by Sandra Byrd
Several hours later, a bowl of food was pushed through a narrow opening on the floor, as well as two pewter mugs. As soon as the warder walked away, two small rats came up and sniffed the bowl.
Rats!
Their shoulders were hunched over and their heads were down in what I assumed was an attack position. The pair of them stared at me, whiskers twitching, eyes unblinking—the phrase “beady little eyes” had never seemed so apt—and so deeply black no pupil could be distinguished. I made a move toward the bowl, and as I did, the vermin advanced toward me boldly.
My stomach churned and roiled again. I closed my eyes and waited till the feeling passed. By the time I’d opened them again, the rats had eaten of my dinner. They’d stayed away from the pewter mugs, though; they remained filled nearly to the brim, so I pulled them into my cell. I sniffed. One held beer—which I would not drink—and the other, water.
I was so very, very thirsty. I drank the water.
An hour later I pushed the red flag out and prayed that someone would see it. She did, and I rushed to the closets before I was sick.
I slept not at all that first night under Her Majesty’s roof. I suspected a leering eyeball through the peephole in my door. I shivered, fully clothed, and tried not to cry, though the others around me had no hesitancy to sob as loudly as they might.
CHAPTER
Thirty-One
I woke in despair and distress, feeling forsaken, despite my familiarity with Saint Paul’s words to the Corinthians: “We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.” I washed my face with the cold, slightly brown water that had been brought to me. I spent the early hours of the morning tending to my hair, with my fingers, and trying to be hopeful, thinking of what I would do, once out, to support my uncle, Orchie, and myself.
Orchie was surely too old to be hired on elsewhere. Uncle continued to grow ever more confused. I had thought of living with Marguerite, but she had no income of her own, and when I viewed the situation as clearly as I must, she needed to marry to tend to her own future.
Sheffield Brothers would be lost once it was understood that we did not pay our suppliers. We needed a powerful protector, and we did not have one.
Midmorning, I went with the others to the area where we were to take some exercise. I sat on a rotting wood bench in the middle of the small yard; the day was blissfully dry if cold. Then I realized why the bench was empty of all but I: it was infested with woodworm beetles chewing through the damp wood. I jumped up, looking around for the regulars who did not like fancy misses, and a few approached me. One came close enough to look in my face and then I heard a voice ring out.
“Hey! She’s one of us. She’s mine!”
I broke out in a rash of relief as Jeanette made her way over to me.
“Miss Sheffield?” Her voice was suffused with wonder. “Is it really you? Why are you here?”
“It is I,” I said. “I have been remanded until I can see the magistrate for some debts that my uncle owed and for which I signed.”
She gathered some of the other women around her. “You all put the word out to everyone. She is not to be touched or harmed.”
The others nodded in agreement, and suddenly I felt enveloped in a circle of friends and affection. My heart filled with gratitude and I closed my eyes for a moment.
“Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee? And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
“Thank you,” I said to Jeanette, to all of them.
“Of course,” she responded. “We are friends.”
I walked with them for the permitted hour; I did not know if I would be allowed to see them at chapel the following day. Perhaps the prisoners in the private quarters went at a different time. But knowing they were here and nearby and companionable and protecting me helped buoy my spirits.
“Are there—are there always rats?” I asked.
“Some says they make good pets.”
My face must have reflected my horror because she laughed gently at me. “Dear, kindly Miss Sheffield. Did ya not know this was our life? After all these visits?”
“I did not.” But I vowed to do more than kindly social visits should I ever find a way out of here.
She looked at my face. “Ya didn’t sleep, did ya?”
“Does it show?”
She nodded. “Dark circles. Plus, none of us sleep. It’s the planks. And the noise.”
“Sobbing,” I agreed.
“And raving,” she said. She looked surprised when I tilted my head. “You have no ravers?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh, you will,” she said. “They always starts in on Saturday nights afore church on Sunday.”
I drew in a deep breath.
“I’ll pray for ya,” she said, as she always said she would.
“And I for you,” I replied.
I returned to my cell and pondered my situation. I was cold, my clothes and thin gloves offering little protection. I was thirsty. I had spilt some water on the floor the night before, but because it was so cold, it had not yet dried. When at home, I never gave a second thought to desiring water, but now that I could not have fresh, it was all I could think of. I wanted some greens. I wished for Cornish pasty, when it had not been long since I’d thought myself ill-used for having to partake of it so often. I wondered if my uncle was well and how Orchie was coping and hoped and prayed that I would be able to tend to their needs quickly. I understood freshly the hopelessness my friends in prison felt when they had no say over their own lives and little or no hope of ever being released.
I found them, now, to be more courageous than ever. That gave me courage.
But when night came on, I found myself struggling to breathe again. The walls tilted closer, and I could hear crying down the hallway. The person in the cell to my left retched loudly, and I had to press my jaws together from underneath, with both hands, to overcome the reflex to retch myself.
Then the raving began, with first one woman, then another, talking, pleading loudly with unseen people, and crying out remembrances of past crimes committed against them. One screamed of the horrors of fire.
I closed my eyes and prayed for them and for myself and for Jeanette, and for Harry to hurry, all the while clutching my Bible.
If there is a fire, no one will come for me, I thought. I will be left—we all will be left—to perish.
No one is coming for you anyway, Fear taunted.
Where is Harry? Why hasn’t he paid my debt? Perhaps he never intended to see me out of prison. Perhaps this is as good a way as any of disposing his responsibility to me.
I did not believe that, even as I rubbed my empty finger. My heart believed that I knew the man, even as it clenched in worry.
Hours ticked by and a familiar dread bolted me up in bed.
Perhaps Harry really had wanted me out of the way—and had assisted that Italian man in planting the Roman bottle in my workshop.
Perhaps the person who had killed Clarkson had also gone after Harry, and then I would likely have no way out. If he were to die with no heirs, could the collection be given to the South Kensington after all? That would be the likely default.
What if the Italians had apprehended Harry? Perhaps he had found something out that upset him, and they had arranged to detain him beyond the tenth day?
“If they’ve said ten days, they will wait ten days. But they will not wait longer,” Harry had said.
It would be ten days on Monday.
I eased my back against the wall and felt a settled presence gather around me.
I’m thankful for a reassurance of your presence, dearest Lord, in moments of trial.
I prayed the majolica alone would bring enough money to pay back Lord Tenteden. I prayed my uncle would be far enough along i
n his wanderings that he would not know if I had to sell his Book of Hours for us to live. I prayed Charlotte would help with that sale—she might want nothing further to do with me, and that would be understandable. Then who would sell the items to free me? Could she even sell them, without my uncle’s permission? He might not, after all, have the legal competency to make such a decision.
I prayed Harry was well.
I love him.
Early the next morning I had a visitor. I did not think I would be allowed visitors whilst awaiting my sentence—only once I was under correction.
When the door opened, I saw the chaplain there. “Reverend Bradly Clay,” he introduced himself. “I’ve come to invite you to chapel this morning.”
“I had planned to worship alone in my cell.”
He smiled at me. “I suspected as much. It is quite usual when someone is newly introduced to the prison, they are so filled with shame that they do not like to be seen by the others. That denies them a powerful opportunity for joint sympathetic worship and does not allow us to tend to your needs. Eucharist may be served in quarters, but that is frowned upon. You may find it strengthening to attend.”
I nodded, tempted but not convinced.
“I understand you have been a part of the women’s committee which has regularly visited the prison,” he continued.
“I have.”
“Perhaps it would bring a strong message to them that you expected to find comfort and joy in the church within the prison as much as without,” he said. “I shall leave the decision to you, Miss Sheffield. There is darkness here, as you well know. But remember, ‘He discovereth deep things out of darkness, and bringeth out to light the shadow of death.’ The book of Job.”
I smiled. “I am overly familiar with the book of Job, Reverend. Thank you. I shall attend.”
After he left, I smoothed down the sides of my dress and shook from it what dust and wrinkles I could.
I used a corner of the greasy blanket to wipe the dust from my boots, then put on my gloves, thankful once more that I had been able to retain my own clothing. I repented taking my small graces for granted.
The bells were rung to call us to chapel—I recognized them from my former visits—and I left my room and made my way toward the chapel. Although I had visited my ladies in a room nearby, I had never been in the chapel itself.
Reverend Clay was right; I did appreciate his message and knew the words to the songs sung, so I was able to join in. Soon, it was time for Eucharist.
One after another, the women transformed from somber to peaceful. Old women, young women, women with no teeth and whose lips had sucked in toward their jaws and gums to compensate.
I took the Eucharist myself and, thus strengthened, prepared to return to my cell. However, a new warder came and took me firmly by the hand.
“Come with me,” she said.
CHAPTER
Thirty-Two
The warder led me to another part of the prison.
“This is your new room,” she said, opening the door.
“Why?” I asked. “What of my old cell?”
She shrugged. “Just be happy tha’ someone paid for you to be moved. I’ll be delivering your food, and you can have visitors, if you like. Should any think to find you here.” She smirked.
I nodded, and she left. I looked around the room. It was larger; the window wasn’t clean, but not completely blocked, either. The bed had a mattress and was not merely a plank. The pillow was sewn shut, though it did not look to have down or feathers. This was still prison.
There was a small desk and a chair and no grate by which rats might enter.
I nearly cried. Who would pay for better quarters for me but not pay for me to be released?
I sat on the chair for a moment and soon heard a fall of footsteps on the stone hallway. They stopped outside my door. I stood, tense. Then came a knock.
“Ellie?”
I flew off the chair as the door opened. “Harry!”
He held me tightly for a minute, for two, before whispering in my ear, “I am here now, and all will be well. I shall see to it; I promise.”
I blinked back tears and took him by the hand. “I have no second chair to offer you,” I said as I led him into my cell.
He stroked my hair. “The least of our concerns, but quite like you. We shall sit side by side—properly—on your bed as if it were a sofa.”
I nodded. “Why . . . ? How . . . ?” Although the day was dim and the window remained dingy, suddenly my room and my spirits became bathed in golden light.
“I had no idea,” he said, “that you were being threatened with debtor’s prison if your invoice was not paid by the fifteenth of March. Why did you not tell me?”
I spoke softly. “Pride. You’d always admired my strength and self-sufficiency. I did not want to lose that. I suppose, too, that I wanted to prove I could manage Sheffield Brothers on my own. I came very close. When the Roman piece was found in my shop, I couldn’t ask you for money, as it would seem as if I took the bottle to pay my debts. Like you, my striving to earn others’ approval has not led to amiable circumstances or peace. By waiting too long to ask for help, to have a plan in place should all fail to go as I assumed it would, I have risked myself and, worse, others.”
He reached across and took the cell Bible from its shelf. Turning to the book of Isaiah, he read, “‘Since thou wast precious in my sight, thou hast been honourable, and I have loved thee: therefore will I give men for thee, and people for thy life.’ You are precious, your actions were honorable, and I am here to help you.”
I blinked back tears and whispered, “Thank you.” Then I leaned into him before speaking. “Can you free me?”
He nodded, and I nearly collapsed with relief. “But you must remain here for another day or so until I have the Roman treasures arranged for. I was in the countryside arranging a sale of my own so that I could cover your debts and the debts incurred by the theft of the Roman treasures. I did not return until early this morning. When I did, I found your telegram and came with all speed. I’ve paid for you to have better quarters—and protection—until I can pay those debts and free you, and protect you from the Italians, as well.”
“Yes, thank you. How shall I ever repay you?”
He ran his finger along my jawline. “You need not, lovely Ellie.”
“Will you sell the Venetian treasures?”
He shook his head. “By no means. Viero entrusted them to me, and I shall see them safely back in his hands.”
I’d never loved the man more than I did at that moment. I recalled what Audley had told me. “Despite what you may have observed, Miss Sheffield, chivalry is not dead. There are some among the nobility who still act with noble intentions.”
“Pazzo and his men won’t breach the prison. It’s very likely those goods are stolen, and they won’t want to draw an authoritative eye. In any case, it will be moot very soon.” He took my hand in his own. I was acutely aware that my hands were not as clean as they might have been had I been able to wash them with clean water, at home, and use a nailbrush.
“The water . . .” I shrugged, pulling my hand away before he could remove the glove to hold my hand, skin to flesh.
He looked at me questioningly. “What is it?”
This was not the moment to be concerned about such matters, but . . . “I . . . I had taken such care with my gowns, my hair, my hands and such since Marguerite prompted me. And I must say, it affected you. And now?” I looked down at my serviceable gown and what I knew to be, under the gloves, slightly careworn hands. My hair was still fresh but hung a bit awkwardly for lack of pins and a good brush.
He cupped my face in his hands. “Dearest Ellie. You are beautiful to me in every manifestation. You are clothed in strength and dignity.” He looked as though he were going to kiss me, but he did not. “May I?”
I nodded and closed my eyes in reverie as he removed my gloves, slowly, finger by finger, gently easing the fabric from
my hands until they were bare. He then took my hands in his own, drew my fingertips to his lips, and kissed them.
It sent heat throughout me, down to my toes, a welcome warmth and reassurance in this most hostile environment.
A moment elapsed, and I took his hand and kissed the back of it. “You have ruined me for other men.”
Harry laughed. “Good!” He glanced at his watch. “I must leave soon and conclude the matter at hand. You shall see, Ellie, a surprise I have for you. A most unexpected friend has come to our rescue, and all will soon be revealed.”
He stood. “I must leave to make final arrangements.” This was not the time or place for a passionate kiss, but for a kiss of reassurance which he offered tenderly, caringly, sweetly, and which I received in kind.
He left, and I closed the door behind him and then beamed. It was just as Uncle Lewis had said. There were miracles to be had if we looked for them!
The next morning, Monday, I was fully prepared to leave the prison. Harry would certainly have had time to make his final arrangements. I could not wait to get back to my home and reassure my uncle and Orchie that not only was I no longer in prison, but our problems would shortly be solved. I tidied up my bed. I did not eat lunch. I would prefer to save my appetite for food at home—even Cornish pasties!
The afternoon began to grow old, and I grew anxious. Near dinnertime, I became worried. Where was Harry? It was the end of the tenth day, after all. My heart began to squeeze each beat out a little more firmly.
Had something happened?
Just after dinnertime, when the spring sun had already set and the dingy window in my room turned from gray to black, a knock came on my door.
“Miss Sheffield?”
“Yes?”
“Someone is here to collect you. Your debt has been paid.”
I sighed with relief. He had not forgotten after all!
I followed the warder down the narrow staircase and hallway, and she indicated there was a carriage waiting for me outside.
