The Locket and the Flintlock

by Rebecca S. Buck

  “Julian! What can I do?” Lucia demanded, as Len groaned with pain. She was barely conscious and must have been in very great agonies to have shown any evidence of weakness.

  “Nothing,” he said firmly. “I will care for her. You must go, now. It will not be long before the militia are combing this place. You must return to your home and speak nothing of what you have seen here. You know where you are. Ride directly over the field behind the copse, keep the wall to your left, and you will reach the turnpike. Turn left until you meet the first junction. Then turn right, off the turnpike. You will most likely be surprised how short a distance you must ride before you are home. Take Oberon and ride fast.”

  “I cannot!” Lucia cried in desperate protest, her eyes fixed to Len’s white face.

  “You must, for your sake and ours. Just go!” When she reached for Len’s hand, he pushed her roughly. “I will contact you when it is safe. Go to your family and tell them what story you will for the time being.”

  “But you cannot understand!” Lucia resisted him still, her voice high-pitched with passion and despair.

  “I know what she is to you,” he said. For a moment the world seemed to stop, and Lucia stared at him through the gloom. “I give you my word, I will contact you.”

  Desperately, Lucia reached out and held Len’s hand in her own for a few seconds. Somehow, she managed to mount Oberon without the aid of a block. With a last look at Julian—whose eyes were now diverted back towards the workshop, looking for further threats—and a lingering glance at Len, as she lay heavily in his arms, Lucia nudged the stallion into life.

  *

  Lucia remembered Julian’s directions well enough and reached the turnpike quickly, her heart pounding for fear she would be discovered and bring danger to Len and the men. But once she reached the turnpike and turned towards home, urging Oberon into a steady canter—smooth enough to allow her to maintain her balance despite the man’s saddle—the full impact of what had taken place overwhelmed her. Tears flooded her eyes and she prayed, as she never had before, that Len would be spared.

  Before long, the road ran through a village. Lucia glanced around through blurred eyes, and found Julian was right. She recognised the church, the inn, the row of new-built houses on the outskirts. In less than half an hour she reached the gates of Foxe Hall. She dismounted and eased through the wrought iron barriers.

  The relief at having reached safety undiscovered slipped away from Lucia inexorably as she stood at the end of the driveway and gazed at the familiar edifice of her home. It was so different to her yet, unequivocally, the same as it always had been.

  No lights were visible from the windows. She had no idea whether it was before or after midnight. Mechanically, she led Oberon to the stable, where Sally, her old friend, snorted a welcome. She loosened Oberon’s girth and fastened his reins to a hook in the wall. She saw that he had food and water but barely thought about what she was doing. Her heart was with Len, left in a shadowy woodland.

  Lucia passed the remaining hours of that cold night in the gardens. She perched on her old favourite bench in the arbour and waited for the daylight. Somehow she could not face the warmth and shelter of the house. Strange though it was in such a short time, she had grown used to the cold and the air around her. Moreover, she was seized with an overwhelming, superstitious fear Len would die if she lay in her soft bed before daylight. As she waited for dawn, Lucia was alert always for the sounds of militia patrols along the turnpike but heard nothing.

  The sun was rising on a far clearer and crisper day than the fateful one preceding it when Lucia finally approached the front entrance of Foxe Hall.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mary, the maid, was the first person to witness Lucia’s arrival home. The young servant was passing through the hallway carrying kindling for the drawing room fire as Lucia came slowly through the door. Mary glanced briefly in Lucia’s direction, and then turned, open-mouthed, flinging her basket of sticks to the floor.

  “Miss Foxe! Oh, miss, you’re home!” She gazed at Lucia, clearly astonished. Then she examined more of the detail of Lucia’s appearance. “But look at you, miss, you look half-dead.”

  There was a mirror mounted on the wall in the hallway, and Lucia turned to it to see if she really appeared as Mary described. She saw a white-faced figure with darkened eyes, her hair awry, loose in its pins. A leaf clung somehow to her hair near her left ear. The green velvet travelling cloak seemed especially dark and harsh, swamping her frame.

  Meanwhile, Mary shook herself out of her motionless surprise and approached Lucia, taking her arm as though worried she would faint. Never having been prone to doing any such thing, Lucia put her hand aside gently.

  “Please tell my father I am returned home.” It seemed such a final request and brought Lucia back to the reality of her life. Mary reached around her to close the door she had left ajar, and she felt suddenly sealed into the house, as though Mary had locked the bars of a gaol cell behind her.

  “Miss, you must lie down,” Mary said. Concern and duty mingled in her words. Lucia knew the maid was inquisitive, but it was not her place to ask questions and Lucia was glad.

  “I am going to. Please do as I ask and inform my father. And please bring me some hot water, to my chamber.”

  “Of course, miss. I will tell Mr. Foxe, and then I will come and make the fire up for you. I’ll fetch the hot water after that.” Mary’s eyes were kind and Lucia felt close to tears. She looked at Mary and pondered: Would she ever understand, even if Lucia were to explain in precise detail where she had been for the last week? Would anyone ever understand? There was only Len.

  Biting her lip to prevent the sobs rising in her throat, Lucia turned away from Mary and crossed the hallway to the foot of the mahogany staircase. She did not look back as she climbed the stairs slowly, her legs heavy with grief and exhaustion. She held the smooth banister to steady herself, to appear stronger than she really was.

  Lucia’s chamber, her former refuge and place of comfort, felt chilled and gloomy when she entered it. The drapes were closed and the grate bare. For a moment it was difficult to recall when she had last been there. Then she remembered Julian’s shadow over her in the night, the terror reaching right into her heart. So much had changed in so small a number of days. She seemed to have been away for months.

  Every part of Lucia’s body felt leaden, and it was an effort to move to the bed. The sheets and blankets were turned back, just as they were every evening, expectant. She unfastened the cloak and laid it on the foot of the bed. Sitting down, she began to unfasten her boots. They were sullied with mud and pieces of dried leaves. Lucia stared at them, sure it had been someone else who had crouched in that copse of trees in the dark hours of the night. A thought interrupted her reverie: Her locket! Had it been disturbed? The importance of it seemed overwhelming, and she reached quickly beneath her pillow. Relief flooded through her as she felt the metal chain against the sheets.

  She heard quick footsteps in the passageway outside her chamber and withdrew her hand in haste. First her father, dressed but dishevelled, as though he had been halfway through the process when Mary had informed him of his daughter’s return, and then Isabella, still in her white nightgown, her hair in long braids, burst through the door without knocking, their expressions suggesting they doubted Mary’s sincerity.

  “Lucia!” they exclaimed as one. Isabella flung herself at Lucia on the bed and wrapped her arms about her sister’s body. Her father was more restrained, but she saw the sheer relief upon his countenance. For the first time since she had taken the decision to stay with Len and her men, Lucia understood the full consequences of her choice and her heart filled with regret. Mingled with this was a bitter grief, for she knew she was one with them no longer. She would lie to them now and the lie would continue for the rest of her life. Len had said there was no such thing as an ideal life, and now she was sure of the truth of that wisdom. She held Isabella tightly and looked over her s
houlder at their father.

  “But where have you been?” he asked. He was looking at Lucia as though she was an apparition.

  Lucia recognised how extraordinary her true story was. They would never have guessed such a thing could have occurred. If she told them the truth, they would not believe her, she was certain. Yet she made the lie as close to the truth as possible. “I was taken by the same men who robbed us on the road.” She saw the anger and horror form on her father’s face. “I think they thought I would be able to identify them. They would not release me until they were sure I had not betrayed them.”

  “There was talk in town,” her father said, nodding faintly, “of highwaymen being captured.”

  “Yes, I think they thought I had informed the authorities about them.”

  “They forced you to write the letters, in order that I would not search,” her father concluded. “But why you? And how did they know where you live?”

  “We are known enough in these parts. And who can know how the minds of thieves work?” Lucia closed her eyes for a moment, shutting off the part of her thinking of Len, hating to speak of thieves in these terms. Her father clearly took it for a sign of her experience weighing heavily upon her.

  “Did they hurt you?” he asked, eyes full of concern and underlying fury.

  “No, not at all,” she said hurriedly. “I am only weary.”

  “We were terrified,” Isabella said. She stood up so she might look at Lucia. “When we found you gone and the door broken into, I thought you were dead!” She began to cry, and guilt tore at Lucia’s conscience. How could she have put them through such an ordeal? It had all come to nothing in the end, only caused them very great pain.

  “But you see me now, Isabella, I am not dead.” Lucia smiled weakly.

  “Were you not scared?”

  “Of course I was. But they treated me well, for outlaws.”

  “Could you recognise them again?” her father asked.

  “They wore masks whenever they were with me.” Lucia found the lie gave her no difficulty to tell.

  “Where did they take you?”

  “I do not know.” That was honest at least. “They covered my eyes. It was not so far away, I do not think, but as to which direction it was I could not say.”

  Mary arrived in the doorway, bearing a pitcher of hot water. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, “I’ve brought the water for Miss Foxe. And Jenkins, from the stable, asked me to tell you a strange horse has appeared. A fine stallion, he says.”

  Lucia thought of Oberon in the stable, and her mind raced for an explanation. She had been too distressed to consider it before.

  “A horse?” her father demanded of Mary, as the maid set the pitcher down on Lucia’s toilet stand.

  “Yes, sir, in the stables.”

  “I rode the horse here this morning.” Lucia waited for their reaction.

  “They gave you a horse?” Isabella looked incredulous.

  “All was in uproar,” Lucia said, thinking quickly as she spoke and finding the lies came more naturally than she expected. “I think they wanted me to be gone as soon as possible, before the militia found them. It would look worse for them if I was found to be their hostage. They put me on the horse and told me to ride home.”

  “Then surely you know where you rode from,” her father said.

  “They covered my eyes and led me to the turnpike,” Lucia replied hastily.

  “But will they want their horse back? Will they come here again?”

  “I do not know,” Lucia said. She could take no more questions, no more lies. Exhaustion swept through her, and she took the easy path away from their enquiries. “I am so very tired, Father.” She closed her eyes and passed a hand over her forehead to emphasise her words. “I would like to sleep now.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Come, Isabella, you may talk to her later. Attend to her, Mary.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mary looked as though no duty could have given her more satisfaction. Isabella pressed Lucia’s hand briefly and withdrew as instructed. Mary made up a fire in the hearth and supervised as Lucia washed her hands and face in the warm water. She was shocked at the murky brown of the water in the bowl as she rinsed her skin. She allowed Mary to help her into her clean nightgown and then crawled into her bed. It felt soft, almost too soft. She pulled the blankets over her body and found the warmth soothing.

  “Can I bring you anything to eat or drink, miss?” Mary asked.

  “No, thank you. Maybe later.” It was that easy. Lucia thought of the starving stockingers, forced to frame-breaking. She could not even remember how much Len had informed her was the cost of a loaf of bread. How quickly she had forgotten.

  Lucia’s mind travelled to Len, wherever she was. She could not die. It was quite impossible to contemplate it. Lucia needed to know she was out there, even if she could not go to her. She wondered where Len was, how many of the men had escaped. She thought of the clearing in the forest where she had spent most of the last week, remembered the patches of sky visible through the bare branches. It was too dark in her chamber. “Could you please open the drapes?” she asked Mary. The daylight flooded in. Lucia could see the sky, pale blue and clear. Len was somewhere beneath that sky.

  “I think I’ll sleep now,” Lucia said. Mary left the room quietly. Lucia lay alone in her bed and stared at that blue sky, tears burning her tired eyes.

  *

  Pain, in all of her body, especially sharp in her side, worse with every breath. Weakness, as she opened her eyes cautiously. She was lying somewhere, and it was damp, but the smell was unfamiliar. Pain again, nothing else, darkness.

  Footsteps? But whose? Unsure if she was lost in a nightmare or horribly awake, opening her eyes again, Len tried to look around. But it was all a blur. A human shape above her, a sudden strong scent of brandy.

  “Julian?” her mouth was dry and her lips cracked. She was unsure if she’d formed the word properly. He held the brandy to her lips, and she took a small, grateful sip. It burned her tongue, which felt swollen.

  His cool grip on her warm fingers. She was hot. Why was she so hot? “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Where…what?”

  “The workshop, Len, do you remember?”

  The sound of a gunshot in the night. Her father. The satisfying crunch of machinery breaking. But something else. Something missing…

  “Lucia!” There was panic in her voice. Where was Lucia? Was she injured, or worse?

  “I sent her home. She is quite well, Len.” Julian held her hand tighter.

  “Home?” Nausea swept through her. Whether it was a result of her injury or the realisation of her separation from Lucia, Len was in no condition to ponder. This was it then. Lucia was well, and for that she was relieved, but Lucia was gone. Back into her world of light and good manners. Gone from the shadows, from her grasp. And Len could not blame her. She half closed her eyes and was glad of the distraction of the pain in her side.

  “She did not want to leave you, Len. I had to order her to go.” Len’s eyes opened wide again and the pain lessened suddenly. She held Julian’s hand tighter.

  “She would have stayed with me?”

  She thought she heard a slight smile in Julian’s tone. “Aye, she would. So don’t worry yourself about that. The girl’s in love with you, all right. But that won’t do you any good if you’re not here to enjoy it.”

  Len felt the pleasure of his words wash through her, a soothing balm to body and spirit. Only gradually did she focus on his last statement. “I am not so badly injured, Julian,” she said. More a question than a statement of fact.

  “You were shot, Len.”

  “I know…” A wave of nausea. Why was her vision fading? Julian’s outline blurred.

  “The wound is festering. We are doing all we can, Len.”

  Len heard but did not listen. She did not want to hear. “Lucia loves me?” She was dizzy now with the effort of thought and speech. Whatever it was she was lying on seemed to be
moving.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I cannot die.” She said it with as much conviction as she could muster. But she wasn’t even sure Julian made sense of her words. He merely held something cold and wet to her forehead. His outline grew hazier, and she closed her eyes. She could feel the sweat making her back and armpits soaking wet, and her stomach was churning. Her heart seemed to be beating too fast. The pain in her side was worse with every breath. But in her mind she saw Lucia. Lucia in the sunshine, with her golden hair and blue eyes, her sweet smile but fire in her gaze. And Lucia in the dark of night, hot with passion, sighing at Len’s touch. Len could not die, not if Lucia loved her.

  The thought was the last she had before consciousness left her.

  *

  Lucia did sleep, fitfully, through that day. Her father and Isabella visited only briefly and did not press her for answers. She ate little, only the porridge Mary brought her at lunchtime, and a slice of bread and butter later in the afternoon. Towards the evening, she slipped her hand beneath her pillow and touched her mother’s locket. She remembered it in Len’s fingers, and she clasped it tightly as she attempted to sleep again.

  When the next morning dawned bright with sunshine and Mary slipped into the room to pull back the drapes and check the fire she had tended in the hearth all night, Lucia knew she could not bear to rise from her bed. She told Mary she had a headache, which she did not have, and that her whole body ached, which it really did not. The maid’s eyes were full of worry as she went to inform Lucia’s father.

  A doctor was called and would visit later in the day. Lucia knew he would conclude she was healthy, only tired with the strain. As she lay beneath the blankets, contemplating her supposed illness, the notion of rising from the bed, dressing, going down to the sitting room felt entirely impossible. She convinced herself of her ill health. She needed the bed rest to recover herself, she was sick. She could lie here in relative comfort because it was necessary. Downstairs, she would see the fine mahogany furniture, the silk upholstery of the sofas, the food laid on the table every mealtime, and everything would be a jarring contrast with the other world she had discovered.