The Highwayman's Lady

The Highwayman’s Lady

By

Ashe Barker

Copyright © 2016 by Stormy Night Publications and Ashe Barker

Copyright © 2016 by Stormy Night Publications and Ashe Barker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

www.StormyNightPublications.com

Barker, Ashe

The Highwayman’s Lady

Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

Images by Period Images and 123RF/Inigo Cia

This book is intended for
adults only
. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

York, North of England, 1750

“I have never considered you a particularly bright young man, but you are trying my patience more than usual this morning, Sidney. Is there some part of the word ‘no’ that escapes your understanding?”

My stepbrother plants his not inconsiderable weight on both feet as he curls his lip in a near snarl. His voice is sneering, his expression one of contempt as he regards my mother’s diminutive form seated on the chaise longue before the fire. He manages to block the heat with his body.

“It is you who has failed to grasp the reality of this situation, stepmama dear, if you think for one moment I intend to allow this nonsense of yours to continue. This house is mine. Everything in it—mine, including your precious daughter. She may be a mewling little bitch but I shall have her and all that comes with her.”

My mother reaches for her cane and leans on it as she hauls herself from her chair. I move to assist but she waves me away with her free hand. As she reaches her full height of exactly five feet, she has to crane her neck to scowl into my stepbrother’s ruddy features. She stands straight, unflinching as he towers over her, his fists clenched by his sides. Sidney Smethurst does not conceal his temper well, but my mother is uncowed by his snarling visage. She was never intimidated by her overbearing stepson regardless of his size and distinctly unpleasant disposition. She continues to deliver her stinging assessment of his character and to demolish his latest attempt to drag me into marriage with him.

“Sidney, you are a fool. Worse, you are an arrogant, deluded fool. It is quite beyond me how a man as fine as your father ever managed to produce a specimen as vile as you. You are greedy, self-serving, and cruel, to number but a few of your baser characteristics. I could go on, but we have rehearsed this often enough already. Suffice it to say, you will not wed my daughter—not now, not ever. Imogen deserves far better than you and she shall have it. My husband left the both of us well provided for and you have no say, none whatsoever, in our plans for the future. They do not concern you and never will. Now, if you would do me the service of removing yourself from my drawing room, I would appreciate that.” She tilts her chin up, and if he were even slightly less concerned with his own ridiculous posturing, my stepbrother might be able to discern the effort even that show of resistance costs her.

“You will learn not to cross me, madam. Since my father’s death, I control our business interests and the Smethurst finances. I could beggar you if I choose to.”

My mother’s snort of derision causes Sidney’s colour to rise yet further. I half suspect he might take an apoplectic fit right here on the drawing room carpet. My mother is unimpressed by his threats. “I think not. I have my own portion, left to me in my husband’s will, as does Imogen. Financially we are beyond your reach and influence, even if we are compelled to share our home with you. Now, if you would be so good as to remove yourself as I asked, I believe it may be time for tea.”

Sidney leans down until his bulging, ruddy nose almost touches my mother’s elegant if frail features. “I will have my way, madam. You will regret those words, both of you. Your slut of a daughter will be mine and my father’s fortune will be mine too, all of it. As it should always have been, were it not for you two turning his addled head. Then we shall see who has the upper hand here.”

On that he spins on his heel to leave though the effect is somewhat diminished by his swaying a little on landing, no doubt still under the influence of the fine port he is fond of consuming in copious amounts. It may be just mid-afternoon, but my stepbrother has had ample time to imbibe this day and does not hold his drink well. That alone would be sufficient cause for my mother to resist his suit so strenuously but there are other persuasive reasons too.

Her damning summary of his less than fine qualities is accurate enough. Ten years my senior in age, Sidney has cast a dark shadow over both our lives since my mother met and married Arthur Smethurst fifteen years ago when I was just five years old. In contrast, my stepfather was the kindest, most generous of men both to my mother and to me. I adored him and he was unfailing in his devotion to the pair of us. I recall he made strenuous efforts with his sullen, embittered son also, but to no avail. Sidney loathed my mother and myself on sight and made no secret of that fact.

I suspect had Arthur Smethurst known the domestic turmoil his remarriage would cause, he might have thought better of it. He was a quiet, uncomplicated soul who wanted nothing more than a peaceful, happy existence. His first wife died in childbirth and he spent the next ten years working hard to build his thriving commercial concerns as well as bring up his motherless son. He succeeded admirably in the first endeavour but somehow fell short in the second. I was witness to his efforts, could not fault his resolve, and I am convinced he did not make a favourite of me. He treated us with equal generosity and therein lay his fault as far as Sidney was concerned.

I can see now that the insecure boy was consumed with jealousy. He felt threatened, belittled by my sunny, yet assertive mother. She entered his life ready to befriend him, to be a mother to him as best she could, but he rejected each and every overture. Her patience was exhausted after a year or so and their relationship became something of a hostile standoff. Overt warfare was avoided for the most part, for Arthur’s sake as much as anything, but it simmered below the surface, erupting with increasing regularity as the years advanced.

I disliked Sidney from almost the day I arrived to take up residence in Arthur Smethurst’s fine townhouse in York in the north of England. He marched into my pretty new bedroom on the second floor and snapped the head off my fine porcelain doll, a gift to me from his father upon marrying my mother. Arthur purchased another doll for me and chastised his ill-tempered son, but the die was cast. We hated each other. That situation worsened steadily with each year that has passed, but plummeted to new and previously untapped depths when Arthur died unexpectedly following a fall from his horse.

He was but fifty and two years old and had enjoyed rude good health. He should have lived for years yet. My mother felt his loss keenly; it almost killed her too. I half expected her to hurl herself into his grave on the day of his interment, so bereft was she. Two years have passed since we lost Arthur and despite her spirited and unfailing response to Sidney’s repeated attempts to claim my hand in marriage, I consider it fair to say my mother has never quite recovered. Her grief has been almost palpable and may have contributed to the steady decline in her health since the awful day they carried my stepfather’s lifeless body back to our home. Her once smiling features rarely shine these days; her demeanour is subdued, lacklustre. In short, she is wasting away.

She knows it. I know it. Had he the wit to see beyond the end of his own red-veined nose, Sidney would know it too. My stepbrother, however, is consumed by the perceived injustice of it all. He flew at once into a bitter rage that his father had had the temerity to leave any part of his vast fortune to my mother and he was even more incensed to learn that I was remembered in Arthur’s will also. He all but throttled the hapless man of affairs to whom fell the unpleasant duty of reading Arthur Smethurst’s last will and testament on the day of the funeral. Sidney protested, threatened, demanded that the will be set aside. He insisted that his father’s estate should be his, full and undivided. He has hardly calmed in the years since.

The law did not agree with Sidney’s view of the matter and there were no grounds whatsoever for disregarding Arthur’s wishes. To my mother, Arthur left twenty thousand pounds and two fine houses, hers to enjoy during the remainder of her lifetime. He settled a further twenty thousand pounds upon me, with the instruction that my inheritance should come to me on the occasion of my twenty-first birthday. Thus, we continue to occupy our home in an affluent suburb in the bustling city of York and to enjoy the luxury afforded by a life of wealth and comfort. In short, we are well provided for.

Alas, no amount of money can guarantee good health and my mother is fading fast. Her continued battles with Sidney are not helping, but I will not allow him the satisfaction of considering himself the cause of her demise. That honour goes to the growth in her belly that has wrought its damage—relentless, unstoppable. She grows weaker by the day despite the almost unbroken succession of physicians who cross our door to prod, poke, and gaze sadly upon her. Their visits are usually followed by a few days of pain-free relaxation, accomplished by the judicious application of ever increasing doses of laudanum. I suspect we will need to draw upon that comfort now.

As my stepbrother storms from my mother’s pretty drawing room, slamming the door in his wake, I reach for the phial we always keep to hand.

“Mama, please, sit down. I will ring for the tea tray.” I am already measuring the normal dose into a small spoon. I usually pour it into her tea but she may take it straight from the spoon if her pain is particularly severe. It seems that it is as she drops back into her chaise longue with a sharp groan and gestures for me to hurry. I do so and she swallows the drug quickly. She lies on her couch, her eyes closed, her breathing slow but steady. Several minutes pass before her ashen countenance takes on a slightly pinker tone. She lifts her eyelids and manages a wan smile for me.

“My dear, I think I might manage a small cup of Earl Grey now. Would you be so kind as to ask Matthews to bring it in, please?”

“Of course, mama.” I pat her thin, frail hand before rushing to the door. Matthews, our butler, is hovering outside in the hall. “We would like our tea now, if you please. And perhaps a few biscuits, if cook has some fresh.”

He bows and starts for the kitchen, then pauses. He turns, clears his throat.

“Yes, Mr… Matthews?” I wait, my hand on the door handle.

“Mr… Smethurst has gone out, miss. He appeared … agitated. I do not believe we will see him back today. Nor tomorrow, probably.”

I incline my head, not in the least surprised to learn that Sidney has stormed from the house intent upon a drinking binge. It is his usual habit following a confrontation with myself or my mother, but he always manages to find his way back home again, alas. I thank the butler for his update and return to my mother’s side.

Her pallid face is lined; the effort of just speaking seems to exhaust her. How she summoned the strength to deal with the latest onslaught from Sidney is beyond me. I tried to block his way but he shoved me aside and barged into her drawing room uninvited, intent upon a fight. She gave as good as she got but the effort has taken its toll.

“Sweetheart, come close. I need to speak to you.” She beckons me near so I pull up a footstool in order to sit right at her side. I take her hand in mine and my heart sinks at the trembling in her fingers.

“Would you like me to help you with your tea, mama? Might you fancy a small cake perhaps?”

“Maybe later. We need to make plans… for after, when I am no longer here.”

“Mother, I do not think—”

“We must, Imogen. I have not long left.”

“That is not true, mama. You will recover. You must. We will find other doctors. There must be someone, something…”

She shakes her head. “There is not. We must face the facts. I need to know that you will be safe and happy when I am gone.”

Tears stream down my face as my mother insists on repeating her instructions. She has drilled this information into me for the last several weeks. I know it by heart. Yet it pleases her to go over everything again as though making plans for my future can somehow erase the stark fact that she will no longer be a part of it.

“You must go to Beatrice, my cousin, in Stirling. She will look after you until you reach the age of twenty-one when you may claim your inheritance and you will be free to do as you please, go where you like. Just eight months, that is all. Beatrice will not let us down. You will be able to travel, to see the world as I know you long to. You may indulge yourself in the books you so adore. You may even marry, should you feel so inclined, though you will have sufficient fortune that you can live an independent life. Do not, in any circumstances, allow that greedy, conniving drunkard to get his hands on what is rightfully yours, Imogen. When the time comes and it is not far off now, you must leave here at once and make your way to Scotland. Beatrice will welcome you, I know it.”