My Lord Highwayman

by Valerie King

  This made all the ladies laugh, after which farewells were exchanged as well as a string of expressed hopes that Saturday’s weather would be less tempestuous. A moment more and the landau was moving out of town.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Treyford turned back only once to watch the carriage leave Three Rivers Cross. He suppressed a sigh. Was ever a more beautiful, a more charming woman born than Abigail Chailey? Without the smallest apparent effort on her part she had put his infirmed sister entirely at ease. A powerful feeling toward the enigmatic governess mounted yet again rather steadfastly in his chest.

  He once more considered the possibility that once Sarah enjoyed her come-out ball, Abigail should come to Treyford Hall and serve as governess to Sophia. The very notion was ludicrous, of course, since he was not thinking of Sophia at all, but of himself, and of intentions so ignoble as to make him wonder at the despicable nature of his thoughts. Still, there was something particularly wonderful about the image of Abigail sharing his bed.

  He gave himself a strong shake. These thoughts were, indeed, ridiculous. He was thinking as any halfling might who had just discovered the beauty of women generally. He could only laugh at himself.

  He pushed his sister against the wind to the Mermaid Inn, which was not far from the candle shop. Sophia chattered the entire time about how much Sarah had grown up, even in the three months since she had last seen her.

  “And did she truly put a snake in Miss Chailey’s bed?” Sophia asked. “And yet she remained at Oak Hill?”

  “Yes,” Treyford responded. “Miss Chailey, however, had been forewarned of Sarah’s propensity for mischief. Apparently, Mr. Pennymoot had taken something of a fancy to her and had warned her, most properly, about Sarah’s history of tormenting her governesses. Sarah led Miss Chailey to one of the attic garrets, in which not just the snake but several odious creatures had been secreted. Miss Chailey, quite blithely by all reports, turned back the ragged counterpane, found the snake, and spoiled Sarah’s schemes. A certain respect followed, and now Sarah is actually playing the pianoforte again—as never before, I might add.”

  Sophia stopped walking entirely and faced her uncle squarely. “She is changed, then, truly changed,” she stated.

  “There is some evidence of it.”

  “Well, that is good news indeed, for I predict that very soon we shall have a wedding at Oak Hill.”

  “Sophia,” her mother called to her sharply. “I beg you will not say such things, and certainly not where everyone in the entire town can hear you.”

  “I had not meant to be impertinent, Mama, truly,” she responded quietly. “But you know Sarah has been in love with Mr. Ditchling forever, and now that she is minding her manners a little more, I think he will offer for her. Do not you?”

  “I cannot profess to know Mr. Ditchling’s intentions,” Elizabeth responded. She then turned her head to glance back at her brother. “How long does Miss Chailey intend to be governess to Sarah?” she asked.

  “Until the come-out ball.”

  “This is singular. Was so short a term agreeable to her?”

  “Very much so. Although she has not confided in me the reason why, I have been given to understand that she is not entirely dependent on her wages for survival.”

  “I like her. There is a directness to her, yet a politeness and consideration one does not always find combined. And there is no false humility either. What do you think of her?”

  “I like her as well.”

  “You should marry her, Uncle Trey,” Sophia called out, smiling.

  For this outburst, however, her mother and her uncle both called her name so sharply that she made her apologies at once.

  “I would wish such a governess for Sophia,” Elizabeth said at last.

  Treyford murmured that he believed she excelled in her skills and would serve any family well. He was not about to admit he had been thinking something very similar, particularly since his own motives were wholly improper.

  “This from you?” his sister queried sharply, again turning to look up at him. “I have never heard you speak of any governess as actually excelling. This is quite unusual.”

  “She is an unusual governess, though I believe her upbringing must account for some of it. Her father tutored her, and he was apparently quite scholarly.”

  “That would account for it, then. However, I am still astonished to hear you actually sing her praises.”

  Since he only smiled in return and Elizabeth fell silent, Sophia began making quick observations about the various fabrics displayed in the window of the linen draper’s shop. “I should have a gown made up of the muslin just for Lady Waldron’s soiree, were I to attend.”

  Treyford glanced absently at the fabric.

  Lady Waldron’s soiree.

  Mr. Clark had called on him just past nuncheon with the cryptic missive Abigail had sent him earlier that morning.

  “What do you make of it?” Mr. Clark had queried, a deep, worried frown between his brows.

  “Burwash,” he had stated with some finality. “I know Miss Chailey’s mind. She intends the note to be a warning to the highwayman.”

  “You do not mean to rob anyone at the soiree, do you, Trey?”

  “Why, yes, I believe I do, but not of fine jewels or money.”

  Mr. Clark had appeared rather shocked. “What game are you at now?” he asked.

  “Cupid’s game,” he responded enigmatically. “Never fear. I shall take great care not to be discovered.”

  “Treyford, I do not know what you are about, precisely, but I have known you a long time and in some ways I think of you as a brother. I tell you now, you are risking too much by donning your costume again no matter what your intentions. I have been in Burwash’s company several times since his arrival. He is a man of great ability and a very precise sort of mind. He will not rest until the highwayman is captured, make no mistake. You would do well, indeed, I insist that you lay aside any further design to wear your costume again. I . . . I shall contrive a way in which to raise funds for the completion of the orphanage, and as for Cupid—if I do not mistake your meaning—I would advise you to court Miss Chailey in the usual fashion.”

  Treyford had been a little stunned. “What makes you think I intend to pursue Miss Chailey?”

  “Do not be ridiculous,” Mr. Clark returned without the least pretense of awe at his friend’s rank. “You have formed a tendre for the chit. Even a sapskull might know as much by merely looking at you when you speak her name. Besides, I would think a great deal less of your intelligence were you intent on ignoring her entirely. She is a diamond of the first water, besides being quite charming, without the usual artifices, and with an intelligence to match. Why would you not court her? Good God, I am struck with her myself.” Here he had sighed. “I beg you will take my advice—never sport your costume again, and for God’s sake declare yourself before some other gudgeon comes along to steal the woman from beneath your nose.”

  Treyford had pondered his friend’s comments any number of times throughout the day. Now, as he guided his sister and niece into the inn, his thoughts turned again to Abigail Chailey. Clark’s advice was sensible, yet there seemed to be some part of him unwilling to be sensible where Abigail was concerned.

  He smiled to himself. He had a simple choice before him. Either he could continue encroaching upon Lavant’s kindness and spend one day out of two at Oak Hill, and hope for a stolen embrace—which he was by no means certain she would permit him—or he could arrange a tryst at Lady Waldron’s soiree and take a kiss from her willing lips as the highwayman.

  He smiled a little more as Mr. Pennymoot came forward and engaged his sister in conversation. Undoubtedly, Mr. Clark was right in warning him to swear off wearing the Spanish costume again, but one last time would do no one the smallest harm.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Late Friday afternoon, while resting before dinner, Abigail opened a recently delivered missive from the rectory.
Her heart thumped so loudly in her breast that she wondered if the retreating footman, who had delivered the note, could hear its beats. She spread the thin single sheet open on her lap and found that only a single line was written within, and quite cryptically. The note was not even signed. What folly, what madness, what hopeful bliss, on Friday at midnight, to wait for a kiss. The word folly was underscored.

  She was in no doubt who the author of the missive was, but she did not take his meaning fully. That he wished for a kiss was clear enough, and that he hoped to take one from her at midnight was also stated plainly. However, she could not comprehend in the least where this forbidden assignation was to take place. Surely not at Lady Waldron’s, not after she had already warned the highwayman about Burwash’s latest scheme to entrap him.

  She glanced at the clock on her mantel. The hour was so advanced that she knew she did not have sufficient time to confirm or to warn the highwayman about any foolhardiness he might be entertaining. Surely, he could not mean to meet her at Sir Christopher’s home?

  An anxiety possessed her from that moment, which did not lessen during the hour of dressing, the hour of dining, the hour of traveling the distance to Lady Waldron’s, nor the time spent intermittently glancing at Lady Waldron’s clock in her entrance hall, to see how close the evening was advancing toward midnight.

  She was not the only person present to be rather agitated. Sir Christopher could not sustain even part of a conversation without breaking off his thought abruptly to steal yet again out the front door. Abigail noted his movements and felt very faint every time he returned to the drawing room, or the entrance hall, or the music room—or wherever else she happened to be. She dreaded the moment he might arrive on the threshold of a room with his stark features wearing a triumphant expression that would indicate the highwayman’s fate.

  She kept seeing the poem he had written to her, as though the words had been imprinted on her mind permanently.

  What folly, what madness, what hopeful bliss, on Friday at midnight, to wait for a kiss.

  As the clock in the hall struck the half hour so that there were only thirty minutes until midnight, Abigail felt panicky. She still had not solved the riddle. She still did not have the faintest notion where, precisely, she was to meet the highwayman. She felt certain he meant to be on Lady Waldron’s property, somewhere, that night, but she had no intention of venturing forth, particularly with Burwash and his men stationed about the grounds, without knowing where she was to go.

  Her thoughts were diverted momentarily, however, by a very pleasing sight. Sarah was standing next to Henry Ditchling, her head erect, her hands clasped loosely about a glass of lemonade. She appeared politely intent on what he was saying. Henry, a tall man, was leaning his elbow on the mantel and smiling down at her as he spoke. He seemed utterly engrossed in his conversation with her, and there was everything in his general posture that indicated his pleasure in her company.

  She began edging her way through the crowded room toward the hopeful couple. When she drew close enough, she heard Sarah discussing a poem of Wordsworth’s she had recently read. Mr. Ditchling offered a comment regarding the poet’s style, which precipitated a like observation by Sarah. Abigail could not but feel immensely gratified by the exchange. Sarah was indeed making marked progress.

  Mr. Ditchling caught sight of her. “Miss Chailey,” he called out warmly. “How do you go on? I have just been discussing one of our Lakeland poets with Miss Lavant.”

  “I daresay there is nothing finer than Wordsworth’s descriptions of the Lake District. Have you ever been to Grasmere or Windermere?”

  He shook his head. “But I should go sometime. I have desired to do so since ever I can remember.”

  “I have seen so little beyond Devonshire,” Sarah said. “Perhaps after my come-out ball, you and I might venture north, Miss Chailey. I daresay Papa would allow it if you were to accompany me.”

  “I think it a wonderful notion,” Abigail said. “However, I was under the distinct impression I was to be dismissed once your ball took place.”

  Sarah laughed. “Of course. But when we travel to the Lake District, you may attend me as my companion.”

  Abigail could only chuckle in return. Mr. Ditchling said, “We should get up a very large party. If Mrs. Stawell feels strong enough, I daresay she would enjoy such a jaunt and that she would like her daughter to see the lakes as well.”

  “I have conversed with her only once, briefly, so I cannot begin to guess at how she might view such a journey, but for myself, I think your notion an excellent one.”

  Mr. Lavant strolled up to them at that moment and said, “You are speaking of the lakes? Highly overrated.”

  “Papa, we were thinking of journeying there after my come-out ball but long before the first frost. I have been given to understand that the snow falls early in Cumbria, particularly on the fells.”

  “I think it would be a great folly to take such a trip when the moors are but a short distance from our home. You may march about them all you desire if it is strenuous exercise you are seeking. Speaking of follies, have any of you seen Lady Waldron’s latest ‘folly’? I was hearing Lady Boxgrove speak of it. Imagine creating a ruin in one’s backyard. Folly is precisely the right word.”

  Folly.

  Abigail’s heart began hammering away once more.

  Lady Waldron had a folly? On her property? She now comprehended the riddle of the highwayman’s missive.

  When Abigail mentioned that she had not even heard of it, Mr. Lavant continued. “Deuced ridiculous notion. She cut down one of the oldest oak trees in the vale and dammed up a stream so that there is a shallow lake dividing one part of her property from another and the folly sits on the opposite shore. Why would anyone cut down an oak of that age?”

  A chill slid down Abigail’s spine. How much time was left? She glanced at the clock on the mantel—only fifteen minutes before midnight. She felt panicky once more. She hadn’t the smallest idea how quickly she might be able to steal unnoticed from the soiree, nor how long it would take to venture across an acre or two of dense landscaping in search of a folly, the exact location of which still escaped her, in order to meet a man who might or might not be awaiting her.

  The whole of it felt like a folly to her, indeed.

  After a few more minutes, she made her excuses and began weaving her way toward the door of the drawing room. She passed through easily enough and inched across the entrance hall, chatting with a friend here and there. Her route was circuitous as she continued a slow progression toward the back of the house. She passed through another antechamber, the music room, and entered a broad hall mounted with the portraits of numerous glaring Waldron ancestors.

  She was entirely unfamiliar with Lady Waldron’s home, but if she had indeed built a folly on the estate, in her experience, generally, the stone structure would be visible from the back of the house.

  Unfortunately, a massive maze was the first object she encountered as she left the house. This she skirted to the right, upon which she found herself in a formal garden also surrounded by tall hedges. She wended her way to the end of the formal garden and walked beneath an arch of hedge, again to the right. Now she was in a grove.

  The night, unfortunately, was quite dark, and every turn of hedge and tree brought a creeping darkness that filled her with something close to dread. Every moment she advanced into the grove, she feared discovery by Mr. Burwash or one of his men. Her heart began to slam against her ribs. Several times, as she progressed along the edge of the grove, she debated the wisdom of leaving the house. Yet, not once did she hesitate. She was determined to see the highwayman.

  She reached the end of the grove, then tracked the same grove along a pathway that headed in a southerly direction generally. She did not even know if the lake was on this section of the property.

  She left the grove and found herself suddenly gazing upon a silvery lake and beyond, the stone folly that stood out from the hills and shrubbe
ries like a beacon in the dark.

  Abigail groaned slightly. The folly was on the other side of the lake, and she would have to follow the path for what appeared to be at least a quarter of a mile before reaching the lower rim of the lake. She hesitated. She ought to return. Surely, if she was gone much longer, she would be missed, and how was she to explain her absence from the soiree? She was about to turn back, when a lone figure appeared in the entrance of the folly, a dark, caped man who slowly made a formal bow.

  She chuckled into the cool midnight air, for the gesture somehow seemed absurd yet strangely beckoning. Her feet once more moved as though of their own volition, and she began the long trek around the end of the lake, wondering what madness had seized her that she was actually keeping an assignation with a man who would one day leave England forever.

  As she walked swiftly along the path, she became determined that this would be her last meeting with the highwayman. She must make him see how utterly hopeless any blossoming love between them truly was. For this reason, she purposed in her heart, most firmly, that she would not permit him to kiss her. It was in his embraces that she seemed to lose all her usual good sense.

  All these things, so valiantly born from the goodness and wisdom of her soul, she dwelt on most steadfastly.

  She entered the folly, but he was not within or, at least, her eyes could not discover him in the shadows.

  “Hallo?” she called out softly into the dark interior of the folly. “Are you there?”

  Had she dreamed the figure bowing from the doorway across the lake? What if she had merely seen a phantom, one built from her daydreams, her silly, childish hopes and wishes? What if she had entirely misunderstood his cryptic poem?

  Being there was vanity and foolishness. She would leave, only how was she to explain her slippers, which were damp from the evening dew? She would be sensible and leave on the instant.