The Highwayman's Daughter (16 page)

‘Damnation!’ he muttered under his breath as he checked the pockets: his purse was missing. Oh, yes, he certainly had things to say to her.

Cora rode for a good mile, until she was certain she wasn’t being followed. She hadn’t meant to hit the groom on the head with a flower pot, but when he’d refused to hand over her weapons, desperation had seized her. She regretted it and hoped the man hadn’t suffered a grievous injury. He might not have even chased her anyway; Jack, however, was another matter.

She remembered the look in his eyes when he’d kissed her. He was a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it. He appeared to have full confidence in his plans to help her situation; but it seemed that he also wanted … her.

That was the worst part.

Catching her breath after her breakneck ride across the Heath, Cora dismounted and leaned against Samson with her arms wrapped around his neck.

Something both wonderful and terrible had happened between her and Jack tonight. She couldn’t deny it, nor did she wish to. The memory of his strong arms around her made her go almost giddy with longing and she sighed against the horse’s mane, aware of the futility in imagining herself and Jack together. She was the illegitimate by-blow of the earl’s scandalous cousin, and even in the unlikely event society chose to turn a blind eye to that, there was no way she and Ned could ever fit into Jack’s world – whatever Jack said. She couldn’t bear the thought of trying to force Ned to be something other than he was – he would insist on trying out of love for Cora – but they had no place here. She had to find a different way to secure his comfort – maybe the air in another country would do him good.

There could be no marriage between her and Jack. Perhaps she could be with him as his mistress, but that could lead to only lust and dishonour and abandonment – one day, he’d have to marry. Cora could live with the lust and the dishonour, but the thought that Jack might one day abandon her made her heart ache. Best not to allow herself such thoughts in the first place.

The kiss had been magical, but it had been ruined by her return to reality. Sniffing loudly, she pulled herself together and patted Samson on the neck.

‘It’s all right, my friend, it’s all right. I haven’t lost my wits altogether.’

Samson snorted as if in agreement and nudged her gently with his glossy head.

‘Let’s get you home, shall we?’ Stroking his nose, she guided the horse to a tree and tied the reins to it. ‘I just need to get out of these clothes before Father sees me.’

Cora grabbed the bundle of clothes and weapons she’d swiped when fleeing Jack’s home and quickly changed out of the yellow dress, though the stays were impossible to unfasten so she kept them on under her jacket and shirt. For some reason getting back into her old clothes broke the spell and she was able to laugh at herself over how Jack had so nearly managed to persuade her that she could be part of his world when it was clear she never would. Samson stomped his hoof as if he too was relieved to be free of the curious enchantment.

She placed the yellow dress carefully in one of her saddle bags. Although it pained her to part with such an exquisite garment, she knew she couldn’t keep it – it would only serve as a reminder of her humiliation, even if Jack hadn’t intended it as such. She would ensure that it found its way back to Lady Lampton again.

Pulling herself back up in the saddle, Cora looked behind her one more time. She could no longer see the house, of course, but there was still that strange tug, the pull of adventure, of emotion, and if she had been a fanciful sort, she could easily have imagined hearing the echo of Jack calling her name.

But she wasn’t given to fancies. She was a no-nonsense, sensible young woman with a sick father to care for.

And she was on the run.

With renewed determination she picked up the reins and steered Samson in the direction of Mrs Wilton’s cottage. She and Ned were leaving for good, and she doubted that she would ever see Jack again.

She should have felt relief at her narrow escape, so why did it feel as if there was a huge, gaping hole in her chest where her heart should have been?

‘Where’ve you been? Your father has been worrying himself sick.’

Cora turned at the sound of Mrs Wilton’s throaty voice. She had rubbed Samson down and seen to it that he had fresh water and a couple of turnips when Mrs Wilton appeared at the lean-to where she stored her firewood, and which served as a temporary shelter for the horse.

‘I had an errand to run,’ Cora replied, guilt gnawing at her insides for leaving Ned so soon after they had abandoned their cottage. ‘Is my father all right?’

Mrs Wilton eyed Cora’s breeches and jacket and looked as if she was about to comment, but then she merely shrugged. ‘As well as can be expected with the ague. I gave ’im some of that fancy tincture. Lord knows it won’t cure ’im, but he’s resting now, so I suppose it must’ve done ’im some good.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Wilton,’ said Cora. ‘I appreciate all you’ve done for us. If there’s anything we can do to repay—’

Mrs Wilton gave a dismissive wave. ‘Pah! At my age there ain’t much excitement in life, so you’ve done me a favour just by visitin’. Now, go and see to your father, you wayward girl. He’s been asking for you all evening.’

Cora ducked inside Mrs Wilton’s cramped cottage and went straight to her father, who lay on the only bed in the dwelling. She and Ned were poor, but nothing compared to Mrs Wilton, who lived in what could only be called a hovel. Cora was thankful that the older woman, who was as thin and scrawny as they came, had had the foresight to push the bed closer to the fire. It was banked down for the night now but gave off enough heat to keep Ned comfortable. He always suffered more when he was cold, and the evening was chilly despite it being high summer.

Her father opened his eyes as she knelt down beside the bed. In the sparse light from the fire and a candle on the table she noticed that his eyes had taken on a feverish shine and his hand was clammy to the touch. A hard lump formed in her stomach.

‘Where have you been?’ Ned asked and sat up. He waved her hand away with an impatient gesture when she tried to prop up the straw-filled cushion behind him, and Cora moved back, allowing him his pride.

‘I’m not in my dotage yet, girl,’ he growled as he rose from the bed and moved to sit in a wooden chair closer to the fire, ‘and I’m not an invalid either.’

‘No, Father.’

He sent her a suspicious look. ‘And you don’t fool me with your simpering. Where have you been, and in those clothes?’

It seemed a little late in the day for feeble explanations. Ned had known what she got up to for a while anyway. ‘We needed travel money,’ she said simply. ‘I held up a carriage.’

Behind her Mrs Wilton gasped, but Ned regarded her steadily, with a twinkle in his eye and an almost imperceptible smile tugging the corners of his lips. ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘And were you in luck?’

Cora dug into one of her saddle bags and handed him the purse she had lifted out of Jack’s pocket when she lay at the bottom of the stairs. Holding it brought back memories of their kiss and sent the blood rushing to her cheeks, as well as a feeling of shame that she had stolen from him so coldly. Her hand shook, but she controlled herself and handed the purse to Ned, in the hope that her father hadn’t noticed her agitation. Without a word he took it and poured the coins out into his hand, counted them and handed half to Mrs Wilton together with the purse. ‘For your trouble, Martha.’

A look of understanding passed between them. ‘You don’t owe me anything, Ned.’

‘I know,’ he replied in a rasping voice, ‘but I’d be a damn sight happier knowing that you’re well looked after. Keep the money in a safe place and burn the purse.’

‘I ain’t in my dotage either,’ protested Mrs Wilton, and they exchanged another look. ‘I know how to take care of meself.’

Ned and Martha, was it? Cora raised her eyebrows. She didn’t blame her father for his generosity towards Mrs Wilton; after all it was what she would have done if the widow had allowed her to, but it worried her that they had so little money left. When they travelled, they would need to buy food, and the tincture for Ned’s cough would need replenishing eventually. What then? Would they find work and lodgings, or would they be doomed to stay on the road forever? There was no way her father would survive such an ordeal.

‘You’re a foolhardy girl,’ Ned said, turning to Cora again, ‘but a brave one. No father could be prouder of his daughter than I am.’

Cora took his hand. ‘And no daughter could have a more attentive father than you. But I must beg your permission to let me do one last thing before we leave. I need to say goodbye to Uncle George before … before they hang him tomorrow.’

Ned clasped her hand in his with what seemed like the last of his strength. ‘Cora, it’s too dangerous.’

‘Why should it be dangerous?’

‘The thought of you walking into Newgate fills me with dread.’

‘I can look after myself,’ Cora insisted. ‘Please, Father, say you’ll let me. I have no desire to go against your wishes, but … I believe I must go.’

‘I know you can. That’s not what worries me.’

‘What is it, then?’

Shaking his head, Ned stared into the embers of the fire, and it seemed like an age before he spoke again, this time in a voice so low that Cora had to strain to hear what he was saying. ‘As you know there are those who believe that George left behind a secret stash, a treasure if you like, before he was arrested.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard the story,’ Cora scoffed. ‘It gets better each time it’s told.’ When Ned said nothing, she asked, ‘It is just a story, isn’t it? It’s not true?’ She’d always thought so, but perhaps Ned knew differently.

‘Of course it’s not true. George likes his drink a little too much to have put anything aside.’ Ned shrugged. ‘But it’s a popular myth and there are some who believe it. You can be certain that someone will be watching the prison for any of George’s cronies going in. If you’re recognised, there’s a good chance these characters will think George has revealed his secret to you.’

‘Why should he reveal it to me?’ Cora asked. ‘If, indeed, there is anything to reveal?’

Ned patted her hand and gave her a tired smile. ‘Because, dear heart, everyone knows that he saw you as the child he never had. If he reveals anything to anyone, it’d be to you and no other.’

Defeated, Cora sat back on her haunches and stared into the fire. The tale of George’s secret loot was legendary; had been even when he was a free man. The threat Ned referred to was real.

But she had an idea. ‘I won’t go as me. I’ll go as a fine lady, in a veil, and I doubt if anyone will recognise me.’ She rose and pulled the yellow dress out of the saddle bag, then held it up in front of her.

Mrs Wilton clasped her hands together. ‘Lord in Heaven! That is a handsome gown. I never saw one quite so fine.’ She stretched out her hand and ran an arthritic finger over the fabric gently, almost reverently, as if she feared that the material would snag on her rough labourer’s hands.

‘Are you robbing the clothes off people’s backs now?’ Ned grumbled. ‘Or are you risking your life riffling through their luggage?’

‘No, I found this inside the carriage itself,’ Cora lied. ‘Perhaps someone changed clothes during the journey.’ Carefully, without meeting Ned’s eyes, she lay the dress over the back of the rickety chair.

‘Perhaps.’

Cora’s skin prickled under her father’s penetrating stare, but she set her mouth in a firm line.
If only you knew,
she thought.
If only you knew that your beloved daughter was nearly ensnared into …

Into what exactly? She had assumed that Jack had been manipulating her because the arrival of his cousin in the gallery, at such a late hour and at a moment when Cora had felt entirely vulnerable, had seemed too deliberate, almost as if Jack had engineered it. Except that didn’t quite tally with the way he’d acted with her, the kindness he’d shown her and his gentle humour. Their attraction was mutual, she was sure of that. Maybe she had been a little hasty. After all, she hadn’t given him much chance to explain.

Either way, there was little doubt that she had acted like a fool, and she pushed the thought aside, not wanting to be reminded of it. She had a hanging to go to.

Mrs Wilton was still admiring the dress and didn’t seem to have noticed the looks which passed between father and daughter. ‘You’re quite right, Cora, my love, I don’t think anyone will recognise you in that. But you’ll be needing a chaperone.’

‘A chaperone?’ Cora laughed. ‘I’m not some pasty-faced little miss who can’t go to the outhouse without an escort. I can take—’

‘Take care of yourself?’ said Ned. ‘Aye, we know that, but Martha’s right. A young lady wouldn’t go anywhere without either her maid or a relative to accompany her. It wouldn’t be considered proper, and improper behaviour is likely to rouse suspicion. That’s what we want to avoid.’ He coughed suddenly, for a long time, as if the effort of scolding her had been too much.

Cora watched his shoulders heave with the effort of catching his breath. Realisation hit her that Ned would soon be taken from her and she swore she would bring him somewhere safe, somewhere warm. Spain, perhaps, the country that had inspired her name. Ned was all she had in the world and she was determined that his last few months should be as comfortable as possible.

She’d never believed the stories of Gentleman George’s treasure, but it wouldn’t hurt to find out if the story held some truth, would it?

‘All right,’ she said, ‘tell me what you think I should do.’

After his visit to Newgate, Rupert had begun making enquiries about the man named Mardell, whom Gentleman George had inadvertently fingered, but no one was talking. He was met with blank stares bordering on the hostile, from men and women alike, and he cursed the fact that the townsfolk of Hounslow had such long memories when it came to his exploits.

Eventually he managed to corner a lad, and a combination of threatening to shake the poor youth until his teeth fell out and the promise of a coin yielded information he had partly surmised anyway
–
that Mardell lived with his daughter in a cottage in the woods near Hospital Bridge. This information left him exactly nowhere – he had seen for himself that Mardell’s cottage was deserted and knew that the man and his daughter must be long gone.

Frustrated, he took himself back to the magistrate.

Blencowe received him in less than good humour.

‘What brings you here at this late hour, Blythe?’ he bellowed from behind his desk. ‘If it’s to do with that thieving lad who’s terrorising us all, I’m afraid I have no intelligence which I haven’t already shared with you.’

‘I may have some information for you.’

‘Indeed?’ Blencowe raised his eyebrows.

‘Are you familiar with a man named Mardell?’ Rupert said.

‘Mardell?’ Blencowe frowned and appeared to be thinking hard. ‘The name is familiar. Yes, I recollect now. The man is a common labourer, but if you believe him to be our highwayman, you’re grossly mistaken. The sightings all report a lad, not a man Mardell’s age. Besides, it’s common knowledge that Mardell suffers from an ague of the chest and has a rasping cough likely to give him away.’

Rupert hesitated. Blencowe had already refused to help him once; if he wanted him to change his mind, now was the time to own up to the fact that the ‘lad’ in question was, in fact, a woman. Except he was certain Jack must have kept this piece of information from the magistrate, for reasons of his own, and Rupert would do the same. Otherwise his chances of winning that wager against his saintly cousin were very slim.

‘Not Mardell,’ Rupert said. ‘A relative of his.’

‘Relative, pah! The only relative Mardell has is a daughter, and I seriously doubt a mere female has enough mettle to put the fear of God into our hapless travellers. No, it has to be a young man we’re looking for.’

‘So … Mardell has no nephews or any other known young associates?’

‘None whatsoever,’ Blencowe replied. ‘So, if you have nothing else to add, I should like to attend to my dinner.’

Blencowe rose to signal that the meeting was at an end, and Rupert had no choice but to thank the magistrate for his time and bid him goodnight, which he did smiling affably yet gritting his teeth. Outside he gave vent to his frustration and threw his cane to the ground. To Blencowe he was nothing but a time-waster, and always had been, that much was clear.

Muttering curses, he forced himself to apply some logic. What would he do if he were in the highwaywoman’s position? They had already left their cottage, but may be planning to leave the area for good. If this was the case, they would need travel money, quickly, which probably meant robbing another coach. But he’d not heard of any attacks since the one directed at himself and Jack, so he could either patrol the Bath Road and wait for the highwaywoman to strike or he could follow Jack to see what he got up to. Except Jack had proved rather adept at giving him the slip lately. Or he could go back to the Mardells’ cottage in the hope of finding some clue to where they might be headed, something which he may have missed the first time.

Picking up his cane again, he resolved to go back there at first light, which was far earlier than he was accustomed to rising. However, desperate measures were called for under the circumstances.

Cora and Mrs Wilton set off at daybreak the next morning. Mrs Wilton, carrying a covered basket over her arm, wore a white cotton cap and a long shawl, which hid the fact that her dress had seen better days, and Cora had opted for the breeches and jacket. She tied her hair back in a queue and pulled her tricorne hat over her eyes to hide her face from curious looks.

But nobody took any notice of them, an old woman and her son going to London. Soon they struck lucky and hitched a ride on the back of a wagon transporting kegs of ale from Isleworth Brewery to an inn near Drury Lane.

Cora hadn’t been to London since before her mother died, but she remembered some of the landmarks they passed from her last journey: Kew Bridge and the town of Kew on the other side of the Thames, the villages of Hammersmith and Kensington. By the church in Kensington the road widened, and the traffic grew heavier. In addition to the slow-moving wagons and market carts, stagecoaches, horsemen and travelling carriages
all bustled towards London, and the smell of the road and the rumbling of wheels over granite stones filled the morning air.

Between Kensington and Hyde Park stood the Halfway House Inn, reputed to be a meeting place for highwaymen’s touts, who gathered here, ready to send word to Hounslow Heath and other places on the western roads when wealthy families or merchants were setting out. Situated on the road side of the park, the inn stood all alone with its sinister reputation, and Cora felt a slight shiver as they passed it. She may have broken the law on occasion, and hit Jack’s groom out of desperation, but she would never intentionally harm any of her victims.

Others were far more brutal.

As they drew nearer to London, the din rose. Street vendors touted their wares and the crowds grew denser and more vociferous.

But nothing could have prepared her for the narrow streets between Drury Lane and Oxford Street. What before had seemed crowded and busy, rich and poor, colourful and drab, all rolled into one, was replaced by the most unimaginable filth and squalid misery. Wretched houses with broken windows patched with rags and paper, gutters in the street, clothes drying and slops emptying from the windows, children with matted hair walking barefoot. And everywhere men and women, of all ages and in every variety of scanty and dirty clothing, were lounging, drinking, smoking, fighting and swearing.

Horrified, Cora tried not to stare, but found it difficult. There was poverty in and around the town of Hounslow, people living in far more woeful circumstances than herself and Ned, but nothing like this. It was a different world.

The wagon stopped in front of The Black Lion, a disreputable-looking ale house, and Cora and Martha climbed down and thanked the drayman.

‘Mind how you go, fella me lad,’ he said to Cora and nodded his head for emphasis. ‘This ain’t no place to bring yer ma.’

He began unloading the kegs with the help of the taproom boy, and soon forgot about his passengers, who slipped in the back through an enclosed yard. A group of men engaged in a game of dice paid little attention to the young man who slipped into a back room, and no one batted an eyelid when the same young man emerged dressed as a woman. Perhaps such sights were commonplace in the vicinity of a theatre, Cora thought with amusement.

In her yellow dress and a slightly tattered black veil Martha had lent her, Cora followed her companion, who had been to London a few times before, along the Strand and Fleet Street to Newgate. The streets were a beehive of activity, but even in a crowd such as this, Jack’s mother’s yellow dress was eye-catching. Already she was attracting a number of stares, a few leering, some courteous, despite her wearing a veil. Or perhaps because of the veil. Either way it made her feel uncomfortable, as if she was being watched.

The smell greeted them first as they turned into Old Bailey. It was as if the gates of Hell had opened and spilled forth all its misery and malodour. Martha covered her nose with her shawl, but Cora didn’t. This was where Gentleman George was forced to spend the last few hours of his life; he had no choice but to accept it, so Cora would do the same.

Still, it struck her as deviant, inhuman even, that shopkeepers, innkeepers and delivery men would go about their business as if their neighbour was just another building, and not the most notorious prison in the whole of England.

The hustle and bustle here was the same as elsewhere in this sprawling city, completely heedless of what misery lay beyond these walls producing the near-unbearable stench. Passers-by were within a few yards of men and women whose days were numbered, who had lost all hope and whose lives would soon end in violent and shameful death.

Cora stopped in front of the portcullis gate and looked up at the four-storeyed front looming over her. There was no hope for George. Last-minute reprieves from the king were rare, and why should Uncle George get one anyway? He had no one to plead his cause and had committed all the crimes with which he had been charged. Probably more. There was no doubt about his guilt. The only thing Cora could do for her father’s friend was to return his dignity to him.

She breathed in and almost gagged from the noxious air. ‘Soap,’ she said to Martha. ‘I need soap.’

‘Soap?’ Martha squawked. ‘What’ll you be needing that for? Old George can’t eat that for ’is last meal!’

‘For washing,’ said Cora, still staring up at the imposing prison façade.

‘You look clean enough to me.’

‘Not for me. For Uncle George.’

Finally Martha understood. She squeezed Cora’s arm with her claw-like hand. ‘You’re a good girl, Cora. Your father’s right to be proud of you. He probably don’t say it much, but I know ’e is.’

Cora put her hand over Martha’s. For a brief moment she wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here she was, a country girl by day, highwaywoman by night and possibly a fine lady by blood, in stolen finery, walking into a prison, a veritable lion’s den, with only soap and a silk waistcoat for the condemned man. Her father might be proud of her, but he was right about her actions: this was utter madness.

It was also the right thing to do.

On the bustling Newgate Street they found a shop selling household goods; Cora purchased a pound of lye soap and dropped it in the basket Martha was carrying; then, holding their breath, they walked in through the prison gate.

At the gatekeeper’s house Martha’s basket and pockets were searched, but when the guard turned to Cora, she held her head high.

‘My good man, do I look like the sort of personage who would bring a weapon to a condemned criminal?’

The guard eyed her expensive dress and her veil and Cora hoped he wouldn’t notice that the veil was a bit threadbare in places and the dress a little too short – or the pistol concealed in her pocket.

‘I’m sorry, m’lady, just doin’ me job.’

If he noticed that Martha was far too old to be a lady’s maid, he omitted to mention it, and Cora drew a sigh of relief. ‘I apologise for inconveniencing you, but may I trouble you for a pail of water?’

The gatekeeper narrowed his eyes and Cora had a nasty feeling that he saw right through her disguise and was toying with her. Maybe the man had listened to the rumours of Gentleman George’s alleged treasure and was waiting to pounce on anyone who may have further information. A drop of perspiration ran down her back and she suppressed a shiver.

‘Certainly, m’lady,’ he said at last. ‘Although, begging your pardon, but what’ll you be needing the water for?’

‘I believe it to be Gentleman George’s last wish to meet his maker with a clean shirt and well-combed hair.’
And you could do with a proper wash yourself.

The gatekeeper cackled at that. ‘I dare say you’ll need more than a pail of water for that. Scum, they all are in ’ere. Just scum. Ain’t no one here clean enough to go anywhere other than straight to Hell. It’ll cost you.’

Cora jutted out her chin. She hated to have to part with some of the little travel money they had but if she kicked up a fuss, she might draw unwelcome attention to herself and Martha. ‘Of course. Will a shilling suffice?’

‘That’s most generous, m’lady. Most generous indeed.’ While Cora dug out a shilling from her purse, the gatekeeper signalled to the other guard, who left the room, then he grabbed the coin Cora handed him and slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat. A moment later the other guard returned with a pail of murky water.

‘Here you are, m’lady. Although I fear it’ll take more than water to make this prisoner presentable.’ He winked at the gatekeeper, who chuckled menacingly, and it was with some trepidation that Cora and Martha followed him through a labyrinth of stairs and corridors to a cell on the third floor.

‘These cells are for those who only have hours left before their execution,’ the guard explained. ‘It gives them a chance to spruce up before the ’anging so they can put on a proper show, like. Not disappoint the specta’ors.’

Cora stiffened. She was aware that crowds at a hanging expected a performance from the condemned, but hearing the guard talking about it so matter-of-factly, as if it was no different from an ordinary theatre production, brought it home to her that people were actually looking forward to seeing men die today.

And one of those men was a dear friend.

The guard unlocked a thick wooden door with a metal grille at the top. ‘Someone paid us handsomely to give him a private cell. A fine lady, like yerself.’

He sent Cora a sly look as if to gauge her reaction to the news that the prisoner had other female admirers – which was what he assumed Cora to be – but she ignored him. When the door swung open with a clang, all she had eyes for was the disconsolate figure sitting on a high-backed chair staring up at the blue sky beyond the barred window. Chains attached to a ring in the wall kept his ankles shackled, but the prisoner wasn’t otherwise restrained. He did not turn around when Cora entered.

‘That’ll be all,’ she heard Martha say to the guard. ‘We’ll give you a holler when we’re finished.’

‘I’ll be right outside. This cove’s dangerous.’

‘Looks more like ’alf-dead already,’ Martha muttered when the guard had left them with a cheerful whistle and a jangle of keys as he locked the door behind him.

Half-dead? Ripping off her veil, Cora crossed to where George sat, but he didn’t turn around, almost as if the fight had gone out of him a long time ago. Panic gripped Cora’s heart. Uncle George loved the freedom of the Heath, the sun and wind on his face when he rode and, of course, spending his evenings at a convivial inn. Had prison taken away his soul already? She would never forgive herself if Uncle George died without ever really knowing that she had come to say goodbye.