"That's more like it. Am I forgiven a little then?"
She studied him for a moment and thought of the long hours she'd be alone and unsure, temptation her bedmate. "No," she said. "You're not forgiven, Peter, and don't forget that I begged you to stay with me. I won't be to blame if something happens,"
Til only be gone one night or possibly two."
Til miss you."
"No more than I'll miss you," he said. "You couldn't possibly care for me more than I care for you. Think of that, Rosalind." His hands cupped her face, his eyes soft and dark-brown. Think of how I love you."
Her eyes held his for a moment; then she looked away. "I don't know if I can, Peter. It's different with me. I'm not . . . I'm not the same person when you're gone. I need you here beside me. I can't stand being left alone."
He kissed her good-bye, his mouth lingering as he whispered his love to her again. There was no more he could say. Reassurances would only degenerate into an argument, and they had been having too many of those lately. He left her with a feeling of dissatisfaction and knew that she felt no better than he did.
James greeted him at the foot of the stairs with a scowl. "By Jupiter, Peter. Sometimes I think you want Albert to put a noose around your neck. Damn! We'll be lucky if Stephen can get us to the morning coach."
Peter hurried from the house with his father still scolding. The two men climbed into the buggy. Stephen's young face was pale with concern as he looked at Peter. His stormy blue eyes were filled with love and admiration, but he was all business as he touched the whip lightly to the horse's flank. When they were on the road to Seven Oaks he turned to ask the questions that were all but choking him. But Peter's eyes were closed, his head cushioned against the side of the buggy. Stephen remained silent and concentrated on the road, watching more carefully for potholes and ruts.
Stephen brought them to the station just as the coach pulled in. James was out on the road waving to the driver before Stephen had the horse reined in. Pe-
ter got down more slowly. Unable to stand it any longer, Stephen said, "I know we can't talk now, Peter, but tell me you are all right. They aren't out looking for you?"
Peter smiled at him. "No. No one is looking for me, and I'm fine." He grinned more broadly. "Nearly fine."
'Til see to things at home while you're gone. Pa said you're going to fetch Ma's cousin . . . what's her name? Callie something?"
"Dawson."
"Well, I have a story about Miss Dawson that will fill Albert's ears. I can count on Ma to help me. Albert won't learn a thing about you. I told Pa I'd burn the clothes, and I'll see to the roan too. I may have to sell her, Peter. If the wound is too bad, we won't be able to hide it. I'm sorry."
"There's nothing for you to be sorry about, Stephen. Whatever happened was my doing. You'll have to take the horse a fair distance for news of the sale not to get back to Albert."
"Oh, I'll be careful. I'm getting good at covering your tracks."
Peter placed his hand on the plane of Stephen's cheek. He began to speak, then turned away and joined his father.
James and Peter took the yellow bounder into London, a C-spring coach that boasted of the speed with which it traveled. They careered along the road, jolting from side to side in mortal danger when the wheels hit a rut. The trip was a misery for Peter. He was jostled and bumped against the other passengers. His arm ached and his head throbbed. They arrived
in London sore and exhausted, and unprepared to find the city ringing with the sounds of festival.
'What in the devil?" James muttered. He stopped a man on-the street. 'What is going on? It's no holiday "
"A hanging," the man said gleefully. "They're hanging John Robinson, the highwayman. Caught him on the Kent Road, him and two of his fellows."
James growled a reply, then looked at Peter. A mass of people moving toward the festivities swept down on them. James and Peter were caught in the pressing flow of unwashed bodies moving like a gurgling, noisy brook toward the Newgate Prison grounds. James shoved his way to the street and, battling to keep his footing, craned in all directions looking for a cab. It was hopeless; the streets were thick streams of humanity. Any vehicles that had been in the road had been firmly stopped and were now being used as perches from which the curious could see over the heads of others. Relentlessly the two men were pushed and shoved nearer to the river and the prison. Hawkers, seemingly impervious to the moving human mass, darted in and out shouting, "Penny sheet! John Robinson! Boldest rake of London! Read his life story! Penny sheet!"
James shoved one persistent urchin who had grabbed his coat sleeve.
"Buy a sheet, sir? Got his confession ... in his own words!" the urchin whined. "Penny, sir, penny sheet."
From somewhere behind them a shrill, excited voice screamed, "It's 'is cart! 'E's comin'. The cart's comin'!"
Men held children high on their shoulders, admonishing them to look carefully at the prisoner in the cart. "He came to no good. Look at the dirty animal, and remember what you see, boy."
Women shouted at the highwayman bound and
fighting to keep his balance in the slow, unevenly moving cart. Others threw flowers and themselves at the cart, begging the condemned man's favors before he died. Bottles passed from hand to hand and were emptied and smashed in the cobbled streets. The streets smelled of gin and rum and sweat and urine. People heated and steaming in the cold air pressed tightly against one another and tried to get a clear view of John Robinson. Some shouted their hatred, others their admiration. A chant went up to the right of James and Peter. "Johnny, Johnny, JohnnyI"
With another mighty surge forward the crowd came in view of Newgate. James looked up at the solid gray stone walls of the enormous prison. In front of the wall was a scaffold. The cart bearing John Robinson on his last trip through London stopped in front of the wooden structure. The prisoner looked up at the hangman and began his ascent to the platform.
James shuddered and clasped Peters arm without thinking. "I don't care to watch this," he said weakly. He began pushing the wall of people behind him.
Fascinated and horrified, Peter stared at the man on the platform for several more seconds. The noose was placed around John Robinson's neck. With a disdainful, arrogant smile the man nodded to the crowd. His mouth puckered as he blew kisses to a group of yelling women at the foot of the scaffolding. Flowers were thrown to him. They made wilting little spots of color on the fresh wood of the platform.
"Peter!" James said loudly. "Please. I can't watch this."
Peter bowed his head. "No, neither can I." Leading the way, he forced a path for them through the crowd. The hawkers still hopped in and out among the people shouting the glories of their sheet and selling their wares.
Peter and James were still close enough to hear the snap of the platform's trap door as the crowd was momentarily silenced. Then a great roar of human awe and perverted animal pleasure rose and gained deafening proportions. Unable to resist, Peter looked back. John Robinsons body wrenched and twisted grossly. The quartering of the man had begun. Again the crowd hushed with the first rush of blood, then rose to even greater frenzy.
Peter felt the horror of fascination. James was nauseated. He wanted his son away from this place. Today the mere thought of such a death was more terrifying than James could bear. He couldn't stand to see or even think of the bits of hangman's rope being sold for souvenirs, or of the women who would battle and bargain for the dead man's clothing, later to be sold piece by piece and hung as gruesome reminders in someone's home.
Finally they broke free of the crowd and emerged on a side street nearly empty of life, for it seemed that all of London was packed into that small network of streets near the river to watch a man die.
They walked until James found a cab, then went to an inn. The George made James feel somewhat better. It had open galleries that led to the chambers, and gave James a feeling of privacy and ownership that was not easy to attain in a room one would keep only for a nigh
t or two.
Peter saw only the bed. He tested it, found it clean, and slumped onto it His eyes half closed, he said, "If we're going to get Miss Dawson, we'd better do it quickly. It will be dark soon, and that crowd will be drinking and carrying on all night."
James silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand. "I'm not going on those streets again. Tomor-
row's soon enough. Have you an objection to a good night's sleep?"
"I thought she might be expecting us, but she couldn't . . ." His words trailed off, and he fought to stay awake.
"Who knows what she expects?" James said. Til wager it's a good deal more than what she'll get. I imagine Ian's daughter will be thinking herself some sort of special little lady. Well, she'd better get that out of her head!" He growled. "She'll get along with the rest of us, and like itl"
"I wonder if she's pretty?" Peter mused.
"Makes no difference."
Peter laughed. "Why'd you say you d give her a home if you don't want her?"
James looked at him with blue eyes that betrayed the soft heart beneath his rough words. "You. Your mother. All her boo-hooing about a poor homeless child did me in. I told her if it was homeless children she wanted we could collect them by the score along the roads. But no, it had to be this one. You'd think she'd known the girl all her life, the way she carried on."
"Perhaps she did."
"Bosh! The Dawsons had nothing to do with Meg's part of the family. Anyway, Ian ran off years ago. He was an ungrateful pup . . . always chasing some pipe dream. More trouble than he's worth if you ask me."
"Some claim he's Captain Swing," Peter said.
"Well, with Ian de^d, Captain Swing will die too then—if he was the man. Might be a good thing. The rioting would end."
"It won't," Peter said, his eyes closed again.
"You seem sure of yourself. I've heard others claim that you're Captain Swing. It's not true, is it?"
"Would you want me to tell you if it were true, Pa?"
"My God, Peter, you're not!" "I didn't say I was. No one knows who he is." James started to sp^ak, then tossed his soiled shirt onto a chair. "I don't want to talk about that. No more tonight. I'm in no mood for it." James looked over to Peter when there was no response. He was sound asleep.
Chapter 3
While Peter and James enjoyed a long and dreamless sleep brought on by exhaustion, Callie Dawson spent another fretful, disturbed waking night. The month since her father had died had been a terrible one for Callie. She now found it difficult to believe that it would ever get better again.
Her first taste of an unkind world had come with her father's death, but that was the kind of sorrow she knew to expect. People die, and though Callie would have given anything to have her father with her ag^in, she understood that. Her introduction to less comprehensible sorrow came later.
The day after Ian was buried, Callie was alone in their flat. She had never felt so lonely or so inclined to cry and feel sorry for herself. When someone knocked on her door, she assumed it was her landlady, Mrs. Pettibone, for there was no one else likely to come to see her. She reacted with surprise and a little fright when she saw a poorly dressed, unshaven man standing in the hallway. "I . . . I'm sorry, but I think you
have the wrong address," she said hesitantly. "I don t want to buy anything."
The man put his dirty cap in his hand and gave her a broken-toothed grin. "I've nothing to sell. This is the place of Ian Dawson, isn't it?"
"Yes, but . . ."
"I knew him well." The mans grin grew broader. "Came to wish his girl well. That's you, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Then I've got the right address, haven't I? Aren t you going to ask me in?"
Callie stood back slightly, unsure. The man pushed the door wider and entered the flat.
"I've never been in this part of it before," he said, looking around. 'Tan didn't do bad by himself, did he?" He turned as Callie began to close the door. "Don't close it," he said. "Some of my friends are coming too. I'm just the first to get here. I like being first."
"I don't understand. Who else is coming here? Why?"
The man smiled and placed his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. "Don't fash yourself, girl. We're all friends of your papa's comin to wish him well in the next life. Didn't he tell you anything about his doings?"
"His doings? My father was working with members of the House of Lords and the House of Commons for labor reform. Is that what you mean?"
"Of course, that's what I mean. Well, miss, we're the men your father was working to help. We're the ones needing reforms." He laughed aloud. "And maybe a bit of reforming."
Several other men and three women came up the stairs and into the Dawson flat. They all seemed to know each other, and were laughing, talking rapidly
and somewhat shyly, Callie thought, offering her their condolences. Slowly Callie lost her fear and began to enjoy these raucous and jovial people, who all seemed to have loved her father.
"Shall we have a little morsel?" one of the women asked Callie, then went with her to the pantry to help her prepare food for the guests. "Oh! Rum cakes!" the woman exclaimed. "How I love them! Shall we put them on a separate plate . . . just for you an' me, honey?" She winked at Callie.
Callie laughed, more at ease now. "Put them on a plate just for yourself. I'd like you to have them."
"You've a kind and generous heart, just like your papa. I was tellin Jane as we came up here you'd be a good sort. I knew you would with a papa like yours."
Callie blushed with pleasure, murmuring thanks.
"Been raised to be a lady, haven't you?" the woman said through a mouth filled with cake. "That'd be Ian's way too." Laughing, she went back into the main room to rejoin her friends.
Callie brought out platters of sandwiches, biscuits, and cakes and placed them on a low table near the sofa. She was appalled, then gratified to see grubby hands grabbing the dainties from the platters and mashing them into mouths. Callie ignored the rising noise level and the crudity of her guests. They roamed freely about the apartment, poking their noses into cupboards, handling figurines and ornaments. They went into her bedroom, inspected all the rooms and cabinets of the flat. After her initial shock at such behavior wore off, she accepted these people for what they were. Inside she felt warm and pleased. They had known her father, and it was for these people he had worked every day of his life. She began to think warmly of the nights when he had talked to her of Parliament and how laws were made and why change
came about. It had sounded so grand and important, and now it seemed her first opportunity had come for her to see the people her father wanted to help. In her very young, very innocent mind she tried to imagine how different these people would be after reform, when their manners would improve and their clothing would match the garments of the men her father had let her meet. She tried to place dignity on the bloated, frazzle-haired women who were now laughing too loudly in her flat.
No one paid any attention when one more voice was added to the cacophony. Then suddenly there was a sharp piercing shriek. Callie jumped to her feet.
"Out! Out of here, you scum! Go, before I beat your knotty heads in!" Mrs. Pettibone's broom swished through the air, striking heads and backs. She smacked the last ill-clad, foul-smelling man from the flat, then planted her foot on his rear end and sent him tumbling down the stairs to the landing. Breathless, she slumped into a chair. "My word, child! What possessed you to let that rabble in here?"
"You shouldn't have done that, Mrs. Pettibone. I invited them in. They came to pay their respects," Callie said excitedly. "What will they think of me?"
'Think of you? You're lucky they didn't slit your throat. You can thank your papa for that, I suppose. It's about all you can thank him for, I'll wager."
Mrs. Pettibone put her head in her hands. What was she to do with this youngster? Ian Dawson had been one of her favorite tenants. They had shared talk, an occasional pint of ale, and sometimes her bed.
They hadn't agreed on everything, and she'd hate to count the number of times she had warned him to introduce Callie to some of the harsher realities of life before it was too late. He had been sure he could protect Callie, and Mrs. Pettibone had been sure he could not.
Now it was too late, and Ian was no longer here to do anything.
He had had his way, and kept his daughter innocent of the seamier inclinations of the laborers he had spent his life trying to defend. He did not pass on to her the means of protecting herself from them, for Ian never had any intention of letting Callie lead the kind of life he had led. As though Callie were part of a play, standing on a stage at a distance from the sweating audience, Ian had kept his plans for her separate from his work. Callie was raised to be trusting, to be gentle and ladylike, so that in the proper time Ian would see her married and loved by the right kind of man. That man would bear no resemblance to the laborers who frequented Ian's small study in search of help. But despite her father s good intentions, Callie was now left alone to fend for herself in a world of which she knew little.
Now she went to Mrs. Pettibone, trying to soothe the landlady. "I didn't know I shouldn't let them in," she said. Tm sorry I've upset you."
"You haven't the sense of a chicken," Mrs. Pettibone muttered.
"Please don't scold. I'm sorry, but they knew Papa. They liked him, Mrs. Pettibone. I can tell that they liked him. He will truly be missed by them."
Mrs. Pettibone sighed. She leaned back in her chair, patting Callie's soft young hand. "Lord, yes, child. He'll be missed, by none so much as you. He was a grand man in his way, but he didn't do well by you. Those people will eat you alive. You've not a thing left in your larder." She got up, took Callie's hand, and walked through the flat, looking into the cupboards and cabinets. Callie was stunned.
"What do you think you are going to eat?" Mrs. Pettibone said angrily. "This is not a dole house, and no
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