The Journey (15 page)

He roused slightly, his eyes clouded with pain.

“Here,” I said, dropping to my knees and sitting beside him, “rest your head in my lap.”

“Your lap?” He looked confused. “I’ll stain your frock.”

“It is of little matter. Come, I shall help you.” Gently, I aided him in turning to shelter his injured shoulder and place his head in my lap.

“Are you an angel, Elizabeth?” He attempted to smile. “My mother . . . she was an angel. I remember her touch — the softest ever — even though her hands were rough as bark from scrubbing and cleaning all day long. She deserved better . . .”

His voice trailed off, and once again, he closed his eyes. I felt the heat from his head and recognized that fever consumed him. If he fell asleep, I feared he might not awaken.

“Tell me about your mother, Mr. Morgan.”

“Wha —” He attempted to open his eyes again.

“Your mother — you were speaking of her — does she live near here?”

He frowned. “She lives among the angels now. The hardness of her life with that lot that fathered me took her far too soon.”

“I am sorry,” I murmured.

“She was a maid in my father’s house. A maid when she spoke like a lady.”

He uttered the words with a bitterness the likes of which I had rarely heard. I urged him to continue, and so he told me that his mother had been born the seventh child of a poor country curate. The family had once been gentry, but the parish his grandfather served consisted of a majority of houses that had fallen into difficult times, resulting in a genteel type of poverty.

“Reared in a God-fearing house, she was, though. That’s why she gave me a name from the Bible. From the time I could talk, she’d tell me I was called Nathanael, after the apostle. Do you know the story, Elizabeth?”

I shook my head.

“‘Nathanael was a man without guile,’ she’d say. ‘See that you grow into your name, Son.’
Yes, a man without guile,” he said, closing his eyes. “No matter. She died a’fore I turned bad. At least she was spared that sorry truth.”

When he did not speak further, I prodded him to return to the story, hoping to keep him awake as long as possible. At first, he refused, attempting to slip away into the insensible world, but when I would not relent, he resumed his tale.

As a young girl, his mother had been sent from home to board with and work for an innkeeper. His wife was an invalid who had been confined to her bed five years. Although a pretty girl, his mother was timid and helpless against her master’s advances and subsequently gave birth to Morgan when she was but fifteen years old.

The innkeeper had a daughter only a few years younger than Morgan’s mother. Surprisingly, the girl accepted her father’s dalliance and helped care for the baby. A bond grew between them.

When the innkeeper’s wife died a year later, he did the right thing and married Morgan’s mother. For a while, the highwayman enjoyed a somewhat normal childhood although they never had much and life was difficult. From the time he was a small boy, he was forced to work hard alongside his mother and sister, and often he went to bed hungry. There was no time for schooling, but his mother insisted that he learn to speak correctly.

Then when he was not yet nine years old, his mother took sick and died. His father lost the inn because of unpaid taxes and a love for the bottle, and the orphaned children were sent to live with their paternal grandfather in the country.

I recalled his earlier anger at how his grandparents had lost the land on which the cabin sat. When I asked if it was the same, he nodded, confirming my suspicion. Morgan was a lad of fourteen when that happened. He and his grandparents attempted to live by odd jobs, but eventually, they were consigned to the workhouse where his grandmother soon died, and his grandfather followed not long afterwards.

His sister had gone to work as a scullery maid for a squire two years earlier, much as his own mother had. Morgan eventually escaped the poorhouse and struck out on his own, angry and bitter at how life had cheated his family.

“And the girl, your sister — what happened to her?”

His face darkened in a frown, and he closed his eyes tightly. “No more. Too tired.”

Although I persisted with questions, he either fell asleep or refused to answer. I thought of the sad tale he had told and wondered whether it was true. But why should he lie? One rarely lies about one’s mother.

When he began to groan and turn his head from side to side, I instinctively touched his forehead, smoothing his curls back and whispering soothing sounds, much as one would do for a child. Briefly, his eyes flickered open.

“Sing,” he whispered.

I leaned my ear toward him, unable to believe what I had heard.

“Sing that song from last night, Elizabeth. My mother taught me that tune.”

A spasm of pain gripped him, and he began to twist back and forth once again. Neither my touch nor consoling words relieved him, and so I began softly singing the ballad to which we had danced.

“Did you not hear my lady

Go down the garden singing”

As though given a calming tonic, he grew still and quiet and I continued.

“Blackbird and thrush were silent

To hear the alleys — ”

“Do not let me interrupt you,” said a voice laden with sarcasm.

I startled, ending the song in mid-sentence. “Mr. Darcy!”

So intent was I in observation of Morgan’s feverish face, I had failed to hear his return.

Pulling Morgan’s coat back, Mr. Darcy quickly removed the gun from his waistband. One glance at his face told me that he was furious to return to such a scene. With a single movement, he grasped Morgan by the throat and thrust him from my lap! The highwayman cried out with pain when Mr. Darcy attempted to pull him to his feet.

“How dare you touch her!” he said, his tone deadly. “I shall make you regret you ever laid a hand on her!”

“No!” I cried. “Mr. Darcy, I pray you, release him, he is badly hurt.”

By that time, Morgan was fully conscious, and his coat fell open, revealing the bloody wound concealed beneath. Mr. Darcy’s eyes widened in shock, and he pushed him away, allowing the highwayman to fall back against the side of the cave and slide down to a sitting position.

“Ah, Darcy,” he muttered. “So we
must
meet again. Pity. I much prefer Elizabeth’s company.” He then fell over, slipping back into unconsciousness.

I immediately hastened to explain what had happened, relating Morgan’s account of his men’s treachery. “Will you not help me see to him? If I can use your handkerchief, perhaps I can wash away some of the blood.”

“Do not waste the water I brought for that task when it is raining. Far better to give him a drink.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, reaching for the pitcher Mr. Darcy had set down at the entrance to the cave.

He took it from my hands. “But not before you have drunk your fill.”

“Sir, he is injured.”

“And he is a murdering thief. You are thirsty, Miss Bennet, and you shall drink first.”

We stared at each other. How hard he could be! I took the pitcher from him and drank. The water did taste good. I had forgotten how thirsty I was, but when finished I wiped my mouth with my hand and said, “Is that enough, sir, or shall you insist upon a particular amount?”

Ignoring my sharp remark, he picked up an old chipped cup and filled it half-full with water. Kneeling, he raised Morgan’s head and placed the cup against his lips.

“Come, man, drink.” He shook him, and none too gently, until he roused somewhat and did as he was told. When finished, he let him lie back, closing his eyes.

“We must get help,” I whispered. “He will die if we do not.”

“And how do you suggest we accomplish that? Night has arrived and brought the beginnings of a storm, along with a strong north wind.”

I glanced outside and saw that he spoke the truth. It was now pouring, and lightning flashed in the distance.

“Yes, conditions are not favourable, but you
could
go on to Hazleden, find a doctor, and return with him.”

“And leave you here alone with Morgan?”

I nodded. “It would be impossible for us to carry him without some type of litter, and someone must stay to give him aid.”

“Are your senses addled, Elizabeth? In the first place, it is highly unlikely that I could find my way out of this wood in the dark and rain. Even more important, I shall not leave you in this godforsaken place at the mercy of a highwayman!”

“Look at him! He cannot harm me now.”

“But his men can. If Morgan knows the whereabouts of this cave, do you not think it likely that Sneyd and the rest of those ruffians do, as well?”

“He’s right,” Morgan said, attempting to rise to a sitting position. I was surprised that he had overheard us, for I supposed him to be asleep. “This cave’s a favourite of many a highwayman. They say even the famous Dick Turpin used it. Of course, that was far before my time, but I believe ’tis true because I found his initials carved on the wall back yonder.” He motioned with his head toward the rear of the enclosure.

“And how would
you
recognize his initials?” Mr. Darcy asked, a sardonic expression on his face. “You cannot read.”

What? How did Mr. Darcy know that?

Morgan smiled slightly. “You’re brighter than I figured. Tell me, just what did you write in that note to your uncle?”

“Enough so that you and your men would be met with sufficient force.”

The outlaw smiled again. “Did you at least tell them to meet us at the place I named?”

“I did.”

Morgan chuckled. “Sneyd may get his due then.”

Mr. Darcy asked him how far away the appointed place lay. Morgan replied that it was thirty miles from the cabin, about fifteen miles the other side of Hazleden. The time for the meeting had been set for that morning, so most likely by now either Sneyd and the men had picked up the ransom or they had been apprehended. They never intended to return Mr. Darcy and me to the earl. Instead, they planned to send him on a fruitless chase in the opposite direction.

“And what were your plans for us?” I asked Morgan.

Mr. Darcy looked at me as though I were dim-witted. “What do you think? Tea and crumpets?”

My eyes widened, and I caught my breath at the thought! I turned back to Morgan. “Does Mr. Darcy speak the truth?”

“Do not waste your breath asking for a straight answer from him. He would just as soon shoot us as look at us.” He strode across the floor of the cave and peered out into the night.

I, however, kept my eyes fixed on Morgan. “Tell me, would you have killed us?” He looked away and closed his eyes. “I do not believe it. You could not have — you would not have shot us!”

“Why do you find it so hard to comprehend?” Mr. Darcy asked. “Was he not bragging just last night about the last man he killed?”

I whirled around and faced him. “That was the
only
man he ever killed.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Yes, I do. He killed a man in self-defence, the same man who scarred his face.”

“Ah, Elizabeth,” Morgan said, groaning as he attempted to raise his head. “Must you ruin my good name? People ’round here think I’m the worst of the lot. If you go spreading that tale, no one will be afraid of me.”

“Then why did you tell me?” I asked softly.

“Yes,” Mr. Darcy said. “Why did you? What happened between the two of you last night?”

Morgan did not answer. Instead, he fell over in a slump, this time truly slipping into an unreachable state. I dropped to my knees and attempted to rouse him. When he did not respond, I spread his cloak over him, hoping to provide as much protection from the elements as possible.

By then, it had grown exceedingly colder. The wind rustled through the branches outside. The rain whipped the remaining autumn leaves against the sides of the cave. I shivered even though I wore a pelisse made of wool. Glancing at Mr. Darcy, I realized that his clothes were damp, and he anticipated a long night without his greatcoat.

“I should have gathered wood while you were gone, sir. What could I have been thinking?”

“What, indeed,” he muttered, stomping around the cave, obviously searching for anything we might use to build a fire. Two or three small tree branches had blown into the cave before we arrived. He began to strip them of leaves, snapping them into twigs with more force than necessary.

I ventured farther into the darker rear portion of the shelter. Finding a generous amount of dead leaves and debris blown up against the wall, I used my shoe as a broom, sweeping up the refuse into a pile. Kneeling, I gathered up the shavings into my skirt and carried them to the middle of the cave where Mr. Darcy had placed the broken twigs.

He had turned Morgan over and now untied the small flask of gunpowder attached to his belt. My pulse quickened when I saw him also retrieve a sizeable dagger encased in a sheath attached nearby. And then I gasped — a large amount of blood had escaped the wound and lay pooled beneath his body.