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

by M C Beaton

  Polly had discovered while living with Barney and Jake in Tothill Fields that men considered the begetting of bastards to be entirely the fault of the woman and resented the law forcing them to pay support. The father of a bastard child was required to maintain it until it was old enough to be apprenticed. The weekly payment, usually half a crown, could be commuted into a lump sum of ten pounds on the payment of which the overseers of the parish would undertake to look after the child and release the father from his weekly obligation. As the child was not expected to live long in the care of a drunken parish nurse or at a workhouse school, the money was usually spent by the overseers on a riotous party called “saddling the spit.”

  “Didn’t or couldn’t pay, hey?” said the man sympathetically. “I have been guilty of the same thing myself in the past. But I don’t want to get into trouble. You’ll need to go.”

  “Can you get me out of these manacles?” pleaded Polly.

  “I’ll go over to the smith’s and get a hammer and a punch,” said the man, “but you must leave immediately after I free you.”

  Polly fervently agreed and then, after he had gone, wondered whether she was a fool to trust him. She was just about to conceal her manacles again and make her escape when the owner of the cowshed returned from the smith’s with the required tools. He set to work, and after an hour Polly was free. She did not need to be prompted by his urgings to go: she fled.

  She had some money in her pocket and so she bought a filthy, ragged, long greatcoat for a penny and forced herself to put it on. She herself was filthy and covered in soot and mortar dust. She made her way to a public cellar in Charing Cross and went down and ordered herself a plateful of roast beef and a pint of ale.

  She ate greedily, hunched over the plate, tearing at the meat with her dirty fingers and broken nails. It was only when her hunger was satisfied that she realized that all about her were talking about the great escape of Polly Jones. It dawned on her that the whole of London was looking for her. There was a twenty-guinea reward for any information that might lead to her capture.

  She was sick and weary and wondered how she could go on. And then she thought of Barney and Jake and smiled. That was one thing about consorting with villains: they would let her hide out with them.

  Keeping always to the shadows, she made her way toward Bloomsbury as night fell. A dry sob of weariness shook her as she turned into Bedford Gardens. Pulling herself along by the railings, she made her way painfully home.

  And then she saw Barney and Jake coming along the street arm in arm.

  As they reached their own doorstep, Polly ran toward them with a glad cry.

  Barney and Jake saw her, saw her white face in the light of the parish lamp—and as one man ran quickly inside and slammed and locked the door.

  Polly hung onto the railings, staring at the locked door. They couldn’t have locked her out. Not Barney. Not Jake.

  She felt in the pocket of her livery for her house key. But it had been taken from her in the prison. She had buried the file and the skeleton key in the earth floor of the cowshed in case, were she recaptured and the implements found on her, they might torture her until she revealed the names of the Meresly girls.

  Upstairs, Barney stood peering behind the curtain. “Has she gone?” whispered Jake.

  “Just going,” said Barney in a low voice.

  “She’ll ruin us,” said Jake fiercely. “We stand to lose everything, even our lives, if we let her in.”

  “Where will she go?” said Barney, watching the drooping ragged figure of Polly as she limped off down the street.

  “I don’t know,” said Jake. “But we’d best leave here in case she stays at large and comes back.”

  “Why couldn’t she be respectable like us?” said Barney fiercely. “What did she have to go and get into trouble for?”

  He trod on a plate of fish bones and swore dreadfully. Since Polly’s disappearance, both respectable gentlemen had returned to their former low standards of housekeeping and cleanliness. When they had heard the news of Polly’s arrest, they had got rid of their servant, not wanting anyone who had known Polly to be around to connect her with them.

  “Oh, lor’,” said Jake. “We’d better get her back.”

  “Who? The servant?” demanded Barney, kicking the plate across the room where it collided with a pile of dirty drinking glasses.

  “No, Polly.”

  “But you said …”

  “Listen,” said Jake fiercely. “We’re fools. If she ain’t got any place to hide, if she’s took and goes to that scaffold, then maybe some of them city folks like Mr. White will be at the hanging and start screeching, ‘Ain’t that Mr. Smith’s sister?’”

  Both men hurtled down the stairs and out into the street. They searched and searched, but of Polly Jones, there was no sign.

  “She’ll be back,” said Jake. “She’s only got us.”

  It was two in the morning, but the marquess of Canonby was dressed and awake. He was sitting in the downstairs saloon which overlooked the square, waiting and watching. The night was dark and it had begun to rain again. Two of the parish lamps had blown out and he was grateful for the darkness.

  The marquess of Canonby was waiting for Polly Jones. He had believed Colonel Anderson, and yet the idea of her being hanged became more and more unbearable. When he heard of her escape, he was faint with relief. All logic and reason disappeared from his brain, all the voices telling him the girl was a thief, a criminal, and probably a hardened one. There was some bond that bound her to him, and he hoped against hope that she might come to him for refuge.

  There was a movement in the square, a darker piece of darkness. He narrowed his eyes and put his face closer to the window. There it was again.

  He quietly went to the street door and opened it. He whispered into the wet and windy blackness of the night, “Come here. Come here where you will be safe.” Light was blazing out from the hall behind him. He went back into the hall and extinguished all the lights.

  Then he went back out onto the doorstep and whispered again. “Come along. I shall not harm you.”

  The piece of darkness moved and grew and resolved itself into the babbling, near-hysterical bundle of smelly clothes that was Polly Jones.

  “Shh!” he said fiercely, putting a hand over her mouth.

  He swung her up into his arms and carried her into the house and slammed the door shut on all the terrors of the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The escape of Polly Jones from Newgate rocked London to its foundations. A new ballad about her was sung in the streets every day. People queued at Newgate Prison to see the path of her escape. At first no one could believe she had made the escape unaided, but as most of her visitors had been aristocrats, the authorities came to the conclusion that, somehow, she had managed it alone and had probably picked the locks with a nail. Silas Brewer had been too undistinguished a person for the jailors even to remember his visit.

  She was reported to have been seen everywhere. The Daily Journal said that “the Keepers of Newgate have receiv’d certain Information that the famous Polly Jones, still disguised as a Male Servant, came a few nights ago to the Brewhouse of Messieurs Nichols and Tate in Thames Street and begged some Wort of the Stoker, which was given her, and that before the proper Officer could be got to secure her, she went off.” Parker’s London News reported she had been taken in Canterbury, “her habit changed into that of a sailor.” Another newspaper confirmed the rumor that she had been captured at Reading. But although she was apparently seen and recognized every day, and although several arrests were made of effeminate young men in servants’ livery, Polly Jones remained at liberty.

  Barney and Jake were surprised to find that Polly was a celebrity in the city coffee houses, and even the respectable Mr. White had been overheard to say he hoped she remained free and that anyone who turned her over to the authorities should be hanged himself.

  Consumed with curiosity, Mother Blanchar
d joined the queue to view the route of Polly’s escape and found herself next to Mr. Caldicott and Mr. Barks.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Blanchard. “It seems as if we will never get our revenge now.”

  Mr. Caldicott and Mr. Barks shook their heads gloomily. They shuffled forward into the prison and soon were staring in awe at the passage of Polly’s escape. “She must have been aided by the devil,” said Mr. Caldicott in a superstitious whisper. “No woman has the strength to go through all that.”

  “Canonby would not dare give her refuge now,” muttered Mr. Barks.

  “Damme, but she must have great courage,” said Mr. Barks, reluctantly proud of what he still considered to be his “property.”

  “And yet,” murmured Mrs. Blanchard, “I would give a great sum of money to get my hands on her, all my money, in fact, to get hold of her. A little fun with her in the brothel and then turn her over to the authorities. Think, Mr. Barks, such a sum would buy favor at court.”

  “I have tried money,” said Mr. Barks pettishly.

  “But not a very great amount, I’ll warrant,” said Mrs. Blanchard.

  “It will be nigh impossible to find her now,” pointed out Mr. Barks. “The whole of England is searching for her.”

  “The Mereslys hold some fascination for her,” said Mr. Caldicott. “If we remain in close touch with the Mereslys, mayhap we might discover something.”

  “If either the earl or countess live. Both are said to be very ill.” Mr. Barks took a tiny silver shovel from his pocket, dug it into his snuffbox and applied the shovelful to one nostril.

  They walked back through the chapel and then to the Red Room, staring in fascination at the sooty footprints in the dust which led from the fireplace.

  “She must be hiding out with Barney and Jake, my two former servants,” said Mrs. Blanchard slowly. “Find them and you will find the girl.”

  “That fellow Pargeter who’s wanted for rape gave us an address in Bloomsbury,” said Mr. Caldicott. “But when we got there, there wasn’t a sign of ’em.”

  “Bloomsbury,” said Mrs. Blanchard thoughtfully. “Now, I wonder …”

  * * *

  Mr. White sent for Barney and sat tapping the ledgers with the end of a quill pen.

  “Ah, Mr. Smith,” he said when Barney entered the room. “I regret to tell you that you have been making grievous errors of late.”

  Barney reddened. “My apologies,” he mumbled. “I have much on my mind.”

  Mr. White leaned back in his chair and surveyed his head bookkeeper thoughtfully. “Your brother is also a trifle distracted,” he said. “You have not taken any leave since I employed you. Perhaps a week …?”

  “Perhaps,” said Barney gloomily. How could he tell Mr. White that the picture of Polly crawling away, rebuffed, was burning in his mind?

  Mr. White sighed. “I am sure with a little rest you will come about. I wish I could say the same thing for our bookkeeper at our office in Bombay. Sad discrepancies in the accounts there.”

  Barney surveyed his employer sharply. “I could always go to Bombay and check the books for you,” he said casually—as if Bombay lay somewhere at the end of Cheapside.

  Mr. White dropped his pen in amazement. “My dear Mr. Smith, such a service would be invaluable. You would find me not ungrateful.”

  “I could take my brother with me,” said Barney eagerly. “I would need his help with the work.” Oh, to get away, thought Barney, from his nagging guilty conscience which would surely set him looking for Polly should he stay. And then, there was always the risk of her being recognized on the gallows by Mr. White if she were retaken.

  “And when could you sail?” asked Mr. White.

  “First boat,” said Barney promptly.

  “The Maid of the Indies sails from Gravesend in a week’s time,” said Mr. White, “but perhaps that is too little time for you to make your farewells.”

  “No, no,” said Barney hurriedly. “Time enough and more.”

  “Be assured that your ladies will be waiting for you on your return,” said Mr. White, meaning the ladies Barney and Jake had been courting. “And your beautiful sister will be taken care of. I shall call on her myself.”

  “She is no longer with us.” Barney turned a muddy color. “With an aunt in the country,” he added desperately.

  “Very well,” said Mr. White, although he wondered again why Barney and Jake, sterling fellows though they both were, should have such a beautiful and aristocratic sister.

  The marquess of Canonby informed his secretary, Mr. Peter Beauly, that he had a charming lady of the demimonde in residence and did not wish to be disturbed by anyone. Mr. Beauly, ever correct, bowed his head in assent, although he was secretly disappointed in his master. It was odd that one so fastidious and correct as the marquess should decide to bring his doxy into his home.

  Polly lay awake several days in the marquess’s large bed, recovering from her ordeal. She had been bathed by the marquess as impersonally as if she had been a doll, fed by the marquess, and tucked into the bed in which she now lay. The marquess slept in a bed in the powder closet off his bedchamber.

  When he judged her to be strong enough, he asked her how she had managed to escape from Newgate. Polly did not want to betray the Meresly girls to anyone, even him, and so she said that one of her visitors must have dropped a file and skeleton key near her and the items had gone unobserved by her jailors, who were too busy counting up the day’s takings.

  “Now, you had better tell me the truth,” said the marquess.

  “I have told you the truth of my escape.”

  “But not about the Mereslys. Come now. Why do you haunt them? Is your striking resemblance to Lady Lydia something to do with it?”

  There was a long silence. She lay in the large bed with her hair brushed about her shoulders. He thought she looked little more than a child.

  “You look better with your own hair, my lord,” said Polly.

  His black hair had been allowed to grow long and he wore it unpowdered and tied by a ribbon at the nape of his neck. He smiled. “Thank you. Now that the compliments are over, Polly Jones, tell me about the Mereslys.”

  Polly plucked nervously at the coverlet. “I was born in the village of Upper Batchett,” she said. “The woman who brought me up, Meg Jones, I believed to be my aunt. She was the wise woman of the village and made potions and told fortunes. She was good and kind,” said Polly, her voice harsh with emotion. She fell silent until she felt she had her feelings under control. “I was wild and careless and brought up to live a carefree life. But I was not allowed to work or to be apprenticed to a trade, and Meg would only say it was because she needed me to work in the house and help brew the love potions and medicines she sold. But I had not her art, nor could I seem to learn it, and so she did all the work herself.

  “On the day she died, she told me she was going to Meresly Manor for she had heard the earl and countess were in residence. I believed I knew why she had not previously found work for me. I believed she had planned all along to find me work as a servant in a noble household. She had not been strong of late and suffered from severe palpitations. But she went off. I had slipped off to the local fair with one of the village boys. We were laughing and singing when we came back down the road. It was then that I saw Meg. She was swaying at the door to the cottage, her hands to her throat. I ran and caught her as she fell. She turned her dying eyes up to me and said, ‘Forgive me, my lady,’ and then she died.

  “There were cruel bruises at her neck, two purple weals. I swear someone had tried to kill her, but I was numb with misery. I learned immediately after her death what had been kept from me before: that I was a foundling and a bastard, most like, and had no claim on the tenancy of the cottage. I went to Meresly Manor to see if I could find out what had happened. I knew the earl and countess had left but I hoped to find some clue. After all, why had Meg said ‘my lady’ when she was dying? She must have meant the countess. The caretaker
turned me away. It was when I went back and let myself into the manor that I decided to steal. You must see, my lord, that there were all these precious objects lying about and I was faced with starvation. I could not find work as a servant. I had no references. I should have decided to walk to London to find work. But I was desperate. So I stole from the Mereslys. At their ball, the reason I was there was because I thought I could perhaps learn from the other servants what had happened to Meg. Yes, I planned to steal. Wrong to you, wrong to God, but not wrong to me in this unfair and cruel world. But I stole nothing … nothing.”

  The marquess’s face hardened. “I sent Colonel Anderson to see you in prison. He had my instructions to find out whether you were guilty or not. He told me you had been drinking deep with your villainous companions and bragging of the theft.”