Chapter 22 #2
‘Thank you, Harris. I appreciate your concern, but if you were to go in there with me, and someone from the town were to recognise you, my identity would be revealed immediately.’ I gave him a wry smile. ‘Obviously, my husband has no such qualms, but I do.’
‘But madam…’
I gave him a flick of my eyes.
‘There is no arguing with you, is there, madam?’
‘No. There isn’t.’
Harris arranged his mouth into a tight line of disapproval and took my gloved hand as he assisted me down. ‘Promise me one thing, madam. Should you become frightened or feel threatened, you call for me immediately. Without hesitation.’
His stern, thin face melted a little under my smile. ‘I promise I will.’
I dipped my head and walked slowly towards the Jolly Jester, where shafts of light were creeping across the rough grass. The combined smell of sweat and cheap ale was overbearing.
A few enquiring heads turned towards me as I hovered by the entrance before stepping inside.
An assortment of hats and wigs bobbed in my line of sight.
A fiddler occupied one corner, thumping a scuffed shoe on the flagstone floor.
He played a frantic reel, promising to ensnare his wispy grey beard in his strings.
I pulled my eyes away from him and scanned the cluster of ruddy, jeering faces. My heart thudded with the vibrancy of the music. Resignation hit me before settling in my stomach.
There was Augustus, seated towards the back of the tavern. He had that foppish grey hat of his, perched down and over part of his face, presumably to try to protect his identity, but I knew it was him. A young, flame-haired woman, spilling out of a dirty pink gown, was perched on his lap.
Abhorrence swirled around inside of me. How could he do this so publicly? I knew of the rumours about his various indiscretions and was prepared to overlook them as long as he did not embarrass me or, more importantly, our son.
But this…
I watched with morbid fascination while the woman, her curls towering on her head and secured with snatches of rags, leaned into him and whispered something into his ear. Augustus threw back his head and roared with laughter.
Ignoring leers from two robust-looking men propped up against the bar, I made my way out.
The cool night air washed over my burning cheeks and the uproarious music gave way to the melodious crash of the waves on the vanilla beach below.
Harris hurried towards me, from where he had been tending to the horses. He raised one thick eyebrow at me.
Could I ever escape him? I thought not. My life felt as if it were tumbling around me. All I wanted was to be free of him. ‘Please take me home now, Harris.’
‘It would be my pleasure, madam.’
I felt great sweeping pangs of sympathy for poor Georgina and her son.
It must have been awful for her, trapped in a marriage like that and unable to do anything, for fear of being persecuted. The woman would be tainted, at that time, even though it was her husband’s behaviour that was to blame.
Mason flicked through more of the diary, his legs stretched out in front of him as he sat on my couch beside me. He proffered it to me again. ‘Now read this.’
3 January 1794
I know that it is wrong.
I know that I am a married woman with a young son, whom I adore more than anything.
Yet everywhere I turn, I see his eyes, as dark as the sea-soaked rocks of Port Starr.
This man has ruined me, but it is the sweetest sensation I have ever experienced.
‘Strong stuff,’ I murmured.
‘Keep reading,’ Mason urged beside me.
I turned my attention back to the yellowing pages; their edges crumpled like discarded leaves.
Was it fate that brought us together? Was it destined that this wonderful man should be brought into my life? He makes my heart clench with hunger, even if it is just the mere mention of his name.
That particular entry ended there.
Mason had marked the next section he wanted me to read with a sheaf of white paper. ‘This one is very interesting. It’s two months on from the one I just showed you.’
7 March 1794
He remains in my dreams, his horse standing solid and black against a curtain of mist, the air from his steed’s nostrils twisting like a grey snake in the winter air.
I watch him dismount, his dark cloak like a black cloud billowing around him.
I cannot see his face. It is concealed by a scarlet Venetian mask.
I insist I have nothing about my person of any value, but he simply shakes his head. His mouth slips into the faintest smile, before he disagrees and tells me never to say such a thing.
Before I can stop myself, I am in his arms, and he is tasting my mouth.
‘She was having an affair with the Scarlet Highwayman!’ I erupted. ‘Oh my God!’
Mason looked thoughtful. ‘Not definitively, I would say. She mentions the word “dreams” here. The poor woman was fantasising about him. No wonder. She must have been desperate for escapism, after marrying that cretin Lapley.’
‘I wonder if she was just fantasising.’ I pointed at the earlier entry dated 3 January.
‘I mean, the poor woman was obviously miserable, married to a total bastard. Perhaps writing diary entries like this, was a form of escapism for her.’ Part of me hoped she was having some passionate, illicit affair with the Scarlet Highwayman, though.
That would serve her obnoxious husband right.
I twisted round on the sofa. ‘Say she did meet our highwayman and they had an affair. It must have started towards the end of seventeen ninety-three.’
Mason picked up his coffee and cradled the mug again in his hands. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
I considered things for a moment. ‘I bet she was lovely but very lonely.’ I felt more bolts of sympathy for her. ‘I’ve always wondered how many highwaymen frequented these parts.’
Mason took another mouthful of his coffee. ‘Attacks by highwaymen took place all across the country and continued into the nineteenth century, but after about eighteen fifteen, their crimes became less frequent.’
I tucked my legs underneath me as I sat beside him. ‘Please tell me more about them.’
Mason gave an amused smile. ‘Okay. Well, there was one famous highwayman in particular called Claude Duval. He had a reputation for being a gallant and courteous rogue.’
‘Where?’
‘He used to haunt the roads of England.’
I rested my head on my hand, fascinated. ‘You describe him with a real sense of admiration.’
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ replied Mason. ‘He was the son of a French miller but gained employment as a footman to a nobleman when Charles II was restored to the throne.’
‘So, he learned to be a gentleman?’
‘Exactly.’ He drank some more of his coffee. ‘He was described as fashionably dressed, adored by women of all classes. He was also said to never use violence on his victims.’ Mason paused and regarded me with those mirror-like eyes of his. ‘Are you sure I’m not boring you?’
‘Certainly not!’
He raised a brow. ‘Okay. Well, just stop me if you find your brain starting to dribble out of your ear.’ He put his coffee mug back on the table.
‘History has it that on one occasion, he held up a coach occupied by a nobleman and his lady, and he invited the woman passenger to dance with him – which she did.’
I giggled. ‘Bloody hell! He must have had some guts.’
‘I’ll say. Duval became rather the stuff of legend.’
‘What happened to him?’
Mason sighed. ‘He was captured by the authorities when he got drunk one evening in a tavern. There were frantic efforts by ladies of the court and even Charles II himself to save Duval, but they all failed.’
‘And he was executed?’
He nodded. ‘He was hanged aged just twenty-seven.’
‘Good grief! He was only two years younger than I am now.’ I pushed my hair back over my shoulder. ‘Duval must have really made an impression in his short life.’
‘Very much so. At his execution, there was a large outpouring of grief and several prominent ladies who attended allegedly wore highwayman masks as a sign of their support and affection for him.’
I laid my head against the back of my sofa for a moment, digesting the images Mason had conjured up for me: a handsome highwayman twirling around a young woman as they danced on some windswept heath; thundering horses’ hooves as he pursued coaches to rob; sobbing, heartbroken women begging for mercy on his behalf, and ladies adorned in sumptuous gowns and highwayman masks dashing away their tears and showing their unity.
‘What are you thinking, Poppy?’ queried Mason.