April Moon

by Merline Lovelace

  Yet what truly captured his attention was neither the girl’s voice, nor her face, but the song itself. Each verse catalogued another step of the famous highwayman’s career, from humble beginnings to glory and love and finally, the inevitable capture, trial and trip to the gallows. The song couldn’t have been that old—there were people still living who could recall Turpin’s hanging—nor did it likely have much basis in fact, romanticizing the life of a common horse thief and highway robber. Yet in the girl’s robustly melancholy voice Harry could hear all the differences between the dash and adventure of Turpin’s day, and the dull constraints of his own modern times.

  “I say, Atherwall,” whined one of the gentlemen in the overstuffed chairs behind him. “I’ve had about enough of that infernal arctic blast of yours. Shut that window directly, I say, before we all perish.”

  “Oh, yes, we shall all perish,” declared Harry from the window, raising his voice so everyone would hear him. “But it will be boredom that does us in, not some paltry April breeze. Blinding, blistering boredom.”

  “That’s putting it a bit rough, Harry, isn’t it?” asked Walter uneasily. “Likely you’ve already heard enough of the girl’s song to judge her, anyway.”

  “I’ve heard enough to judge her exactly as you say, and agree that her voice is far superior to the signora’s.” Harry reached into his pocket for a handful of coins. “Here, missy. You’ve more than defended England’s honor.”

  “Thank’ee, m’lord, thank’ee!” The girl grinned and curtseyed, then swiftly gathered the coins Harry tossed down to her. He could hear her astonished gasp clear up at the window: he’d given her four times the guinea he’d promised. She curtsied one last time, then, while Harry still leaned out the window to watch, she scurried away with her new wealth before he might change his mind.

  “She’s gone, Harry,” said Walter, shivering beside him. “Now you can shut this wretched window.”

  “What, on such a balmy April evening?” Harry smiled back over his shoulder, pointedly keeping the window open. “It’s so fine, Walter, I’ve half a mind to go out riding.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” said Walter crossly. “No sane man would ride anywhere tonight if he didn’t have to.”

  “I’ve never claimed to be sane, Walter,” said Harry easily. He slid the window closed and turned, folding his arms across his chest. “That girl’s song made me think, that is all.”

  At once Walter’s expression turned wary, an expression Harry recognized readily enough. He was always making other people wary like this; it was something of a habit with him, albeit an unintentional one.

  “What the devil are you plotting this time, Harry?” asked Walter uneasily. “Not another breakneck race to Edinburgh on hired nags, I trust, or driving a curricle blindfolded. No more shame to the good name of this club, yes?”

  “Oh, certainly not.” Harry shrugged elaborately, well aware of how many of the others were now listening, too. No doubt the whispers were already starting, and the wagers in the betting book with them. He’d never set out to make his reputation as a daredevil, or to feed the scandal pages of the newspapers. All he’d wanted to do was test the limits of his own skill and resourcefulness, and test and try himself as well.

  And if, in the process, he also recklessly courted danger, disaster and death, then so be it. It was no one else’s business but his own, and he simply didn’t care. He was unburdened with a wife, a family, a mistress or any other mortal who might genuinely care what became of him. The only two people who had brightened his life—his younger brother George and the only girl he’d truly loved—had long ago left it, and him, forever. He’d yet to see his thirtieth birthday, he was strong and reasonably handsome, rich beyond reason and titled beyond reproach, and yet there were far too many mornings when he stared up at the pleated canopy over his bed and wondered bleakly why fate had let him—him—wake to another day.

  Walter cleared his throat self-consciously. “Then what’s this about, Harry? How exactly did that chit’s song set you to thinking? Damnation, but I hate it when you turn mysterious!”

  Harry glanced past him, to the large looking glass that hung over one of the fireplaces. There the reflection of the rising full moon seemed to be a silver beacon to him, beckoning him to—to what?

  “How long ago did Dick Turpin ride his famous Black Bess across Hounslow Heath, anyway?” he mused. “Our grandfather’s time, no more, yet how much has changed since those days!”

  Walter snorted derisively. “What’s changed is that now a gentleman can travel in peace, not fearing for his life and pocket watch.”

  “But consider the adventure that’s been lost!” said Harry with a sigh of regret. “What’s become of gallantry, I ask you? Those old gentleman of the road knew how to steal a lady’s heart along with her locket, just as they could share the purse of some fat country squire with orphans and widows.”

  “What’s become of them is that they’ve all been hanged,” said Walter. “Just like you will be if you try this.”

  “One night, Walter,” coaxed Harry. “One ride, that is all. A black scarf and cloak, a brace of pistols and the darkest horse in my stable to be my own Black Bess. How can I let a moon such as this one go to waste?”

  “You will if you value your life,” warned Walter earnestly. “Harry, these days every mail coach has a man with a blunderbuss on the box beside the driver, and they won’t pause to ask your name or leave before they shoot you dead.”

  But Harry only smiled. “Who said I’d stop a mail coach? A private coach, one with a pretty lady inside—that’s more to my fancy.”

  “A full moon’s no guarantee of anything, and neither is a pretty lady,” said Walter, shaking his head. “You, of all men, should know that.”

  “And I, of all men, do not care.” Harry reached out to clap Walter heartily on the shoulder. “You must know by now what a perverse creature I am. The surest way to make me do anything is to tell me I can’t.”

  “Of course you can,” said Walter with obvious frustration. “It’s just that you shouldn’t.”

  “But I’m giving you a chance to win more than a guinea tonight, Walter,” said Harry easily. “I’m sure a good many of the gentlemen in this room will show more faith in my abilities, and be eager to place a few coins on my head to match yours. Being so certain that I’ll be scattered into oblivion by a blunderbuss, you’re bound to triple your money at the very least.”

  “For God’s sake, Harry,” sputtered Walter. “I’ve no intention of betting against you, even when you insist—”

  “Gentlemen,” announced Harry, sweeping his arm grandly before him, a showman as well as an earl. “Lord Ranford has challenged me to re-enact one of Dick Turpin’s famous rides across the heath this night.”

  “The devil he has!” exclaimed another man with obvious delight. “What are the terms this time, Burton? How shall we know if you’ve done as you’ve said?”

  “I’ll bring back my victim’s purse as proof,” promised Harry, “before I deposit it into the poor box, in true Robin Hood fashion, and if there’s a lady in the carriage I stop, I’ll capture her handkerchief as well. As for knowing beyond that—I cannot imagine that the return of a dashing highwayman will remain a secret for long in this city, can you?”

  “Ten pounds says you’ll get away with it, Burton,” declared another man. “No constable will ever catch you on those devil-bred horses you favor.”

  “And I say you’ll be stopped before you start,” called someone else. “This is 1803, Burton, and thieves of that sort aren’t to be tolerated.”

  “Address your opinions and wagers to Ranford,” said Harry with a farewell bow that encompassed the entire room. “I’ve much to do to prepare for tonight.”

  He left in his wake both cheers of encouragement and mutters of disapproval, the way it usually was with him. Yet the excitement of what he planned raised his spirits, and the sharp evening air that struck his face as he stepped from the club’s
door only increased his anticipation. No matter how unfashionable it was for a gentleman to walk anywhere in London, to Harry the distance between White’s and his own house in St. James’s Square seemed far too short to bother with the display of a carriage, and his stride was long and purposeful as he cut across the cobbled streets. The wind was dying with the day, yet still the first lamplighters were struggling with stray gusts as they tried to steady their ladders against the posts.

  Looking once again up over the rooftops, Harry wondered why the lamplighters bothered. The full moon now glowed round in the sky like a disc of polished silver, nearly as bright as the golden sun itself. A moon like this would cast shadows on the moor as if it were day instead of night, and briefly Harry questioned the wisdom of his plan. No highwayman could be properly mysterious in such conditions.

  But perhaps being seen was not so very bad after all. A black-clad figure on a dark horse, washed in silvery light—what could be more daring and romantic than that? For him the best part would be the chase, racing through the night at a breakneck pace to ambush a solitary carriage. He intended to carry a brace of pistols for effect, and to defend himself if it came to that, but as for the capture, he hoped to be able to rely more on surprise and charm for success than on force and threats, especially if a lady were involved.

  He smiled to himself, picturing some fair creature begging prettily for his mercy, which he, ever gallant, would gladly give. Wide-eyed, she’d lean from the carriage’s window, where the moonlight would find her face, and—

  And what? His imagination stopped abruptly, brought to a halt by a memory as brilliant as the moonlight itself, a memory so shockingly sharp it made him swear aloud.

  Another April moon such as this one, ten years ago, his last night home at Atherwall Manor before his journey across the Continent began: he was eighteen again, and Sophie was sixteen, the age she’d always remain for him. They’d met in their special secret place up the ladder and over the stables, where they knew they’d be alone except for the sleepy horses below.

  But still the moonlight had followed, slicing in through the square single window to find the thick golden blond of her hair. Sophie’s hair had always reminded him of a new-mowed shock of hay, straight and shining and resisting her aunt’s efforts to make it curl for fashion’s sake, and she’d smelled like new hay in the sun, too, sweet and wild, with freckles like cinnamon scattered over the bridge of her nose.

  She’d promised to be brave and not to cry, and she’d kept her word to the last. But the sadness in her eyes had been inescapable, as if she’d already realized how final their farewell would be, and when they made love one last time, it had seemed to him that every touch of hers, every kiss, had carried a bittersweet tenderness. She’d known then; she’d known. But he, great strapping fool that he’d been, had understood only when it was too late, when she’d sent back his letters unopened, unread, unwanted.

  They had been friends, it seemed, since she’d been born, and he’d always expected her to be there with him until he died, and he’d never, ever dreamed instead that she’d end everything so completely the first time fate had separated them.

  “Good evening, my lord,” said the butler as he opened the door, his expression swiftly changing to concern as Harry stepped into the light of the night-lantern in the hall. “My lord, are you unwell? Should I fetch—”

  “Of course I’m well,” said Harry, striving to recover his earlier bravado. No one could undo the past, least of all the past he’d shared with Sophie Potts, and the sooner he could finally make himself accept that, the better. “Well enough, at any rate. Now come, Hargraves, and hurry. I’ve much to do this night, and precious little time in which to do it.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “BETTER YOU SHOULD spend the night here, miss,” said Mrs. Lowry, the innkeeper’s sturdy wife, her hands folded over her apron and her broad face wreathed with concern. “It’s not safe to begin such a journey after dark. It’s courting bad luck, miss, plain and simple.”

  Deliberately Sophie set the stoneware teacup down on the table. Believing in luck, bad or good, was a luxury she’d never granted to herself. “I thank you for your concern,” she said, “but the moment the wheel on the carriage is mended, I must be on my way.”

  But Mrs. Lowry pretended not to hear, instead openly appraising Sophie’s plain travelling dress and gauging her ability to pay. The inn was small and old, with only this single public room, and from the lingering haze of last night’s tobacco to the bare, battered tables, Sophie guessed that most of the Lowrys’ business came from local farmers coming to drink when their day was done, and not from weary travelers staying overnight.

  “I won’t charge you much for the night, miss,” said the innkeeper’s wife finally, deciding Sophie was worth her trouble. “You being respectable and all, I could put you in with the widow. She’s small, and won’t take more than her share of the bedstead.”

  What a sorry compliment, thought Sophie wryly, that she was now considered such a well-aged spinster at twenty-seven as to be safe company for poor widows! Yet what else would Mrs. Lowry make of her? She was dressed in somber, serviceable clothing, a gray wool gown with a dark blue wool spencer buttoned up close beneath her chin, and her hair was drawn back so tightly under her untrimmed bonnet’s sugar-scoop brim that not a strand of it showed. She looked like an old maid because circumstances had made her one, and she’d long ago abandoned any impractical, impossible dreams of a husband and children of her own.

  Yet still she wasn’t so old that she’d forgotten when she’d been regarded as a beauty instead, when gentlemen in the street would turn to watch her when she passed them by, when one handsome young man in particular had called her the loveliest girl in the kingdom, and given her his heart to prove it….

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Lowry, but I cannot linger,” Sophie said, her bittersweet smile more for her memories than the woman before her. “I am expected to arrive as soon as is possible.”

  Mrs. Lowry sniffed. “That’s if you arrive at all,” she said darkly. “There’s things that happen out upon the road that no young woman such as yourself should have to suffer.”

  “Oh, I’m a practical creature, Mrs. Lowry,” answered Sophie confidently, “and I’m not easily frightened, particularly not by goblins and ghosts hiding in the shadows. I’m accustomed to making do for myself. I’ve come clear from Lincolnshire thus far without mishap, and I expect to reach Winchester the same way.”

  But Mrs. Lowry only shook her head. “It’s not the ghosts I’m speaking of, miss. It’s the flesh-and-blood dangers. I cannot speak for Lincolnshire, but this close to London and Portsmouth, things are different. Times are unsettled on account of the French war. There’s all manner of thieving ruffians about on the roads, deserters from the army and those who’ve run from navy ships and the good Lord knows what else. And considering the sorry state of your carriage, miss, why, I’d—”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lowry,” said Sophie as firmly as she could, determined not to listen to any more. “I appreciate your interest in my welfare, but my plans remain unchanged.”

  Of course her plans wouldn’t change, no matter what Mrs. Lowry urged. How could they? A governess between positions had no say in such arrangements. In the best of circumstances, a governess was little more than an elevated housemaid, expected to obey her employers’ wishes without question. If Sir William, her new master, wanted her to begin her responsibilities as soon as possible, then Sophie would. He had even insisted on sending a hired carriage to fetch her from Iron Hill, her last place in Lincolnshire, to be sure she arrived safely.

  Sophie had appreciated his concern, until she’d seen the carriage itself: an ancient, spavined specimen on rickety wheels, and driven by a large, gruff man whose name she still hadn’t caught. The worn springs and patched seat cushions that smelled like nesting cats had been a not-so-subtle indication of how Sir William already regarded his sons’ new governess, as were the second-rate horses that were
acquired at each change along the road. When earlier today a spoke on the left lead wheel had cracked on a large rock, Sophie had been startled, but not surprised.

  But she would cope, and once again make the best of the lot she’d been given. She would not be intimidated by Sir William or his rickety hired carriage, or frightened by the possibility of phantom thieves. She would adapt, and she would persevere, the way she always did. It was one of her greatest strengths, something to take pride in. Every one of her references praised her for it: “No challenge is ever too great for dear Miss Potts.”

  “Please yourself, then, miss,” said Mrs. Lowry, pointedly gathering up Sophie’s empty tea cup without refilling it another time. “Risk your life to oblige your master’s whims. Leastways you’ll have the moon for company, even if your common sense has fled.”

  And how much more agreeable company that moon would make than an ill-tempered innkeeper’s wife, thought Sophie wearily as Mrs. Lowry stalked back toward the kitchen. Sophie would take the moon any day, hands down. With a sigh, she pushed the bench back from the table and stood, smoothing her skirts as best she could. After three days of travelling, her clothes were rumpled and wrinkled and filmed with a fine coating of road dust that no amount of brushing seemed able to budge.

  But if she and the carriage were spared further accidents, she should reach her destination by tomorrow morning, and with that knowledge to fortify her, she retied the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin and resolutely headed for the door.

  And gasped out loud.

  The moon rising over the roof of the inn’s stable was more like a set piece on the stage, all candlelight and silver foil, than a real feature of the evening sky. As round and silvery bright as a new-minted Spanish dollar, this moon managed to make the sky itself seem too small to contain it, clamoring for attention from everything grand or small that now basked in the glorious glow of its light.