The Marsh Hawk

by Dawn MacTavish

  “Simon tells me that you are just recently out of mourning,” Nast said, soft of voice.

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry for your loss. Does it bother you to talk about it?”

  Jenna shook her head. Maybe if he understood what drove her out on the old Lamorna Road that night, he might not judge her too harshly.

  “My father was returning from Truro by chaise, when a highwayman overtook the coach and made him stand down,” she began, reaching for his empty cup to refill it. “Father had a bad heart,” she continued, passing it back to him. “It had been failing for years. He . . . resisted, and the man beat him with his pistol, robbed him and . . . left him lying bloodied in the road.”

  “When was all this?”

  “A year ago February,” she said, around a tremor.

  “You needn’t go on, my dear. This is upsetting you.”

  “No,” she insisted. “I haven’t spoken of it since, and I need to now, if you will allow me?”

  Though the vicar nodded, he seemed uncomfortable. His amber eyes had grown dark and troubled.

  “Very well, as long as it shan’t distress you,” he conceded.

  “Lionel, our driver, put Father in the chaise and brought him home. We sent for the doctor at once, but later that night, Father suffered a seizure and died in his sleep.”

  “Did he regain consciousness . . . give a description of the bounder?”

  Jenna shook her head no. She wanted to tell him about what she’d done—needed to tell him, to tell someone and receive absolution before she dared tell Simon. It was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak it. It was too terrible, and their acquaintance was too new. Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back.

  “Lionel got a good look at the man,” she went on. “He said he was the one they call the Marsh Hawk. The guards from the Watch, of course, would do nothing. I needn’t tell you what a sham the law is hereabouts, civilian volunteers paid off by thatchgallows to look the other way while they prey upon innocent travelers. It’s shameful! At least in Town there are constables and Bow Street Runners and magistrates to keep the peace, but here—”

  “He was certain?” the vicar interposed. “The Marsh Hawk, to my knowledge, has never harmed anyone. His reputation is that of a gentleman bandit. He preys on the rich, yes, but to rob, not to kill. At least I’ve never heard of it. He’s quite the local legend hereabouts.”

  “Lionel described a man who looked like Simon did in that costume at Moorhaven, except for the hair,” she told him. “His hair was short, not long like Simon’s. He wore no queue.”

  “Dressing like that was sheer stupidity. I told him so.”

  “It wasn’t Simon’s fault, Robert. It was a costume ball. He had no way of knowing about Father.”

  “You have . . . told all this to Simon since, though . . . that your father was a victim of the Marsh Hawk?” he said haltingly.

  “No . . . not exactly; at Moorhaven Manor, Lord Eccleston told him that Father was killed as result of a highway robbery, but he didn’t go into detail in front of the gathering out of respect for my privacy. Everything’s happened so quickly since, I haven’t had the chance to discuss it with Simon.”

  “You really ought, you know. You need to . . . let it go, and confession is good for the soul, so they say. That reminds me! We’ve strayed from the path. You asked me about that very thing earlier. Why? Was there something you wanted to . . . confess?”

  Jenna stared at him over the rim of her teacup. Inside she was screaming,Yes—God, yes! But the words just wouldn’t come.

  “No . . . I was just . . . curious,” she murmured instead.

  “I see, well, the answer to your question is yes, we are bound by the same canon. Confessions are private and sacred. If you should ever need to . . . talk to someone, I hope you won’t hesitate to call upon me. I sincerely mean that, Jenna.”

  “Thank you, but I think you’re right. What I need to say, I need to say to Simon. Please keep my confidence—about the Marsh Hawk, that is. I should like to tell him myself.”

  “Of course, my dear,” he replied. “In regard to the wedding, Simon wants to waive the banns in favor of a special license. He will do what he will do, but since his business in London is going to take at least another fortnight anyway—three weeks more than likely, I’m going to post banns regardless. ’Tisn’t necessary, what with the license, and we shan’t have the customary four-week publishing, but it will please me nonetheless, making this announcement, considering the unfortunate past, and I will indulge myself.”

  “Another three weeks?” She was crestfallen.

  “He’s buying a naval commission for Crispin, and arranging for Evelyn’s come-out after your wedding,” he explained. “Brace yourself. You’re going to get drawn into that. Simon has no one else to turn to in that cause.”

  “I’d be . . . delighted,” she replied, trying to muster enthusiasm.

  “Good! Simon will be relieved.” He set his serviette aside then and tilted his head in a manner that told her there was no use trying to hide from those all-seeing amber eyes. “You do love him very much, don’t you?” he observed.

  “Yes, Robert, I do.”

  “Then talk to him, Jenna. And if you ever feel the need to talk to me about anything, please don’t hesitate, my dear.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Vicar Nast paid several more visits during the three long, dreary weeks that followed. Jenna was grateful for his company, and his cheerful good humor helped her bear her loneliness for Simon. She sent for the vicar herself on one occasion, when Simon’s solicitor, Olin Wickham, arrived at the end of her first week at Kevernwood Hall to go over the marriage settlement.

  The legalistic jargon concerning such matters as the equity system, Chancery Court, separate estates, and jointure quite boggled her mind. She was wise enough to know when she was out of her depth and sent one of the footmen to bring the vicar, who cheerfully presided over the stuffy little man’s visit.

  While the vicar reviewed the staggering sum the agreement entailed without batting an eye, Jenna was nearly prostrate from shock learning that she now owned a keep in Scotland, as well as a sizable tract of farmland not far from her family’s estate, which were entirely her own to do with as she pleased without restrictions. There were also generous clothing and pin money allowances to be paid to her monthly, and a staggering sum provided by way of a jointure to be settled upon her in the event of Simon’s death. She closed her ears to that and fled to the garden while Robert Nast concluded with the solicitor. She simply would not hear of Simon dying. No amount of money could compensate her for that. What shocked her most was that Simon had filed the settlement agreement with both the Chancery and Equity Courts before he had any inkling of the amount the Hollingsworth dowry would bring into the marriage, since the bride’s dowry was usually the barometer that governed what the groom’s investment would be.

  A fortnight later, Olive Reynolds brought her bridal gown for the final fitting. Jenna had insisted that it be simple, since it was to be a quiet wedding, and it was—elegantly so, of ivory silk embellished with Honiton lace, with a veil of the same delicate fabric, and slippers custom-made by the cobbler of the same ivory silk that the dressmaker had used for the gown. She was to wear a dainty wreath of moss rosebuds and wildflowers from the Kevernwood gardens in her hair, and carry a matching bouquet.

  It would be some months before Miss Reynolds would be able to complete her wardrobe. However, the dressmaker was able to supply her with enough of a selection to add to her own that would suffice for the wedding trip, which was to be a month-long stay at Lion Court, her new holding on the verge of Roxburghshire in Scotland, an older, more venerable, though smaller structure than controversial Floors castle across the Tweed River.

  A missive arrived that morning from Simon, and as soon as the dressmaker’s coach rolled away down the drive, Jenna took it into the garden to read in private.
Having managed to elude Phelps, whose hawklike surveillance was driving her mad, she stole to the gazebo at the east end of the garden. The sun had finally chased the flaws, and the air was warm with the promise of kinder days. A gentle wind rippled the parchment in her hands as she read, mildly distracted by the two peacocks that had joined her and begun to circle the structure, strutting and preening and raking the rolling green lawn with their great sweeping tails. She was proud of herself for having won them over. When they followed her to the stable on her way to exercise Treacle earlier in the week, even Barstow remarked that the elusive, unsociable birds had never warmed to anyone else on the place since Simon bought them.

  He was coming home. Two more days and they would be wed. She could scarcely believe it. Those words were all she really saw, or wanted to see. She gave only passing notice to the rest of the letter, and hardly any at all to the paragraph explaining that Evelyn and Crispin would be coming home with him for the wedding. Simon was coming home!

  She folded the parchment, slipped her hand through the side slit in her frock that gave access to the flat little embroidered pocket she wore on a silk cord about her waist, and tucked the missive inside. The sun was warm, laying slanted rays of brilliance at her feet in a checkered pattern through the whitewashed latticework. Its heat married the many garden fragrances around her into one exotic perfume, and she wished she’d brought a book from the library to read there and would have done but for her haste to avoid Phelps. She had just about decided to go back inside and choose one, when the birds suddenly fled in a rush of displaced feathers and irate screeching. As she stepped out of the gazebo to see what had frightened them, a man’s strong hands seized her. To her horror, it was Rupert. She screamed, but his hand clamped over her mouth cut it short.

  “What? You didn’t imagine I’d just leave you here—give you up without a fight, did you, Jenna?” he said, tethering her close. She bit down hard, and he pulled his hand away, examining the teeth marks on his fingers. “Bitch!” he spat, lowering the flat of his wounded hand across her face. “You are my betrothed!”

  “I was your betrothed, Rupert. No longer. You showed me a man I could never marry on Bodmin Moor. I’m only sorry I didn’t see him sooner. You came at Simon’s back, and then ran his side through before he could arm himself. I saw you! How dare you come here? I am Simon’s betrothed now, and you had best leave at once!”

  “Or what? He’ll come to your rescue and save your honor? Don’t be ridiculous. For one thing, he isn’t even here. For another, you have no honor to save, m’dear. It was lost the minute you set foot into that man’s house unchaperoned.”

  She struggled fiercely, awarding his shins a healthy drubbing with the pointed toe of her slipper, and clawed at his arms; but his grip was strong as he dragged her toward the orchard.

  “Where are you taking me? Let me go!” she cried.

  “You don’t think for a moment that I’m fool enough to come by way of the drive in broad daylight, do you? I’ve a carriage waiting in the orchard. I’ve been watching the place for days.”

  “Let me go, Rupert! I’m not going anywhere with you. I’ll scream!” It was an empty threat. His grip was so tight she could scarcely breathe.

  “I’m not going to let the bounder have you, Jenna. You’ve shared his bed, haven’t you?” He shook her. “Haven’t you?” He repeated. “I’m the only titled suitor you’ll ever find now who’s going to settle for used merchandise. You should be grateful. No one else will have you after this.”

  She dug her heels into the damp sod, ruining the perfect lawn with deep ugly trenches in a desperate attempt to slow his progress.

  “Simon and I are going to be married,” she gritted. “Let me go!”

  “Hah!” he erupted. “Everyone knows he’s diddling that ripe little packet of flesh he’s carting all over Town. Don’t you see, my dear, he may well marry you, but the lovely Lady Evelyn goes with the arrangement, part and parcel.”

  It was unfounded, of course, but Jenna hadn’t quite exorcised the demon, jealousy, where Evelyn and Simon were concerned. Though she knew there was nothing threatening of a physical nature between them, she couldn’t help being a little jealous that they were together in London, enjoying the Season—the fetes, the opera, Drury Lane Theatre, Almack’s—all that the ton afforded, while she was alone and miserable without him at Kevernwood Hall. That manifested itself in a fresh assault upon Rupert’s shins, which earned her another slap. This time his fingers left marks.

  His hand on her mouth prevented her scream now. Every step was taking her farther away from the house, and help. The strong hand clamped around her arm bent it behind her back. He was propelling her toward the sound of horses whinnying unseen among the budding apple trees. She made a valiant struggle, and he needed both his hands to restrain her. With her mouth free, her screams grew louder and more desperate. All at once he spun her toward him and his cruel lips reduced the sound to a whimper. They siphoned off her breath, and she was close to passing out from lack of air as his hand on her breast tore at the thin, lace chemisette that rose high at the throat of her peach-colored lawn frock, filling her with a panic she had never experienced. It came with the realization that he had the strength to overpower her.

  “Stop that!” he snapped through his teeth, shaking her. “I’m doing you a favor, damn you, Jenna. Our union will save your reputation. You’ll still be received—still be welcomed by the ton. I can do that for you. Can he? The man is ostracized from polite society. He’s a revolutionary. I can lay the ton—the whole world—at your feet.”

  “I’d rather die!” she shrilled. “And you are the one who is ostracized, Rupert. The ton does not favor backstabbing cowards. It is you who have fallen from grace.”

  His eyes dilated with rage, Rupert drove her down into the woodbine at the edge of the path and fell upon her there, anchoring her hands to the ground at her sides.

  “You’d lie down for him—and have done, I’ll be bound. You belong to me, and I mean to have you.”

  She screamed at the top of her voice, but his savage mouth cut it short again. It was no use. Pinned beneath him, she couldn’t break free.

  All at once a thunderous shot rang out close by, and Rupert’s head snapped toward the sound. As he scrambled to his feet, Jenna rolled out from under him, scrabbled up, and ran straight into the arms of Vicar Nast, who had come running from the direction of the tower with a smoking pistol in his hand. Meanwhile, Emile Barstow, armed with an obsolete flintlock rifle, sprinted over the courtyard with the agility of a man half his age and three stone lighter, as Phelps converged upon them coming from the manor. They reached her in seconds, but after another warning shot from the vicar’s weapon, Rupert fled to his waiting carriage and escaped.

  The vicar made brief eye contact with Phelps and glanced in the direction of the tower, which loomed darkly in the shade of the orchard, meanwhile gesturing with the pistol, still trailing smoke. Watching the exchange, Jenna caught a hitch in the valet’s expression, but the groom distracted her before she could analyze it.

  “Are you all right, my lady?” he asked.

  She glanced down, assessing the damage. Her dress was grass stained, the puffed left sleeve had been torn, and the high-waisted skirt of her frock had become separated from the bodice where Rupert had stepped on it. Her hair had come down. It hung awry about her shoulders. Her cheek stung where he’d struck her, her tooth had pierced her lip, and she dabbed at the blood with her handkerchief.

  “Yes, thank you, Barstow,” she said. “But for the obvious, I’m just winded.”

  “Good God, man, put that thing down before you do yourself a mischief,” the vicar said to the groom, glancing at his rifle. “Is that the best you’ve got back there at the stable? The thing’s positively antiquated!”

  The groom scowled. “She may be old, but she still shoots straight enough, does Effie here—straight enough to pepper the pants of the likes of that jackanapes what just run off.”

>   “Well, I shan’t argue the point, but, all due respect to ‘Effie,’ I shall speak to his lordship about updating the arsenal at Kevernwood Hall at my earliest opportunity; you can count upon it.”

  “As you please,” Barstow said, patting the stock of his gun with affection. “But I’ll just stick to good old Effie all the same, thank you kindly, Mister Nast.”

  The vicar handed his pistol to Phelps. Jenna couldn’t bear to look at it, yet she couldn’t look away. It reminded her of that night on the old Lamorna Road. It was a large piece, a twelveinch holster pistol. She admired the sleek walnut handle and smooth brown patina of the metalwork. She picked out the English Tower proof markings, and, on the center plate, the royal cipher. It wasn’t a gentleman’s handgun. It was a British Military Sea Service pistol; quite similar to the army type the thatchgallows had stolen from her father during the robbery. The very one she wished she’d had at her disposal for her mission that terrible night two months ago, and all the other nights that went before, when she’d gone searching for the Marsh Hawk. In its absence, she had chosen instead smaller, lighter flintlocks from her father’s collection, overcoat-size models that weren’t as formidable looking, but fit her hand more comfortably. She shuddered, reliving the instant she squeezed the trigger, and the vicar reacted, pulling her close in the custody of strong arms.

  “You’re trembling,” he said. “Let’s get you back to the house and clean you up, then you can tell me what the devil went on out here.”

  “Shall I send Peter to fetch the constable, Mister Nast?” the groom said.

  “No!” Jenna cried. “Please, Robert, I don’t want Simon to know!”

  The vicar’s eyebrow lifted and he soothed her against his shoulder, meanwhile shaking his head in a silent no to the groom. “We’re going to have to talk about that, Jenna,” he said, steering her back toward the house.

  An hour later, Jenna and the vicar were having lemonade in the gazebo, the groom had gone back to the stable, and Phelps had disappeared. She hadn’t seen him since they left the orchard.