Rebeccah and the Highwayman

by Barbara Davies

  “Mrs Freeman,” Queen Anne stroked the dog with fat fingers.

  “Your Majesty.” The Duchess curtseyed, and after a frozen moment, Rebeccah copied her.

  “And is this your niece?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The Queen fed a ratafia biscuit to her pet. “Come forward, child.”

  Rebeccah did so on shaky legs. She tried to stand straight under the regal gaze, which, she saw now, was more of a squint.

  “You have something for me?” prompted the Queen.

  Rebeccah remembered the piece of paper in her hand. “Y… yes, Your Majesty.”

  The maid appeared at her elbow. Rebeccah gave her the petition of mercy, which she in turn transferred with a curtsey to the royal hand.

  Queen Anne unfolded the crumpled petition, smoothed it, and read its contents. There was no sound in the turret room except for the contented grunts of the lapdog and Rebeccah wondered if anyone else could hear the pounding of her heart and roaring in her ears.

  “A highwaywoman?” The stout monarch looked up, astonished. “You wish me to pardon a convicted thief and murderess? What an extraordinary request!”

  Is it my imagination or is the room swaying? wondered Rebeccah.

  “Speak, child… Oh my! Is she going to … A chair for your niece, Mrs Freeman. Quickly!”

  Something hard pressed into the back of Rebeccah’s knees and she crumpled gratefully onto it and tried to catch her breath.

  “Rebeccah.” Someone was chafing her hands. A blur resolved itself into Aunt Sarah’s concerned face. “Are you well, my dear? You almost swooned.”

  “Give her some tea,” came the Queen’s voice, and Rebeccah remembered where she was. “That always makes me feel better.”

  How mortifying! She turned to see the seated Queen regarding her and her aunt with interest. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty …”

  A royal hand waved dismissively, and the maid pressed a dish of tea into Rebeccah’s hands and urged her to drink it, so she did, tasting the unmistakable tang of orange brandy. A welcome, warm tingle began to spread through her limbs.

  “There.” The Queen looked smug. “What did I tell you, Mrs Freeman? Her colour is coming back.” She waited, stroking her dog, until Rebeccah had handed the empty cup back, then said, “And now you are recovered, tell me the story of you and this highwaywoman. For Mrs Freeman here has promised me an entertaining tale.”

  Rebeccah glanced at the Duchess, who smiled and gave her an encouraging nod. “Of course, Your Majesty.” She took a deep breath and clasped her hands together and for the second time in as many days began. “The first time I met Blue-Eyed Nick we were returning in our carriage from Chatham…”

  “Such a tale!” said the Queen, eyes bright, when Rebeccah finally drew to a close. The story of two women bent on saving each other’s lives had indeed piqued her interest and she had listened intently, only asking the occasional question. “Your devotion and loyalty to your friend does you credit, Mistress Dutton. If only all women could be as fortunate as we are.”

  She threw the Duchess a fond glance, her tiff with her favourite evidently forgotten. “But in all good conscience I cannot grant Mistress Milledge a free pardon.” Rebeccah’s breathing hitched. “A conditional pardon is a possibility, however.” She breathed freely once more.

  “If I were to free your highwaywoman,” continued Queen Anne, combing the lapdog’s chestnut coat with her fingers, “would she give up her criminal ways? For I will not have my lawful citizens being threatened and robbed as they go about their business.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Rebeccah instantly.

  The Queen leaned forward and fixed her with her disconcerting squint. “Your quickness of response does you credit. But your word alone is not enough, I fear. Would the Dutton family be prepared to provide surety for her good behaviour?”

  Rebeccah blinked. “I have no authority to speak for my sister or my mother,” she said, “but for myself, I am prepared to stand surety for Kate … I mean Mistress Milledge.” She blushed at the slip, but the Queen only smiled.

  “And if a condition of her release were to be that she take up employment with your family?”

  For a moment Rebeccah was at a loss. Did Queen Anne mean to humble Kate by making her a servant? She couldn’t imagine the highwaywoman being happy in such a mundane job, but since for now just keeping Kate alive was her aim she said, “That would be agreeable, Your Majesty.”

  Satisfied, the Queen sat back. “Good,” she said. “You are prepared to provide more than mere words in support of your friend. That deserves to be rewarded.” She signalled to her maid and whispered something in her ear. The woman curtseyed and scurried out, returning minutes later with a beanpole of a man, so well dressed he bordered on the foppish. The dog rushed over to him, gave an agitated bark, and retreated to the safety of its mistress’s lap.

  The new arrival looked down his long nose at Rebeccah and the Duchess, then bowed to the Queen. “Your Majesty?”

  “Mr Wyatt, I have a task for you.” Queen Anne handed the well-travelled piece of paper to the maid who handed it to the tall man. “I am minded to grant this petition of mercy. Issue a pardon for Catherine Milledge at once.” The lapdog snuffled at a royal palm for biscuit crumbs. “Conditional upon her consenting to work for the Dutton family of St James’s Square.”

  No mention of any surety, Rebeccah noticed with relief. Perhaps that had been merely a test.

  “At once, Your Majesty. Will that be all?” The Queen nodded, and Wyatt bowed and backed towards the door. But before he got there, the Duchess crossed quickly to the Queen’s side, stooped, and whispered something in her ear. She looked perturbed.

  “Mr Wyatt, wait.” He paused and looked expectantly at her. “How long will it take for the pardon to reach Newgate?”

  “Um.” His gaze turned inwards. “The paperwork must be correctly prepared, Your Majesty. But all being well it should arrive by Tuesday morning.” He seemed pleased with this answer and was obviously taken aback when the Queen didn’t share his view. Rebeccah too was stunned - if her quick-thinking aunt hadn’t intervened, the pardon would have arrived too late.

  “Too slow, Mr Wyatt,” said the Queen with a frown. “Too slow by half! For I am given to understand that Mistress Milledge is due to hang tomorrow.” Absently she stroked her pet. “You will prepare the pardon yourself, Sir, and deliver it in good time with your own hands. Mistress Dutton and her mother will be travelling back to London tonight or on the morrow. They will not mind you joining them, I’m sure.”

  Wyatt looked as if he had swallowed something bitter, but he said evenly enough, “As you wish, Your Majesty.” And with an extravagant bow, he backed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “Oh thank you, Your Majesty,” cried Rebeccah. “Thank you with all my heart.”

  The Queen smiled at her then yawned, a hand rising too late to cover her mouth. “Bless me! But all this excitement has left me feeling quite fatigued.” She glanced at the Duchess. “Mrs Freeman, you will stay and keep me company awhile. … I’m sure your niece can find her own way back to the lodge - it is not far, after all, and the walk back will do her good.” She gestured to the maid. “Show Mistress Dutton out.”

  And with that, Rebeccah found herself dismissed.

  ***

  Chapter 4

  A buzz went round the prison chapel as Kate came through the door, brushing past the turnkey acting as ticket-taker.

  “Over there,” said Simpkins. “Between Minshul and Powell.”

  She followed the direction of his pointing finger to the dock. The pews inside the black-painted enclosure were reserved for those prisoners condemned to die, and several coffins had been stacked in there with them, to bring home the fact of their imminent mortality.

  As if that is necessary, thought Kate with an inward grimace. She knew the drill. This service would be all about fire and brimstone. Not only would the Ordinary preach hi
s ‘condemned sermon’, those in the dock would be required to hear prayers for their souls and join in the responses to their own burial service.

  Shackles clinking, she shuffled forward, aware of the faces staring down at her from the crowded public galleries upstairs on either side, and the excited whispers of “Blue-Eyed Nick.” The prisoners sitting in the body of the chapel were not so restrained. Catcalls, jokes, and obscenities followed her all the way to her seat.

  “Having a private cell didn’t exempt you from this, then,” said Isaac Minshul, his warty face breaking into a smile as she squeezed in next to him.

  “I’m just glad to be able to stretch my legs.”

  “Got you stapled to the floor, have they?”

  “Ay.”

  “Whoresons!” said Jemmy Powell, who was sitting on the other side of her. “And what a farce this is.” He pushed lank brown hair out of his eyes. “Trying to save our souls when they should be saving our lives.”

  “This service isn’t about our souls, Jemmy,” said Kate. “‘Tis about giving those in the galleries their monies’ worth.”

  “They should look to their own souls if this is the kind of entertainment they choose of a Sunday,” remarked Minshul.

  A rustle of movement drew Kate’s attention to the front, where the Reverend Francis Rewse, Ordinary of Newgate, now stood in the chapel’s simple pulpit. He looked much smarter than when he had questioned Kate so closely about her life story for his pamphlet; he was wearing his best wig, cassock, and surplice.

  “We are gathered here tonight,” he began, peering at his congregation over the top of his half-spectacles, “to pray for the souls of these poor benighted sinners.” He gestured at those in the Dock.

  “Bollocks, you whoreson!” shouted Powell, and a turnkey leaned over and cuffed him on the ear.

  The Ordinary didn’t seem in the least put out by Powell’s trenchant criticism. He bared his teeth in a benign smile and continued: “‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live …’”

  While he wittered on, Kate scanned the chapel, her gaze resting on the rickety little table that served as an altar, before travelling to the commandments painted on the wall above it which had faded so much they were barely legible.

  “Let us turn to Psalm 39,” announced the Ordinary. Kate sighed and reached for the Book of Common Prayer that had been so thoughtfully provided.

  As the service proceeded, with no hymns to relieve the unremitting gloom, many of the prisoners grew restless and bored. But their every heckle was greeted with a poke in the ribs from a turnkey’s stave or a clip round the ear. Then it was time for the Ordinary’s address.

  “‘And they shall go away into everlasting punishment; but the righteous into life eternal’,” intoned Reverend Rewse. “Matthew 25 verse 46.” He paused then repeated with lipsmacking relish, “Everlasting punishment.”

  Kate sighed and turned her thoughts inwards. If Rebeccah’s mission had been successful, she would surely have heard from her by now. She had known it was but a fool’s errand. Her last hours on Earth would have passed far more pleasantly, and, on the evidence of that kiss, far more pleasurably if Rebeccah had stayed with her instead of haring off to Windsor. And a large bribe to the turnkeys might have made that possible. Still, it was touching that the young woman would go to such lengths to save her.

  That Alice had attacked Rebeccah in the corridor outside her cell, and scratched her pretty cheek, had come as an unwelcome shock. Kate grimaced. She should have scratched my face not sweet Rebeccah’s.

  Alice’s visit had been a strained one, to say the least. That she had come at all after their argument was a surprise. Kate had wanted to make things easier on Alice, who had obviously been crying … and in the process salve her own conscience, she supposed. Alice should not shed a single tear for her, she’d urged, for she was not worth it. And then she’d begged forgiveness and sincerely hoped that in time Alice could grant it. But it seemed that, from the widowed landlady’s subsequent assault, Alice would far rather blame Rebeccah for the deterioration in their relationship than admit that Kate had never really loved her in the first place.

  An elbow nudged her back to the here and now and she saw that Powell was rummaging inside his shirt. A sarcastic remark died on her lips when he produced a louse and placed it on the open prayer book in front of him. As it scurried across the page, Powell grinned.

  “A shilling says it reaches the bottom of the page before - Ow!”

  A turnkey had reached over the edge of the Dock and slammed closed the prayer book, sending the louse to an early grave. Then he whacked Powell round the head with it.

  “Forsake your evil ways and repent before it is too late,” thundered the Ordinary.

  Kate sighed and willed the interminable service to its conclusion.

  ***

  “You will wear out your Aunt’s carpet with your pacing, Beccah,” chided Mrs Dutton.

  “I’m sorry, Mama. But where is he?” Rebeccah halted and peered out of the drawing room window, as she had done every other minute for the past half-hour. “He should have been here ages ago.”

  The horses had been hitched and the Dutton carriage, with Robert in its driving seat trying not to nod off, was waiting outside the front entrance of the Great Lodge.

  “Mr Wyatt will come soon,” soothed the Duchess of Marlborough from her easy chair by the fire, where she was sipping a dish of chocolate, “or the Queen will know the reason why.”

  “He had better,” muttered Rebeccah.

  It had not been light long, and mist still hung low over Windsor Great Park’s rolling acres, but if they were to make it to Newgate before noon, they needed to get under way early. Wyatt knew that. He had promised to be here with Kate’s signed and sealed pardon at 5 o’clock on the dot. It was now 5.30.

  It had been still dark when Mary helped Rebeccah and her mother dress, then they had gone down to breakfast with the Duchess, who, as she was dining only with close relatives and all of them female, had chosen to remain deshabille in a loose nightgown but had lost none of her charisma or dignity in the process. Aunt Sarah was unaccustomed to being up at this ungodly hour (as she told them several times) and her constant yawning threatened to become contagious. Rebeccah was dry mouthed with anxiety, and had to use her dish of tea to wash down the cold meat and slices of bread and butter.

  “There he is!” cried Mary.

  Rebeccah followed the maid’s pointing finger and saw a rider on a brown horse galloping towards the Lodge. As he drew closer, she saw that the man in the saddle was an unusually dishevelled-looking Wyatt. He must have overslept.

  Thank God he has come!

  The Queen’s official reined in next to the carriage, dismounted, handed the reins to a footman who had appeared to lead the beast away, then looked round uncertainly. Robert leaned down from his perch and said something. Wyatt nodded his understanding then opened one of the carriage doors and climbed aboard.

  “Come, Beccah.” Mrs Dutton swept towards the drawing room exit. Rebeccah hurried after her with Mary in tow. At the door, all three turned, and curtseyed to the Duchess, who had remained seated by the fire and was stifling another yawn.

  “Thank you with all my heart, Sarah,” said Rebeccah’s mother. “We are obliged indeed for the hospitality and assistance you have rendered. Maybe one day we can return the favour.”

  The Duchess yawned then waved a dismissive hand. “Think nothing of it, Elizabeth,” she called. “Only too happy to help. Just send me word how it all turns out, Rebeccah, will you, dear?”

  “With pleasure.”

  ***

  “Sorry.” Wryneck looked rueful. “The Keeper says the shackles come off in the Press Yard and not before.”

  Kate grimaced. “In that case,” she separated the breeches and hose from the clothes he had purchased on her behalf, and held them out. “See if you can find another use for these.”

/>   The turnkey accepted them with a nod of thanks - they were neatly mended and freshly laundered and should fetch him a shilling or two. Then he cocked his head and grinned. “Keeper didn’t say anything about this, though.” He reached for the keys at his belt, stooped, and unlocked the padlock connecting her leg irons to the staple in the floor.

  “Much obliged,” she told him, meaning it.

  He grunted then glanced at the basin of water, soap, towel, comb, tiny looking glass, clay pipe and pouch of tobacco she had also requested he bring, and paid dearly for the privilege. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

  After he had locked the cell door behind him, Kate set about stripping and washing off the worst of the grime. What she wouldn’t give for a soak in the local bathhouse’s hot pool, but she would have to content herself with the cold water from the basin.

  She shook out the clothes, which came from Godfrey Gimbart’s secondhand clothes shop in Long Lane, and examined them. It was a tradition of Newgate that the condemned should look their best when they went to the gallows. Lord Ferrers had worn his white satin wedding suit, so it was said. Kate’s outfit wasn’t in the same league, but it would do. Shame about the breeches, stained as they were with splashes of tallow and something unidentifiable that she had sat in while in the Condemned Hold; still, the knee-length coat would hide the worst.

  She donned the shirt and buttoned it, enjoying the feel of clean fabric against her skin, then eased on the blue brocade waistcoat and fawn coat. Her cravat she tied in a simple steinkerk, knotting it then tucking the ends through the top buttonhole of her coat.

  The tenor bell of St Sepulchre-without-Newgate tolled mournfully as she combed her hair and tied it at the nape of her neck. Kate was heartily sick of the sound of bells. As if the condemned prisoners’ last night weren’t made restless enough with nightmares of Tyburn, at midnight St Sepulchre’s bellman had paced up and down outside the condemned cells, ringing his hand bell and chanting: