The Highwayman (Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Book 3) (17 page)

She and Caroline went down to dinner in the common room, where the food was passably fair. Arabella asked questions of the locals, about customs, entertainments, and places a traveler might wish to visit, and of course she asked if there were any hazards on the road. Though she listened carefully and highwaymen were mentioned as a constant scourge, no one mentioned Swift Nick or Gentleman Jack. It seemed that the man who’d left her a white rose and her necklace, the highwayman famous as the terror of the North Road, had disappeared. They were urged on to Buxton in Derbyshire though, to visit one of the wonders of the Peak known as Poole’s Hole.

At Poole’s Hole Caroline abandoned her mistress at the entrance, balking at the thought of crawling on hands and knees along a long narrow stone passage to make her way inside. Arabella was made of sterner stuff. After scraping her knees, ripping her dress and catching her heel on a jagged outcropping she scampered over slick wet stone and loose rock to be greeted by a sight that made her jaw drop.

She stood inside a large echoing cave with a lofty vaulted ceiling. Its dripping waters had carved fantastical shapes from the rocks below. There was a formation that resembled a lion wearing a crown, one in the shape of a large pipe organ, and one that looked like a mighty throne. But when the guide said Pool’s Hole had been named after a robber of that name, who had once used it as his home she rolled her eyes. Was she to find things that reminded her of Jack wherever she traveled? A tiny voice she quickly shut out whispered,
isn’t that what you hope for? Isn’t that why you chose to take this road?

Well maybe that was so. Maybe
she
was not such a fickle creature as to kiss a man and make promises one moment, and forget him the next. Caught in a half world, between a place where Jack was trapped or in some sort of danger, and one where he was was just fine and had moved on with his life, Arabella did her best to move on with her own, but the first thing she did upon entering an inn was to eagerly scan the common room and the horses tied outside, and every time a rider approached them on the highway her heart soared, and every time one past them by it plummeted.

Still, everywhere she went she found interesting people and things that fascinated. A little house of curiosities, a delightful inn in Nottingham with the finest pale ale, a village with manmade waterfalls to catch salmon, and a village where everyone from babes in arms to doddering ancients sat together in the tavern smoking tobacco from pipes. It was offensive to her nostrils, but a curious sight to see.

She could think of no better way to spend her life than exploring the world around her. What was life after all, but experience? To live the same experience day after day in endless repetition, why, one might as well be a plant! It was a wonder more ladies didn’t take to their beds to expire of boredom and ennui.

She wasn’t sure her increasingly rumpled looking maid would agree, though. Caroline had begged to come on the journey and Arabella had agreed for the sake of propriety and to indulge her, but while she was keen for adventure, the girl was not a hardy traveler. She sniffled when it rained, peeled in the sun, grew nauseous and headachy in the coach, and was a timid and inexperienced rider. Although she never complained, one couldn’t help but see she was always covered in scratches and bruises. Increasingly, Arabella left her to pursue less taxing adventures through her beloved chapbooks at the better inns, while she ventured forth to ramble about for a day or two on her own.

“But it’s dangerous, your ladyship,” Caroline protested one night when Arabella returned three days late from a journey to a gold and silver mine high in the Derbyshire Peaks. “We’re far from London now. It’s wild country just beyond the road. You might get lost and there’re highwaymen and murderers and wild animals too.”

“I have been practicing with my pistol for any such eventuality,” Arabella assured her wide-eyed maid. “But though I’ve been menaced by cattle and toll collectors, I’ve yet to see a single wolf or highwayman. Why just the other day we were stuck in a ditch and easy prey, but the two rough-looking fellows who came along merely exchanged some pleasantries, helped us out, and then went on their way. Frankly, I’m beginning to think the dangers of the countryside are greatly exaggerated when compared to the hazards of London. It was there I had my two encounters.”

It was true enough. Her abduction had not been a random event, but one arranged by Robert Hammond, and the only other highwaymen she’d met had been her man at arms Mr. Butcher, and her charming but fickle knight-errant, Jack.

Where are you, Jack Nevison? I should have heard something of you by now
. It was as though he had disappeared from the face of the earth. Perhaps he was traveling another road with another name. She hoped so. Better to think that. Better to feel anger than to fear he might lay wounded—or dead. It was a thought she resolutely turned aside.

“If it will ease you mind, Caroline, we will soon head for Ferrybridge and then on to York by coach. I am told the roads are flat and sandy and the way is clear. I have one small detour to make and we shall be on our way.”

Arabella’s small detour took her quite a few miles west and into Cheshire. There were several reasons to go. It was an important dairy region, famous for its cheese. Chester, on the banks of Dee, was home to the ruins of the Roman fortress Deva where King Arthur was said to have fought his ninth battle. The Dee itself was famous, or infamous, for its treacherous tides and constantly shifting sands, which were said to sometimes open and swallow a horse and rider, or even a carriage whole. Although that might be balderdash, there seemed no doubt the place was notorious for frequent drownings. The most important reason though, was to visit the small port town of Parkgate—the place where people embarked for Ireland.

Faced with a long detour to avoid the Saltney Marches or paying the heavy tolls to use the Dee Bridge, Arabella decided to ford the river at Shotwick. The tide was out, and there were still a few hours left in the day. As she waited by the bank for her guide she saw the sand stretched in front of her for miles, as smooth and hard packed as the best of any king’s road. The air tasted sharp and metallic and a wet breeze spayed her cheeks. Overhead gulls shrieked and cried.

Despite the reassuring scene, she had a queer feeling in the pit of her stomach and the small hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end. Her heart beat faster than was normal, and she had to slow her breathing and steady her hands as her horse began to prance. Her guide was a rough looking fellow with a split lip and broken nose, but he came well recommended. He looked her up and down and nodded.

“Right then... Be ready for anything. Follow me exactly, stay a length or two behind, and do just as I say. If I say stop, you stop. If the sand gives way beneath you and you go for a tumble, throw yourself flat. Make yourself as wide as can be and stay still. Remember ’tis easier to float on sand than on water. I’ll pull you up and out if I can. But not if you panic and thrash about. You do that and I’ll try my best to save myself, and you’ll sink beneath the sand and die. Ya got that, miss?”

“Yes. I’ve got it,” Arabella said with a determined nod. At least the fellow seemed to know what he was about.

“Not too late to change your mind.”

There was a lightness in her chest and a slight weakness in her limbs but it wasn’t unpleasant. Indeed all of her senses seemed heightened, and other than the times she’d spent with Jack, she’d never felt more alive.

“I am determined to go forward, sir,” she said.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged and started off across the sand and she followed two lengths behind.

Suit yourself?
Frankly she’d been hoping for something a little more inspiring.

They continued for at least a mile over tight packed sand, but as they approached the middle of the crossing a channel opened beneath them and Arabella and her horse were swept into a current pulling fast toward the sea. Her guide, already on the other side stood waiting with a length of rope in his hands but as her horse floundered for his footing he backed several steps away.

She couldn’t throw herself from her mount without landing in the water and being pulled under by her skirts. The wind had picked up and the sand was giving way on all sides now. Her horse could barely stand in water that was now chest deep. It was almost as if she watched from a distance. Everything was happening in slow motion.
Damnation! Am I going to die here? I’ve just started my adventure. This isn’t fair!

She fisted the reins in one hand and jerked her horse hard around so he was turned against the current instead of crosswise to it, then whacked him hard across the haunches when the next wave began to recede. He reared halfway out of the water and began to fall sidewise and she jumped from his back to the sand. The guide grabbed her by her collar hauling her back to more solid footing and with curses and brute force they got the shivering horse back onto his feet.

“Best we make a run for it, ma’am. The tide has turned, the nasty bitch. Nothing else for it now.”

Arabella dragged her horse behind her for several yards more, despite her sandy sodden skirts. When they reached better footing her guide boosted her into the saddle and they set off at a gallop for the shore.

When they reached the far bank she looked backed behind her. A wide swath of water had claimed the channel now.

“You did well, miss,” her burly guide said with a gruff nod.

Arabella shivered and rubbed her arms. “If not for you I’d be well out to sea, sir. I apologize, I never asked you your name.”

“It’s Mathew Mercer, miss. And who are you.”

“I am Arabella Hamilton, Mr. Mercer. I must say that was bracing! Do you know of a good inn on this side of the river? I’m famished and could use a good stiff drink.

He chuckled and she burst into laughter. She felt invincible, triumphant, and giddy with relief. Two meat pies later, after hours of conversation, she confided to him that she’d be taking the toll bridge home.

The next afternoon she she stood on the quay at Parkgate, watching as a ship disappeared into the mist.
I am here mother. It’s not time yet...but I promise I’ll be back soon.

~

After reclaiming her maid, Arabella sat by the fire in her dustcoat, booted feet crossed, drinking a brandy. She recounted some of what she’d learned from Mr. Mercer in her journal, but thought it best not to tell Caroline about crossing the Dee. She felt a kinship with Jack she’d not known before, though he was as far from her as ever. To stare down death and win was a heady thing.
It’s not about boredom or amusement. It’s about being truly, fully, completely alive.

They left the next morning shortly before dawn. Despite Caroline’s best efforts, Arabella shrugged into her dustcoat, wearing it over an unadorned tailored jacket and a simple skirt.

“My lady, York is a fine city. Perhaps I can find you something a little more fashionable to wear.”

“Thank you, Caroline. But I prefer utility and comfort over fashion, and in any case, I have it on very good authority that looking like you have nothing worth stealing is by far the best way to avoid being robbed.”

Just before Ferrybridge they passed through Pontefract, and stopped at the steep gorge known as Nevison’s Leap. To read about it was one thing, to see it quite another. It looked impossible. A jump that could only bring death. It would take a bold and fearless pair to brave it, an extraordinary horse and rider, and absolute trust between man and beast. Whatever her feelings toward Jack, Arabella could only shake her head with a rueful grin, and look on it with awe.

“I don’t think it’s possible, do you, my lady?” Caroline asked from behind her. “Not even Swift Nick and his devil horse could do that. He’d have to be able to fly. It’s a tall tale I expect, to bring people to the town.”

“I have no doubt he did it, Caroline. None at all.”

They stopped for the night in Ferrybridge, at The Angel Inn, a great rambling building, where they found a good cup of tea and well-aired beds. Like most of the inns they had visited, it was neat and well kept, with good furnishings and a civil host, but everything was on a much grander scale. The junction for routes to Edinburgh, Glasgow, Newcastle and Carlisle, it was also the rendezvous for private coaches that wished to join company with the regular coaches to make the trek to London.

Their host, Dr. Alderson, a dapper gentleman with a medical practice and his own coaches for hire, greeted them warmly, and after a hot meal and a pleasant chat about local points of interest, Arabella and a half-dozing Caroline were shown to a surprisingly comfortable bed.

The doctor extolled several healing spas and wells near York, and Arabella hoped a taste of their waters would revive her clearly flagging maid.
I shall have to turn back soon if they don’t.
She is not a natural traveler and it is my responsibility to see her safely home.

They had barely cleared the courtyard early the next morning when the coachman started cursing and the coach lurched from side to side. Arabella managed a quick look out the window. A fellow stood in the middle of the road, waving a plumed hat. The startled horses sat back on their haunches but the driver whipped them on. Nevertheless, they slowed enough for the man to pull open the door and deftly climb inside. As the coachman wrestled with the panicked animals the intruder tipped his hat and greeted them both with a devastating grin.

“This
is
the coach to York, is it not? How fortunate I caught it just in time.”

Arabella looked into dark expectant eyes. She didn’t know what he was asking for. Invitation? Welcome? Acknowledgement? All she knew was her heart had stopped and she couldn’t seem to breathe. It might have been shock, it might have been joy, it might have been anger. Whatever it was, it hurt.

He was richly dressed, in a claret-colored coat with lace at his throat. Black boots reached to his thighs, his black, silver-trimmed hat was tilted at a rakish angle, and he was carrying a brace of elaborately engraved, silver-inlayed pistols and an elegant Spanish rapier that glittered at his side. Tall, dark-haired, and very handsome, he resembled the broadsheet likeness to a marked degree. There was no mistaking who he was.