Highwayman Lover

by Sara Reinke

  * * * *

  Charlotte stood in Reilly’s bedchamber on the second floor, watching James and her mother speaking in quiet counsel in the front yard. James was preparing to leave, and Charlotte knew before he went, he would undoubtedly broach the subject of marriage with Lady Epping. While Charlotte’s own room awarded a view of the front grounds, it was obstructed by the wide boughs of an oak tree. Reilly had the best chamber in the entire house for peering on visitors unaware upon their arrival or departure, and she had been standing at his window for a while, wishing she could hear the conversation below.

  Reilly was not in his room, but clearly, he had been recently. His door had been ajar, a lamp lit, a book opened on his bedside table, and Charlotte had entered anyway. She doubted Reilly would mind for the intrusion; more than anyone, he was the most fond to point out that she was too incessantly curious for anyone’s good.

  As she had crossed his chamber for the window, she had noticed a rather thick stack of letters bundled together on his writing table. She had paused, glancing down at the first page atop the pile. She had seen the words my darling Reilly and had nearly forgotten her interest in James and her mother.

  Reilly was at an age when noble sons began considering marriage, but he had been at sea for so long, Charlotte was surprised that he might have kept in contact with any prospective bride. She was also surprised that Reilly had never made mention to her of any love or lover in his occasional letters, but here, apparently, had been evidence of one, the other or both.

  She had skimmed the opening of the letter:

  My darling Reilly,

  I cannot tell you of the joy and sorrow your last letter brought to my heart. Joy to simply read your words set to parchment and imagine your voice within my mind, to lay my fingertips against a page yours had only so recently abandoned—and sorrow to know this tender proximity was the closest I could hope to enjoy for the moment. I miss you and long for you—your caress, your embrace, the measure of your smile that always brings me such comfort and companionship.

  As she stood at the window, watching James’s mouth flap soundlessly, telling Lady Epping God alone only knew what, she wondered about the letter. She had a difficult time imagining Reilly in love. He was very handsome and certainly a prize as the heir of a viscount and a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, but the thought of a young woman somewhere longing for Reilly’s caress or embrace left Charlotte blushing, nearly giggling for reasons she could not quite explain.

  “Has your walk with Lord Roding ended so soon?”

  Charlotte whirled, startled, and laughed breathlessly to see Reilly enter the room behind her. “You gave me a fright,” she said.

  “That is what you get for sneaking into my chamber,” he said. He carried a gazette folded in his hand; as he walked toward her, she did not miss the casual way he dropped the newspaper against his writing table and atop the bundled letters as though he did not want her to notice them.

  “I was hardly sneaking,” she said, pretending to frown. “Your door was standing open. That is practically an invitation.”

  He laughed, coming to stand beside her. He looked out the window, and arched his brow thoughtfully as he spied James. “Is he still pestering to marry you?”

  Charlotte crossed her arms, frowning at James in the yard. “Of course. He is relentless on the matter.

  That is why Mother summoned me back from London, I am sure. Margaret’s marriage only gives me no courteous outlet. Mother will agree to see me marry James.”

  “It is not so bad,” Reilly remarked, and she blinked at him, wondering if he had been struck daft. “He is the Earl of Essex’s heir.”

  “Marrying James simply because he stands to inherit a good title is no different than him marrying me simply because he finds me beautiful,” she said. “Neither should be the sole reason for wedding.”

  “Neither hurts, though,” Reilly said.

  Charlotte looked away from him, out the window once more. “He has never read my writings,” she said quietly. “Not because he does not agree with me—that would be welcome, even. He does not read them because he does not care. Not about what I think or how I feel.

  He told me in the garden that I am confused. That was his word for it—confused. I am confused about the workings of the world because I am only a woman, and I am asking too much of myself by worrying over complicated matters best left to men.”

  “Oh,” Reilly said after a quiet moment. “I imagine that settled well with you.”

  “He is going to use the robbery to prove to Mother that I am ill-suited without a husband,” Charlotte said, the warmth of her breath frosting in a dim haze against the cold windowpane.

  “Yes, I heard about the robbery,” Reilly said. He raised his brows gently. “Are you all right?” He brushed the cuff of his fingers gently against her cheek, and she nodded.

  “I am fine,” she said.

  “Do you promise?” he asked, and she smiled for him.

  “Yes, truly. It was not so horrible. I was scarcely accosted. Grandmother’s pin would not come loose of my fichu, and one of them stuck his fingertips down beneath my corset to try to work the clasp open. I am sure I will recover from the trauma.”

  Her expression grew troubled. “He let me keep it,” she said quietly. “Grandmother’s brooch. In the end, he tied my hands to the wheel—loosely, so I could squirm free without much work—and he draped his coat over me to hide the pin against my stomacher. He said, ‘do not tell them,’ and that was all. It was… nearly gentlemanly of him.”

  “I would assume James Houghton’s secondhand recounting of events is inaccurate, to learn of this,” Reilly said, and Charlotte laughed.

  “Mr. Cheadle has a remarkable memory for a man who spent most of the robbery trussed and fainted dead away,” she said.

  “Leaving you alone to face the highwaymen,” he murmured. He shook his head. “Those poor bastards did not have a hope.”

  She laughed again. “Not much, anyway. Look, I punched one of them.” She held up her hand proudly to show him her wounded knuckles. “And the one who gave me his coat told me I had the most abrasive tongue he had ever heard on a woman.”

  “Well, there is something to hold dear,” Reilly said, and she snickered. He cradled her hand against his own, examining her dim bruises. “You will not tell Mother of this?”

  “Of course not,” Charlotte said. “She would have a fit to know.”

  “You are right,” Reilly said. “She would want to know where you learned to throw a proper punch, and you would see me in trouble along with you.”

  Charlotte smiled. She hooked her arm around his neck and rose onto her toes, embracing him. “I am so glad you are home, Reilly,” she whispered. “I have missed you so much.”

  “I have missed you, too, lamb,” he breathed. “Please tell me you will stay awhile,” she said.

  “I do not know,” he said. “At least until January, then I will probably be sent back to the colonies.” He kissed her ear. “Do not worry for that. It is mine to consider.”

  He held her for a long moment and drew away. “I have read your essays, Charlotte,” he said. “Do not pay James Houghton any mind. I do not think you are confused.”

  “You have read them?” she asked, surprised. “Of course I have,” he said. “My sister is a published author. That makes me very proud. Father sends them to me.”

  She blinked at him, pleased and dumbfounded. She was completely unaware that Lord Epping had ever seen, much less purchased one of her chapbooks.

  “They are very good, Charlotte,” Reilly told her. “I especially liked the one where you criticized arranged marriages. What did you call it? ‘An antiquated notion pairing couples based on their merits as breeding stock rather than any common affections’.” He smiled. “I thought that was very insightful.”

  He looked out the window again, and she smiled at him. “Thank you, Reilly,” she whispered, pleased beyond measure, her bosom pressing against the confines
of her stomacher as her chest swelled with stoking pride.

  “Perhaps Mother should read it,” he remarked. “She might understand your point of view better. I know I do…and I do not blame you at all for not wanting to marry save out of love.”

  A melancholy shadow crossed his face as he said this; his gaze grew distant, his eyes somewhat sorrowful. Charlotte noticed, and her thoughts turned to the letters she had seen. Again, she wondered who Reilly might be in love with, and why the notion of marrying out of that love would bring him sorrow.