A Highwayman Came Riding by Joan Smith

day over eighteen.”
    “Well, thank you. As to your comment, my life is not precisely pleasant, but it is not unpleasant, either. It could be worse. I used to live with my parents in Somerset. Papa raised cattle. Mama died when I was sixteen. My father took to drink and gambling. When he drank himself to death a year later, there was no money. The estate, heavily mortgaged, was sold to pay his debts. The duchess is not actually kin, just a connection by marriage. She offered me the position I now hold. I feel fortunate to have it. I believe you have a more exciting story, Captain?”
    “As my pockets were to let, I decided to make my career in the army. My uncle bought me a cornet, and I went to Spain to fight with Wellington.”
    “Was it Spanish you and your servant were speaking the night you held us up? I know it was not French.”
    “Yes, it allows us to talk in front of our victims without being understood.”
    “Surely Miguel is not Spanish, though? He has a hint of brogue in his speech.”
    “There was a woman in Spain who used to call him that. The other soldiers took up the name in fun, and it has stuck. He was my batman and is now my factotum—and friend.”
    “That scar on his cheek—”
    “Badajos,” he said briefly. “Unlike many of my men, Miguel and I escaped with not only our lives but with all our limbs.”
    The servant returned with dinner. While he arranged it, Macheath said a few words to him. When they were alone again, Marianne frowned and said, “I daresay shooting and killing begin to seem natural after a few years in the army.”
    “It is kind of you to look for an excuse for me, but the shooting and killing never seemed natural or normal or anything but barbaric to me. Even in my work now, I only shoot above the head to frighten folks, unless they shoot first, as Beeton did. Miguel is an excellent shot. He could have killed or maimed Tom. He only winged his arm, to stop him from shooting at us. There was not that much shooting in the Peninsula, actually. For weeks on end we would march through the dust or sit waiting in the broiling sun, then a few hours or days of killing and burying the dead, and it would be another long wait. To pass the time, we had the pleasure of writing to wives and mothers and fathers to tell them their loved ones were dead. I was a foolish, romantic boy when I joined up. I didn’t see beyond the scarlet regimentals and travel to an exotic land to stop Boney from taking over the world.”
    “I see why you did not wish to discuss this during dinner,” she said, and immediately changed the subject. “Before you joined the army, where did you live?”
    “In Kent.”
    While he ate, he spoke a little of his youth there, urged on by leading questions. It sounded a happy, carefree sort of life. Riding, hunting, shooting, fishing, lessons of course, and as he grew older dancing and social visits were added to his entertainments. An occasional detail suggested to Marianne that he came from a wealthier background than she did. He mentioned a horse his uncle was training for Ascot. Another time, he spoke of a ball his mama held for one hundred and fifty guests, half of them staying overnight. It would take a large house and a great number of servants to manage such a crowd.
    His table manners were good. His speech, too, was that of a well-born, well-educated gentleman. What could account for his descent into the criminal class?
    When he had finished his beefsteak, the servant returned and they ordered dessert. Apple tart and cheese for Macheath, a cream bun for Marianne.
    Over coffee, she tried to revert to his experiences in the war, but Macheath had no more to say on the subject.
    “It is best forgotten,” he said, “I am home, alive, in one piece, unlike many friends.”
    “Very well, then let us proceed to the really interesting part. Why did you turn highwayman? What you have told me suggests your family is not without means and influence. Could they not