Highwayman Lover

by Sara Reinke

  * * * *

  By the time she reached Theydon Hall, the sun had risen in full, its warmth driving the heavy fog from the countryside. She had thought perhaps Lewis and Kenley would be at work on the roof that morning, but though the ladders remained propped against the sidewalls, and the broad panels of burlap stacked with peg tiles yet graced the lawn, Theydon Hall was silent, with no one seeming about as she approached.

  She reined her horse around the side, bringing it toward the barn. She caught an unexpected whiff of a pungent odor as she rounded the corner of the house— smoke. Alarmed, Charlotte looked around, and her eyes flew wide as she spied a thick, dark cloud rolling out from the kitchen doorway.

  Charlotte yelped, jerking back on the reins and bringing her horse to a skittering halt. She slipped her boot heel from her stirrup and slid her hips forward, dropping to the ground. She left her horse unfettered and rushed across the yard toward the house. “Kenley!” she shouted out. “Una! Are you there?”

  She darted into the kitchen and was immediately enveloped in heavy smoke. She gasped as her eyes smarted, and she flapped her hands in front of her face. “Kenley!” she called again, hoarse and nearly choking. “Una! Is anyone home?”

  She heard a miserable little groan and turned. As she waved the smoke from her line of sight, she found Albert standing near the stove, his shoulders hunched, his hands fluttering about. “Oh!” he gasped, whooping for breath. “Oh, I… I did not mean…”

  Charlotte saw a kettle set atop the stove and realized where the smoke came from. She hurried to the stove, jerking her cravat from about her neck, and beneath the buttoned breast of her coat. She wrapped it about her hand, caught the kettle by the handle, and whirled about, carrying it outside.

  She coughed and sputtered as she dropped the smoldering kettle onto the stone stoop. She could not tell what Albert had scorched; if she flapped her hands to dispel the smoke, all she saw was something reduced to blackened cinders seared to the belly of the pot.

  “Albert,” she said, returning to the kitchen. With the kettle removed and the door standing wide open, the smoke was waning. The old man had lowered himself into a chair at a small wooden table. He had covered his face with his hands and shook back and forth.

  “Albert, are you all right?” Charlotte asked. She knelt beside him and touched his wrist lightly, drawing his reluctant gaze. He was either weeping, or tears streamed down his cheeks from the smoke; no matter the cause, he looked ashen with fright, stricken with dismay.

  “Master William usually sees to breakfast,” Albert said softly, woefully. “Oh, he… he usually tends to it so well, but I… he is gone. I do not know where he is, and my lord…” He hitched in a tremulous breath. “Oh, he will beat William again,” he whispered, clutching at Charlotte’s sleeve. His eyes were round, glossy with tears and filled with alarm. “He… he will lay him open with his lash, he…”

  “Who will beat William?” Charlotte asked softly, pressing her hand against Albert’s cheek. He was distraught, and obviously mistook Kenley for the stable boy, William Sutton, again in his confusion. “Hush, Albert. It is all right. No one will beat William.”

  “He hurts him so badly,” Albert said, and there was such helpless anguish in his voice that Charlotte blinked, moved. “He… he is a good boy. He is a good boy, but my lord, he… he hurts him…”

  “No one will hurt him,” Charlotte whispered. “I will not let anyone hurt William, Albert. I promise.”

  She said this repeatedly until it seemed to settle with Albert. He nodded, his expression softening, his thin mouth unfolding in a hesitant smile. “William is not here, Albert?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Albert said. “He… he left a bit ago with Master Lewis. Mrs. Colchester went at dawn for the market in Loughton.”

  It took Charlotte a moment to realize that “Mrs. Colchester” was likely Una. Like Kenley, Albert had seemingly assigned her a name from his more secure memories. “Would you like me to fix you some breakfast, Albert?” Charlotte asked, smiling gently. “What were you trying to make?”

  “Porridge,” he replied, looking momentarily forlorn again. “Master William usually tends to it for me.”

  “I will tend to it. I do not mind,” Charlotte said.

  She stood and explored the kitchen, investigating the pantry. “Where did Masters William and Lewis go?” she asked Albert as she searched. She found it admittedly odd that both Kenley and Lewis would have left Albert alone. The cousins obviously understood Albert’s addled state of mind, and ordinarily took doting care of him.

  “I am not sure,” Albert said. “Master William had an early morning visitor arrive little more than an hour ago, a rather severe-looking gentleman with whom he had to meet.” He smiled. “Master William kept late hours last night, you know. He had a splendid party to attend. He was still sleeping this morrow when his caller arrived. It seemed a rather urgent matter. I heard them speaking in the foyer, their voices sharp. It was Master Lewis who directed them outside.”

  Charlotte had set a fresh kettle to simmer on the stove. As Albert spoke, seeming lucid and calm now that someone was on hand to comfort his unease, she frowned thoughtfully. “What did the caller look like, Albert?”

  “A fair-headed gentleman, tall, I suppose,” Albert replied. “Limping somewhat, and seeming grave and ill- humored.”

  “Was he wearing a dark coat?” Charlotte asked, glancing over her shoulder.

  Albert looked thoughtful. “I do believe so, yes, ma’am, and a tricorne cap besides.”

  Reilly had ridden to Theydon Hall; he had been the “severe-looking gentleman” caller. Charlotte looked down into the basin of the kettle, frowning. “What are you playing at, Reilly?” she whispered.

  She wondered if his visit had to do with Kenley’s supposed enlistment in the navy. James might have made a point of mentioning it to Reilly at last night’s ball, as well. Again, she could not imagine what difference it would make, or why Reilly would have lied, had he known Kenley had enlisted.

  An idea occurred to her. She was ashamed of herself at the very thought, but she could not resist. She felt her mouth unfurl in a sweet, bright smile and she turned away from the stove to face Albert. “I… I think the caller must have been a friend of William’s,” she said. “Known to him from the Royal Navy. Perhaps William must go out to sea.”

  Albert returned her engaging smile. “Oh, no,” he said, chuckling. “Master William has promised he will not be at sea again. He is finished with the navy, you know— he and Master Lewis both, all well and properly resigned.”

  “Then William has been to sea before,” Charlotte said quietly.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Albert replied, nodding. “Two years, thereabouts, nearly three. To the colonies and all with Master Lewis. They sent me letters all the while.” His expression faltered, growing momentarily solemn. “There was a war, you know,” he said. “They were sent for the war.”

  Charlotte said nothing. Her throat had constricted all at once, and she doubted she could force air readily through, much less her voice. There had indeed been a war; King George’s War. It had ended only the year before. The English Navy had dispatched a number of man-of-wars to the colonies across the Atlantic, to blockade the French port of Louisport. The 28-gun frigate, the HMS Endurance, to which Reilly and Lewis had been assigned, had been among them.

  “They are home now,” Albert said, brightened once more. “It was very hard for them at first, what with Lord Woodside falling so ill and taking to his grave. Then poor Kenley took on that terrible blight…”

  Charlotte blinked, her attention snapping in full toward the old man. “Kenley?” she whispered.

  “What are you doing?”

  Charlotte whirled, startled, and found Kenley at the back doorway, his eyes wide, his expression caught somewhere between alarm and horror. He looked like he had just roused from bed and hastily dressed; his shirttails untucked from rumpled breeches, a mismatching justicoat drawn atop clumsi
ly. He was barefooted, and without a wig, and for the first time, Charlotte saw his natural hair; thick, dark, disheveled waves that framed his face and draped toward his shoulders in tousled disarray.

  “Master William!” Albert exclaimed happily. “You are back so soon!”

  Kenley glanced to his right, toward the stoop, taking into quick account the still-smoldering pot of ruined porridge. He blinked at Charlotte and at Albert in obvious bewilderment, and something more besides. He looked frightened to Charlotte, just as Reilly had looked frightened two nights earlier upon their confrontation.

  “It… it is Kenley, Albert,” he said. He stepped across the threshold and hurried to the older man. He genuflected in front of Albert, looking stricken. “What happened?” he asked. “Were you cooking? I told you I would not be long. I would be right back, I said. You were to wait for me, and I would fix you breakfast.”

  His tone had grown sharp with concern, and Albert blinked at him, his smile faltering, his eyes flooding with sudden, shamed tears. “I… I am sorry,” he whimpered, trembling. “I forgot. I know you told me, but I… I could not remember, and I… I just…”

  Kenley’s brows lifted unhappily. “It is all right,” he said softly, and he raised his hips, embracing Albert. He clutched at the older man, turning his cheek to kiss Albert’s ear. “Please, Albert, I am sorry. I did not mean to speak harshly to you. Please do not weep. Please, Albert. You… you will break me…”

  He leaned back, cupping his hands against Albert’s face. “Are you hurt?” he asked. “Did you burn yourself?”

  Albert shook his head. “I am fine,” he said. “Mrs. Colchester took the pot from the stove. She is home early from Loughton.”

  Kenley looked over his shoulder toward Charlotte, or in Albert’s regard, Mrs. Colchester. He drew away from Albert and rose to his feet, turning to her, his expression still stricken. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “You… Charlotte, you should not be here.”

  “I wanted to see you, Kenley,” she said.

  He walked toward her. He leaned past her hip and removed the kettle from the heated stove. He glanced at her and hooked his hand against her elbow, drawing her toward the door. “Albert, I will be right outside,” he said. “Just for a moment. Let me speak with Mrs. Colchester, and I will finish your breakfast.”

  Charlotte let him lead her outside into the yard. She could not account for the bewildered alarm in his face any more than she could have for Reilly’s two nights earlier. The only explanation she could think of was that he was frightened that she would discover something he obviously intended to keep a secret.

  “You have to leave,” he said, and she blinked at him, wounded. He turned and walked away, forking his fingers in his dark tumble of hair, shoving it back from his face. “No,” he said. “No, it is better that you are here. I need to speak with you. It… it is important, and I… yes, it is better that you are here.”

  What? Charlotte thought. What are you so afraid I will suspect or discover, Kenley? She was torn between wanting to comfort him in his obvious distress, and grasping him firmly by the lapels, shaking him until he told her the truth.

  He looked at her over his shoulder. “I cannot marry you,” he said.

  Charlotte blinked, flinching as if he had just slapped her. “What?”

  “This was a mistake,” Kenley said. “I… it was impulsive and rash of me, and I… I did not think it through when I opened my mouth at Rycroft. It was a lie, a ruse. It was never supposed to be more than a distraction for you, and it has gone too far.”

  “That is not true,” Charlotte whispered. He met her gaze evenly. “Yes, it is.”

  “I do not believe you,” Charlotte said. “Maybe it was a ruse at first, but not anymore, Kenley. Not for me—or you. You told me you loved me. Last night, you… you told me…”

  “And you told me no one falls in love in only days,” he replied. “You were right. I was wrong. I… I was wrong, and I…” He shoved his fingers through his hair again, his brows furrowing as though he struggled to find resolve. “Last night meant nothing to me, Charlotte. It was a dream. I was caught up in my own lie so much, I… I nearly fooled myself into believing it true, but I have come to my senses again. A smattering of parties… an afternoon spent walking around these abandoned grounds… last night… it does not make us in love.”

  She blinked at him, struggling to compose herself, fighting against tears. She did not know why he was saying these things, but she tried to find some method— any means—to dissuade him. “If you break our engagement, my mother will make me marry James,” she said.

  “As well she should,” Kenley said, nearly crying out. He raised his hands, visibly exasperated. “He will be the Earl of Essex some day! It is a good match. You may not realize it now, Charlotte, but marrying me would be a mistake, and marrying Roding would… it would be best.”

  “I do not want to marry him,” Charlotte whispered. “I… I want to marry you. I love you, Kenley.”

  He stared at her, stricken. “Do not say that,” he breathed.

  “At least give me some more time, then,” she pleaded, stepping toward him, holding out her hands in implore. “A week, even. Just a week. Let me find a way so I do not have to marry him.” He shook his head, opening his mouth to speak, and Charlotte gasped miserably, her tears spilling. “Please, Kenley!” she cried. “Please, I love you!”

  He backpedaled from her, turning away, tangling his hand in his hair. “Do not say that,” he said again.

  She drew no closer to him. She stood behind him, whimpering and sniffling, trying to stave her tears, feeling foolish and anguished. “Did… did Reilly make you do this?” she asked. “He came to see you this morning. Albert told me. Did Reilly say something to make you do this? Does it have something to do with you both serving in the Royal Navy together?”

  Kenley turned to her, his eyes widening as he stumbled in place. “I… I was not in the Royal Navy,” he whispered.

  “Albert told me you were,” she said. “He told me you were sent overseas to the colonies, to Louisport. It is where Lewis and Reilly—”

  “Albert also says my father is still alive and that I am his favorite stable hand,” Kenley said. “He… he is a confused old man who does not understand what he is saying!”

  Charlotte felt fresh tears flood her eyes. “He also told me your father beat you,” she whispered, and he recoiled anew. “Or beat William, I should say. Did he…did he beat you, too?”

  Kenley blinked at her. “He beat us both,” he whispered. “He used to bloody my back with his belt and he… he would take after Will and give it to him tenfold. Albert could not stop him. There was nothing he could do, but it shames him yet, and… and pains him all the more.”

  They stared at one another for a long moment.

  When she tried to step toward him, he shied again, shaking his head. “Just go, Charlotte,” he said hoarsely. “I will send Una back to Darton when she returns from Loughton, and I… I will give her a note for your father to settle it properly.”

  “Please do not do this,” she said. He did not want to do it; she could see it in his face, his helpless, agonized expression. He did not want to do it, but somehow felt he had no other recourse. “Please, Kenley, will you not talk to me? Tell me of it? Whatever it is, I will understand. I will accept it. By my breath, it will not change anything. Please do not do this.”

  “It is done, Charlotte,” he said, and she fell silent, realizing his resolve. “I am not marrying you.”

  She blinked at him, her tears spilling, her lip quavering helplessly.

  “Please,” he said to her. “Please, just leave.” He turned around and walked back to his house, ducking into the kitchen. He swung the door in a swift arc behind him, and Charlotte flinched at the sharp report when it slammed shut.