Lady Sherry and the Highwayman

by Maggie MacKeever

  The trespassers broke off in mid-sentence and with uniformly guilty expressions. The younger female ducked behind the elder with an alacrity that set the scarlet ribbons on her cap atremble and dislodged the towering confection of a wig that the older woman wore atop her own hair.

  Lady Sherry was very cross to see her abigail exhibiting all the earmarks of a servant terrified of her mistress’s wrath. The most violent act Sherry had committed in all her life had been to hurl an inkwell at the wall, and that only because her sister-in-law had goaded her beyond human bearing. She sought relief for her irritation by slamming the door.

  It was as if the slam of the door released the others from a spell. “Gad!” ejaculated the older woman, readjusting her unstylish wig. “Must you give a body such a nasty start? I thought Her Highness had actually climbed the stairs to make sure you weren’t hiding here. As, in all fairness to Her High-And-Mightiness, you have been known to do!”

  Sherry had worries far more pressing at the moment than her sister-in-law. Indeed, if she were the swooning type of female, she might have found respite in hartshorn and vinaigrette. Since she was not, Sherry removed several books from a shelf and withdrew a decanter of port. “So the pair of you decided to make free of my hiding place without so much as a by-your-leave?”

  “Told you she’d cut up stiff!” The younger female, Daffodil by name and abigail by current profession, peered out at her employer. Since it seemed unlikely that Lady Sherry would choose this moment to hurl an inkwell, Daffodil ventured further comment. “It weren’t my idea— Cor! Begging your pardon, milady, how’d you come by that barking iron?”

  Sherry glanced at the pistol that she still gripped, half hidden by her skirts, and hastily set it down on the library table. “Never mind that now! You must help me, both of you. I seem to have rescued Captain Toby, and now I don’t know what to do with him.”

  This stark announcement roused the interest of her companions—or, rather, their disbelief. Daffodil expressed her disapproval of Lady Sherry’s lack of truthfulness; though the abigail might herself tell whoppers on occasion, for the Quality to do likewise didn’t suit her notions of what was right. Aunt Tulliver—who was, in point of fact, no blood kin to Sherry—was even more outspoken, expressing an opinion that the shock of seeing a handsome scamp hanged might well unhinge one’s brain. The controversy raged for some moments, even rousing the extremely fat dog that lay snoozing at Daffodil’s feet. Prinny—the dog, not the regent; so named because his remarkable girth—opened a curious eye and cocked his ears.

  Sherry brandished the pistol. How, if the highwayman lying at this very moment under a garden hedge were a figment of her imagination, had she come by this? Furthermore, while they were brangling, he might either bleed to death or regain his senses and make his presence known, in which case some very inconvenient questions might be asked.

  Daffodil was willing to lend her assistance. The highwayman was a handsome rascal, after all. “I don’t mean to say it will be easy as winking,” she said apologetically, under the erroneous impression that Quality should be better at problem-solving than a mere abigail. “But there’s more than one way to skin a cat! We can’t leave the poor cove in the garden, and we can’t think where else to take him, and that just shows that we aren’t really trying, because we have a nacky hiding place right here because no one durst come into this room without your permission, milady.”

  Lady Sherry cast her abigail a pointed glance. Daffodil had the grace to blush. “Well, nobody but us! He’d be safe as houses.” She snickered. “And wouldn’t Herself be mad as hornets if she found out!”

  The three women looked at one another. If their expressions were not precisely reminiscent of pussies who’d gotten into the cream pot, it was obvious that they considered the reward of their mutual venture—to wit, putting one over on Lady Monstrous-High-in-the-Instep—to far outweigh the risks.

  Determining how to smuggle a highwayman into Longacre House successfully was not so easy as winking, but neither was it monstrous difficult. The ladies had the port to lend them inspiration, as well as the tantalizing prospect of the starched-up Lady Childe with the wool pulled firmly over her eyes. Even Prinny roused from his nap to lend to the proceedings an occasional whuff and snuffle and tail wag.

  Indeed, it was Prinny who sparked in Daffodil the plan of action that would ultimately be used. Several others had already been brought forward and abandoned, it being thought unlikely that the highwayman could boldly walk—or limp—into the house. That Sherry had done so without attracting notice was quite a different matter, as Daffodil pointed out. “Begging your pardon, milady, but folks are used to seeing your skulk about!”

  It was in that moment that inspiration struck. Daffodil was bending over as she spoke, scratching Prinny’s belly with her foot. She gazed upon that vast expanse of white fur. “Crickey! That’s it! Folks ain’t used to seeing just you!” she crowed.

  Sherry looked somewhat doubtfully at Daffodil, and told herself that in the future it might be prudent to refrain from inviting her abigail to share the port. In point of fact, it might be even more prudent to abstain altogether from alcohol. “You want to disguise the highwayman as Prinny?” she inquired.

  Daffodil giggled. “Not Prinny, milady.” She nodded meaningfully at Aunt Tulliver, who was currently indulging in one of the little naps that she considered a perquisite of her advanced age. Even while she was dozing the old woman’s sixth sense alerted her to peril. “All my eye!” she snapped on general principles.

  Controversy again raged briefly. Daffodil pointed out that Aunt Tulliver was taller than most women, broader of shoulder and all else; Tully retaliated by suggesting that Daffodil was not only next to nothing in stature but also had precious little in the nous-box. Moreover, Tully had lived a great many years without striking an acquaintance with the inside of a jail, and she didn’t care to risk doing so now, not even for the handsomest of rogues.

  “I promise that you shan’t!” Sherry responded rashly. “Daffodil’s idea does have considerable merit. Perhaps if you could provide us with a gown...”

  Aunt Tulliver looked unhappy. “I’ve heard of many a queer start in my day, but stab me if this ain’t the queerest of them all! If the lot of us are dragged off to jail, missy, it’s on your head!”

  So it was, and the danger of arrest grew greater with every passing moment. Sherry pointed out this circumstance. Though Aunt Tulliver continued to grumble and make dire prophecies, she retired to her bedchamber and returned with a gown. Holding this item bundled under her arm like dirty clothing, Daffodil led the way down the narrow backstairs. At the bottom, she peered with great high drama into the hallway and then gestured frantically that the coast was clear.

  Sherry followed, feeling somewhat foolish at engaging in such cloak-and-dagger stuff. Accompanying her was Prinny, who was made very happy by this intimation that he was to be taken for a walk, an undertaking for which the servants generally drew lots, the dog’s mass being so considerable and energetic that the walker inevitably became the walkee.

  Nor was today an exception. Prinny was ecstatic to be taken into the small garden, where he was seldom allowed, his high spirits in the past having not proven beneficial to fruit trees and flower beds and antique statuary. Consequently, the rescue effort was severely hampered by the dog’s exuberance and his determination to play fetch with Aunt Tulliver’s wig. It was further hampered by the discovery that Captain Toby was no longer where Lady Sherry had left him. Stunned, the women stared at the empty space beneath the hedge.

  Chapter Three

  Daffodil was the first to speak. “He’s sloped off!” she cried in disappointment so acute that even the gay red ribbons in the jaunty cap perched atop her dark curls seemed to droop. She looked suspiciously at her mistress. “Unless you was bamming us all along, milady, in which case—”

  “Oh, hush!” Sherry was becoming very cross at these constantly expressed doubts. She pushed away Prinny, who see
med determined to wash her face with his great tongue, and straightened up from her inspection of the ground beneath the hedge, on which, to her secret relief, she had found traces of blood. “He can’t have gone far. He had a nasty wound in his leg. He must be here somewhere, and we had better find him before someone else does.”

  The search continued. Anyone looking out upon the garden from Longacre House just then would have seen a very perplexing sight as maid and mistress combed the area, peering under hedges and into trees; slapping vainly at Prinny, who considered it great sport to leap at their heels; and in general affording considerable perverse satisfaction to Aunt Tulliver, who was observing their progress from the book room window.

  Amusement was the furthest thing from Sherry’s mind. She was much too warm, and much too worried, and feeling sadly out of curl. She was even beginning to wonder if she’d lived with her head in the clouds dangerously long, as numerous people had suggested, and for that reason found herself in this horrid predicament. “Oh, do get down, you wretched beast!” she cried in exasperation as the dog leaped upon her once again.

  Prinny was deaf to such remarks, even when delivered in much louder tones. So softly delivered was this particular reprimand that he considered it an invitation to further play. Again, he leaped. Unfortunately, Sherry had bent down at that particular moment to peer beneath a hedge and Prinny’s assault knocked her smack to the ground.

  “Lady Sherry! Are you all right?” Daffodil ran to her mistress, then yelped as she barely escaped tripping over Prinny, who was delighted to join in this new game.

  “No, I’m not all right!” Sherry attempted simultaneously to push Prinny’s great weight off her chest and to fend off his very wet tongue. “Get this wretched beast off me. Daffodil!” The abigail didn’t obey immediately. Sherry shoved at Prinny’s furry white bulk. “Help!”

  Daffodil did respond then. “Lawks!” she said. There was a quality in her tone that inspired Sherry to greater efforts.

  With a mighty shove, Sherry freed herself of Prinny. The dog looked at her reproachfully, then set about to be ingratiating, which involved sticking as close as a court-plaster to his lady’s heels. Sherry looked around for Daffodil, who was nowhere to be seen.

  The gardener’s shed stood not far distant. Lady Sherry made her way toward the structure, past a barrel on wheels that could be trundled about to distribute water, and a lemon tree in a terracotta tub.

  She paused on the threshold of the shed. The interior of the small building seemed very dark as Sherry stepped in from the sunlight. It was also cluttered with shovels and spades and rakes, displanter and dibbles and wheelbarrow, sieves and pots and shears and ladders, and other paraphernalia of the gardener’s trade. It was further cluttered by one very irate-looking highwayman, who held a trembling Daffodil with one hand and a wicked pruning knife in the other.

  His expression grew even grimmer as he gazed at Sherry. “I’m not going to hang!” he said grimly. “So if you value your lady’s life—”

  The threat was never finished. Prinny, bounding into the shed at Lady Sherry’s heels, took in the scene at one glance. There was a stranger in the gardener’s shed. Prinny knew what to do about strangers. He leaped.

  Prinny’s weight was sufficient to overset a person in good pin, which the highwayman was not. Captain Toby groaned as his wounded leg gave way, and he fell to the ground. Though Prinny was disappointed to find the newcomer such a paltry playmate, he indicated his lack of hard feelings by planting his front paws on the man’s shoulders and giving his face a great damp lick.

  Sherry’s first thought was that the rogue had fallen on the pruning knife, so much blood there suddenly seemed to be in the small shed—and if it would have been difficult to explain the presence of a highwayman on the premises, what the deuce were they to say about a corpse? “Off!” she ordered Prinny, and tugged at his plumed tail, which was violently awag, earning a reproachful glance.

  Sherry bent over the fallen highwayman. Prinny withdrew in a huff to another part of the garden, there to instigate an enthusiastic game of toss-and-fetch with an intimidated under-gardener.

  “Lawks!” Daffodil sighed, her hands pressed again to her breast. “It’s a right good thing you showed up when you did, milady. I don’t mind telling you I was all of a muck of sweat!”

  Sherry found the pruning knife on the floor beside the highwayman, who appeared to have taken leave of his senses once again. The knife was miraculously free of blood. However, the wound in his leg had begun to bleed again.

  Though Sherry was far from expert in such matters, she knew the bleeding must be staunched somehow. She looked at Daffodil, who was gazing wide-eyed and somewhat wistfully at the fallen highwayman. It was a trifle lowering to recall that the abigail had been mistaken for the mistress while Sherry had been mistaken for the maid. Not that the highwayman’s misapprehension had been without foundation. Daffodil’s high-waisted gown with its short, puffed sleeves—rose-pink in color—was all the crack.

  Sherry wasted no further time in lamenting the deplorable condition of her own well-worn riding habit, which had not benefited from exposure to hedges and Prinny and gingerbread. She lifted her skirt, removed her petticoat of thin India cotton, and began to tear it into strips. “Here!” she snapped at Daffodil. “Help me with this.”

  Cautiously, awkwardly, Daffodil knelt on the other side of the fallen man. Her modish gown was not fashioned for such maneuvering. Also, she did not trust the highwayman not to awaken suddenly and manhandle her again. “Prime and bang up to the mark!” she observed as she stared down into his unconscious face. “I wish it’d been me he made off with!”

  This remark put Sherry further out of patience. Daffodil, no few years younger, had obviously not passed the age of indulgence in romantical high flights. Nor, apparently, did she considering anything amiss in nourishing a tendre for an inappropriate object. Lady Sherry, whose sensibilities were far too mature to be overset by the sight of a handsome face, felt like shaking the minx.

  She looked again at Captain Toby. Although the wound in his thigh was a nasty one, he didn’t look in imminent danger of bleeding to death, at least to Sherry’s admittedly inexperienced eyes. “There!” she said as she tied off the improvised bandage. “Hopefully that will staunch the bleeding until Tully can take a look.” And hopefully the wound would not be beyond Tully’s healing abilities. “Pray stop air-dreaming, Daffodil, and help me get him into this dress.”

  It was not an easy task to garb an unconscious highwayman, the two women soon discovered, although perhaps the task was less difficult than if he had been able to protest. Daffodil set about it with a tenderness that made Sherry recall irritably all the garments into which she herself had been willy-nilly thrust. Had she done the right thing in bringing Captain Toby here? Sherry mourned the loss of her earlier clarity of mind.

  “One can’t blame him, not really,” she said aloud, “for taking to his heels when he had the chance. The man could hardly relish the prospect of being hanged. And he didn’t do anything so truly dreadful in the first place. He didn’t hurt anyone other than in their pocketbooks, and he didn’t rob anyone who couldn’t bear the loss. One might say he wasn’t so much robbing unwary travelers as expressing his discontent with the way things are.”

  Daffodil wasn’t at all discontented with the way things were, not at this particular moment. She relished the notion of a handsome highwayman hiding in the book room, where she could go and flirt with him whenever she was bored. “Just like Robbing Hood!” she said approvingly as she smoothed Aunt Tulliver’s gown over his muscular chest.

  Robin Hood? Lady Sherry was not prepared to go as far as that. Perhaps she might have indulged in similar thoughts earlier, but that was before the wretch’s intrusion into her personal life. He groaned, reminding her of the need for haste.

  Sherry draped Aunt Tulliver’s shawl around the highwayman’s head and shoulders. The women surveyed their handiwork. “I suppose he’ll do,” Daf
fodil said, without much conviction. “So long as no one gets a good look at his face.”

  Sherry’s doubts about the wisdom of this undertaking were increasing with each passing moment, but it was too late to cry craven now. It would have been prodigiously unfair to turn Captain Toby over to the law after he’d made so miraculous an escape.

  It would also be prodigiously stupid, since that escape would not have been made without her assistance. Sherry’s excellent memory presented her with an old statute still on the law books, which stated very clearly that every person or persons who should comfort, aid, abet, assist, counsel, hire, or command any person to rob another would be hanged without benefit of clergy. She very much wished that she might have benefit of clergy just now. Or preferably assistance from on high.

  No such help was forthcoming, and nothing would be accomplished by further delay. Sherry removed the stopper from the vinaigrette she’d borrowed from Aunt Tulliver and held it under the highwayman’s nose.

  He choked and coughed, then opened his eyes and stared at Sherry. “You!” he groaned.

  How weak his voice was, thought Sherry, how pale his cheek. His eyes were certainly a vivid green. And she was as bad as Daffodil, mooning over a handsome rogue.

  Sherry peered cautiously out into the garden, half expecting to find a bevy of Bow Street officers outside waiting to take the guilty trio before a magistrate. She saw nothing more exceptionable than the under-gardener at work in the distance and Prinny sprawled dejectedly outside the doorway.

  Sherry turned back to her companions. “It’s time.” Between them, she and Daffodil managed to get the highwayman to his feet.

  The man seemed dazed. He had to be in pain. Well, there was nothing to be done for him just now. And were he in a better frame he might well prove less tractable. Sherry grasped the pruning knife more tightly and took a firmer grip on the highwayman’s arm. On his other side, Daffodil gasped as he leaned heavily on her.