“Go around the front and keep watch.”
“Is that it?” She was disappointed.
“Yes,” Lord Henry told her. “If you hear anything, anything at all, then come right back. I shall whistle when all is done.”
Polly slipped away, leaving Henry with the Angel Jack. It didn’t sound right to Jack. There was no Angel Jack in the Bible, at least as far as he knew. And real angels appeared in a blaze of light. They didn’t creep up on people when they were asleep. Swan’s wings, a smock, and fair hair? What hope did he have?
Lord Henry handed Jack a lantern with a little sliding door that opened to show the light. As he opened the lantern door, his large face was lit up. Jack saw his smile, his strong chin, and his big, warm eyes.
“You will do it, won’t you?” Henry asked. “You are my last hope.”
“Oh, all right.” Jack was unable to resist this plea. He was in Lord Henry’s hands—if Henry wanted Jack to do something ridiculous, then so be it. “Don’t blame me if it doesn’t work,” he warned.
Lord Henry gave Jack one more run through of all that he was supposed to say and handed him a note to give to Lady Marchwell. Creeping through the fallen leaves, they approached the house. Lord Henry pointed out the window Jack had to climb to. It didn’t look that high up, just ten easy steps up a strong vine. The window was already open a crack.
“Good luck. Persuade her well.”
Jack set off, like his namesake up the beanstalk, from gnarled trunk to twisted branch, up and up, higher and higher.
The window was narrow and squeaked as he opened it. But he managed to put the little lantern onto a windowsill and squeeze through into the room. He went head first and landed softly behind a thick curtain (not the usual angelic arrival, he thought ruefully). Standing up with a rustling of wings, he waved to Lord Henry below, who waved back cheerily and clutched his heart dramatically.
You owe me a favor, Jack thought grimly, as he took a deep breath and prepared to enter the room.
Drawing aside the curtain, he stepped into the darkness. Everything is dark in this time, he thought. Not just dark but pitch-black. They could do with a streetlight here and there. He opened the door of the lantern just a crack. The thin beam of light lit up a big red velvet shape in the middle of the room and a chair and a dressing table. A door. A chest. The big velvet shape was the bed. It was a four-poster and the curtains were drawn. Even darker in there, he guessed.
He tiptoed over to the end of the bed and opened one of the curtains a crack.
“My lord?” mumbled a figure inside the bed. “Is that you? Is something wrong?” It was a woman’s voice. For an awful moment Jack wondered if he had the right person.
Don’t think, just do it. Do it, Jack told himself firmly.
He pulled the curtain fully open and then slid the door of the lantern. Light spilled onto the bed, lighting up Lady Marchwell and the bedclothes. She let out a small cry, and Jack began the speech he had prepared:
“My lady, please excuse this visit, but I come from afar and with … um … a message: I know one who loves you. He has always loved you. He loved you from afar. And wants you to be his.”
“Wait—you frighten me!” she scolded and, clasping her hand to her chest, she retreated up the bed, clutching the covers around her. She frowned at him, disbelievingly. Jack saw a young, pretty woman in a lace bonnet with blue eyes and rosy cheeks—the woman whom he had seen robbed only yesterday. Her frown gave way to a small smile. Jack was relieved she wasn’t scared. He certainly would have been if a boy in swan’s wings had appeared at the bottom of his bed.
“Are you an angel?” she asked, mystified and amused. Jack felt her eyes traveling over him. “Is it a play?” she asked.
“Well, no. Or sort of,” he said. He supposed it was a bit like a school nativity play. He noticed the lantern shaking in his hand.
“I come from afar,” he said again. Oh, he hated drama! He was just no good at pretending like this. He hated that feeling of making a fool of himself, of feeling so exposed.
Lady Marchwell shook her head and smiled. She was amused! “Why, what silliness is this, to send a Cupid on my wedding eve? That my lord should suddenly be so thoughtful after being so cold and harsh! It does make me warm to him! And I had thought to call the wedding off! Sweet boy—I am in need of sleep—for surely my lord does not want to marry some tired wretch tomorrow morn?”
“Me? Oh, I see. My, er, lord,” began Jack, realizing something was not quite right, “has written you a note.”
He handed it over.
Lady Marchwell took the note. Jack held up the lantern so that she could read it. He wished she would hurry up, then he could go, his job done. But he watched in alarm as the color drained from her rosy cheeks. Her face lost its merry delight. “Oh!” She groaned and closed her eyes. She slapped the note down on the bed. “It is Lord Henry.”
“Yes. That’s right,” said Jack. It dawned on him that Lady Marchwell had thought he was an angel sent by the Honorable Hogg, the man she was to marry. From the way she had said “Lord Henry,” he could not tell if she was struck with horror or with relief. She was struck with something. Surprise—that was for sure.
The silence lengthened and Jack felt more and more awkward. Everything hung in the balance. Jack continued to wish he was somewhere else. Anywhere else. Anywhere at all. He heard a creaking noise nearby. Was that someone at the door? He prepared to run for it. Hurry up, he thought.
At last Lady Marchwell spoke in a small, sad voice: “Lord Henry Vane.” Jack waited. “I heard he was at Wittlesham, with his nanny.”
“That’s right,” said Jack.
Nothing else came from her, except a sigh.
Jack felt awkward. Now was the time to persuade her. He spoke quickly. “He says he has always loved you, only he never managed to tell you. And he wishes that he had. Told you, that is. Because if he had, then everything might be different. And that’s why he sent me, to … to … tell you.”
There was more silence. At last, with a noise that was really a howl, she cried in anguish, “How could he?”
And before she could say more, there was a sudden, terrible cry from the direction of the window—followed by a loud crack and a tearing noise. Jack spun around. Abandoning Lady Marchwell, he ran to the window and looked out.
Below in the garden, Lord Henry was lying on his back on the lawn. The large old vine lay broken around him. He held the thick trunk of the vine in his hand. Jack looked down at where the vine had been. There was nothing. It had gone.
“Help,” he whispered hoarsely, for now he felt he had done all he could and must be away. Quickly. Only, how would he get down?
“I was listening,” explained Henry uselessly, “but the vine—it wouldn’t hold me. It came away from the wall. Stupid thing!” He rubbed his back as he began clambering out from the debris, kicking aside the tangled branches.
“What do I do?” whispered Jack desperately. He could hear Lady Marchwell stirring behind him. Far off in the house a door banged.
Henry struggled to his feet and looked around for something with which he could help Jack—a ladder perhaps or a long pole. He brushed down his cloak and adjusted his hair. “Sorry, Jack,” he apologized. “I think you’d better, er … hide?” he suggested. “I’ll be back. I promise!”
At that moment Jack saw two figures running around the side of the building. “Watch out!” he cried.
Henry spun around, saw the men, and took off in the direction of the river. Jack watched him go, his cloak flapping, his hand on his head holding onto his hat and wig as he whistled loudly for the boatman.
Jack hid behind the curtain, shaking. That was it. He was alone now. Great. Fantastic. What exactly was he supposed to do? Where could he hide? There was nowhere. He was stuck. This was a catastrophe. A curtain! It was the most obvious place in the world to hide.
A second later someone burst into Lady Marchwell’s room. Jack saw light flickering around the edg
e of the curtains. A man demanded of Lady Marchwell if she was all right. As Jack listened, he saw his shoes were sticking out. Slowly he tried to withdraw them.
A second later, he was roughly grabbed.
He dropped the lantern with a cry and his wings were crushed.
Chapter Seventeen
Capture!
Jack struggled in vain. A big bear of a man hugged him until he could hardly breathe. He was locked in the man’s arms, his face squashed and scratched by the rough material of the sleeves. He was unable to speak. An older man came over with a lantern and held it in Jack’s face.
“Who’s this rascal?” he asked.
Jack looked beyond the lantern to the man’s face and saw he had a drooping eyelid, a slurred mouth, and a red nightcap on his head. The man scowled at Jack and then reached out and grabbed his cheek. He squeezed until it hurt.
“Leave him,” said Lady Marchwell quickly. “He did no harm to me.”
“I shall deliver him to the constable, madam. Directly.”
“Wait until the morning,” ordered Lady Marchwell. “When his lordship arrives. We can deal with him then.”
A maid rushed in with another lantern and began making a fuss over Lady Marchwell, demanding to know what had happened—and this on the eve of her wedding—was she all right? Did he, God forbid, come near her or make demands? Was the trousseau untouched and the jewelry safe?
Jack was carried out by the bear, who marched him down a dark hallway. Jack’s legs dangled, knocking against the man’s shins. The hallway was paneled in dark wood, with rows of portraits that swam in and out of vision as the pool of lantern light passed by. They went down a staircase. There were dogs barking somewhere, and the older man went ahead calling to the dogs, calming them. Before Jack could see much more of his surroundings, he was thrown roughly into an empty closet. The door banged shut, leaving him in darkness. More darkness. The key turned.
Jack lay still, trying to calm down, trying to think straight. He took deep, steady breaths. He angrily pulled off the swan’s feathers, flung them down, and buried his face in his hands. He would not let himself cry.
He had been there for a couple of minutes, his head in his hands, wondering what was to become of him, when he heard a hubbub. As the voices came closer he recognized Polly’s, and he could tell from her cries and grunts that she was struggling. Despite himself he was relieved to discover he was not going to be alone. At least she was captured too. He heard her resisting for all she was worth. A moment later the door was unlocked, and the little bundle of Polly was thrown in roughly.
“I done nothing,” she cried. “You stinking heap of aaach!” She spat and spat again on the floor.
The door banged shut.
“Polly!” whispered Jack. He reached out and found her arm. “You all right?”
“Yeah. You too, Jack?” she said. “That big troll—you know the one?—he bumped smack into me and grabbed me as I was running from the other one.”
“What did you do?” asked Jack.
“I bit him.”
“Good.” Jack smiled. He could imagine Polly’s fury and her sharp teeth.
She gave a hollow little laugh. “Well, they got me and they got you, and lucky Lord Henry escapes again! How does he do it? He’s like a slippery eel.” She slumped against the wall and groaned. “What happened to you?”
Jack told her. Polly chuckled when she heard how Lord Henry had pulled down the vine and landed in the garden. “What a bumpkin! He’ll never hear the end of this!”
“What if we’re sent to prison for burglary?” Jack asked.
“No—Henry will spring us.”
“What do you mean?
“Rescue us. He is a man of honor.”
“Honor? How can he be a man of honor? He’s a highwayman.” Jack felt annoyed at Henry. In his mind’s eye, he saw him retreating to the river with his hand holding onto his hat and wig.
“Yeah, but he will look after us. I have faith.”
“Do you? You should have seen how quickly he left.”
“Oh? Well, mostly I have faith,” she said after thinking. “Anyway, he is our only hope. So it’s a good thing for us he is as slippery as an eel.”
Jack agreed. He found that he could just see the outline of Polly in the almost complete darkness. “Where do you think we are?” he whispered.
“I don’t know—I think it is a pantry or something.” Polly began feeling the walls, tapping them with her hand. “There’s a little window up there, and there’s herbs drying.”
“And this wall here is warm,” said Jack. “It must be near the fire.”
“Behind it, I think.” Polly was feeling all around the door frame. “Fizzle heads! We are well and truly stuck,” she declared.
They sat there for an hour. Maybe two. Jack wished many times that he had worn his watch. If he ever got out he promised himself that he would always wear it—in bed, in the shower, in the swimming pool. He would never take it off. It might look strange with the rough, itchy clothes he was wearing, but he longed to know the time. He wondered what Granny was doing now—and then put it out of his mind. He didn’t want to think of that.
Together they waited for the sound of the rescue party. They talked about their favorite things (Jack liked chocolate muffins, soccer, and sledding; Polly liked toast and jam, country fairs, and long summer evenings), and they talked about the things they wanted to do: Jack wanted to sail around the world; Polly wanted to have sixty head of cattle and a house of her own. They talked about the best things in the eighteenth century and the best things in the twenty-first, and they decided that they each liked their own best. Time passed and their hopes dwindled.
At last they heard footsteps and low voices outside in the hallway. The key turned in the lock and, surprisingly quickly, the big man reached in and grabbed each of them by the arm.
“Ow, that hurts,” cried Jack.
“So keep still,” growled the man, pulling them both out like rag dolls.
He hauled them along a dark hallway, through the paneled entrance hall, and past the staircase then stopped before a large oak door. Holding the children in front of him, he knocked.
“Come in.”
He pushed open the door and it creaked on its hinges. Jack and Polly felt the man prod them in the back and they walked forward into another fine room, where there was a long table with chairs running down each side. There was an oil lamp on the table and beyond it a figure in a cloak stood looking out of the window. The faintest glimmer of dawn was visible in the east.
She turned around. It was Lady Marchwell.
“Leave us,” she told the servant, and she watched him go before turning to look at the children.
She was wearing a long black dress and over it a cloak. She looked ready to go out. Her hair was drawn tightly into a bun and little ringlets framed her face. As she looked at Jack and Polly, she let out a long sigh.
“Children, who are you?”
They told her their names.
“And how old are you?”
“I’m nine, beggin’ your pardon, marm,” said Polly.
“I’m ten,” said Jack. “Marm,” he mumbled as an afterthought, though it didn’t sound quite right.
Lady Marchwell shook her head. She obviously thought this was a very sad affair. “What foolishness!” she tutted. “That this should happen on the very eve of my wedding. You are friends of Henry?”
“Yes,” they replied.
Jack watched her face. She looked stern and strong, he thought, different from the woman confronted by a boy-angel in her bed.
“Henry Vane claims to be honorable, brave, and fair—yet he uses children to woo for him. Children to break into houses for him. Children to rob for him. How utterly … low.”
“We weren’t robbing—honestly,” said Jack.
“I don’t think the magistrate will think that. I think the magistrate will find you guilty and will have you quickly dispatched. A whipping—or worse:
you know you could be hanged for this? On the other hand,” she mused, “you don’t look like robbers.”
“I never been a robber, ever,” said Polly. “I was just helping Lord Henry.”
“He paid you well, I trust?”
“No. He is a friend. We didn’t do it for a payment, we did it for a favor. Didn’t we, Jack?”
Jack nodded. “I thought it was fun,” he said, though somehow “fun” didn’t sound like the right word, considering the trouble they were in, and Jack wished he hadn’t said it.
Lady Marchwell’s face softened. “Indeed, in a manner, it was fun,” she said and Jack felt better, as she didn’t seem to be blaming him. “But perhaps it also had a serious purpose?” She searched Jack’s eyes as if seeking confirmation of her thoughts. Or did she think there was something strange about him?
“I think he meant every word,” Jack stammered. “I’m sure he did.”
“He is not a bad man,” said Polly.
“You care about him, do you?” asked Lady Marchwell.
“I do,” said Polly stoutly.
Jack nodded agreement.
“Let me tell you about Henry,” she said with a sigh. “I knew him as a child. He always had a strange aura about him. He has it now—a presence that makes people like him. However much people disapprove of what he is and what he does, they still like him. He charms them, with his smile and his foolishness and his gallantry. Oh, for a single smile they will forgive any betrayal or any thoughtlessness or meanness.”
Polly nodded; she recognized this description.
“But they do him no favors,” Lady Marchwell continued, “for see how he abuses their love now—running amok on the highways of England. Robbing people and pretending it is all a game of daring. Only now the tide is turning. People are growing tired of the stories of his robberies, and soon they will hate him and wish him all manner of ills. He will be caught and hanged for sure, unless he changes his ways.”
Lady Marchwell approached the two children, and then, surprising even herself, she let them in on a secret: “And yet I too am under his spell. I had put him out of my mind as firmly as I could, but since he robbed me the other night, I have thought of him often. And now that he is back in my life, I must help him. It is time he was taught a lesson. For his own good.”
Jack Bolt and the Highwaymen's Hideout Page 8
