The Highwayman by Catherine Reynolds

he was a highwayman? But no, she decided in the next instant. Although she could not have said why, she rather thought that he had at least been bred a gentleman, and therefore, perhaps he was not beyond redemption.
    She had taken several more steps, but now she stopped again to consider that notion.
    Common sense told her that she ought only to be concerned with getting him well to the point where she could be rid of him. Still, that might take several days, and there could be no harm in trying to reform him during that time, could there? In fact, was it not her duty at least to attempt to turn him from the disastrous path he had chosen to follow? One might almost say that it was fated.
     

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    “What drivel!” exclaimed Jane’s patient, interrupting her in the middle of a sentence.
    It was the following afternoon. Jane was once more alone with him in his chamber, but by now it had happened so frequently that it no longer seemed such a breach of propriety. Repetition had gradually quieted her conscience, and she told herself that to continue baulking would be to make a mountain out of a molehill. After all, Mr. Sebast was in no condition to harm her, and in any event, he would soon be gone.
    At his remark, Jane looked up from the book she had been reading aloud and declared, “Really, Mr. Sebast. I should scarcely stigmatize Shakespeare as drivel!”
    “If that is Shakespeare,” he asserted, “then I am King George.”
    A smile curved her lips and she replied, “Then you must certainly own to being our poor, mad king, sir, for this is indeed Shakespeare.”
    Triumphantly, she held the book up so that he might read the title.
    “The Family Shakespeare, by Thomas Bowdler,” he muttered, then rolled his eyes. “As I said before, it is drivel. Worse than drivel, in fact, and if you had ever read the original version, you would know it.”
    “Well,” she admitted, “I must own that I am finding this to be rather dull reading. Is the original really so very different?”
    “As night is to day,” he assured her. “When I am on my feet again, I shall obtain a copy for you.”
    Alarmed at the prospect of how he might obtain such a copy, she said quickly, “That is very kind of you, but it is not at all necessary....”
    “No,” he agreed, “and I am seldom kind. Nevertheless, I shall do so. I cannot allow you to continue thinking that Shakespeare would write such bland stuff. This idiot, Bowdler, has managed to take all the fire and passion out of it.” Seeing her blush at his mention of fire and passion delighted him, but he resisted the urge to tease her and merely added, “Now, what is that other book you have there?”
    “Oh,” she said, “it is called Pride and Prejudice. Have you read it?”
    “No. For a good many years, I was out of the country. Except for the classics, I fear that I have fallen far behind in my reading.” He did not mention that his time in England had been spent in less admirable pursuits than reading. Instead he said, “I daresay that book cannot be any worse than The Family Shakespeare, however.”
    “Oh, it is a great deal better, I assure you. I like it excessively, and I think you will, too.” Then she added, a little uncertainly, “But, perhaps not. It is a romance and was written by a lady. However, she is very witty and clever, and she pokes fun at Society, which you will no doubt appreciate.”
    “Touché,” he acknowledged with a grin. “But I promise you, I have nothing against female authors, especially if they are clever and have a sense of humour.”
    “Then we have something in common,” she replied archly, “for I have nothing against male authors.”
    He laughed and told her, “Now, that’s landed me a facer!”
    Jane smiled, then paused, fingering the book in her lap, before beginning tentatively, “Mr. Sebast...”
    He held up his hand and said, “Please, surely such formality is unnecessary between patient and physician. I wish you