The Highwayman Came Riding (2 page)

Across the street, yet another shop announced itself as the Buttons,
Bows, and Bandits Drapery Emporium, Established 1595, and proudly claimed to
have supplied “all the personal fabric needs” of the Cavalier. Fascinated, Mr.
Dalrymple wondered what sort of “fabric needs” a gentleman of that ilk might
find necessary.

The tulip, his rugged features contorted into an awkward simper, looked
wildly about for a refuge. None was visible, so he sighed and strode to the
Brigands and Buns Coffee Shoppe. Halfway across the street, he swallowed an
oath and shortened his stride to a mince.

At the doorway, he paused to shudder when confronted with the sea green
floral interior. Bravely, for his
ensemble
clashed dreadfully with the decor, he managed to totter just far enough to
collapse into a chair at a table in the center of the room.

Having just come from his morning meal, Mr. Dalrymple waved away the
serving girl’s offer of something called The Rascal’s Repast, asking only for
tea.

As he sat waiting, he gently fanned himself with a fine, lace-trimmed
handkerchief and listened discreetly to the conversations swirling about the
room.

When the girl set teapot and cup before him, Mr. Dalrymple asked the
question which any normal human being might.

“And just who is this Grey Cavalier fellow?” he lisped roguishly.

A hush fell over the room. Every head in the place turned to stare.

The girl’s mouth dropped open. "The Cavalier--why, sir, they do
say--that is, why, he’s just the most wunnerful person as ever lived in these
parts, don’t you know.” Obviously believing herself to have relieved his
curiosity, she bobbed a curtsy, looked enviously at his parasol, and went to
wait on the next customers.

A chubby farmer’s wife took pity on his ignorance. “According to the
legend--”

Other voices chimed in.

“E’s like Robin 'ood, 'e is, a robbin’ the rich--”

“--gives every penny to the poor--”

“--threw dice with the Baron, right in the road--”

“--heard tell he danced a jig with the Duchess of--”

“--most courteous and genteel of men!”

The chorus stopped, smiling at him expectantly.

Considerably more confused than before, the fop in their midst nodded
wisely and took refuge behind the teapot.

Afraid to ask more questions, he sipped slowly, eavesdropping on the
conversation of several young ladies behind him. Consisting of whether or not
the Cavalier was more dashingly romantic than Lord Byron, it was singularly
non-illuminating for his purposes.

An ink-stained urchin rushed over to Mr. Dalrymple’s table. “Everything
you want to know about the Cavalier is in this pamphlet, sir. Only fourpence.”

“What!”

The boy grinned. His two front teeth were missing, but his clothes were
clean except for the ink, and he looked well-fed. “It includes a list of
tourist sites around the village, too. A bargain, I’d say.”

“I’ll give you a ha'penny.”

“Fourpence.”

"Tuppence.”

“Fourpence.”

"Thruppence and not a penny more.”

“Fourpence.”

Mr. Dalrymple knew when he was beaten. Muttering something about
extortion, he surrendered the requisite coins and received a small pamphlet in
return. As he turned the page, fresh ink rubbed off on his fingers. He
sighed.

The ruddy-faced man at the next table leaned over and said
sympathetically, “He got me yesterday for sixpence.”

“It’s highway robbery.”

The man’s chuckle filled the room. “Aye, it is. So it is.”

With a reluctant grin, Mr. Dalrymple buried his nose in the pamphlet and
began to read
The True and Amazing Historie of the Grey Cavalier
.

According to the author, the Grey Cavalier was probably Captain Henry
(Harry) Harrison, son and heir of a wealthy aristocrat during the reign of
Charles I. Having loyally, albeit ruinously, fought and died in his King’s
cause, Mr. Harrison, senior, exhorted from his deathbed a promise that Harry
continue the struggle on behalf of the exiled Charles II.

Being that there was nothing for him to inherit, Royalist lands having
been confiscated by Cromwell, young Harry, as did many of his ilk, took to the
bridle-lay. For several years he was quite successful.

A most amiable and openhanded gentleman, Captain Harrison was famed
throughout the land for his courtesy toward ladies, his sporting willingness to
play the occasional hand of whist for a man’s watch, and his deep dislike of
lawyers and Roundheads. These he parted from their worldly goods with neither
quip nor qualm.

It was his parting shout, “For king and for country!” which sealed
Harry’s fate. Cromwell, infuriated by the road bandits’ abiding loyalty to
their exiled monarch, decided to make an example of Captain Harrison. A reward
of one thousand pounds was offered for the capture of the Grey Cavalier, dead
or alive.

Unfortunately for this paragon, his courtesy toward ladies was also his
undoing. One night he was caught
in flagrante delicto
in the coach of a certain lascivious Marchioness on
the heath just north of Oaksley.

Though the lady herself pled passionately for her lover’s life, the officials
of the court, generously bribed by her cuckolded husband, found themselves able
to withstand her tears, and sentenced the libidinous Harry to death.

And not just any death, but a traitor’s death. He was hanged, drawn, and
quartered on 19th October, 1659, on a gallows at the crossroads on the heath
just yards away from his capture.

His last words, that gallant Royalist, was his signature phrase.

“For King and for country!”

“Good God,” Mr. Dalrymple muttered. The man at the next table glanced
over. "Sounds like a dashed loose screw, but drawing and quartering--” he
shuddered delicately. Everyone agreed and began to debate anew the subject of
“Our Harry’s” unfair treatment at the hands of the law. Mr. Dalrymple
prudently stayed out of the discussion and turned back to his pamphlet.

Scanning the list of attractions in and about town, he was considering
the merits of an afternoon tour to the spot on the heath where Captain Harry
was captured and later hanged, when a bell above the shop door tinkled.

He looked across the room and saw a sight which perked up his spirits
immensely. A young woman was just sitting down. In the golden autumn light,
her eyes gleamed turquoise, her cheeks were delicately touched with a hint of
peach, and her rich auburn hair, plaited with grey ribbons, glowed.

His appreciative gaze was lingering on the alluring curve of her bosom
when a furious scowl from her companion burned its way into his consciousness.
Recollecting his manners, he looked quickly back to the pamphlet in his hand,
but not before his gaze met hers. The woman sized him up with a clear, steady
gaze, then dismissed him with one contemptuous curl of her full lip.

Damnation! He’d forgot what a prancing puppy he must look. Mr.
Dalrymple, furious to be judged a fool by a country mouse, felt his ears burn
with embarrassment.
The sooner this mission is completed, the better,
he thought angrily, and decided then and there to be
robbed that night.

*****

The Lady Katherine Thoreau turned her back on the lecherous fribble at
the other table while her sister, Lucy, gave their order to the serving girl.
Lucy continued to chat cordially, while Kate, prudent to the core,
surreptitiously scanned the prices on the printed menu. What she saw almost
caused her to choke. That was almost triple what one might normally pay for a
pot of tea and a few pastries, newly listed as Captain Harry’s Cream Buns).

Gimlet-eyed Jane saw the direction Lady Katherine’s eyes looked and bent
down to brush imaginary crumbs off the sea-green tablecloth. Born and raised
at the Thoreau’s estate, Belleview back in the days of milk and honey, she was
intimately acquainted with their current monetary woes.

“Don’t you be a-worrying, milady,” Jane hissed. "Those prices be
for the foreigners. Our regular folks pay just the usual.” Beaming, she
headed for the kitchen.

Her face tight with embarrassment, Kate darted a furtive glance around
the room.

“Did anyone hear?” she breathed.

Across the table, Lucy smiled. “It wouldn’t matter a bit if they had,”
she fibbed stoutly.

Kate laughed. “It might matter to poor Mrs. Pilchuck. Just think of the
angry tourists swarming in, demanding their money back.”

A feeble joke, but it served. The two sisters laughed, in spirits once
more.

Jane returned with their tea and buns, bobbed a respectful curtsy, and
was gone again.

“Let’s not allow silly money worries to spoil this afternoon,” Kate
commanded. “I have marvelous news.”

Her mouth full of cream bun, Lucy looked inquiringly at her sister.

“I’ve gone over and over our accounts, Lu. We’ll be able to afford to
send you to London for the Little Season,” Kate announced, delighted with her
news. She poured herself a cup of tea and waited for her sister’s tears of
joy, her cries of thanks.

Lucy swallowed, wiped her mouth daintily, and said, "No, thank you.”
She took Another bite.

Kate blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Lucy again swallowed cream bun. “I said no,” she repeated cheerfully,
reaching for another bun. "Thank you,” she added politely. Lucy was
always polite.

Kate pushed the plate out of Lu’s reach.

“I heard what you, dearest. What I don’t understand is why you said it.”
She tried without success to keep the disappointment out of her tone.

“I’ve decided to marry Adam Weilmunster.”

Kate gasped. She goggled. She choked on her tea. “You most certainly
will not! That man has no chin!”

“Kate!”

“But, Lucy, dearest, just think of your children. Good heavens, I
sometimes wonder how he manages to chew his food.”

Lucy glared at her sister. “What an unkind thing to say, Katherine.”

Ashamed of herself, Kate begged pardon.

“It’s quite likely we may not have children at all,” Lucy continued
calmly. “He and his first wife were not blessed.”

Kate was more than happy to add that argument to her arsenal.
"Aha! Then you see--”

“I don’t believe I especially care to have children.”

"Ridiculous. Of course you want children. Every woman does.”

Lucy gave her sister a steady look. “You don’t.”

"I already have children,” Kate said drily.

Lucy smiled suddenly, her whole face lighting up. “Only five! How can
you say you don’t want more?” she teased gently.

“I certainly cannot imagine,” Kate answered, even drier.

Lucy laughed, secure in her sister’s devotion to their siblings, despite
her occasional grumbles.

With difficulty, Kate swallowed her disappointment at Lucy’s refusal of a
Season in London. “Children are beside the point,” she coaxed. “We’ve talked
about your presentation before. You were so excited to see the city and go to
the theater, have a little fun for a change.”

"That was before I knew Adam. He says London is full of Misery and
Vice, and no pure-thinking woman would want to go there.”

Kate gritted her teeth so as not to further favor Lucy with her opinion
of Mr. Adam Weilmunster. “End of discussion. You will not marry Mr.
Weilmunster. I forbid it.”

“You can’t forbid me. You’re not my legal guardian. I’ve written
Great-uncle Richard and he approves.”

Kate took a deep breath. Her feelings of betrayal, that Lucy would go to
Uncle Richard instead of herself, fueled her anger. If she could ever do her
sister a favor, it would be to save her from marrying that smug, sanctimonious
maw-worm of a Weilmunster.

“In one month, you will pack your trunk for London.” Kate’s voice got
quieter with every word. “You will stay with Cousin Harriet. You will buy
pretty clothes, dance every dance, and be accepted at Almack’s. You will enjoy
yourself. At the end of the Season, if you have found no one to your taste, we
will have this discussion again. I have now said all I am willing to say upon
this subject.”

Lucy, recognizing her sister’s mood, poured herself a cup of tea and said
nothing.

Kate, recognizing
her
sister’s
mood, felt her nostrils flare in frustration. “Do you understand me, Lu? You
will
go and you
will
have a splendid time. And
that
is my
final
word on the
subject. Good afternoon!”

This last was directed to Jane, come back to see if “her” ladies cared
for more tea. With more haste than was seemly, Kate paid the reckoning and
swept out of the shop. Lucy followed, her serene brow marred by the tiniest of
frowns.

*****

Mr. Dalrymple spent the rest of his afternoon touring the village,
visiting such attractions as were listed in his pamphlet concerning the Grey
Cavalier.

If his tour seemed to take in a great many of the shops about, well, what
could one expect from a London dandy? And if occasionally one spied him
standing just a shade too close to a customer in the act of paying for grey
handkerchiefs or any of the various souvenirs being hawked all over town, no
one could accuse him of displaying vulgar curiosity in the transaction when his
whole attention was absorbed in silver-gilt buttons the size of guineas or
paintings of Cavaliers playing whist. On black velvet, no less.

If one
were
paying special
attention, as Kate was not, one might realize that the swell was spending money
like a drunken sailor, always in notes of rather large denomination. One might
also wonder why a gentleman so interested in the set of his jacket chose to
weigh down the pockets of said garment with so large an amount of heavy coin.