The Girl in the Mask

by Marie-Louise Jensen

  ‘You have to be jesting!’ I exclaimed. ‘You have no right, no authority over me at all. I’ll make you no such promise.’

  ‘You may think this is a jest, Miss Williams. I don’t. If you won’t give me your word, I shall require those clothes from you,’ said Mr Charleton. ‘If I can’t get you to understand how dangerous the situation is, then I must take steps to enforce your safety and the safety of the city!’

  I made a move to escape, turning to flee up to my room, but Mr Charleton caught me around the waist and pulled me back to face him. He was suddenly very close, his dark eyes looking down into mine, a stern expression in them. I struggled frantically, heart hammering. ‘Please, you don’t understand, you have no idea!’ I cried as I fought him. ‘My life is unendurable. What do I care about politics? How can they matter to me compared to the life I’m condemned to lead? I’m confined and hemmed in, allowed to exercise neither my mind nor my body. I would go insane without some escape. This is all I have!’

  ‘How can I trust your word? You’ve lied to me often enough.’

  ‘I’m not lying now!’ I said hotly. His closeness was affecting me; I could smell the sweetness of his breath and feel the warmth of his body against mine. I ceased struggling, hoping instead to reason with him.

  ‘Then you do not need to go out at night! You say you are confined, but it’s not true. You go out to the baths, to Harrison’s, and to balls. You walk, you dance. Why is that not enough for you?’

  ‘How should that be enough?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice reasonable, but failing. ‘No books except for religious ones, no learning at all. Embroidery and music, both of which I abominate! Dawdling along in a ridiculous gown at my aunt’s side, exchanging nothings with people I don’t care about. Waiting to be married to an old man like Captain Mould who will be as bad as my father. Being told what to do, even what to think! Would that be enough for you? To never be allowed more? To have no hope?’

  I’d succeeded in startling Mr Charleton with my vehemence; his hold on me slackened. I twisted and leapt away from him. Slipping on the slate tiles, I scrambled up over the roof. I ran full-pelt along the parapet, ignoring the dizzying drop to my right, pretending it was safe to take the route at this speed. I could hear Mr Charleton behind me, but not close enough to catch me. I slid in through my open window and slammed it shut before he could reach me, closing the wooden shutters across the window so he couldn’t look in. I could hear him tapping on the glass, but ignored him. I’d escaped this time, but the man was becoming a serious inconvenience.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I awoke after four hours’ sleep to a hot, sultry day, the sun already burning down on the new houses. I wondered, not for the first time, at the gentry choosing to spend the hottest months of the year walled up in a crowded, humid city in the bottom of a river valley. They could scarcely have found a stuffier, more airless spot.

  By the time we’d been to prayers and were climbing into Captain Mould’s hired chaise outside our house at eleven o’clock, the heat was intolerable. Trim Street was like an oven. The chaise was crowded with the captain, one of his cronies and his wife, and the two of us, but it did at least have a hood that could be drawn down, so there would be fresh air around us. I was crushed onto a seat that was too small to accommodate three, between Aunt Amelia and Mrs Wicklow, a woman of dubious personal hygiene and a tendency to sweat profusely.

  The day was intolerably dull. The fresher air and fine views were all ruined for me by the suffocating presence of Captain Mould, who stayed as close to me as my own shadow. I struggled to keep my temper, and began to wonder how I was to sabotage the coach unnoticed.

  At noon, Captain Mould’s servants laid out a picnic in the shade of some beech trees. Captain Mould leaned in towards me smiling his yellow-toothed smile, his thin cheeks stained brown from his snuff habit. ‘Can I tempt you … with a little light luncheon, Miss Williams?’ he leered into my face.

  I shuddered. ‘To luncheon you can, but to nothing else I assure you!’

  ‘Sophia!’ My aunt spoke sharply. ‘You misunderstand the captain.’

  I was silent, knowing I hadn’t misunderstood. Captain Mould smirked.

  After luncheon, which consisted of cold meats, freshly-baked bread, fruit and a light white wine, everyone fell quiet. The heat was oppressive and it seemed none of the adults had any inclination to leave the shade. My aunt fell asleep with her mouth open, and Mrs Wicklow soon followed her example, though she managed to be more discreet about it. The atmosphere grew somnolent. The steady hum of bees, flies, and other insects around us was hypnotic. I fought the lassitude, knowing this was my chance. Seeing the others sleeping, Captain Mould’s eyes gleamed and he drew closer to me. I turned my back to him pointedly, lying down beside my aunt, feigning sleep.

  Captain Mould must have given up on me, for I heard him suggest a walk to Mr Wicklow. I waited until they were out of sight before I got up and walked back across the field to the carriage. The sun was scorching, the ground baked hard. My skin burned and my petticoats stuck to me uncomfortably, but I was wide awake once more.

  There were several other groups of day-trippers dotted here and there under the trees, enjoying luncheon or resting in the shade. I wondered if all their parties were as dull and ill-assorted as ours. A burst of distant laughter told me that at least one was merrier than us.

  Our horses had been unharnessed and stood under the leafy canopy of a large beech tree, skin twitching, tails swishing to shoo away unwelcome insects. The chaise stood beside them, the hood pulled up now, ready for the drive home. I looked around for the coachman and groom. They were leaning over a gate further down the field, exchanging compliments with a group of farm girls who were probably taking a break from haymaking.

  I went to the near carriage wheel and drew the small metal tool Jenny had given me out of my pocket. It had been knocking uncomfortably against my leg all morning. I unwrapped it from my pocket handkerchief and bent down by the wheel, searching quickly for the pegs Jenny had described to me. I found one, but I couldn’t shift it, even with her tool, so I crawled under the carriage and tried the other wheel. Here I was luckier, able to loosen two pegs until they were ready to drop out. I left them loose, trusting my handiwork wouldn’t be noticed.

  As swiftly as I could in my cumbersome clothes, I crawled out from under the chaise and shook out my petticoats. I’d picked up a few smudges and grass stains. I rubbed ineffectually at them, hoping my aunt wouldn’t notice. Then I hurried back across the sun-baked field, and rejoined the sleeping ladies.

  The rest of the outing passed in a haze of heat and boredom. We walked, talked and then Captain Mould’s servants poured lemonade for the ladies and wine for the gentlemen. The air cooled as the day mellowed and everyone grew livelier, but none of them had anything to say that interested me. At length the talk turned to returning to the city. ‘There’s a special service in the abbey tonight, and I should hate to miss it,’ said Mrs Wicklow, fanning herself.

  Well, I’m afraid you will, I thought gleefully to myself. And you’re going to get robbed into the bargain, if the end of the day goes according to plan.

  The chaise bounced and jolted promisingly as the horses pulled it along the narrow lane that led back to Lansdown Road. I held my breath, aware that every bump and lurch threatened the weakened wheel. The excitement made me feel alive again after the numbingly dull day.

  I’d delayed our departure as long as possible by begging to go on a last walk to see the view down over Bristol. Captain Mould had accompanied me and had rendered it hideous with his talk of wedding plans. I returned angry and sickened, but had the consolation of seeing that the other day-trippers had all departed and that the brightness was fading from the sky.

  Once more the carriage jolted into a pothole, and bounced out again unscathed. It was more unnerving than I’d expected, waiting for a crash. But by the time the chaise jerked back onto Lansdown Road, still intact, I began to grow anxious for qui
te a different cause. What if the wheel held after all? Then there would be no robbery and no humiliation for Captain Mould.

  I was just wishing I’d removed the peg completely when we began the steep descent towards the city. Almost at once, we hit a pothole and the jolt took the wheel right off. The body of the carriage lurched forward and with a tremendous splintering of wood and smashing of glass, it crashed down to the ground, hurling us all forward.

  The impact jarred every bone in my body. I hit my head on something so that it spun sickeningly for a moment. There was a silence, stillness, a suspension of every faculty except shock. And then Mrs Wicklow began to scream.

  The ladies had all been pitched forward onto the men. Mrs Wicklow, finding herself sprawled full-length on top of Captain Mould, had gone into hysterics. My aunt was scarcely better placed, her limbs tangled with those of the respectable Mr Wicklow, and with only a few seconds’ delay, her voice was raised in a screech to match Mrs Wicklow’s. The racket made my ears ring.

  Even in the undignified position in which I found myself, wedged face down in a press of struggling bodies, I had a strong inclination to burst out laughing. I suppressed it and struggled upright. I must have dug a foot or an elbow into someone in the process, as a male voice cried out. I grasped the strap at the side of the carriage, now dangling at an angle above my head and pulled myself up out of the confusion. I managed to haul myself out, one foot on the squabs to aid my ascent.

  The upper half of my body emerged from the gloom of the carriage into golden evening light, and a scene of complete chaos met my eyes. I paused for a moment to survey the wreck of the chaise, the smashed glass, the splintered wood, the dazed coachman and the terrified, plunging horses.

  It wasn’t easy to scramble out of the carriage. My hoop hindered my escape, and made modesty quite impossible, I feared. I tried not to think about the view the occupants of the coach must have of me. I jumped lightly to the ground. My petticoats were torn, my hair coming unpinned, and I was becoming aware of minor hurts: I’d bitten my tongue, and bruised one knee rather badly.

  I cast a swift, anxious glance at the coachman and groom, hoping they hadn’t been injured. The groom was sitting by the side of the road, holding his head and looking dazed, while the coachman was clinging to his seat, now tilted at a steep angle, unable to let go for fear of slipping off, hanging onto the reins with one hand.

  I stepped up to the horses’ heads, catching the tangled reins and trying to soothe them one by one. Once they were calm, I checked them swiftly for injuries, relieved to find superficial hurts only.

  Meanwhile, the hysteria inside the carriage was not abating at all. I grinned to myself at the chaos I’d caused. How furious Captain Mould must be. I had the pleasure of seeing his fury at first hand, just a few moments later, as his head appeared out of the carriage. He was straining to climb out, his face dark red, his wig askew and much dishevelled. Once out of the wrecked vehicle, he assisted Mr Wicklow, and between them they hauled out the two distraught, hysterical ladies.

  My aunt sat sobbing noisily on the bank while Mrs Wicklow clung to her husband’s arms and shrieked: ‘Oh, I thought we’d all been killed! I’m sure every bone in my body is broken! Oh, what a terrible accident.’

  Seeing Captain Mould’s expression of revulsion, I thought I would add to his irritation. ‘Oh, Captain!’ I shrieked in a high-pitched voice, running forward to grasp his sleeve. ‘Oh, I was so frightened! Whatever shall we do? Oh, oh, the poor carriage! It’s all smashed, look! Look!’

  Furious, he tried to pull his sleeve from my grasp, but I clung on tighter and began to sob more noisily than either of the other women. I hoped I was giving him a disgust of me. ‘Leave me alone, you stupid, ignorant girl,’ he said angrily, giving me a shove so that I fell backwards into the road. I cried noisily again, heaving pretend sobs into my pocket handkerchief as the captain twitched his coat straight and marched off towards the horses. I watched him under my lashes as he started haranguing the coachman for careless driving. ‘You’re a damned stupid fellow!’ he shouted.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault, sir,’ the poor coachman protested, still white-faced with shock. ‘There was a pothole!’

  ‘I don’t want to hear your lame excuses. Stop sitting around, you lazy, good-for-nothing scoundrel and help me untangle these horses.’ The captain began swearing under his breath as he fought to straighten out the mess of harness and frightened horses the accident had caused.

  The sun had slipped below the horizon, the dusk creeping up on us. I thought it wouldn’t be long before Jenny arrived to set the seal on this ill-fated expedition. I’d scarcely had the thought when the drumming of horses’ hooves reached my ears. The others heard it too. Captain Mould straightened up, listening, and my aunt turned towards the sound and cried: ‘Oh, help is at hand! What a relief!’

  Their dismay when a pistol shot rang out over our heads and two masked horsemen appeared was a delight to see. The two horses pulled to a halt in a cloud of dust and noise, and in the confusion, I saw the larger man level a pistol at Captain Mould’s head. ‘Nobody move!’ he ordered loudly. ‘Now. One at a time, hand over your valuables to my partner. Any tricks and your friend here dies.’

  The temptation was almost overwhelming, but I resisted it and stayed quietly where I was, hands folded in my lap, watching the scene.

  ‘How dare you?’ demanded Captain Mould in a shaking voice. ‘I’ll have the law on you for this!’

  ‘You do that, old man,’ recommended Jenny’s father in his hoarse voice. We all knew he’d be far away without a trace before Captain Mould could go to the magistrates.

  Meanwhile, Jenny was taking rings and a garnet necklace from my aunt, gold bracelets and a brooch from Mrs Wicklow, as well as a diamond pin and a snuffbox from Mr Wicklow. A purse was wrested from Captain Mould that looked worth stealing, plus a lace pocket handkerchief. ‘And now your wig,’ commanded Jenny’s father.

  ‘My wig? Damn, how dare you?’ shouted Captain Mould, going red. ‘You can’t force me to undress on the public highway!’

  A slow grin spread over the highwayman’s face, revealing broken, discoloured teeth. ‘But that’s exactly what I be goin’ do,’ he said. He pulled a sack from his saddlebag and threw it to Jenny. ‘Wigs, coats, cravats, and gowns,’ he ordered.

  ‘No!’ objected the victims, with various degrees of vehemence. I said nothing, enjoying their discomfiture. I had no particular objection to walking back to town in my petticoats. It was almost dark after all. But I could see the prospect utterly humiliated the others.

  The highwayman cocked his pistol with an ominous click, and held it closer to Captain Mould’s head. The angry colour swiftly faded from the captain’s face, to be replaced by an unhealthy pallor. ‘Very well, you’ll get what you want,’ he stuttered. ‘But get that damned pistol away from my head.’

  His antagonist didn’t move, and slowly, carefully, Mould removed his wig and dropped it into the sack the masked Jenny held out to him. His velvet coat and embroidered waistcoat followed, then his expensive lace ruffles and cravat.

  He stood, much diminished, a small, grey, shaven-headed older man, sweating with fear and the closeness of the evening, while his companions also divested themselves of their outer garments, both ladies whimpering with shame and fear.

  It was my turn. With the ghost of a grin at Jenny, I began to wriggle out of the most hated of my gowns, chosen specially with the hope I’d be robbed of it before the day was over. But before I was properly out of it, we were disturbed by the rumble of coach wheels and the sound of hooves from the Bristol direction.

  ‘Quickly!’ urged Jenny’s father, snatching the sack from her and slinging it over his saddle. Jenny leapt onto her horse and they were both gone in a swirl of dust before the carriage drew into sight around the corner.

  I stood foolishly half in, half out of my gown, while Captain Mould turned and waved to the coach, trying to attract its attention in the gloom. But the coachmen, see
ing the smashed carriage and its passengers clearly robbed, simply whipped up the horses and passed us at a dangerously reckless pace on the steep hill.

  ‘Why aren’t they stopping?’ wailed my aunt. ‘Why would a coachman drive past us when we need help?’

  ‘Because this is sometimes a ploy,’ growled Mr Wicklow. ‘Coach appears to be in distress, carriage stops to help, and gets robbed. They were frightened.’

  There was a silence as we all took this in. ‘Then what are we going to do?’ quavered Aunt Amelia.

  ‘Walk,’ stated the captain harshly.

  It was a sorry, footsore group that finally reached the city gate an hour later. There was a glow in the sky and a hubbub of noise from within the city walls.

  A group of men stood in the archway, blocking our way. ‘Where are you heading?’ one asked as we approached. He and his companions stared in surprise at my companions’ undress.

  ‘Trim Street first,’ Captain Mould replied. ‘We’ve been robbed. Is there something wrong in the city?’

  ‘It’s engulfed in lawlessness. I’d advise avoiding the city itself and skirting the walls to Trim Street.’

  ‘What do you mean by lawlessness?’ asked my aunt sharply.

  ‘There’s a mob storming the Meeting House,’ the man explained. ‘I’m under orders to let none in. You can walk around the walls to Trim Street.’

  My aunt and Captain Mould exchanged significant glances but said nothing until we were walking in the dark towards Trim Street. They then conducted a low-voiced conversation which I could hear nothing of.

  Captain Mould and the Wicklows parted from us at our house and I knocked. The door was opened by our butler, whose usual calm appeared to have deserted him. It took only a moment for me to see the reason. Behind him, immaculately dressed as ever, but frowning heavily, stood my father.