“No.” When had her sister become so adept at understanding Jane’s moods? Perhaps she always had, and it was only Jane who misunderstood Melody’s. “He has been arrested and … and is to be tried for treason.”
Melody closed her eyes and clapped her hands to her mouth. A small sound of denial escaped, but she held still, displaying no sign of falling into hysterics as she had before. Lowering her hands, she let out a shaking breath. “What must we do?”
“I do not know that we can do anything. We have no formal connection with the family, and—”
Without notice, the door to Melody’s room opened. Mrs. Ellsworth stood at the entry, looking all in a panic. “Jane—Melody, my dear, you have glasses! Oh, but that is not why I am here. Jane, you must come downstairs at once! They have come for Sir David, and will not listen to reason. You must come.”
“What is the matter?” Jane stood, pressing her hand to her breast in alarm. Melody rose beside her, grasping Jane’s free hand. “Who has come for Vincent?”
“The Bow Street Runners. They are arresting him! For treason!” Mrs. Ellsworth held out her hand to Jane. “Come. You can always talk sense to people. Your father is trying to stop them but, oh me, he is having no success.”
The Bow Street Runners patrolled London and brought in criminals. If they were here for Vincent, then he must have been linked to Mr. O’Brien’s case. Jane rushed out of the room and down the stairs with Melody and her mother close behind her.
Mr. Ellsworth stood in front of the door, red with fury. His hands were on his hips and he blocked the door with his body. “Sir David was knighted by the Prince Regent for his service in the war. You cannot suppose him to now be capable of committing treason. Leave him here, I tell you, until someone asks His Royal Highness if he really wants his friend arrested.”
Facing him, Vincent stood in shackles, guarded by two red coats. It was not merely the Bow Street Runners who had come for her husband, but His Majesty’s Coldstream Regiment. Even with his back to her, Vincent’s frustration was obvious in his posture. The last hope that Jane held fled at the sight of her husband bound. She had to struggle to hold on to her composure for his sake and for her father’s.
With the guards were two gentlemen in the red waistcoats of the Bow Street Runners. One of them, an imposing giant, shook his head. “That ain’t our lookout. We been told to bring him in, and so we are.” He turned about at the sound of Jane’s footsteps and jerked his head at her. “Is that Lady Vincent?”
One of the redcoats turned around. Jane was shocked to see that it was Major Curry holding her husband. “It is, Mr. Miller.”
Mr. Miller scratched under his arm, nodding. “Heard she was wearing trousers earlier. Wish I’d seen that. A lady in trousers.”
The Major turned his head away. “Lady Vincent, you must believe that this is my duty, and that I would have no part in it if I were given a choice.” He looked to Melody with inexpressible sadness. “I do not expect you to forgive me.”
Pulling a set of shackles out of his pockets, the Bow Street Runner gestured to Jane to step closer. “Lady Vincent, you are under arrest with a charge of treason against the Crown.”
Jane could not breathe. She shook her head in denial. Closing her eyes, she bit the inside of her lips until her breath was under her control. “You have a job, and I understand that, but I believe you have been misled. We were there to try to stop the march.”
“Nice of you to say that, but we got evidence to the contrary.”
Melody said, “Wait. What about me?”
Major Curry looked at her very carefully and said, “No one has come forth as a witness to seeing you at the riot.”
Melody paled. Jane understood that expression all too well. The Major came very close to perjuring himself on her account by the spirit of what he said, if not the words themselves. Melody squeezed Jane’s hand. “We will get you out.”
Mr. Miller stepped forward, shackles jangling. “Will you come quietly, please? I don’t want to hurt you getting these on.”
There seemed to be little other option. Jane held out her wrists and let him put the heavy metal bracelets around them. Seeing her submit, Mr. Ellsworth’s shoulders sank, and the Bow Street Runners pushed him aside with no gentleness, although the Major was kind enough to allow Melody to get Jane’s pelisse for her. He promised to allow someone in her family bring a change of clothing to her later.
Jane followed the soldiers. Without ceremony, she and Vincent were placed in an enclosed wagon, which reeked of urine and sweat.
Major Curry swung up to sit inside with them. He said nothing until the door was shut, locked, and they were on their way. Then he removed his hat and held it in his hands, turning it over. “I feel I should let you know that I think the charges against you are specious, but I have no proof of this. I will endeavour to get the Duke of Wellington involved on your behalf. We both remember your service to the Crown last summer too well to think that you would turn against it now.” He sighed and brushed a bit of powder off the brim of his hat. “But … but one of the witnesses is an agent of the Crown. John Devenny swears that you were both involved.”
Jane shook her head in confusion “Who? I do not know that name.”
“He was disguised as a footman at the house of Sir Waldo Essex, and had occasion to observe you there as well as at Stratton House.”
“Ah.” The pieces, which Jane had thought she had seen so clearly, rearranged themselves into another and deeper pattern.
It was clear to Jane that Major Curry had no idea that Lady Penelope Essex was Vincent’s sister. “He told us of a secret meeting area that you had created at Stratton House. If it was as he said … the case looks grave.”
“The musicians’ gallery?” Vincent raised his eyebrows. “It is hardly a secret area. We were following a commission so musicians could tune their instruments more easily.”
Jane had little faith that that explanation would hold water with anyone but a musician, since she had also believed the quiet area was evidence of criminal intentions.
“I am not the one you must convince,” Major Curry said. “And the fact of the matter is that with such witnesses as Devenny and the Earl of Verbury, there is nothing I can do. The only latitude I am granted, I am exercising.” He continued to turn his hat over and over in his hands. “No one, save me, recognised Miss Ellsworth, and I will do my utmost to make certain that she is not brought into this.”
“For that, I thank you.” Jane bowed her head and counted the few blessings that she had. “What will happen to us?”
“We are on our way to Marshalsea. They will separate you and keep you there until your trial.”
“Is that where Mr. O’Brien is as well?”
“Yes.”
Vincent cleared his throat. “May I hold my wife’s hand until we get there?”
Major Curry looked out the back of the wagon. “I cannot stop something that I do not witness.”
Shackles clanking, Vincent reached for Jane. She put both of her hands into his. She studied the calluses on his palms and the fine hairs on the backs of his hands. The strong, broad tips of his fingers traced circles on her own hands. She held her husband’s hands and tried to fix them in her memory.
* * *
They separated Jane from Vincent as soon as they walked through the door of the prison. She watched him as long as she could while they marched him down a hall to the men’s side. His eyes were wild, looking back at her as the door shut between them.
Jane had thought she despaired before.
When the door closed, Jane nearly fell. Only the hands of her gaoler kept her upright. Mr. Bradley had a paunch that strained his waistcoat and hung over his belt. He wore a clump of keys that clanked as he shuffled down the halls. The light from the lamp in his other hand glistened off his protruding lower lip.
He led Jane down halls and past rooms packed with women in the most distressing of conditions. As she walked, the faces of those women nea
r their cell doors turned to follow her. A young woman, no older than Jane, watched them with a dull gaze, seeming to move her head more out of instinct than consciousness. In another cell, an old slattern sat with her arm around a girl of twelve, fondling the girl’s hair. Her eyes gleamed as she watched Jane.
But the most dreadful thing about the place was the silence. Only the small sounds of prisoners shifting position or a door shutting or Jane’s own feet on the floor marred the quiet. It was as though the prison collectively held its breath.
Jane was led to a small room with one tiny window facing a stone wall. The cell itself was only five paces wide. As soon as she was inside, Mr. Bradley began to speak. “You’re in luck that I’ve got such a nice place for you. Your family has seen you well taken care of. You may be certain that not everyone gets such nice accommodations.” Jane could not imagine how this had been arranged, since her family had been left behind at the house. The gaoler did not seem to notice her confusion, or perhaps was used to seeing people deranged, so paid it no mind. He tapped a card on the wall. “There are rules here, even for folks with good connections. I won’t do you the insult of thinking a fine lady like yourself can’t read.”
Some response seemed called for, so Jane said, “Thank you,” though gratitude was the farthest thing from her heart.
“Now, I won’t scold you, since it’s your first day and all, but you’re not to speak. Not unless someone asks you a direct question. It’s the first rule.” Her gaoler knelt and pulled a long clanking chain out from under the bed. A shackle was fixed to the end of it. “Sit you down here, mind, so I can get this on.”
Jane sat on the very edge of the bed. The sheets were grey and had been repaired many times, but not well. A beetle of some sort crawled across the foot of the bed. Jane shuddered, imagining what else was inside the bed linens.
Producing a large key, Mr. Bradley undid the shackle, then put the cold metal restraint around Jane’s ankle. “There now. If you ask your family when they come, I’ve got another chain that’s a lighter weight. It don’t cost much, but it’ll make you ever so much more comfortable. You just ask them.”
Jane nodded. The weight was cold and awkward. The thin stockings she wore were unequal to the task of keeping the chill out, and the shackle bit into the skin at the top of her foot. She turned her head to the sign on the wall.
1. No talking.
2. Baths every Monday.
3. No glamour.
Pushing himself to his feet, the gaoler nodded. “Did you bring anything with you? You may answer that one.”
“No. Just my pelisse. My father … later, I think.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for him.” He sighed. “Sorry that you didn’t think to bring a candle with you.”
Jane opened her mouth to reply, but closed it at a look from him.
He smiled. “You’re a quick study. We’ll get on fine. Not that I expect we’ll have you long, not with the charges on your head. More’s the pity.”
He walked to the door, shadow bounding from the single lamp. “Try to get some rest, and I’ll let you know when your family comes.”
When he pulled the door shut behind him, the room fell into darkness. Without the lamp light, the only glow came from the window, which, given the clouds overhead, was barely lighter than the walls.
Every sound was magnified in the dark. Wind hissed outside the glass. Somewhere in the abyss of Marshalsea, someone gave a single sob and was quickly silenced. The rustle of claws scuttled across the floor.
Jane stood, shackle clanking around her ankle, and walked toward the window. She held her hands out in front of her, though she could not recall any furniture in the room aside from her bed. Her third step brought her to a halt as the chain attaching her to the wall tightened.
With her arm outstretched, leaning forward, she could just brush one finger against the cold glass. Not close enough to open it and let in a breeze. Not close enough to look out and see if there were some sign of Vincent.
Jane stood, almost at the window, and pulled her pelisse tighter, shivering.
Her father would come in the morning, and somehow he would make things better.
Twenty-two
A Compact Visit
After a night which Jane spent huddled atop the bed linens wrapped in her pelisse and sleeping little, she was almost grateful when the early light from the small window woke her. She sat up and stared about the cell. If glamour had been allowed, she might have worked some to pass the time or to try to mask the bleak room. Jane had few illusions that she would be allowed such a luxury.
She scratched her head, grateful that she wore her hair short so she did not have to attempt to put it up without a mirror. She chewed the inside of her lip, trying to work out what to do. There must be something.
Without some activity, she would go mad.
Jane swung her feet over the side of the bed and stood, stretching to her full height. She let her arms drop back to her sides and looked about again. There was an abused tin chamber pot in one corner, none too clean. It was, however, the only thing in the room besides the bed and the sign upon the wall.
Jane tried again for the window, hoping that she might see out a little now that it was daylight. The chain rattled as she walked and rubbed against the large bone on the inside of her ankle.
By standing in a lunge with her shackled foot behind her, Jane could tilt her head just enough to catch a corner of the sky. It was the same overcast grey that they had seen for weeks. She watched the slight changes of grey in the clouds and listened for sounds outside her cell.
What were they to do? She would talk about it with her father. He would find an attorney for them, of course. She scratched the back of her hand, idly, and her fingers stumbled over a series of bumps. Jane raised her hand to look at it. Three bug bites stood out in angry red sores.
Her other hand had one as well.
Pushing up her sleeves, Jane found more, and her whole body began to itch. She walked in a half circle as far as she could get from the bed. Pacing to put the itching out of her mind, she tried to work through what her options were. She could do little from inside the cell.
Jane had a moment of fancy in which she cast a Sphère Obscurcie and escaped when they left the door open, but the weight and rattle of the shackle quickly pulled her back to her senses. Even if she were to escape, what then? Vincent would still be chained, and there was a charge of treason against them. Perhaps one of Vincent’s college chums could help. He had studied law at university, after all. Surely one of them must be adept. University—why was she so worried? Vincent had met the Prince Regent while at school. He would pardon them as soon as he heard that they had been arrested.
Footsteps sounded in the hall and Jane hurried toward the door, stopped short by her chain. Keys rattled outside the door. Please God, let that be the gaoler with her father, or the Prince Regent come to rescue them … not that the Prince would come himself. Jane wet her lips and tried to compose herself.
The lock scraped and then the door opened. The gaoler was all smiles. “There now, Lady Vincent. Here’s the Solicitor General, come to see you.”
An older gentleman followed him into the cell, a withered man, no more than a rack of bones. He carried a leather satchel under one arm, which bulged with papers. “Thank you, my good man.” He passed Mr. Bradley a banknote. “Could you see to it that Lady Vincent has a good breakfast?”
As the smiling gaoler pocketed the banknote, Jane found her voice. “I am afraid you have the better of me, sir.”
“I am Sir Jeremiah Fisk.” The Solicitor General leafed through his papers. “I apologise for leaving you here last night. We usually conduct our initial interviews at Bow Street, but due to the nature of the charges, you were all brought directly here.” He pulled out a paper. “Ah. Here it is.”
Jane stood in front of him, waiting as he looked it over. Inhaling so that his nostrils widened, Sir Jeremiah pursed his lips. “Now … given your husband
’s past service, I believe that we can come to an arrangement, if you will both cooperate fully with our investigation.”
“Of course. I am happy to cooperate.”
“Good. Good. I have some questions about Mr. O’Brien that I want to ask. Before we begin, though, let us be clear: a man found guilty of treason will be drawn to the place of execution on a hurdle, hanged, cut down while still alive, and then disembowelled, castrated, beheaded, and quartered. The state is lenient for women—they are only drawn and hanged till dead.” The solicitor looked down at the paper. “In exchange for your assistance, I can arrange to have your sentence converted to transportation for life.”
What a question. Jane clasped her hands in front of her and raised her chin. “You seem to be assuming our guilt.”
“The evidence against you is significant, I am afraid.” He frowned in consideration. “You were, perhaps, misled by your husband? We might be able to pursue that angle, I suppose. If you are willing to testify against him. Given his history, I trust that will not be an issue.”
“His history? I do not take your meaning.”
“Ah … you did not know.” He looked back at his paper. “I thought as much. It is often the case.”
“Know what?”
He hesitated. “Your husband is not who he has presented himself to be. His true name is Vincent Hamilton—”
Jane laughed. She could not help herself, even knowing that the laughter made her sound as though her senses were quite deranged. “Oh. That. Yes, I have known about that since he proposed. And no, I am afraid I cannot testify against him. Any other assistance you require, so long as I am not obliged to perjure myself, I am happy to provide.” Jane realised that perhaps the solicitor could help them. Knowing that the Prince Regent would vouch for them, it only required getting word to him of their difficulties. They were the Prince Regent’s glamourists, after all—surely it could not be so difficult to ask the solicitor to carry a message? “Sir Jeremiah, are you aware that my husband is a friend of the Prince Regent?”
Without a Summer Page 22
