by Rebecca King
THE GALLOWS BRIDE
The Cavendish Mysteries
Book Four
By
Rebecca King
The Gallows Bride
Rebecca King
Copyright 2013 by Rebecca King
Smashwords Edition
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
The heavy thump of a cell door somewhere in the dark recesses of the gaol, followed by the metallic clanging of the gaoler’s keys, rang through the claustrophobic cell of the condemned. Despite the thick stone walls, they could hear the mournful cries of pleading from other prisoners echoing hollowly through the large building that housed the prisoners of Derby.
She curled her knees tighter into her chest, rested her head on her knees, and began to pray. She didn’t know what she was praying for, but she did know with certainty that, on this occasion, all her prayers would remain unanswered.
After all, there was no absolution for the condemned.
There would be no respite from the daily hell of living in the squalid cesspit that was so dark that she couldn’t even see her hand resting on her own nose. The inky blackness of the condemned cell was the closest thing to hell she had ever imagined possible. The small room was approximately twelve feet long and four feet wide, and was packed with eight other men, all waiting for their turn on the gallows. There was no window, and only one heavily fortified door that didn’t even let in a sliver of light.
On the day of their arrival, Jemima had been the first one roughly pushed into the blackness. As the other inmates had been pushed behind her, she had been shoved to the darkest corner at the back of the room, where she sat on the hard wooden bench, locked into a world of fear. The pervasive darkness that had swept over them as the door slammed shut was cloying; teasing sanity with its relentless grasp. If it wasn’t for the clanking of the manacles as they shuffled around in search of a more comfortable spot on the unforgiving wooden benches, Jemima would have thought herself the only person in there.
Luckily, nobody within the condemned cell had sought to vocalise the unfairness of their trials, and judgement, as verbally as others within the gaol, and had instead lapsed into a morose silence that was just as heavy as the atmosphere. Jemima wasn’t sure which was worse; the silent desolation within the room, or the pitiful howls of denial from other prisoners that echoed hauntingly throughout the stone walls.
She knew, just as well as everyone else, that there was no way out. Their only escape from their misery was via the gallows.
They had been tried very quickly by a court that hadn’t been interested in full judicial process. Clearly intent on issuing swift judgements, it had sought to stem the rising tide of public unrest, whatever the cost. Jemima knew that, even if they had been given full judicial process, they would still have been found guilty. After all, she had been found standing by the magistrate’s body holding a bloodied knife, and his pouch of coins. The only people around her who could vouch for her innocence had been found guilty of the brutal murder of the coachman; and the mayor’s wife, and were now sitting alongside her in the cell.
The image of the judge resting the black piece of cloth on his head, followed by his cold intonation, “May you be hanged from the neck until the life leaves your body,” loomed over her like a sinister spectre waiting to claim her soul.
There was nobody to save her. She was stuck in a hellish situation that would ultimately result in her being put to death, in front of a crowd of strangers who had travelled to Derby just to watch the spectacle of not just seeing a woman hang, but the woman who was responsible for murdering the Mayor of Derby.
The two people she held close to her heart, thankfully, didn’t even know she was there. While sitting there with nothing to do, and even less to look at, she had thought about writing them a note to plead for their help. Turning the options over and over in her mind led her to only one conclusion. Even if she could get a note out to Peter, hoping for rescue was futile. If he learned of her fate, he would undoubtedly try to help her, but there was little even he could do. Although he was titled, and had connections in high places, even he wouldn’t be able to overturn a court of law, and in all conscience she couldn’t ask him to publicly associate himself with a condemned, unmarried woman. There were no grounds to request a stay of execution, even. Writing a note to them to plead for their help; would achieve nothing but bringing untold distress to the two people she held most dear to her heart.
Peter and Eliza.
She tried her hardest to blank out the image, but his handsome face swam before her anyway. Her heart clenched tightly in her chest, as the memories of him came flooding back. Over the past few months she had managed to keep her memories tightly locked away by busying herself with work and Eliza, but now she was helpless before the emotions that roiled through her.
She couldn’t do it. They were currently ignorant of her plight and, as such, were free of the ordeal of watching her die. If they did ever learn of her fate, then it would be too late. They would most probably grieve for her, but their grief would be free of the memory of watching her being put to death in such a publicly gruesome fashion.
She owed it to them to remain on her own and accept that this time, there was no way out. Nobody could get her out. At dawn tomorrow, she was going to the gallows and there was nothing she could do about it.
She jumped and turned fear-filled eyes to the door as it swung open. The heavily garbed figure of a gaoler carrying a flaming torch appeared in the doorway, a dark scowl of foreboding on his face as he tried to peer through the darkness within the small room, one hand resting on a wicked-looking pistol at his hip.
Jemima’s stomach dropped to her toes. She hadn’t thought it was so late, or early. Surely the time wasn’t already upon them?
“You, woman, get out here,” he growled, lifting his light higher in order to see into the depths of the cell.
Jemima’s heart flipped and she wondered if she would throw up as she stared at him in horror. She began to shake as she tried to stand, and found the stiffness in her limbs and heavy weight of the manacles too much, thumping back down on the hard wooden bench with a cry of defeat.
She jumped as a great looming figure suddenly leaned over her, lifting the heavy chains for her. Giving them a rough tug, he effectively propelled her out of the cell. With little choice, Jemima stumbled over the prone bodies lying squashed on the floor and found herself in the wide space of the inner corridor that ran the length of the gaol as far as the eye could see. She didn’t know how big the gaol was, but stood looking down into the murky gloom, outlined by occasional flaming torches protruding from the walls. Their flickering did little to break the shadows.
The stench of urine, faeces, unwashed bodies and boiling potatoes assaulted her nostrils, and she fought the wave of sickness that threatened. She swallowed rapidly against the lump in her throat, and stumbled as her chains were tugged, dragging her unceremoniously down the corridor. Fear lodged in her chest, and she stared with horror-filled eyes at the small shaft of light glowing through the partly open doorway.
“Where are we going?” Jemima whispered, too scared to glance left or right.
She didn’t need to turn her head to see the pale, ghostly faces peering helplessly out through the bars at her as she passed. As she shuffled, she became aware that the mournful cries had ceased leaving a watchful
silence in their wake. Obviously everyone knew it was futile to seek help from one of the condemned. They couldn’t help themselves. Morbid curiosity shone in their faces as they watched her pass.
Once or twice, Jemima caught a softly issued, “God bless ye, girl.” With each step she wondered if she was going to be hanged there and then, and a wave of terror swept through her so strongly that the cold, black walls of the gaol began to swim around her mockingly, leaving her wondering if she was going to faint.
“The boss wants you,” the gaoler grunted, dragging her onwards.
Jemima struggled to keep up with his long stride, and was grateful he was carrying her chains for her. The heavy iron manacles on her ankles slowed her climb up the steps to what she supposed must be the gaoler’s office. Luckily the gaoler was sympathetic enough to wait while she shuffled awkwardly up the steps.
She blinked rapidly against the glare of the brightly lit room as the door was swung open. She didn’t want to go in, but had to follow her chains as the gaoler dragged her behind him into the warmth of the brightly-lit room.
Despite the warmth and light within the room, Jemima began to shiver. She squinted through the light for several moments, shoving the wild tangle of her unwashed hair out of her eyes with a grimy hand, and waited for her senses to settle. Only then did she become aware of the occupants within the room, watching her silently.
Her stomach dropped to her toes, and she fought to silence a cry of denial as the realisation of who they were sank in.
“Have you forgotten to tell us something?” The harsh rumble of the gaoler’s voice broke the tense silence within the room.
Jemima stared blankly at him, refusing to turn her head and look at the one man she really didn’t want to be there. She ached to run toward him, and beg for his help. She longed to feel his strong arms around her, just one last time. How had he known? How had he found her?
Peter.
The man she loved, and the very last person she wanted to see. She wanted to weep with joy, and scream in misery. The very last thing she had wanted was to see him there, in the midst of such desolation. He was standing so very tall and proud. The fine cut of his clothing stood out against the sinister surroundings of the gaol, marking him as someone special; someone who didn’t belong there. She didn’t know who the other men were, but their resemblance to each other was startling. They were all of similar height to Peter, with broad shoulders and jet black hair. They were a handsome group of men. Were they the Cavendish brothers, Peter often talked about? Somehow Jemima knew they were, but for the life of her couldn’t understand why they were there too.
A wild surge of hope swept through her for one exquisite moment, before the cold wash of logic and reasoning swept it away.
The gaoler – Mr Simpson – sighed deeply and stared thoughtfully at her for several long moments, clearly waiting for something. Heaving another sigh, he nodded toward the window encasement where Peter stood, his face stark.
“Are you married to him?”
Jemima’s heart flipped and she immediately realised Peter was trying to get her out. He was willing to put everything at risk to try to save her.
She just couldn’t allow him to do it. She knew her journey to the gallows was inevitable. Even Peter, bless him, couldn’t overturn the judgement of a court of law. Clearly he knew that too and had decided to risk his own future wellbeing in a desperate attempt to claim her as his wife.
The gaoler tapped his desk. “He says that you are his wife.”
It took every ounce of brazenness she possessed to continue to stare blankly at Mr Simpson. Her heart clenched painfully in her chest as she fought the urge to run across the room and hug or hit Peter, she wasn’t sure which. She was humbled that he was prepared to take such a drastic step on her behalf, and angry with him for risking everything to try to resolve what was a hopeless situation.
Reluctantly she turned to stare at the one man she wanted to see more than anything in the world and in equal measure, never wanted to see again.
Especially here.
A heavy weight settled in her chest as she looked at him, and despite the emotions that battered her senses, she kept her gaze impassive as she studied him from head to toe. His fashionably cut brown hair was windswept, as though he had been running his hands through it repeatedly, or had ridden there at a full gallop. His clothing, although fine, was dusty and crumpled, and there were dark smudges beneath his eyes. Wherever he had been when he had learned of her fate, he had called at the gaol swiftly in an attempt to help her.
Even from several feet away, she could see the hard determination, warring with lurking fear shining clearly in his beseeching eyes. Looking into his eyes now, she knew that he realised that he couldn’t save her, but was trying anyway. The fact that he was trying to claim her as his wife snuffed out the last flickering ray of hope she possessed, turning it to ash in her heart.
In that moment, she understood just how much of a hold Peter had on her heart. It warmed her and chilled her to the bone in equal measure. It was wonderful that he had put everything he had at such risk to come to her aid, but it was horrifying that he had learned of her situation and imminent future – or lack of it. The last thing she wanted was to know that he would be there in the morning to watch her die.
It helped her make the right decision. Despite the growing knot of grief in her chest, she firmed her jaw and turned flinty eyes back to Mr Simpson, the gaoler.
“I have no idea who he is. I’ve never seen him before in my life,” Jemima stated boldly, her emotionless eyes holding the gaoler’s defiantly for several moments. Peter’s immediate objection cut deeply into her wounded soul, and she couldn’t look at him. Her hold on her own emotions was tenuous at best. If she looked at him, or allowed him to see the cracks in her armour, she would crumple.
“Are you sure?” His voice dropped several notches as he studied her, clearly giving her a chance to change her response. Did he know she wasn’t being honest with him? Jemima wondered why he was studying her so closely and, in particular, why he didn’t seem willing to accept her answer.
“Jemima, for God’s sake!” Peter spat, moving swiftly forward.
As he approached, Jemima shuffled sideways to avoid him, her chains rattling against the stone floor. The noise made him pause and look down at her hands and feet in consternation.
Her love for him drove her to take the horrible step of pushing him away forever. With every ounce of fortitude she possessed, Jemima turned her head sideways to glare contemptuously at him. Inside, her heart swelled with longing for something she knew could never be hers. Sucking in a deep breath, she turned her gaze back to the gaoler.
“He’s lying. I’m not married to him,” she said flatly, shuffling toward the door. She didn’t want to go back to the horrid pit of a cell. The warmth of the fireplace had soothed her achingly cold flesh and it was bliss to feel human again, if only for a short while, but she couldn’t stay there for much longer without giving in to the clawing need to touch him. She was struggling enough to contain her own emotions; she couldn’t cope with his as well.
“Jemima, you are my wife!” Peter protested, following her and grabbing her elbow to swing her around to face him. He cursed when she yanked her elbow out of his hold.
Immediately the gaoler who had escorted her to the office stepped forward to intervene, only to be waved back into his corner by Mr Simpson.
“I am not your wife. I don’t know who you are, or what you want,” Jemima bit out, clenching her teeth hard against the need to cry.
Dominic Cavendish, the oldest of the Cavendish brothers, who until now had been standing before the fire, slowly moved forward to stand beside her. His brother, Sebastian, moved with him, clearly prepared to step between her and the door if she tried to leave until this was resolved. But it was the youngest man standing next to the door, Edward Cavendish, who captured her attention. He was silent and watchful as the scene played out before him.
Her gaze met and held his for several long moments, and a wealth of understanding swept between them. Immediately her thoughts turned to Eliza. She didn’t know why. Why him, and not the others. But she knew, somehow, that if anyone could get a final note to her sister, he would.
“Jemima, for God’s sake, stop this,” Peter pleaded from directly behind her.
Jemima could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. Her body cried out in desperate need as the memories of their nights together came flooding back. She couldn’t turn round. She couldn’t look at him. His voice held a hint of desperation that was clear to everyone, and it made her sick to her stomach with the unfairness of it all.
“I want to go back,” she murmured to the gaoler, her desperate gaze meeting his for several long moments. She fought the urge to scream at him when he made no move to take her back to the cell.
“You can’t go back, Jemima. You don’t belong here. We know you are innocent,” Peter declared, his voice heavily laced with frustration. Why wasn’t she helping herself?
Her hair hung in a tangled mass down her back; so wildly unkempt she looked like a banshee. Dark smudges lay beneath eyes that shone out from a gaunt face, so pale that she was almost ethereal.
The months since he had last seen her had clearly been anything but kind. She was so thin, he felt certain that he could pick her up with one hand. He could see the bony protrusions of her knuckles so clearly, the skin was almost translucent. But it was her eyes that disturbed him. Or, rather, what lurked in those amber orbs.
The helpless desolation he had seen in them when she had looked at him earlier had branded his soul. His heart clenched painfully at the soul-wrenching hopelessness he could see in the depths of her steady gaze. When she had looked at him so contemptuously, he had - for one very brief moment - wondered if he had finally lost her after all. But he had seen the look she had shared with the gaoler, the emotions she was trying so desperately to hide, and knew that she wasn’t lost. She just thought she was.
