by M C Beaton
Willis half turned away and then thought what caché he would have in the underworld if he could brag he had taken her first—he, Willis, and not some lord. He held his gun firmly in his hand and unlocked the door.
Polly was standing with her hand to her brow. She looked paper-white and ready to faint. “It’s under the bed,” she whispered. “Please, oh, please. I cannot bear the things.”
Grinning indulgently, he moved past her, still holding the gun. He took his eyes off her for one moment to glance toward the bed—and that was his undoing.
Polly Jones brought a heavy earthenware chamber pot round from behind her back and brought it down with all her force on his head. It gave a satisfying crumping sound as Willis slumped to the floor.
She bent over him and detached a ring of keys from the belt at his waist.
Holding the gun, she ran downstairs, toward freedom. But she stopped short before she reached the street door. Why should this evil palace of sin be allowed to stand? thought Polly. And what would hurt Mrs. Blanchard most? Why, loss of property and loss of money. She searched the downstairs, opening up the locked doors with the keys she had taken from Willis, until she came on Mrs. Blanchard’s parlor. There she found a strongbox. She put the gun in her petticoat pocket and then heaved the box up in her arms and carried it up and up, and dumped it out on the roof by climbing through an attic window.
Polly intended to set fire to the house. If anyone to do with the brothel came running, the first thing they would do would be to rescue the money, but the money Polly intended to melt in the flames. She could not escape through the streets for fear of discovery. She would escape over the roof or go to her death with the house. At that moment, Polly did not care whether she lived or died, provided she was able to strike a blow against her tormenter.
Valuable time was lost tying up Willis and bumping his body down the stairs and heaving it out to a stone wash house in the back yard where she locked him in. At least there was a chance he would not be burned to death.
Driven by Furies, Polly returned to that parlor, found a tinder box on the mantel and lit a taper. There was a lurid pornographic book lying on a table. Polly ripped it into shreds, page by page, and then set it alight.
She walked from room to sordid room, emptying the contents of oil lamps on the floor. Then she retreated up the stairs as the blaze began to take hold.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Reverend John Carpenter walked up and down outside the Mereslys’ mansion in Hanover Square and wondered what to do. His visit to England was nearly at an end. He had called at Upper Batchett, and there, to his horror, had learned that Lady Mary Palfrey, or Polly Jones as everyone knew her, was as famous as the king. He heard how she had stolen, escaped the gallows, only to masquerade as a footman and steal again.
His heart went out to the Mereslys. He had learned that the earl and countess were now completely recovered from their illnesses, and yet he had not the heart to tell them of Meg’s letter. Surely Meg must have been rambling. Like Meg, Mr. Carpenter idealized the aristocracy and thought that any child with blue blood in its veins must, despite surroundings and upbringing, grow up to be a lady, mysteriously endowed with the right accent and a gift for playing the harpsichord and executing pretty watercolors. The fact that there were tales of the dissolute goings-on of the aristocracy in the newspapers every day did not alter his opinion. Set against all this was his sharp and clear recollection of Meg as a thoroughly good and dutiful woman. Yet surely the Mereslys would be better left in ignorance of such a child.
“There he goes again,” said Lady Emily Palfrey to her sister Josephine. “Round and round the square. Do you think he is looking for our escaped Polly?”
Josephine looked over her sister’s shoulder. “It is almost as if he is debating whether to call or not. Ah! See. Here he comes. Quickly, let us belowstairs and hide behind that screen in the hall.”
They had just managed to get into hiding when the knocker on the door sounded.
“I am Reverend John Carpenter, and I wish to see the earl of Meresly,” came a man’s voice.
“I will take your card to his lordship and see if he will grant you an audience,” answered the butler.
Then Joseph and Emily stiffened as their mother’s voice sounded from the upper landing.
“You must not trouble Meresly with every stray visitor. What is this person’s business?”
“My business concerns your daughter. I trust I find myself addressing Lady Lydia Meresly?” said Mr. Carpenter.
“My daughter?” The countess gave a thin laugh. The twins heard the swish of her skirts as she came swiftly down the stairs. “Come into the library, Mr. …?”
“Carpenter, my lady. The Reverend John Carpenter, of Boston.”
The twins heard the library door shut behind them.
“Quickly,” hissed Josephine. “I must hear what goes on.”
They darted back behind the library screen as the butler came out and Lady Lydia could be heard saying, “I am not to be disturbed by anyone.” The door closed again.
Back out came the twins, and pressed their ears against the door.
Fortunately for them, Mr. Carpenter had a resonant voice, used to giving sermons from the pulpit of a large church.
“If you will read that letter, my lady,” they heard him say, “you will see that one Meg Jones of the parish of Upper Batchett claims that the girl she brought up as her niece, Polly Jones, is in fact your first and legitimate daughter, Lady Mary Palfrey.”
There was a long silence while the listening sisters gripped each other and exchanged startled glances.
There was a crackling of parchment and then Lady Lydia laughed. “My dear Mr. Carpenter. Do you know who this Polly Jones is? A convicted thief, an escaped felon!”
“I am aware of that, my lady, which is why I have taken all this time to dare to approach you.”
“The whole story is wicked nonsense. Take yourself off, Mr. Carpenter. A man of the cloth such as yourself should be bitterly ashamed to waste my time with such a tale.”
There was a heavy step on the stair above and the earl’s voice said, “What are you young ladies doing eavesdropping?”
“Oh, papa,” cried Josephine. “There is a reverend gentleman in the library who claims that Polly Jones is mama’s legitimate daughter.”
“What!” The earl pushed past them and lumbered into the library.
Lady Lydia turned white. “This gentleman has just been asking for a donation for his church,” she said, throwing Mr. Carpenter a warning look.
“You are lying, mama,” said Josephine gleefully, “and you know that lying is wrong. You see, we know Polly Jones is our sister.”
“We do?” asked Emily faintly and got a savage pinch on the arm from her sister in reply.
The earl was in one of his clearheaded and lucid periods.
Mr. Carpenter silently handed him Meg’s letter.
“Are we talking about the notorious Polly Jones who stole from me and escaped from Newgate Prison?” asked the earl.
“Oh, yes, papa,” said Josephine. “But she had to steal, for she was destitute. We visited her in Newgate and she begged us to find out what happened to Meg, for Meg Jones had two bruises on her neck the day she died.”
“This is wicked nonsense,” said Lady Lydia savagely. “When and where am I supposed to have given birth to this child?”
“We worked that out,” said Josephine. “It would be when papa was away at the wars.”
“Listen to me, Meresly,” begged Lady Lydia, her eyes swimming with tears. “You must believe me. There is no proof.”
“Yes there is,” said Josephine, crossing her fingers behind her back.
“There is?” exclaimed Emily, staring at her sister in awe.
Josephine looked at her mother and thought of all the beatings and snubs and cruelty. “I found a poacher from Upper Batchett,” she lied. “He was there the night you had that baby.” For Josephine had cleverly
guessed that if Meg lived in Upper Batchett and had taken the baby away, then Lady Lydia must have given birth to it at Meresly Manor.
The earl looked down at his trembling wife. “You will tell me the full story, Lydia. You will tell me the truth. If you do not, then I shall have you arrested for denying your own daughter her birthright.”
Lady Lydia seemed to crumple up in the chair and grow small. “I did it for you, Meresly. You would rant and rave and say you must have a son and that women who bred only daughters were not women at all. You said if I did not bear you sons, you would cast me off. After you left for the wars, I found I was with child. I travelled to Meresly Manor. I had cleverly concealed my condition. I told the servants I was going to visit Lady Jeffries in the north. I quarrelled with the servants before I left and insisted on hiring a carriage and renting grooms so that the household servants would not know where I went.
“I remembered Meg Jones. I met her first when I was a little girl visiting my parents’ friends in Hackminster and she told my fortune. I told her I would pay her well to deliver me of the child in secret. If it was a girl, she was to kill it. But she did not. She came to me on the last day of her life. She had learned I had subsequently given you twin daughters and you had not turned me off. She begged me to accept Polly as my own. I was frightened. I told her I would kill her and the girl if she came near me again. I thought you would never forgive me for concealing the birth or for ordering the child to be killed. I put my hands round her scrawny old neck and shook her and shook her. It was only to frighten her. Why do you all look at me so? I could not do anything else.”
“Your etui,” said the earl heavily. “She did not steal that purse. You threw it at her feet.”
Lady Lydia nodded.
“And Bertram Pargeter, who is to hang next week?”
“He saw me,” said Lady Lydia in a dry whisper. “He said I must let him lie with me or he would tell.”
The earl slumped down and buried his head in his hands.
“I think, papa, you would find some action cheering,” said Josephine.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” said Emily, putting an arm about her sister’s waist.
“You must issue a proclamation that Polly is your daughter and innocent of the crimes against her and you must drop the charges against Mr. Pargeter. There is no need to wash poor deranged mama’s dirty linen in public. You must simply say Polly was snatched away by gypsies and found by this Meg Jones who kept her secret until after the grave, when a letter she wrote to Mr. Carpenter reached him.”
Mr. Carpenter looked uneasily at the two Meresly daughters as they stood with their arms twined about each other’s waists, at their happy shining eyes, and felt that, in their way, the twins were far greater monsters than their mother.
Mr. Barks was sitting with his wife on his knee. She was so heavy that he was sure the blood had stopped circulating in his legs, but he felt he could bear it all. Mrs. Barks was pleased with him and had called him “her clever, little darling.” For, without going into details, he had told her that Canonby would be shortly calling to provide her with an entrée to the royal drawing room.
She kissed his cheek and admired his pink hair, which was piled up in a tall sugar-loaf shape on his head. Only the week before, she had been shouting at him that he looked like an idiot.
“A little brandy perhaps, my sweet?” he murmured.
She coyly got to her feet and simpered down at him. “I shall fetch it with my own fair hands.” She waggled her fingers at him, then blew him a saucy kiss and lumbered from the room.
Mr. Barks let out a sigh of pure satisfaction. All was well with the world.
The door opened again—but it was not his wife who stood on the threshold. The marquess of Canonby stood with a face like the devil and a drawn sword in his hand.
“Where is she?” demanded the marquess.
Mr. Barks quailed and then rallied. After all, he held all the aces.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he jeered.
The marquess’s sword flashed once. It sliced right through Mr. Barks’s pink hair. The top flew off and went sailing across the room in a cloud of pink dust.
Mr. Barks, his face a muddy color, stared at the marquess. The cushion over which his hair had been piled stuck up exposed on the top of his head.
“Now,” said the marquess, “let’s see what other little bits I can slice off.” He drew back his sword and pointed it at the most vulnerable part of Mr. Barks’s body.
“No!” screamed Mr. Barks. “I’ll tell you. She is at Mother Blanchard’s.”
The look in the marquess’s green eyes was so terrible that he was sure his last moment had come.
But the marquess turned on his heel and collided with Mrs. Barks. “Oh, Lord Canonby,” she twittered.
The marquess pushed her rudely aside. “Get out of my way, silly old woman,” he said.
Mrs. Barks stood with her mouth open and then slowly her eyes narrowed and turned in the direction of her shaking husband.
Polly Jones stood high on the roof of the blazing brothel. Dimly through the smoke, and far below her, she could see the anguished face of Mrs. Blanchard. Polly tugged at the lid of the strongbox and to her surprise it opened. It was full to the brim with gold coins and jewels.
Acting as if in a dream, Polly picked up handfuls of coin and jewels and sent them down to the crowd below, handful after handful, until the smoky sky seemed to be filled with rubies and pearls, sapphires, emeralds and diamonds and a rain of gold coins.
The fire engine of the Sun Fire Insurance Company came charging into the street, driving through the milling crowds who were scrabbling in the cobbles for jewels and guineas. The firemen in their blue liveries and silver badges seemed like angels to the desperate Mrs. Blanchard. The fire chief climbed down from the engine, patted the nose of one of the great Shire horses harnessed to it and unclasped a leather-covered notebook. “Name?” he demanded.
“Blanchard, you fool,” screamed the frantic abbess.
“Blanchard. Let me see, Bingham, Bland, ah, Blanchard. Sorry, you ain’t paid any insurance for the last year. Come along, men.”
The fire engine swung about and began to make its way off with Mrs. Blanchard weeping with rage and hanging onto the back of it as if she were trying to pull it back.
“Polly Jones, Polly Jones,” muttered the crowd, the mutter swelling and growing louder. The prostitutes had talked.
“Polly Jones,” they yelled. “Three cheers for Polly Jones!”
The marquess pushed his way down the street. The crowd was laughing and cheering and pointing up to where a still figure stood veiled in thick smoke on the roof.
The marquess ran for the door of the brothel but was beaten back by the flames. He ran into the evacuated premises next door, kicking down locked door after locked door until he reached the skylight at the top of the stairs and smashed it open with the hilt of his sword.
He heaved himself through it.
Polly was standing at the edge of the roof, watching the crowd. She seemed dazed and her eyes were blank.
He edged his way toward her.
“Come along, Polly,” he said.
She gave a tired hiccuping sigh. Part of the roof fell in and a wicked greedy tongue of flame leapt up.
He seized her round the waist and she came to life and fought him off with mad strength.
“Leave me to die!” she cried. “Newgate waits below for me.”
“I will fight for your life. I will marry you. Polly, you must come with me.”
“No,” said Polly, holding her arms tightly round her shivering body. “Leave me to die.”
“I love you,” he shouted.
“What?”
“I love you!” yelled the marquess of Canonby.
She wound her arms round his neck and kissed him full on the lips, while the crowd swayed and cheered.
He lifted her up in his arms.
The building he had entered to get to the roof
was now ablaze as well, although the Royal Exchange Assurance Fire Brigade was dealing with it, the owner having, unlike Mrs. Blanchard, paid up his dues.
Stumbling over the tiles, he walked across the rooftops. He came to an open attic window and lifted her gently through it and then followed her.
“We will face them together,” he said. “Come.”
As they made their way down, shots sounded from the street, followed by a great silence.
