by Holly West
“Sit down,” I told her.
“I’ll be just outside,” Sam said.
I sat down and faced Jenny. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” I said. “Didn’t my advice work?”
“My husband found out.” She let her hood fall back, showing me her uncovered face for the first time. She was a pretty woman, with a pert upturned nose and a rosebud mouth. But even in the shadows, her cuts and bruises were visible.
My anger spiked, recalling the many times I’d suffered at Sir Ian’s vicious hands. “He did this to you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She began to weep.
I picked up the candle and held it close to her face. Her left eye was black and swollen shut. The skin around her nostrils was caked with blood, and her upper lip plumped unnaturally.
“I tried to clean it as best I could,” she said.
“When did he do this?”
“Two days ago. He came into the kitchen as I prepared his drink and he saw the herbs. He accused me of trying to poison him.”
I took the kettle off the hearth and hung it on the metal bar affixed above the fire. With all my herbs stolen or thrown out, I had little to offer her, but at least I could clean up her cuts with warm water.
I returned to my seat. “Do you have any family you can stay with?” I asked.
“No,” she said, sniffling. “They’re all dead. I’ve nowhere to go.”
I felt a rush of sympathy. Though I had no longer had a husband, and my only child had died, Sam and Lucian were there to help me when I needed it. Jenny seemed utterly alone.
“Do you love your husband?”
She looked down at her lap. “My husband provides for me well,” she said. “And he loves me.”
“Is this how he normally shows his affection?” I said, making no attempt to keep the anger out of my voice.
“He’s a good man,” she said in a defensive tone.
“How did you meet him?”
“He was my father’s friend. He took it upon himself to care for me when my mother and father died.”
“So he’s much older than you are?”
“Twenty-five years.”
His age might be the reason he couldn’t provide her with a child, but it was unlikely. Jenny was young, maybe twenty or so, which meant her husband wouldn’t be so very old, perhaps around the king’s age. Charles had never had any trouble siring children, except where he needed them most, with the queen.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “Do you love him?”
“He’s my husband—I must stay with him.”
The water boiled and I took the kettle off the fire, setting it on the hearth to cool. I removed a linen cloth from my cabinet and brought it back to my seat.
“Are you still determined to have a child?” I asked.
She gave a defeated shrug. “If I don’t, my husband will surely kill me.”
“Then I suggest you take more drastic measures. I’m no longer convinced the remedy I prescribed will work, especially if your husband won’t take it in the first place. He may not be able to give you a child no matter what you do.”
“But I thought—”
“If God is unwilling, there is nothing that can be done. Except—”
“What? I’ll do anything!”
“You must find a fitter man to accomplish this task—discreetly, of course. Make sure he’s young and virile and stirs passion within you.” I glanced toward the kettle. “This is probably cool enough by now.”
I dipped a finger into the water. It was still hot but did not burn. I brought it to the table and soaked the linen cloth.
“Look up at me,” I said.
She raised her face, gazing at me with sad blue eyes, and I dabbed the cloth gently against her wounds. She flinched and I lightened my touch.
“You must take care to clean your wounds thoroughly. Do it in the morning and before you go to bed until the cuts are sufficiently healed. If they begin to fester, come back to see me.” I returned the kettle to the hearth and sat back down to face her. “Have you thought about what I’ve said?”
She returned her eyes to her lap. “Yes,” she said, nodding.
“There are many women who have gotten a child by this very method.”
She raised her hood, retreating back into anonymity. “How much shall I pay?”
“This time there is no charge.”
She stood to leave. “The next time I come, Mistress Ruby, I shall bring my child to meet you.”
I fervently hoped it was true.
* * *
An icy wind blew as I left Coal Yard Alley that night. Winter would soon be upon us. I squinted into the cold and, thinking I glimpsed the glow of Sam’s lantern in the distance, turned left onto Drury Lane.
Without warning, a large figure stepped out of the shadows and covered my mouth with a gloved hand, muffling my scream. He dragged me backward into the narrow space between two buildings, growling words I couldn’t make out. One of my shoes fell off as I dug my feet into the mud, desperate to gain purchase. It was too slippery to offer any resistance, and my assailant pulled me deeper into the darkness.
Panic overtook me and I bit down hard, trying to sink my teeth into the flesh of his hand. I barely penetrated the leather glove. I shook my head violently but he pushed it so hard against his chest, I feared my neck would snap. The brass buttons on his coat pressed into my cheek.
I bent at the waist, wriggling and trying to pull away from him but he only held me tighter. I kicked my leg back frantically. My attempts only grazed his legs, and each effort drained me until I had no strength left. Finally, I made hard contact with his knee and heard a cracking sound. He grunted and his grip loosened as he fell back onto the ground.
He scrambled to regain his hold on me, grabbing at my skirts and pulling me toward him. I scooped up a handful of mud and blindly thrust it toward his face, pressing it into his eyes. His hands flew up to protect himself and he backed away from me. I went after him, kicking him as hard as I could.
“Who are you, you scurvy wretch?” I shouted. “What business have you with me?”
He rolled away and tried to regain his footing, slipping and sliding in the mud. I started after him, then thought better of it and ran in the opposite direction. I reached Bow Street and searched for Sam. When I finally saw his lantern, I picked up my skirts and ran to him.
“Whoa there,” Sam said, grabbing my arm. “What’s going on?”
“Quick, get in the hackney!”
He didn’t wait to hear what happened. “Make haste,” he told the driver and jumped in after me.
As the carriage jerked forward, I peered out into the street and saw no one. I fought to catch my breath and the hard bone of my stays poked into my midsection with each deep inhalation.
“What in God’s name happened?” Sam asked, grabbing my hand. He clenched his jaw as I told him the story, and when I finished he looked me over carefully. “Did he hurt you?”
I suspected I’d have a bruise or two by morning, but apart from that I didn’t think my attacker had done any real harm. “No, I’m all right.”
“You didn’t see who it was?”
“It could’ve been anyone, it was dark.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He did, but I couldn’t hear what it was. After that the only sounds he made were shouts of pain when I kicked him in the knee.”
“Good girl!” Sam said. “Say, do you think this had something to do with Jenny?”
It was indeed possible that her husband had learned of her visits and sought to punish me for the advice I’d given his wife. Or this attack could have something to do with Sir Edmund Godfrey and the theft of my diary.
“Truly, I don’t know.”
He went quiet then, and I knew he was angry with himself for not being there to defend me. Finally, he squeezed my hand and said, “I’ll find a way to better protect you, I promise.”
Chapter Ten
&nbs
p; Wednesday, 16 October 1678
The carriage stopped in front of Newgate Prison and I paused to study the odious building before getting out. Much of the prison had burned in the Great Fire twelve years before, but the rebuilding had been swift and here it stood anew, just as it had for hundreds of years. Its imposing exterior belied the squalor inside, but the evil stench permeating its walls betrayed its true nature. I entered through the huge main gate, which arched high above Newgate Street; its metal spikes hung down like the teeth of some menacing animal.
I was there to see Edward Coleman, whose arrest had confirmed Sir Edmund’s belief in the Catholic plot against the king. Coleman’s occupation as secretary to the Duke of York, heir to the throne, made him one of the most prominent Catholics in England. If the Catholics were responsible for Sir Edmund’s disappearance, Coleman would surely know about it. Though I did not expect to find him cooperative, I hoped his uncomfortable lodgings in the prison would make his tongue more pliable.
I had spent another restless night. My attacker had not inflicted any serious injury beyond a few bruises, but he’d left me feeling scared and vulnerable. I couldn’t rid myself of the memory of his hand across my mouth, pressing so tightly that I could scarcely breathe.
I hoped I’d at least dealt the sniveling coward some lasting damage.
And yet, alongside the fear was the sort of determination I hadn’t felt since my husband’s death. My livelihood—perhaps even my life itself—was at stake, and I would not submit to any rogue who sought to ruin me.
However, any investigation had to be done carefully. My identity as Mistress Ruby was already at risk. I couldn’t jeopardize it further by acting recklessly.
Sam and I approached the gaol keeper’s house to the left of the prison and he rapped on the door. A hunchbacked old woman opened it and she raised her fuzzy gray eyebrows, looking at us with expectation.
“Aye?” she said, her open mouth revealing a number of missing teeth.
“We’re here to see a prisoner,” Sam said.
She appraised him, and evidently deciding he didn’t warrant her attention, she addressed me. “And who’ll you be?”
“I’m Lady Wilde.”
“Oh, aye? Well now Lady Wilde, the keeper’s inside, making his rounds.” She pointed toward the gaol. “You can wait out here for him or you can talk to his wife, Mrs. Richardson.”
I knew from my incarceration at Marshalsea Prison that the gaoler’s wife had nearly as much authority as he did himself so I said, “I’ll speak to her.” The old crone disappeared into the house.
A few minutes later, a large, raw-boned woman came to the door. Her long jaw and wide nose gave her a rather horse-like appearance. Her graying hair was pulled back from her face in a tight topknot, leaving the ends to hang in lank strands about her shoulders in a wretched approximation of the latest style favored by the ladies at court. She was clearly past her prime, though she probably hadn’t turned many heads in her youth either. She wore a pleasant enough expression, but her eyes were an icy blue, hard, and void of emotion.
“I’m Mrs. Richardson. You wanted to see me?” she said.
“I’m here to speak to Edward Coleman. He was brought here—”
“I know who he is. He’s not allowed visitors.” She started to close the door but Sam stopped it with his boot. He handed her a shilling and she examined it, turning it over in her fingers. Satisfied, she stepped outside and closed the door behind her.
“Follow me,” she said.
She led us into the prison through a narrow hallway, and every step brought back memories of a terrible time in my life. The smells, which were bad enough outside, were now unbearable and I nearly retched, both from the stench and from the memories the surroundings prompted. Even worse was the noise; shrieks, shouts, groans, wailing—even barking dogs—seemed to reverberate from every corner. I wanted to cover my ears and run.
Mrs. Richardson stopped in front of a cell at the end of a dark corridor. Perhaps fifteen shackled prisoners, both men and women, crowded the small cell. There was no furniture, not even a bench, and most of the prisoners sat or lay on the floor. I had a sudden vision of myself lying on that hard stone surface, shivering with cold, the skin around my ankles worn raw by the unforgiving rub of the rigid iron manacles. I closed my eyes tight to shut out the memory.
“Coleman, you’ve got a visitor,” Mrs. Richardson said.
I’d given no thought to what state Edward Coleman might be in, and now, as he stumbled toward me, his ankles locked into shackles with heavy chains, I faltered. It was impossible to believe that the man standing before me had, just weeks before, held a position in the Duke of York’s household. His clothes were intact but filthy. He wore no wig, and his hair was matted and sticking out in all directions. Even the darkness could not conceal the desperation in his eyes, though upon seeing me, I thought I detected a flicker of hope.
“Perhaps you don’t remember me, Mr. Coleman,” I said. “I’m Lady Wilde. We met at Whitehall once or twice, and you may recall my late husband, Sir Ian Wilde, who was a member of His Majesty’s guard.”
“I know who you are,” he said in an anxious voice. “Did the Duke of York send you?”
“I’ve come on my own accord. Sir Edmund Godfrey is missing and the Jesuits are somehow involved. Tell me what they did with him.”
Coleman furrowed his brow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Sam’s hands darted through the bars and grabbed Coleman’s coat, shaking him violently.
“Sir, you’re hurting me!” Coleman choked. He appealed to Mrs. Richardson for assistance but she stood in the corner picking at a fingernail.
“Answer Lady Wilde’s question,” Sam said.
“I will, I will! Just please let me go.”
Sam released Coleman and he collapsed with a thud, coughing and sputtering. This would not do—I’d never get any useful information with him in this state. I called Mrs. Richardson over. “Mr. Coleman needs food, water, and better accommodations immediately. What can be done for him?”
She smiled greedily. “It’ll be one pound and five to get him out of here, with a bed and cooked food for the week.”
With the future of my business in question, I was reluctant to spend the money. But it seemed a wise investment, so I removed the coins from my purse and gave her the requested amount. “Here, then. Remove his irons at once and take us to the visitor’s room.”
“That’ll cost you an additional shilling,” she said. “I’m not running a charity here, you know.”
Indeed, she wasn’t. Nothing was provided for the inmates in London prisons but uncooked food donated by churches and other kind souls. Cooking it cost extra.
I handed her the shilling and she pocketed it with the rest. She took her time removing one of the large keys from her belt, then unlocked the cell door, sending the prisoners in the squalid cell scrambling toward it.
“You’ll move back if you know what’s good for you,” Mrs. Richardson warned as she knelt to unlock Coleman’s chains.
“Please, m’lady, help me,” a young woman entreated, her eyes wide with fear and despair. She placed her hands across her belly and smoothed her dirty smock, plainly showing she was several months gone with child. Her legs were shackled like Coleman’s and as she tried to step toward me, Mrs. Richardson pushed her away. She tottered back and fell to the floor, trying to protect her belly with her hands and arms.
I lunged forward but Sam caught my arm, shaking his head. I took a reluctant step back and waited for Mrs. Richardson to free Coleman while the pregnant woman crawled to a safer corner of the room. When Mrs. Richardson finally finished removing the shackles, she pulled him out of the cell by one arm and relocked the door.
“This way,” she said.
Chapter Eleven
On our way to the visitor’s room we passed the taproom, where prisoners who had the means could drink and socialize. The room appeared to be full, surprising given the e
xorbitant cost of poor quality prison liquor. Still, if one could afford it, it was better to pass the time drunk on sherry sack than to suffer the wretchedness of the prison cells.
Mrs. Richardson paused in front of a heavy iron door. The man standing guard wore a crumpled uniform and a belt with a heavy cudgel hanging from it. She gave him a nod as she unlocked it and waved us inside.
In contrast to the crowded taproom, the visitor’s room was empty though it smelled little better than the rest of the prison. A fat rat scampered across the floor. Mrs. Richardson led us to a broken-down table with four chairs and told us to sit, taking the fourth chair for herself.
I dug another shilling out of my purse and handed it to her. “Five minutes, alone,” I said.
She took the money with an exaggerated sigh. “Five minutes, no more.” She went to a far corner and sat down, keeping her hawkish eyes on us.
Coleman spoke up. “Thank you for paying my easement, Lady Wilde, but I don’t know what I can tell you about Sir Edmund Godfrey that he can’t tell you himself.”
“I would gladly ask him, but as I said, he’s been missing since Saturday.”
He harrumphed. “At least this is one thing I can’t be accused of. I’ve been here these two weeks past.”
“People say the Catholics are responsible for Sir Edmund’s disappearance.”
“That’s impossible.”
“When did you last see him?”
“May I ask what your interest in Sir Edmund is?”
“He’s a friend. I want him found alive. Now please, there isn’t much time—when did you last see him?”
He looked at me skeptically. “Shortly before my arrest. You’ll forgive me if I can’t give you an exact date. Time has become difficult for me to measure.”
“What did the two of you speak about?”
“I can’t see what business it is of yours.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed and he leaned toward Coleman, the table creaking alarmingly as he put his weight on it. Coleman shrank back into his chair.
“You’re right,” I said. “It’s not my business. However, from the looks of it you have few enough friends, and one less if Sir Edmund is dead. I hope you’ll consider me one of them so that he can be located before he comes to harm.”
