Lucy Ashford - The Major and the Pickpocket

But she knew, in her heart of hearts, that things were changing fast. Moll had spotted the trouble with Billy already.

Billy was big and strong, but he was simple-minded. His family had been turned out of their cottage when the local landowner wanted to pull it down to make more space for sheep, and Billy had attached himself to the company like a faithful dog, invaluable if there was any kind of hard physical work. Tassie had always felt quite safe with him, as she did with all the others in their little band. But a couple of weeks ago, a little after midnight, Billy had knocked at the door of Tassie’s bedroom. ‘Tass,’ he called out. ‘Let me in, will you? I want ter tell you somethin’.’

She’d opened the door, and instantly smelled that he’d been drinking. Big Billy, with his thatch of wiry black hair, had always been a little over-fond of his ale. So she told him that she would talk to him in the morning; but he’d muttered something and a strange, hot look had spread across his face as he gazed at Tassie, with her hair loose past her shoulders, and dressed only in her thin cotton nightshirt.

He’d tried to kiss her then, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her close. Tassie struggled desperately to push him away, but Billy wrapped one arm around her waist, trapping her, while with the other hand he began to fumble at her breasts. She could feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against his breeches while his hot lips smothered her mouth; and Tassie, gasping, twisted violently and used her knee, very hard, in the place where she knew it would hurt him the most. Billy had whimpered with shock and gone limping off to his room. Tassie hoped fervently that the hateful episode had vanished into the shadows of Billy’s slow mind; certainly he’d not troubled her again in that way, and she didn’t think he would. But it had been an unpleasant reminder that Moll’s warnings were only too true.

And now, they thought they could just pack her off to Moll’s brother in the country! Oh, never. Suddenly she remembered the wallet she’d stolen from the gent in Half Moon Alley. Pulling herself up on the dingy little bed, she sat cross-legged in her boots and buckskin breeches and her man’s shirt, and tossed back her long blonde curls from her face. Then she eased the slim leather wallet from her hip pocket; but her heart sank again, for there wasn’t much in it. A few coins, amounting to little more than two guineas, and a pencilled note, folded up. The coins she put carefully into a little locked box hidden beneath her bed; the note she casually unfolded, preparing to crumple it and toss it aside. But then her eyes opened wide as a curling lock of chestnut hair tied up in a pretty blue ribbon fell on to the bed. Tassie read the note avidly. For my darling Marcus. A little memento. All my love for ever, Philippa.

Well! So her noble rescuer—Marcus—was in love! Tassie instantly held it closer. Philippa’s handwriting was dainty, with lots of curly flourishes, quite the opposite of Tassie’s bold, clear hand; Tassie would be prepared to wager that Philippa didn’t chew her nails as she did, or fuzz the cards at whist, or swear like a trooper when the occasion arose. A prim parlour-miss indeed; the writing was a little faded, but the sheet was still scented with the remnants of some exotic and no doubt expensive floral perfume, which made both Tassie and Edward sneeze. Tassie went over to the window, preparing to hurl the lock of hair and the note out into the darkness. All my love for ever.

Just for a moment, she paused. Just for a moment she wondered what it must be like, to love a man like that; to be loved, in return. Then she pushed the window open and tossed out the lock of chestnut hair and the note into the courtyard, to join the heaps of stinking rubbish down there. ‘Fancy carrying that around with him, Edward.’ She shook her head. Darling Marcus. A little memento…

Edward squawked appreciatively and repeated, ‘Darling Marcus! Darling Marcus!’ Tassie hesitated again; then she pressed her lips together and hurled the wallet through the window as well.

The noise of singing and laughter came up from the tavern below. She went to put more coals on the slumbering fire, and caught sight of her face in the cracked mirror over the hearth. A pale, haunted face, with shadowed green eyes, and clouds of golden curls tumbling to her shoulders. Tassie, the street thief. Tassie the trickster. Who was she really? Why was she all alone, forced to run long ago from a place of hateful cruelty?

She went slowly to count up the coins in her money box, and the old memories came crowding in. The great old house, miles from anywhere. Well-bred, hateful voices, snarling over her: ‘This brat’s trouble, William, I tell you! Nothing but trouble, and some day she’s going to find out the truth…’

Thoughtfully, Tassie put her money box away and picked up her much-worn pack of cards from beside Edward’s perch. Outside she heard the nightwatchman call the hour, ‘Ten o’clock and all’s well ..’

No. No. All was most decidedly not well. Sitting cross-legged on her little bed, she began by the light of the flickering candle to practise one of the tricks she’d persuaded old Peg-leg to teach her in return for her help today. The time had come, as she’d always known it would, for her to make her own plans—before somebody else tried to make them for her.

She might, perhaps, have felt even more trepidation had she realised just how ardently Major Marcus Forrester was thinking thoughts of revenge against the ungrateful wretch who’d removed his wallet. He and Hal were at that moment dining at a fashionable chop-house just off the Piazza, where Hal, guessing that his friend’s forlorn financial prospects must be lowering his spirits, talked to him encouragingly of the money that could be made by investing in cotton and shipping. Marcus listened, pretending to take an interest. Then Hal, taking the plunge, started to tell Marcus that his sister Caroline had recently met Miss Philippa Fawcett out walking in the park, and that she was looking unusually lovely, and was there any chance of Marcus calling on her; at which Marcus shook his head swiftly and ordered, Talk of something else, Hal. Anything else.’

And as Hal recounted inconsequential gossip, Marcus’s thoughts drifted far away to Lornings, the beautiful estate in the Gloucestershire countryside that belonged to his godfather, Sir Roderick Delancey. The place Marcus had always thought of as his home. As soon as Marcus, freshly returned to London just over a week ago after a storm-racked Atlantic voyage, had heard the news about Sir Roderick, he’d set out to see him. He’d found him, not at the great hall itself—which to Marcus’s dismay looked totally abandoned—but in the much smaller Dower House, which lay close by.

‘It’s all my own fault,’ Sir Roderick had replied simply. He seemed to have aged terribly in the two years of Marcus’s absence. ‘Dear boy, what a homecoming for you.’

Marcus had gone quickly over to his godfather and put his strong hand on his shoulder. ‘It wasn’t your fault. My cousin Corbridge is a lying, deceiving toad.’

‘And I should have known it! But I’d got so badly in debt, you see, thanks to the company Sebastian led me into; and only Sebastian seemed to know the way out of it—’

‘By taking you to one gaming house after another?’

‘He assured me I could not help but win, Marcus! But I lost so heavily, night after night. Corbridge saved me—at least I thought he did—by promising he would see to my bills until September of this year. But in return—’ and Sir Roderick sighed heavily ‘—I had to sign a letter promising him the entire Lornings estate as security.’

Marcus listened, tense-faced. ‘But surely your debts, however great they are, aren’t equivalent to the value of Lornings?’

Sir Roderick hung his head. ‘Believe me, they’re bad enough. If Sebastian hadn’t taken on the bills, I would have had to put myself in the hands of moneylenders; and then, you know, what with the interest they demand, my debts would have doubled and trebled, until even the sale of the estate wouldn’t have paid them off. I had no choice, Marcus. I’m so sorry. Lornings was supposed to be yours. I shall never forgive myself!’

Marcus shook his head vehemently. ‘I don’t give a fig for my inheritance. You’ve given me support and encouragement all my life—what more could I ask? But I can’t forgive Corbridge for forcing you out of your rightful home. And I swear to God I’ll make him pay.’

‘Lornings is still mine for the moment,’ Sir Roderick had said, with a gentleness that tore at Marcus’s heart. ‘Until the autumn, that is. But—I cannot afford to maintain the Hall now, so it seems best to live here, in the Dower House.’

Marcus was silent, thinking. Then he said suddenly, This last gaming house Corbridge took you to. Where you lost everything. Was it some backstreet den?’

‘It was disreputable, certainly. But if you’re thinking of contesting the letter that I signed, then don’t trouble yourself, because Corbridge had it legally drawn up and witnessed.’ He looked around him rather helplessly. ‘I’m comfortable here, really I am. And I’ve still got some land and livestock—I’ve always fancied trying my hand properly at farming…’

At your age? thought Marcus sadly. His godfather, who was sixty-three, suffered from arthritis. He had two ageing retainers, husband and wife, who had stayed loyally with him for a pittance, and a capable man called Daniels who ran the small farm. Otherwise he was on his own, with hardly any resources now that his fortune was so badly compromised.

‘I’ll come and help you,’ promised Marcus. ‘We’ll get the land to rights again, believe me. But first—’ his steely eyes narrowed ‘—I’ve got Corbridge to deal with.’

Sir Roderick was watching him with loving but anxious eyes. ‘Please don’t do anything foolish, my dear boy! I know how impetuous you can be!’

And Marcus had smiled grimly as he replied, ‘Impetuous? Don’t you worry. I shall consider every action— extremely carefully. ‘

But so far, concluded Marcus, so far his plans had not gone well. He’d confronted Corbridge earlier tonight in the white heat of his rage, and been forced, publicly, to retreat—then he’d had his wallet stolen. Not the best of starts.

Hal was calling for the bill. Marcus hated not being able to pay for himself, but Hal brushed his objections aside. ‘If you’re staying with us as you promised, then you’ll have plenty of opportunities to repay me when you’re ready. Caro will love having you, and we might even persuade her to host one or two small gatherings; you could invite anyone you liked —’

Marcus interrupted. ‘If you’re thinking of Philippa again, then I must tell you I don’t think I’ll be inviting her anywhere. You see, she knows that my inheritance has gone.’

‘Marcus, I don’t believe—’

Marcus topped up their glasses. ‘Actually, I think she knew before I did.’ His voice was lightly casual, but Hal saw that his friend’s expression was bleak. ‘No doubt her doting parents found out and told her. I called on her just before I set off to see Sir Roderick. Oh, it was all very civilised; Philippa talked of how we both needed some time to reconsider our rash youthful commitment, and her foolish mother hovered by her side all the time, looking terrified in case I should try to change Philippa’s mind. I didn’t, of course.’

Hal frowned as he absently counted out the coins for the bill. He knew that Philippa’s parents, the businessman Sir John Fawcett and his wife, lived, when not in town, on a moderately prosperous estate in Gloucestershire that bordered Lornings to the south. Happily willing to overlook Marcus’s slightly dubious parentage in view of his being the great-grandson of the Earl of Stansfield and his expectation of Sir Roderick’s substantial estate, the ambitious father and vain, silly mother had openly encouraged the friendship that had grown up between their daughter and Marcus. Even Marcus’s long absence in the American wars had not dulled everyone’s belief that the two of them would marry.