‘How could you leave him like that?’ Sovay shook her head. ‘I still don’t understand.’
‘He begged me to go. He is safe enough where he is. Some areas, even close to the capital, remain almost untouched by the work of the Revolutionary Committees and the Tribunal who orchestrate la Terreur.’
‘That still does not answer my question. How could you have left him and saved yourself?’ Sovay turned away. Her anger surged back and threatened to overwhelm her.
‘Do not be angry with him.’ A quiet voice came from the shadows at the side of the room. ‘He came at my request. He didn’t want to leave your father. I had to persuade him.’
Sovay recognised the soft tones and measured cadence of the American, Virgil Barrett. She had been so transported by seeing Hugh again, that she had not stopped to think that another might be there.
‘You said you had a surprise for me.’ Sovay turned away, embarrassed at his presence.
‘Virgil told us about Dysart’s plans, about this gathering at Thursley,’ Hugh said. ‘That he has invited you to be there. Sovay, you do not realise the danger that puts you in –’
‘That is no reason for you to leave Father!’ This time her anger included them both. ‘I do not need you to come and rescue me like a distressed damsel in a fable.’
‘That may or may not be so.’ Hugh took her hand. ‘But saving you from your impetuous nature is only part of the reason. As soon as Father heard of this, he insisted I come back and go with you. He would not hear of you facing such danger alone. I came with his full sanction. Dysart plans to plunge the country into a chaos at least as bloody as anything that is happening in France. Father wants us to stop him.’ He picked up the invitation. ‘This will be no ordinary house party. It will mark the beginning of a coup d’état, unless we can stop it. This is an invitation to our family. Fortunately, you are no longer the sole representative. I have the right to attend on another count. As I understand it, Thursley will be hosting a meeting of the Illuminati.’
Sovay had never heard of them. ‘Who, or what, are they?’
‘It’s a secret society. It was started in Ingolstadt in Bavaria and has since spread all over Europe. I am initiate, through Fitzwilliam in Oxford, and I’ve attended a brother group, Les Cordeliers, in France where M Fernand was a founder.’
‘I am also a member,’ Virgil spoke. ‘I belong to a lodge in Portsmouth, Virginia, which numbers Thomas Jefferson among its members.’
‘You belong to the same society as Dysart!’ Sovay looked from one to the other in horror, not knowing whether she could trust her own brother any more.
‘It is not how it seems!’ Virgil put his hands up to placate her. ‘Most lodges are harmless, like the Masons. They are simply places where like-minded men can meet together and share in the pursuit of knowledge and enlightenment through reading and discussion. Some lodges, however, have become corrupted, little more than dens of depraved libertines. Others have used their secrecy to cloak their sinister intentions and the ruthless pursuit of power. I fear that Dysart’s Lodge may combine both evil aspects.’
‘Why he wants your presence,’ Hugh took both her hands, ‘I can only guess at, but it is why I’ve returned. I cannot see you put in danger’s way.’
‘I can take care of myself,’ she said.
Brother and sister stared at each other. To Sovay, he seemed to have changed completely. He looked very much older than the picture of him that she carried in her memory. There was little trace left in his face of the dreamy poet, the passionate freethinker who delighted in ideas and flitted like a butterfly from one novel concept to another. Veins showed blue under the translucent skin of his temples and high forehead; his thinness had pared away at the rounded cheeks, draining the high colour, reshaping the boyish face to reveal the pale, aesthetic handsomeness of a young Renaissance saint or scholar. Passion still showed in his large eyes, but there was the blue glint of steel there now. A tightness in the jaw and tension lines around the mouth indicated a new strength brought about by tempering experience.
He, in turn, noted changes in her. She had come in wearing evening dress. The gown was a simple design, but bare at the neck and shoulders, which made her look much older. Her face, too, was changing. There had been a subtle shifting of proportions: eyes that had appeared too large, nose too straight, brows too marked, lips too full for a young girl’s face had, by some alchemy, undergone a dramatic change. As she grew towards womanhood, she was beginning to fulfil the promise of great beauty that had long been predicted for her. That she, as yet, seemed unaware of this transformation, lent it even more power and aroused within him a strong feeling of brotherly protectiveness. In her younger self, her expression had often been marred by a sullen, resentful air of abstraction. This had been replaced by an active animation, which suited her much better, and there was a new softening, a kindness and concern in her intelligent gaze, that he did not remember seeing there before.
‘Hugh!’ Gabriel burst into the room. ‘Mrs Crombie told me you were here! I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you!’
‘Or I you!’ Hugh went over to meet him. ‘Old friend! I had not thought to see you here!’
Gabriel took his friend in his strong embrace and Sovay wondered if Lydia was right in her judgement of exactly who was the object of Gabriel’s affection.
‘I’ve just come from Oldfield’s office.’ Gabriel turned to Sovay. ‘He’s taken on the cases of those arrested after Fender’s Field. The hearings have been put back as he predicted. Skidmore has come across something interesting.’ He looked to Hugh and Virgil. ‘He’s Oldfield’s clerk. Enterprising young fellow. He’s taken up spying,’ he laughed. ‘On the spy master at that! He has a friend who works in Leggatt’s Court, where Dysart’s offices are. He’s taken to loitering there, seeing what he can find out.’
‘And has he?’ Sovay asked. ‘Found out anything, I mean.’
‘Plenty. He’s got his friend to log comings and goings. This evening, Gribbon, that’s the name of Dysart’s clerk, left the office in a hurry. Skidmore contrived to bump into him. The letters he was carrying went flying and Skidmore, polite young man that he is, helped the old man pick them up.’
‘Did he notice the addresses?’
‘Naturally he did. Dover, apparently. Gribbon was taking them to the Post Office for the night coach.’
‘Those letters will be bound for France,’ Virgil Barrett said. ‘To be delivered by some smuggler’s boat running the blockade.’
‘That’s what Oldfield thought.’ Gabriel looked at Hugh. ‘He will be glad to know that you are here. And safe. But what of the master?’
‘Is Oldfield still at his offices?’ Hugh asked.
‘I think so,’ Gabriel answered. ‘He seems to fairly live there at the moment.’
‘There are things I want to discuss with him,’ Hugh went to the door. ‘I will tell you about my father on the way.’
Virgil elected to join them and the three men left Sovay in her father’s study. It did not occur to them to ask her to go with them and they barely had time to say farewell. They left engrossed in conversation and had dismissed her from their minds by the time they reached the front door.
‘Is there anything more, miss?’ Mrs Crombie came into the room, rousing Sovay from her thoughts.
‘No, nothing more. I am rather fatigued. I think I will retire.’
‘I’ll call Lydia.’
‘No need to, Mrs Crombie. I can manage very well. I will need nothing more tonight.’
Sovay went up the stairs, her thoughts on the letters destined for Dover. They would be taken on the night mail coach. She paused on the first landing and listened. The house was quiet. The servants had retired to their quarters in the basement.
Sovay went to her room. Earlier in the day, Lydia had taken another delivery, very different from the clothes from Madame Chantal’s establishment. These were from Hazell and Smith on Old Bond Street. They had done well, even with Sovay’s approximate instruct
ions. The suit fitted far better than her brother’s. She put on the cloak and hat and admired the effect in the mirror. Captain Blaze would ride again.
CHAPTER 20
She went to the livery stables to find Brady. He was standing, patient in his stall. He whinnied when he saw her and tossed his head in greeting, as if to say, I knew you would come for me sooner or later. She put her arms round his pale neck, nearly as glad to see him as she had been to see Hugh. He nudged her, whickering into her shoulder. He had been well looked after and his coat gleamed with grooming. She gave the boy a couple of coins for his care and rode out of the stables. She made her way down Oxford Street and Crown Street, glad to be on horseback and above the dirt and press of the streets.
She was going towards the river and the Golden Cross Inn at Charing Cross. She was praying that she would find the Captain there, remembering what Toby had said about it being his usual place at this time of night. When she reached the inn, she dismounted and sent a servant in to find him, saying a friend would like an urgent word out in the yard.
There was a few minutes’ delay before he came out, but it seemed to Sovay like a very long time. He smiled as he came towards her.
‘Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr Middleton?’ He put his hand on Brady’s neck. ‘Or is it Captain Blaze? I think by the cloak and spurs that it might be the latter.’ He stroked Brady’s neck gently, running his fingers through the silky mane. This time the horse did not bridle, instead he nuzzled into the man’s chest. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I need your help,’ Sovay answered, her voice muffled by her scarf. ‘I have to stop the Dover coach.’
‘Do you now?’ Greenwood grinned down at her. ‘And may I ask why?’
‘There’s something on it I want.’
‘Is there? And what would that be? Person, letter or package?’
‘Letter.’
‘I see.’ Greenwood looked round. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed it.’ He consulted his watch. ‘It went this hour since. Eight o’clock sharp.’
‘I know. I thought we might be able to stop it. Somewhere on the road.’
‘Did you now?’ He pulled Brady to him, so the horse’s head and neck hid them from view. He drew near her, his voice a dramatic whisper. ‘Are you suggesting highway robbery? But that would be against the law!’
Sovay stepped away from him, his proximity made her most uncomfortable. ‘I wish you would stop teasing! Will you help me or no?’
‘Mount up,’ he said, throwing the reins to her. ‘They’ve a start on us, but we should be able to catch them at Shooter’s Hill.’
Shooter’s Hill on the Dover Road was a notorious haunt of highwaymen. The hill was a wild, lonely spot, rising up from the desolate waste of Blackheath and flanked on both sides by dense woods. It was so steep and frequently muddy that the passengers had to get out and walk, and mailbags and luggage had to be carried.
Drivers often stopped at one of the coaching inns along the way to fortify themselves before taking the hill. This is what Greenwood was hoping. It was the only way that they could get to the hill before the coach did.
The coach was in the yard of the Catherine Wheel Inn. They rode past and went on towards the hill. The day had been wet and overcast. The rain had stopped, but the night was cool and damp with mist creeping out of the hollows on the heath. Gorse grew on either side of the road and Sovay bent to pick a sprig. Greenwood grinned as she fixed it to the brim of her hat.
‘Captain Blaze! It is good to be riding with you again!’ He stopped at the bottom of the hill. The mist was thick here; the road churned by cartwheels and muddy. ‘They will likely make the passengers get out. The ground is soft and if the wheels slip, they could lose the whole rig.’
He set off at a quiet and careful trot, looking about him all the while.
‘We seem to be the only ones out,’ he said as they approached the top of the hill. ‘Which is good. Shooter’s Hill is popular with those on the pad and this is a perfect night for it. We don’t want to have to give way, or fight off another crew before we can be about our business. We will wait here for the coach’s approach and we will take care. As I said, this is a popular spot so they will be well armed and on the look out. I will take care of the driver and the guard. You keep an eye on the passengers.’
Sovay nodded that she understood and they withdrew under the trees. The mist was thinner here, drifting in wisps across the road and hanging between the branches like gauze. Water dripped from twig and branch, covering them in glistening drops. It was very quiet, except for the occasional stamp and snort from their horses. Greenwood was listening intently for the clamour of the horn, the beat of hooves, the rhythmic turn of wheels on the road. Sovay strained her ears but could hear nothing except a curious creaking.
‘What’s that strange noise?’ she asked Greenwood. ‘Listen. There it is again.’
Greenwood cocked his head. ‘It’s a gibbet,’ he said. ‘There’s a spot very near called Gallow’s Field. It likely comes from there, although I can’t tell from this distance if it is occupied, or the state of decay of the unfortunate suspended there. Like as not, he’ll be one of our kind. So, it’s best not to get caught. Robbing His Majesty of his mail is a hanging offence. Best to remember that, Miss Sovay.’ Just then, the shrill call of a distant horn sounded through the soft, cool air. The Captain exhaled with a puff of breath. ‘That’s them, if I’m not mistaken. Now remember –’ He repeated his instructions. ‘Do not move until my signal. Not one muscle.’
They withdrew further under the trees. Sovay’s nervousness had been growing through the waiting time, just as it had done before, but as soon as the labouring horses came into view and she heard the driver’s shouts and the crack of his whip, as soon as she felt Greenwood’s touch on her arm, all her fear left her. She adjusted her scarf, drew her pistol, and spurred Brady out in one convulsive movement, making him rear and plunge in order to terrify the passengers who were trudging beside the coach. She succeeded. They cowered back against the coach’s painted sides, fearing for their lives as well as their property. She kept her pistol trained upon them, watching for any small move, while Greenwood demanded the mailbags be thrown down to him. She had insisted that nothing else was taken, so within minutes the robbery had been completed and they were galloping down the hill, disappearing into the mist. A couple of shots followed but fell hopelessly wide of their targets.
As they rode back towards London, the mist thickened to a fog.
‘You can hardly see your hand,’ Greenwood indicated to turn in at an inn. ‘We will spend the night here.’
Sovay had not anticipated this, and had thought to get back to the city as soon as possible, but Greenwood shook his head.
‘The horses are tired. They need resting. I know this place. The innkeeper is a friend.’ He grinned. ‘We will go on first thing in the morning. I will get you back before the milk seller comes calling. Have no fear.’
Greenwood ordered food to be sent to them. ‘We will have to share a room, I’m afraid. The inn is full because of the fog.’
He took the heavy mailbags up the stairs. He suggested that they threw them in the Thames when they had finished, but Sovay only wanted Dysart’s letters and did not think it right to destroy the rest of His Majesty’s mail.
Sovay went through the letters and packets while Greenwood ate. It was easier than she thought it would be to find Dysart’s correspondence. She read the letters carefully, then screwed them into a ball and threw them on to the fire.
Among other matters, he had betrayed both her father and her brother to the Committee of Public Safety and had helpfully included instructions as to where he thought they might be found. She returned the rest of the mail to the bags.
‘We can leave them here with the landlord. He can give them to the next mail coach.’
‘How very thoughtful. Not to say responsible.’ Greenwood shook his head. ‘You have a taste for the life, it is true, quite a talent for it,
there’s a lot I could teach you, but I fear your scruples would always get the better of you. I fear we will never make a true highwayman of you, Sovay. Tell me, what have you done with the money you stole from Dysart? There was money, I take it?’ Sovay nodded. ‘I knew it! You don’t plan to give it back to him, surely?’
‘No, of course not.’ Sovay told him about the various uses she had made of it, the provisions for Toby and Skidmore and Gabriel.
Greenwood listened without comment. ‘Again, very commendable,’ he grunted. ‘Now, let’s get some sleep. I’ll take the chair. You take the bed.’
She woke with no idea where she was and a man’s shape loomed over her. She cried out in alarm as Greenwood shook her by the shoulder.
‘Shh, shh, it’s only me.’ Greenwood sat on the side of the bed. ‘You were shouting in your sleep. You must have had a dream.’
Sovay nodded. She had dreamt that it had all been for nothing. That all she could do was watch, helpless, as her brother and father, in white shirts with their hands bound behind them, rode in a lurching cart towards the looming shadow of the guillotine. They did not even look at her, or see her standing there. Their eyes were already on the fate that was about to befall them and she was left, bereft, in the middle of a howling mob, filled with the bleak feeling that it had all been her fault.
‘I’m cold,’ she said. Her teeth were chattering. The covers were thin. She pulled them to her. It was as though the chill from the fog outside had penetrated right in here.
Greenwood took off his coat and arranged it about her shoulders. ‘Is that better?’
The coat was still warm. She held the collar closed round her throat and turned her face into his shoulder, the despair and horror of the dream still upon her.
He held her until she stopped shivering. ‘I’m going back to my chair now,’ he said gently, stroking her hair away from her face. ‘You should sleep.’ He moved to disentangle himself from her. ‘We will have to be away in a few hours’ time.’