Page 14 of Escape of the Highwayman (Escape #3)

“Her heart is not engaged,” Beatrice said dryly. “Her pride is.”

And Beatrice certainly knew about pride. She had been quite cutting to Mr. Black on their previous encounter, and they appeared to keep well out of each other’s way on the journey. If he helped her dismount, for which Beatrice gave him cool and distant thanks, he turned immediately to Laura.

At once, the ladies unpacked their sketching gear, for the sun was reflecting through the overhanging trees onto the water in the prettiest way. Chloe would rather have enjoyed the beauty without being obliged to do anything but think, but she bowed to the expectation that she should join in.

Rather to everyone’s surprise, Mr. Black took a small sketchbook from his own saddle bag, and sat on a stone behind the ladies’ easels to join in.

Jerome and Maurice, the vicar’s sons, peered over shoulders and made amusing comments, while Mrs. Dunwoody supervised the grooms unloading the victuals from the long-suffering pack pony.

Chloe, who had trouble drawing a credible apple never mind the complicated joy of the view before them, made absent “doodles” on the paper with her pencil while she admired the flashing reflections in the water as the leaves moved in the breeze.

And suddenly, the idea came to her. Jonathan Berry needed a reflection.

Another highwayman to take the blame for something he could not possibly have committed.

The reflection would then be blamed for whatever Jon had committed.

Jon would thus be cleared and could leave his criminal past behind him, go home, and lead a happy, virtuous life.

The only trouble was, for everyone to know the highwayman wasn’t Jon, a highwayman had to be caught and identified, and then the poor man would hang. Not that highwaymen were, in general, good, decent men, but Jon was—she knew that instinctively—so who knew how many others were too?

The matter required more thought. For now, she was recalling with an inexplicable quickened pulse, that she called him Jon in her mind, and indeed had done aloud without thought yesterday evening when she had brought him a purloined dinner from the kitchen.

And in return he had called her Chloe. How different her name sounded on his lips. ..

“What is that, Chloe?” Maurice asked, grinning over her shoulder.

Chloe blinked her putative sketch back into focus and regarded the random squiggles. “Trees?” she said doubtfully, then with more firmness. “They will be trees.”

“She’s composing,” Celia said with a grin. “While thinking of something else entirely.”

“Sketching was never Chloe’s forte,” Laura observed.

“No, it is yours,” Chloe conceded. “And you are very good at it. My hand just doesn’t seem to obey my brain, which is odd, because it does—more or less—in music.”

“One can’t be gifted in everything,” Jerome agreed.

Chloe made a half-hearted effort to turn her squiggles into something resembling the trees on the opposite bank, and drew the rough shape of the river itself, but she was the first to jump up and abandon her drawing when Mrs. Dunwoody declared luncheon was ready.

Which was why she alone was privileged to glimpse Mr. Black’s sketch before he quickly closed the book. Now that was interesting.

“Did you see?” Mrs. Dunwoody whispered triumphantly when Chloe knelt beside her. “He is clearly sketching Laura into his view of the river!”

Chloe did not tell her his portrait was not of Laura but quite clearly Beatrice. And his talent was considerable.

“So, what is your costume for the masquerade ball?” Maurice asked, sprawling on the rug and picking himself out a savoury tart and two slices of ham.

“Bad form, Maurice,” Mrs. Dunwoody scolded. “The whole point is that one should not be recognized until the unmasking at midnight.”

“But if we can’t share ideas, how am I supposed to come up with something?”

“Imagination, Maury,” his brother said lazily. “You’ve got one in there somewhere.”

Disguise was the thing, Chloe thought, drifting back to Jon’s problems. What if she held up a coach and, when she was unmasked, persuaded Mr. Dunwoody to release her?

He most probably would, only she couldn’t help shuddering at the inevitable reaction of her father to such an escapade.

Besides, she could not possibly have committed the crimes in other counties, so this would not exonerate Jon.

All the same, she looked forward to discussing the possibilities with him for she was sure there was the germ of an idea in there...

***

J ON, MEANWHILE, WAS feeling so much better that he decided to leave while Chloe was not present to talk him out of it.

She deserved more than his sudden vanishing, but he knew it was the only thing to do.

Involving her in his mess at all was unforgiveable.

Besides which, she was in danger of romanticizing his situation, in imagining him as the hero he was most certainly not.

And he had the feeling in his bones that if he saw much more of her, he would never be able to make himself leave, even if they caught and hanged him.

So, when he judged it quiet enough, and he had walked up and down the loft listening for voices or any sounds of activity, he decided to try the ladder.

First, he tied his stick and the saddle bag over his good shoulder and made sure his corner was clean and tidy of all save his breakfast plate and water cup.

He had a very hazy memory of how he had got up here in the first place.

Stairs were a big enough trial to him, so he must have been both mad and desperate to risk a ladder.

He thought it had been the cat who gave him the idea, and he suspected he had used his arms and hands more than the bad leg and foot.

Certainly, balancing on the step on his bad foot was not easy or stable, and on the third step down, his false foot slipped, and he hung on only by his hands.

Worse, he could hear the approach of the grooms, who might just come in here rather than the adjoining tack room, so with difficulty, he hauled himself back up and lay panting on the loft floor.

Desperately, he tried to control his breathing, because he was sure he would be heard as soon as anyone opened the door.

And someone did.

“Joe?” they called.

Jon could see an older man, probably the head groom, hovering in the doorway. He lay still, holding his bursting breath.

Someone answered from outside, and the groom went out, leaving Jon limp and ashamed but undiscovered. He all but crawled across to his corner with his stick and his saddle bag, thanking God he had not dropped them.

His adventure on the ladder had utterly exhausted him. His shoulder wound was screaming in pain, and he forced himself to examine the bandage in case he had made it bleed again.

He was a soldier. He had fought men and ridden horses with wounds worse than this, or worse bouts of fever. But since the leg... He hated this helplessness all over again. His whole body shook with it.

What use am I? What use am I to her? To my family, whom I have disgraced? To the other poor fools I imagined I was helping?

He reached for the horse blanket and pulled it over himself in an effort to stop the trembling. It didn’t help, but he did eventually fall into a deep, uneasy sleep.