"Have y’ got far to travel, ma’am?”
Amy looked up from her steak and ale pie with its accompaniment of fresh greens and regarded the innkeeper with cursory interest. He was fair washing his hands with anxiety, or so it seemed, and she wondered what the cause of his worry might be. Surely not the food – which, though simple, was tasty and nourishing. The glass of madeira that had been provided with her meal was a little below par, but then she didn’t expect any better from a coaching-inn.
She set down her knife and fork and dabbed daintily at her lips before she replied. “We should reach York by nightfall.”
The innkeeper looked even more concerned. “It be three of the clock already, ma’am – the light is failing, and this close to the coast and at this time of year, there’s some hellish fog that comes a-rollin’ in. It’s a dangerous road, and what with you being a lady on her own…”
He glanced at the rings on her hands and looked doubtful, probably wondering where her chaperone was; but he was too polite to voice this aloud.
“My coachman is very good. I have no fears for my safety,” she said airily, picking up her cutlery again.
The innkeeper nodded swiftly. “Surely, ma’am… but there’s highwaymen about these parts, and vicious swine they are, too.”
“Highwaymen!” Amy stabbed at the pie. “A despicable breed, truly – but I am not afraid of those scoundrels.”
“I only mention it, ma’am, because – well, if you were wanting to travel in the morning, there is a room here that might suit you,” the innkeeper offered, bowing.
“No, no – we shall press on, regardless of highway brigands. I have business in York this night, and it cannot wait,” she said. “I thank you for your kindness, but I am no milksop to be frightened or overset by the threat of robbery.”
The innkeeper muttered and hurried away to attend to a finely-dressed couple that entered the premises, and Amy was left alone in the parlour to enjoy the rest of her meal. She glanced out of the lead-paned window, noting that the innkeeper had been right – the light was becoming dim as the afternoon faded. Within two hours, dusk would be upon the land. She shivered slightly, more in response to the idea of autumn drawing in so quickly than from any terror of what might lie ahead on the roads.
She stayed for another fifteen minutes more until a servant-girl came by to set and light the fire in the grate. The sound of the tinder catching and the scent of woodsmoke reminded Amy even more sharply of the close of the year, and suddenly she yearned for an end to her journey and the warmth of her home. Quickly, she rose from the table and handed some coins to the servant; then she collected her short velvet jacket and slipped it on, finally picking up her bonnet and settling it in place atop her head, fastening the pale lavender ribbon beneath her chin jauntily.
The innkeeper glanced over at her as she left the parlour, and called out, “If y’ won’t change your mind, ma’am – then, safe journey.”
“Thank you,” she acknowledged, and then she was out of the doors and in the yard, looking around for her coachman.
Ralf was gathered with the rest of the drivers, footmen and grooms around a brazier near the stables of the inn, but he came dutifully enough when she summoned him. He had been in her employ only a twelvemonth, and seemed eager enough to please. He was also skilled in handling the coach-and-four, and got a speed out of them that her previous driver, Hill, had been unable to.
Now, as he opened the door of the coach and pulled down the fold-away steps so she could climb inside, Ralf said, “They say there’s highwaymen on the turnpike.”
Amy rested her hand in his and gathered her skirts high enough that he could just glimpse a flash of ankle above her dainty shoes.
“There’s always highwaymen on the turnpike.”
“Some say that there’s a ghostly one that comes out of the fog on a white horse, then he disappears all of a sudden,” Ralf continued as she stepped inside the coach and rearranged her skirts.
“A white horse? How romantic. But not very practical, for a highwayman. Black horses are so much better for getaways, surely,” she remarked idly, setting her arm upon the open window-ledge when he’d shut the door tightly.
Ralf followed her gaze to the four black horses that stood waiting patiently in the traces, and he smiled up at her. “Yes, m’lady.”
“Let’s be on our way, Ralf. York by nightfall, or I’ll dock your wages.”
He bowed swiftly, then was gone. She heard him swing himself up onto the high seat at the front of the coach, and then there was the crack of the whip and the team set off, clattering across the cobbled yard and away from the safety of the inn.
At first, the afternoon was pleasant: the weather held for another hour more, and they made good time along the main road. At length, though, Ralf shouted that there appeared to be a diversion from the turnpike and that he would have to take one of the narrower local roads. This proved to be little more than a dirt track, its potholes filled with loose chippings at first, but increasingly without any attempt at all at repair. The coach jolted along, the springs rattling and the wheels groaning every time one caught a rut. Amy shifted from one corner of the coach to the other, trying to get comfortable. The square jewel-case that she’d hidden beneath the seats slid free, the clasp jumping open to spill the necklaces and rings and other jewellery across the floor.
She cursed and tried to kneel down, smoothing her skirts out of the way as she attempted to collect up the jewellery. As she piled the items back into the box, Amy found herself deciding which pieces she would keep and which would go elsewhere. Just as she shut the clasp again and shoved the box beneath the seat, the coach rolled to a halt.
Amy scrambled back into a sitting position and looked out of the window. “Ralf, what’s wrong?”
“There’s someone on the road ahead of us, ma’am,” he replied evenly.
The track was barely wide enough for the coach, so she wondered how they would be able to let the approaching horsemen come by. She leaned out a little further, narrowing her eyes against the glare of the setting sun.
“Can they pass us?” she asked.
Ralf coughed. “I don’t think they want to, ma’am. I think they’re highwaymen.”
The sound of a bullet whining past confirmed his guess. Amy ducked back inside the coach, her heart racing, and she used her foot to push the jewellery-box even further beneath the seat. It was the first place a thief would look, but in order to do so, he’d have to take his eyes off her – and she would be ready for him.
Satisfied that the box couldn’t be seen from above, she sat back on the opposite seat and waited. She heard hoofbeats and then a challenge from the road. Ralf responded readily enough, calling abuse at the ruffians who dared to waylay them. Amy edged towards the window again and peeked out. One of the blackguards had a chestnut mount, a nervous filly that whickered at the four black stallions that drew her coach. The rider of the filly held a blunderbuss pointed at Ralf while the other highwayman cantered nearer on a pure white gelding.
Amy stared in disbelief, recalling her earlier words at the inn. Romantic, she’d said it was, to ride a white horse – but the reality was somewhat different. Only a man supremely certain of himself could hope to evade detection on a white horse.
Or maybe he chose his mount because it provided such a dramatic foil to his clothes. Like his colleague, he wore a long black cape that swirled as he slid from the saddle, and then he flung it back over his shoulders to reveal the rest of his attire – all as black as his cloak.
She looked at him with interest. Long leather boots shone softly in the muted light beneath tight breeches, over which he wore a plain dark cotton shirt that laced across his broad chest. She could just about make out the slight roughening of hair where the laces crossed, and so jerked her gaze upwards to continue her perusal. He wore a velvet redingote with silver frogging, and she couldn’t help but notice too that the coat was a little strained across his shoulders. The lower part of his face was covered with a black neckerchief, but his eyes were very blue, bright with mischief as he faced her. His hair was dark, short and rumpled beneath the tricorn hat he swept off his head when he saw her at the coach window.
“Your servant, ma’am,” he said respectfully, bowing from the waist.
“I didn’t think highwaymen were anybody’s servants,” Amy retorted.
“Highwaymen? But that’s such a common term.” He sounded offended, straightening himself up and drawing closer. “I prefer to think of myself as… a pirate of the turnpikes.”
“That sounds slightly more impressive,” she agreed as seriously as she could.
His eyes twinkled as if he found her amusing, then he lifted his gloved hands and drew a flintlock from his belt, levelling it at her with a flourish. “And we all know that pirates – and highwaymen – like booty… so hand it over, ma’am.”
Amy affected surprise. “I can assure you that I have nothing of value with me.”
His eyebrows tilted. “Oh? What about your rings? They’d fetch a pretty penny.”
