‘I have a gray mare at home,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I use her for hauling seaweed but sometimes I gallop her across the hills to clear my head and feel the sea wind on my face.’
‘It’s good to ride.’ Finch shifted along the wall a bit. ‘So you live near the coast?’
‘In Fencarrow.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘It’s a small fishing village. Pilchards mainly.’
He tilted his head, studying her. ‘How is it that you’re here?’
She exhaled an unsteady breath. Her smuggling decision wasn’t her proudest moment. She’d defied Papa and hadn’t considered the consequences. In hindsight she’d been horribly naive but it wouldn’t matter if Finch knew. She would never have anything more to do with him.
So she told him about Papa’s sickness, the smuggling and the arrest. ‘You see, I always wanted to leave the village and see the world, only not like this.’
He leaned his head back against the wall. ‘Why didn’t you want to stay?’
She shrugged. ‘I wanted an adventure. The form of it was never clear in my mind but I thought it would be fun. A grand time away before I came home and gave in to my family’s wishes.’
‘Adventures always mark a person,’ he murmured. ‘You would not have been the same.’
A picture of Mama’s hostile eyes and Daniel’s eager ones wavered before her. ‘That might have been a good thing.’
Her legs ached and she shifted them a little while she regarded him from beneath her downcast lashes. ‘And you? Where do you live?’
He smoothed a finger over his beard and glanced at her with an unreadable expression. ‘No-where you need bother about.’
She stared at him for a heartbeat then dropped her gaze to the floor. After all she’d told him he could have shared something too.
The sun rose higher in the sky and at what she judged to be early afternoon, Finch lay down on his back along the wall to which he’d been shackled, his legs towards the door. It must have been an uncomfortable position for the chains on his arms were stretched to their maximum length but he’d not moved any closer across the space that divided them. He closed his eyes on a sigh, almost of contentment, and within minutes drifted off to sleep.
The afternoon marched on. She counted all the bricks she could see of the customs house and divided their total by the number of iron bars across the window ledge. Then she sang three songs she’d learned in church under her breath. All the while, Finch slept on, totally at home on the floor.
How irksome that he could find rest in such a place. She desperately longed to relax too as her back was fatigued beyond measure and her legs had gone numb.
But dare she? The floor was cold, draughty and covered in dark soot, and lying down would bring her level with Finch. Only she was very tired. Perhaps if she were careful she could stretch out against the wall.
She lay down slowly and must have dozed because when she woke, a Stygian black that amplified the night sounds, had settled around her. It created an intimacy with Finch that made her skin crawl.
Another officer came for him and he was gone a long time, leaving her alone in the dankness of the cell. Finch must have done something really bad if the authorities had so many questions for him but strangely she missed his company, even when he didn’t say much.
He returned to be shackled again and immediately stretched out as before, his head under the window. She visited the privy and on her return decided to follow his example, only lying with her head at the door end. No way did she want to be close to him in the dark.
She closed her eyes and tried to get comfortable. But her stomach ached with such deep-seated pain that eventually she gave up and stared out of the window at the stars between the bars.
Papa would be lying in his bed looking at those same stars, and Mama and Rosalie would probably be sewing, their hearts heavy with worry. Had Mrs. Nance called on Papa? Was he feeling better?
If only she were home she could see for herself. She’d been silly to want to leave the village. It had been safe there. People had known her and she had known them and no-one had ever tried to hurt her. She should have done the expected thing — married Daniel and been satisfied with village life.
Her thoughts whirled, over and over. In desperation she kissed her fingers to the stars and whispered, ‘Happy may tomorrow be, your nightly splendor soon to see.’
‘Is that from Isaiah?’
She jumped, every muscle in her body going rigid. She had thought Finch asleep ages ago.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked warily.
‘That verse. Did you learn it from the bible?’
She shook her head even though it was too dark for him to see her. ‘It is something I made up long ago when I was a child.’
He shifted and she heard him adjust his arms as he sought to ease the constriction of the iron around his wrists. After a moment he murmured, ‘It’s nice.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It’s always kept me safe.’
His voice came gruff and low. ‘Then pray it continues.’
Chapter Five
She woke, her limbs stiff and cold, as the mid-gray light of another day seeped into the cell. Across from her, Finch still slept. Thankful he remained in his chains, she rose and banged on the door for Sally.
When the servant girl shoved her back into the cell some minutes later, Finch sat against the wall, his head bowed. ‘Good morning, Mr. Finch.’
He grunted at her. If possible he looked worse than yesterday. His hair stuck out at all angles and he had a button shape imprinted on his cheek where he’d rested his head against his jacket.
‘Did you have a good night?’ she asked politely, resuming her position opposite him.
‘I’ve spent better.’
His eyes closed on a weary sigh and she frowned when she saw him rub his wrists again. He really should have accepted her offer.
Her body felt grubby and her hair must look terrible. She undid the braid that fell down her back and combed the strands with her fingers. She massaged her head and worked the knots out and when she gathered it to braid again, found Finch watching her with interest. His gaze slid away immediately and he concentrated on retying a boot lace that had not looked to be undone.
‘Is there a problem with my hair?’ She separated the strands into three equal widths and began to plait.
He glanced up, his eyes following her fingers. ‘None that I can see.’
‘Then why do you stare?’
He shifted restlessly and shrugged, his gaze uncomfortable. ‘Seems a shame to bind it.’
Her fingers stilled and a cavern of uneasiness opened inside her. She did not want this man to flatter her so, not here in this wretched space where she must be close to him. It was too awkward — too intimate — and she wished she had not pressed him for an answer.
With a briskness she hoped would defuse the moment she said, ‘But that would not be practical. Especially here.’
‘Are you always practical?’
She blinked at him, taken-aback. ‘I’m not sure. I suppose so. Are you?’
His mouth twisted and he looked away. ‘We must always do what’s best.’
Not knowing what to say to this remark, she hurriedly finished tying her hair and flicked the braid over her shoulder, out of sight.
The bolt on the door slid back and the keeper came in, locking the door behind him with a large iron key.
Not happy to be at a disadvantage on the floor she scrambled up, delighted to see he had a hunk of bread in his hands.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she cried. ‘You don’t know how much I’ve longed for this.’ She reached out to take the bread from him.
‘Ain’t for you.’ The keeper snatched away his arm.
‘What?’ She stared at him in dismay. ‘But I’m very hungry. I’ve hardly eaten anything in the last two days.’
He scratched his belly, stepped over to the window and placed the hunk of bread on the wi
ndowsill. ‘That ain’t me problem. This ’ere bread is for me friend.’
‘Your friend?’ She stared towards the window. ‘What friend?’
‘A little wren. She comes ’ere every morning to get food for her bebies and if yer eat it, I’ll see yer gets flogged.’
‘Flogged?’ Her voice shook. ‘But surely … that would be the governor’s decision, wouldn’t it?’
‘Only if ’e hears about it.’
The keeper bent his whiskered face towards her and the stench from his bad teeth filled the space between them. ‘Cat-o-nine-tails in the yard, see? Nothin’ easier.’
She reared back. He must be jesting. But one look at his face convinced her he wasn’t.
‘But when do we eat?’ She waved her hand to include Finch who had laid his head against the wall, his eyes half-shuttered in watchfulness.
The keeper shrugged. ‘Tha’s up to the guvnor.’
Her hands went to her hips. ‘You let him decide about our food but not the punishment?’
‘Tha’s about it.’
This was preposterous. She drew herself up and glared at him. ‘You can’t starve us before we see the magistrate. Ask Mr. Booth. He’ll see we’re looked after.’
‘Mr. Booth ain’t ’ere.’ He let himself out, the door shutting fast behind him.
She gave the door three mighty kicks. ‘You imbecile,’ she shouted. ‘Come back here.’ There was no response and she looked at Finch who had his head in his hands. ‘Have you eaten anything since you’ve been here?’ she demanded.
He kept his head lowered and his shoulders shook. ‘Once or twice.’
‘That’s all?’
At his strangled grunt, she thumped the door again. If she didn’t eat soon, she’d be too weak to defend herself — against Finch or the keeper.
The smell of the oven-warm bread curled its way into her nostrils and she swallowed convulsively, her stomach spasming. She’d been hungry at times in the past but never like this, where every indrawn breath felt like a sword stuck in her gullet.
She waited and watched the windowsill, not quite believing that a wren would come and peck the loaf, but the more she thought about it, the more incredible she found the keeper’s instructions.
How could he possibly know that the bird had eaten the bread rather than her? The keeper had never stood outside the cell checking on them, of that she was certain, and the servant girl only came when called. If she were quick, it would be impossible for the keeper to know if she ate a piece or not.
With a moan she lunged for the window and seized the bread. She tore a piece off and closed her eyes. The fluffy morsel filled her mouth with yeasty flavor and warmth. It was so delicious she whimpered with delight.
Something tapped her on the foot. Her eyes flew open and she jumped back with a cry. Finch had moved and his boot lay inches from her own.
‘Please,’ he said, stretching out his hand as far as the chain would allow. ‘Just a little?’
She paused and her stomach seized, screaming for more food. There was only enough bread for one person and she could eat the lot but Finch’s face wore such a look of pitiful hunger that she couldn’t deny him. She ate another bite then shoved the rest at him. ‘Here.’
The smell of the loaf must have been too overpowering because he broke into a paroxysm of coughing, loud enough to reverberate around the cell.
The slit in the door flew open and she sprang back, her hands seeking the wall behind her.
‘My, my,’ the keeper sneered at Finch. ‘Taste good, eh?’
The key rattled and she sank into the corner as the keeper threw open the door.
He grabbed Finch’s head and yanked it up. ‘Yer little thief, takin’ the food out of the mouths of bebies. Get up.’
She sucked in a breath, her breasts tight against her bodice. If she hadn’t ignored the keeper’s warning, Finch wouldn’t be in trouble.
Finch struggled to his knees, the chains tight against his red, sore wrists and he winced in pain. Something gave within her at the sound. She couldn’t let him be flogged. It wasn’t right. Not when she had been the one to eat the bread.
With a dry mouth, she stepped forward. ‘Please, sir. It’s my fault.’
‘Eh?’ The keeper turned his head, his eyes narrowed. ‘What’s that, missy?’
‘I took the bread and ate a piece. Mr. Finch did not. He only held it.’
The keeper sniffed and cocked his head at Finch. ‘That true?’
Finch nodded. ‘She’s told you the truth.’
‘Then we have a floggin’,’ the keeper said with relish. ‘And it’ll give me a lot of pleasure, no mistake.’ He laughed and grabbed her arm, his pudgy fingers digging into her flesh.
A small cry escaped her as the keeper jerked her towards the door.
‘No please,’ she cried. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I was so —’
‘Too late, missy,’ the keeper bellowed, tightening his hold. ‘Should’ve thought of that before.’
She twisted her head to glance back at Finch. He smiled and took a bite of the bread, spilling crumbs across his pants.
Oh! That miserable, rotten sod. She hoped he’d choke on every mouthful.
The keeper yanked her out the door and down the passageway, past the privy and out another door into a square yard, lined on all four sides with stone blocks. The weak sun lent the air a smidgen of warmth and she lifted her face to the rays, thankful to be outside with no sign of dogs.
The walls rose over twelve feet, the only entry and exit point being the door she’d come through and another opposite, fitted with a solid iron lock. In the middle of the yard stood a wooden whipping post and on the ground next to it sat the whip itself. All nine strands of the knotted leather thonging were flecked with blood.
Dear God. Give me strength.
The keeper forced her to put her feet into two holes cut into the lid of a small weighted box. The box came up to her knees. Standing in the contraption, she couldn’t move. Her hands were lashed to a vertical post placed a little way in front of her so she had to bend towards it and expose her back. She was as trapped as a rabbit in a snare.
Sweat trickled down her spine and she centered her vision on the opposite wall. She would not cry.
‘Ain’t feeling like eating now, are ye?’ The keeper chuckled.
She licked her dry lips. ‘Please, don’t do this. It was only a mouthful. There was still some left for the wren.’
‘Yer smugglers are all the same. Whine and moan.’
He stuck his face in front of her but this time she couldn’t pull back from his foul breath. ‘Bet yer cry like a bebe.’
A sob rose in her chest. Why did she help people? First Johnson and now Finch. Both men hadn’t thanked her for saving them and she’d only made things a hundred times worse for herself.
The keeper picked up the whip and took up a position behind her. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the leather thonging to rip her skin apart.
Her back arched. Flinched. Her brain screamed and everything around her blurred into a murky pool of darkness. Waiting … waiting —
The lash did not come.
With a heaving air-deprived chest, she twisted her head as far as she could and searched the yard. The keeper had disappeared! He must have moved silently because she hadn’t heard him leave. But why did he go? Nothing made sense.
The door to her left, the one with the solid iron lock, creaked as it slowly opened. Twisting her head the other way to see who was coming, her mouth dropped open on a gasp.
Mr. Booth walked into the yard. He was dressed differently to when she’d seen him on the Gallien, in a black jacket, hat and dark breeches. His less formal attire in no way diminished his air of authority and her heart quailed at the single-mindedness in his gaze.
‘Good morning, Miss Perran.’
Had he come to administer the lashes himself? To gloat over her humiliation? She watched him warily as he circled around to stand in front of
her.
‘I daresay you’re wondering what I’m doing here?’ He looked at her with unnerving scrutiny. ‘The truth is I’ve had my eye on you since we picked you up at Fencarrow. You showed remarkable strength and skill to rescue Mr. Johnson, and your fluency in the French language impressed me a great deal — and I’m not easily impressed.’
No, he probably wouldn’t be. From what she’d seen of him, he expected excellent skills and no doubt undivided attention and loyalty too.
He bent down to the whipping post and incredibly began to untie her hands. ‘And furthermore, you proved your courage and honesty in the cell.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You met a man in your cell called Finch. He played the part of a condemned man to test your honesty — to see if you would allow him to be whipped in your place. But I’m happy to say you passed the test.’
Her head swam and as the rope fell from her hands she slowly stood. ‘You mean,’ she stammered, hardly daring to believe him, ‘you mean you purposely used Finch to test me with the bread?’
He nodded and helped her out of the box trapping her legs. ‘The keeper and the servant girl were also ordered to play along.’
She couldn’t believe this. ‘You deliberately starved me? All that time when you knew I was ravenous?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
What kind of person would do that? Her mind whirled over the bread test and suddenly things skidded into place. ‘Finch coughed to alert the keeper, didn’t he?’
Mr. Booth’s eyes flickered in admiration. ‘Truly Miss Perran, you continue to surprise me.’
‘But that’s … that’s …’ She choked.
‘Yes?’
‘Unbelievable that you would go to such lengths. But why the test? For what purpose could you possibly need to do this?’
His face grew serious. ‘I am engaged by the government to find people who could be useful in the fight against the French. We use a lot of smugglers and you have shown qualities that the authorities are seeking. So I put it to you, Miss Perran. Would you become a spy for His Majesty and for your country?’
An Unwilling Spy Page 5
