Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Three months and one unimpressive highwayman until the wedding
I t seemed onions really did possess some beneficial powers.
Not only because their pungent scent helped to soothe Phoebe’s queasy stomach somehow, but because they negated the need to explain her retreat inside Fred’s hat for the next leg of the journey.
The spinning rooms, the viscount’s condemnation, the landlord’s expulsion – it was all too much – especially since her head pounded like a storm over Haytor. So after claiming fatigue with her loud and cheerful companions, she lay back and pulled Fred’s hat low over her eyes. And this time she didn’t mind the jolt of the wheels, at all. The only thing she could think was how her mouth tasted like the skin of a wizened apple, and her stomach was threatening to empty itself at any given moment.
Phoebe stifled a groan, grateful for every draught in the overstuffed coach, as her head bulged with all the stories her brothers had told about the devilish effect of too much liquor. At the time she’d thought them exaggerating or trying to impress her, but now she knew they were being entirely honest, and silently she berated herself for not being more cautious. The only drink she’d ever been allowed to sip at home was ratafia, and even that had given her the bellyache. It was while she was mulling over all the things she’d like to say to her brothers about their very poor life choices, that she at last slid into a lucid sleep – featuring oxen and bunions – and where she might have remained quite contentedly, had a rough lurch not shaken her awake a while later.
Reluctantly, Phoebe peeled her eyes open, though both felt weighed down by a stone apiece. The afternoon light was beginning to fade, and most of her fellow passengers were looking as dishevelled as she felt. She blinked, aware of a dull throbbing at the back of her head. Somehow, and against all the odds, she’d slept for the entire afternoon.
‘Have we reached Bristol yet?’ she murmured, noticing the severe-looking gentleman was now stretched out like a basking lizard, and using a worn Bible as a night mask.
‘Bristol? I wished we ’ad!’
Flora’s moan was loud enough to stir the rest of the dozing passengers, while Phoebe watched the severe-looking gentleman snort the Bible off his face, and catch it in his lap.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, trying to ignore a painful rise of laughter.
‘Listen!’ Effie hushed, her eyes as large as side plates.
It was only at this point that Phoebe became glaringly aware that the coach was entirely stationary, in the middle of an empty road, with the winter light fading fast around them. Briefly, she recalled the lurch, and wondered if they hadn’t landed in a ditch, or been forced to stop and fix a wheel.
Which was when she heard voices.
‘I said open the door, and no one gets hurt!’
‘I will not! The safety of passengers is my responsibility, and I must warn you that at this very moment, my rear coachman has a blunderbuss aimed?—’
‘Then accept my commiserations!’
There was a poignant moment when a single shot rang out, and then another, before a heavy silence descended. Effie clamped her hand to her mouth, muffling a bat-like shriek, while the rest of the passengers seemed undecided as to whether to cling to one another, or run for their lives.
And all the while, Phoebe’s thoughts ran wild.
A highwayman! An actual, real highwayman was holding up their coach!
Suddenly, all the stories she’d ever read about courageous heroines who refused to give up their jewels, before stealing away on the highwayman’s horse, chased through her head – framed by the scent of real musket fire. She imagined Sophie’s wide-eyed drama, the twins’ grins of excitement, Matilda’s envy, Josephine’s cursory glance, Fred’s mild concern, and Thomas – well, Thomas being Thomas, really – all while her own feelings remained somewhat unidentifiable.
It crossed her mind that she might still be under the influence of Briggs’s deceptively intoxicating brew, but she didn’t allow the thought to linger.
Now was not the moment for her courage to buckle!
This was exactly the type of adventure for which she’d yearned, while curled up with her favourite tales of historical heroines. It was a moment to face with fortitude and wit – a story of heroism with which to regale Josephine and Matilda when she returned to Knightswood.
She drew a deep breath.
‘Has anyone got a weapon?’ she whispered into the gloom.
It seemed as though all the occupants turned simultaneously, but Phoebe wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t some remnant of her double vision.
‘A Bible?’
‘My basket?’
‘How about a sword, dear?’
At this, everyone turned again towards a slight lady in a corner of the coach, who hadn’t spoken a word for the entire journey. She looked around sixty years of age, wore a flocked dress with a grey shawl and felt bonnet, and was tapping an unremarkable umbrella on the floor in front of her. Phoebe felt her flicker of hope gutter instantly. She looked the very last person in the world to own a sword.
‘Come again?’ Flora asked doubtfully.
‘Well, technically speaking, it’s a dress sword,’ the lady enunciated carefully, as though they were all hard of hearing. Swiftly, she twisted the handle of her unremarkable umbrella to reveal a glinting épée concealed at its centre. ‘Miss Sarah Siddons, daughter of Roger Kemble and Sarah Ward, at your service,’ she added, with a wink.
Immediately there was a low gasp, followed by a hushed mutter, as the travellers realised they had theatrical royalty in their midst.
‘Did you say you’re the daughter of the esteemed actors Roger Kemble and Sarah Ward?’ the severe looking gentleman repeated, while Effie’s eyes widened so much she put Phoebe in mind of one of the twins’ toads.
Edward and Henry were thirteen, and keen zoologists. Thankfully, they were much more like Fred than Thomas, if rather too keen on bringing their studies into the library.
‘Yes, dear, one and the same! Now, do you want the épée or not?’ she added, offering the handle to Phoebe.
‘Oh, what a brave young gentl’man you is!’ Effie wailed, clutching her hands together in the style of a renaissance maiden. ‘See, Ma! Didn’t I say he wasn’t three sheets to the wind?! He’s as noble a young gentl’man as I ever knew – and now he could perish protecting us… Oh, please don’t perish protecting us, it would break me ’art!’
Phoebe stared in horror as Effie began to sob. Great big shoulder-shaking sobs that rocked the whole coach as its occupants waited expectantly.
‘I assure you, Effie,’ she began awkwardly, ‘I very much intend not to perish at all?—’
But whatever else she was about to say was lost, as she was yanked, unceremoniously, from her seat, and into the wintry eve. Phoebe spun instinctively, theatrical épée outstretched – offering silent thanks that she’d always bested Fred at swordplay – to find herself, for the very first time in her very tedious life, face to face with a real highwayman.
And he was quite the disappointment.
Not only was he not at all tall, rugged, or even the remotest bit enigmatic, he also had the audacity to be smirking! She ran her gaze over his fair hair and grubby clothing, before spying his equally unimpressive second, standing a short distance away with a horse.
‘Where are the coachmen?’ she demanded, conscious her fellow travellers were jostling for the best view out of the coach window.
‘Watching the inside of their eyelids!’ her adversary grinned.
Phoebe glanced in the direction of his nod, and spied two trussed figures lying in the grass behind his friend.
‘Temporarily,’ he added with a shrug.
A surge of annoyance coursed through her as she took a step closer, angling the épée, confident she had shaken the worst of her haze.
‘Untie them!’ she demanded.
She wasn’t sure why she was quite so angry, except that this rogue was tarnishing the reputation of all highwaymen, and didn’t deserve to be holding up coaches. He wasn’t even wearing a proper mask! His was made from old sackcloth, and dirty around the edges. Highwayman indeed, she’d met fiercer chickens!
He laughed and stepped closer.
‘Make me?’ he smirked, pulling a hand from behind his back to reveal a smoking musket.
‘With pleasure!’ Phoebe threw, lunging and flicking his musket into the long grass with one swift manoeuvre.
She allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction; it was as much a surprise to her as her grubby-masked opponent that one of Fred’s disarming moves had worked so well.
‘Hey!’ The highwayman scowled, starting after it, but Phoebe followed up too quickly, pressing him back.
‘Why doesn’t he take off his hat?’ someone muttered.
‘Macassar oil!’ Effie and her mother chimed, just as her adversary stumbled backwards and found himself prostrate, with the tip of Phoebe’s dress sword pressed firmly against his open neck.
‘You were saying?’ she asked, scowling.
There was such a gasp of admiration from Effie, that Phoebe felt a brief moment of triumph. She couldn’t wait to relate the whole affair to her sisters. It was the finest moment of her life, and they would all live off the drama for months.
‘I said … make me!’ he growled, reaching out to snatch up another sword thrown by his second.
Instantly, Effie filled the wintry air with one of her loudest shrieks.
‘Oh, no! He’s going to run the young gentl’man through! My heart will be broke in two, like in one of them fancy plays!’ she moaned, clutching her chest.
This was followed by a loud chorus of sympathy, from which Phoebe could only conclude that everyone shared exactly the same degree of faith in her skill.
Briefly, she considered declaring her inferior weapon as a point of honour, but then the highwayman was upon her, thrusting his sword so vehemently that her own theatrical counterpart shuddered under the strain.
She gritted her teeth and parried with all her strength, determined not to lose to a blackguard who set such a terrible example for all highwaymen, when she heard the distant echo of galloping horses.
‘Go at dusk, they said … it’ll be quiet, they said…’ the highwayman grumbled as the soft thunder grew louder beneath the pale and wintry sky.
‘It’s like Taunt’n High Street on bleedin’ Market Day!’
He started forward again, his thrusts and swipes wilder and more urgent than before.
‘Come on, Will!’ his second called nervously, already astride his mare.
‘This one ain’t worth it!’
‘Yes! Come on, Will, be off wiv you!’ Effie’s mother reprimanded bravely. ‘Otherwise, it’ll be the gallows for you an’ no mistake!’
There was a clamour of agreement which left no one in any doubt that the rest of the passengers were feeling just as emboldened, and only fuelled Phoebe’s determination further. Will had proven himself to be an entirely unworthy, sorry excuse for a highwayman, and deserved to be pinked by a girl , as Fred would say.
And then there was the no small consideration that he seemed just as intent on winning as she was.
She steadied her arm and met each of his strikes squarely, but it was clear he had the advantage. Strike by strike, he drove her back into the shadow of a large oak, his copper eyes glinting above the grubby edges of his mask, until finally, one wild swipe removed the entire length of her blade from its hilt altogether. There was a brief awed silence as everyone turned to watch its silvery flight across the grass, and then the whole of her right side was consumed by fire.
Bemused, Phoebe fell back into the long grass and inhaled sharply. The tip of Will’s sword was buried in the shoulder seam of Fred’s shirt, while a scarlet stain was spreading around it. Hazily, she thought of the scolding Martha would give her for ruining one of the good shirts, as Effie shrieked loudly enough for them all. Then everyone turned as a newcomer drew up, and the air filled with the distinctive stride of an incoming hero – sword in hand, dark face scowling.
‘A hero that looks more like the highwayman than the highwayman!’ she muttered, just as Will retrieved his sword, making the flames leap higher still.
‘You … cur!’ she yelled, deriving no small amount of satisfaction from the way the word rolled off her tongue.
Little wonder Fred used it so often.
Instantly, there was a loud clamour of support from the coach party, along with a pitiful plea from Effie to leave the poor gentl’man be , while Will took off across the grass towards his horse.
Phoebe watched his departure with an odd mix of relief and disappointment. She’d been bested by the worst highwayman in Taunton, in front of a home crowd, while her hair had seen fit to become irretrievably embroiled with a tree root.
Cursing, she tugged hard and finally felt her pins give way, leaving her wild tresses to tumble down at exactly the same moment the incoming hero stepped into blurry view.
‘Looking for this?’ he asked, offering Fred’s hat in an oddly familiar way.
She nodded, her senses swimming as his face came closer. Too close for her not to realise that she actually did know him, somehow.
‘It’s … you!’ she accused, as a sudden pressure set her shoulder throbbing with a fresh fire.
‘Indeed,’ he returned, his perfect eyebrows arching quizzically. ‘I believe we had the pleasure back at The Swan, Mr…?’
Phoebe stared, trying to fight the most alarming realisation. She couldn’t really believe it – life couldn’t be so unfair – and yet he possessed the very same icy glint.
‘Alfred,’ she squeaked in a strangled tone, conscious the entire coach party were approaching, and she looked the most unlike Fred she’d looked since leaving Knightswood that morning.
The viscount frowned as he leaned closer and sniffed sharply, making Phoebe cringe despite the pain engulfing her shoulder.
‘Well, then, Mr Alfred , you appear to have sustained an injury to your shoulder, which is bleeding quite profusely, and undoubtedly worsened by your recent over-indulgence in Briggs’s devil’s brew .’
He paused to raise his thick, supercilious eyebrows.
‘Fortunately, my home is but a short distance from here and once the physician has attended, we can send word to your family.’
Phoebe stared defiantly, despite the scorching pain and mist of faces around the viscount’s head. He might have been issuing curt instructions for a lame horse, and yet she had sense enough to know she had little choice too.
She exhaled in frustration. So much for finding her inner heroine, she’d barely found her way out of Devon. Yet there was something else, too, a strange mix of feelings she barely recognised at all. It was only her first day, and she’d been drunk, thrown out of an inn, fought a real-life highwayman, and now , rescued by the most dislikable gentleman of her new acquaintance. It couldn’t be further from the heroic tale of adventure she’d imagined – and yet she’d never felt more alive.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured in her most Fred-like tone, before she mustered what was left of her dignity, and passed out.