Elias did not know what to say, except, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I didn’t know what would happen. For all I knew, I’d live the rest of my life a pauper driven to theft just to stay alive. I won the first case, which was for a small sum of money—hence your cane—but getting the rest was a brutal affair. And, I admit, I wanted to make sure you liked me, the poor man, the highwayman, rather than me the rich man, the gentleman.”
“Idiot,” Elias muttered, burying his hands in Augustus’s hair. It was soft and wavy, spread in a halo about his head. Elias loved the feeling. “Who says I like you now, anyway?”
“You do,” Augustus said. “I know you do.” Elias did not argue.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Augustus eventually fell asleep, so Elias let him nap as he was. How strange, Elias thought as he stroked Augustus’s hair absently, much as he had once petted Lord Nelson in his lap, that he had come to know such adoration for the highwayman who had robbed him bare. How strange that this highwayman had turned out to be the heir of an impressive estate and, despite their social differences and Elias’s unique situation, was mad about Elias.
Elias was on the verge of sleep when a pounding at the parlor door woke him. It crashed open before he could reply.
“Mr. Burgess!” a lisping voice cried. Kenneth Davies. What was he doing there? Augustus sat up abruptly. Lord Nelson hissed and Augustus gave a yelp of pain. There was a thud as Lord Nelson hit the floor.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Mr. Davies?” Elias demanded.
“Mr. Burgess, Cynthia—or rather, Mr. Westwood—Mr. Westwood’s in grave danger!”
Elias tried to stifle a yawn and failed. “What? Did one of the old ladies find out he’s buggering the darling of Kitwick or—”
“Now is not the time for frivolity!” Kenneth came very near to snapping. Elias had never heard him so forceful.
“What’s the problem?” Augustus asked and clutched Elias’s hand. His fingers were cold.
“The Joneses have been murdered. Probably two days ago. That’s the last any of them were seen alive, anyway.”
“What?” Elias demanded, feeling as though a horse had just kicked him in the chest. Mr. Jones? The drunk and disorderly Mr. Jones? The Peach and Pear’s most loyal customer…and his wife…his son? “All of them?”
“Yes!”
“That’s awful,” Elias said past his tight throat. “Fuck. That’s—”
“It’s just…there was a weapon found,” Kenneth said.
“So Mr. Jones killed his family and then himself?” Augustus asked, squeezing Elias’s hand tighter. He must know how upset Elias was.
“No, it doesn’t look that way,” Kenneth whispered.
“What is it, then?” Elias and Augustus insisted together.
“In the house, in the very room of the murders, there was a pistol found with the name ‘Augustus Westwood’ engraved on the barrel,” Kenneth replied.
“Well, shit, that’s my pistol,” Augustus muttered.
Elias felt numb. “And what,” he asked through his teeth, “was your pistol doing in the house of a murdered family?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Augustus said.
“You never liked Mr. Jones,” Elias said, prizing his fingers from Augustus’s grip.
“That’s true,” Augustus agreed.
“Did you kill him?” Elias demanded.
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Then why was your pistol there?”
“I told you, I haven’t a clue. I lost that pistol months ago, remember? I had to buy a new one. I used the new one to threaten your father, so my old one was missing before even then.”
“I believe you,” Kenneth interjected. Elias wanted to hit him. “But no one else will.”
“Why not?” Augustus snapped. “The fact that it’s my pistol doesn’t mean I pulled the trigger.”
“King George’s men from Mitton are already on the case,” Kenneth said. “And the whole village is baying for blood. You’re an outsider, and everyone knows you hated Mr. Jones for how he kept accusing you of bestiality, and spreading rumors. Everyone’s already gone round to your room at the Prissy Peacock, but I knew you’d be here.”
Augustus was quiet for a long moment. “How long do I have?” he asked.
“Maybe a half hour. I can try to stall them.”
“Much obliged,” Augustus said, rising. “I won’t forget this.”
“Good luck,” Kenneth said. There was a pattering of boots on wood, then a slamming door, and Elias concluded Kenneth had departed.
“What’re you going to do?” Elias asked.
“I won’t be the victim of some witch hunt,” Augustus replied. “They’ll never take me alive.”
Elias’s breath caught in his throat. “Don’t talk like that,” he croaked. He wished he did not sound so feeble.
“It’s true. I won’t let them drag me through town and string me up.”
“What kind of idiot village do you think Kitwick is? We don’t do that sort of thing here.”
“Elias, your optimism is sweet, but what do you know of the world? Of the true nature of man? Everyone likes you. I’m dead if I stay here. No one wants my explanations. Didn’t you hear Kenneth? The long and the short of it is Kitwick was fine before I came here, and now a family is dead. I can’t stay. It isn’t safe. For me, for you…”
“I think you vastly overestimate the stupidity and the size of Kitwick. We don’t have enough people for a riot, let alone a witch hunt.”
“Eli! Be serious for once, would you? This is my life we’re talking about.”
Elias fiddled with a button. “How long will you be gone for?” he asked. “I’ll”—here, he bared the extent of his arsenal—“I’ll miss you something terrible while you’re away.”
Silence.
“Augustus?”
Silence.
“Oh,” Elias said. “You’re not coming back.”
Augustus tucked a hand under Elias’s elbow and drew him up. “Come with me,” he murmured, and led Elias upstairs to the spare bedroom.
* * * *
“I have to leave. Tonight.” There was the sound of heavy cloth sliding against the floorboards. Augustus must be pulling his travel bag out from under the bed. “Trust my pompous father to fuck me over even in death,” Augustus continued. “Do you know it was that bastard who got me an engraved pistol? A gift for being a dead shot. Fuck him. Fuck the memory of him. Fuck the earth he’s buried in.”
Elias sat on the bed and plucked at the thick quilt beneath him. He and Augustus had slept together in that bed last night.
Augustus heaved an anguished sigh and the bag rustled open. The floor creaked as he crossed the room. There was the sound of a drawer sliding open and the rustling of clothes.
“But why was it there?” Elias asked, ripping a stitch in the quilt. For once, he did not care that it made more work for Bess.
There was a thud and a muttered curse as the bed shifted beneath Elias. Augustus had apparently kicked the bedstead. “I’m a common thief, and of only your clothes and the post, you imbecile, not a goddamn murderer! Besides, we’ve been together since Mr. Jones was last here. We even slept together every night.”
Elias thought back to two afternoons ago. He and Augustus had fucked until it was time to work, and Mr. Jones had failed to appear at the tavern as usual that evening. If Augustus had left to murder anyone that day or night, Elias would have known.
“Then you have an alibi.”
“Jesus Christ, Eli, what do you want me to say? ‘My lord, I couldn’t’ve been murdering the Joneses in cold blood that afternoon because I was too busy buggering my beau.’ As if that’s any better!”
Elias felt as though he had just been slapped. “Where will you go?” he asked.
“I don’t know, America? I’m done here, and I have my fortune. I can go wherever I want.”
America was an ocean away. Elias could not bear the idea. “Take
me with you.”
“I need to travel quickly. I’ll be out of town in ten minutes if I know what’s good for me.”
Downstairs, when he had asked for Elias to come with him, Elias had been stupid enough to believe Augustus had meant wherever he might go in the world. Elias’s cheeks were burning. It was not bright in the little room, for Augustus thoughtfully never lit too many candles, and Elias’s eyes inexplicably welled with tears. He was a slow and conspicuous traveler. Everyone remembered the black-eyed blind man, and Augustus knew it.
“So you’re leaving me.” Elias’s voice sounded strange to his ears.
“I don’t want to.”
“But you are.”
Augustus sighed again. There was a thumping sound as though he had just dropped an armful of clothes.
“You know I wouldn’t choose this unless it was a matter of life or death.”
His footsteps neared, but when Elias felt Augustus’s breath on his lips, he turned his face.
“Aw, don’t be like that—” Augustus began.
“I’ll be however I damn well please.”
Augustus walked away. “You always were a stubborn ass,” he grumbled.
Elias’s nostrils flared and he tossed his head.
Augustus finished packing in silence. When he was done, he lifted his bag, blew out the candle, crossed the room, and opened the door. “I love you, you know that?” he said, his voice strangled. Elias said nothing. The door closed and Augustus was gone. He yelped and swore in the corridor outside, for it sounded as though Lord Nelson had waited there and decided to take a swipe at him.
Elias bowed his head. Though it was dark, tears overflowed his eyes.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“It’s probably for the better, anyway,” Bess said the next afternoon. They were sitting at a table in the middle of the empty tavern.
“Why?” Elias demanded, wiping his eyes. He knew Bess knew he had been crying since yesterday evening, but he still tried his best to disguise this.
“He was a thief and a liar, and he humiliated you.”
“When did he humiliate me?”
“When he had you parade through town naked. Thrice. Or had you forgotten?”
Elias had. He sniffed. “I wasn’t humiliated.”
“You should have been!”
“Why? I have a nice body.” He knew this because Augustus had told him. But now Augustus had left him. His tears returned in full force.
“If that were the case, he probably wouldn’t have left you,” Bess snapped. Elias knew he was being annoying, and Bess had been trying her hardest since yesterday to cheer him up, but did she have to be mean?
“Bitch,” Elias fired back. There was no irony in his voice. He meant this. Bess could tell.
“Needy little whore.”
It was not the whore that stung, but the needy. Bess knew at once she had said something terrible.
“Come now, Elias, you know that’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean, exactly? That I can’t so much as cross an unfamiliar street without the help of a cane to guide my way?” A cane Augustus had so thoughtfully purchased for him, though he had no way of knowing at the time he would ever have any more money. “That I can’t make myself presentable for societal consumption without you shaving and dressing me like I’m some senile old man? That I can’t keep from getting food all over the table and floor if I don’t have you to guide me as I eat? That I need a fucking cat to—”
“Don’t you bring Lord Nelson into this.”
“Fuck you, Bess!” Elias yelled, standing. He reached for his cane, but in his distress, he could not remember where he had left it. “And fuck my eyes that I can’t even get away from you quickly without falling on my face!”
There was utter silence, and then there was cacophony.
The door to the tavern was thrown open with a bang, and at least half a dozen pairs of feet clomped over the floorboards and made their way to where Bess and Elias were. Elias continued to reach for his cane, grazed the handle, and fumbled it. It clattered to the ground.
“Bess, what’s happening?” Elias cried. His blood ran cold when he heard her muffled shriek. “Who’s there?” he demanded. The next moment, he was on his hands and knees, winded, because something fast and hard had connected with his gut.
“Your whore sister was going with a wanted murderer, that’s what,” a male voice said. “We’ve been advised to hold her until he can be found.”
“What?” Elias rasped, clutching his ribs. He felt broken inside. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Coming to his senses, he reached frantically for his cane where he had heard it hit the floor. A weapon. He needed something. Anything.
Someone grabbed him by his jacket collar and hauled him to his feet before he made purchase.
“Augustus Westwood, highwayman and murderer. Surely you remember the fellow? Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy!”
Elias could not believe his ears. He heard someone snag his cane from the floor.
“Murderer?”
“Yes. I said look at me!” The grip on his collar tightened as Elias was shaken violently.
Nothing made sense. “Release my sister, you uncultured, lying swine—”
Elias was on the floor again, face burning. Something wet trickled from his nose and into his mouth. It tasted like metal. He had barely managed to get to his knees when his face exploded anew in pain. Was he being beaten with his own cane?
“Stop it! Stop it!” he could hear Bess screaming. “He can’t see! He’s blind! Stop it you fucking assholes. Stop it or by God I’ll cut off your tiny cocks and feed them to the cat.”
“Sol side out, scare nuh Sissy,” Elias yelled. It had been years since he and Bess last spoke twin talk with each other as they both felt infantile when they did, but it served a purpose just now.
“Brov don sill do!” Bess cried, and then her screams became muffled again.
“Tuk Sweeton do, sill uh nuh!”
Bess continued to scream to him, but her voice was growing distant, as though she was being dragged away. Elias heard male voices cursing and swearing. Good. She was putting up a fight. More than he could ever do.
Elias staggered to his feet. He was just reorienting himself when someone seized him by the shoulders, hauled him across the room, opened the door, and cast him into the street. Upended, he fell hard on his elbows and stomach in a puddle of icy water. The harsh wind blew grit into his face.
“Don’t you dare hurt my sister,” Elias growled, spitting dirt. His bulky cloak, tossed after him, fell over his head. “Or your tiny missing cocks will be the least of your worries,” he roared, struggling with the thick wool.
“Sorry mate, can’t take threats from a blind man seriously,” came a voice. “You got a problem with the methods of King George’s men, go see Charles Sweeton at his aunt’s.”
“What the fuck does he have to do with anything?” Elias had hoped his connections with Mr. Sweeton would prove to his advantage.
“He’s the one wot said she was Westwood’s girl. Knew it’d bring him back to town.”
For more than one reason, Elias felt as though he had just taken his cane in the face again. “Nothing will bring that cowardly shit back to Kitwick,” he snarled.
The door slammed shut, and Elias was left out in the cold.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Elias stood at the door to the Peach and Pear and yelled until he was hoarse. Then he went around the back and yelled some more, pounding on the door. Where was his father? The girls? Lord Nelson? They rarely had paying guests, for no one visited Kitwick if they could help it.
No one but Augustus.
But Augustus was gone. And now Bess was under house arrest, and it was all their fault. Elias wondered if it was possible to hate anyone more than he hated himself in that moment.
Sunset was very early in the day in mid-December, and it was past dark by the time the town clock chimed four. By th
e sound of it, the redcoats inside the Peach and Pear had started drinking, and Elias knew what he would have to do if he had a hope of saving Bess from drunken advances sometime soon.
He would have to talk to Mr. Sweeton.
Did Mr. Sweeton know it was Elias who had been going with Augustus, and not Bess? How much had he gleaned from Kenneth Davies’s reports? It occurred to Elias that Kenneth never got Augustus’s real name from them, believing Elias when he introduced him as Cynthia. Or had Mr. Sweeton created this confusion intentionally? Elias had no way of knowing unless he asked the man himself. Resigned, Elias straightened his cravat, rubbed his cold-chapped hands together to warm them, and set off in the direction of Mrs. John Rowan’s.
He decided to take the lane, for it was faster and time was of the essence. It was the same lane he had walked months ago with Mr. Sweeton, when they had shared their first kiss and Mr. Sweeton had asked if Elias was a virgin. Elias decided then and there he would do whatever it took to have Bess freed, even if it meant confessing his relationship with Augustus to the whole town—Augustus was already a dead man, anyway—or providing sexual favors to Mr. Sweeton in exchange for Bess’s release. Elias did not relish the idea, for he still found Mr. Sweeton repulsive (even more so now that he understood a few of their earlier interactions better), but he loved Bess more than anything in the world, and that included the integrity of his physical being.
The ground was hard and the water from yesterday’s rain was becoming icy and slick. Elias proceeded along the treacherous path slowly, wishing he had his cane. He was just passing under the plum tree, its sleeping branches clacking in the wind, when he felt a horse’s approaching rhythm, then heard steady hoof beats. He paused.
“Eli?” It was Augustus. Elias nearly broke down then and there. He had never imagined Augustus would return, and he had to fight to maintain composure and hide his astonishment. “Where’s your cane?”
“What they bloody hell are you doing here?” Elias snapped. “Why aren’t you on a ship to America or India or China?”
“I heard you were to be arrested this afternoon! They said, ‘Westwood’s sweetheart.’”
The Highwayman Came Riding Page 22
