Mesmerized, Xandra obeyed, clutching her bag close. Martha followed and so did the parson with an exaggerated sigh. With a pistol, the highwayman waved the three of them to stand a few paces from the rear of the coach. Xandra, feigning innocence, positioned her stance so that she could observe. Advancing to the open door, the robber cracked the butt of his pistol on the knee of the still dozing Alfred Smith who yelped, swore, and tumbled out of the carriage. At a stroke, he had reduced Alfred Smith to a stuttering beggar pleading for his life on his painful knees. Placing the barrel of one of the pistols under his chin, the robber raised Smith to his feet. “Alfred the Great,” he quipped with scorn. Sweeping around behind him, he pulled the front of Smith’s open jacket down over his arms so that, not only was he unable to move his arms, but the inside of his jacket, with all its pockets, was exposed. Patting Smith with his hands, the robber deduced he had nothing to offer. He pushed the back of his knee and Smith fell to the ground again. Whimpering, Smith attempted to free his arms, partially succeeded, and crawled away towards the wood, wincing with pain. Glancing inside the carriage, the robber’s hand followed through and brought out the pouch of coins. He tucked it inside his jacket.
Xandra’s eyes had not left him and he motioned for her to approach. She did. She felt no fear. She was nearly as tall as he and her predicament felt quite unreal. “You honour me with your eyes, Ma’am,” he said dipping his head slightly and motioning her to put the bag on the ground. She could not: she was transfixed. The robber stepped closer. He was staring at her throat! His eyes, dark as sable, penetrated her feeling of invulnerability, her stomach lurched, and she let the bag slide to the ground; it fell open. Every bone, every nerve in her body prickled. Still he stared, ignoring the bag. Involuntarily, her hand went to her bruised face then slid to her neck and she felt the silver ring charm. The highwayman moved to one side, as if to see the charm from a different angle, then held out his hand. Xandra, now feeling that she might even visibly tremble, found the catch on the chain, took it off, and placed it all in the still outstretched hand. Something within her fought a sense of wanting to kick out at his foot and unbalance him – she was more likely, she thought, to fall over with this frock on. Besides, he kept a wary distance. In a flash he took the charm from the silver chain, returned the chain to her extended hand and pocketed the ring. After indicating she should move aside, he crouched to peer at the open bag as if it were likely to snap like an alligator’s jaw. How embarrassing if he rifled through it. Unexpectedly, Xandra thought she detected stifled curiosity or even alarm. With only the fading expression in his eyes visible, it was hard to be sure. He stepped away from the bag and motioned her to return to the coach. Feeling as if invisible strings pulled her, she retrieved her handbag, turned, mounted the steps into the carriage and sat down. She was so very cold. She put her woolly shawl over her head again, slid the chain inside her brimful bag and closed it firmly. She should have kicked him.
There was now no sign of the highwayman; he’d disappeared into the woods. Xandra put her head out of the open door and called out to the backs of her fellow passengers and coachmen, “He’s gone.”
Bickering, the liveried guard and the driver returned to the mail coach. “I’ve told you before, don’t stop in the woods for the lamps to be lit.”
“An’ I told you,” said the driver, “it’s ’cos we’re always late that we’re in the woods when it turns dark.”
The guard began to argue the sense of this, then seemed to think better of it.
“Their fares will pay the fine. Just make sure we drop ’em off before anyone sees ’em. Now get a move on with them lamps before some other cut-throat gets us.”
“We’re lucky he didn’t get my mail,” said the guard with obvious relief.
Alfred, the now not-so-Great, shot into the carriage, cursing, blaspheming and swearing revenge.
“Hold your uncouth tongue!” boomed the parson as he hauled himself inside the carriage. “Have you no concern for the ladies?”
“To hell with the ladies,” blurted the foaming-mad gambler. “They’ve not been robbed. I’m the only one who’s lost anything. How come he knew my name? Eh? He must have known. Someone’s…”
“Enough! I will hear not another viperous word from you. You’ve no doubt been the cause of our interrupted journey.”
Martha seemed to feel her employer needed backing up. She leaned towards the silenced Mr Smith and growled, “You flolopdoodle, you…”
“Fopdoodle, Martha. The word is fopdoodle,” said the parson with a look that told of long forbearance.
Xandra wasn’t sure she’d heard of either word.
The usually voluble Martha leaned back and sat silently in the corner opposite the enraged victim. She turned to observing Xandra who was examining her own intense emotions, imperceptibly, she hoped. What an adventure. A highwayman! ‘You honour me with your eyes.’ Wow! It was true. Her eyes had not shown any fear but they had betrayed her strong fascination with this captivating man. She should have done something, not just stand there and let him get away. She looked down at her dress and sighed.
Martha took hold of Xandra’s hand and patted it. “No need to worry, girl, Parson Raffles is with us.”
Hide in Time ~ Anna Faversham
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Parson Emmanuel Raffles twirled his black hat on his finger tip at the same time as patting his ample stomach and chuckled, “Dexterous, don’t you think, Miss Mulberry?” Leaving the doorway of the Canterbury inn and heading towards the coach, Xandra was surprised to see the parson looking so cheerful. “Fortified by a hearty breakfast, I can at least start the day with good cheer,” he chirped, “though I doubt I’ll finish the same way.”
Amused, Xandra said, “I’m very grateful to you for arranging my lodging overnight, Mr Raffles.” She hoped she’d hidden her surprise at his lack of decorum.
“It was a pleasure to be of assistance to a young lady beset by fiery dragons and other such beasts,” he said looking pleased with himself as he crafted a comical figure fending off fiends with an imaginary sword.
Xandra found herself smiling broadly. Her travelling companion, who’d excused himself so hastily the night before, making only brief arrangements for her refreshment, seemed a different man this morning. She looked down at herself. She was clearly no different at all. Unnerved by the strange contents of her bag, and far too tired to decide how to go about it, she had declined to unpack. Taking off her dress, she had wondered why she was wearing knee-length breeches with gold buttons. This morning she was too embarrassed to leave them behind and there was certainly no room in her bag, so she had put them back on again. Her fine, long, fair hair was sliding from her cap and the ribbon served only to make her look like a serving girl unsuccessfully attempting to ape her betters. Her bruises, now tinged with green, validated her misgiving. Most unladylike. Worse, something holding a key to her identity, of this she was sure, had been stolen from around her neck. Yet she felt inexplicably happy; free – as if she had escaped from some terrible, worrying, life-threatening circumstances, and if this had no reference to the highwayman, and she was sure it had not, then from what had she been liberated?
“I’m afraid my appearance has let your exertions down, Mr Raffles. I don’t feel worth rescuing.”
Resuming his more dignified look, he wandered across to her and enquired quietly, “Memories not returned?”
Xandra shook her head. “I cannot even remember my given name.” Her lightness of spirit dissipated further as the thought occurred to her that her situation might not have changed for the better.
“We shall be setting off for Torwell Bridge shortly and I shall take you to the parsonage upon our arrival. My housekeeper will be able to assist with the correct apparel for the young lady you clearly are – before you meet Mr Adam Leigh-Fox.”
“Can you tell me something about him?”
“Indeed I can, but I suggest we leave that until we arrive at the parsonage. This
journey will be marginally better, but I fear I shall not. We have over forty miles to travel.” Parson Raffles considered for a moment before saying, “If you have no objection, you may stay overnight at my home. A good night’s sleep, my housekeeper’s attentions to your bruised face and,” he gestured with a flourish at her dress, “a little wash and…” he paused, “let us say that the first day of October will be a time to remember for the Leigh-Fox family.”
Xandra picked up two statements, the date and the phrase ‘a time to remember’, she turned the latter over in her mind. She liked the sound of it. She took a deep breath before announcing, “I shall leave you in peace during the journey. Martha is delightful, though…” Xandra hesitated; she didn’t want to sound unkind, and wished she had not started to comment.
“She has not worked as a maid before and has yet to be trained. Her character is, however, faultless; her charm – in abundance; her loyalty – unquestionable. But don’t tell her I said that.”
Rescued by the unlikely figure of Parson Raffles again, thought Xandra.
“Her husband had been a fisherman, then was a sailor in the fleet before his ship was attacked. She is all but destitute and, though you may not have noticed, she is fearful of her new life ahead.”
“How did you come to bury her husband, being so far away?”
“My youth was spent on the north Kent coast and my first living encompassed the village where she dwelt. I was offered Torwell Bridge a while ago – a substantial advancement, you understand. Their Parson has been taken irremediably sick and so I have stepped in. Martha is without an income and I can afford more help at Torwell Bridge. There – all you’ll need to know about us.”
He trusted her; how comforting. “Maybe one day I shall be able to tell you about myself,” Xandra said wistfully.
~
The following afternoon, Xandra examined her spruced-up self, watched over by Emmanuel Raffles’s housekeeper and the twittering Martha.
“Ooh girl, I’d hardly recognize you.”
“Martha,” said the housekeeper. “I’ve asked you to hold the looking-glass and if you want to stay in this household, you will pay heed to your manners.”
Martha opened her mouth and shut it.
Xandra was about to take her leave of them both and almost held out her hand when the housekeeper curtseyed – just a little bob – but clearly an indication that shaking hands was not the favoured way to say farewell. “I fear both Martha and I have a lot to learn. We shall view it as an adventure, shall we not, Martha?”
“Too right you are, Miss. Biggest adventure…”
“Martha, you will address young ladies correctly or not at all.”
“I do beg your pardon, Miss Mulberry. There wasn’t much call for addressing ladies back home.”
Xandra could not help but smile broadly – what a treasure the parson had found. “Thank you both for washing and pressing my dress and for the loan of a bonnet.”
“I’ve sewn up that big hole in your shawl where you’ve put your head through, Miss Mulberry,” said the housekeeper with pride, “and I think you’ll find it will suffice until you find another.” Her unspoken words ‘more in the current fashion’ hung in the air.
“Why thank you. It did seem a little odd to have a large hole there, though I found it most useful.”
“’tis not the thing to go visiting with a holey shawl though and I hope you will…”
A chuckle alerted Xandra to her host’s approach. “Holey shawl! Good Lord in Heaven above! ’tis the very thing for a young lady accompanying the holy parson!” Emmanuel Raffles roared laughing at his pun, picked up his black hat with the large brim and set it jauntily on his head, and strode towards the huge oak door. Flinging it wide, he said, “Timing. God’s timing is always perfect. The Leigh-Fox carriage has arrived.”
Xandra allowed the coachman to assist her into the leather-upholstered interior. It had clearly seen better days but it was a considerable improvement on those she’d travelled in so far.
“How is your soul, Miss Mulberry?” Parson Raffles, seated opposite, peered over his spectacles and into her eyes as if to check she had one.
Xandra could not remember if she had ever considered her soul. Certainly no one else had ever showed concern for it. She hoped she had found an acceptable answer in, “My soul is silent.”
“Become acquainted with your soul, care for it, for it will outlast all you have.”
How profoundly he spoke. How appropriate for her, mourning her lost memory. It was in such contrast to… to what? Though she could not grasp any memories, she was sure they would not match her experiences in the last two days. She decided to change the subject. “I have butterflies,” she announced shyly.
“And how might you have those?” Parson Raffles looked baffled. “Where are you keeping them?”
Now Xandra looked baffled. Was it his sense of humour? “Tummy butterflies,” she said lightly.
“Did you eat something at the inn that has disturbed your digestion?”
“Oh no, Mr Raffles. I merely meant I am a little nervous.”
“I wonder, Miss Mulberry, if you have been living overseas?”
They both furrowed their brows.
It was a short journey and the carriage soon pulled up in front of “Foxhills”.
“Now do not let the butterflies loose, Miss Mulberry. Only Mr Adam is at home. Mr Jack, the elder brother, is away and he and Mr Leigh-Fox will return later today. Fewer butterflies this way,” Parson Raffles said with a wink.
A liveried footman ran down the stone steps from the house to open the door and assist Xandra in alighting. While the parson squeezed his way out, Xandra glanced at the outside of the house. It was white, not very old, and Georgian in style. ‘In style?’ What a strange thought. If it was 1814, then it was truly Georgian. Or Regency. It could be Regency. She looked again. No, definitely Georgian; it was pleasingly symmetrical, with large, sash windows either side of the central door. At the far window on the left, she was sure she caught sight of a girl’s face. A young daughter, perhaps?
Inside, another liveried servant courteously took the parson’s hat and cloak and Mr Raffles encouraged Xandra to divest herself of what he was now calling the ‘unholey shawl’ and her newly acquired plain bonnet. If anyone could disperse butterflies, he could. Xandra took a moment to appreciate the imposing galleried hall which had three white marble pillars either side and a wide central staircase leading up from the black and white tiled floor. The visitors were led to the sitting room and asked to await Mr Adam Leigh-Fox. Xandra was entranced. Black and white engravings in black, cream and gold frames hung against the grey-green walls, and the floor to ceiling square-paned window was hung with cream curtains; there were echoes of the grey-green walls in the pelmet. In silence, Xandra sat on a cream and green chintz sofa and looked across to Mr Raffles who appeared to want to convey something without being overheard.
“It’s Mr Adam who keeps the whole estate running. Without him…” Interrupted, he rose as Adam Leigh-Fox entered, bowed, bounded across the room to the hearth and introduced himself. Parson Raffles rescued the rapt Xandra who’d expected herself to stand to greet her host but failed to do more than rise a little and smile even less. “Miss Mulberry has had a most difficult journey. She has a Letter of Introduction addressed to you, Adam.”
Adam was standing with his hands behind his back, legs astride, and his combination of elegance and authority captivated Xandra. A thousand butterflies were let loose.
Adam smiled at Xandra and inclined his head.
Xandra’s every bone seemed to be quaking. It was his smile. A smile line on either side of his mouth gave him a jaunty, rakish look. He pulled up an armchair alongside the sofa on which she was sitting and as he relaxed in it she could see there was a second line on one side caused by a deep cut.
“Raffles explained when he called here this morning, how he came upon you and the perils you appear to have endured. You can trust us both
, Miss Mulberry.”
Xandra looked from Adam to the avuncular parson who grinned. He clearly did not mind being called ‘Raffles’.
“You don’t expect me to call him ‘Emmanuel’ do you, Miss Mulberry? Don’t you think Raffles is better?”
“I can assure you, I do,” said Raffles, “Though we observe the proprieties in society, of course.”
Xandra lifted her heavy bag on to her lap and carefully opened it. It had not left her sight since… since when? She had stuffed one more item on top of the letter this morning, the funny little cap she’d been wearing with the scarlet ribbon and it had caught in the clasp. It was with some difficulty that she extracted the crumpled letter addressed to Adam Leigh-Fox, Esquire, and, lowering her eyes with embarrassment, she handed it to him.
Adam examined the wax seal. There was no crest, and he appeared curious about the scent of the wax, sniffing it, closing his eyes, then sniffing it again, as if it held some memory. He opened it with care and considered the first paragraph slowly, then skipped to the last page. He shuffled the pages before he said, “The last page is missing, Miss Mulberry. Do you know who has written this?”
Xandra shook her head. Oh how could this happen? She’d been waiting for this moment in the hope of finding out to whom she ‘belonged’. Confidence, followed by the little poise she’d tried to muster, was ebbing away faster than a Southend tide.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Miss Mulberry. I recognize the writing, I’m sure I do; though it is unlikely to be easily verified.”
Xandra wondered if it was impolite to ask what it said.
“It is clearly from someone who knows me well and through some oversight the last page has been omitted.” Xandra wondered if he, like Parson Raffles, always rescued the drowning.
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