The Locket and the Flintlock

by Rebecca S. Buck

  “I think these will do for you,” Len said, feeling bizarrely uncomfortable at having interrupted Lucia’s reverie, and she dumped her bundle on the nearest chair. “I will leave you whilst you dress.” She acted on her words at once. Outside the room, she paused to breathe the cooler air, unsettled by the stirring of emotions she did not want to feel.

  Len returned to the kitchen. Julian was there, drinking—most likely small ale—from a tankard. William was seated at the table, eating a leg of chicken. Peter sat hunched by the fire, staring into the dancing flames. The silence in the room was heavy and she could feel the tension. John had been taken and would undoubtedly be hanged. The idea of riding the turnpike to see their friend’s lifeless body in the cruel metal cage of the gibbet—a warning to others who thought of turning highwayman—was something none of them could stomach easily. Not only was John’s loss hard to bear, it reminded them far too keenly of the dangers they flirted with every day. She knew the men were frustrated they could not break into the Nottinghamshire County Gaol and free John from his cell. There was no way she could condone any such attempt, but it did not stop her entertaining the notion, the mere fantasy of hope.

  Indeed, her refusal to even countenance a discussion of rescuing John told them all there was no true hope. Theirs was not a life of hope, it was a life of darkness and of clinging to existence, of moments of joy and adventure. But not hope. Freedom they had until the day the law caught up with them and took not only their liberty but their living breath. A life free of convention and conformity, and more food on their table than many of their standing. But for friends they had only each other. Love was too great a risk and impossible anyway. The contemplation of a quiet and retiring life, a death safe and warm in a comfortable bed, was something they did not allow themselves.

  Many of the men had never dared hope. But for Len, who once had, it was doubly bitter. She understood why the men lurking silently in the kitchen were so on edge. And into their midst had come Lucia, rich and delicate, her life comfortable and cushioned. The suspicion of her betrayal of them was bad enough, but that such betrayal could have come from one with so little understanding of their world, whose motivation could only be a mindless adherence to the law or some sort of revenge despite the fact she had not been harmed, only made the tension worse.

  Len looked at each of them, trying to gauge their moods. Though as a group they were all subject to the same tensions and moods, she knew too that her men were individuals. The thoughts of one were not always the thoughts of the others. Julian’s loyalty she never doubted. William too she would trust with her life. But she had no such faith in the rest of the band, and now, it seemed, her judgement had been proved terribly correct. But how did she suggest to the rest of them that it was one of their own number had betrayed them? And which was it? For now, she concluded, the answer could wait until there was proof. She would not have them doubt her or think her head had been turned by a pretty gentlewoman.

  “Any food spare?” she asked, matter of fact, in a tone that did not encourage questions.

  “Some roasted chicken, old bread, and a few apples,” William said. He was eying her as though he wanted to ask a question but was not sure how to.

  “Does Miss Foxe not get enough to eat at her dining table? I wasn’t aware the rich needed our charity.” Julian’s words were surly. Not a challenge to her directly, but a voicing of some of the tension in the room.

  “Miss Foxe is not accustomed to being in the middle of the woods in the night-time. I think it would behove us to show a little kindness.” Len picked up some of the remaining chicken, a little bread, and an apple, placing them and a knife onto a wooden platter. She grabbed a bottle of wine from a shelf at the side of the room and left without another word. The men were not questioning her yet. But it would come.

  Chapter Seven

  Len found Lucia wrapping the worsted shawl she had provided around her slender shoulders. She had the appearance of having dressed very quickly and seemed a little flustered when Len opened the door. Pushing the door closed behind her with her foot, Len ran a brief appraising eye over Lucia’s appearance. The pale-yellow muslin gown suited her well, though it was admittedly not the latest fashion. Still, the cut was expensive, and though the garment was clearly designed for a taller woman, the way the fabric gathered below Lucia’s bosom accentuated her slender figure perfectly. Len found she rather regretted that the winter air made the considerably ugly worsted shawl necessary for her hostage’s comfort. It hid a form of perfect proportions upon which her gaze was inclined to linger. Lucia was pulling the shawl tighter around her body. Len was unsure if Lucia was cold or seeking comfort and protection from the thicker fabric. Her heart ached a little to see Lucia made so vulnerable, to the cold, to the danger of a den of thieves, to Len’s own admiring eyes. She fought the compulsion to apologise and glanced down at the rather delicate leather slippers on Lucia’s feet. Lucia watched her but seemed uncertain what to say. Len was fairly sure her captive understood she was dressed in fine clothes stolen from the carriage of a travelling lady and found she wished it were not the case. Suddenly Lucia’s opinion of her seemed to matter more than it should. She tore her eyes away and deposited the food and drink on her desk before she trusted herself to speak.

  “It does well enough,” she said gruffly in the end.

  “Yes,” Lucia said, then hesitated. Her gaze fell on the roast chicken.

  “Are you hungry?” Len asked. “I talked my way into some roasted chicken, some day-old bread, and a few slices of apple, though the buggers were reluctant. Sit down and help yourself to the banquet.” She gestured ironically at the platter and was disconcerted when Lucia responded with a small smile.

  “Thank you,” Lucia seated herself in the nearest chair.

  “Drink?” Len offered. Lucia’s apparent confidence was bewildering, especially since her expression belied her true apprehension. “I brought wine, since I imagine you’re not used to ale.”

  “No.”

  “To the wine or the ale?” Len smiled before she could help herself.

  “The ale.”

  “I think you need the wine.” Len poured a large measure into a tankard that stood on the desk and passed it to Lucia, who was in truth very pale and clearly needed something to fortify her. She did not want the inconvenience or the remorse of a swooning woman to deal with.

  “Thank you,” Lucia said. She took a sip and appeared steadied by the drink. After a moment of apparent reflection she turned an astonishingly lively gaze on Len’s face. “What do I call you? You never told me.” Len raised her eyebrows. It was as though sitting down to eat a meal had reminded Lucia of her ingrained etiquette, despite the unusual nature of their situation.

  Len found she could not resist. “Sir?” She couldn’t help but feel slightly triumphant when Lucia flushed and eyed her in a way that suggested she was not sure whether or not she was in earnest. Finally, Len allowed herself to smile. “If you permit me to call you Lucia, then you must call me Len,” she said with a shrug. Such formalities were pointless to her.

  “Len?”

  “Yes.” She saw Lucia’s mental speculation as to what her full Christian name was. But she had not been Miss Helena Hawkins for years now and had no wish to lay a claim to a name that reminded her too painfully of her former life.

  While Lucia took another sip of her wine, Len perched on the edge of the table, her feet on the other chair, and raised the bottle to her lips, taking a long drink. She could feel Lucia watching her and knew she drank in the way she did, contrary to all good manners and expected feminine behaviour, partly in the face of Lucia’s all-too-apparent good breeding. She was suddenly compelled to reassert just how free of those rules she was. Yet when Lucia did not stop staring at her, she grew uneasy under the scrutiny. “Eat,” she commanded, an edge of annoyance in her tone.

  Lucia reached for a piece of chicken from the platter and began to eat. Len did not watch her, instead she looked away,
at the floor, anywhere but at Lucia. Already she was wondering if her decision to keep the gentlewoman here had been a wise one. This felt too complicated, too awkward. Lucia was at once a very real threat and responsibility in Len’s present and an echo of a past by which she would rather not be haunted. The feelings stirring were difficult to ignore. But ignore them she must. That path would lead only to danger and distress, and she had the men to think of. She suspected Lucia’s presence would only torment her heart more with every moment with the reminder of what she had once known and could never know again. And yet, what choice did she have?

  *

  Lucia ate a piece of bread and some more chicken before Len raised her head and glanced at her again. Lucia wondered what was going through this extraordinary woman’s mind to make it appear she had almost forgotten her presence in the room. Silent still, Len reached for a slice of apple and bit it in half, chewing slowly, her eyes on Lucia’s face. Lucia found her gaze, intense and speculative all at once, unnerving and looked away.

  “You have to write a letter as soon as you have eaten,” Len said at last.

  “For what purpose?” Lucia was taken aback by the sudden instruction.

  “You must convince your father that you are safe and prevent him from searching for you.”

  “I do not know how—” Lucia began, the mention of her father a heavy pain in her heart, though she tried not to let the emotion into her voice.

  “I will tell you what to write. It will only be for a few days after, all.” Len’s tone allowed little disagreement. And yet Lucia felt the need to protest. Did this woman really not understand what it was to have a family who would be concerned for her welfare?

  “He will be greatly worried.”

  “A father’s prerogative,” Len said, with more bitterness than Lucia expected. Her barely concealed scorn sparked further curiosity in Lucia’s racing mind. What was Len’s story? Where was her father?

  “Let me write it now.” Reminded of her family and also wondering what Len would have her write, Lucia could not bear to sit eating roasted chicken and drinking claret. The servants at Foxe Hall would be awake in the next hours. This would no longer be an obscure dream she was living. The daylight hours asked questions the dark of night did not.

  Len pushed the other half of her apple slice into her mouth and slipped down from the table to go to her desk, from which she took a piece of plain paper. She picked up her pen and inkwell and brought them to Lucia. Moving the candle from the corner of the desk to the table in front of Lucia, she made the shadows dance. Nervously, Lucia took the pen in her hand and lowered it into the ink.

  “Write as I say,” Len instructed, as Lucia held the nib to the page before her. “Dear Father. Do not be alarmed on receiving this letter and finding me away from my chamber. I assure you of my safety. I will be absent from the house for a few days, and I cannot explain to you where I must be for those days until my return. I appreciate this is a peculiar turn of events, and I know you will be concerned for me. I beg you, do not be, I am quite secure. I am doing nothing to bring worry or disrepute upon our family. Indeed, what I am doing is, in part, to protect yourself and Isabella. If a reason is sought by our neighbours for my absence, I believe you might tell them I am visiting our cousins in the Lakes—”

  Lucia had so far written as instructed without question, considering whether her father would be convinced or reassured by the letter and reaching no firm conclusion, but now she was compelled to interrupt. “How do you know about our cousins in the Lakes?”

  “Local society is a source of continual interest to me, Lucia,” Len said witheringly. Lucia, more inquisitive than she was offended, had no choice but to return her attention to the letter as Len went on rapidly. “Again I assure you of my safety and apologise for my unusual behaviour and any worry it may cause you. I will explain all in a few days when I will return to you.”

  Len paused. Lucia glanced at her and wondered if there was any more to come. A few days? What would those days hold?

  “Sign it as you usually would,” Len ordered. She watched as Lucia did so. “Will he accept it?”

  “I don’t see he has much option. He will worry, naturally, but what else can he do?” Lucia imagined the concern on her father’s face and her heart swelled with compassion. Yet at the same time came a strange feeling, something like excitement, which she had never before experienced. For the first time in all her years, her father would not know where she was, in whose company she was, or what her activities were. Where she should have been afraid or ashamed, she felt oddly light, a sort of liberation she found it hard to understand or accept.

  “Julian will take this letter to Foxe Hall, so your father may read it when he wakes.”

  “Julian?”

  “Your abductor.”

  “He took my locket from me at the roadside. And it was him I followed on the road.”

  “Yes. You did pay attention to us, Lucia, didn’t you.” Len’s tone was menacing again. Lucia was relieved to see her face relax into a small smile. “Julian is my most faithful friend,” Len went on more amiably. It seemed odd to Lucia for any woman to have a man as her close friend, but when Len stood next to her in breeches and riding boots, she could not expect anything to fall within her usual realm of comprehension.

  “How many of you are there?”

  “There were ten at one time. But our numbers seem to be diminishing.”

  Lucia had so many questions burning in her brain but no idea how to voice them. Len’s voice betrayed some degree of anxiety and sadness, though those emotions were carefully veiled in her expression. Lucia glanced across at Len’s desk, searching for words to continue the conversation without prying. She recognised a quarto edition among the few books on the desk surface.

  “You have my book!” she exclaimed, pleased rather than indignant and heedless of how inappropriate her pleasure was.

  “You mean Lord Byron’s?” A smile flickered on Len’s lips. “Yes, I do. I must say, it was most fortunate you had it with you. I’ve wanted to read it for a while now, but I would never have purchased it, not the price they’re asking for it.”

  Len’s honesty about her theft and personal circumstances took Lucia aback for a moment. She wondered about Len’s life, the conditions of her men’s daily lives. There seemed to be food enough and warmth, yet her words suggested something more of a struggle than appearances showed. Lucia forced her thoughts back to the book. “Have you enjoyed it?” she enquired, genuinely interested.

  “It has made me think.”

  “Then I think I must take it back from you and read it for myself.”

  “I may allow it,” Len replied, with a dark smile. Lucia found herself unable to look away from that smile. It had so much of a threat—or a promise—hidden within it. “The book has made the Lord himself very famous, I understand.”

  “Yes,” Lucia said, collecting herself. “My sister’s bosom friend is quite in love with him, although she has never so much as seen his carriage. We have not been fortunate to be in his presence. He has been largely away from Newstead, on the Continent I believe, until very recently, and our small circle is not his, anyway.”

  “My circle is rather different too, of course,” Len returned. Lucia felt her cheeks grow warm and she did not reply.

  A knock on the door startled Lucia. It opened to admit the man she now knew was named Julian. He looked at Lucia with a combination of inappropriate familiarity, amusement, and an edge of hostility. “I was just wondering if you’ve decided what we’re going to do with her?” he said, addressing himself to Len.

  Lucia took a moment to study him more carefully. He was tall and strongly built, his hair and beard dark, his eyes intelligent. He appeared to be of around the same age as Len, who she guessed was thirty or a little older. Lucia was puzzled how a woman only of the age of the men she commanded could maintain any authority at all. And yet, the longer she spent in Len’s presence, the easier it was to believe. Len
, despite her years, sex, and slender form, had an air of authority and easy control about her. Lucia was oddly drawn to such unexpected power, fascinated by it, and watched intently as Len addressed Julian.

  “Miss Foxe will remain with us for the next few days,” she informed him. Lucia saw his look of enquiry. He was not so much questioning Len as waiting for her reasons.

  “A prisoner?” he asked.

  “If you like, at least until I have come to a final decision,” she replied. Len was relaxed and casual in her bearing, clearly at home in her authority and certain her decision would be respected. Lucia found she almost envied that easy power. The notion of being a prisoner, however, unsettled her in the same moment. She had not considered that aspect of this arrangement since she had escaped the threat of being locked in the cellar.

  “Shall I take her down to the cellars?” Julian enquired, glancing briefly at Lucia and apparently reading her mind.

  “No.” Len was firm. “Miss Foxe is a gentlewoman and we must treat her as such.” A flood of relief and gratitude washed through Lucia. “Besides, I think it is unlikely she will try to flee.” Gratitude was replaced by a sort of humiliated anger. Len clearly thought Lucia was incapable of or unwilling to take any sort of action to escape her captivity. Had she forgotten that she was dealing with the woman who had ridden after a band of robbers in the dead of the night? Lucia glared at Len and was prepared to protest but quailed when both Len and Julian turned their eyes on her at the same time. She straightened her back proudly but kept a dignified silence.

  “I want you to take this letter to Foxe Hall before daybreak,” Len told Julian. She handed him the folded piece of paper. “Leave it somewhere a servant will discover it.”

  Julian took the letter and glanced down at it. When he looked at Lucia again his brow was furrowed and his expression dubious. “Miss Foxe has written it?” he asked, suspicion in his tone.