A Highwayman Came Riding (7 page)

“Because I have no money.”

“An orphan?”

“Yes.”

“Shall I hold up a coach and steal a dowry for you?”

“No, thank you.”

“Poor, but proud, eh?”

“Poor and honest, Captain Macheath. Which is not your name, by the by. You stole it from
The Beggar’s Opera.”

“Borrowed it. You can hardly expect me to announce my real name. We upstart thieves always work under an alias.”

She smiled shyly at him. “You may be a highwayman, but you are a gallant one, sir.”

“Why thank you, ma’am. All in a day’s work for us heroes.”

As he spoke, he tripped over a rock on the river floor. He stumbled, tried to keep his balance, and failed. The hero and his cargo both landed in the water, gasping for breath. When Marianne struggled to her feet, the muddy torrent was up past her waist. The water was colder than she had imagined. She shivered as the brisk wind blew. Macheath’s jacket, which she had been carrying, was dripping. Her bonnet was sodden. She pulled it off, decided it was beyond redemption, and consigned it to the river. Her wet hair hung in dripping tendrils around her face. She reached up and brushed the muddy water from her eyes with the back of her hand. Macheath shook his head, like a dog coming out of the water. His hat was already gone with the current. He took his jacket and tied it around his waist.

“My valet might be able to do something with it,” he said.

“Your valet?”

“The inn has a fellow who valets for the guests. Sorry for your dunking, Miss Harkness. I tripped. That will teach me to attempt to do two things at once. Shall we try again?” He reached to gather her into his arms once more.

“I’m soaked now. I might as well walk,” she said, and began walking along the river. The uneven bottom and the rushing water made her footing unsteady.

“It was an accident, you know,” he said with an air of apology, walking along beside her.

When she stumbled, he reached out and took her hand. “Forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive. About falling in the water, I mean. As to the rest, it is unforgivable, and you know it, Captain.”

“You’re a hard woman, Marianne Harkness.”

“And you, Mr. Whoever-You-Are, are incorrigible.”

“The right lady might be able to reform me,” he said with a quizzing smile. “You forget my gallantry.”

He tilted his head down at her. She peered up and could not control the answering smile that peeped out. He had practically saved her life, after all. Other than the duchess’s losing her diamonds, the past hours had been rather fun. Well, exciting. This adventure would be something to remember when she was back at Bath, at the duchess’s beck and call. Nothing like this was likely to happen to her again. She would never meet another man like Captain Macheath.

“Well, you are somewhat gallant,” she allowed.

“There now, that didn’t hurt a bit, did it?” he said, tightening his grip on her fingers.

Chapter Eight

The highwayman continued to win favor with the ladies by rendering them every assistance possible in their distress. He knew of a simple cottage nearby where they could wait by the fire while he went to the closest inn to beg or borrow a carriage. He was soon back with a handsome rig and blankets. One glance at the setup told Marianne that neither the glossy black carriage nor the team of spanking bays was provided by the inn. Where had he got the rig, and on such short notice? “A charitable couple lent it when they heard of the duchess’s distress,” he said.

But that could not account for his change of clothes. He was wearing a dry jacket and buckskins and a clean shirt. He had even changed his top boots. The jacket fit perfectly—it was his own. He must live nearby.

He had taken the liberty of hiring rooms for them. He assumed they would like to bathe and change into dry clothes while the carriage was being dried and cleaned before proceeding to London. Beeton could attend to the horse’s pulled tendon at the same time.

“As it is now quite dark, I thought you might like to stay overnight and continue to London tomorrow, Your Grace. There is always a danger of highwaymen this close to London, you must know.”

“Well, upon my word!” she gasped, overcome by the fellow’s brass.

Marianne, too, started at this mischievous speech. She was sure the duchess would flare up at him, but after she recovered her breath, she actually laughed.

“He is too late. He would get slim pickings from me this night,” she said. “What we ought to do, now that we have made it over the bridge, is continue on to Chertsey.”

“True, but you would not like to land in on your hostess in such disarray. You must be still trembling from the accident as well.”

“So I am. We shall remain overnight at the inn, Macheath. I hope they have aired the beds.”

“I took the liberty of asking them to do so, ma’am. I have hired adjoining rooms for you, ladies. My gift, as you are a trifle short of funds at the moment.”

His behavior was strangely ambiguous: offering every assistance on the one hand, while reminding them of past offenses on the other. Marianne could make nothing of it but was glad for his help.

The inn was a quaint, pretty place of ancient vintage with intricately patterned brickwork, leaded windows, high chimneys, and a thatched roof. The proprietor, alerted to their predicament, sent servants out to meet them and usher Her Grace straight up to her apartment.

“I suggest you both jump into a hot bath, to prevent taking a chill,” Macheath said, after escorting them to their rooms.

“I find a tot of brandy helps,” Her Grace replied, lifting a questioning eyebrow to see if this illegal beverage was available.

Macheath nodded. “Rooney keeps a bottle on hand—for medicinal purposes. Wine or tea for you, Miss Harkness?”

On an impulse, she said, “Brandy for me as well, Captain.”

She hardly knew what made her say it. She disliked brandy. It was the way Macheath was taking over. The sensible thing would be to continue the few miles to Chertsey. Their hostess would understand their disarray when she heard their tale. Really the duchess was behaving very oddly.

Macheath gave a start at Marianne’s answer. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Quite sure, thank you.”

“From the quantity of tea you badgered Ned for, I took you for a tea drinker,” he said, examining her with suspicious interest.

“I was hoping to relieve Ned of his pistol,” she replied.

“Ho, she is a regular tea granny,” the duchess said. “However, after such an ordeal as you have put us through this day, a glass of well-watered brandy will do her the world of good.”

“I’ll have your drinks sent up,” Macheath said before exiting.

When the door shut behind him, Marianne sighed. She knew her duty was to help the duchess with her bath before taking care of herself. So she was pleasantly surprised when a few moments later two maidservants accompanied the men carrying the water abovestairs.

“The captain says we’re to help you with your bath, ladies.”

“That was well done,” the duchess said. “Now you won’t have to wait until I am finished to have yours, Marianne. I suggest you get out of that damp gown at once. You look for the world like a drowned cat. And so do I, I daresay.”

“I don’t need any help,” Marianne said. She was accustomed to taking care of herself and knew she would be uncomfortable with someone helping her undress.

The duchess, who always relished having as many people at her beck and call as possible, at once took charge of both maids.

Marianne was still in the bath when her trunk arrived. She had begun by washing the mud from her hair. Next she washed her body and luxuriated awhile in the warm, relaxing tub, grateful to have a quiet moment to herself. Fully bathed, she wrapped herself in a soft bath sheet and opened the trunk. One of the maids came to take her soiled clothes belowstairs for cleaning. She toweled her hair as dry as she could.

Because her traveling suit was a shambles, she wore her second best gown, a sarcenet of Wedgwood blue that matched her eyes, with a white lace fichu at the throat. The silk stockings, a rare treat purchased especially for the wedding, felt luxurious as she slid them on. The blue kid slippers went with both this gown and her wedding outfit. When she was dressed, she arranged her hair at the toilet table. After its washing, it glinted coppery in the candlelight. The dampness turned it to a mass of curly tendrils that billowed like a cloud around her face. Her eyes glowed with excitement. She was “in looks,” as her mistress would say.

As she ran the comb through her curls, she wondered if Macheath would be dining with them. Nothing seemed impossible on this bizarre day. What was he up to? He must know the duchess could and would report him as soon as she was up and about. Why did he not run while he had the chance? Perhaps he had already left. If so, it was gentlemanly of him to have helped them before leaving, but she regretted that he couldn’t see her now. The last time he had seen her she looked like a drowned cat.

When she went through the adjoining door to the duchess’s room she saw Her Grace lying in bed, dressed in her nightgown. She looked every one of her eighty-two years. Her pale face was lined and drawn; her eyes were hagged. Marianne knew then that they would be dining right here. The duchess would take a tray on her lap in bed, and Marianne would sit at the little desk by the window. Macheath would not see her looking pretty.

The brandy arrived at the door, a bottle with just one glass. A teapot and one cup were on the tray as well.

“The captain said you would prefer tea, ma’am,” the servant said to Marianne.

Anger warred with pleasure, for while she much preferred tea, she resented that the captain had taken this last chance to show his power over her.

“Quite right. You are too young for brandy,” the duchess said, apparently forgetting that she had approved it. She took a sip of her brandy neat and smacked her lips in approval. “I shall have a piece of chicken and some bread in my room in an hour,” she said to the servant. “That is all I want tonight. These weary bones need rest.”

“The same for me,” Marianne said, fighting down her disappointment.

During the intervening hour, Marianne wrote a note to the countess who was to have been their hostess at Chertsey, saying they would not be stopping after all and apologizing for the inconvenience.

“No need to give a reason,” the duchess said.

Marianne sat with her mistress, listening to a deal of complaining and nonsense. As the brandy in the bottle lowered, the old lady became more rambling and voluble. Macheath was a villain one moment and a hero the next. The duchess could think of nothing but him. It was much the way Marianne felt herself.

“You know what he is about, of course,” the duchess said. “He thinks to humor me by these attentions so that I shan’t report him. A free room and a glass of brandy will not pay for my diamonds, however. I shall speak to the constable first thing in the morning.”

“Why not send for him tonight?”

“I am giving Macheath a chance to repent and do the right thing, Marianne. I am not one to hold a grudge. If he returns the necklace, I shan’t report him. I think it is what he has in mind. I have brought him to see the error of his ways. Why else did he keep harping on it earlier? You recall his warning of highwaymen. It is obviously preying on his mind. There is some good in the lad yet. A pity such a handsome young whelp has gone to the bad. How easily he bore me over the water in his strong arms. If only he were not a thief—and if I were fifty years younger.” She sighed and took another sip of the strong brandy. “Good stuff. It is not diluted with caramel water as I get in Bath.”

The dinner tray arrived and Marianne settled in for exactly the sort of evening she would have at home, except that here she sat at the desk instead of the duchess’s table. The duchess gobbled down her meal in a minute. When it was gone, she said, “Now for a little reading.”

It was Marianne’s cue to pick up the current journal and read to her. The duchess’s eyes were not strong enough for reading by candlelight.

“Bother, we don’t have a journal. Nip downstairs and get one, Marianne. They will have some at the clerk’s desk. And inquire how my carriage and team are coming along, while you are there.”

Marianne welcomed the chance to get out of the room. She saw the other guests just going down to dinner, ladies and gentlemen dressed in their evening finery. The low-cut gowns looked immodest to Marianne. The gentlemen’s shirt collars were too high, their jackets nipped in too sharply at the waists. But Bath was a city of elderly folks. This must be the fashion in London.

Macheath did not wear such exaggerated jackets, though. She did not see Macheath. She got the journal and asked the clerk if he would send to the stable to see how the duchess’s rig and team were progressing.

The companion of a duchess was treated with respect. The George and Dragon did not get many noble customers.

“Have a seat while you are waiting, ma’am,” he said, indicating a row of aging upholstered chairs by the wall.

She sat down and entertained herself by watching the guests come and go. It was strange they were all couples, mostly youngish. There were no older pairs, no families with children, no old bachelors or spinsters. Perhaps there was some sort of party going on. She was still there five minutes later when the front door opened and Macheath stepped in.

He was dressed for evening in a bronze velvet jacket with a tumble of lace at the cuffs and looked not only handsome but distinguished beside the other guests. A certain air of dignity, of what she could only call breeding, hung about him. It was there not only in his toilette but in his walk, which was self-confident without being a swagger. In the folds of his cravat a yellow stone, topaz or yellow diamond, twinkled. A long greatcoat the color of sand, cut in the new Spanish style called a Wellington mantle after the hero of the Peninsular War, lay open. Another change of clothes confirmed that he lived nearby. When he saw her, Macheath stopped and stared, then rushed forward.

“Miss Harkness! What are you doing down here alone? I hope nothing is wrong.”