The Highwayman's Daughter

by Henriette Gyland

  Mr Isaacs was watching her closely, as if he could read her mind. It was an uncomfortable thought and briskly she returned to the business in hand.

  ‘What about the waistcoat?’

  Mr Isaacs shrugged. ‘As for the waistcoat, although it’s a very fine garment indeed, it isn’t the sort of thing my associates in London deal in. Selling it around here could prove difficult as it’s too recognisable, but I do know a seamstress who can fashion it into a set of ladies’ reticules.’

  Cora ran her hand over the fine fabric. It seemed a shame to cut it up. Also, it would mean the involvement of yet another person, and however trustworthy this seamstress might be, Cora decided to err on the side of caution.

  ‘I’ll hold on to it for the time being, then,’ she said. ‘As well as the engraved watch.’

  Mr Isaacs shook his head lightly and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like an oath. ‘Have a care, Cora. If you’re caught with these items, you’ll be transported. Or worse. And who will then visit an old man like me, eh?’

  ‘I’m very careful,’ she said, but her own words of reassurance couldn’t prevent a cold feeling from stealing over her. ‘And I’ll always visit you.’

  Besides, she had just had an idea for a completely different use for the waistcoat, one which might cause some speculation, but it was the least she could do for a man who treated her as a daughter.

  She’d promised Gentleman George that she would be with him until the very end, and now George could meet his maker dressed like a true gentleman.

  After her visit to Mr Isaacs, Cora made her way to the apothecary. In contrast to Mr Isaacs’ dusty premises, hidden away in a narrow side street, the apothecary’s shop on the High Street was a paragon of respectability. The bay-fronted window contained a three-tiered display of labelled brown jars, each with a description of the contents, and the pestle and mortar sign above the shop was newly painted.

  Mr Byrd, the proprietor, greeted her with the time-honoured friendliness of a Hounslow trader. Because the town was the last major coaching stop en route to the west of England, trade was booming, and the shopkeepers were good-natured and content.

  The apothecary was a rotund man in his fifties with a short grey horsehair wig befitting his profession and a pair of pince-nez glasses permanently perched on the end of a colossal nose.

  ‘What’ll it be today, Miss Mardell?’ he asked. ‘Some more of that tincture for your father’s chest ague?’

  ‘Yes, please. If you could prepare the same for him, I’d be much obliged, Mr Byrd.’

  ‘Certainly. If you’d be good enough to wait.’ He indicated that Cora should take a seat and began mixing the ingredients.

  Cora sat down gingerly and looked about her. The counter, shelves and cupboards had all been painted a mossy green, and the oak floor had been polished to a high shine. As always when she entered Mr Byrd’s establishment, she was filled with a sense of awe at all the cures that existed.

  On one wall hung a copy of Mr Byrd’s apothecary’s license and a certificate in minor surgery, and a large collection of delft drug jars and slender-necked bottles for storing medications lined the wall behind the counter together with several heavy tomes of pharmacy books. Implements for compounding, weighing and dispensing drugs stood on the counter where Mr Byrd was in the process of selecting the ingredients for Ned’s medicine.

  In addition to prescribing remedies, Mr Byrd also made house calls to treat patients, acted as a surgeon and trained apprentices. His services were expensive and the only way Cora could afford them was through her clandestine activities. Today, however, with the money from the robbery and what Mr Isaacs had paid her for the ring and the watch, she was confident that she would be able to pay for the tincture without suffering the embarrassment of having to ask Mr Byrd for credit, and have money to spare at the same time.

  Feeling optimistic about the future, she turned towards the door as the next customer walked in. The blood drained from her face with the shock of recognition. The man she had robbed – the handsome one, again – had just entered the shop, and he was staring right at her.

  Her heart raced uncontrollably with fear and she rose from the chair. She didn’t have such a large bonnet to hide behind this time – would he recognise her? If he did, all he had to do was to point the finger and insist that she be searched and she would be caught red-handed, unable to offer a plausible explanation for why his engraved fob watch was nestling on the bottom of her basket. And then it would be prison and the gallows. Her gaze darted, looking for an escape route, but as her dupe was blocking the doorway, there was only one alternative: jumping over the apothecary counter and scarpering out the back.

  Acknowledging her by raising his hat, he approached the counter and stood right next to her. Cora’s breath caught in her throat, and her hands moved as if on their own accord to hoist up her skirt in order to run.

  But just as she was about to flee, the man was distracted by the apothecary. ‘Lord Halliford, it’s a pleasure to see you as always,’ he said obsequiously. ‘All’s well at Lampton Hall, I hope. Pray, how may I be of assistance?’

  ‘Some of your vinegar of roses, if you would be so kind, Mr Byrd. The countess is complaining of a headache.’

  Rational thinking returned. The man, Lord Halliford, it seemed, had thought her male; there was no reason why he should suspect a plainly dressed country girl. If anything, he might remember her from the hayfield, but that was not so bad. Just to be safe though, she averted her eyes and kept them firmly fixed on the floor. But even though she couldn’t see his face, the sense that his eyes were roaming over her stayed with her. The sooner she could leave, the better.

  Chapter Five

  The crossroads, where those who had taken their own lives were buried, was said to be haunted. Country-folk told stories of ghostly sightings, of drunken farmers on horseback being chased across the fields and timid plough-boys having to make a run for it, but as far as Rupert was concerned, those who chose to destroy themselves deserved nothing. Life was for the taking, and he wanted to make damned sure he got his due. Winning the wager with his cousin was just one step in that direction. He rode past the crossroads, along the Lampton Road towards Hounslow, passing orchards heavy with unripened apples, pears and plums; he breathed in the scent of the flowers on the fruit trees and praised himself lucky he wasn’t given to such fancies as ghost stories.

  Hounslow, where several busy coaching routes crossed, was a town hard at work at all times, but by midday, when Rupert arrived, it was simply bustling. The Bath Road was narrow and in addition to the farmers’ carts there were people on horseback, pedlars, pedestrians, mongrels and other stray animals. Coaches clattered up the High Street, between the buildings on each side, destined for the countless coaching inns. Because of the town’s position – at the end of the first stage out of London and the last place where coaches from the West Country changed horses – there were usually more horses than people on the streets.

  The hustle and bustle made Rupert sit up straighter in the saddle, in readiness for any snide comments about what had happened the night before. The local rumour mill worked overtime and there was a good chance the folk of Hounslow had heard of Rupert’s humiliation at the hands of the highwayman. He could well imagine the knowing looks and the sniggers behind his back. Jealousy curdled inside him at the awareness that he didn’t enjoy the same popularity as his cousin, and he had no particular wish to draw attention today.

  The milliner in Hounslow smiled as Rupert entered his shop. ‘Mr Blythe, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ He bowed slightly, enough to show deference to one of his betters, but not enough to show the kind of respect Rupert knew was his due. He clenched his fists. When he had improved his station in life the townsfolk would change their attitude, he’d make sure of it.

  ‘I need a new hat,’ he said sharply. ‘This one has a hole in it.’ Bristling, he lay the torn tricorne on the counter and looked about him. Rolls of f
elt and dark-coloured material were spread everywhere on shelves and counters and were even displayed in the bay-fronted window, but it was unlikely this man would be able to equip him with a hat of the same modishness as his ruined one. It would have to do. He was loath to travel to fashionable Bond Street for fear of being accosted by disgruntled tradesmen whose bills he had neglected to pay. Surely they must know his uncle was good for the money.

  ‘Ah,’ said the milliner. ‘Moth problems, sir?’

  ‘No. A bullet.’

  ‘A bullet?’ The hat maker raised his eyebrows. ‘Was it a hunting incident, sir?’

  ‘Well, of course not!’ snapped Rupert and speared his hat through the hole with his finger. ‘If I’d acquired a hole like that in my hat during a hunting accident, I’d be dead. No, it was a most audacious robbery, and not two miles from my uncle, Lord Lampton’s, estate.’

  ‘That is outrageous indeed, sir,’ said the milliner, obsequiousness replaced by genuine horror. ‘It would seem this town is beleaguered by marauders and footpads roaming the Heath. Something ought to be done about it.’

  ‘Oh, believe me, something will,’ muttered Rupert.

  He perused the rolls of fabric in the shop, which as well as supplying hats sold fashionable materials for clothing. His gaze fell on a roll of luxurious brocade silk and he was reminded that the highwaywoman had more than just ruined his hat; the wench had also stolen his new waistcoat.

  Clenching his fists, he said, ‘Just give me a hat. Dark felt. Anything you have in store.’

  The man bowed and returned with a small number of ready-made hats. Rupert took one and inspected himself in a mirror. The burgundy tricorne was passable enough and sat well on his powdered wig, which he had tied with a black ribbon. It was better than he had expected.

  ‘Very well, I’ll take it.’ He made arrangements for the bill to be sent to Lampton Hall and then made his way to the nearest tailor. There he ordered a cream cotton waistcoat tamboured with silk and silver thread, and while he was at it a new formal day coat of felted wool and silver-gilt buttons.

  Reasonably pleased with his purchases, he was about to leave the shop when a thought occurred to him. The highwaywoman would very likely have no use for a silk brocade waistcoat. She could turn a pretty penny if she sold it to a fence, and in a town the size of Hounslow there was bound to be a market for second-hand clothing, whether stolen or not.

  He turned back to the tailor. ‘Where would I find second-hand clothing in this town?’

  The man sent him a curious look: he had, after all, just spent a small fortune on a brand new coat and waistcoat.

  ‘Well, sir, sometimes old clothes find their ways to the market, but that’s a bit sporadic. If you’re after a more permanent outlet, there’s York’s establishment down beyond the smithy, although I must add this would be an unlikely place for a fine gentleman such as yourself to be visiting.’

  ‘Just give me the address, man, and let me be the judge of that,’ Rupert snapped.

  The man rattled off an address which was indeed in the less salubrious part of town, and Rupert left the shop.

  He found the place easily enough, tucked away from the main road. Barefoot children were playing in the dirt, two drunks were engaged in a slurred debate and a shifty-looking character followed Rupert’s entry to the alleyway from under hooded eyelids. Rupert squared his shoulders and pushed the door open.

  A bell clanged discordantly as he entered the shop, and immediately he was assailed by the odours of what seemed like mountains of unwashed clothing. He resisted the temptation to cover his nose with his handkerchief; he had come here for information, and causing offence to the proprietor from the start would obviously not be advisable.

  Proprietress, as it turned out.

  From behind a ragged curtain at the back of the shop appeared the strangest woman he had ever seen. She may have been pretty in her heyday, perhaps even a fêted beauty, or the mistress of a gentleman, but years of hard living and debauchery had ravaged her face and caused her body to sag in the most unattractive of places. The woman was wearing an unfashionable raspberry-red mantua gown, which had once been exquisitely embroidered with silver thread, but was now distinctly tatty. Rupert judged her to be no older than his aunt, the Countess of Lampton, or possibly even a little younger.

  This hardly mattered. He hadn’t come here seeking female company, but was in search of information. A little carefully applied charm would never go amiss.

  ‘Mistress,’ he said and bowed deeply, ‘how fare you on this fine morning?’

  ‘I fare well enough, kind sir, and even more so now due to your esteemed visit. How may I be of assistance to you?’

  Rupert smiled. He had been right in his initial assessment; the woman had once moved in the higher echelons of society. Her manners were impeccable, although studied, as if they hadn’t come naturally to her. She had been born to a different life, he guessed, and had used the only assets she possessed to make her way in life: her beauty and her body. Rupert had known many women like her, had bedded a fair number too. He could spot them a mile off.

  ‘I would like to enquire with you, mistress, how a person may go about selling a silk waistcoat in a town such as this.’

  The proprietress’s irregularly shaved eyebrows rose, and she batted her eyelashes in a manner she obviously thought beguiling. ‘Sell, my lord? Pardon my presumption but you don’t look like the sort of man who’s in need of selling anything.’

  ‘Not me,’ he replied curtly. ‘Recently, an item of clothing was … purloined from me, and I’m anxious to purchase it back.’ He didn’t mention that he had no intention of ever wearing the waistcoat again after the highwaywoman had had her dirty hands on it. However, it could provide a clue to catching the thief – if she decided to sell it locally, she might try her luck here.

  ‘Pray, what sort of item?’ she asked.

  Rupert gave a description of the waistcoat, and the woman had trouble hiding a smirk. ‘I know of it, sir. There are rumours in town that a fine gentleman was robbed of his clothes two nights ago on the Heath. Even his breeches. One of the items stolen fits the description you just gave me.’

  ‘That’s a damned lie! The brigand ruined my hat and robbed me of my waistcoat, but I’m telling you this, madam, I would just as soon have shot him before allowing him to humiliate me further!’

  ‘Of course, sir, I’m merely reporting what I’ve heard,’ the woman said with a little smile, which Rupert had a sudden urge to wipe off her mealy-mouthed face. Permanently.

  Was the whole town grinning behind his back, even this good-for-nothing ex-courtesan? How dare she? He couldn’t think what he might have done to deserve such censure.

  Of course, there was the business with the maid who got herself into trouble. His uncle had forced him to see the wench right, and out of his own allowance too, but her father, a local man, had grumbled about her being ruined and nonsense like that. And there was the innkeeper who had insisted Rupert settle his bill immediately and not run an account. A fight had developed in which Rupert had sustained a black eye, and because he made such a fuss about it the innkeeper landed in gaol for a fortnight and lost his business. The ridiculous little man had actually sworn revenge.

  But his indiscretions had been a couple of years ago, when he had not been well-versed in the ways of the world. Surely the whole town couldn’t have been harbouring ill feelings towards him all this time? Especially since lately he had been spending most of his time in London, with Cousin Jack tagging along as the censorious chaperone. It seemed he couldn’t get rid of the fellow, no matter how hard he tried.

  He was brought up short as an idea occurred to him. He knew that his uncle’s title and estate had never been his to inherit, and it was resentment over the fact that Jack would get everything and he himself only a paltry sum that made him freely spend of his uncle’s money for as long he could. However, if Jack was out of the picture, Rupert, as the son of Lord Lampton’s cousin, would
be next in line. In fact, there was no one else, all other lines of the family having died out. Perhaps there was a way of ridding himself of his annoying cousin? For good.

  If Jack should meet with an accident while they were chasing the intrepid highwaywoman … If Rupert could lead him into a trap …

  It was certainly worth losing a hundred guineas over.

  A lot of ‘ifs’, he thought, but it might just work. And if it didn’t, Jack would be none the wiser.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’ asked the proprietress, seemingly startled by his silence.

  ‘More than all right.’ He smiled affably. ‘I say, mistress, if a person should come into your shop wanting to sell a waistcoat of said description, would you be gracious enough to send word so I can see this person for myself?’

  ‘That depends, sir.’

  ‘Naturally.’ He fished a calling card out of his pocket and handed it to her with a flourish. ‘You will of course be generously rewarded.’

  ‘Yeah, ’ow generously?’ she asked, betraying her roots.

  ‘Five guineas.’

  ‘Ain’t no person’s conscience worth less than ten,’ she countered.

  Rupert felt the familiar rush of blood in his ears at her insolence, but he controlled himself. ‘Eight, madam. A guinea now, the rest upon delivery. Will that suffice?’

  She gave a gap-toothed smile. ‘Aye, sir, that’s very generous an’ all. You can rely on me. But don’t get your ’opes up, mind. Could be your thief has a fence and you won’t see your pretty waistcoat ever again.’

  Rupert was willing to take that risk.

  Jack had sensed the woman’s eyes upon him the moment he entered the apothecary’s shop. He was used to attracting the attention of young women, and he would have thought nothing of it if she hadn’t been so intent on hiding her face as soon as he acknowledged her presence and raised his hat politely.

  As he’d stated his business with Mr Byrd, he’d tried to catch her eye, intrigued, but she’d kept her gaze lowered.