by Mary Nichols
‘I don’t know why we ’ad to go all the way to Lunnon, only to come straight back ag’in,’ Betty said as the coach drew up at the Red Lion in Barnet. ‘You changed yer mind, Miss Louise?’
‘Shh,’ Louise whispered, glancing at the other passengers to see if they had heard, but the noise of the horses being changed and the ostlers and coachmen shouting to each other had drowned her voice. ‘I am not Miss Louise. I am Mr Louis Smith. And you are Mrs Smith. Call me Lou, like I told you. And in answer to your question, no, I have not changed my mind. We could not have boarded the coach here, everyone knows us.’
Betty giggled. ‘Not like that, they wouldn’.’
Louise looked down at herself. She was wearing a pair of breeches, which had once belonged to one of her brothers, tucked into her own riding boots, a blue wool coat with enormous pockets and pearl buttons, a long matching waistcoat, a white linen shirt and a black neckcloth, all once worn by one or other of her brothers. Her hair was tied back in a queue such as military men adopted and fastened with a slim black ribbon and topped by a tricorne hat. The ensemble was completed with a sword belt into which she had put Matthew’s small sword; since becoming a parson he had ceased to carry a weapon. And into the capacious pocket of the coat she had put a pistol, which she had taken from a drawer in Luke’s room, along with a pouch containing ball, powder and tinder. She was a good shot, but had never aimed at anything but a target and doubted she would have the courage to use it in any other circumstances. But having it made her feel a little safer, more manly.
The disguise was the result of much soul searching the day before on how best to travel. She felt she would be safer as a man and she knew there were some old clothes of her brothers stored in the vicarage attic, but even in men’s clothes the prospect of going alone had daunted her, although not enough to make her turn from her determination to make the journey. And she knew roughly where to go. Jaggers was a talkative man and liked to tell her tales of his boyhood in Yorkshire and how he had been taken on by the Reverend, ‘afore he come down south’ as he put it. He hardly needed encouragement and she soon had a place name, the one she had heard her mother mention, though he had no idea exactly where it was in relation to Barnet. ‘Moresdale is a fair distance,’ he said. ‘T’other side of York. It were where you were born, Miss Louise.’ She wondered if he knew the truth, but she couldn’t go round asking everyone she met if they knew she was not her father’s daughter.
She had been leaving the house with a portmanteau containing her disguise, together with some feminine clothes she would need when she arrived, when she became aware of Alfred Rayment, their young gardener, watching her. She thought her adventure had been foiled before it began, but he did not seem particularly curious and she supposed it was because she often took items of clothing to the village in a bag and he would think nothing of it if she acted naturally. She smiled and went on her way.
It was then she hit upon the idea of asking his sister if she would accompany her. Alfred and Betty lived in a cottage on the other side of the village. Betty was seventeen, a couple of years younger than Alfred, and acted as his house keeper. They had no parents. She had a round, rosy face, blue eyes and thin pale hair. She was always clean and neatly dressed. When asked if she would like to go, she had become as excited as a child. ‘I ain’t ever left home afore,’ she had said. ‘It’ll be summat to tell me children, if’n I was ever to find m’self a husband.’
It solved another problem for Louise—where and how to change into her disguise. Betty thought it was a huge joke and Louise did not tell her it was very far from a joke.
‘Perhaps not, but I could not take the risk leaving dressed as a woman,’ she said in answer to her friend’s comment. ‘We would never have got away if someone had recognised me and told the Reverend.’
The girl was in her best dress, the bodice of which was laced across her stays and the neck filled with a cotton fichu. They were an unprepossessing couple, but that suited Louise’s purpose. ‘Yes, but why did we have to go all the way to Lunnon first,’ Betty persisted. ‘I never bin in such a frightenin’ big place afore.’
Never having travelled by public coach and having little idea where they habitually stopped, they had walked towards London, carrying their bags. It soon became obvious to Louise they must find transport. Their bags, though containing the minimum possible, were heavy and it would not be long before she was missed and being searched for. To be found on foot within half-a-dozen miles of home would be the ultimate humiliation. They had stopped a carrier’s cart and asked the driver for a lift. He had taken them right into the heart of the Capital and directed them to the Blue Boar in Holborn where, so he told them, they could pick up a coach to almost any destination they cared to name.
But there had been no coaches leaving for the north until the morning. They had walked about all night, not daring to ask for a room anywhere, and at dawn had made their way to the inn and paid their fare to York. Louise was taken aback by the amount she had to pay; three guineas left little for bed and board on the way and she feared her small savings would not last and she might have to sell what little jewellery she had. She had no idea how to go on after they reached York, but she told Betty, as confidently as she could, they would cross that bridge when they came to it.
She was almost holding her breath in case someone whom she knew boarded the coach at Barnet, but no new passengers claimed seats and the original four were soon on their way again. The die was cast. She was going to find Catherine Fellowes and then she might have her questions answered. It had briefly occurred to her that the lady might no longer live in Moresdale even if she ever had; she could not even be sure of that. She might have moved away, or even died. Louise hoped not; it would be sad never to have known her. She would never find out if she did not go, would she? Curiosity had always been one of her characteristics, but this was more than curiosity; this was a need to discover her identity. But it did not mean she wanted to leave the loving couple she would always look upon as her parents; she would come back. She had said so in her letter. She hoped they understood that this was something she had to do and it did not mean she loved them any less.
She settled back in her seat, prepared to sleep if she could, and advised Betty to do the same. ‘We have been awake all night,’ she whispered, with one eye on the couple sitting opposite them. ‘And if we are asleep, no one will engage us in conversation, will they?’
Most of the roads close to the metropolis had been turnpiked, but even those had been churned up by heavy wagons in winter and baked into ruts in summer. They were jolted from side to side and sleep was almost impossible. They passed through Hatfield, changed horses at the Duke of York at Ganwick Corner, then again at Stevenage without incident and were approaching Baldock when it happened.
Louise was drowsing, but was jolted fully awake by the shout of the guard and the coach being pulled to a sudden stop, followed by the sound of a gun being fired.
‘Highwaymen!’ she gasped, as the door was wrenched open and a black cloaked figure wearing a mask and brandishing a pistol ordered them out on to the road.
Chapter Two
Jonathan left the vicarage and rode to Chaston Hall, which was only eight miles distant, where he kept his coach and carriage horses. Finding a standing for them in London was difficult and his father’s estate in Barnet was large enough for them to be no trouble to him and near enough to the capital for him to send for them if they were needed.
He told his parents he would be away some time on the Society’s business, though he did not explain the nature of the business. And though they decried his secretiveness, they had become used to it. They bemoaned the day he had ever met James Drymore and his band of gentleman thieftakers. If it were not for them, he would be dancing attendance on the year’s hopefuls at London’s society balls and finding himself a wife. He would not find one chasing all over the countryside after criminals. At twenty-five, it was high time he set up his own establishme
nt; his bachelor rooms in town did not count.
He smiled politely and allowed them to go on for some minutes before excusing himself and hastening out to the stables to tell Joseph Potton to harness up his travelling coach. He might be quicker on horseback, but if and when he caught up with the runaway he would need a vehicle to convey her home. ‘You and I are going alone,’ he told Joe. ‘Take a change of clothes, I do not know how long we will be gone.’
Joe grinned. ‘Chase ’em and nab ’em business, m’lord?’ he queried, using his own name for the Society. He was a sturdy twenty-year-old, though sometimes he behaved like someone twice his age, which was hardly surprising considering he had been born in poverty without a father and with a mother who turned him out when she was entertaining her men friends. The courts and alleyways of Ely had been his home. He would still be there if James had not rescued him and given him an education to fit him for a life in service. It was on James’s recommendation Jonathan had taken him on.
‘Yes, now make haste—we have not a moment to lose.’ The young lady had a day’s start and must be well on her way by now. In Jonathan’s favour was the fact that he had a far superior vehicle and was prepared to drive through the night, which the public coach would not do.
He left the boy to do his bidding while he went to his room to supervise his packing and console Hilson, his valet, for not taking him too. He changed swiftly from his silk coat, waistcoat and breeches and his lacetrimmed shirt into something resembling a yeoman farmer: brown stuff breeches tucked into sturdy boots, dark brown wool coat over a long narrow waistcoat and flat-crowned felt hat. He had never worn a wig and his own hair was tied back in a queue. The whole outfit horrified Hilson and though he had seen it before he bewailed that his young master should so far forget his rank and dignity as to dress like one of his father’s hired labourers. Jonathan simply laughed and pointed out he would not have the embarrassment of dressing him if he did not accompany him. Even so, he did allow the man to pack some decent clothes for him in case it became necessary to revert to being the Viscount. He heard the coach being brought to the front door and, picking up his bag, raced down and climbed in.
While daylight lasted, they made good time and had passed through Stevenage and were approaching Baldock, in the gathering twilight when Joe pulled the horses to a halt. Jonathan stuck his head out of the door. ‘What’s up?’
‘Something blocking the road ahead, my lord. A coach I think. Oh, lor’, it’s a hold-up!’
Jonathan left the carriage and climbed up beside Joe, the better to see. There was no doubt of it; the coach ahead of them was being searched by armed robbers. One had his head and half his torso in the coach searching it while its passengers stood on the verge being guarded by a second man with a pistol.
Jonathan, who always travelled with a pair of loaded pistols against such an eventuality, withdrew them from his pocket and urged Joe to spring the horses and make as much noise as he could.
Joe enjoyed doing that and between them they managed to make it sound like a cavalry charge. Joe brought the horses to a shuddering halt only inches from the back of the coach. Jonathan stood up on the box and fired his pistol at the gun hand of the man guarding the passengers. It flew from his hand. He swore and put his injured hand to his mouth. The man who had been searching the coach emerged and stood beside it empty-handed. ‘Stand still if you value your life!’ Jonathan commanded, aiming his second pistol at him, at the same time handing the first to Joe to be reloaded, which was done in record time. It was a routine they had practised many times and it meant he nearly always had a loaded weapon to hand. The robbers, seeing themselves outmanoeuvred, gave themselves up.
‘Thank you, sir,’ the coachman said, looking daggers at his guard, whose blunderbuss lay undischarged on the seat. ‘A most timely intervention. We are in your debt.’
Joe, the coachman and the guard tied the men securely with spare cord usually used to secure luggage on the roof, and bundled them into Jonathan’s carriage, while he turned to see if the passengers had been hurt.
‘You are to be congratulated, sir,’ a gentleman in the plain black suit of a cleric told him. ‘Such presence of mind I have rarely met. I am persuaded you are a military man?’
Jonathan bowed towards him, neither confirming nor denying it. ‘Is your good lady hurt?’ The lady in question was sagging against him, a handkerchief held to her face.
‘Very shocked, sir, but not hurt. She will be calmer by and by.’
Jonathan turned to the other couple, a slight young man and a girl, who was white as paper and shaking like an aspen. The man had his arm across her shoulders. ‘I must add my thanks to the others,’ he said, in the rather reedy voice of a youth. It puzzled Jonathan because it was so out of keeping with the look of him.
Dressed in a coat and breeches of blue woven silk, well made but not of the highest order, he stood erect, his head high, one hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist, the other round the young lady, protecting her. His face looked as though it had never needed a razor, and his eyes—oh, those eyes! They were wondrous eyes for a boy: the colour of a hazelnut, flecked with tiny spots of clear green. And his hair, for all it was tied back and crammed under a hat, was like dark, burnished copper; brown, yes, but it only just escaped being red. He assumed they were two not-quite-adult youngsters running away to Scotland to be married against the will of their parents. He smiled at them. It was none of his business.
‘I suggest you return to your coach and continue your journey,’ he said. ‘I will follow in my carriage and make sure you are not waylaid again.’
‘You would travel with those two?’ the young man asked in surprise, indicating the two prisoners.
‘No, I shall ride up beside my driver and take them to the magistrate in Baldock. Have no fear, they will not trouble you again.’ He watched as the four passengers climbed in. The coachman inspected the vehicle for damage; having satisfied himself there was none, he climbed up beside the guard and they set off.
Jonathan returned to his own carriage and followed, cursing his luck because he had to drive slowly behind the coach when he would rather be further on his way. He could only hope that Miss Vail did not deviate from the usual route to the north and throw him off the scent. It was unlikely; the Great North Road was the only viable road and even that had not been turnpiked its whole length.
‘He were impressive, don’t you think?’ Betty murmured to Louise, watching the cleric trying to comfort his sobbing wife.
‘Who?’
‘Why, our rescuer, o’ course. The way he made those two ruffians stand still and allow themselves to be trussed up was summat miraculous.’
‘He had a pair of pistols.’
‘So he did, and he knew how to use them.’
‘You think I should have pulled mine from my pocket and fired it?’
‘No, course not. You didn’ hev the time.’
‘It is not loaded either.’
Betty had a fit of the giggles, which Louise put down to nerves. ‘Do leave off, my dear,’ she said, managing a gruff voice for the benefit of the other passengers. ‘I am sure the Reverend and his wife do not find the situation amusing.’
Betty became serious for a moment, then smiled again. ‘Oh, but he was handsome, don’ you think?’
‘I did not notice,’ Louise lied. You would have to be made of stone not to notice a man like that. Their eyes had met and held for a long minute as if each were trying to memorise the features of the other. He had a clean open face and blue eyes, which reminded her a little of Luke, whom she had left behind. His hair, the colour of ripe corn, had been cut short and curled around his face, leaving the back long enough to be secured in a short plait and tied with a narrow ribbon. His clothes were nothing to speak of, but he wore them with distinction. The clerical gentleman was probably correct and he had been a soldier. But she agreed with Betty—he was extraordinarily handsome. She had to remind herself she was supposed to be a man and should n
ot be thinking such thoughts.
She and Betty had rear-facing seats and if she leaned a little towards the door, she could see the other coach, still following them. It was a rather grand equipage and not at all in keeping with the man, which made her curious, curious enough to make her forget, or at least push from her mind, the reason for her journey. She began to wonder if he was all he seemed. Had he stolen the carriage? Had he had designs on their coach himself and been foiled by the highwaymen ahead of him? But if that were the case, he would hardly have arrested them and promised to take them to the magistrate. Of course he could let them go as soon as they were out of sight, but the coach stayed close behind, the young driver matching the pace of his horses to theirs. It did not stop; no one left it.
They were soon in Baldock and passing under the arch into the yard of the Bull. Louise felt some trepidation on entering such an establishment, but stiffened her spine and in her best masculine voice requested a room for himself and his wife, giving their names as Mr and Mrs Smith. If the innkeeper thought that was an alias, he gave no indication of it and conducted them to a tiny room tucked away at the back of the building. If you want a room to y’selves, this is all I’ve got,’ he said. ‘It’s this or share.’
It was hardly more than a large cupboard with a foot-square window, but sharing was the last thing Louise wanted to do. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It will do. And we should like a meal.’
‘Dining room’s downstairs,’ he said, lighting another candle from the one he held and putting it down on a chest, which, with a bed and a single stool, was the only furniture in the room. There was a jug of water and a bowl on the chest and a rough towel hanging on a hook.
