The Highwayman Came Riding Read online

  “Why?”

  “It’s boring as hell. Full of gossips and drunks. Anybody who’s anybody moves away toot sweet.”

  “Tout de suite.”

  “What?”

  “I think you meant tout de suite. At once. It’s French.”

  Elias wrinkled his nose. “Highwayman speaks French, does he?”

  “That’s enough chitchat for now, I think,” the highwayman said. “I see you’re wearing yet another handsome outfit. Off with it.”

  “Aren’t you going to buy me a drink first?” Elias snapped.

  There was a thoughtful void before the highwayman spoke again. “I don’t think you realize what you sound like sometimes.”

  “I’ve a deficit of sight, not hearing, fool.”

  “It’s not whether you hear. It’s whether you understand.”

  “I know damn well what I sound like, Cynthia.”

  “My name isn’t Cynthia.”

  “Well, you haven’t told me what it is, despite your claim you want to be a gentlemanly highwayman, so I’ve made one up for you.”

  “Piss off.”

  “What an unusual name. Are you named after your father?”

  “You’re infuriating.”

  “Says the man who stripped me naked and had me parade my assets through town. I assure you, the feeling’s mutual!”

  “Do you always have to have the last word?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stop talking.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I told you to.”

  “Yes, I heard you the first time, but why?”

  “Because I’ve a pistol!”

  “Yes, and?”

  “And? And I’ll shoot you if you don’t shut up!”

  “Well, in that case I guess I’d better shut up, hadn’t I?”

  “Yes! Or by God, I’ll blow your pretty brains out!”

  “So you think my brains are pretty?”

  “Shut up!”

  He felt something hard and cold press into his forehead. He snapped his mouth shut and smirked.

  “Quit your smirking,” the highwayman ordered.

  Elias could not.

  “I said stop it.”

  Elias bit the insides of his cheeks.

  “Damn you.”

  Elias burst out laughing. The highwayman let him laugh until he was breathless.

  “What’s so funny?” the highwayman asked once Elias had stopped.

  “You haven’t shot me yet.”

  “Being alive is funny to you?”

  “No, life’s boring. I told you that already. It’s your attempt at intimidation that’s hilarious. Are you sure you’re a real highwayman? It feels more like you’re playing at being a highwayman.”

  “Give me your package.”

  “Er, easier said than done.”

  The bulky parcel was wrenched from Elias’s grasp. He staggered but remained upright.

  “God, this is as easy as stealing sweets from a baby.”

  “Do that often, do you?” Elias snarled. He was no longer amused. He was going to lose his job.

  “If the mood strikes me. Now take off your clothes.”

  Elias began undoing his cravat. “Can’t I at least keep my boots? My feet were all cut up by the time I got home last time. It took weeks for them to heal.”

  “It’s a shorter walk today.”

  “You have a spare pair of boots already. This is my last pair.” It was a lie, for he still had Mr. Scorsby’s old pair, but he was not thrilled by the idea of putting them on again.

  The highwayman considered his request. “Maybe. Let’s see what’s in the parcel first, hm?” There was the sound of tearing paper. “Oh my. This is very nice.”

  “What is it?” Elias asked in spite of himself as he pulled his shirt off over his head. This done, he reached down for his hat, which he had put at his feet, and found it was gone. Damn.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Elias felt into the void in front of him and grabbed the highwayman’s arm. It was solid and clad in a soft material. Velvet, perhaps? To his surprise, the highwayman did not jerk away. Elias felt his way down it until he reached the highwayman’s hands, then plucked the parcel’s contents from his fingers.

  “A book?” he asked, running his fingers down the spine. He flipped it open and leafed with an unfamiliar hand through the pages, which were cut.

  The highwayman took the book from him and cleared his throat. “There was something else in there.”

  “What?”

  “Hold out your hand.”

  Elias, shirtless but still wearing his boots and trousers, held out a hand. The highwayman deposited something cold in his palm. Elias clutched the metallic object, manipulating it between his fingers as he felt along a short chain and round, flat face.

  “Pocket watch,” he muttered. “A book and a pocket watch. Two things that are useless to me.”

  “Not much of a reader?”

  “Are you really that stupid, or is that an act too?” Elias demanded.

  “Oh.” The highwayman sounded remorseful.

  “Yes. Oh.”

  The highwayman took the watch from him. “Not that you can tell, but this watch will go splendidly with my waistcoat.”

  “I don’t give a damn. Just be gone. I’ll surely lose my job for this.”

  “It’s safer for you to stay home, anyway.”

  “Is that what you’re worried about? Poor Elias, wandering around the post roads, going to fall and twist his ankle? Best have him sacked so he doesn’t hurt himself? What a noble highwayman you are. You’d get along beautifully with Bess.”

  “Nice name.”

  “Fuck you, Cynthia.”

  “No, really. Elias. Anyone ever call you Eli?”

  “No.”

  “Then I shall be the first.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Take your trousers off, Eli.”

  Elias had to take his boots off to step out of his trousers, which was an awkward thing to do. He swayed once he got one foot free, reached out, and seized the highwayman’s arm again. Perhaps he had proffered it. “I’ll twist my ankle if you don’t hold me up,” Elias said. The highwayman stood still as Elias removed his boots, then squirmed out of his trousers.

  “Your feet are all scabby.”

  “Yes because I walked miles barefoot on a stony road after you stole my boots last time!” They itched like the devil.

  The highwayman made a throaty sound. “You can keep your boots.” Was that remorse in his voice?

  “What charity! Thank you, kind sir!” Eyes closed, Elias turned his face to the sky. “Cynthia, I will keep you in my prayers!”

  “All right, that’s enough.”

  “A saint, a true saint.”

  “Enough.”

  “Bless you, Cynthia, bless you, and your mother, and your father—”

  “Shut up!” The highwayman sounded genuinely annoyed.

  Elias stopped talking and stood still, naked. It was colder than the last time he had been robbed, and he shivered.

  “I’ll help you get your boots on,” the highwayman offered after a moment. His tone was apologetic.

  “Saint Cynthia. An example to us all.”

  It was awkward and the highwayman’s soft hair grazed Elias’s thigh as he knelt and helped him into his boots, but they managed.

  “There,” the highwayman said softly. “No more cut feet.”

  “I will never be able to repay you for your kindness.”

  “I can think of a few ways.”

  Elias took a step backward. “Aren’t you going to take off on your high horse now? The longer you stay here, the more likely you’ll be caught in the act. How do you think people would feel about you taking advantage of a poor blind boy?”

  “One as cocky as you? They’d think you’d got your due.”

  “Trust me, I’m the little darling of Kitwick. Any crime against me is an affront to the whole village.”

/>   “Good thing I’ve no plans to go there soon.”

  “Good for you, good for me. Now piss off.”

  “The name’s Augustus, by the way,” the highwayman said, swinging into the saddle.

  “Awfully fancy name for a highwayman.” This comment was met with silence. “You seem more like a Gus to me.”

  “No, that’s not my—”

  “Bye, Gus.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Oh-vwa, Gus.”

  “Well, not really, because au revoir actually translates to ‘until the re-seeing’, but as you can’t see—”

  Elias lost all patience. “Good day, Gus!” he snarled.

  “How kind, I do hope you have a splendid day as well—”

  “Fuck off already!” Elias yelled. “If you wanted me to have a good day, you would not have stolen my clothes, surely cost me my job, and threatened to shoot me in the head. Now be gone, you loathsome whoreson windsucker!”

  “Wind, no, but perhaps wood.” And then Augustus was gone.

  Elias stood in the road for several minutes before he turned on his heel and ambled back the way he had come. With a sheepish mew and a light pressure against his boot, Lord Nelson rejoined him about a mile from Kitwick.

  “Where were you when I needed you?” he grumbled. “Damn cat. You’ve the attention span the size of a thimble.”

  Chapter Four

  Elias had barely been in Kitwick five minutes before Bess found him. The town clock was ringing four when he heard her hasty approach.

  “Was it the same man?” she demanded, clutching his elbow.

  “Do you know of any other highwaymen who delight in stripping their victims and having them waltz into town bare-assed?” he hissed, trying to ignore the startled and teasing comments following them.

  “It was nice of him to let you keep your boots, at least.”

  “Nice! Easy for you to say when you’re not tits to the wind!”

  “You’re right. We’re reporting him.”

  “No. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Elias!” Mrs. Scorsby. He felt something flutter over his shoulders, and he clutched it around him. She had come rushing with another sheet. “Heavens above, he took your clothes again?”

  “Yes.”

  “What a despicable fellow! I don’t suppose he took the post again too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear. Perhaps don’t come round until I’ve spoken with Mr. Scorsby. He’ll need to be buttered up a bit before he deals with the news.”

  “All right.”

  “We’re going to report this business straight away,” Bess cut in. “We can stop by after that.”

  “We are? We will?” Elias snapped. Mrs. Scorsby hurried off. “To whom will we report this, pray tell?”

  “Mr. Sweeton.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Goodness, haven’t I mentioned him? He’s Kenneth Davies’s new beau. He’s a redcoat. His aunt’s the dowager seamstress Mrs. John Rowan, and he’s in town visiting her.” So that was where they were headed. Elias had known Bess was not leading him to the Peach and Pear. Lord Nelson padded at his side, his fluffy tail brushing Elias’s knee every few steps.

  Elias remembered Mrs. John Rowan; she was half-deaf and had tailored his best coat for him. The coat the highwayman now had. “Kenneth Davies has a beau?” How anyone found him attractive, Elias could not fathom.

  “As of two weeks ago, yes.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Kitty Moreton.”

  “How does she know?”

  “Caught them at it.”

  “At what?”

  “Never you mind, my darling little brother.”

  “Bess, you’re but two minutes my senior, and I’m more than a head taller than you. I’m not your little brother.”

  Bess gave a tinkling laugh and touched his elbow. “Come, we shall have you introduced to the reportedly well-endowed Mr. Sweeton. What do you think?”

  “Wonderful,” Elias muttered. “May I at least get dressed?”

  “No. You’re more pathetic in a sheet. It’ll make him take you seriously.”

  “Bess, I’ve walked naked through town once today already.”

  “So you can do it again. Come, brother, let’s to Mrs. John Rowan’s.”

  Elias let her lead him down the dusty road to Mrs. John Rowan’s, the tittering of the village girls ringing in his ears. Bess shot a few well-worded insults at them, and their exclamations fell to whispers. Eyes closed against the sun, Elias held his head high and tried not to let the sheet drop from his shoulders.

  “Father says Mr. Sweeton came to the tavern the other day while you were out,” Bess said, once the girls had fallen away.

  “What’d he order?”

  “Ale.”

  “Typical.”

  “You always were one to judge a man by his drink.”

  “Hmm…”

  “What’s ale say to you?”

  “Common. Boring. Prone to public drunkenness.”

  “We’ll see whether you change your mind,” Bess said, amusement in her voice.

  “Doubtful.”

  When they reached Mrs. John Rowan’s doorstep, Bess poked him in the ribs. “Open your eyes up and get a bit teary.”

  “Fuck’s sake, Bess, no.”

  “Please?”

  “I’m blind and naked already. Do I need to be sniveling like a little girl too?”

  “He’s fond of Kenneth Davies, so it might help.”

  “No!”

  Bess knocked on the door. It creaked open a few moments later.

  “Why, if it isn’t Bess and Elias Burgess! But Elias, child, where are your clothes? I tailored you a coat not ten months ago. You can’t be telling me you have no clothes.”

  “They were stolen, Mrs. Rowan,” Elias said.

  “Eh?”

  “Stolen,” Elias shouted.

  “Stolen? Off your back?”

  “Yes, ma’am, on my way to Mitton.”

  “Bless you, child, you suffer like no other. Come inside, come inside.” Bess led him inside the house. He tripped over the threshold, the sheet falling from his shoulder and opening at his waist. Bess tightened her grip on his elbow and kept him from falling. Mortified, Elias wrenched his sheet tighter over his middle.

  He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. The floor creaked.

  “And who’s this?” a deep, masculine voice intoned. It was powerful, but muted; the fabrics of Mrs. John Rowan’s shop absorbed a lot of sound. It must belong to Mr. Sweeton. Christ, Elias thought. He has a nice voice. And he likes men. And I just flashed him.

  “Bess and Elias Burgess, Charles,” Mrs. John Rowan explained. “Their father owns the Peach and Pear. This is my nephew, Charles Sweeton of the Mitton militia,” she said to Elias and Bess. “He’s come to visit for a few weeks on leave.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Bess said sweetly.

  Elias felt Bess curtsy at his side, so he nodded in a subtle bow. He did not want to risk the sheet falling open again.

  “Do you think the cat can wait outside?” Mr. Sweeton asked. “They tend to make me sneeze.”

  “No,” Elias began.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Bess prevented him from speaking further. Lord Nelson mewed in protest as she lifted him. “You’ll have to excuse my brother his poor manners and attire,” she said once Lord Nelson had been relegated to the garden. “He’s blind. This is the reason for his poor manners.” Elias tossed his head in annoyance but said nothing. “His attire is the fault of a highwayman, I’m afraid.”

  “Indeed?” Mr. Sweeton asked. He sounded thoughtful. Elias heard him walk closer and stop a few feet in front of him. He smelled of horse and boot polish. “I don’t suppose you know what your assailant looked like?”

  “Looked like? No. Obviously not,” Elias said, his lip curling. “Sounded like? A young man, maybe one and twenty. Mitton-raised, though wealthy, for he ha
d a touch of London in his accent. I’d know his voice anywhere. Pollen doesn’t agree with him. Lived in or next to a bakery.” He did not mention his name because he did not believe the highwayman had given his real one.

  There was a long pause.

  “I see what your eyes can’t do, your other senses compensate for,” Mr. Sweeton remarked.

  “Don’t make me laugh,” Elias snapped, mirthless. “I still need my sister to lead me around by the elbow and wipe my chin.”

  There was another moment of silence. “Forgive me,” Mr. Sweeton said, sounding humbled. He moved closer. “I fear I have offended you.”

  “He’s always like this,” Bess began, as Elias said, “Treat me as you would anyone else, and you’ll manage well enough.”

  “The poor dear’s probably exhausted after his ordeal,” Mrs. John Rowan said. “Would you care for a cup of tea? Charles and I were about to tuck in.”

  “Yes please,” Bess said, yanking Elias forward with her. When they went into the back of the shop where Mrs. John Rowan lived, Bess pulled out a chair for him. He made his way carefully, still mindful of keeping his parts covered as he sat. The others sat too, and Mrs. John Rowan poured the tea.

  “Where are you from?” Mr. Sweeton asked. When Bess did not answer, Elias realized he must be addressing him.

  “Kitwick core, born and bred,” he said, reaching for his teacup. He fumbled it, put the tip of his finger into the top to gauge the depth of tea, then pulled the cup closer to him as he waited for it to cool.

  “It’s a lovely village. I have nothing but fond memories of coming to visit Aunt Alice and Uncle John as a boy.”

  “It is a miserable place, and you should consider yourself lucky you spent only a few summer weeks here.”

  “Elias!” Bess hissed.

  “What? You agree with me.”

  “You’ll have to excuse my brother,” Bess said for the second time that visit. “He has a queer sense of humor.”

  “It’s fine. I like his humor,” Mr. Sweeton said. Elias heard him sip his tea. As a rule, he disliked noisy eaters and drinkers, for they masked conversation. But Mr. Sweeton’s voice was enough to make Elias ignore his dining shortcomings.

  “This highwayman,” Mrs. John Rowan said, “was he aware you were blind?”

  “Yes,” Elias snapped. “Anyone can tell by looking at my eyes they’re sightless. He considered it a plus. Blind men can’t give physical descriptions. No posters can go up with his face on them.”