Dancing on the Wind (The Regency Intrigue Series Book 8)

by M C Beaton

  The chapel was open to the public on these occasions and the congregation, boisterous and profane, shoved and pushed to catch a glimpse of Polly.

  The other prisoners were drunk, Polly noticed. She herself intended to maintain as much of her dignity as she could. She did not know that the other prisoners were numbing themselves with gin for the very ordeal of being borne to the gallows. If the mob did not like a prisoner’s appearance, he or she could be stoned half to death before Tyburn Tree was reached.

  There was the last long night before the execution still to be endured, a night where the sexton went along in front of the condemned cells clanging a bell and reciting a mournful poem about their impending doom:

  “All you that in the Condemned Hold do lie,

  Prepare you, for tomorrow you shall die;

  Watch all and pray; the hour is drawing near

  That you before the Almighty must appear;

  Examine well yourselves; in time repent;

  That you may not to eternal flames be sent.

  And when St. Sepulchre’s bell tomorrow tolls,

  The Lord above have mercy on your souls!”

  Although Polly continued to defy the chaplain by refusing to pray for repentance, she nonetheless took the little Bible Silas had given her from under her mattress and held it in her hand throughout that long and sleepless night.

  The first of June dawned a perfect day. Polly refused to eat breakfast, although she could, like the others, have ordered what she wanted. She brushed her hair until it shone and let it hang loose on her shoulders. She smoothed the folds of her apple-green-and-yellow chintz gown and tied a lace fichu across her bosom.

  The great bell of St. Sepulchre’s was tolling its dark message across the sunny city. Each great boom seemed to send a shudder down through the very stones of the prison.

  Polly was taken to the Press Yard, where the under sheriff, Mr. Blackstone, made the customary demand for the condemned woman to be handed to his custody, giving, as if Polly were already dead, a formal receipt for her body. Then she was taken to the smith, who hammered off her fetters and unlocked her handcuffs.

  The Knight of the Halter then tied the rope which was to hang her round and round her waist. As this was taking place, the city marshal was forming outside the prison gates the procession which was to accompany Polly to Tyburn.

  Polly’s step faltered slightly when she was led to the cart and saw the hangman seated on a coffin in the front of it. Eager hands helped her to mount. The chaplain took his place in the cart behind her.

  Slowly the great wooden doors of Newgate Prison were opened, and the noise of the mob rushed in to strike Polly like a hammer blow. Slowly the cart moved forward. Polly stood very straight, head up, looking over the staring, greedy, curious faces. The great pulsing boom of the bell went on and on. The streets about Newgate were jammed with people. Down on the river, sailors clung to the top of their ships’ masts to try to get a glimpse of Polly.

  Then a great silence fell, as the crowd stared at Polly high up on the cart. The sunlight glinted on the gold threads in her chestnut hair. I have only this short time to live. I may as well go bravely to my death, thought Polly. She looked down and about the crowd, waved her hand and gave a radiant smile.

  They cheered her to the echo. Women tossed bunches of flowers into the cart. Men blew kisses. Had Polly appeared in the least afraid, had she cried, then the crowd would have stoned her. But bravery was practically worshipped. The chaplain sighed with relief. He would not have to protect himself from missiles on this journey.

  A contingent of peace officers led the way. Behind them marched the city marshal, followed by the under sheriff and a posse of constables. Then came the cart with Polly and hangman and chaplain. Behind was a troop of soldiers in red coats and tricornes, carrying pikes. Lastly came a second posse of constables on horseback.

  The parade came to a shambling halt opposite the steps leading to the porch of the church of St. Sepulchre. The sexton who had rung the bell outside the condemned hold the night before stood with bell in hand behind the church wall and rang it in the intervals between the deep booms from the great bell in the belfry above, intoning a gloomy speech for the comfort of the convict:

  “You, that are condemned to die, repent with lamentable tears; ask mercy of the Lord for the salvation of your own soul, through the merits, death and passion of Jesus Christ, who now sits at the right hand of God, to make intercession for as many as penitently return to Him.

  “Lord have mercy upon you

  Christ have mercy upon you

  Lord have mercy upon you

  Christ have mercy upon you.”

  As was the custom, Polly was then showered with flower petals and bits of colored paper.

  The parade moved on, down Snow Hill and over the Fleet River by a narrow stone bridge, up Holborn Hill and past the church of St. Andrew’s, where even the roof was covered with people who stared giddily down from behind the narrow safety of the parapet wall.

  The procession stopped at St. Giles, where the customary bowl of ale was handed to the prisoner. Polly smiled at the crowd and drained it in one go. And although she smiled and waved, behind her the great bell of St. Sepulchre’s continued to thud and reverberate on the air like some terrible monstrous iron heartbeat.

  They were just moving into the Oxford Road when a gentleman on horseback, using his whip, forced his way through the crowd and began to ride alongside the cart.

  Polly glanced down and found herself staring at the handsome profile of the marquess of Canonby. How odd to feel so disappointed in one man, thought Polly bleakly, as if anyone mattered on the road to the scaffold. But the sight of him made her legs tremble. She had thought of him from time to time in a confused way. But she never would have believed him capable of such vulgar behavior.

  It was as if after all the long weary weeks of numbness, she had suddenly come to life. I am going to die, she thought. It is sunny, and the whole of London is happy and joyous because I am going to die. Even the great marquess had come to enjoy the show.

  She clutched Silas’s Bible tightly to her. Ahead of her rose the gallows of Tyburn. Stands had been erected next to it so that the Quality could get a fine view. It was like a great fair. Jugglers were performing, vendors were hawking various forms of her supposed last confession, the gingerbread man in his gold-laced hat was calling, “Tiddy-dol. Tiddy-dol.”

  The cart came to a halt. Barney and Jake clambered on to it. “Said we was your cousins,” whispered Jake. “Better if we pull your legs.”

  Polly sighed and nodded. Now that she was here, the idea of a quick death seemed sane and logical. The clergyman read a prayer. The marquess had dismounted and was standing beside the cart. Because of his great rank, no one ordered him to leave.

  “Speech! Speech!” roared the crowd.

  Lady Lydia, standing on top of Bertram Pargeter’s carriage, clutched his arm. “Get me away from here,” she said savagely.

  Bertram seized her hand and kissed it. “Alas, my love, there is no way through the crowd. I shall support you.” He put an arm like a band of iron around Lady Lydia’s slender waist, holding her firmly so that she was forced to face the scaffold.

  Ashen-faced, Lady Lydia muttered, “What is her crime?”

  “She stole from Meresly Manor,” said Bertram, avidly watching her face. “Did you not know?”

  Lady Lydia numbly shook her head. The earl had said nothing of the matter, but then he rarely discussed anything at all with her. Possibly he had forgotten about the whole business once the girl was arrested.

  “If she survives the hanging,” muttered Lady Lydia, “then she is cut down and allowed to go free, is she not?”

  “Yes, but it will not happen,” said Bertram, who had bent his head to catch the words. “Only look at that fair white neck of hers! The ones who survive have stout neckties and there’s precious few of them—about one in every ten years. Shhh! Our fair prisoner is about to speak.�
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  Polly had prepared quite a grandiloquent speech. But as she glanced down at the rows of spectators in the stands in front of her, she saw Mrs. Blanchard, and Mrs. Blanchard gave her a slow smile.

  Polly raised her hands and the crowd fell silent.

  “My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” said Polly. “I had prepared a long speech for you. Instead, I would prefer to leave you with one question. Why is it that such as I, who am poor and have nothing, should hang for a petty theft when such as she—” here Polly pointed straight at Mrs. Blanchard—“Mrs. Blanchard, that abbess of Covent Garden, can commit murder on the souls of innocent country girls over and over again, and yet go free. I bid you good day, my friends. We shall meet again. For you who enjoy a spectacle such as this will surely roast in hell!”

  She dropped a mocking curtsy to the crowd.

  The hangman approached Polly, stood on the cart and arranged the noose about her neck. He fumbled and fumbled, taking a long time about it. Then Polly realized he was whispering in her ear. “I put a wire down your dress and hooked it on your bodice. It’s black and I hopes they don’t see it. It’ll hold you enough though your neck will hurt for I must make it look real. Pretend to die or it’ll be my neck as well as yours. Nod if you understand.”

  Polly nodded, her heart beginning to race.

  The hangman climbed back on the scaffold. Barney and Jake crouched ready in the cart. Polly suddenly thought frantically, “What if they pull my legs!” She raised her hands again. Again the crowd fell silent.

  “My kinsmen here,” she said, “plan to pull my legs to shorten my agony. But let’s have some sport!”

  This was greeted with a roar of approval while Barney and Jake stared at her in dismay as they were hustled off the cart.

  The hangman gave the signal. The chaplain prayed louder and louder, the cart jerked forward and Polly found herself dancing in the air. The pain and wrenching at her neck was so great that she thought the hangman had tricked her, but then she felt the strong pull of the wire hooked into her bodice. She kicked wildly and struggled and then let her head drop to one side and hang still. Her dress floated about her body in the lightest of summer breezes.

  “Let’s get that old beldame she was talking about and hang her!” yelled one voice. Jake and Barney looked toward where Mrs. Blanchard had been sitting—but that lady had gone. As soon as she had heard Polly’s words, she knew what was in store for her. She had dropped to her knees and crawled away under the benches while everyone was watching the hanging.

  Lady Lydia let out a long shuddering sigh and some faint color returned to her pale cheeks. “It is over,” she said in a flat voice. She turned to Bertram, who was watching her face, and laughed, “What a tedious entertainment. You weary me, Bertram. Too, too provincial in your amusements.”

  Baffled and furious, Bertram helped her down from the coach. He had been so sure that that girl on the scaffold had been Lady Lydia’s illegitimate daughter. So very sure.

  The hangman cut Polly down and she fell unconscious at the foot of the scaffold. The crowd began to press close, each anxious to snatch a piece of her gown as a souvenir.

  “Here!” called the marquess of Canonby urgently. He was once more on horseback. The hangman seized Polly and threw her body over the saddle in front of the marquess. He turned about and rode away behind the scaffold, followed by the roar of pursuit. He urged his horse toward Hyde Park and, holding Polly firmly with one hand, dug in his spurs. The horse cleared a hedge at one bound. Then he galloped away through the park toward Kensington, through Brompton, and then headlong back through the streets to his home.

  The carts containing the prisoners for the mass hanging were entertaining the crowds at Tyburn, and St. James’s Square was deserted as he lifted Polly gently down and carried her into his house.

  His servants were too well trained to show any surprise. He told his butler to summon the housekeeper and maids and put his injured guest, Miss … er … Peterson, in one of the guest bedchambers. The marquess did not want his servants to know yet that this guest was none other than the notorious Polly Jones.

  He waited outside the door until he was informed that she was in bed and recovering consciousness. He went in quickly and dismissed the housekeeper and maids. He was frightened Polly might say something to betray herself.

  She was wearing a pretty lawn nightgown. The marquess did not wonder where his efficient servants had found it. He had trained them so well that he expected them to rise to any occasion. Ugly red marks where the cruel rope had bit marred the white skin of her neck.

  She stirred and mumbled and then her eyelids rose and she looked up at him. “Oh, it’s you,” she sighed. “Did you plan to sell me to the anatomist? Tis a pity I did not die.”

  “I saved you that fate.”

  “You! I thought that was Barney and Jake.”

  “Your relatives.”

  “No relatives of mine. They worked for Mrs. Blanchard, but have left her. They tried to be kind. How did you persuade the hangman to fake it?”

  “A monstrous amount of money.”

  Polly heaved a great sigh.

  “And you will want my favors in return.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “No, not I. Lie quietly now.”

  “What will you do with me?” Polly tried to struggle up, but he pushed her down with a firm hand.

  “Gently, child. We will worry about that later.” He saw the restlessness in her eyes and asked, “What ails you now? You are safe. No one shall touch you here.”

  “I am hungry, my lord. I could have had anything I wanted for breakfast, but I could not eat.”

  He burst out laughing. “What wonderful powers of recovery! You shall be fed. While I remember, your name in this house is Miss Peterson. Can you remember that?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  His gaze sharpened. “You have acquired the speech and manners of a lady, Polly. How came you by them?”

  Polly thought of Drusilla and blinked hard. She would cry later, but not now. Funny how the kind people of the world make you feel weak and helpless, thought Polly. “It was a lady I met in prison,” she said wearily. “I liked her ways and learned from her. Now, may I eat?”

  “Yes, you may eat.” He rang the bell. “Anything else?”

  “I would like something to read.”

  “Very well. Anything further?”

  “Don’t leave me,” said Polly, catching hold of his hand. “Don’t leave me to strangers.”

  The pathos of her gesture moved him more than her beauty ever could have done. “I shall not leave you, child,” he said gently. “I shall be close by. All you have to do is call, or send one of the servants. My servants will not question you. They will take you for a lady. Do not be afraid of them. They may wonder about the marks on your neck and they will read in the newspapers tomorrow that I snatched you away from Tyburn. They will know then who you are, but by that time I shall have sworn them to secrecy. They will continue to call you Miss Peterson, however. Knowledge of your presence here must not go beyond the front door of this house.”

  He gave her a slight bow and left.

  Polly sighed and stroked the silken coverlet of the bed and then looked in wonder at the rich hangings. The house was very still and quiet. She heard a rattling of china and glass and stiffened. Two footmen entered carrying a large tray. Polly struggled up. They set it on the bed and asked her in deferential tones if she wished anything further. There was wine and cold meat and salad, white bread and butter, and a pudding in a glass bowl.

  Polly shook her head and they bowed and left.

  She ate ravenously, marvelling at the taste of the white bread and then at the delicate flavor of the pudding. At last, she had finished. She made a move to get out of bed and carry the tray to a table, and then realized a lady would ring the bell for the servants to take it away. There was a long bell rope beside the bed. Timidly, Polly gave it a tug and winced as she heard it sound far below her in th
e house. The door opened almost immediately and the same two footmen came in followed by two housemaids. The tray was removed and Polly’s hands and face were sponged in warm water scented with cologne. Then the butler came in and solemnly handed her a book with the marquess’s compliments. Polly remained rigid in the bed until they had all left. Then she settled back against the pillows and picked up the book. The pleasant moments in life, Polly had quickly learned, had to be savored when they came. Tomorrow could take care of itself. She opened the book, read the first sentence, and plunged headlong into a deep sleep.

  Later that day, Barney and Jake walked up and down St. James’s Square on the opposite side from the marquess’s house.

  They had tried all the hospitals, sure that the marquess had run mad and snatched the body to sell to the anatomists, but no hospital reported receiving the body.