The Highwayman's Daughter

by Henriette Gyland

  Gritting her teeth to regain her composure, she shot him a haughty look and pushed the vile thought aside. ‘I have no interest in money.’

  ‘No interest in money? Then you are but a fool. Only the dead can denounce Mammon quite so readily.’

  She lowered her pistol although she kept it cocked and at the ready. ‘You may go.’

  ‘You’re not going to shoot me?’

  ‘Not today.’

  He chuckled again, sending further shivers down Cora’s spine, and inclined his head in a mocking, exaggerated manner. ‘I thank you, madam, for sparing my life. In return I shall not inform the magistrate of your trespassing and threat to my person, but rest assured that, should our paths cross again, I will not be so indulgent next time.’

  Calmly he turned his horse and rode off in the dusk without looking back. Cora couldn’t help feeling a grudging admiration for his nerve; he had no way of knowing whether she would shoot him in the back or not.

  She had held her nerve with him, but his words had hit home. Fearing that she might be sick from their impact, she gripped Samson’s reins to steady herself.

  Jack and she had made love not once but twice. He had planted his seed in her, perhaps starting a new life, and this gift of a child, even one born out of wedlock, would have been her comfort now that he was no longer part of her life. What should have been treasured as a joyful memory was now tarnished forever. If what Lord Heston claimed was true, Jack was her half-brother, and they had committed a terrible, terrible sin.

  The thought left her numb, paralysed, her heart cold.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Cora rode without any clear idea of where she was going, but somehow she ended up in the forest, and at the earliest opportunity she slid off Samson’s back and collapsed against an old oak tree.

  Her chest felt as if it was surrounded by bands of steel, squeezing hard, and the mere act of breathing was almost too much of an effort. She felt adrift on a sea of emotion with nothing to hold on to and longed desperately for Ned, who had always been a fixed point in her life.

  But Ned wasn’t here to banish her turmoil. Nor could she lie to herself; she wanted Jack like she wanted no other, and if she had ever, deep inside her, felt a tiny glimmer of hope before of them being together, however unrealistic, it was now completely eradicated.

  Nor could there be any joy at the thought of a child.

  Hugging herself against the ache in her heart, her fingers brushed against the handle of one of the pistols tucked into her belt. She pulled it out and stared at it, weighing it in her hand.

  Some people chose to end their lives when they suffered heartbreak.

  For a long moment Cora sat there toying with the pistol, cocking and uncocking it absent-mindedly, and contemplating what would happen if she did turn it on herself. Jack would marry someone of his own station and forget about her. Lord Heston would live out his days with the bitter knowledge that his wife had cuckolded him by his nearest neighbour. It would serve him right. Her father would be freed, and Martha would look after him, she had no doubt of it. Not many would bemoan the loss of a pauper turned highwaywoman; instead scores would rejoice that the road was a safer place.

  The thought that she could be carrying a child stayed her hand against this momentary madness. A child, regardless of the circumstances of its conception, was a precious gift. Even if she couldn’t look after it herself, she had a duty to bring it to term and then place it with a loving foster-family, just as she herself had been. A small sob escaped her at the thought of having to give up the only thing from Jack which could truly belong to her, but she had to find a way to cope somehow.

  Shaking with emotion, she fumbled to return the pistol to her belt. Just then she felt a hard nudge on her shoulder, and thus unbalanced, she accidentally pressed the trigger. The shot went into the tree behind her in a shower of dry bark and lichen, echoing in the evening air and startling a handful of nesting crows.

  Shocked, she dropped the pistol. On her right Samson snorted and scraped the leaf litter; then he brought his hoof down on her shin.

  ‘Oww!’ Cora scrambled to her feet. ‘Why, you miserable creature!’

  Samson snorted again, a low throaty sound almost like a purr, and headbutted her gently.

  ‘I ought to make mincemeat out of you,’ Cora muttered, rubbing the place where Samson had clipped her. ‘You … you crazy animal. I could’ve shot you. Or myself.’ She shuddered at the thought.

  And why am I talking to a horse?

  Taking Samson by the bridle, she rested her head against his mane, and for a fleeting moment it was as if Uncle George was with her. Thank you, she thought. Thank you for making me see sense. Life was far too precious to throw away; the way George’s life had been cut short was testament to that.

  Resolutely she got back on her horse and rode back to Martha’s cottage.

  ‘Cora, my dear, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ Martha opened the door cautiously to Cora’s gentle knocking. The cottage lay in darkness and no fire was lit. ‘And where’ve you been all day?’

  Cora slid in through the narrow gap and dumped a sack on the table. ‘I’ve been checking Ned’s traps,’ she said, not meeting Martha’s eyes, ‘and I found Samson. Right where I thought he’d be, munching the lord’s corn.’

  ‘Aye, that one’s a clever beast and no mistake,’ Martha muttered. ‘Helped hisself to half of me turnips without as much as a by your leave. Where’ve ye put him? Away from me vegetables I hope.’

  ‘Tied to a tree about fifty yards from here,’ Cora replied and sank down in Martha’s only chair. ‘And he certainly is clever.’

  Martha bustled about the room lighting a couple of tallow candles without speaking, and Cora was thankful for that. Sighing, she covered her eyes with her hands.

  ‘There, there, my dear, ye mustn’t despair.’ Martha put her arm around Cora and squeezed her shoulder. ‘There’s ’ope yet. It so ’appens that a young lad they’ve got tending to your father is friendly with one of me grandchildren. Wesley’s his name, and ’e’ll be here any minute.’

  Just then there was a cautious knock on the door. Cora stiffened but Martha opened it, unconcerned. A boy of about fifteen slipped in through the gap and gave Martha a quick hug; he stepped back self-consciously when he noticed Cora and yanked off his hat. Cora saw fair skin, dark hair and blue eyes, although it was difficult to tell in the smoke from the candles.

  Wesley gave a brief account of how he had found her father last. He described Ned as being ‘comfortable’, but he kept staring at his boots while he spoke, and Cora was overcome by misgivings.

  As much as she loathed the idea, she had thought of following Lord Heston’s advice and confronting the earl with her new-found knowledge in order to secure Ned’s release, but there was no telling how he would react, and she might find herself in the same dungeon as Ned come morning.

  If only there was some way she could get to see him tonight.

  As if Martha had read her thoughts, she said, ‘Wesley ’ere can get you in to see your father if you like.’

  ‘Go to see him? Now?’ Cora asked. ‘Won’t they wonder at the lateness of the hour?’

  ‘They might, miss,’ said Wesley, ‘but earlier I left the slop bucket in the room where your father is being kept, sort of by design, if you get my meaning, and seeing as this is Sir Blencowe’s wine cellar, he wouldn’t want anything noxious down there for too long. Mighty proud of his collection o’ bottles, is Sir Blencowe. You and I look a fair bit alike: in the dark the constable won’t be able to tell one from the other.’

  Wesley’s face split into a grin, and Cora couldn’t help smiling back, despite her inner turmoil. It might just work. Then she had another idea.

  ‘If it’s possible to get in to see my father, is it possible to get him out, do you think?’

  The boy thought for a moment. ‘Aye, it’s possible. The magistrate’s house was an inn once, and there’s still a trap door there where they
used to deliver casks of ale and the like, but I’m not sure it’s such a good idea,’ he added and exchanged a look with Mrs Wilton.

  ‘Nonsense.’ With new energy flowing through her veins, Cora stood up abruptly. ‘If it’s at all possible, I intend to get my father out now. By the time they discover that he’s fled, we’ll be long gone. And trust me: I’ll make sure you don’t get in trouble for this.’

  Wesley shrugged. ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, miss. I know how to look dumb.’

  Later Martha drew her tattered shawl closer around her and watched Cora prepare to leave with her grandson’s friend.

  ‘In the light from the moon, ye young’uns look like nothing so much as a pair of rascally lads off on a midnight adventure,’ the old woman said. ‘If only your errand was as innocent as that.’ She shook her head.

  They said their goodbyes, Cora for good this time. Time was of the essence, and sentimentality would serve no other purpose than to delay. Cora had packed her few belongings and some simple provisions, and saddled her horse. She’d changed into her own clothes and given Martha the too-large jacket she had been wearing.

  ‘Good quality wool,’ Martha muttered. ‘Should fetch a tidy sum at the market.’

  Reluctantly Cora let go of it. The jacket had been soft and warm, and the weight of it on her shoulders reminded her of Jack’s arm around her, of the way he had held her close after she’d been attacked. No one other than Ned had ever held her like that before, both gently and protectively, and now she could lose them both.

  If Martha noticed her reluctance to part with it, she was wise enough not to enquire further.

  ‘The good Lord go with ye both and keep ye safe,’ she said instead.

  ‘Halt! Who goes there?’

  The constable outside the magistrate’s house lifted his lantern and squinted into the darkness. Wearing Wesley’s hat, Cora stepped forward and into the light.

  ‘It’s Wesley, sir. I’m here to empty the prisoner’s slop bucket.’

  ‘Weren’t you here earlier, lad?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and I plain forgot,’ Cora replied.

  ‘Well, I’m sure it can wait till the morning.’

  ‘But, sir, the magistrate will get ever so cross with me. It’s his wine cellar down there, and I’m charged with looking after it for him and keeping it clean. Can’t have no noxious odours mixin’ with his precious bottles, that’s what ’e’d say. I don’t want ter lose me job, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want to tell him that you wouldn’t let me go down there, sir.’

  Frowning, the constable considered this for a moment. ‘Oh, all right then,’ he grumbled and lowered the lantern, ‘but be quick about it. This ain’t no inn, and the prisoner ain’t no gentleman with servants dancing attendance. He’s a criminal, and it’s high time he felt the consequences of being on the wrong side of the law.’

  He motioned for Cora to follow him around to the trap door by the side of the house, just as Cora had hoped. He slid back the bolt and opened the heavy doors upwards, then handed her the lantern.

  ‘There you go, lad. Now do what you came for and begone with ye. I ain’t got all night.’

  Cora slipped down the narrow staircase to the cellar and heard the bolt being driven home.

  ‘Bang on the hatch when you’ve finished,’ the constable shouted through the heavy wooden doors.

  ‘Will do, sir.’ Cora listened as his footsteps disappeared; then with a grin she clutched the bunch of keys she had managed to unhook from the belt of the unsuspecting man. Wesley had explained the layout of the magistrate’s residence to her and told her which keys would get her from the wine cellar to the rest of the house.

  That boy will go far, she thought.

  Holding up the lantern, she spied a lumpy shape on the floor against the cellar’s back wall.

  On the floor. Against a damp wall. Had they no heart?

  She rushed to her father’s side, unprepared for what she saw. It was Ned, all right, but he was barely recognisable. Someone, the constable’s men no doubt, had beaten his gentle face to a pulp; his eyes were swollen, his nose broken and encrusted with dried blood, and his clothing torn.

  Instinctively, she cried out in anguish and rage. This was her fault and hers alone. This had happened because she had been foolish and not listened to those who knew better. Damn it all, why hadn’t she heeded Ned’s words?

  Ned stirred. ‘Is that you, Wesley, my boy?’

  His words were slurred, as if he had been drinking, but although he was kept in a wine cellar, Cora saw no evidence to support that.

  ‘No, it’s me, Father,’ Cora replied, taking his hand in hers with a strange sense of déjà vu. Another prison, another broken man. She shook herself. Ned’s life wasn’t over yet, but she had to hurry. No time for bemoaning fate. They had to leave, and quickly.

  ‘Cora?’ Ned fought in vain to sit up, and she put her arm under him for support.

  ‘I’ve come to get you out.’

  ‘No!’ Ned tried to pull away. ‘You mustn’t be here. It’s too dangerous. They’re still out there looking for you.’

  ‘And I’m in here pretending to be Wesley.’ Cora smiled and rattled the keys. ‘With the constable’s keys.’

  Despite being in obvious pain Ned chuckled. ‘Always the resourceful one, eh? But I have to disappoint you. I’m not sure I can walk.’

  ‘You don’t have to walk very far, Father. Wesley’s waiting with Samson a couple of houses away from here. I’ve packed and I’m ready to go. I suggest we take the road east towards London; they’ll be expecting us to go west. We can hide with a contact of Mr Isaacs until we can get passage on a ship. We could go to Spain; we still have a few coins left,’ she added, ignoring his penetrating gaze. ‘So you see, I’ve got it all worked out. We’ll be so happy in Spain, I’m sure of it.’

  Ned smiled indulgently; then he sighed. ‘I’m not well, Cora. Surely you know that?’

  ‘What’s a few cuts and bruises? You’ll soon get better, and the sun will do you good.’

  ‘Inside, Cora. I’m not well inside. It’s my lungs, and my heart. And I couldn’t leave your mother. Don’t ask me to.’

  But Mother is dead, she wanted to say. Fear snaked up her spine at the thought that Ned’s mind might be ailing as well.

  Still with her arm supporting him, she said, ‘Can you stand?’

  ‘Aye, I think so.’

  Helping him up, Cora expected to be weighed down by his body, but it shocked her that she was able to support his frame without problems. It was as if half of her father had melted into nothing.

  No time to think about that now. She helped him to a set of stone stairs, which led up to the kitchen. Here she let him rest on the bottom step while she unlocked the door at the top, and then returned to help him up the stairs, locking the cellar door behind them. With her arm around his scrawny waist, she led him through the scullery, where pots and pans had been left upside down on the draining board to dry.

  Ned stumbled and knocked against one of the pots. Supporting her father with one arm and holding the keys in the other, Cora watched in horror as the pot wobbled precariously before settling back on the draining board with a muffled thump.

  Unaware that she had been holding her breath, Cora let out a sigh of relief. ‘Just as well the cook and the scullery maid sleep upstairs. Wesley told me.’

  ‘Observant lad,’ Ned remarked with a tired grin.

  ‘He certainly is.’

  She unlocked the back door, and they found themselves in Sir Blencowe’s overgrown garden, which offered plenty of shelter against the moonlight. Cora’s heart sang with joy.

  Ned was free.

  They found Wesley at the agreed rendezvous. Together they helped Ned into the saddle, and Cora took Samson by the reins. She handed Wesley his hat back, and, reluctantly, the keys. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you came with us?’ she asked the boy.

  ‘And leave the constable wondering why I’m taking so long asking to be let out of t
he cellar? How far do you think you’d get if he raises the alarm?’

  Cora had to admit that Wesley’s words made sense, but she was loath to send him back.

  ‘I’ll be all right. I’ll sneak back into the cellar from the house, lock the door behind me and call for the constable to let me out.’

  ‘And the keys?’ Cora asked. ‘How will you get them back without him noticing?’

  ‘I’ll drop them in the flower bed and pretend to find them.’ Wesley shrugged, unconcerned. ‘He knows I come from a good, steady sort of family. He won’t suspect a thing.’

  Cora was still not sure. ‘But …’

  ‘Stop fussing, girl, and let the lad get on with it,’ Ned growled. ‘Sounds like a decent enough plan to me.’ Although he spoke emphatically, her father slumped in the saddle as if holding himself upright was too much of an effort. That settled the matter for Cora.

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but be careful. And thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I owe you a huge debt.’

  They followed the road out of town, taking care to stay close to the side and shelter if they needed it. Fruit gardens and fields soon gave way to the eerie desolation of the Heath and its Stygian darkness, which, although good for hiding, made travelling difficult. Ned didn’t complain but Cora could sense that every pebble and pothole in their path caused him great discomfort.

  When she spied a lonely light from a carriage coming their way, Cora led Samson away from the road. Ned groaned as the horse stumbled across the scraggy heather, and although she was worried that they hadn’t made as much progress as she would have liked, Cora decided to take a break.

  ‘Take me to your mother’s grave,’ Ned demanded in a voice which gave away that it was a huge effort for him to speak.

  ‘But that means going south. We have more chance of hiding in London than on the open heath.’

  ‘I never wanted to leave her, and you know that.’

  ‘That’s the first place they’ll think to look for you,’ Cora protested. It was a couple of hours before daybreak, and once the sun came up she and Ned would be completely exposed.