The Highwayman's Footsteps Read Free Page A

head. I tried again but still she would not eat. I knew not if it was right to eat or not to eat with a fever. But I recalled that animals usually knew what was best for them during illness and I hoped this might be the same for her.
    In the moonlight, I looked at the bread. My hunger now was intense and my mouth watered. This was not the time to wait, not the time to remember my manners. I was hungry and she was not. I ate as quickly as I could.
    I listened to her strained breathing, watched her closed flickering eyes with dread. I did not know her but I could not bear the thought of her – anyone – dying here, now, in front of me. And then my being left alone.
    I must help her. Whatever the foolishness of it, despite the fact that she had planned to kill me, despite the fact that I was on the run myself and did not want to be held back by an injured girl, despite the fact that she was a criminal, and that I had nothing in common with her, I had to help her. As one person to another, as two people in need, we were linked.

Chapter Four
    â€œH ow were you hurt?” I wanted her to stay awake, not to drift into a frightening place, frightening for both of us. I thought that if I made her talk, she could not die. It had begun to matter to me that she should not die.
    Her voice was little more than a soft moan. Her breathing seemed so faint that at any moment it might float away entirely. “Pistol.”
    A pistol wound? If so, then what chance did she have to recover? “I need to see. I need to move you a little,” I said.
    As I carefully turned her onto her back, she made no sound, but I could feel her muscles tighten and her breath freeze as she tried not to cry out. She kept her hand pressed against her side.
    â€œI must move you a little more. Into the moonlight. So that I may see.” I crouched behind her and slid both hands under her body, shifting her as gently as possible towards the place where the moonlight pooled on the ground. A whimper escaped from her as I settled her down again. I took her black-gloved hand and eased it away from her side.
    I winced for her as I looked at it. A long straight slice through the thin flesh over her ribs. The lead ball must have been a hair’s breadth from entering her, ripping the clothes as it passed. It was not a new wound, from the look of it. The edges were an inch apart, raw, and swollen. Blackened too, from the heat of the bullet’s passage. There was now only a slow trickle of blood. She must have sustained the injury some days ago and it had come apart in the sudden effort of stealing my purse. Although I may not have known how to deal with fever, I had seen wounds before. Would my knowledge of the treatment of animals help me with this girl’s injury?
    My father had always told me to leave such things to our servants, but I could not agree. It was one of the things he despised about me – my softness in the face of suffering, whether human or animal. If I could not bear the pain of others, how could I face pain myself? He told me that if I could not toughen myself then, by God, he would toughen me himself in his militia. His harsh words, his contempt, did nothing to toughen me, only drove me to anger and hurt.
    I had wished to attend boarding school, like my brother, but my father said that I was not clever enough for the Law or the Church and I would be better having lessons at home like my sisters. But when my tutor died, more than two years past now, I had begged to be allowed to go to the Grammar school. My father agreed – he was glad, I supposed, to have me away from the house. The happiest days of my life were spent with Harry and Robert and the other boys, reciting Latin verbs, tables, the dates of the Kings and Queens of England – and trying to trick the masters into amusing diversions. And, as I grew taller, and broader and stronger, I had felt myself to be something of a leader, well-liked and respected. There