The unexpected and entirely unwanted acquisition of a small, but lovely estate in the Pas de Calais Province three years earlier, upon the death of a nearly forgotten distant relative, had bewildered and overwhelmed her father. To his daughter had fallen the tasks normally reserved for the head of such an enterprise, and she'd found she excelled at it. It had made more money for them than they could have imagined before. They were not wealthy, not in comparison to other, grander families, but her father, Professeur Bernard Le Mersurer, had been able to pursue his studies and research untroubled by every day cares. For the first time there was money enough to fund his trips to libraries and museums, and to purchase his books. His family was well-born enough, but he, personally, had never aspired to a courtly life. With his inheritance, however, they had been thrust into another level of society. For Lavinia it had been lonely, uprooted as she had been from the people she'd known all her life.

Shrewd enough to realize that her sudden rise in popularity was in direct proportion to her increase in fortune; she had yet been trusting enough to fall for the Vicomte Claude, the youngest--and most charming--son of a very charming, but ne'er-do-well, Marquis. By the time she'd discovered that her nouveau riche money was acceptable to him, but that her hand in marriage was not, something had happened to the girl she'd once been.

Afterwards she'd devoted herself to improving the estate, and the lives of the people who lived and worked there. Her friends might have been fewer, but they were truer, and she'd loved them dearly. She'd found a certain contentment in her nearly solitary, all-business, existence. Having not been born to the life she now led, she was yet able to bring to it all that she'd known about household and animal management, wood- and herb-lore, and many other things that upper-class ladies generally did not. Then, with La Révolution, everything had begun to change, and it was soon apparent that nothing would ever be the same again. The loss of their home, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say the manner of the loss, had taken a great toll on her gentle father.

Révolution! Bah! Lavinia had a better word for it. Her country was in turmoil and so many lives had been lost, or destroyed beyond repair. People she had called friends were gone forever, as was her home. She and her father had been lucky to have escaped with what they could, lucky to have had an old English friend and correspondent of his to shelter them. Lucky to be alive.

Those revolutionaries causing the carnage and havoc were just as bad, in Lavinia's mind, as the ones they'd overthrown. At least King Louis' soldiers had never ridden into town and put whole families to the guillotine. At least, she amended to herself, not that she knew of. She was a firm believer in punishment for the guilty, but ... the children. Oh, mon Dieu, the children ...!

She shivered slightly again, and his arm tightened protectively around her.

"Si vous bien, mademoiselle?" he asked her, but all she could manage was a nod of her head in response. It would have been impossible to convey to him all the images and emotions which were inside her.

Silence settled between them again. He was concentrating on finding his way through the mist and the thick stands of trees, and she was trying to find something to occupy her mind besides things she'd rather forget. So, she started wondering about her "highwayman."

The cloak around her was fine stuff, she noted, not the coarse homespun of the disreputable Horace; and he smelled of good soap, unlike her tormentors who had reeked of wood smoke, ale and old sweat. His intrepid horsemanship, his obvious skill with a sword, his courage in taking on three armed ruffians singlehandedly, and now his kindness to her--she was feeling a bit giddy with the sudden turn her life had taken.

Her imagination was soon weaving pleasant daydreams about him, which amused her very much. She was glad he could not read her thoughts. She wondered what his name was, but felt he would probably not be willing to tell her. He'd risked enough as it was, just in allowing her to learn that he wasn't a true thief. Nor would she ever want to do anything to harm him, but surely he--

"Voilà, mademoiselle, we have arrived."

Lavinia looked out from the protection of his cloak and saw that they were indeed at the coach once more. Never had she been less pleased to see her father than at that moment, but she was a kind and dutiful daughter, and so did not let her disappointment show on her face or in her voice.

"Lavinia," he cried tearfully, "le bon Dieu has returned you to me in safety!"

"Le bon Dieu, and this gentleman, Papa," she replied, indicating her rescuer.

"She's taken no 'urt, Mooseur. I seen to that meself."

Lavinia, who'd been set on her feet again, had been in the act of embracing her father but, upon hearing the return of the "highwayman's" fake accent, she turned to stare up at him, surprised once again by these transformations of his.

He tipped his hat to them then gestured in the direction of the coach, and the three men tied up near it. "Looks like sumat's been 'appening 'ere," he said with a grin.

Having satisfied himself that his daughter was indeed quite all right, Professor Le Mersurer approached her rescuer. "I am deeply in your debt, monsieur."

The masked man swung off his horse and bowed before shaking the hand which was held out to him. "It were nothin', your 'onor. Couldn't stand by and see scum like these 'ere gif the profession a bad name, now could I?"

Lavinia stifled a giggle at that remark, but her father seemed mystified by this attempt at humour. Nonetheless, he bowed too, as if, in preserving the conventions of polite society, he could somehow bring some normalcy to this situation.

Walter limped up at that moment, his arm newly bandaged and in a sling. He eyed his passengers' companion with mixed feelings; recognising him as the man who'd aided them, but put off by the mask, he wasn't sure whether or not to trust him. Touching his forelock he said to the Professor, "Bags is all reloaded, sir. Best be on our way."

"Merci."

Lavinia glanced uncertainly from the coach to her rescuer. She didn't want to lose him, yet she had to go with her father. It was in her heart that, if she left him now she might never find him again, and that was almost unbearable.

As if sensing her inner turmoil, the highwayman came forward and offered to escort her to the coach. He told her father that he would ride along with them, but out of sight, to make sure they reached their destination safely. Her father's expression of mingled dismay and gratitude was priceless, and Lavinia couldn't help but smile.

"'Ere ya are, Mooseur," the highwayman said, once they'd reached the coach, "all's right now." He very gallantly handed the older man up into the vehicle, then turned to offer the same assistance to Lavinia.

Glancing around to be sure that they were, for the moment, unobserved, he removed the riding glove from his right hand before clasping hers. He made her a graceful bow and then lightly kissed her fingers, murmuring to her in a voice only she could hear, "À votre service, mademoiselle ... toujours."

Intrigued all over again by the contrast between the gruff highwayman he'd shown to the others and the graceful, cultured man who stood before her now, she was compelled, against her better judgement to ask, "Who are you?"

He smiled, she thought a little sadly, and replied, "A friend."

There was more, much more, that she wanted to say, but there was no more time. Without knowing quite how she'd gotten there, she found herself inside the carriage. The door was shut and they were starting to move before she came to herself enough to realize she didn't want to leave things as they were.

Ignoring both the bouncing of the carriage and her father's exclamations of surprise at her untoward behaviour, she leaned precariously out of the window, looking back for one last glimpse. She quickly pulled her handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown and held it out for a moment, then released it. It fluttered, briefly, before falling to the ground.

Had he seen it? Would he find it?

Her father was tugging on her now, insisting that she be seated, but she clung to the door frame, straining to see back whence they had come, hoping ....

Yes! He had it! She was sure of it. The white, lace-trimmed linen had been visible in the moonlight, and she'd seen it rise up from the ground. He must have found it!

Relieved beyond words, she sank back onto the cushions, breathing hard as if she'd just won a race. Her father's gentle scolding washed over her, but all she could hear was a different voice softly telling her that he would be her friend ... "always."



He picked up the handkerchief tenderly, bringing it up to his face and inhaling her sweet scent. He was the one trembling now, the emotions of the last hour affecting him as nothing else ever had. Situated as he was he knew she could never be his, but for the first time since donning his disguise he wished with all his heart that he could discard his alter ego.

Vaulting onto his horse again he set off to follow the coach as he'd promised to do. They were only a mile or so from their destination, the country seat of the Earl of Kentham, so it was soon time to leave her again. He watched as the gates opened to admit the coach and then closed behind it. Even after he could no longer see it, he could hear the sound of the wheels on the hard-packed carriage drive until, all too quickly, that faded away, too. He sat on his horse, still as night, gazing up at the lights he could see in the distance, picturing their arrival at the house, remembering her lovely eyes, her bravery and her charming, sweet smile. He brought her handkerchief up to his lips and kissed it before placing it carefully inside his shirt, next to his heart. Then, with a sigh, he turned his horse and rode off in the opposite direction.

Last edited by ChrisM; 10/25/15 09:07 PM.