rebeccah was about to answer when she realised that her sister’s unfocussed gaze was fixed on the highwaywoman. But Kate merely grunted, and to Rebeccah’s relief after a moment Anne lost interest in her and began to sing - a lullaby that had been their father’s favourite.
“Hush, dear,” said Rebeccah. “Quietly now.” Anne’s smile was groggy but she obediently muted her singing to a hum.
“Too much gin, if you ask me,” called a cardplayer.
“No one did.” Kate glared at him, and he turned hastily back to his cards
They emerged outside into the everpresent stench of the Fleet Ditch.
“Ugh!” said Anne, and Rebeccah couldn’t help but agree with her.
“Which way?” Rebeccah’s sense of direction was weak at the best of times.
Kate pointed, and the two women took a firmer grip on the invalid and set off along the pavement, attracting raised eyebrows as they went. After a while, Anne was able to support some of her own weight, which made the going easier.
Rebeccah and the Highwayman Page 16