Rebeccah and the Highwayman

by Barbara Davies

  “Then we will have to put up at an Inn close by until she can find a moment to see us. We shall cross that bridge when we come to it, Beccah, but I doubt it will be a problem. For the Great Lodge is in all likelihood spacious enough that she can spare us a chamber or two even if she is entertaining.”

  “Do you really think she will help us?”

  Her mother smiled. “I don’t see why not. And with her assistance … well, you know how the Queen dotes on her.”

  Indeed Rebeccah did. It was common knowledge that Queen Anne was besotted with the charismatic Sarah Churchill, though it was also rumoured she had cooled a little towards her of late. The Duchess was but the latest in a long line of female favourites, and for a moment Rebeccah wondered if the monarch might be like her and Kate. Then she remembered the Queen’s amiable consort, Prince George, and the brood of children (none of whom had survived) that had resulted from their marriage, and dismissed it as idle fancy.

  Mary produced her sewing bag, pulled out a square of white silk destined to become a pocket mouchoir, and began to sew. She caught the direction of Rebeccah’s gaze. “I have brought the cards with me, Madam. If you would rather play…”

  “Thank you, Mary. Perhaps later. For now I am content to admire the view.”

  Rebeccah settled back in her seat and gazed out the window. They had reached the outskirts of London at last and open fields and woods stretched on all sides. But she was soon insensible to the beauty of the passing landscape. Her gaze was turned inwards to those moments when she had sat on Kate’s lap, the other woman’s hands around her waist, returning her kiss. And if either Mary or her mother noticed her enigmatic smile and were curious as to its cause, they had the good sense to keep it to themselves.

  “Are your rooms to your liking?” The Duchess of Marlborough gestured to the serving woman that she should pour the tea and offer biscuits.

  “Indeed they are, your ladyship. Aren’t they, Beccah?” Rebeccah nodded and took a high backed seat next to her mother at the tea table. “We are greatly in your debt. I regret having to impose on your hospitality at such short notice, but -“

  “‘Your ladyship’?” The Duchess’s eyebrows rose. “We have always been Sarah and Elizabeth to one another, have we not?”

  Mrs Dutton visibly relaxed. “That is kind of you, Sarah. Thank you.” With a smile, she accepted a porcelain dish of tea.

  There was a brief pause, during which Rebeccah listened to the logs shifting in the fireplace and the caged nightingales trilling in one corner of the spacious drawing room, then her aunt said, “I was sorry to hear about Mr Dutton’s death last year.”

  “It hit us all very hard,” agreed Rebeccah’s mother with a sigh. “We miss him terribly, don’t we, Beccah?” Rebeccah nodded. “But we are slowly growing accustomed to his absence…. And how is your own husband? The War must be keeping him from home more than you would wish.”

  “Indeed it is …”

  In Rebeccah’s opinion, the famous Duke’s absence was more than made up for by his many portraits throughout the Great Lodge, so she tuned out the reply and bit into a ratafia biscuit. She had hoped for something more substantial, but this would have to do until supper.

  Discreetly, she eyed the Duchess, of whom she had only the most vague memories. Sarah must be in her late forties now, but you’d never guess it from her appearance. Her unblemished face had no need of patches, and her reddish-yellow hair was as lush as ever - probably due to the daily wash in honey-water she gave it, according to Rebeccah’s mother.

  Sensing her scrutiny, Sarah turned to regard Rebeccah. “But enough of my news. How old are you now, Rebeccah?”

  “Three-and-twenty, Aunt.”

  “Indeed! You were only a tiny thing when I last saw you. It was that visit to us at Syon House, was it not?” She looked at Mrs Dutton who nodded. “A mere scrap of a girl you were, then, your petticoats in tatters, dirt on your cheeks - so unlike your sister. Ran your poor maid ragged.” Rebeccah’s cheeks grew warm. “You took a fancy to the patch of garden we called ‘The Wilderness’, I remember. You were always to be found there, up one tree or another.”

  Rebeccah blinked as a long forgotten memory of gnarled trees surfaced. They had seemed to spear the sky and, for whatever reason - the challenge of the ascent, or the view from the top (sometimes she would daydream that the sky was the sea and a dashing pirate captain, who, come to think of it, looked remarkably like Kate, was coming to carry her off) - she found climbing them irresistible.

  “One night you refused to come down. Said you were going to sleep up in the ‘crows nest’, whatever that was. In the end your poor father himself had to climb up and fetch you down.” Aunt Sarah chuckled. “And look at you now! Every inch the elegant young lady.” She cocked her head to one side and assessed Rebeccah. “A little on the short side, mayhap, but you have a good figure, fine eyes, and a passably pretty face.”

  Passably pretty! Rebeccah wondered whether to be pleased or insulted.

  Her aunt turned back to her mother. “I’ll warrant young men flock round her like bees round honey.” Since nothing could be farther than the truth, Mrs Dutton wisely kept silent.

  The Duchess sipped her tea. “And how is your oldest girl doing? Anne has not come with you, I gather. She is not ill, I trust?”

  “She has been a little unwell of late, but she is fast recovering. … Other matters keep her in London. She is engaged to be married soon and there are preparations to be made.”

  “Indeed?” Sarah clapped her hands together in delight. “High time too! My four girls were all married in their teens and have thrived on it.” She looked complacent, as well she might considering the advantageous matches she had contrived: two of her daughters were now Countesses, the others Duchesses. “Do I know the groom?”

  “I doubt it. His name is Frederick Ingrum.”

  For a while the conversation continued in this vein, the two cousins catching up on family news and gossip, and then at last, etiquette and politeness satisfied, the conversation turned to the matter at hand.

  “Now, about this errand that has brought you so precipitously to Windsor, Elizabeth,” said the Duchess. “Your note said only that it concerns Rebeccah and requires my help.” She pursed her lips. “Do you require me to find her a match perhaps?”

  “Um, no,” said Mrs Dutton. “It is a horse of quite a different colour.”

  “Indeed?” Aunt Sarah looked intrigued. “Pray enlighten me.”

  “We are here to ask you to use your influence with the Queen. We desire you to ask pardon for an … acquaintance of ours.” Mrs Dutton gestured to Rebeccah, who extracted the petition of mercy from the pocket of her skirts and held it out.

  “‘An acquaintance’,” repeated Sarah. “How very mysterious.” She took the folded document and opened it, her eyes widening as she read the contents. “Good Lord!” she murmured. Then a little later, “A highwaywoman!” When next she looked up, it was with open astonishment and not a little distaste. “Why should a respectable family like the Duttons concern themselves with a creature like this?”

  Rebeccah bridled at the remark, but had the good sense not to say anything.

  “I take it, from your fierce expression,” continued the Duchess, fortunately not taking offence, “that there is more to this than meets the eye, Rebeccah. If I am to help you, my dear, you must tell me everything.”

  So with a nervous glance at her mother and a deep breath, Rebeccah did so, not only detailing the many occasions on which Kate had come to the Duttons’ aid but also other good deeds, in particular the purchase of freedom for several debtors in the Fleet (a cause she knew was dear to the Duchess’s heart, as Sarah’s own father had been a bankrupt). And if in the process she omitted the strong attraction she felt for Kate, who could blame her?

  “Well I never!” said the Duchess, when Rebeccah had wound down and the only sound in the drawing room was the crackling of the fire and the nightingale’s sweet song. “If I hadn’
t heard it from your own lips, I would have thought it a play. Thank heavens your sister is recovered from her ordeal! That fellow - Titus, was it? - deserves to be flogged.” She shuddered. “If such a thing had happened to one of my daughters …”

  She retrieved the petition of mercy from her lap and read it once more, her expression thoughtful. “This is just the sort of tale that would touch the Queen.” Her expression became wry, self-deprecating. “Passionate friendships between women have always appealed to her.” Then she sighed. “But alas, this is bad timing indeed! If only you had come to me yesterday.”

  Rebeccah’s heart sank.

  “Why, what is the matter?” asked her mother.

  “We had a falling out this morning and the Queen is still irked with me. … Oh don’t look at me like that, Elizabeth. It is not my fault. Indeed I put up with her for as long as I could. But sometimes she is most tedious.” Aunt Sarah’s expression soured. “All she can talk about is her wardrobe, her lapdogs, and her husband’s asthma. It’s enough to try the patience of a saint.”

  She caught the direction of Rebeccah’s nervous glance. “Oh, you need have no fear that our words will reach the Queen’s ears, Rebeccah. We may speak freely in front of Betty. She’s been with me since I was a girl, haven’t you, my dear?” The silent serving woman smiled and nodded. “But you see my dilemma? With the Queen in her current temper, if I were to plead your friend’s cause it would do only harm.” The Duchess pursed her lips. “We must wait a few days. By then the Queen will in all likelihood have forgiven me and -“

  “But Kate is to hang on Monday!” blurted Rebeccah, before subsiding with a blush.

  The Duchess blinked at her and exchanged a glance with Mrs Dutton. “Then there is only one thing for it.” She grimaced and got to her feet.

  There was a little mahogany writing table and chair to one side of the drawing room, and Aunt Sarah made herself comfortable there, selected a fresh sheet of paper, dipped a quill in the ink well, and began to write. Her handwriting was large and flamboyant, and Rebeccah could make out the letter’s appellation if she squinted: ‘My dear Mrs Morley’.

  How strange! The logs shifted, the pen scratched, and the nightingale warbled. Rebeccah’s gaze drifted around the drawing room, resting on the blue and white porcelain ornaments on the chimney piece for a moment before coming back to the Duchess.

  With a flourish, Aunt Sarah signed ‘Your devoted friend, Mrs Freeman’ (the Queen and her favourite must have pet names for one another), sprinkled sand on the wet ink and tapped it off, creased the letter into sharp folds, and addressed it.

  “There. … Betty.” The serving woman came forward. “Ask one of the footmen to take this to the Castle as a matter of urgency.”

  Betty accepted the letter, curtseyed, and hurried out.

  With a swish of her skirts, the Duchess rose and came back to join Rebeccah and her mother at the tea table. There was still some tea in the pot, so she poured herself a fresh dish. “I have eaten humble pie,” she announced melodramatically. “Something that always disagrees with me. I hope you are grateful.”

  Mrs Dutton opened her mouth but Rebeccah beat her to it. “Oh, we are indeed, Aunt. Thank you, thank you.”

  “This is but the first step, my dear,” cautioned the Duchess, but she was smiling. “For we must wait to see if the Queen is willing to forgive me at once or if I must be made to suffer a while longer.”

  A profligate number of candles illuminated the faces of the Duchess and her guests, who were sitting round the supper table.

  There was still no reply from the Queen, much to Rebeccah’s dismay. She had sated her hunger on slices of venison - game was plentiful in Windsor Great Park - followed by some cheese and fruit, and was now sipping a cup of sack-posset that her aunt’s butler had prepared, hoping the hot mixture of eggs, wine, and spices would soothe her jangling nerves.

  The murmur of conversation stopped as the door opened and a footman entered carrying a silver salver on which lay a letter. The Duchess took the letter, opened it, held a candle close so she could read its contents, and scowled.

  “It seems I am not to be forgiven just yet.”

  Rebeccah’s heart thudded. What exactly had Aunt Sarah said to the Queen to cause her to turn on her favourite? It was inconvenient, to say the least. Time was ticking, and with it were going Kate’s chances. The thought of the shackled highwaywoman depending on Rebeccah alone to save her from the gallows was daunting, and she couldn’t hide her downcast mood.

  “Don’t lose heart yet, my dear,” said the Duchess. “I shall just have to cram down another mouthful of humble pie.” She glanced at the ornate clock on the chimney piece. “With luck the Queen will relent tomorrow. There is still time for you to save your friend.”

  With that she signalled to Betty to bring pen, paper, and ink, and right there and then on the white linen table cloth, she dashed off another flamboyant missive to ‘Mrs Morley’.

  Rebeccah shifted on the hard pew, trying to get comfortable. She hadn’t felt like attending church this morning, but her mother thought it better to keep occupied rather than wait aimlessly at the Lodge. The Duchess had told them that on Sundays the Queen breakfasted and then attended a private service in the Castle Chapel, so there would probably be no reply to her letter until after that at least.

  Mrs Dutton had sent for the carriage and ordered it to take herself, Rebeccah, and Mary to the little church in Windsor. Aunt Sarah didn’t join them. She might not be on speaking terms with the Queen, but as a courtier of some importance (not only was she Duchess of Marlborough, she was ‘Groom of the Stole’, ‘Mistress of the Robes’, ‘Keeper of the Privy Purse’, and ‘Ranger of Windsor Great Park’) she was still expected to attend the private service.

  The sermon was dull and unoriginal, so Rebeccah tuned out the parson’s nasal drone and let her thoughts wander. If the little man in the pulpit could have read her mind he’d have been scandalised. She began by savouring that kiss with Kate, then progressed to wondering what exactly it was that two women did together in private. The kiss seemed to have unlocked sensual feelings of which she had previously been unaware, and though still slightly shocked to learn about this side of herself, Rebeccah was rapidly coming to terms with it. Inevitably, though, the tenor of her thoughts gradually darkened, and once more the question nearest to her returned - whether the highwaywoman could survive the savage sentence due to be carried out tomorrow morning.

  Suppose the Queen is so upset with Aunt Sarah she doesn’t forgive her in time. Suppose she does forgive her, but she declines to grant the petition anyway. Suppose … suppose … Bless me! I told Kate not to give up hope, but just suppose …

  The gruesome image of Kate strangling on Tyburn Tree was too horrific for Rebeccah to contemplate without feeling agitated and sick so she forced it away and surfaced to hear Mary on her left and her mother on her right saying, “Amen.”

  “Amen.” She rose to her feet with the rest of the congregation, and if she did not actually sing the words to the next hymn, she mouthed them creditably enough. It was a relief when at last the service was over, and she and her companions were free to board their carriage and drive back through the Park.

  They were almost at the Lodge when they saw Aunt Sarah striding back from the Castle in what appeared to be high spirits. Rebeccah and her mother exchanged a puzzled look, then Mrs Dutton banged on the roof and ordered the driver to stop. She and Rebeccah alighted, leaving Mary to travel on alone.

  “Good morning, my dears.” The Duchess greeted them with a smile then closed her eyes and tilted her cheeks towards the sunshine. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”

  “Is it?” wondered Mrs Dutton.

  “Indeed it is, Elizabeth. For the Queen snubbed me.”

  Rebeccah’s mother’s eyebrows rose. “And this fact pleases you?”

  “Oh yes. For now she has had the satisfaction of humiliating me in public, she will be able to behave magnanimously towards me in private.”r />
  Rebeccah blinked at this convoluted logic but said nothing. The Queen and Aunt Sarah must by now be more than familiar with each other’s quirks. And sure enough, the Duchess had judged the situation correctly, for they had been back at the Lodge barely half an hour before a panting footman arrived from the castle, bearing a message from the Queen.

  The Duchess broke the royal seal and read the contents. Then she chuckled and looked up. “We are to attend the Queen at once.”

  “We?” Mrs Dutton paled.

  “Alas, not you, Elizabeth. Rebeccah and I.”

  Rebeccah gaped at her aunt. “The Queen wants to see me?” The last word came out as a squeak.

  “Indeed,” said the Duchess. “So you’d better get that plain-faced maid of yours to help you look respectable, my dear, and be quick about it. We leave in ten minutes.”

  Rebeccah’s heart was in her mouth as she climbed the turret stairs to the royal boudoir -Queen Anne favoured a room above the Norman gateway of Windsor Castle. It was just as well Rebeccah was wearing gloves, or her damp palms would have smeared the ink on the petition of mercy. Courage, she reminded herself. You are doing this for Kate.

  “What shall I say to her?” she asked the Duchess who was one step ahead of her.

  Aunt Sarah turned. “Lord, child! You’re as white as a sheet.” She chuckled. “She is not a monster. Just speak when you are spoken to. Answer her questions, but do not babble.” She halted at a door, smoothed her skirts over her hips, then rapped the door sharply. It swung open to reveal a maid. She was obviously expecting them, for she curtseyed and stood back.

  The room they entered was polygonal with lots of windows, but its light and airy feel was spoiled by the clutter of furniture. A tiny chestnut-coloured dog scurried towards the two women. Rebeccah flinched but it merely sniffed the toe of the Duchess’s shoe with a wet nose, yapped a greeting, then raced back to its mistress, scrambling up into her ample lap.

  Rebeccah had seen paintings of the Queen but none conveyed how poxed was her face, or how obese she had become. Must be due to her gout, poor thing. At her elbow stood a small table, on which lay all the condiments for Bohea tea.