The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter by Mary Ellen Dennis

contumacious, I should think you’d quit asking me to marry you.”
    â€œI’ve always enjoyed a challenge.” Stafford reined his horse around. “And I warn you. I’m just as dogged in the pursuit of love as I am in my quest for justice.”
    Still angry, Elizabeth watched him melt into the fog-shrouded highway.
    Tim sidled up to her and thrust his hands through his pale, uncombed hair. “That one likes to talk, don’t he?”
    â€œPay him no mind. Lord Stafford likes to annoy people.”
    â€œAye.” Tim smiled his cherubic smile. “The quiet highwayman don’t keep his spoils, Mistress. He gives it over t’ them in need.”
    â€œThat’s called a bribe, Tim. Hush money.”
    â€œNay, Mistress. He gives over his boodle t’ them wot’s hungry an’ sick. He give Old Fife a cow.”
    â€œA cow,” Elizabeth repeated, dazed. She had pictured John in many guises, but never altruistic.
    â€œAye, Mistress. Old Fife’s daughter died i’ the straw, birthin’ a baby, an’ there weren’t no wet nurse hereabouts, nor coins fer one wot bided far off. That baby fared poorly, no more ’n this side o’ the grave, ’til the quiet highwayman brung Old Fife a cow.”
    â€œDid the baby live, Tim?”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œThank God.”
    â€œNay, Mistress. Thank the highwayman.”
    Elizabeth watched her ostler walk toward the harness room. With a sigh, she veered toward the stalls. Lantern lights dropped soft golden circles upon row after row of browns and blacks and roans and horses the color of tonight’s fog. The scent of ammonia, leather, and hay from an overhead loft enshrouded her while she made her way to Rhiannon, her mare. Elizabeth heard a stable boy’s whistle, the cursing of a groom who had dropped something, and the stirring of the horses.
    Rhiannon greeted her with a soft nicker. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around the mare’s neck and rested her cheek against the smooth chestnut coat. Something about Rhiannon’s warmth and the darkness in the high-backed stall caused Elizabeth to feel as alone as the moor owls who skimmed the gills.
    â€œI’m trapped,” she whispered to her mare. “I am twenty-eight years old, a spinster without prospects. My life is half over and what do I have to show for it? Lord Stafford was right. I am too masculine. I don’t fit in anywhere. I may rail against a woman’s lot, and name a hundred things I find unjust, yet I have no idea what would make me happy.”
    She thought of Old Fife’s baby and the brown-eyed baby. She thought of the couples leaning against each other while they conversed or shared a slice of lamb or smiled together over some shared memory.
    I don’t want that, she thought, leading Rhiannon from her stall. But what do I want?
    Deciding a saddle was unnecessary, Elizabeth mounted her mare from a block, then plunged into the fog. She often rode out on fitful evenings, when the weather was as unpredictable as her moods. She especially enjoyed racing across the countryside, with the thunder growling and the rain slashing her face. She loved the charged air and the power of a storm, which empowered her as well. This was a quieter night, designed to soothe rather than excite the soul, but her soul was in need of soothing. She felt protected by the fog, which nestled deep in the valleys, settled thick upon the bracken, and obliterated the treeless landscape. Elizabeth felt as if she could wrap the fog around her like a cloak, perhaps even hide from the world.
    What lay beyond the ravines and caves? York, of course, and London, and beyond that France and Spain, India and America. But what else? Her Aunt Lilith told stories of a magic world filled with spells and bindings and enchanted happenings. Elizabeth desperately wanted the world to be like that tonight. If it was, she could make a wish and bring her books