The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (32 page)

Walter's features contorted until he looked more like one of the Minster's stone gargoyles than human flesh. “I don't care what you say, you scheming bitch. Your lover is a ghost. Try lying with him now!”

Through the carriage window, Elizabeth glimpsed a second coach, coming up fast on the outside. The coachman and guard, all bundled against the weather, perched like gnomes atop the coach box. Lamps pierced the darkness like dragon eyes. As the coach flew past, Elizabeth heard the creak of springs, the thud of wheels, and the snap of the driver's whip. She saw sparks spray from the horses' hooves, like fireflies on a summer night.

A motion inside the carriage caught her eye. Across from her, Walter's snuff-stained fingers raised a flask of whiskey to his lips.

Knees tightly clenched together, she stared out the window again, but this time the view was as dark and formless as her thoughts. What was today? She struggled to remember. The days blurred together, so it was difficult to believe that Rand had only been dead three… nay, four days.

“There's a hound called Padfoot that haunts the wilds of Yorkshire,” she said. “He has fiery eyes and appears on nights like this, on country lanes and lonely roads. He lopes alongside solitary travelers who should be at home. I wonder if Padfoot might be out there, watching us.”

“Don't be so macabre.” Walter sneezed luxuriously. “I'm not in the mood for it.”

The coach began the steep climb up the hill to the White Hart. In a few more minutes she would be rid of Walter forever, but Elizabeth couldn't even muster the appropriate relief.

Opening his snuffbox, Walter removed yet another pinch. He sniffed, leaned back, and closed his eyes. In a quiet voice, he said, “I still envy him.”

“Who?”

“Your highwayman. I'm jealous that he could arouse such devotion in you. I wanted to make you appreciate me, perhaps even love me. I never meant you any harm.”

Elizabeth winced.

“I feel old,” Walter continued, “old and tired. So tired…” His voice faded. “I've battled criminals for more years than I can count, lived by my wits so long I've forgotten how to relax. I've fought my way to prosperity, but I've done things for which I'm ashamed, especially concerning you.”

Unaccountably, Elizabeth's eyes misted. It was so easy to apologize, but how could Walter take back all the humiliations? How could he take back Rand's strangulation?

Not that Walter alone was to blame, she reminded herself, feeling once again the dread that had kept her from confessing her guilt. Yet she knew that Rand had entered into a love affair with Death long before she—or even Walter Stafford—happened along.

“What will you do now?” Walter asked.

She rubbed a hand across her forehead. “I don't know.”

“I received the customary forty pounds for Remington's capture, Elizabeth. I'll give it to you.”

She was too exhausted to feel insulted. “I don't need money. And even if I did—”

“I'll bring the money by tomorrow.”

“Please don't.”

They approached the White Hart. A lamp burned inside the stable, its light spilling into the yard. The coach that had earlier passed them was parked nearby. A preoccupied Tim was leading the fatigued horses toward the stable, conversing with them in a soothing manner. Tim's footprints and the horses' hooves disturbed the dusting of snow upon the cobblestones.

Elizabeth quickly stepped down from the carriage before Walter had a chance to help her. Leaning out the window, he said, “Until tomorrow.”

“No!” she cried, but her voice was lost in the clatter of hooves and the scrape of wheels.

Once alone, she allowed the feel of the inn to settle upon her. A chill wind off the moors whipped her cloak, unbound her neat club of hair, and stung her cheeks. It had been a long time since she'd smelled such a wind. The scent, fresh and familiar and brimming with memories, brought tears to her eyes as she stared into the darkness. Out there was the peel tower. She longed to run her hands across its crumbling stones, lie upon its dirt floor, and wait for her highwayman to come riding, riding—

“Mistress Wyndham!” Tim stood at the barn door. “Blessed Mary and the saints! Is it truly ye, come back t' us?”

“'Tis me, Tim.” A tired smile tugged at her lips as she walked toward the stable. Her ostler's fiery blush and gap-toothed smile warmed her. She even knew how he would smell—like the barn, like solid animal things that were simple and good. “How does Rhiannon fare?”

“She's missed ye, but I told her every day ye'd come back.”

He led Elizabeth past the largely empty stalls, while she tried to still her questions concerning the White Hart's obvious demise. Only one other stable boy was there, rubbing salve into the neck of an off-wheeler. Reaching Rhiannon, Elizabeth swung her arms around the mare's neck. “He's dead,” she murmured, pressing her face against Rhiannon's throatlatch. “Rand is dead.”

“Yer friend?” Reaching out as if to comfort Elizabeth, Tim hesitated, then brushed back the mare's forelock. “I saw ye ride with him months ago, an' the next thing ye're in London.”

“They hanged him.” Elizabeth's voice broke. She felt safe here with Tim and Rhiannon, but even a snug harbor could not soften reality. “Then they tarred him.”

“An that makes ye sad, eh?”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Very.”

“I thought o' yer friend last night, Mistress. 'Twas late an' I seen…” With an embarrassed cough, Tim retrieved a curry comb from the shelf and began combing Rhiannon's tail. “'Tis lonesome here when no one comes.”

“The White Hart looks like a ruin.” She sniffed and lifted her head.

“Mail coaches stop, Mistress, an' from time t' time a carriage. The rest just died away. They have a new inn at Horsehouse. But now ye're home, so the lights'll come on, the coaches'll be back, an' things'll be like always. Better.”

Elizabeth stroked Rhiannon's velvety nose. “Oh, Tim, I wish that were true.”

Before she could start weeping again, she said good night to her ostler, left the stable, then crossed the yard. The coach guard blew his horn, signaling his passengers. Soon Tim would have to re-harness the horses, a chore he wouldn't relish. Not because he was lazy, but because he thought the horses required a longer rest, which they probably did.

Inside the hallway, Elizabeth removed her gloves and cloak.

A coachman buttoned his second greatcoat atop his first, all the while loudly urging his passengers to finish their meals. “We're be'ind schedule an must 'urry along!” he shouted.

The four passengers vociferously protested being rushed.

“I can't help it if the service 'ere is slow,” the coachman fumed, wrapping his neck cloth around his throat. “We've a way yet ter go an I mislike drivin' at night.”

Elizabeth walked past them into the common room. Save for a couple playing draughts and a lone man nursing a pint at the bar, the room was empty.

Grace, her old maidservant, appeared. She wore a spotted apron and a badly frayed mob cap. Eyes downcast, she carried a broom, and, as she walked, she made a halfhearted attempt to sweep the floor.

Elizabeth saw that the windows were streaked. Dust layered the pianoforte and grandfather clock. The fire barely flickered and the poker was absent. A poker would have allowed the guests to stir the ashes.

Looking up, Grace dropped her broom. “Mistress! Ye've come back!”

“Odd's bones, lass! What's happened here?”

“He's a mean man, that Horace Exe. 'Tis like workin' for the devil and a miserly devil at that.”

As if Grace had summoned him, Exe scurried past, chasing the departing passengers. Hand outstretched, he yelled, “One moment now! That'll be three and six-pence.”

“But we haven't had time to eat,” a portly passenger protested. He began to wrap one of the fatty steaks in his handkerchief.

“Is it my fault you're slow eaters?” Exe snapped. “And it's against the rules to take food from the inn. Some would call it stealing.”

“See, Mistress?” Grace pouted. “That's what I put up with. Can ye imagine my 'umble disgrace? I'm thinkin' of other employ, I can tell ye that!”

“He's a bad one,” Elizabeth agreed. She knew exactly what Horace Exe was up to. It was an old trick, one used by many unscrupulous innkeepers, one her father would have died before employing. The same food would be set out for the next round of passengers. No wonder so few frequented the White Hart.

Grace balled her hands in her apron. “I can hardly keep from speakin' me mind to that old skinflint. Oh, but wouldn't I love to tell him what I think of him.”

At any other time Elizabeth would have questioned Grace about her unaccustomed reticence, but now she simply retreated to her room. So the White Hart had come to this. A cheerless inn with a miserly keeper who cheated his customers of their rightful due.

I don't care. Just let me be.

Her bedroom possessed an unused, musty smell. Elizabeth fumbled for the tinder box beside the candle, struck the flint and steel, caught the linen tinder on fire, then inserted a match tipped with brimstone. Raising the lit candle, she inspected her room. It looked the same, yet not the same. For one thing, dust decorated her writing table, bureau, and washstand.

She sat heavily upon the bed and ran her fingers across her mother's quilt. The top layer of material was smooth and thin from years of use. Her warming pan, which had heated her covers on thousands of winter nights, rested at the foot of the bed. It felt as relentlessly cold as the rest of the room.

“Everything's wrong,” she whispered. Rising and replacing the candle upon the table, she watched shadows flicker across the wall. All the lights and laughter were gone. Gone were the tantalizing kitchen smells, the purposeful bustle of servants, the feeling of home.

She had once believed that without Rand all the colors of excitement and laughter would disappear. She had once thought that without Rand the flowers would turn gray, the trees white, the sun black. But that had been an abstract summation, formed when Rand had been very much alive. Now, with his death, her worst fears had been realized.

Elizabeth thrust her hands beneath her skirts in an effort to warm them. She felt cold outside and hollow within.
I have nothing left to live for.
If only I could will myself to die like Janey. Perhaps I'm already dead. My mind and heart feel that way. Perhaps 'tis only my body that does not yet realize it is a cover for a corpse.

Suddenly, she heard Rand's voice, loud and clear: “Where is your courage, Bess? I love you for your sense of adventure.”

The voice was inside her head, of course, but she understood that Rand wouldn't want her to admit defeat. Rand wouldn't want her to lie down and die. What
would
Rand want? What had he told her during her all too brief prison visit?

Something about how the only thing that made better copy than a penitent highwayman was an arrogant one. Something about how the chapbooks would say that he was rebellious to the end.

But Elizabeth could say it much better than the chapbooks.

Charles Beresford was gone, but there were other publishers. They would appreciate her established reputation, not to mention the profits her novels generated. Suppose she wrote a fictional account of a highwayman whose courage and convictions defied all reason? The tale would be told by the heroine, and not one of her vaporous, timid heroines either.

No, by God! This heroine would love her highwayman to distraction, give up her inheritance, perhaps even her virtue…

Three hours later, Elizabeth put down her quill, rubbed her neck, and stretched her sore shoulders. She had written a beginning, just a beginning, but already she felt warmer, less hollow. She would call her book
A Highwayman Comes Riding,
and through her prose Rand Remington would live forever.

The shutters rattled unexpectedly, as if disturbed by an unseen hand. Remembering Rand's promise, Elizabeth's heart leapt. Perhaps he had waited for her at the peel tower. Then, when she didn't appear, he had decided to visit the inn.

Absurd! Rand was dead. A sudden thought made her bite her lower lip. Could Walter have lied about the tarring? The press accounts hadn't continued beyond the execution itself. If Rand had not been tarred, he might conceivably have survived the hanging.

Stumbling to the window, she swung open the shutters. Wind swirled the powdery snow above the cobblestones and caused bits of debris to jerk across the courtyard like drunken dancers. Only the lonely light from the stables disturbed the darkness. Elizabeth glimpsed Tim, standing in the lantern's glow, maintaining a vigil for the coaches that no longer came.

***

The next day Elizabeth felt fatigued, both in body and spirit. Glancing toward her pen and ink pot, she decided that her sense of emptiness could best be assuaged by riding.

The next chapter could wait.

Tim saddled Rhiannon and Elizabeth rode to Great Whernside. She crossed fields dotted with sheep and passed cattle huddled close to their barns. She galloped across bleak moors and barrows, then followed icy streams into dark, secret valleys. She halted occasionally to uncap a silver flask and sip lemonade baptized with brandy. The brandy lit a fire inside her belly, but her extremities still felt numb. Near the peel tower she reined in Rhiannon. A flood of memories overwhelmed her and she quietly wept.

She remembered Rand as he'd stood framed by the rubble, his hair blowing in the wind. She remembered the feel of him as he'd swept her from his stallion and she pressed against a chest that rippled with finely hewn muscles. And yet that same rock-hard chest had adapted, yielded, enticed, and protected her.

Elizabeth gazed at the spot where they had lain, when the night had swirled around them and the moon had raced overhead. She could taste Rand's tongue and smell his sandalwood scent. She could feel the hardness of his body, the urgent suck of his mouth, and the tease of his lips against her breasts. Most of all, she remembered the tender touch of his hands, slowly bringing her to a peak of ecstasy she had never known before, nor would ever know again.