aiming far above his head, before dashing towards woodland cover. She ran as fast as her feet would carry her, ignoring the brambles that clawed at her ankles and the low branches that swiped at her head. Another distant shot snarled somewhere behind her, giving chase, driving her onwards. She climbed onto her waiting horse with a practised motion, before following her maidservant down a different track. She rode deep into the shadows as though the Devil himself were on her trail. For all she knew, he was.
The green leather mask across Harriet’s face cut into her cheeks, her identity further obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, giving her the guise of a man. All who encountered her and her pistol, on the dark Cotswolds roads and traders’ paths, thought of her as such.
They rode hard and long until dawn tinged the horizon a light navy, as though the sky had run out of ink at the edges. The pair slowed, deeming themselves safe and near home, hearts beating ferociously, skin prickling with perspiration.
“How dare he? Who was he?”
“I don’t know, miss,” said Mary, as rattled as she was.
“We need to be more careful; our targets have been too obvious.” She wrenched off her mask, catching her blonde hair with it. “This shouldn’t have happened.”
A narrow manor house loomed in the distance, a dark smudge nestled beneath a low hill. The night-scented stock in the garden’s borders pervaded her senses, along with the crisp, cool morning dew. It was calming. She had played in this garden as a child, had wrestled with her brother, made play at duels with sticks for swords, until she grew up and times became hard and all the pretence became reality.
The slow journey down to the vast property was quiet and disturbed only by chattering birds, awake and alive and happy to be so. The moon was still out – a slim stroke set into endless blue. Harriet breathed it all in – home, morning, life. It was almost enough to erase the dangers and troubles that had plagued both women that night – almost, though not quite.
Harriet’s maidservant, Mary, kept her mistress’s mare still as she climbed from it, pulling her own scarf from her nose and mouth.
“I didn’t even see the pistol ’til he had it, Miss Groves,” she began, equally shaken. “Didn’t hear him. I should’ve – ”
“No, Mary,” interrupted Harriet, holding her maidservant’s shoulders tightly. “We’ve not been cautious enough. We have snatched up the wrong attention and should count ourselves lucky the shot did not hit us or the horses.” Lucky that whoever that man was, whoever had been watching them, tracking them and waiting to strike, had only fired in warning. “Take them to the stables and get some sleep. I will not need you today.”
“But, miss, the trip into Bath, the ball – ”
“You need to rest; you look exhausted.” She smiled kindly, taking their loot from the other woman as it was handed to her, and stuffed into a small satchel. “I can dress myself for one morning.”
The maidservant nodded, eyeing the stolen goods, mouth bracketed by hard lines. “I don’t like having it in the house. It’s too dangerous.” She was a sensible individual, older than Harriet, with a boyish figure, dark features and unwavering loyalty. Her parents had worked for Harriet’s family, as had their parents before them.
“No one will find it in my rooms, for no one would dare search them. We are safe, I promise you that. If we try to sell all we have taken now, we will be caught. We’ll wait a few months, try it with our usual contacts, like always.”
Mary nodded, seeing the logic though she did not look convinced, and hesitating as she took up the horse’s reins.
“We are safe,” repeated Harriet, as she attempted to stifle a yawn. The sun was rising up beside the grounds, its soft glow erasing the sins that had passed that night, warming her bones. It would be a beautiful summer’s day. “Everyone thinks the Green Highwayman to be exactly that, a man. No one would ever suspect Harriet Groves of Atworth House.”
***
The following morning was a whirl of movement – boxes were bundled onto a borrowed carriage set up for the journey, the house was alive with activity and Harriet soldiered through it all with tired eyes and a mind haunted by the figure she had met on the road towards Bristol.
“When can I go to a ball, Harry?” The question and a heavy pout came from her younger sister, Ellen, who was none too pleased at being left behind. She bore a strong resemblance to her older sister, with fair hair, sharp features and eyes as green as the nearby meadows. A spaniel followed dutifully behind, chancing a lick at the young girl’s hand whenever it strayed within muzzle distance. “It’s not fair, I want to see the dresses, that’s all.” Ellen clung to Harriet’s wrist and was subsequently pulled along to their father’s study. The young girl was growing fast, though she was still barely fifteen. “Please, Harry?”
“When you are little older,” answered the girl’s father, affection in his voice. Stout, grey and far too lenient, Mr Jacob Groves was once again buried in a newspaper – or at least, he pretended to be, for Harriet noticed the letter he had quickly covered up on his lap, though she kept her thoughts to herself. Mr Groves pulled his gaze up for long enough to catch the attention of his eldest daughter, Harriet, his expression growing a little sterner. “Try to enjoy yourself or I’ll have your aunt extremely cross with me again.”
Harriet’s expression was exactly the same as her sister’s for the moment. “I swear, she wants to introduce me to every single eligible bachelor in the country.”
“And has not one been a match for you?”
Harriet only pursed her lips further, though she could not keep the smile from fighting its way onto her face.
“She only wants to see you happy, see you married off to a wealthy man, see you safe.”
“I am happy here, looking after you, as I always have been.” The prospect of wedding a man who would watch her every move, police her thoughts and force her into a wifely role was a repugnant prospect. She was not an obedient dog to be chained up and made to obey. “I know where I belong – it’s here.”
“I will not last for ever, Harriet.”
He, like the once grand house, was failing. The roof leaked, one wing was shut, windows had been boarded up and the few staff they had retained had not been paid in months. They stayed out of loyalty, and because, naively, they hoped the Groves family fortunes would turn.
“Enough of that, Father. Now be good while I’m away,” she instructed him, pressing a kiss to his forehead and forcing a bright smile. “Try to leave the study once in a while and don’t let Ellen go to the river on her own; she always stays there far too long entertaining that little dog and she’ll catch a chill.”
Ellen only dropped her sister’s hand when she was promised a present from Bath (and one for Millie the dog too), releasing Harriet and prompting her to begin her journey. She knew, stomach turned to stone, that her father was reading a letter from her brother, Giddeon, who was deep in his studies at Oxford, and even deeper in debt. It would be a request for yet more money the Atworth estate did not have. Upon her return, Harriet would discuss it with her father. They would sell more land, she would take a further look at their finances, mortgage the property. It would be solved. She would fix this, for there seemed no one else capable or willing to face their difficulties. Her father’s health was fragile, her brother gambled incessantly and she feared her sister’s reputation
