Lady Sherry and the Highwayman

by Maggie MacKeever

  Sherry had much with which to occupy her thoughts during this hasty journey through the London streets, and the sights that would ordinarily have caught her attention held little interest for her now. She reflected somberly upon highwaymen of times past, and their fates. Jack Sheppard, who escaped the Condemned Hold at Newgate, and whose extraordinary career as a thief and gaol-breaker ended on Tyburn gallows at the age of twenty-two. Dick Turpin, whose knack for timely escapes through windows had not enabled him to avoid hanged as a horse-thief, The great MacLean, immortalized in John Gay’s Beggar’s Opera, the moral effects of which Dr. Johnson had so deplored. Isaac Athinson, son of a Berkshire squire, who had come to the scaffold at age four-and-twenty, to delight the waiting crowd with his heroic dying speech, “There’s nothing like a short life, and a merry one.”

  At thought of dying speeches, Lady Sherry drew her shawl closer around her, despite the heat of the day. They had arrived in the neighborhood of the prison, close by Newgate Meat Market, the College of Surgeons, Surgeon’s Hall, Bart’s Hospital, and St. Sepulchre’s. People crowded the narrow streets: fish and oyster and fruit vendors; hawkers of playbills and ballads and newssheets; Italian organ-grinders; kidney-pie and baked-potato men.

  “Wait here!” muttered Tully. Sherry paused in the shadow of a baker’s shop. She stared up at the tall, gray-black prison building with its narrow windows and arched gateway. Newgate was the largest and oldest of London’s prisons, dating back to antiquity. It was referred to in the annals of King John’s reign. Lord George Gordon had been imprisoned here, had died here in 1791, singing the “ca ira.”

  Death again! Sherry sought to wrench her thoughts away from this extremely painful subject, and from speculation upon what Micah’s dying words might be, and whether he would utter them from a scaffold or if he would succumb to jail fever first. She stared into the baker’s shop at the servants and children waiting for the drawing of a fresh batch of rolls.

  Consequently, Sherry did not see Aunt Tulliver’s approach and jumped nigh out of her skin when the old woman clutched her elbow. “Tully! You startled me. How did you find him? Is he well? Did he send me a message? Oh, do say something, pray!”

  Aunt Tulliver was prepared to say quite a lot, once the opportunity was granted her, but she required more privacy than could be found in these crowded streets. “Hist! That one’s fine enough,” she said as she signaled energetically to a passing job-carriage and urged her mistress to climb aboard. “Short of temper and sound of limb.”

  “Short of temper?” Sherry frowned. It was very ungrateful of Micah not to welcome Aunt Tulliver, no matter how many female visitors he might expect to receive. “He wasn’t glad to see you?”

  “No, and why should he be? The rogue had never set eyes on me before.” Lady Sherry looked even more bewildered by this remark. Aunt Tulliver leaned closer and spoke into her mistress’s ear. “It makes no odds, milady! There’s a resemblance, a definite resemblance, but an inch in a miss is as good as an ell!”

  Sherry drew back, ashen-faced. “Do you mean—”

  “I mean,” said Aunt Tulliver with relish, “that they’ve got the wrong pig by the ear!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Marguerite stared at her companion. “I don’t believe it!” she cried. “Lady Sherry? Can this be true?”

  Jeremy snicked shut his snuffbox and tucked it away in a pocket of his many-caped driving coat, a garment in which he looked very fine, if a trifle overdressed on so warm a day. “What is truth?” he inquired grandly. “It lies in the eyes of the beholder. Many different interpretations can be put on almost anything. You look confused, my poppet. Consider this: Viccars ain’t likely to marry a highwayman’s wench.”

  Marguerite did consider this and found her companion’s comments much to her liking. One small scruple still troubled her, nonetheless. “But if Viccars finds out I was telling him taradiddles—”

  “He won’t! Because you ain’t.” Jeremy removed a large and very elegant handkerchief from another pocket and applied it to his damp brow. “Lady Sherry did go to Newgate. Her woman went in to see that Captain Toby fellow in which Viccars has such an interest. That Captain Toby whose particular had red hair. And who ain’t yet been caught. Seems to me it might well be Lady Sherry as any other red-haired wench that helped him escape. Not that you’ll say so to Viccars. You’ll tell him what you saw and let him figure for himself that two and two make four.’’

  Did two and two add up to four? Marguerite’s upbringing had not equipped her to deal successfully with accounts. She thought despairingly of the post-obit bills tucked away in her ormolu writing desk. “But I didn’t see anything!” she protested. “I think you must be all about in your head.”

  “The suspicion is mutual,” Jeremy retorted crossly. “Do you want my help or not? If so, you’ll do as I’ve suggested. Lady Sherry did go to Newgate and she was seen. If you’ve no stomach for the business, you may find another way to keep the wolves from the door.” He turned with a great flourish of his capes and prepared to make a highly dramatic exit.

  Before he could do so, the door opened and Marguerite’s maidservant peered into the drawing room. “Oh, ma’am, it’s hisself!” The girl gasped. “I seen him comin’ up the walk!”

  This simple statement of fact put paid to Jeremy’s dramatic aspirations. Jeremy had past experience with jealous patrons of beautiful females, and he did not care to have Lord Viccars find him in a tête-à-tête with Marguerite. “Remember what I told you!” he hissed by way of farewell. He then fled with the maidservant down the hallway, into the kitchen, and out the back door.

  Marguerite rushed to inspect herself critically in the pier glass that hung upon one wall. At last Viccars came to call on her, the brute. No doubt to give her her congée. Well, Marguerite was prepared for him. She gave her auburn hair a last tousle, made certain adjustments to her person—unlike Jeremy, Marguerite wasn’t the least big overdressed—issued certain instructions to her maidservant, then stretched out languorously upon her settee.

  Lord Viccars paused on the threshold of the drawing room and feasted his eyes on the spectacle presented by Marguerite. And quite a spectacle she made, with her sleepy eyes and tousled air à l’abandon, in a pale muslin gown that clung to her voluptuous body in a manner that made very clear the fact that she wore not a stitch of clothing beneath it. Andrew checked a very strong impulse to rush forward and take her into his arms. No twinge of conscience prompted this forbearance, no reminder of his soon-to-be-married state, but a strong suspicion that, dared he be so bold, he would have his ears boxed. He had not seen his petite amie for some time. After all that had transpired in the interim, she would not welcome him back with open arms. Instead, he was prepared for her to raise the devil of a fuss.

  Consequently, Lord Viccars was very surprised when Marguerite rose gracefully from the settee and walked toward him with outstretched hands. “Mon cher Andrew. You have come to me at last!” she murmured, and kissed him chastely on the cheek.

  Surprised and also suspicious, Andrew caught Marguerite’s plump arm. “What’s this? No tears, no recriminations? Or have you anticipated this moment and already found someone to take my place?”

  “Au contraire,” Marguerite said reproachfully. “I do not think I can do that. Nor do I wish to say adieu to you in such a way. Because of course it must be adieu. I know you have tired of my company and now wish me to move out of your house. I have already begun to pack.” Sadly, she gestured toward a half-filled box. It was the only half-filled box in the house, but Lord Viccars was not to know that. “What is there in that with which to quarrel? Hélas, poor Marguerite has fallen in love, which is very foolish, because she is of the demi-monde.” A tear trickled down her perfect cheek. “I do not wish that we should part on a quarrel. We did have some happy moments together, n’est-ce pas?”

  Indeed they had. Andrew wished they might have more. It was unthinkable, of course. He released the smooth arm he had been grasping, ab
sentmindedly caressing, and walked toward the fireplace. “You know, then.”

  Indeed she did know. Marguerite glowered at his lordship’s well-tailored back. “Oui. You might have warned me. It was a dreadful shock. But of course you have been very busy putting your affairs in order.” He turned to face her and Marguerite remembered to replace her frown with a sad smile. “Dear Andrew! I wish you every happiness, I truly do. I only hope you have not made a terrible mistake.”

  “A mistake?” Lord Viccars had come to this Italian villa prepared to endure Marguerite’s ill temper, to coax her out of the sullens if he must. Instead he had been met by smiles and sweet good humor, and it had left him nonplussed. Now, however, he recognized the signs of an imminent wheedle. “How can you say so?” he asked as he leaned against the mantelpiece and prepared to be entertained.

  “Should I tell you?” Marguerite was the picture of charming feminine perplexity. “I should not, but I think I must. You will not like it, I fear.”

  “What won’t I like?” he asked with a hint of impatience. “Try if you can to talk without roundaboutation, Marguerite!”

  Certainly she could talk without roundaboutation, when it was to her advantage to do so. Marguerite moved closer to Lord Viccars, close enough so that he could smell her heavy perfume, but not so close that he could reach out and give her a good shake. “My poor, dear friend!” she murmured. “You have been so deceived,”

  Andrew was not immune to that perfume, or to Marguerite’s demurely downcast glance, or to her daring décolletage. She was very near perfection, he realized. “So I have been deceived. Somehow you do not astonish me, my dear. I only wonder why you choose to tell me about your indiscretions now, at this point in our relationship.”

  “My indiscretions?” Marguerite opened her eyes wide and angrily stamped her foot. “Pray do not be such a pudding-head! I do not have indiscretions, Andrew. I have affaires de coeur, which are quite another thing.” With an effort, she controlled her temper. “I was not talking of myself. Here, the girl has brought your brandy. I think you had better drink it and sit down.”

  This sounded like an excellent notion. Andrew accepted a bumper of diabolino, then settled himself upon a gilded and brocaded chair. In so doing, he was reminded of the jewelers’ box that he carried in his coat pocket. It contained his parting gift to Marguerite.

  He would not present her with that pretty bauble just yet. Andrew had come here prepared to deal with a hysterical female, and it was curiously deflating to his ego that Marguerite refused to hang around his neck in tears. He had always known her affection was less for his person than his pocketbook, as he had known their paths must part. He had not expected Marguerite to be so philosophical about the business, however.

  She was up to something. Andrew was very curious as to what that something might be. “I am seated,” he observed. “You had something to impart to me about indiscretions, I believe.”

  “I do not like to tell you this, but I must!” Marguerite exhaled a great sigh. “I do not know how Lady Sherry can have used you in this cruel way. All things considered, I can hardly think she would make you a proper wife!’’

  Lord Viccars took another swallow of diabolino, thereby delaying his response. Marguerite referred to his fiancée’s gaming debts, of course. Andrew experienced renewed amazement that Sherry could have gambled and lost five hundred pounds. No wonder she had feared to apply to Sir Christopher for funds to redeem her vowels. He wished she had experienced a similar reticence as concerned himself. But she had not, and he felt honor-bound to help her, would take her the funds this very night and extort from her a promise that she would refrain from further play. How little he knew the woman he was about to marry! Andrew would have thought Sherry was the last lady to succumb to the lure of cards. “How did you find out?” he asked.

  Marguerite experienced a great relief that Lord Viccars had taken the news so well. “One cannot dispute the evidence of one’s own eyes, mon chou!”

  So one could not. Marguerite and Lady Sherry had met over the gaming tables, then? Andrew’s imagination boggled at the thought. “All of London must know, then!” he said. “Everyone but me. Are you sure of this? If I find out that you are libeling a perfectly innocent female—”

  “How cruel you are!” cried Marguerite, before he could complete this ominous threat. “To accuse me of such unkindness when I only wish for you the best. And that female is not the best, Andrew, though I say so when I should not. You will not believe me. Like all men, you see what you wish to see and then you belabor us poor females because you have been deceived.” But why the deuce was she giving him such good advice? Marguerite wanted Lord Viccars to be deceived. In an effort to secure his cooperation, she burst into tears.

  Like many other strong men, Lord Viccars disliked to see a female reduced to tears. “The devil!” said he. “What are you crying about, Marguerite? I’m the one who’s been hoodwinked. Perhaps it’s not so very bad. After all, it’s early days yet.”

  What Andrew meant, of course, was that Lady Sherry’s gambling fever might be nipped in the bud. Since Marguerite knew nothing of Sherry’s supposed lust for play, she thought that his lordship was being very tolerant of his fiancée’s profligacy.

  Perhaps Marguerite had not made it clear just how low Lady Sherry had sunk in depravity? She could not be sure. This conversation was very hard going, and Andrew was proving very stubborn, and Marguerite was getting the head-ache.

  “Oh!” She pressed her hands to her throbbing temples. “You do not understand. Lady Sherry . . . Oh, la vache! I know the truth, Andrew. One redhead is as good as another for you, even if it belongs to a highwayman’s doxy!”

  Andrew stared at his petite amie. Never had he seen her so overwrought. Then the impact of her words struck him. The highwayman! “Captain Toby?” he said.

  At last he understood. Marguerite felt giddy with relief. She also felt a trifle guilty at thus maligning a perfectly innocent female. Too late now to make a clean breast of things. Much too late, thought Marguerite, remembering the post-obit bills in her writing desk. Crying all the harder, she nodded her head.

  Andrew stared at those auburn curls. He felt as though someone had served him a painful, underhanded blow. He had not trusted Marguerite, exactly, but he had not thought either that she would set about intriguing with a highwayman right under his nose. Or not beneath his nose, precisely, because he had not been around much of late.

  This wretched business was partially his fault. Had he not been so neglectful, Marguerite might not have wandered so far astray. “My dear,” he said somewhat helplessly as he set aside his brandy glass and rose from his chair.

  He was crushed, of course. Marguerite allowed herself to be enveloped in his embrace. She would provide him comfort now, in his hour of need, and he would be so grateful that he would pay off all of her wretched debts.

  How strange. Lord Viccars was stroking her bare shoulders as if it was she who was in need of comforting. And, moreover, it felt very good. Marguerite shrugged off this puzzle and gave herself up to his caress.

  Poor girl! thought Andrew. Marguerite lived for pleasure and the good things of this world, and he was saddened by his realization of how far she’d been led astray by a handsome, feckless rogue—and here perhaps it should be explained that Lord Viccars had taken Marguerite’s comments about Captain Toby’s red-haired doxy to refer to herself. The human brain is a marvelous instrument, with great capacities for staunch beliefs and leaps of faith, but there are limits to human credulity, after all. Andrew had found it difficult to imagine Lady Sherry at the gaming tables. For him to comprehend the notion of her association with a highwayman was nigh impossible.

  Marguerite, however, was a filly of an entirely different color. Lord Viccars had long experience of her imprudence. And so he had misjudged her. He had thought she set out to cut a wheedle. Instead she had confided in him for the first time in all their acquaintance, and he was touched.

  Conf
ided in him? Good Lord! Andrew had confided in Sir Christopher not many days ago, had passed along information that might lead to the arrest of Captain Toby’s light-o’-love. He drew Marguerite closer, appalled by thought of so frail and fair a barque languishing in Newgate.

  It must not happen. Marguerite must not be sent to jail. Andrew must prevent that happening somehow. But what was he to do? He would visit the tavern he had told Christopher about, Andrew decided, and try to find the fellow who had bragged in his cups that he knew precious all there was to know about a certain red-haired wench.

  Nor would Lord Viccars tell Marguerite how close she stood even now to betrayal and the gallows. If he were to lose her, and in such a manner— Andrew groaned aloud and buried his face in her sweet-smelling auburn curls.

  Chapter Twenty

  London was a city of many diversions: concerts and picture exhibitions, shops displaying every manner of goods, the theater. At Drury Lane this evening, a family party had been got up. Lady Childe and Sir Christopher were present, along with Lady Sherry and Lord Viccars and his sister Sarah-Louise.

  It was not a happy gathering. Indeed, the entire party seemed to be under the influence of low spirits, with the exception of Sarah-Louise, who was very curious as to why everyone else had fallen into the dismals. Not surprisingly, no one offered her enlightenment on this score. Lavinia did not explain that her presence was occasioned only by a grim determination to see that Sherris should do nothing to jeopardize her prospective union with Lord Viccars. Nor did Sir Christopher voice his dislike of the theater in general, and especially of this theater, which had burned to the ground some time before and had recently been rebuilt. He was present only to keep his Livvy company—what a brave creature she was, determined to spoil no one’s pleasure even if she was so indisposed!—and to bear her and his unborn heir to safety in case of another fire breaking out.