The Locket and the Flintlock

by Rebecca S. Buck

  This decision, to remain in bed, was entirely hers to make and it was not questioned. Len had taught her about the freedom of being able to choose. So to stay in bed was her only choice. Fully dressed and perfectly healthy, she could do nothing more than sit and sew or read. It seemed preferable to imprison herself in her chamber than to risk the full comprehension of what her life was. Lucia drifted in and out of sleep, and between slumbers, her thoughts could be with Len. She had no conversation to make, no appearance to keep up. She began to think she would never be able to face rising from bed again.

  Several days passed in this manner. Lucia kept resolutely to her bed, claiming a headache. She took the food Mary brought her and ate enough to convince her father and Isabella she would recover her strength eventually. The doctor, who was called back, was mystified, and attributed Lucia’s symptoms entirely to her ordeal, which had been confided to him. He agreed there was little to be concerned over since she had no fever.

  Yet all of the time in silence, alone, when Lucia should have been sleeping but was not actually in need of the slumber, did not help her state of mind. All she could think of was Len. Julian had promised to contact her. How would he do so? True enough, he had stolen into her chamber once before, but she could not imagine him taking such a risk merely to put her mind at ease.

  Was Len alive or dead? For all Lucia knew, she was buried in the cold earth, in an unmarked grave somewhere in the forest. Lucia could see her pale-faced, blue-lipped, and lifeless all too clearly in her mind. But surely Len would fight to hold on to her life? How would Lucia ever know?

  The thought came that she would never see Len again. If Len lived, she would slip away into the dark shadows, her own safety her priority, and Lucia would be left in the jarring illumination of her privileged existence. How could she ever see Len? She was an outlaw. Before that night on the roadside she had never encountered a criminal in her life. It was unlikely Len and she would be thrown together by fate. Such a thing would have to be engineered. She had no idea how to even consider it. And would Len even be inclined to contemplate it? Just how did Len feel towards her?

  The memory of those kisses and caresses in the night haunted Lucia. In those moments, reality itself had been exposed, clear to her, more vivid than ever. Now, as days slipped by, she wondered if it had been a glowing dream. Could such a thing really exist? But love pulled at her heart, mingled with the grief. Lucia knew it, though it was a sentiment she had once thought she would never understand. But love for a woman, albeit one who conducted herself as a man? Was it possible? It had to be, because it filled her heart to aching. She felt it as sharp and hot as she had that night beneath the oak. Her whole being was filled with longing to see Len again, and yet there was a numb certainty within her she would not. Lucia prayed she was not dead.

  Lucia kept to her bed for over a week. Gradually, as her appetite increased, her father and sister shed the looks of deep concern with which they regarded her. She loved their visits just as she hated them. Every time she saw them she was reminded of her lies and, more than that, her sheer otherness from them. Still, it was hard to resist Isabella’s warm smile, her father’s earnest eyes, and as time wore on, she grew more used to being with them once more.

  A week and a day after Lucia’s return, Isabella—obviously judging her strength was sufficient now for neighbourhood gossip—perched on the end of her bed to inform her of all she had missed. “Susan Beale danced twice with a Mr. Wood, who is from the north.” The most recent dance had been at the assembly rooms, and Isabella had attended despite her anxiety for Lucia. Lucia was neither surprised nor offended, and smiled at her sister’s enthusiasm. “But Kitty Thorne was most displeased with Mr. Epworth, if her expression was anything to go by, though he is most handsome, it has to be said.”

  “And what of Lord Hyde?” Lucia asked. She watched Isabella’s face colour.

  “We have not seen him, but he is to be at Lord and Lady Netherfield’s ball, which is a week hence. And then there’s Mr. Shelton’s Christmas ball. Oh, I haven’t told you of it yet, have I? He is inviting everyone he can think of. He is looking for a new wife of course, and I think Anne Drew has her sights set on him, even if he is nearly forty.”

  When the important news had been related to Lucia in exclamations and giggles, Isabella rose, since she was anxious to re-trim a bonnet with the lace she had purchased in the week. “Oh, and those awful Luddites have been at it again,” she said, as she turned to go.

  “They have?” Lucia was unable to entirely hide the waver in her voice. It betrayed the flurry of sentiment stirring inside her.

  “Yes, over near Kirkby somewhere, they broke all the frames belonging to a Mr. Hawkins. I’ve never heard of him though, have you?”

  “No.” Lucia’s throat was tight.

  “Well, they caught three of them, apparently, and took them to the county gaol. They are to be tried at the assizes next week, but they will hang of course. Shots were fired, according to Anne’s mother—who heard it from Mrs. Steele in town—and she thinks at least one of them was killed.”

  Lucia marvelled at the ease with which Isabella could relate matters of life and death. She stared at her sister, a lump in her throat preventing any words. She fought against the tears threatening to give her away. Looking anxious at her distressed countenance, Isabella came to rest a hand on her shoulder. Lucia almost jumped at her touch. “Sorry, darling,” her sister said. “I should not have told you such a horrible story when you are not well. You’re tired. Shall I ask Mary to bring up a glass of hot milk?”

  “No, thank you. I think I will just rest,” Lucia told her, unable to face the notion of anyone else in the room to intrude on her turbulent emotions.

  “See you later, then,” Isabella said, and breezed out of the door. Lucia turned her face into the pillow, her fingers clasping the cold of the locket beneath—the cause of all this—which Len had held in her fingers, and she sobbed with longing for her.

  The very next day Lucia was awoken early by a commotion downstairs. Isabella came through her door within a few minutes of her opening her eyes, clearly keen to relate what had happened.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake,” she said. “You’ll never guess!”

  “No, I will not,” Lucia said, irritated and sleepy.

  “Well, I’ll tell you.” Isabella was unperturbed. “That horse, the one you rode back on, it’s gone.”

  Lucia sat upright in bed instantly, her heart pounding. “Gone? What do you mean?”

  “Just gone. In the night. He was there last night, and then when Jenkins went into the stables this morning, he was gone.”

  Lucia’s mind raced for an explanation. Only one presented itself. “Was there a note of any kind?” She tried to sound largely disinterested.

  “A note? Why would there be a note?” Isabella looked puzzled for a moment. When Lucia didn’t reply, she continued without waiting. “Well, everyone’s in uproar of course. It means the highwaymen have been back here, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Lucia replied weakly. Isabella caught her expression.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot it might frighten you. Can you believe it? But they didn’t break into the house, so they cannot want any more from you, surely?”

  “No, apparently not.” Lucia was sure Isabella took her new distress for a renewal of the terror she had felt when she had been taken from the house. If only her sister knew how, in the secret depths of her heart, she was wondering why they had not come into the house, why they had left no message.

  Isabella left Lucia’s chamber shortly afterwards. Lucia thought of Oberon being taken in the night. Who had it been? Julian? A weak ray of hope shone though: Oberon was Len’s horse. If she needed him, she had to be alive. The flickering optimism was extinguished immediately as she remembered these were thieves and mercenaries. Oberon was too valuable a possession to lose, whether his rider was alive or dead. Above all came the numbing thought: they have been here, to my home, and they have
not contacted me. Lucia could not have felt her total separation from Len any more strongly.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The very next day, Lucia rose from her bed and dressed before Mary came to wake her. Something about the total despair which had now taken over her spirit galvanised her body into action. She could bear no more hours of silent contemplation.

  When she went down to breakfast, Lucia saw the delight on her father’s countenance. “You are well, Lucia?” he asked, hopefully.

  “Yes, Father, I think I am quite recovered,” she said. She would never recover from losing Len, but what else could she answer?

  “I am very glad.” He smiled. Her father was a man of few words, but his warmth and caring had characterised her upbringing and she smiled back, grateful he was a gentle man.

  She ate well of the eggs, ham, and bread they were provided for breakfast, to prove to them she was indeed as healthy as she claimed. As the plates were being cleared, her father told her something to weigh her soul down further. “I have decided,” he said, “bearing in mind the ease with which both our house and stables have been invaded, to ask one of the men to be on guard every night, armed with a musket.”

  “But, Father,” Lucia protested, struggling to maintain a calm exterior, “surely now that they have released me and taken back their horse, they will have no cause to visit again.” She still hoped Julian would come to her, tell her the news she was aching to hear. The idea that, in doing so, he would encounter an armed guard was quite horrific. She still remembered, all too clearly, the echoes of shots in the night.

  “I am taking no more chances,” her father said resolutely. “I should never have kept that horse here, I don’t know what I was thinking. I will sleep sounder if I know my house and family are safe. What with highwaymen and tales of masked frame-breakers abroad, there is much to guard against.”

  “We do not have any frames to break, Father.”

  “No, but if outlaws are prowling the county, I will make my family safe.”

  “We are safe, I am sure.” Lucia knew she could not protest too vehemently.

  “I would have thought you, of all people, would welcome the notion of better certainty of that safety.” Her father narrowed his eyes, puzzled.

  “Yes, I do.” Lucia was unable to say anything else.

  *

  Lucia need not have worried for the safety of any highwayman coming to Foxe Hall to deliver a message of hope to her. No one came. She did not attend the series of balls and dances preceding the celebration of Christmas. Never very keen on these public gatherings, she now found the notion of attending one—with the false niceties, the structured dances, the heaps of rich food—quite abhorrent. She helped Isabella to dress in her finery and listened with feigned eagerness to her reports of what had occurred on each occasion but claimed always she felt too weak or out of spirits to attend the celebrations herself. Her father watched with anxious eyes, but since Lucia ate well, ventured to walk in the park, and laughed with Isabella, his fears were soothed.

  In early January, Isabella was engaged to Lord Hyde. Of course, he had been entertained in Foxe Hall on more than one occasion by that time, and Lucia liked him. He was a tolerably handsome young man with reddish-brown hair and an easy smile. His aspect was one of kindness and good breeding. That Isabella loved him, Lucia had no doubt, and watching his blue eyes brighten as he gazed on her sister, she was convinced the sentiment was mutual.

  Her father was overjoyed by the match. Not only did he foresee a future of happiness for his youngest daughter, it was an exceedingly good marriage. Lord Hyde was a rich man of high social standing, with both a country estate and a house in London. As Lady Hyde, Isabella would rise higher than their little world of country gentry, and her fortune was guaranteed. They would be married quickly, before the end of March.

  Isabella was positively alight with excitement and love. Lucia was struck by a devastating and bitter envy, which she was—of course—compelled to conceal within her heart. She was happy for her sister, it would have been hard not to be. Yet to see her so fulfilled, so in love, only reminded Lucia of her own loss, her bleak future. She would never make her father happy by a good marriage. And she feared, having tasted love so briefly, she was wounded immutably, never to love again. How could she ever love any man? It was impossible. Yet she knew nothing of whether the object of her longing still breathed, or rotted somewhere beneath the cold earth. As she went through the motions of daily life, Lucia was empty.

  Even emptiness, especially when it is hidden, cannot prevent the moving on of time, the expectation of healing. Soon Lucia found Isabella wanted her to travel with her in the carriage into town, to visit the dressmaker or to help her choose a new bonnet or ribbon her fiancé would approve of. Lucia could hardly refuse, since outwardly there was nothing really wrong with her. Despite the heartache the journey caused—seeing the roads and trees she had not set eyes upon since that dreamlike week and which were alive with the ghosts of memories—from the middle of January, they visited town regularly, every Wednesday morning. They would call at the shops Isabella wanted to, perhaps attend upon one of their acquaintances who lived in the town, take luncheon at the inn, and then rattle back along the turnpike in the carriage, to be home by late afternoon.

  Lucia came to dread those Wednesdays and wondered at Isabella’s relentlessly regular wish to travel to town. She supposed that, anticipating her new London home, Isabella craved the bustle, the opportunities to part with her money.

  It was the fifth consecutive Wednesday they had visited the town. Isabella had been fitted for a new riding habit, despite the fact she rarely rode, and they were walking through the square to attend upon Charlotte Willoughby—a second cousin on their mother’s side of the family—in her smart town house. Charlotte, who was a year Lucia’s senior, had lived in town only since her marriage eight months previously and was still keen to be visited by her country acquaintances whenever there was opportunity for it.

  The air was bitingly cold, the sky clear and bright in contrast to the preceding days, which had been gloomy and threatened snow which had never fallen. The brighter day had drawn all manner of people into the open, and it was busy in the square. Several times they had to alter their path to avoid collisions with other people meandering haphazardly. Lucia’s attention was drawn to a smartly-dressed couple walking straight towards her and Isabella.

  Lucia glanced at the man’s face and almost stopped dead. Dark hair, stern eyes, a well-trimmed beard framing a smile. She would have known Julian’s countenance anywhere. His eyes were fixed on her face as recognition dawned in her. Lucia glanced from him to the person at his side.

  If the woman had been alone, Lucia would almost certainly have walked past her and never recognised her. She wore a long crimson velvet coat in the latest fashion, over a cream muslin gown, with matching crimson velvet gloves, a bonnet trimmed with local lace, and crimson ribbons. It was so different from breeches and a man’s coat. But the woman whose dark eyes locked with Lucia’s was Len, sure enough. Lucia bit her lip and swallowed to prevent the sound of joyful astonishment escaping her throat.

  Lucia wanted so desperately to run to Len and take her in her arms. She was alive! The grief melted from Lucia’s overwrought heart. Len lived, she was here in town, she was walking towards her. It was with an effort Lucia kept her pace steady.

  “Excuse me.” Len addressed Lucia and Isabella with an even expression. At the sound of Len’s voice, which had haunted Lucia’s dreams through the whole winter, Lucia wanted to cry with relief. Instead, she maintained her composure with some effort and came to a halt just in front of her.

  “Yes?” Isabella asked curiously of the strangers. Lucia’s heart pounded in her head as she wondered what would happen next.

  “Could you tell us the direction to the Bell Inn?” Julian said. “I’m afraid we are new to the town.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” Isabella replied.

  Len willed Lucia to sp
eak, though she looked too astonished for words. Len wanted to hear her voice very badly. She wanted to meet Lucia’s gaze. She longed to look deeply into those blue eyes, into the countenance she had seen in her dreams all winter long. She was desperate to tell Lucia how important her belief in their enduring love had been to her recovery. She wanted to apologise for leaving Lucia in ignorance of her safety for so long. But she could say nothing, not with Isabella here. Anyway, she would not take the risk in the centre of town. The relief of seeing Lucia looking healthy and happy, and standing here so close to her, made her giddy with a joy it was hard not to express in some way. Making brief eye contact with Lucia, she saw enough to give her hope.

  Lucia was intelligent enough, Len was sure, to know it was not coincidence they had encountered her and Julian here. But this was about far more than reassurance. Len wanted Lucia to know she lived. She wanted to see Lucia with her own eyes. But she needed more than a stolen moment of comfort. That would only be a worse torment in the days and months to come. But would Lucia still be prepared to take risks? Would she have written off her time in the woods with outlaws as a queer nightmare she was glad to have mostly forgotten? Seeing Lucia prim and well turned out, walking in town with her pretty sister, was almost enough to deter Len from today’s mission. Then Julian pointed out to her that in her outward appearance, her genteel disguise, she looked very little different to Lucia herself. What you saw on the outside did not always reveal what was beneath. She would not know how she stood with Lucia unless she ventured a little more.

  “Thank you,” Julian said. Len looked at him, confused, and realised Isabella had finished giving him her directions. Why could he have not asked for the route to somewhere more difficult to find? She did not want to move away from Lucia yet. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she needed Lucia to know. So many questions.