the mist, thrust
out the windows, full of glittering gems. With a gracious bow, the highwayman
magnanimously accepted a necklace of coral and one of pearls, a diamond and
ruby brooch, a stomacher with emeralds the size of pigeon eggs, and a ring of
gold and seed pearls. This trumpery affair he handed back with exquisite
grace.
“Your ring, madam?” He returned it to Lady Jeanne. "Never shall
circumstances, no matter how tragic, compel me to take that which is nearest to
your heart!” Thrusting the rest of the loot in his saddlebag, the gentleman
plucked off his hat and pressed it to his chest.
The girls giggled, casting looks at his wide shoulders. The ladies
sighed over his gallantry.
“How
did he know it was my birthday ring from Papa?” whispered Lady Jeanne, awed.
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the dashing blade. Getting robbed was so
romantic!
The highwayman clapped his hat back on his long, guinea-gold curls, so
different from modern fashions, gestured thrillingly with a hand too small for
one of his size, and turned his horse to depart.
“Oh, please to wait, sir!”
He paused, turning in the saddle to see Mrs. Kendall’s face at the
carriage window. “Madam, you may command me,” he bowed once more.
"The locket,” she whispered huskily. “My locket. It has a
miniature of my mother. I’ve not had it from around my neck since the day she
died. I beg of you, sir--”
“My lady,” he cried gallantly, pulling the hitherto unnoticed piece from
his bag. “You have but to ask and I am your slave! This precious object I
return to you. In exchange, I ask only to kiss the hand of the lovely lady who
wears it.”
So saying, he leapt from the saddle, presented to locket to Mrs. Kendall,
and took her hand in his, gracefully kissing the air above it.
“Kind sir,” called Miss Letitia. “May we not know your name?”
The rascal grinned, causing a flutter in the bosoms of all save Smithers.
“My name is of no import, madam. Know only that I am forever in your
gracious debt.”
The highwayman swept off his hat, made them a magnificent leg, winked
cheekily at Smithers, then swung up in the saddle. One last tip of his hat and
he was gone, vanished into the swirling fog.
Over the sound of retreating hoof beats, a hollow shout was heard: “For
King and for country!”
As was typical, it was the Countess who first recovered.
“Drive on,” she hollered out the carriage window. The coach started with
a jerk. From up top the box, there were anxious squawks from Smithers.
“Yes, Smithers, we are quite unhurt, thank you. No, John Coachman is not
a pudding heart. He did quite right not to fire. Who knows what violence we
might have suffered at that villain’s hand had he felt threatened.”
At her mention of the word “hand,” the women’s gaze flew to Mrs. Kendall,
whose hand, saluted with such courtesy by the bandit, was now pressed to her
cheek. She had a dreamy look in her eyes.
“Matilda,” began her ladyship awfully, "There is no need to become
totty-headed about some common criminal--”
Mrs. Kendall smiled serenely. “Gladys, he was far from common. And
there is no need for you to be jealous. He complimented you on your dainty
feet.”
"True.” Mollified, the Countess allowed herself a moment of romance
before she snapped back to reality. Uncertainly, she said, “He had very small
hands, don’t you think? Almost--well, almost like a woman’s.”
Mrs. Kendall frowned, unwilling for her dream to end. “He was utterly
masculine. I could tell the moment his lips touched my hand.”
“Matilda, I was right beside you the entire time, and if his lips came
within a foot of your hand, my name is Napoleon Bonaparte.”
The girls, meanwhile, had been suspiciously quiet. Letitia thoughtfully
bit her nails. Jeanne absently twirled a ringlet about her finger. Suddenly,
they turned as one and squealed.
“The Grey Cavalier! T’was the Grey Cavalier come back from the grave!”
This
out the windows, full of glittering gems. With a gracious bow, the highwayman
magnanimously accepted a necklace of coral and one of pearls, a diamond and
ruby brooch, a stomacher with emeralds the size of pigeon eggs, and a ring of
gold and seed pearls. This trumpery affair he handed back with exquisite
grace.
“Your ring, madam?” He returned it to Lady Jeanne. "Never shall
circumstances, no matter how tragic, compel me to take that which is nearest to
your heart!” Thrusting the rest of the loot in his saddlebag, the gentleman
plucked off his hat and pressed it to his chest.
The girls giggled, casting looks at his wide shoulders. The ladies
sighed over his gallantry.
“How
did he know it was my birthday ring from Papa?” whispered Lady Jeanne, awed.
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the dashing blade. Getting robbed was so
romantic!
The highwayman clapped his hat back on his long, guinea-gold curls, so
different from modern fashions, gestured thrillingly with a hand too small for
one of his size, and turned his horse to depart.
“Oh, please to wait, sir!”
He paused, turning in the saddle to see Mrs. Kendall’s face at the
carriage window. “Madam, you may command me,” he bowed once more.
"The locket,” she whispered huskily. “My locket. It has a
miniature of my mother. I’ve not had it from around my neck since the day she
died. I beg of you, sir--”
“My lady,” he cried gallantly, pulling the hitherto unnoticed piece from
his bag. “You have but to ask and I am your slave! This precious object I
return to you. In exchange, I ask only to kiss the hand of the lovely lady who
wears it.”
So saying, he leapt from the saddle, presented to locket to Mrs. Kendall,
and took her hand in his, gracefully kissing the air above it.
“Kind sir,” called Miss Letitia. “May we not know your name?”
The rascal grinned, causing a flutter in the bosoms of all save Smithers.
“My name is of no import, madam. Know only that I am forever in your
gracious debt.”
The highwayman swept off his hat, made them a magnificent leg, winked
cheekily at Smithers, then swung up in the saddle. One last tip of his hat and
he was gone, vanished into the swirling fog.
Over the sound of retreating hoof beats, a hollow shout was heard: “For
King and for country!”
As was typical, it was the Countess who first recovered.
“Drive on,” she hollered out the carriage window. The coach started with
a jerk. From up top the box, there were anxious squawks from Smithers.
“Yes, Smithers, we are quite unhurt, thank you. No, John Coachman is not
a pudding heart. He did quite right not to fire. Who knows what violence we
might have suffered at that villain’s hand had he felt threatened.”
At her mention of the word “hand,” the women’s gaze flew to Mrs. Kendall,
whose hand, saluted with such courtesy by the bandit, was now pressed to her
cheek. She had a dreamy look in her eyes.
“Matilda,” began her ladyship awfully, "There is no need to become
totty-headed about some common criminal--”
Mrs. Kendall smiled serenely. “Gladys, he was far from common. And
there is no need for you to be jealous. He complimented you on your dainty
feet.”
"True.” Mollified, the Countess allowed herself a moment of romance
before she snapped back to reality. Uncertainly, she said, “He had very small
hands, don’t you think? Almost--well, almost like a woman’s.”
Mrs. Kendall frowned, unwilling for her dream to end. “He was utterly
masculine. I could tell the moment his lips touched my hand.”
“Matilda, I was right beside you the entire time, and if his lips came
within a foot of your hand, my name is Napoleon Bonaparte.”
The girls, meanwhile, had been suspiciously quiet. Letitia thoughtfully
bit her nails. Jeanne absently twirled a ringlet about her finger. Suddenly,
they turned as one and squealed.
“The Grey Cavalier! T’was the Grey Cavalier come back from the grave!”
This
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