The Lady and the Highwayman

by Sarah M. Eden

  Lucinda opened her arms, and the little girl rushed into them. She leaned her slight weight against Lucinda, clinging to her.

  “Please, miss,” she said, her breath trembling with each word. “Please don’t make me return to the forest.”

  “The forest?” Lucinda looked to Sir Frederick. “This child was in the forest?”

  He nodded. “She needs a safe place away from the dangers she has escaped.”

  “And that safe place is here?” Lucinda could not account for his decision to bring the child to her.

  “I am hopeful that it is, indeed.” He offered a dip of his head.

  This was not the apology nor the explanation she was owed, but it was a help just the same. Whatever his reasons for not speaking to her in town were, he would trust her with the welfare of this little girl.

  With another nod, he stepped from the house, disappearing into the quickly approaching night. The tiny child clung to Lucinda.

  “Am I to stay here?” she asked.

  “Of course, dear,” Lucinda said. “And I will endeavor to keep you safe from whatever you’ve fled from in the forest.”

  The girl’s chin quivered. “The forest has . . . a monster!”

  Ah, bung your eye.”

  The latest installment in King’s The Lady and the Highwayman was well written, intriguing, enjoyable, and maddeningly familiar. In it, the heroine had been publicly rebuffed by her sometimes-infuriating neighbor on the street of the nearby town while he had been getting his shoes shined. He had then asked her to take in a poor, destitute child. It was Elizabeth and Fletcher’s last few interactions but set in a different context.

  Only Miss Black was privy to the details of both those interactions. Even “beller-croaker” was used, a turn of phrase she’d taken note of when he’d used it. She had to have told Mr. King about their conversations, which meant either she’d found him some time ago and hadn’t told Fletcher or she’d known King’s identity all along and had been lying about it from the beginning.

  “Bung your eye,” he said again.

  The hackney he rode in pulled to a stop in front of the York Place mews. He had received word from Joe, Hogg’s stablehand, that Daniel, the climbing boy who’d been freed by the Dreadfuls, had something of significance to pass along to Fletcher. Daniel had given Joe the penny Fletcher had provided him with, a sure sign that the matter was one the boy considered important. If it was important to Daniel, it was important to Fletcher.

  He tucked his copy of King’s penny dreadful into the pocket of his jacket and stepped from the hack. He paid the fare and made his way to the mews. Joe was in a stall, brushing a horse.

  He looked up briefly as Fletcher approached. “That Danny is the best little spy I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Discovered something, did he?”

  Joe kept at his work as he spoke. “Knows a lot about fire.”

  “A sweep would,” Fletcher said. “Does fire play a role in what he wants to tell me?”

  “Hear ’im yourself.” Joe motioned with his wire brush toward the back of the stable where Daniel was sitting on a stool, untangling a length of rope.

  The boy’d cleaned up nice. His clothes were a touch less dirty. Fletcher had been a little older than Daniel the first time he’d lived anywhere reliable enough for tidying himself up. That hadn’t been an overly friendly place. These mews would be a far better arrangement for Daniel. That knowledge eased some of Fletcher’s worries for the boy.

  “I see he’s still staying here.” Their rescued little ones didn’t usually remain with their first guardians for very long.

  “He likes the work, and he’s helpful,” Joe said.

  Fletcher smiled. “And you’ve grown fond of him, I’d wager.”

  Joe simply nodded. “It’s like havin’ a little brother around. A cheeky little brother.”

  “I’ll go see what your cheeky sibling has to tell me, shall I?”

  “He has a colorful vocabulary,” Joe warned.

  “So do I.” He wandered back to where Daniel sat. “I heard you tossed in your penny.”

  “Had something to tell you.”

  Fletcher pulled a penny from his pocket and spun it about. “I’m listening, boy.”

  “Someone’s hanging around the school.”

  “I’ve heard Miss Black, who runs a girls’ school, has been coming around.”

  “Ain’t a woman.”

  That was a useful bit of information. “What does this man do that makes you think I’d need to know he’s been here?”

  “Been inspectin’ the place, but not to know if it’s safe.”

  “In what way, then?”

  “The man I worked for, Mr. Allen, weren’t just a sweep. He used sweepin’ to sniff around homes and such for ways in and out and for sorting if they were worth fencing.”

  Fletcher had, himself, once been employed by a man who’d used honest work for hiding criminal undertakings, and he’d no doubt Daniel had been required to participate in the robberies just as Fletcher had been. He still carried a load of guilt over all the times he’d been made to do a bust and all the pockets he’d picked to survive. Did Daniel carry a heavy conscience as well? It was little wonder so many never escaped that life.

  “Do you think someone means to burglarize the school?” he asked.

  Daniel shook his head. “Ain’t nothing in there worth makin’ off with. The napper is lookin’ for a way in, but the torches he carries ain’t the type for lighting his way. He’d use a lantern if all he wanted was light.”

  “An arsonist?”

  The boy shrugged. “Just thought you ought to know, since Mr. Hogg’s school is important to you.”

  “It is important to me, on account of how it helps street children who live a life like I did.”

  Daniel eyed him with curiosity. “You did?”

  “Aye. Lowest of the low, I was.”

  “Lower’n me?”

  “Lower than the gutter itself. But a school like Hogg’s and a good-souled few people like Joe gave me a way out. I cain’t promise your future’ll be cherries, but you’ll not drudge away for the likes of Mr. Allen anymore. I’ll swear to you that.”

  “It weren’t the drudging that I hated most. I’d’ve robbed every house he asked me if he’d stop whippin’ me.”

  Joe looked over, pain and concern in his eyes.

  “Whipped you bad, did he?” Fletcher asked.

  “Aye.” Daniel looked up from his rope and over at Joe. “I told Mr. Fletcher what I seen. Can I have m’ penny back now?”

  “Soon as I’m done,” Joe answered.

  “And you’ll read more ’bout them vampires?”

  Joe glanced at Fletcher, allowing the tiniest bit of amusement to show. “Soon as I’m done.”

  That seemed to satisfy the boy, and he set back to work, not saying anything further.

  Joe stopped Fletcher on his way out. “I’ve seen bloodstains on the boy’s clothes and scars on his back and arms. That Mr. Allen beats him fierce. It was a good thing you got the boy away from the blackguard.”

  “I’d not leave any child in that sort of danger,” Fletcher said. “Too many cain’t escape it.”

  “But Daniel did, and the urchins here at the school have,” Joe said. “That’s somethin’.”

  “Sure is.” It was something he meant to make happen more and more, if only he could keep his income flowing.

  Fletcher stepped outside. The Dreadfuls suspected someone was attempting to undermine Hogg’s ragged school, but this went far beyond that.

  Was Hogg in danger? Were his students? Fletcher couldn’t rest easy knowing that might be the case.

  He moved with purposeful step to the front of the school. A knock, a quick explanation to the housekeeper, and he was shown into Hogg’s office.

 
; He wasn’t alone. Miss Black sat across from his desk. She looked at the door briefly, then her posture stiffened. She turned slowly back, looking at him fully, brows up, eyes wide.

  Hogg looked at him as well. “Mr. Walker. This is unexpected.”

  “My apologies,” Fletcher said. “I wouldn’t interrupt if it weren’t urgent.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve come to offer a warning. Someone’s been casing your school.”

  “A burglar?” Hogg guessed.

  “The current theory is an arsonist.”

  Hogg’s shoulders grew rigid. Miss Black sucked in a breath.

  “I cain’t divulge my source,” Fletcher said, “but it’s a reliable one. I’d suggest extra caution.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would wish to destroy your school?” Miss Black asked Hogg.

  “Plenty,” he said. “There are those blackguards who are upset that our efforts take young children off the streets and out of their reach. There are others who simply hate that we educate children who they feel don’t deserve it: the destitute, those with less than pristine backgrounds, immigrants.”

  “This makes my concern of adopting more effective teaching methods seem rather insignificant,” Miss Black said.

  “For any school, improved teaching is never an insignificant pursuit.”

  Fletcher stepped back toward the office door. “I ain’t meaning to take up more of your time. Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

  Miss Black rose. “I should be going as well.”

  Proper farewells were offered, and Fletcher quickly found himself on the school’s front step with Miss Black beside him. Miss Black, who apparently knew Mr. King and was lying to him about it.

  “Perhaps we might share a hackney,” she said.

  A good suggestion. No sooner were they situated inside the hired conveyance than Fletcher jumped on the topic biting at his brain.

  “I read Mr. King’s latest installment.”

  “And what is your opinion of it?”

  She showed not the least trepidation. Did she think he wouldn’t notice the parallels? Perhaps she didn’t realize King had used what she’d told him. “I didn’t care for his portrayal of me.”

  That captured her full attention.

  “You told me once that you were smart and sorted things easily. I ain’t exactly bacon-brained myself, dearie. For King to have written what he did, you have to know him, and know him well enough to tell him bits of a private conversation you and I had. The jig’s up.”

  She folded her hands quite primly on her lap. “Would you care to hear about another jig that is up—one involving you?”

  There were any number of jigs involving him. Which one was she thinking of?

  She tugged on the ribbons of her wrist bag and reached inside, pulling out a coin. She held the penny between her finger and thumb, eyeing it with almost theatrical interest. “Janey has one of these she carries with her at all times. She says she received it from you. Her sister has one she received from Mr. Irving. The little sweep who was rescued from his awful employer and who now works at Hogg’s stables carries one as well. Your shoeshine spy did too. I have seen Mr. Irving and yourself jaunting about the streets, tossing and spinning pennies. Both of you are penny dreadful authors. Coincidence?” She slipped the penny back in her bag, then looked to him once more. “Or membership token?”

  He didn’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed. The hack rocked and swayed as it navigated the uneven streets of London.

  “So what do we do now?” he asked. They both knew things the other wished they didn’t.

  “You tell me about the Dread Penny Society, and I will tell you about Mr. King.”

  “That ain’t my bit to share.”

  “I find myself with similar constraints,” she said.

  He could appreciate that. “We share what we can, then.”

  She nodded. “You first, please.”

  “The Dread Penny Society does exist.” That much he could admit to.

  “So does Mr. King.”

  Neither was telling the other anything they didn’t already know. He’d get nowhere in his search for King if she wouldn’t share more.

  “I’m a member.” She likely didn’t realize how shocked she ought to be that he’d told her.

  “I know Mr. King very well.” Something in her tone told him her revelation was a significant one for her as well.

  “The DPS ain’t villains like some think.”

  She nodded. “Mr. King is adamant about privacy for very good reasons, none of which I am at liberty to disclose.”

  “Will you tell me if that ever changes?”

  She agreed. “And will you tell me what the membership requirements are for your secret society?”

  It was an unexpected question. “Do you think King’d be interested in joining?” That would solve a great many of their difficulties.

  “Perhaps.”

  Promising. “We ask very little. One must write penny dreadfuls.”

  “Which King does.”

  “And be dedicated to relieving the suffering of the vulnerable.”

  “I believe you will find that to be a significant aspect of King’s character.”

  Interesting. “Bein’ trustworthy with the group’s secrets is an absolute must.”

  “King can keep a secret, believe me. Anything else?”

  There really wasn’t, but he couldn’t help but add one more thing. “We require members don’t neglect to wear their trousers to meetings.”

  “Really?”

  “Ain’t none of us allowed to violate that rule,” he said.

  “I will relay that important information.” She nodded slowly. “And where does the DPS meet?”

  “That I ain’t permitted to tell you, Miss Black.”

  “We know enough of each other’s secrets, I believe, that, at least in private conversation, you may call me Elizabeth.”

  “Fletcher,” he said with a dip of his head.

  “If I am understanding correctly, Fletcher, Mr. King can join your Dread Penny Society if he commits himself to the care of the vulnerable, keeps the group’s secrets, wears trousers, and can find the group’s meeting location.”

  “That’d be the bulk of it.”

  “I do have one more question. Why is your organization the ‘Dread Penny’ Society? Do you find pennies particularly upsetting?”

  He shook his head. “It’s in part a play on words. Penny and dreadful flipped about. It’s also a callout to a man in America, a slave who argued for his freedom, who made a case for all people’s freedom. Dred Scott’s his name. He’s the sort of bold we aspire to be.”

  The hack came to a stop outside Thurloe School. Elizabeth moved to slip out.

  “Tell Mr. King I look forward to someday meeting him,” Fletcher said.

  “I will.”

  “And, Elizabeth?”

  “Yes?”

  “I look forward to seeing you again, as well.”

  She smiled and stepped out, but turned back before closing the door. “Thank you for sending me Janey. She is a delight.”

  “Send Mr. King my way, and I’ll consider us even,” he said.

  “Be careful what you wish for, Fletcher Walker. The result may not be quite what you bargained for.”

  “Is something wrong with Mr. King?”

  She raised a brow, but offered no explanation.

  The mystery of Mr. King was growing. The pull he felt to Elizabeth Black, however, was eclipsing even that.

  Be certain to speak to Gunderson about your music program,” Mr. Headley said, following Elizabeth around the drawing room as she straightened furniture and knickknacks. “He has strong feelings about the importance of musical instruction.”

  Sh
e was hosting a salon that evening, one focused on the state of education in England. Her other purpose was, as always, to make certain the influential in Town thought well of her and her school. She had done this before. More often, in fact, than Mr. Headley had.

  “And Horner is a stickler for the most basic education, so you ought to de-emphasize your science and more complicated mathematic courses. He won’t appreciate those classes being offered to female students.”

  Elizabeth took a calming breath. She knew all of this. And he must have realized she did. Yet he had spent the better part of the last ten minutes explaining to her, in a voice of authority, what he apparently doubted she comprehended. Mr. Headley could have fine manners when he chose, and he could be very thoughtful, but at times he was an absolute thorn.

  Still, she knew what was expected of a well-mannered lady. Antagonizing him when she needed all the allies she could muster for the evening’s efforts would have been foolish. She simply smiled politely and finished her inspection of the room.

  “Midgley is in a position to help financially,” Mr. Headley continued, keeping on her heels as she stepped into the entryway. “You must do all you can to convince him of the value of your efforts.”

  When she turned to face him, he very nearly collided with her. “Why does the success of my school matter so much to you?” It had not before occurred to her that he must have had some reason to be so determined to see her school—and her—succeed. They were not family. He was not truly courting her, at least not with any urgency.

  “For one thing, I, too, have invested in this school.” He spoke with a small upturn of his lips, adding a teasing quality to his very mercenary explanation. “For another, I appreciate what you are doing here. These young girls receive a good and proper education. They leave your school better prepared for life and less likely to fall on times of poverty and misery. Any feeling person must appreciate that.”

  While his first answer was clearly a jesting one, his second emerged with inarguable sincerity.

  “These girls deserve the chance to rise above their difficult circumstances,” she said. None were destitute by any means, but none had been born to the degree of wealth girls at other schools claimed. Neither were they candidates for ragged schools or trade apprenticeships. Thurloe Collegiate School filled that gap.