The name, spoken so naturally, startled Cassie, but she knew Mrs. Wenrender was watching its effect on her. “I don’t know about business, ma’am,” said Cassie.
“Of course not, you goose! But have they ever approached you, or made use of your position, to appropriate certain papers or intelligence? Consider this point well. It is of great import to these gentlemen.”
“I can say they have not,” said Cassie steadily.
Mrs. Wenrender sighed. “But I am reminded of the sorrowful, unspeakable—I shudder at the recollection now—circumstances surrounding the departure of our dear Mr. Kempe, and wonder if, at that point, not to be spoken of between us but which you most assuredly will recall, you did not come across some scraps, some memoranda, the ravings of a deluded, sorrowful man maddened by guilt and failure, and out of a distracted loyalty concealed these papers and delivered them into the wrong hands?”
Mrs. Wenrender picked up her fan and waited.
The prisoner in the dock, condemned by his silence yet cursed if he speaks, could not have been more compelled and constrained than Cassie. She looked down. “I did speak to Mr. Grainger, not of the facts of the matter, but to say that Mr. Kempe was dead. Mr. Grainger was very moved. I don’t have any papers. There was nothing Mr. Kempe would address to me.”
“Damn it all,” said the Mr. Withnail on the left testily, “ask the wench what she knows.”
Mrs. Wenrender held up her hand. “Cassie, I am the most tolerant and liberal of mistresses, but I cannot abide an equivocator. If you could satisfy these gentlemen on several points of interest, on Mr. Grainger’s intentions and expectations, then I am sure the vile suspicions can be set aside.”
“Housebreaking,” said the other brother, neatly tapping his foot with each charge. “Theft as a servant. Forgery. Slander. Spying.”
“Mr. Grainger is a gentlemen with me,” said Cassie. “He does not take me into his confidences.”
“But Cassie, my dear, you have the very face and figure for confidences. That is why I am so attached to you. It would be a great pity if I were forced to dismiss you. No—I would be inconsolable. And your poor family. I expect they rely on you a great deal.”
“Have them put out,” snapped the same brother who had spoken before. “Have them put out of Porlock Yard. We will turn them out of The Steps. Let them beg on the streets!”
Mrs. Wenrender turned her fine head and directed a hard stare at both brothers. As one, they smiled in return, as eager and obsequious as ever.
“I know not if I can do as you ask,” said Cassie. Desperation made her voice break, and she was ashamed of the sharp tears that pricked behind her eyes. “The prison has taught him not to share his thoughts with me.”
Yet her faltering seemed to please Mrs. Wenrender. “Such a clever girl; I am sure you have the means to persuade him if you will. I am sure he relies on your good sense a great deal. A few tears like these will turn his heart.”
“I cannot believe so. His breeding and sensibility are much finer than mine,” said Cassie, and if her bitterness was feigned or felt, she could not say.
Mrs. Wenrender stood with regal ease and turned to the seated brothers. “Your carriage is at the door, I presume.”
The Withnails rose awkwardly and bowed. “At your disposal, ma’am.”
Mrs. Wenrender, passing, paused to raise Cassie’s chin with the tip of her finger, and smiled with every semblance of tenderness upon her. “Then come, Cassie. Fetch my shawl, and let us look to your education regarding persuasion.”
Mrs. Wenrender walked serenely to the door, which the Withnails made haste to get for her, and Cassie, frightened and confused, went out with them.
In the hallway, Cassie said, “I would rather not ride out with these men.”
“Nonsense, my girl. What objection could you possibly have to these kindly gentlemen?”
The carriage, a lumbering four-in-hand with the fragments of an old family crest scratched and effaced from the black lacquered doors, was waiting in the street. Mrs. Wenrender was handed inside by the brothers. Cassie stepped up behind them. She had little time to gather herself in the musty interior, all creaking leather and uncomfortable edges of board, buttons, and straw, before the carriage lurched and into the thoroughfare. The brothers were arrayed opposite her. Mrs. Wenrender clutched her arm, with a grip of unusual strength, as the whole contrivance shook on its worn springs. The driver lashed at the horses, and down from Haught, towards the low town, the carriage rolled. As they rattled by shops and taverns, coffeehouses and tea-gardens, Mrs. Wenrender was indifferent to the crowded scenes.
“Such a talented girl,” mused Mrs. Wenrender, toying with a ring on her finger. “And so very pretty besides.”
“Damned handsome girl,” said Mr. Withnail, staring at Cassie.
“With a little refinement, a little polish, a tincture of breeding, she could have half a dozen men of means, considerable men, absolutely doting upon her.”
“Mad for her charms,” said the other Mr. Withnail.
“You could be a perfect lady,” said Mrs. Wenrender, glancing at Cassie.
“I know my place,” said Cassie.
“Nonsense, my dear. If you knew your place, you wouldn’t be out of it. Why, with the accomplishments of a lady, perhaps even Mr. Grainger, reduced as he is, would be persuaded to marry you. There is nothing more desirable than a mistress with a husband permanently housed out of the way.”
To conceal her agitation, Cassie looked out into the dark streets, where many fugitive torches sputtered for want of air, at the looming masses of buildings, the signs, and pulleys. They were passing Virgin’s Lane, coming into the mean little passages that serviced the waterside. Three drunken women, stumbling into the path of the carriage, made the horses shy. Cassie saw a woman’s white arms, bare, at a case window.
“Keep on!” called Mrs. Wenrender.
But the way, among the sluggish and inconstant foot-traffic, had become almost too narrow for the carriage to pass. The driver cursed; the horses balked and were turned down one more road, a foul passage between overhanging garrets, where the horses’ hooves found little purchase in the mud and slime. Then the carriage stopped.
Cassie looked out. They were before a house of sorts, but the timbers had long since buckled, the glass in the windows had cracked, the stones slumped against each other, and some attempts to paint the woodwork fresh had since flaked away. Three or four women, in a state of undress, arms bare, lounged at the upstairs windows and glanced into the street. One dangled a bare foot over the sill. A few tallow dips burnt with a sallow light in the rooms behind. A miserable place, sunk in a routine of degrading festivity. Some men passed furtively by, others made a show of boldness, while the women sometimes paused, talking among themselves and called mechanically into the alleyway, taunting and inviting.
“Why are we stopped?” said Cassie. “You know what this place is?”
“It is a little property of mine,” said Mrs. Wenrender. “A lodging house for seamstresses.”
The Withnails sniggered.
Swiftly, Mrs. Wenrender seized Cassie’s wrist. “Now my dear, listen very particularly. I have it in my power to make you a respectable lady, independent and admired, but you must think of your position. If you can satisfy these gentlemen here, and make them acquainted with Mr. Grainger’s intentions, then your future and my warmest affection are secured. Any little suspicions between us will be quite obliterated. But I cannot tolerate disobedience or dishonesty. If you should disregard my affections, scorn my connections, I have it also in my power to make you a miserable whore, the lowest slammerkin, hawking her flesh to toilers and beggars. Think of your family if you are branded a thief and a whore to prisoners, and they are put into the street.”
Cassie saw a man’s face appear at one of the bottom windows of the house. He stared at the carriage, and after a moment, his features broke into a crooked leer, and he grinned while fingering the latch. A moment later, Mr. Brock stepp
ed in beside the man, and with a hand on his shoulder drew him away from the casement.
“I hold you honest,” said Mrs. Wenrender, “and urge you to consider me as a friend and assist these gentlemen as they request, and to set aside any little differences between us. But whatever happens, my dear Cassie, it is entirely your choice: a lady or a slattern.”
What thought was there but to run, save to scratch out the other woman’s eyes first, if she could? A passion of fury and disgust rose in Cassie, and her senses revolted. Her frame shook with a surge of revulsion. But Mrs. Wenrender still held her wrist, like an ogress clutching a delectable child, and the Withnail brothers looked on with a fascinated, lecherous gaze, two pale goblins in their wigs and powder and unflinching smiles, anxious to preside over her ruin by whatever means they could contrive. The musty old carriage was unendurable. Cassie knew she could not flee into the lanes; there were men waiting in the house for an ugly purpose.
Her heart battered against her throat, but she strove to contain herself and the black flash of rage that scattered her conscious intent. Her hand fell, and her head drooped, lest they see what she thought and how she measured them.
“I am a little faint,” she said, and since her voice shook, how else would they judge this? “The air is bad down here. What is it again that you require of me?”
“School yourself in Mr. Grainger’s intentions, the extent of his knowledge, and report to myself and these gentlemen here.” Mrs. Wenrender spoke close and coaxingly in her ear.
“I will comply,” said Cassie, in a low voice, “and strive to please you.”
“Not enough,” snapped one of the brothers. “Let her tell us what he knows.”
“You are too hasty,” whispered Mrs. Wenrender. “Answer. Prove your good faith.”
“I told you, he does not share his thoughts with me.”
“You are too clever to let that stand,” purred Mrs. Wenrender.
We are bargaining now, thought Cassie, but anger and revulsion distracted her. “He knows about you and Brock and the witnesses you turned out. Both of them. I found that for him.”
“You filched that fool Kempe’s letter,” said Mrs. Wenrender, coaxing her.
“I am no thief. Miss Cozzens bade me destroy it. She was afraid of what it could say.”
“A dainty spy!” gloated Mrs. Wenrender.
“Minx,” growled one of the brothers, eyes gleaming in the dark corner of the carriage. “These are but crumbs. What does he intend?”
Mrs. Wenrender’s hand was rigid about her wrist. Cassie strained not to flinch or tear away.
Yet what lie would stand and not be detected? Words tumbled through her head in the dark compartment. “He will find out who you serve.”
The hand clenched at her, pinching flesh. Could they be afraid in turn? “How—when?”
Cassie looked down, lest her answer came too quickly or glibly. She would have rather struck the old woman than spoken again, but from under her brows she saw they weighed her every word like coins in the counting house. “He will set a trap for you. He will watch the Withnails and Brock. He knows you go between them. He broods on this and plots to shadow their house and carriage, mark where they go, and he is sure that will lead to your master.”
“How does he mean to do this? When? With whom?”
“Two footpads he found in the prison. I don’t know their names. He won’t trust anyone outside; he is afraid of spies.”
This was near enough the truth. A cold smile, which Cassie marked, quirked the older woman’s hard mouth. “You will find out who he sends. Charm him, by any means.”
Cassie willed the sinews of her shoulder to unwind, to show herself pleasant and ready. “I shall. But I must see him again.”
“Quickly,” hissed one of the brothers. “Next week. This week. Ruffians to spy on us? We must not be seen together again until then. Send her tomorrow.”
Mrs. Wenrender loosed her hand, touched Cassie’s cheek, drew back, and regarded Cassie some moments still. How weary and haggard and utterly charmless she looked, stripped of her grace and sophistication, a vile old procuress steeped in bitter calculations.
“You must tell us where and when they put this plot in motion. For your family’s sake if not your own.”
“I am fond of my place.” Cassie felt she would choke if she said more.
“Of course you are, my dear,” Mrs. Wenrender said. “I have always held that you have the natural inclinations of a lady.”
She nodded to the brothers. One of them tapped the carriage roof with his cane. The horses were reluctant to start again in the narrow lane and had to be roused with the whip before the carriage began to roll unsteadily through the stones and mud.
By Turling and the river, the carriage returned. Cassie turned her face to the window. The Withnail brothers bent their heads together and conversed in whispers. As they passed once more into the streets of Haught, Mrs. Wenrender roused herself and sighed. “It is just as well, my dear. It will improve your education and your prospects. I myself was once mistress to a bold gentleman who erred and was taken and made a prisoner. I fancied myself in love—I was very young—but no good thing ever came of it.”
THE SUN ROSE shackled by dreary mists and clouds, and on Cracksheart Hill the gallows loomed, damp and dark, at the first shiver of morning. Underneath the platform, the hangman’s boy tested and coiled lengths of rope, while at the clamorous rousing of the Bellstrom Gaol, Cassie passed in at the gate, on the heels of the parson. The prison was uneasy, and knots of inmates were already gathering in the yard. Cassie hurried to Grainger’s cell and found him in his shirt, readying himself with a splash of cold water to the face.
Cassie cast herself into his arms. Only after a minute or two did he feel her trembling subside.
“My dear Cassie,” said he, “this is a very pleasant greeting, but I fear that something is wrong.”
“I have had a dreadful night! They know or guess much more than we thought. Oh, Thaddeus, I have played them false by offering to play you false.”
“Quickly: you must tell it all.”
Piece by piece, the events came out. “I hate her now, the old hag. Everything she deals in is shameful and shabby. Her glamour and accomplishments are shams. She would make me a lady, if I am content to be her spy and plaything. Or else make me a whore. I’ll never submit.”
“You have been my spy already,” murmured Grainger, subdued.
“I am true in you,” she corrected him.
“They have shown much more of themselves in this than I dared hope, but you cannot deceive them for long.”
“Why do they do this now?”
“They are afraid, and in their fear they reveal themselves. You were brave and wise to mislead them, but you cannot go back.”
“Then I will stay with you.”
“That is my earnest wish. Yes, you know my heart in this. But it is not tenable.”
“Then I will go back to them, and watch them. Lay them bare.”
He shook his head. “Impossible. You are not safe in their power. They know this, and certainly they mean me to know this, as well. We will strike, and we will see who touches the mark first. Freedom or ruin; that is all there is to be decided. There will be no more submission.”
Cassie drew a little away from him. “And when you gain your freedom, your name, your honour, what then? Will your affections guide you?”
“You speak of a certain thing, where I contemplate only a wild chance. If this day should go ill, then all connection between us must be severed. If I should come by certain proofs that I believe are near at hand, then you must know that my trust, my affection, my deepest thoughts are wholly yours. But I will not bind you to a permanent prison, and not seeing the end, I cannot say more.”
She said nothing at first, but in her face was a resolution, a boldness, a clear calm, that heartened him more than all his oaths and made her more than beautiful to his eyes.
“What shall I do?” she
said.
“Find William. Bring him to Captain Grimsborough. Persuade them both, the Captain especially, that I am close to the proofs I need to clear me of the murder and locate the author of the deed. When I have these proofs, I will contrive a signal—somehow—and I must then be brought out at once. Let no one hinder you.”
“I will do as you ask.”
He kissed her hands and held them to his heart. He led her to the door. “Go, then. Hide your face in the prison.” Another kiss. “We must part. I know not for how long.”
IT WAS THE dreadful hour when three more souls must appease the fatal tree. The prisoners gathered, many in the prison yard, and more at the windows and other vantage points, to see the cart go out. Dirk Tallow was brought into the air, in a plumed hat and gold-striped coat, shaven, but red and bleary about the eyes. Some were moved to cheer, and some to laugh at his disadvantage, but the mood held sullen, and many recalled past abuses and brutality, the terrors of the fever this summer past, with a sour tenacity. A few women in the windows in the debtors’ wing waved little white handkerchiefs, but the children were not permitted to see. The felons in the yard raised their hands, rattled their chains, and roared with a dull voice as the cart started.
Moving through the yard, Grainger came across Mr. Tyre, who took little notice of the crowd but scanned the sky, wandered away from the cart and the gate, and was frequently pushed and elbowed aside with a curse. Presently, Grainger came close enough to take him by the arm and pull him away from an irritable prisoner, who threatened to quarrel with Mr. Tyre for disturbing his relish in the moment.
“Mr. Tyre,” said Grainger, “what is the meaning of this distraction?”
“It is Roarke. He has flown away. All this fuss and commotion has irked him, and he is not to be found.”
The Raven's Seal Page 34
