by Joan Smith
He took a step toward her. She steadied the pistol as well as her trembling hand allowed, aimed at his right shoulder to avoid striking his heart, and pulled the trigger. The explosion reverberated in the small room, sounding as if a cannon had gone off. It rang and echoed in her ears. The man stared at her in astonishment, emitted a grunt, and fell slowly to the floor. She dropped the gun and stood a moment, gathering her wits, then she ran toward the door. As she opened it, a low moan came from the man’s throat. She stopped and turned back. The man was looking at her wildly.
“Help me, miss,” he said in a weak voice. “I’m bleeding to death.”
She saw the blood spreading down his left sleeve and found she could not leave him to die by inches. Slowly, reluctantly, she turned and went back to him.
“Have a look at my wound,” he said. “See if you can stop the flow of blood.”
She bent down and reached to open his shirt. He sat up like a jack-in-the-box. His right hand clamped her wrist and wrenched her arm back until she was afraid he’d break it. “Shoot me, will you, wench? I know what to do with the likes of you!” he said in a firm, angry voice. It had all been an act. His wound was only a scratch. He stood up and dragged her to her feet, with her arm still cruelly twisted behind her back.
She couldn’t fight anymore. She wasn’t strong enough to overpower a big man. She wasn’t evil enough to deal with such people as this on their own terms.
“If you wasn’t so ugly, I’d take you myself. You’re only fit for the likes of McGinty,” he scoffed.
He shoved her back toward the sofa, where the ropes and blanket awaited her. She couldn’t face it again. Something inside her revolted. She had one free hand. She slid it into her pocket and drew out the nail file. When he released her arm to shove her onto the sofa, she turned and struck at his face with the nail file. It cut a slash into his cheek. Blood spurted. While he instinctively reached to feel it, she turned and bolted for the door, with the man in hot pursuit, cursing her. She had her fingers on the doorknob when he caught her by her hair and yanked her back.
She watched in growing desperation as the doorknob turned and the door flew open. McGinty was back, to have his way with her. But it was not McGinty who came in. It was Macheath, with a menacing smile on his face and blood in his eye.
“I have been wanting to do this for a long time,” he said as his fist flew out and La Rue dropped to the floor.
Marianne ran into his arms and buried her head in his shoulder. She couldn’t speak. She didn’t even want to open her eyes. She just wanted the safety of his arms around her, holding her tight.
Chapter Eighteen
“Are you all right, my dear?” Macheath asked a moment later, when she had stopped trembling.
She looked up at him with wide, dazed eyes. “I shot him, John.”
“Good!”
“I thought he was dying, but it was only a ruse to get me to stay.”
“My sweet innocent,” he said ruefully, “how did you come to fall into such company as this?”
“It all started when you held up the duchess’s coach,” she said, not reproachfully, but merely answering his question. Macheath swallowed a lump in his throat and she continued. “I don’t suppose you recovered the diamonds?”
“I know where they are. I beat it out of McGinty.”
La Rue squinted and frowned, but didn’t ask for McGinty’s whereabouts. “I’m bleeding. I need help,” he said.
“Don’t pay him any heed!” Marianne said. “It is a trick, John. Tie him up and let us leave.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Macheath replied. He picked up La Rue’s gun and led Marianne out into the darkness with his arm around her shoulder, holding her to his side.
Outside, he tossed the gun into the forest. Then he tilted her face up to his. It was pale in the moonlight.
“If anything had happened to you, I— Oh, Marianne! This is all my fault. I am so sorry, darling.” He drew her into his arms and hugged her fiercely. “You were right. Turning highwayman is not the way to solve the world’s problems. When I went back upstairs and saw you gone, I— They drugged Miguel, you see, which is how it happened.”
“I thought it was you at the door and let them in.”
“We should have arranged a signal. I was sure they wouldn’t come until later. Was it very bad?”
“Yes, it was horrid. And the worst part was finding out that I could be just as bad as they were. I never thought I could shoot anyone in cold blood. I can well understand now how the war made you so vicious.” Macheath winced. “Oh, John, I didn’t mean— You were always quite civil to the duchess and me.”
“I know you didn’t mean it. That is the worst part of it all. You were simply telling the truth. I have become a brute without realizing it.”
“But a gentlemanly brute,” she said consolingly and changed the subject. “That man I shot in the arm is La Rue, is he?”
“Yes,” he replied distractedly, for his mind lingered on what she had inadvertently said, “vicious.”
“Where’s McGinty?” she asked.
“Tied to a tree a little farther along. He came creeping up behind me as I was running toward the shack. I used his kerchief to tie him by the wrists to a sapling.”
As they continued, Marianne related her night’s suffering. Each of her torments caused another stab of guilt for Macheath. To have subjected an innocent young girl to such horrendous doings was unconscionable.
Not far along the path they came to McGinty, tied to a sapling as Macheath had said. McGinty had given up trying to loosen his bonds. He scowled at them. “Ain’t you going to release me?” he asked.
“Not until I see if you were telling me the truth about the diamonds,” Macheath replied and continued on his way.
“Is La Rue dead?”
“Perhaps,” Macheath called back and kept on walking. An echo of curses followed them.
When they came to the part of the path where he had tethered his mount, he helped Marianne up and she held on to his waist, her head resting against his back while they rode through the forest to the inn.
Once there, he hopped down and held out his arms. Marianne jumped into them and he swung her to the ground. He kept his arms around her a moment, enjoying the feel of her tiny waist.
“You can let me go now, John,” she said primly.
“I can, but I don’t want to.” She stepped back. “Go upstairs and see if the duchess is still sleeping,” Macheath said. “I’ll be up in half an hour.”
He rode to the next signpost, and there, hidden under a rock as McGinty had said, sat the diamonds, wrapped in a handkerchief. He slipped them into his pocket, rode back to release McGinty, and went to the inn.
Marianne found the duchess still sleeping soundly, oblivious to the horrors of the night. She closed the door and went into the next room to tidy herself. Her hair hung in strands around her shoulders. She was covered in dust and dirt from the wagon. Her wrists were sore and her fingernails a mess, but when she looked in the mirror, she saw a smiling, confident woman.
A downtrodden girl, frightened of her own shadow, had set out on this trip expecting no more than a tedious journey with a short respite in London for the wedding. And instead she had had a life-changing adventure. She had met a highwayman, been nearly drowned, been kidnapped, and shot a man. But she had survived it all. She would never be the same again, never frightened of a foolish old woman just because she had a title. And best of all, she had fallen in love. Bath would be desperately dull after this.
When the tap came at the door later, she felt a spurt of fear and didn’t open it until she called, “Who is it?”
“It’s me, John.”
Then she opened the door. He came in, dangling the diamonds from his fingers. In the dull glow from the grate, they hardly sparkled. They might have been made of paste.
“What a lot of bother these bits of crystalline carbon have caused,” he said, and dropped the necklace into her fingers.
“One day you’ll have a set of your own.”
“I don’t share the duchess’s love of showy baubles.”
“How much of what has happened tonight do we tell the old girl?” he asked. “You will want to spare her the more gruesome details, I expect.”
“Why should I? She has never spared me. Let her realize the mischief she has caused.”
“Actually, I am the one who has caused the harm, which you kindly call mischief. And with her heart, you know...”
“Yes, we must take that into account, of course. Very well, I shall tell her La Rue came while she was asleep, and you recovered the diamonds as we planned. I do think, though, that people ought to be accountable for their actions.”
Macheath took this unusually stern speech as a reflection on his own part in the affair. Gazing at Marianne, he did not see the frightened girl who had cowered in his arms, trembling, an hour ago.
“Did you release McGinty?” she asked.
“Yes. He’ll tend to La Rue’s bullet wound.”
“They should both be reported to the constable.”
Macheath didn’t reply, just looked at her uncertainly. She knew how he felt about that. They had discussed it. He was equally culpable, as far as that went. Did she think he should be reported as well? It was not the moment for romance. He deduced that Marianne was having second thoughts about all this, about him. Her sufferings over the past days were taking their toll. From the mutinous set of her chin, he judged it would not be long before they were arguing if he stayed. And really he had not much to say in his own defense. He had foolishly tried to right a country’s wrongs single-handedly. A childish, quixotic thing to do. Better to let her cool down and talk to her in the morning.
“I’ll let you get a few hours’ sleep,” he said.
She brushed a weary hand over her forehead, revealing the scrapes and bruises on her wrists. “Who could sleep after a night like this?”
“You’ll want to tend to those scrapes. And a glass of wine to help you rest.”
“I’ll have some of that brandy in water.”
He wanted to clear the air before leaving. “Marianne, I’m truly sorry.”
“I know. I know, John,” she said brusquely. With her newfound confidence, she added, “But it was really very bad of you. The duchess never did you any harm.”
“I know. I’ll call on her tomorrow and apologize.”
He wanted to kiss her, but she looked too daunting. “Until tomorrow, then,” he said, and left with a last long, searching gaze.
Marianne poured a glass of water and added a dollop of brandy to it. She sat alone by the smoldering grate, sipping and thinking until she felt her eyelids grow heavy; then she went to bed. She slid the diamonds under her pillow for safekeeping.
She slept until eight o’clock and awoke to find the duchess standing over her. For the first time in memory, the duchess had tidied her own hair.
“Wake up, sleepyhead! We were supposed to meet Macheath belowstairs. What happened last night? Did he get my diamonds?”
Marianne shook herself awake. She reached under her pillow and handed the duchess the necklace. Her faded face creased into smiles.
“Good lad! Why did you not awaken me, Marianne? You know I wanted to see the scoundrel who robbed me.”
“You were sleeping so soundly we decided to let you have your rest.”
“That was well done of Macheath. Very thoughtful to let me build up my resources for the trip to London. I shall go belowstairs and thank him in person. Join us as soon as you make yourself decent.” Her sweeping gaze took in Marianne’s rough hands and wrists. “You ought to put some Gowlands Lotion on those hands, Marianne, and file your fingernails. A lady is judged by her hands, you know.”
She dropped the necklace into her reticule and bustled off to meet her new beau. Marianne made a hasty toilette and went downstairs. She found the unlikely couple enjoying their breakfast of gammon and eggs, laughing and joking like old friends.
“This scoundrel is up to all the rigs,” the duchess told Marianne. “When La Rue pretended he didn’t have my diamonds, Macheath shot him in the arm. That is the way to deal with these villains. I like a man who knows how to handle himself. You will go far in London, Macheath.”
“Is it arranged that Macheath will be settling in London?” Marianne asked.
“Why, we have practically settled on an heiress for him,” the duchess crowed. She was in prime humor, with a handsome young buck exerting himself to please her and her necklace once again back around her neck, hidden by her gown. She had given the maid the paste pearls in lieu of the customary tip.
Macheath cast an apologetic smile at Marianne for that remark about having found him an heiress.
“Lord Boucher’s youngest gel, Lady Amelia,” the duchess continued. “She has only ten thousand, but excellent connections. Connections are not to be ignored. Boucher can put a dozen court appointments in your way, Macheath, and she is not a bad-looking lass, either, bar the platter face. She was in Bath a year ago visiting her aunt. You didn’t meet her, Marianne. I saw her at the assembly rooms one evening.”
She continued in this vein while Marianne ate a little breakfast. She noticed it was no longer an undemanding cit’s daughter but a lord’s with a hefty dowry that was spoken of as his future wife. That might very well tempt Macheath into agreeing. She found it hard to swallow. He was going along with the duchess’s scheme, asking in a playful way what the Boucher girl was like and what court appointments she might bring him.
They left half an hour later. Macheath accompanied them on his mount, as agreed upon. He traveled sometimes in front and sometimes behind. When they reached the western edge of London, he joined them and rode alongside the carriage. The duchess lowered her window.
“It is au revoir for now, Macheath. Thank you for your escort. I shall expect you to call on me at Grosvenor Square in two days’ time. Say good-bye to Macheath, Marianne. I told him he could leave us when we reached London. Nothing will befall us here in broad daylight.”
Marianne put her head to the window. She wore a questioning look. She had not had a moment alone with him since last night. And as she considered it, Macheath had been rather cool all day. All this talk of Lady Amelia was upsetting. If Macheath planned to abandon his life of crime, he would require a patron to establish himself. If Lady Amelia was pretty, he would easily be seduced into offering for her.
“Good-bye, Macheath,” she said with a questioning look, hoping for some word, some sign to assuage her worries. With the duchess at her elbow, she couldn’t call him John, as she wanted to.
“It is not good-bye. It is au revoir, Miss Harkness. I shall see you the day after tomorrow as well.”
Then he tipped his hat, turned his mount around, and rode off, back the way they had come. Marianne had the most awful, sinking sensation she would never see him again.
Chapter Nineteen
All her life, Marianne had wanted to visit London. It loomed in her mind as a fairyland full of unimagined splendor: kings and queens, princes and princesses, castles and grand mansions with gold domes. But at the outskirts of the city, what she surveyed through the carriage window was the sprawling shambles of a million people. The roads were rough, and shabby cottages jostled cheek by jowl with manufactories and warehouses. Ragged urchins stood with their hands out, begging. There were more donkey carts and farm wagons and pedestrians than carriages. They had to crawl at a snail’s pace for half a mile behind a drover with his herd of cattle. Accustomed to the serene elegance of Bath, she felt they must have come to the wrong place.
More elegant houses and an occasional church appeared as they drew closer to polite London. From the carriage window she saw a stretching meadow dotted with trees and bushes and was informed by Her Grace that she was looking at the world-famous Hyde Park. The carriage turned onto Park Lane, where fine mansions of gray or brown brick, all looking similar in size and style, lined the wide cobblestoned pavement.
&nb
sp; Here everything was ordered and beautiful but not overwhelming to a young lady from Bath. She had expected more, and was well aware that there was more, but she did not see it today. They drove directly to Grosvenor Square, where they entered one of the brown brick houses with white pillars guarding a pedimented door of oak.
A rattle of the brass-wreath knocker brought an aged butler to admit them.
“Your Grace,” he said, standing aside to usher them into a hallway paved with liver-colored marble, and thence into a dark, dismal purple saloon, where a replica of the duchess sat by an enormous grate in which an exceedingly small fire smoldered. She had an embroidery frame beside her and a fat white poodle at her feet. This dame was Lady Thornleigh, a countess and younger (by two years) sister of the duchess. The only discernible difference between them was that Belle was about twenty pounds heavier. She had her sister’s trick of spending very little of her money on either candles or coal, so that her mansion was dark and frigid. She wore two shawls, a gray one around her shoulders and a black one over her knees.
The ladies brushed cheeks and said, “How do you do, dear?” as if they met every day, though Marianne knew they had not seen each other for over five years. Marianne was presented, examined, and given approval. As soon as this was done, she was told to run upstairs and see to the duchess’s unpacking, but first fetch her shawl—her woolen shawl, mind.
A servant led her up a wide, dark staircase to a long, dark hallway, into a surprisingly bright but cold bedchamber. She took down the shawl and returned abovestairs, where she kept herself busy and tried to keep herself warm unpacking the duchess’s trunk and arranging her own belongings in a smaller room next door until she was called down to tea.
It was difficult to imagine how Lady Thornleigh had put on those extra pounds, for her tea was parsimonious in the extreme. Plain bread and butter and marmalade and tea were all she served. The ladies were joined by an elderly gentleman called Sir Gervase Home, who flirted discreetly with the noble dames and ate most of the bread and butter. The poodle, Bingo, was given all the crusts.
