Page 57 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
Phaedra merely extended her hand, wishing that it did not tremble so. “The advance as promised, please.”
“Not so fast, my fine lady, until I see what I have here. This could be naught but a parcel of your love letters for all I know.”
Phaedra stiffened while Jessym undid the packet, hauling forth the first few pages of the manuscript. He squinted at it in the meager light offered by the coach’s lanterns.
“Emancipation for Catholics, eh?” Jessym grunted. “This is bound to stir up a pretty rumpus. Not altogether sure I should print it.”
Phaedra’s heart sank, but she ventured bravely, “My-I mean,the money, if you please.”
Jessym stared at her for a long moment, before taking a worn purse from beneath his frock coat. He counted off a handful ofcoins, but when Phaedra reached for them, he held the money just out of her grasp.
“Trouble’s brewing. Goodfellow ought to be aware of that. The king’s ministers are growing tired of the license of the press, and they are looking to make an example of him.”
“Nonsense!” Phaedra forgot herself, speaking in her normal voice. “I-we’ve heard those threats before. Ever since the John Martin affair, the king has been afraid to persecute writers lest he create another popular hero and martyr.”
“Don’t you be so sure about that,” Jessym scoffed. “All I’m saying is, if the day comes and I’m arrested for spreading sedition, I don’t mean to stand in the docks alone. You just make sure Goodfellow knows that.”
Jessym tumbled the coins into her hand and stepped back. He closed the door, signaling the hackney driver to move along. The coach lurched into movement before Phaedra had time to react to Jessym’s parting words.
As the hackney lumbered off down the street, she fumed, angry at herself for not having exercised more control over the interview which had just taken place. She had not even counted the money to make sure it was the sum Jessym had promised.
She fingered the coins in her lap, not attempting to do so even now. What did Jessym mean by making such a spiteful threat, that he would not stand trial alone? He knew no one else to accuse except Gilly.
Sickened with fear, Phaedra reprimanded herself for allowing herself to be so easily terrified. Jessym had not yet been arrested for printing the Gazetteer, and she had already lampooned King George and his ministers many times with impunity. The harsh-faced publisher was raising alarms over nothing.
But what if Jessym was right, and her luck was indeed running out? What if the king’s forbearance were drawing toan end? She glanced out the window, the gray mists assuming before her eyes the grim guise of Newgate Prison and its horrors, as detailed by her grandfather. She could no longer afford to take the risk. Not when she was playing with Gilly’S life and her grandfather’s reputation, as well as her own safety.
Robin Goodfellow would simply have to make his fortune in some far less dangerous fashion. Phaedra sighed, her fingers tightening over the coins. A wise decision. She only hoped that she had not reached it too late.
Thirteen
Phaedra could not bring herself to burn the copies of the essays she had written. Instead she tied the articles neatly together with a black mourning ribbon and made sure they were locked safely away in the garret desk. Beyond that, she gave small consideration to the demise of Robin Goodfellow or what the future might hold for her. Relieved when no tidings ever came concerning Jessym’s imminent arrest, she was content to live in the present, making the most of every precious moment with Armande, giving no heed to what the morrow might bring.
Summer descended upon London in a blaze of heat, each day more searing than the last. Those who could afford to do so had long ago fled the city for seaside resorts. Those that had to remain, sweltered in the shade and suffered. One afternoon as she and Armande rode out into the meadowland beyond the Heath’s neatly trimmed lawns, they saw no another living creature save for a flock of newly shorn sheep.
Phaedra galloped across the pasture’s brittle grasses, scarcely attempting to shield her face beneath the brim of her riding hat. Her roan gelding strove in vain to match stride with Armande’s great white stallion, Nemesis.
With but the merest touch from Armande upon the reins, his horse shot forward, scattering the flock of frightened sheep in all directions. Phaedra drew rein upon Furlong before she exhausted the poor beast entirely. The gelding’s sides streamed with sweat as he wheezed his way across the meadow.
Armande at last noticed that he had lost her. Halting at the edge of the pasture under the spreading shade of an oak tree, he waited. With sweat glistening on his tanned face, he unbuttoned his linen shirt enough to reveal his neck and the dark dusting of hair upon his chest.
A teasing light glinted in Armande’s eyes as Phaedra drew alongside. He bent forward, addressing his stallion in a conspiratorial whisper. “In good faith, Nemesis, if I had but known, I could have fetched a knacker for that poor beast to put it out of its misery.”
“You never told me you meant to ride as though a band of savage cutthroats were after us,” Phaedra said. “Nemesis. What sort of name for a horse is that, anyway?”
“It seemed an apt enough choice when I christened him. But I’m not so sure, anymore.” A faraway look crept into Armande’s eyes. Then he snapped himself back to the present and slid from his horse.
“If we are to cherish any hope of returning to the Heath,” he teased, “it is obvious we must give your spirited mount a rest.”
She raised no objections when he lifted her from the saddle. Not far beyond the oak tree, Armande found a rill; rather sluggish with the heat, it yet managed to carve a bed for itself at the edge of the pasture. They allowed the horses to drink, then moved to a spot farther down the bank before kneeling themselves. Phaedra hitched up the voluminous skirts of her sky-blue riding habit and petticoats, dabbing the cool water on her cheeks, then cupping her hands for a drink. She stole glances at Armande, watching him splash the cooling liquid over thestrong cords of his neck. Phaedra’s gaze was once more drawn to the scar on his throat. Armande had once told her that the wound was a result of something a friend had once done to him. Was it the same friend he had once mentioned as having been imprisoned, whose memory had haunted him the day she had.had Armande arrested?
No. Phaedra drew firm rein on the forbidden direction of her thoughts. No more questions. She sank back on her heels, running her finger inside the collar of her jacket.
“I may well be obliged to walk home.” She sighed. “I should not have pushed Furlong so hard in this heat.”
Armande stood up and tethered both horses firmly to a branch of a small apple tree, whose shade afforded the animals some cool, sweet grass unscorched by the sun. As he stroked Furlong’s neck, he said, “You are a skilled horsewoman. It is a shame to see you mounted on such an old slug.”
“I have a great deal of affection for my old slug!” But she could not help adding wistfully, “I sometimes wish for a mare with a little more pepper in her step, but my grandfather is not much of a judge of horseflesh. He and Ewan used to have terrible rows over the expensive hunters Ewan wanted him to buy. But he did manage to wring a few fine ones out of Grandfather.”
