The Highwayman's Daughter (5 page)

‘Remember, you’re a lady,’ she had whispered.

Sitting on the soft moss, Cora cleared away weeds and fallen leaves from the grave while she hummed a lullaby for her baby brother. Yet again she pondered her mother’s last words, which might have been caused by fever, although she’d seemed lucid enough.

What could she possibly have meant?

Jack parted company from his father by the gates to Lampton Hall and rode home through the estate gardens rather than following the lane to the front of the house. Under a large oak tree he stopped and surveyed his father’s mansion. The hall was perfectly situated among a wood of stately old oak trees but the sandstone house
itself was set back, as if erected on an island of rolling green lawns.

The mansion was relatively new, having been designed in the previous century by a pupil of the great Inigo Jones. Influenced by Italian Palladian architecture, Lampton Hall was a smaller version of the Queen’s House at Greenwich. The house was built over four storeys, and the main floor was accessed by a flight of external steps and south-facing portico. Tall windows ran right around the building like large dark eyes reflecting the sunlight.

However, for the moment Jack was oblivious to its splendour. Deep in thought, he stayed seated on his horse, pondering what his next move should be. It seemed prudent to begin his search in the forested area that he had identified on the map, but he was aware that it was a sizeable locality.

As his horse grew bored and started grazing, Jack saw movement out of the corner of his eye and shielded the sun with his hand to see better. In the distance Alethea was striding purposefully across the lawn, with Rupert in an embroidered coat and wig trailing twenty feet behind her.

Jack grinned to himself. Anyone accompanying Alethea on her morning walk only had himself to blame; she never strolled or sauntered but belted ahead as if her very life depended on it. Not even her polonaise gown of dove-grey taffeta seemed to hamper her forward movement.

He was just about to spur the lazy horse on and join them when Rupert caught up with Alethea and grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn around. Jack’s grin became a frown; Rupert spoke urgently and Alethea wrested her arm away.

Another fight? Jack sighed. They seemed to have become more frequent of late. Most probably Rupert had made some minor quip which had set her off; Alethea was known for having a fiery temper.

He nudged the reluctant horse forward to meet them, dismounted when Alethea caught sight of him, and took the horse by the bit. She ran up and flung her arms around his neck, nearly toppling him over. The startled horse whinnied and shied away, the whites of its eyes stark against the chestnut coat. Jack reached out to put a steadying hand on its neck.

‘Jack, are you all right?’ she cried. ‘I just heard what happened. I swear, if that brigand has injured you, I don’t know what I’ll do!’

‘I’m absolutely fine.’ He returned the embrace and her innocent affection, as always a little overwhelmed by Alethea’s forcefulness, and then extricated himself gently from her stranglehold with a reassuring smile. ‘We both are.’

He glanced in Rupert’s direction, and Alethea followed his eyes with a look of loathing. She stepped back and crossed her arms.

‘
He
has been following me all morning to make sure I don’t meet anyone interesting,’ she hissed. ‘I swear he’s nothing but a scarlet hypocrite. As if all his friends are suitable!’ Scowling furiously, she sent her brother another glare.

Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s your brother and he’s devoted to you. As am I.’

‘Hah!’

Rupert caught up with them, and once more Jack had to marvel at his cousin’s effortless elegance. Not a single wig hair was out of place, nor did his face appear shiny from his exertions, in stark contrast to Alethea, who looked hot and cross, like a cat on a cauldron lid. ‘Morning, cousin,’ he said to Jack, ‘I see you’ve already partaken of a bit of exercise.’

‘I rode into Hounslow to speak with the magistrate about the robbery.’

‘Ah. And did you tell him of our little discovery?’

Alethea looked from one to the other, her eyes suddenly alert. ‘Which discovery?’

Jack hesitated. He hadn’t mentioned to the magistrate nor to his father that the culprit was a woman, and he doubted that Rupert had said anything about it either. It would spoil the enjoyment of the wager if the facts became known, and no doubt others would take it upon themselves to catch the daring wench. There was also a good chance that the thief would make a mistake if she was lured into thinking that her gender hadn’t been discovered.

Yet now Alethea had the bit between her teeth, and Jack knew from experience that she wouldn’t rest until she’d managed to wrestle further information out of them. He was confident he could withstand such onslaught, despite his affection for her, but whether Rupert could was another matter. What would she think of their less-than-honourable bet if she found out? The thought made him grimace.

He glanced at Rupert, a gesture which didn’t pass her by, and then said, ‘We discovered that the robber was a mere boy.’

‘A boy?’ said Alethea with a suspicious frown. ‘How old was he?’

‘Just a lad, really, and not much older than yourself.’

‘Extraordinary.’

Rupert inclined his head with an indolent smile. ‘Extraordinary indeed, especially since this boy was well-versed in the use of a pistol. He destroyed a perfectly good hat of mine, and now I shall have to make do with what the milliner in Hounslow can offer. Still, a gentleman needs a hat, especially if I’m to accompany you, dear Alethea.’

Giving her a mocking bow, Rupert grinned.

Alethea glowered back. ‘I don’t wish you to accompany me anywhere, thank you very much.’ But it was clear her brother was intent on sticking to her like a limpet. Jack rolled his eyes, and found himself, as he had many times before in dealings with these two, caught between a rock and hard place.

Rupert left them at last, under the pretext that a ride might be just the tonic he needed, although Jack suspected it would take him the way of the magistrate’s residence.

Alethea scowled at his retreating back and turned to Jack. ‘I don’t care what you say about my dear, charming brother, but he’s becoming impossible and I don’t like the way he draws you into his wicked ways.’

‘He doesn’t,’ Jack said mildly.

‘How can you defend him, Jack? How can you be so blind?’

‘I’m not blind to Rupert’s faults, Thea. I’m keeping him company in town in the hope that I may restrain him a little, not because I enjoy a life of wantonness. I’d rather be here; there’s so much work to be done.’

‘But your father is,’ Alethea insisted. ‘He refuses to see that Rupert is a spendthrift and a hanger-on who has no respect for how hard Uncle Geoffrey works to keep us all in comfortable circumstances. If he doesn’t stop him, soon the estate will be mortgaged to the hilt. I can’t bear it, after all the kindness your parents have shown to us. I wish I could repay them somehow.’

‘You’re exaggerating, Alethea. I’ve tried speaking to Father about Rupert’s behaviour; but Father thinks I’m overreacting. Anyway, no one is expecting anything back – you’re family. Besides, it won’t come to that, I promise. It is my hope that Rupert will see sense eventually and go into a profession.’

‘He won’t; he’s too indolent.’ Alethea shook her head. ‘Damn it, Jack, can’t you see what sort of game he’s playing?’

Jack was well aware what Rupert got up to in town but hadn’t realised Alethea knew too. Instead he said, ‘Language, Alethea. Remember you’re a lady.’

Alethea tossed her black curls and stomped her foot. ‘And what of it? Should only men and low-born women be allowed to express their true feelings?’

‘All right, all right,’ said Jack. He held up his hands soothingly, bemused and bewildered at the same time, wondering where Alethea’s hot-headedness came from. She’d been brought up by his mother, and although the countess enjoyed hunting with an abandon rarely seen in ladies, she was otherwise mild-mannered and graceful, and the earl was very restrained. ‘Just make sure Father doesn’t hear you. Or Mother.’

‘You won’t tell?’ Alethea’s lips formed a perfect pout, and – giving in – Jack threw his head back and laughed.

‘Never,’ he said and tousled her hair.

As they walked back to the stables, arm in arm, with the horse ambling after them, he couldn’t help wondering if Blencowe would be as forthcoming with Rupert as he had been with Jack this morning.

Having left his cousin and sister on the lawn, Rupert headed for the stables. The head groom wasn’t there, nor were any of the other grooms. The only person around was a young boy, the eldest son of the head groom. Rupert tapped him on the shoulder with his cane and the lad jumped.

‘Where’s your father, boy?’

The boy straightened up, leaned on his shovel and regarded Rupert with barely disguised derision. ‘’E’s with the earl and Mr Southey in the south field, sir, helpin’ a filly with her young ’un.’

‘Well, go and get him, then. I need to ride into town.’

‘I can’t, sir. They was not to be disturbed. The foal’s took everyone by surprise, and the filly’s havin’ difficulties, like.’

Rupert felt his blood boil, and it took all the restraint he possessed not to clip the urchin round the ears. He was sure no one treated Cousin Jack like this. If
Rupert
were the heir to Lampton … ‘Well, you saddle my horse, then, and make it fast,’ he barked.

‘Yes, Master Rupert.’ The boy went about his business with deliberate slowness, or so it seemed to Rupert. He fumed quietly. His run-in with Alethea this morning had left him feeling very cross already and the accidental meeting with Jack had, once again, confirmed to Rupert that he was merely tolerated within the family. On top of that it irritated him that Jack had been the quicker of the two of them to see the magistrate. They had undoubtedly shared valuable information, thus putting Rupert at a disadvantage in winning the wager.

And win the bet he must. He’d always enjoyed gambling, horse racing and betting on other sports. He had confidence in his abilities, although he had noticed that recently the cards had not been in his favour. But this bet was for more than sport and entertainment. All his life he’d been treated as inferior to Jack – damn it he’d
felt
inferior! – and sometimes … just sometimes he’d wished his sainted cousin dead. Perhaps by catching this thief, he could show them all what he was really made of.

He must see the magistrate immediately – the damned hat could wait.

The stable boy brought him his horse at last, and Rupert mounted it, only to slide precariously in the saddle. He jumped down and caught the boy by the hair. ‘My saddle is loose. You did that deliberately, didn’t you?’

The boy’s eyes were huge with fright as Rupert shook him by the hair. ‘No, sir. I swear I never. The stallion, he must-a blown up his belly, like.’

‘You’re supposed to wait and then re-tighten the girth, you dullard.’

‘But you wanted ’im done fast, sir,’ protested the boy.

Overcome by a sudden rage, white-hot and coursing through his veins, Rupert felt himself snap. ‘Are you gainsaying me, you little rascal?’

‘No, sir, I …’

The boy didn’t have time to finish. Rupert tossed him to the ground as if he were a sack of potatoes, and brought his cane down on his hamstrings. The boy cried out in pain and tried to crawl away. This only served to incense Rupert further. He raised the cane and swung it again, as hard as he could, this time landing a blow on the boy’s back. The boy howled, and Rupert scooped him up by the scruff of the neck and shook him hard.

‘Now see to my horse properly,’ he growled, ‘or you’ll know what real pain is.’

‘Yes, s-sir.’ Snivelling, the boy wiped his nose on his sleeve and tightened the girth, pulling as hard as his small hands could manage.

Pushing him aside, Rupert mounted. He looked down at the boy and then raised his cane. The boy flinched away and Rupert laughed. ‘Just so you know what’s in store for you should you decide to tell anyone about this little interlude.’

‘I-I won’t breathe a word, sir.’

‘Very good.’ His good mood restored, Rupert tossed the boy a farthing; it landed on the ground. ‘Here you go, then. For your trouble.’

He set off at a brisk canter, and didn’t notice the boy glaring after him, a look of utter contempt on his face. The coin lay untouched in the dirty straw.

The following day was market day, and since there was no more work to be done in the fields for the moment, Cora decided to go to town. She put on her only good gown, a dark grey skirt and a faded blue cotton bodice, a second-hand purchase which she usually kept for Sunday best. Over it she donned a clean white apron, tied back her black curls with a piece of string and chose an old straw bonnet as protection against the sun.

Ned had left early that morning to check his traps for rabbits, and as always this activity gave her a twinge in the stomach. If he should be caught by his lordship’s gamekeeper, there was a risk they would hang him; but Ned was careful, he said.

She collected the eggs from the hen coop, and carefully placed them in a basket on top of a piece of cloth, under which lay the rich man’s waistcoat as well as the ring and the watches she had stolen. Her contact in town would know what to do with them.

Touching the items again was an uncomfortable reminder of how she’d obtained them, but only a few days ago she’d noticed that Ned’s medicine bottle was nearly empty, and she had to find a way to pay for it to be replenished.

She picked up the bottle and slipped it in the basket with the other things. It was completely empty now. This morning he had taken the last dose under her watchful eye, because she had a sneaking suspicion her father would pour the foul-tasting liquid away if she didn’t keep a close watch. Her father didn’t seem quite as concerned about his illness as she did. Sometimes she suspected he would welcome death just so he could be reunited with his wife, but Cora couldn’t bear for that to happen. He was all the family she had left.

With her basket over her arm she walked through the forest and across the Heath. It was a cumbersome walk in the scraggy heather and prickly gorse, and when she arrived at Hospital Bridge she already felt hot and sticky. Squinting up at the sun, she realised it was going to be even warmer, and she sat down on a log by the roadside in the hope that someone would offer her a ride. Soon enough a farmer turned up in a hay wagon pulled by two oxen.

‘Going to town?’ he asked kindly. When Cora nodded, he said, ‘It’s a long way to be carrying them eggs. Hop on.’

Cora thanked him and walked to the back of the wagon. There were already two other passengers, an elderly woman carrying a basket of strawberries and a young man about Cora’s age with four chickens in a cage. The chickens squawked nervously as Cora climbed up, and the man moved them further up the wagon to give her room.

‘Thank you.’ Cora smiled at him.

The young man went red as a beetroot and turned away. ‘You’re welcome.’

Cora tended to have that effect on the young men of her acquaintance, and although she was used to it, it bothered her slightly. It was almost as if every young man she encountered was in awe or afraid of her, and because of it she had never had the pleasure of walking out with one. She was almost as tall as her father and had often wondered if that frightened them off, but didn’t know for certain. Sighing, she watched as the bridge slowly disappeared from view. It would be nice if just once a man could look her in the eye without blushing and turning away.

Then she recalled the men she had robbed and felt a peculiar flutter in her chest. One of them had done just that. In fact, he hadn’t even flinched when she’d held Ned’s old sword to his throat, threatening to run him through. Now there was a man she’d like to have met under different circumstances. Instead, she’d have to run in the opposite direction if she ever encountered him again. It was a lowering thought.

‘Nice day for it, ain’t it?’ said the woman beside her. ‘Got myself some lovely strawberries in ’ere. Should sell in no time.’

Cora agreed, and they passed a pleasant journey into town chatting about all manner of things. Even the young man joined in eventually and offered an opinion or two, although he was still careful not to look directly at Cora.

When she had sold her eggs, she went to see her father’s contact, an old Jew who had moved out from London’s east in the seventeen-thirties, when his shop had been burnt down. Cora had known Mr Isaacs and his now deceased wife, Ruth, since she was a little girl. Ned would bring Mr Isaacs some business – what sort of business Cora didn’t know – and they would have a drink together, and in the kitchen the childless Mrs Isaacs would fuss over Cora and feed her hot white bread until Cora was so full she thought she would never eat another thing.

Although the couple were tolerated in Hounslow, they were also viewed with some suspicion, and had never really been accepted by the other tradesmen. Ned had befriended them years ago, though, and Cora knew Mr Isaacs would never betray her.

With her worry for Ned on her mind, she pushed open the door to the pawnshop and stepped inside a dusty world that had been wondrous when she’d been a child. She still remembered the many strange things people would pawn, and, looking about her now, it seemed nothing much had changed. There was everything from watches and jewellery to silk hats and shoes on display. Someone had even pawned a set of false teeth, two rows of carved ivory set in a wooden frame.

Mr Isaacs emerged from behind a curtain at the back of the shop and rushed forward to embrace her. ‘Cora, Cora, Cora!’ he exclaimed and kissed her on both cheeks, as was his custom, tickling her with his grey ringlets. ‘How are you, my wayward
Fraulein
?’

He stepped back, still with his hands on her shoulders, shaking his head and tutting while he muttered something in Yiddish. ‘And beautiful as always. Hasn’t a young squire had the good sense to snap you up yet?’

‘No such luck, Mr Isaacs. I expect I’ll die an old maid.’

‘Nonsense!’ he cackled. ‘When you’re not looking, they will come.’

‘I’m not looking and they’re not coming,’ said Cora and laughed at this strange logic.

Mr Isaacs was pensive. ‘If you’re willing, I can arrange for a nice Jewish lad to take you to wife. You’ll have to convert, of course …’

‘That’s very solicitous of you, Mr Isaacs, but the God I have is good enough for me.’ Having said that, God had not spared her pain. Cora felt a sharp pang as she thought of her mother and the baby brother who didn’t live beyond his first day, but she knew they’d be reunited in the next world.

‘Well said, my dear. Well said.’ Mr Isaacs spread his hands out. ‘Anyway, what can I help you with, now that you’re here?’

‘I have some items to sell.’

Mr Isaacs sent her a long look; then he said, ‘Mm, like that, is it? You had better come around the back, I think.’

He held open the curtain for her, and they retreated to a small office heaving with large leather-bound account ledgers. Apart from the pawnshop activities, Mr Isaacs also lent money to those who could not obtain a loan by other means. This required careful accounting, and Mr Isaacs was a meticulous businessman. Although people loathed having to use his services, they came back to him again and again, because he had a reputation for not squeezing his customers. Instead he allowed them ample time to pay off their debt, unlike some of the other local moneylenders, who were known for resorting to violent methods should the money not be forthcoming on the due date.

Less well-known was Isaacs’ sideline as purveyor of stolen goods. With his numerous contacts in London an item bought by Mr Isaacs would disappear within a day. Still, it was a risky enterprise, and he closed the curtain firmly behind them before offering Cora a seat. He sat down on the opposite side of a narrow desk, which carried a blackened burn mark in one corner, and draped a square of protective felt over it.

Cora lifted the cloth in her basket aside and placed the two fob watches, the ring and the luxurious silk waistcoat on the desk before him.

Mr Isaacs raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve heard tales of a young rascally fellow stripping one victim naked and scalping another. Of course, I took them to be exaggerations, although I thought they carried the hallmarks of your, er – shall we say – handiwork. Does your father know?’

‘He suspects.’

Mr Isaacs sucked his teeth. ‘How
is
your father, by the way?’

‘His cough is plaguing him, and the medicine is costly.’

‘May God watch over him.’

‘Let’s hope so.’
Please don’t take Ned away,
she thought.
He’s all I have.

Mr Isaacs reached across the desk and patted Cora’s hand. ‘You’re a good girl. Now, let’s take a look at what you’ve brought.’

He examined the fob watches carefully, turning them this way and that in the light from a high window behind him. Then he studied the ring with the help of an optical device which made his eye appear enormous. ‘Lovely, lovely,’ he said. ‘This should be easy enough to sell on. An exquisite piece of jewellery but not too distinct. The same goes for one of the fob watches, but the other is engraved, which makes it more difficult. Here, see for yourself.’

He passed the watch to Cora. She turned it over and read the inscription on the back. ‘To dearest Jack. Your loving Alethea’. She knew which of the two men this watch had belonged to – the handsome one whose queue she had sheared off – but who was Alethea? His betrothed? His wife? She felt a warm flush spread across her cheeks and returned the watch to the table; it suddenly felt too hot in her hand. Irrational though it was, she was beset by an absurd feeling of jealousy that raged and curdled in her chest until she was able to calm herself.

Mr Isaacs was watching her closely, as if he could read her mind. It was an uncomfortable thought and briskly she returned to the business in hand.

‘What about the waistcoat?’

Mr Isaacs shrugged. ‘As for the waistcoat, although it’s a very fine garment indeed, it isn’t the sort of thing my associates in London deal in. Selling it around here could prove difficult as it’s too recognisable, but I do know a seamstress who can fashion it into a set of ladies’ reticules.’

Cora ran her hand over the fine fabric. It seemed a shame to cut it up. Also, it would mean the involvement of yet another person, and however trustworthy this seamstress might be, Cora decided to err on the side of caution.

‘I’ll hold on to it for the time being, then,’ she said. ‘As well as the engraved watch.’