by Edith Layton
“Well, then, Mr. West, let us get young Willie here to the sawbones, shall we?” Harry finally said, and led them from the room.
They walked together, but once out in the entryway, Harry turned to the left as Willie swung to the right. Crispin stopped, wondering which of them to follow. Willie hopped on for a few steps more and then, seeing he was alone, looked back. When he saw where Harry was standing, waiting for him, he grinned brightly, struck the side of his head with his hand, and said, “Oi! What was I thinkin’ of? Right. Let’s go, Harry,” and returned to him.
They entered the room next to Harry’s. It, too, was strangely furnished with elegant mismatched chairs and couches, but it was also occupied by several mismatched people. And it seemed to be a scene from Bedlam rather than the Fleet prison.
There was no doctor there, but there was a minister. He was old, and his wig was so crooked that the fine, straggly white hair beneath it formed a halo all around his long, seamed face. The vicar was beaming at a couple standing before him, and he seemed to be holding on to his Bible for support as he frequently listed from side to side. As he did so, he hummed tunelessly to himself. Two big grinning oafs in rough clothes stood on either side of him, completing the strange bridal party.
It was the unhappy couple, however, who caught and held Crispin’s attention. The groom was a tall, well-dressed man who was obviously completely besotted—and not only by love.
“Now come, m’dear,” the groom said in slurred accents. “Gimme a kiss before signing. I vow I’ve never seen a prettier minx, have you?” he asked the grinning louts. “What a pretty piece for poor old Frankie. I tell you what!” he said with gusto as he leaned forward to try to gather the shrinking bride into his arms. “I think this one will be a real one for me. I think you are my destiny, love,” he said ardently. “We shall suit exactly, my little bride. God in heaven, did you ever see such eyes? The exact color of the…of the nectar in my glass. Where is my glass?” he demanded, releasing his bride to look down at his hands as though he might discover a glass in one of them if he looked hard enough.
Crispin couldn’t stop looking at her.
She was neatly if not fashionably dressed in a blue gown trimmed with fine old lace. And she was unexpectedly lovely. He had a fleeting impression of a trim, curved figure and fine regular features set in a very white face. She wore no wig, only the masses of her own honey-colored hair, and her huge eyes were indeed the golden brown of fine whiskey. But it was the tears in them that he noticed immediately, and the absolute terror he saw reflected in them moved him.
“I cannot,” she whispered to the vicar. “No, no, I will not. Please, forget my request. I will not wed this man, not even in a counterfeit wedding.”
“Oh, what’s the matter, lovey?” the groom crooned. “Getting cold feet? No matter. I will warm them,” he promised as she shrank from him.
Crispin turned to Harry, who was beaming at the wedding party. “I see,” he said resignedly. “The bride is a debtor, I take it?”
Harry’s grin widened.
“And the groom is the troublesome Mr. Finch, no doubt?”
Willie whistled. “There ain’t no flies on you,” he said in admiration.
“And of course there is no one else to wed her?” Crispin asked.
“Why, no, not today, and I believe she said the bailiffs are coming tomorrow,” Harry answered with pleasure.
“I’ll marry her. I have no other honorable choice, do I?” Crispin said with a long sigh. “But just this one, Mr. Meech.”
“Of course, of course,” Harry said happily.
“And what name shall I give the vicar—aside from Fool?” Crispin asked wearily.
“What you will, Mr. West, whatever you will, sir,” Harry said, as he signaled his men to remove John Finch and bring Crispin forward to meet his bride.
CHAPTER 2
She would not cry. Crying would make her absolutely defenseless and rob her of her breath and her dignity. And she needed both now. She called on her pride and all of her wisdom as she searched for a neat, sensible solution to her problem, and then she closed her eyes and prayed that when she opened them again she’d be gone from this awful place and that none of this would ever have happened.
“Mistress?” she heard a man’s voice say. “Mistress Dulcie? I think we have found a solution to your problem.”
Only death or an angel from heaven could solve her problems now, she thought. But she pushed back the terrible weight of the tears behind her eyes, swallowed down the leaden ones rising from her throat, and said as clearly as she could, “Yes?”
“Mr. Finch was obviously indisposed. I’m shocked and terribly sorry,” Harry Meech said, as though he’d no idea of how drunk Finch had been when he’d ordered his men to drag him out from under a table at the inn.
“I believe we have an acceptable substitute at hand. Mistress Dulcie Blessing, it is my pleasure to introduce… ” He cleared his throat and stared at Crispin.
“Ah…Mr. Black,” Crispin said, as he looked down in fascination at the young woman before him.
“Mr. Black,” Harry repeated with a grin. “It will be his pleasure to act as your groom this day, my dear.”
“My great pleasure,” Crispin said in a soft voice. He wondered what this beautiful young woman had done to come to such a terrible pass.
It was more than her beauty that intrigued him, although her eyes were fine and her mouth was soft and tempting. It was that she was so unusual and unexpected in this place. She was clean, for one thing. Her neck was free not only of jewelry but also of the dirt he often saw on the necks of ladies of high fashion as well as those of low birth. Her skin was fine and clear, and her hair shone even in the dim light. She was slender and small; the top of her beautiful head came just to his chin. And she was vulnerable. He didn’t know what it was about her that made him think this. Perhaps it was her trembling hands or her downcast eyes. Whatever it was, she seemed to need him. He might not be able to help himself, but he was determined to help her, if he could.
“Mistress Dulcie?” he said softly. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll go through this charade with you, and then I’ll trouble you no more. Is that all right? Is it what you want?”
She raised her eyes to his. She had no idea how this perfect gentleman could have appeared to replace the lout who had terrified her, unless he was actually the answer to her prayer. She knew better than that, but there was no other way to account for his presence. He was tall and fine-featured, the face of the angel she had requested. She stared at his long eyelashes until she became aware of the quick understanding in his azure eyes, and then she caught her breath and looked away from his face. She couldn’t imagine why such a man had to earn his bread by pretending to wed strange females, an occupation without honor. She had to avail herself of his services, so she had no right to judge him, but for someone of his stature to have sunk to such deception! She had no choice, but he…?
And yet, and yet…he seemed to be capable of taking on all her problems and fears, as well as her enormous burden of debt. She knew it was a fantasy, but she was glad to give him her hand, if only for that moment. She would pretend it was for all time. She nodded, and gave him her hand.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Proceed,” Crispin told the vicar.
“Dearly beloved,” the old man began.
*
When the service was ended, Crispin clasped the bride’s hand warmly before letting it go so that he could sign the register. Only then did he tear his gaze from her and carefully examine the paper the minister thrust at him. Her name was entered as Mistress Dulcie Dawn Blessing, but there was none listed for him to sign his alias over.
A glint of intelligence appeared in the old vicar’s mad eyes.
“No name. You gave me no name, sir. Shall I register you as Mr. No-Name, then, sir? Or as Lord No-Name, perhaps?” He tittered.
“It’s Black, Mr. Black, Mr.…Ebon Black,” Crispin said, and turned to
see his false bride blush at his foolish play on words.
“Ebon Black,” the minister said with a high-pitched laugh as he scrawled on the paper.
Dulcie signed and then passed the paper to Crispin.
“Thank you,” she told him in her throaty voice. “You can’t know how your kindness has helped me today. It was a hard thing to do,” she said, ducking her head. “I almost didn’t come here, but I had no choice. I’ll try to live my life so I’ll never have a reason to regret what I did today. I don’t want to remember anything about it except your part in it. I’ll always remember you with gratitude, sir. Thank you.”
“I wish I could have done more,” he said gently, and meant it. If he’d still had his fortune, he could have done so much more for her. Now he could offer her nothing. But he saw fear spring into her eyes again and realized she wondered what “more” he meant.
“My part in this is over, I assure you,” he said. “I only meant that I would wish my part in this profited you more than for just this hour.”
“It has,” she said with relief. “Oh, believe me, it has. I felt like a cheat and a criminal until you came along. You make it seem…better. Thank you.”
“The paper,” the minister whined, pushing it at him for him to sign.
“If you can’t write, make your sign. Harry here will swear it was you,” Willie said. “It don’t matter what you put down. Frankie Silk’s sign is the ace of spades, so that won’t do, but any other old mark will. Mine’s a windmill,” he added helpfully.
“I can write,” Crispin said distractedly still staring at the bride’s face. Barely looking, he scrawled his own initials on the paper.
“A toast to the happy couple,” Harry said.
“No, thank you,” Dulcie said. “I must get back to my father. I have a dozen things to do.”
She took a leather bag from her pocket and gave it to Harry. He shook it once, listened to the coins jingle, then smiled and handed her a copy of her marriage lines. She took it, dropped a swift curtsy, and after one last swift glance back at Crispin, went quickly out the door.
Harry rummaged in the little bag, brought out a heavy coin, and handed it to Crispin. “For you,” he said, as Willie’s eyes widened.
“The pay won’t always be so grand, but, since it’s your maiden voyage, so to speak, take it.” Harry said with a shrug.
“I’m not sure you should be so generous,” Crispin commented, looking at the coin he was turning around and around in his long fingers. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be back.”
“Oh, well, life’s a gamble, isn’t it? And I’m a gambler. I think we’ll meet again,” Harry said, chuckling.
“I doubt it,” Crispin said, and hoped to God he was right. He turned to Willie. “We ought to get that leg taken care of,” he told the boy. Use this to pay the doctor.” He handed Willie the coin, though he felt the pain of loss down to his toes as he did so. He saw Willie hesitate and added, “You found me the job of work, and it only took a moment. That leg needs mending. I have two good ones to go out and find other employment with.”
The boy’s thin cheeks grew red. “Ah, well, see,” he muttered, “I ain’t so sure it’s broke, after all. See, I figured you wouldn’t be as quick to turn in a kid with a broken leg.” He handed back the coin and said decisively, “Keep it. You don’t owe me nothing anyways. Saved my neck, didn’t you?”
“Well, since it refuses to leave me, I’ll keep it for a reminder—for good luck,” Crispin said with a sad smile. He dropped the coin into his pocket. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, sweeping them a bow, “for a most educational and enlightening morning. Good day.”
When he was gone, Willie sighed. “Nice gent,” he said wistfully. “Hope I see him again.”
“Oh, we will. Never doubt it,” Harry said. “It’s like the cat who found the cream—now he knows where the money is, he’ll be back. Now, then,” he said, turning to the minister, who was staring into space, “let’s see that register, and we’ll settle up with you. Is it a bottle or a coin you’ll have for your services today?”
The rheumy old eyes focused on Harry, and the lines on the old man’s face shifted as he smiled beatifically. “Ah, but I have already been rewarded,” he said in a cracked voice. “I have realized my fondest, dearest dream. My dearest, fondest dream. Ah, yes, I have. Have you ever seen such a bride as the one I gave to that dear boy?”
“A bottle, I guess,” Harry said in disgust. “See to it,” he commanded one of the oafs who had witnessed the wedding.
Harry wandered over to the old man’s desk and glanced down at the bridal register. And then stood stock still, reading it again. And then over again.
*
It was over! It was done! Dulcie took the worn stone steps two at a time as she raced upstairs to tell her father. She would ordinarily have climbed the long stairway slowly, sunk in sorrow as she passed cells on the lower floors which were warmer in winter and cooler in summer. Her father couldn’t afford such luxury, but at least he had a private room to call his own. If she hadn’t gone through with the plan, he would soon have been moved into a cell with dozens of common criminals. But she’d actually done the incredible thing, the vile, awful thing: she’d married and not married. And yes, it was a lie, but no one would be hurt by it, and she was free! She felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from her heart. Joy gave her the extra energy to fly up the last of the steps.
She threw open the door to her father’s room and was about to shout the glad news when she saw that he had company. She closed her mouth.
“Dulcie!” her father said happily. “See who has come to visit us!”
“I see,” she said quietly.
“Well? Do we behold a blushing bride? Come, child, did you do it?” Jerome Snode said eagerly.
Dulcie despised Jerome, who lived in the next cell and was full of schemes. Her father said there was no harm in him, and perhaps he was right, but she thought he was full of mischief. He was the one who had arranged her false marriage. She thought he was a coward and a braggart, and she didn’t trust him, but it was so good to see her father smile again that she almost forgot her misgivings.
That was her father’s and her own fatal flaw, she remembered sadly. They forgot too much too often. Her father never remembered how many of his schemes had failed when he heard about a new one, and when he smiled, Dulcie always forgot how angry she was with him. That had to be a trait she had inherited from her father, because her mother certainly didn’t suffer from a soft heart. She’d left them both years ago. Dulcie’s mother might be treated like a lackey by her sister, and it was true that her sister took too much pleasure in reminding her of her folly in marrying Philip in the first place, but at least she ate regularly, dressed nicely, slept well at night, and didn’t go in fear of the bailiffs.
But, Dulcie reminded herself, she didn’t take after her father in everything. She couldn’t tell a lie without blushing, for one thing. Her father said he never lied, and in a way, it was true. He always believed so firmly in whatever scheme he was running that he actually convinced himself that he was telling the truth. He had really believed in that ratty treasure map he’d brought home that time, the one that had led him to raise money to hunt for buried treasure. The one that had made them pack in the night and leave Bristol double-quick, before their investors found out the captain of the ship they’d hired had floated out to sea on all the whiskey he’d bought with their money.
Her father also believed in the silver polish he’d invested in and sold—a preparation made of bat dung, spider silk, and caustic acid that had eaten through silver, their earnings, and their friendships with investors. He’d believed in those and in all of the other schemes, which had failed so utterly that he had finally landed here in debtor’s prison for life, or until he could talk his way out. Or talk his daughter into taking on his debts and then marrying a stranger so he could be free.
Father and daughter weren’t much alike in other ways, either.
Philip Blessing made friends easily, while his daughter was deeply distrustful of strangers—perhaps because of the way they’d had to keep moving to escape the violence with which his former friends always wound up threatening them.
Dulcie didn’t look like him, either. He had gray eyes and had once had fair hair. Now he carried a little paunch on his slight frame, and most of the hair had left his small, well-shaped head. He was glib and well-spoken, and his eyes twinkled. He could sell anything to anyone. The problem was that his merchandise was like the jewels from a bad fairy, for the visions they bought always turned to tears.
“Yes. It’s done. I married,” Dulcie said curtly, handing her father the certificate their last coins had bought them. He snatched it up, and Jerome peered over his shoulder at it.
Two heads bent low over the marriage certificate. Then two pairs of eyes stared up at her.
“This is a joke?” her father asked.
“No. Everything went the way Harry Meech said it would, except that the bridegroom he arranged for me was drunk, so he got another. A gentleman, Papa,” she said softly, her eyes begging him to believe what she scarcely did, “a real gentleman, I think. Not that it matters,” she added with a sigh for her own foolishness.
“Oh, but it might,” Jerome said with too much pleasure. “Oh, indeed, it might.”
*
First, he went back to the docks. It was a stupid thing to do, and Crispin knew it, but like a man who has lost his watch and keeps patting his pocket expecting to find it there, he couldn’t stop returning to the docks. And then there was the matter of money. He had none, and had to think of a way to get some so he could leave London. The docks were as good a place as any to think. He had spent weeks there doing just that while he waited for his ships.
They still had not come in. One look down the wharfs told him that. Two of his berths were still empty, and the third now held a vessel called the Relentless, not one of the ships he wanted to see.
