3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

The messages seemed more futile the more Rhia thought about them, and besides, who here could even read them?

  Mary Reardon, who had spent more time in Newgate than she had outside it, was one of the few who had actually spoken to Rhia. Mary told her that the women’s ward had once been dismal. It was hard to imagine how the existing ward could be an improvement but according to Mary it was not whitewashed before, and there had been no fire for heat, no mats to sleep on, no pewter bowls to eat from. There was rarely stewed beef then, only gruel and coarse brown bread. Mary was almost toothless and had a bad lisp. It had taken Rhia a while to understand her, but she’d persevered because there was little else to keep occupied with. Mary was beyond the noose and too old to transport. She was presently serving several years for the theft of some buckles from a gentleman’s shoes. The shoes weren’t on his feet at the time, apparently. This, Rhia supposed, meant that Mary had been in the company of a gentleman in his stockings. She didn’t ask for details.

  Rhia shivered and pulled the rough wool blanket tighter around her shoulders. It had grown cold, so sunrise was close. According to Mary, she was blessed to have her case heard so quickly. Her arrest had coincided with the next session of the Central Criminal Court, and they only held one session a month. But what if the true thief had yet to be discovered? How did the cloth come to be hidden at the emporium? And how had the constabulary known to look there in the first place? All of these questions would be answered, and she would soon be free. Then she would have Beth draw her a bath with lavender to soothe the fleabites that covered her legs.

  After morning gruel in the frigid grey refectory, the women were herded into the yard, but Rhia was led away by a wardress who gripped her elbow as if there was somewhere for her to run to. A few others were also being escorted from the refectory. The sight of the sky made Rhia weep. She was almost free. Even the cramped darkness of the prison van could not dampen her spirits, nor the crowd that had gathered outside the Sessions House to watch the prisoners being led inside.

  The benches lining the dark holding cell were already full when the metal grille clanged behind her. When her eyes adjusted to the dim light the usual hostile, resentful expressions greeted her. She would soon be free of the company of those who considered her privileged because she had no holes in her boots. She’d never before considered that this alone separated her from so many.

  The names of her companions were shouted out one by one, along with their crimes as their turn came to leave the cell. Patricia O’Leary, bawdyhouse keeper. Tom Black, forger. Peter Thurn, blackmailer. Harold Jordan, bigamist. Most were thieves of varying calibre. Many were young women. Some looked desperate and frightened, others merely bored.

  ‘Rhiannon Mahoney, thief.’ The turnkey’s shout echoed along the corridor, repeating her crime as she walked along it. For now she was nothing and no one. Her pale maize gown was soiled and creased and part of its hemline was torn where someone had ‘accidentally’ stepped on it. Her one consoling possession was the shawl that had been returned to her as she left Newgate. It was barège, a semi-transparent blend of wool and silk. It seemed important to keep track of the names of cloths, it meant she was still the same, still preoccupied with life’s colour and texture. She draped it across her tangled hair and crossed it over her shoulders.

  She stood in the stall and looked for some sign that she was not alone. The stall was called the dock, perhaps because so many who stood here would be condemned to sail, either from a noose or across the seas. Pasted to the inside of the dock in front of her was another psalm, writ on yellowed paper:

  Ye shall not swear by my name falsely, neither shalt thou profane the name of thy God.

  In the gallery, a sea of faces stared down. Rhia was shocked by the accusation she saw in the eyes of people she didn’t know and hadn’t injured. She lowered her own eyes. She would walk free today, and they would feel remorse. Tears threatened all the same. She could not bear this, how did anyone. Was there a single person in that room who believed she was innocent?

  Rhia made herself lift her head and look at the gallery. She looked straight into the eyes of Mr Dillon and caught her breath. Her heart pitched. He was seated at the far end of the gallery with a notebook and pencil in his hand. He nodded. In that moment, she didn’t care if he was here to write something unkind about her. She was just relieved to see a familiar face.

  The prosecutor’s miserable profession had obviously transformed his features. His lips were thin and mean and, judging by the creases between his brows, he rarely had cause to smile. He probably expected the worst from life, as he did from every wretched soul who stood in the dock. He cleared his throat loudly and the room was silent. He barely raised his eyes from his sheaf of papers as he spoke.

  Rhia controlled her dread by imagining that the Sessions House was a theatre and the magistrate a narrator, who introduced, remarked upon and would conclude the play. The prosecutor’s role was to ask a certain number of measured questions. As in a theatre, the audience shouted or applauded and generally made its opinion known. The only actor without a part to play – whose words made no significant difference – was the accused.

  ‘Rhiannon Mahoney, you are charged by the Crown and no case has been prepared in your defence.’ A clerk stepped forward and whispered in the prosecutor’s ear. There was a murmur of speculation from the gallery. The prosecutor nodded briefly and the clerk stepped back. ‘I am informed that the counsel for the defence has neglected to arrive at court.’ The murmur grew louder, and Rhia looked up at Dillon. He shook his head, his expression dark. The prosecutor banged a small wooden hammer on his stand. ‘The charge is the theft of a two yards length of India silk, embroidered with precious stones.’ A dramatic gasp rose from the gallery, silenced by the prosecutor’s hammer. He turned to Rhia. ‘What is your plea?’

  ‘I am not guilty, of course, but I would like to—’ A roar of laughter drowned out what she might have said in her own defence. The hammer came down. The laughter shocked Rhia to tears. She didn’t bother to wipe them away as they fell. The action would only betray her. The prosecutor did not appear to notice that she had spoken.

  ‘I have here a statement given by the domestic servant Hatty Franklin, which declares, quite clearly, that you were seen visiting the room in which a quantity of precious textiles are stored, at the Montgomery residence in Belgrave Square, on the night of 25 February 1841. Is this correct?’

  ‘It is, but—’

  His raised hand silenced her again.

  ‘Is it so that you wore a crinoline on the date aforementioned?’

  ‘Yes, though I must—’

  ‘Please desist in attempting to have your will in the courtroom, Miss Mahoney. You are here only to answer the questions I put to you.’

  ‘Is it so, that your Irish family recently suffered the loss of their livelihood?’

  Rhia thought that he had placed undue emphasis on the word Irish, but she could not be certain. She nodded. Her hands had started to shake. She gripped them together tightly.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ She bowed her head. She no longer bothered trying to hide the tears. Her heart was beating so loud that she could no longer hear the prosecutor’s reproaches. When the drone ceased, she looked up. This was what he had been waiting for.

  ‘Miss Mahoney, you have been found guilty by this court of the theft of two yards of embroidered India silk, the property of Mrs Prunella Montgomery. You will henceforth be removed to Millbank prison and will, at a date to be arranged, be transported for seven years to her Majesty’s colony of New South Wales.’

  She would wake up and find that she was still in Newgate, or Cloak Lane, or St Stephen’s Green. Maybe Ryan’s death had been a dream too, and the fire. Rhia felt her whole body yield and held onto the edge of the dock. She had just enough sensibility to know that his would be a bad time to faint.

  She was led away before she even realised the trial was over, before it had sunk in that she had been found guilty. Not innocent. />
  Another prison van waited – this time an ominous black windowless coach that looked like a funerary vehicle. As she put her foot on the step, Rhia heard her name spoken and turned to see Dillon talking with one of the guards. He introduced himself as a gentleman of the press and explained that he was covering the trial. He hoped that he might have a quick word, in private, with the prisoner. The guards appeared to recognise him, hesitated, and then allowed him to approach her.

  Dillon took her elbow gently, much more gently, it seemed, than she had ever been touched. She wished he would never let her go. He lowered his voice to a whisper.

  ‘I must be brief. Mrs Blake told me that she had arranged your defence. I cannot fathom what has happened, but you can be certain that neither Mrs Blake nor I believe that you are a thief. I didn’t expect this outcome. None of us did. I will visit Mr Montgomery personally and start the process of appeal against your sentence immediately, but it is slow. Do not lose hope.’ He cast a quick look at the guards, who were becoming impatient. ‘We have no more time.’

  Rhia nodded. She opened her mouth and hoped that she could speak. ‘Mr Dillon, would you please write to—’ He was nodding before she finished her sentence.

  ‘I will write to Laurence,’ he said briskly.

  ‘No, not to Laurence, to my mother.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He pulled out his pocket book and a stub of pencil and scribbled the address she gave him. She could not take her eyes from the paper. What she would give just to have something to write on. Either her longing was writ on her face or Mr Dillon could read her mind. He cast a swift glance at the guards and then tore a wad of pages from his notepad. When he shook her hand, he pressed both paper and pencil into it. She pushed them up into her sleeve deftly and they exchanged a small smile. The irony of this act was not lost on either of them. She was behaving like a criminal. Rhia whispered ‘thank you’ before he strode away purposefully. He looked back and caught her eye just before she was pushed roughly into the dark interior of the van. The resolve in his expression gave her comfort. No matter what distrust she had once felt for him, today he was king of the Otherworld. She had no alternative but to trust him. He was her only hope.

  As the door of the prison van closed, Rhia caught a last glimpse of the place she had once thought so brimful of possibility. Already, bright clusters of early daffodils, those messengers of spring, bowed from window boxes along Newgate Street. The forests around Greystones would soon be carpeted in bluebells, and rabbit kittens would hop from their winter burrows. There would be preparations for the spring equinox and a special un-dyed cloth would be spun for the celebrations. Rhia could almost smell the salt on the air as she imagined the seashore, and Thomas Kelly sitting at his loom looking out at the brooding sea. She ached to be in the past, safe from the future. Michael Kelly would be home with his family before she arrived in Sydney. It struck her like a blow. She pulled her mantle across her face and bent her head. If today were a cloth it must be barège. She gazed through its gauzy weave and the straw on the floorboards didn’t look quite so slick with filth, or the open curiosity of the other prisoners so invasive. It softened the hostile gaze of the ragged woman seated opposite, who hissed, ‘Fancy piece of mutton, aren’t ye? Once them prissy locks get shorn off and the fine cloths are gone, thee’ll be no better than the rest.’

  14 March 1841

  Everything is grey. The stripes of sky through the small, high window, the linsey prison clothes, the walls, the cloth we sew. Even the food is grey. The world is bled of colour. Could I see myself in a glass, I know that my face would be grey. I feel colourless. I hunger for colour as much as for white bread and jam. Time is measured by the sound of the warden’s boots on the steel stair and by the jingle of keys.

  I am alone. Once a day we are allowed into the exercise yard, ward by ward. Everyone at Millbank is leaving England. That is why we are here, but I cannot leave. I cannot cross another sea. There are women who have been here for months and months waiting to be assigned to a transport. I pray that Mr Dillon will remember me. I listen to the shadows of prayers of the forgotten, who will not show themselves. I never thought that I would wish for the company of ghosts. I was happy when they left me alone. I remember you saying that spirits are like people and know when they are not welcome.

  My hair is gone. It is a prickly crop and I’m over weeping for it as if it were something important. They clipped it off in the refectory (which, by the way, is grey) with great iron shears that looked better suited to cutting through sailcloth. I watched it drift to the flagstones and lie in black coils, dead as my soul, to be swept away and incinerated. The warden said it was a precaution against lice, but it felt like part of my punishment, like the coarse cloth of brown clothing, like this calico apron. If I wish, my prickles can be covered with a cloth cap like a housemaid. My neck is always cold. Who’d have thought that hair afforded so much warmth?

  It will be time to go to the yard soon, where I always keep my eyes to the heavens and take full, deep breaths to store air and light, though it never lasts me through all the dark hours. I only ever believe I can get through one more day. Then another. Then another. One after the next. I try to think of colours and cloths and pots of dye. Texture and pattern. But I cannot conjure a palette that isn’t dull. I could not write before now, and I only have the paper that Dillon gave me. There is little but the sky that is safe to look at in the yard. I discovered this only after chancing a look at Nora Beck. She is a bully and said that if I gawped at her again she’d give me a beating I’d never forget. It should have frightened me, but in fact I thought it might not be so bad. At least it would make me feel something. Nora is mean, and Agnes, her henchperson, is too. Nora is large, huge in fact, and domineering. It turns the others into cowards. Only one prisoner, Margaret, dares to cross her, and she is nowhere near Nora’s physical equal.

  I can hear boots on the stairs. I’ve kept the writing materials inside my undergarments and, thus far, no one has discovered them.

  Anon.

  Hessian

  Margaret Dickson approached without Rhia noticing. Rhia was looking for flying horses, and angels in the clouds, as she and Thomas had once done. She saw only ships.

  ‘Best get over your miseries, Mahoney.’ Margaret had her arms folded across her bosom, and wore an expression that managed to be both stern and teasing. Her hair was a mop of tight ginger curls, so she’d been at Millbank long enough for a few inches of growth. Her skin was so freckled that you could barely see a patch of its true colour. She was plumpish and her eyes were small but sparkly. Margaret nodded towards Nora’s group, a dozen or so women standing in a huddle, gossiping and rubbing their hands together against the cold. ‘You’ll not want them thinking you’d be lowering yourself to give them the time of the day?’

  ‘I have no timepiece,’ Rhia retorted, and Margaret laughed throatily. ‘I knew there’d be a spirit beneath that long face!’ She shrugged. ‘Not that I care either way, but I’d wager you don’t fancy yourself genteel as all that. Most ladies from the trade don’t.’ She gestured towards the other women and lowered her voice. ‘They wouldn’t know the difference.’

  ‘Is that what they think – that I fancy myself genteel?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘How did you know I was from the trade?’

  ‘Word gets around in a prison, Mahoney. You’ll see. Besides, I’ve seen ladies of all sorts and I can tell who’s who and what’s what.’ Margaret’s expression became earnest. ‘To be truthful, I’d a word with Mrs Blake and she asked me to look out for you. It’s down to her that you’re in this ward, you see. She knows people. Everyone in our ward will be on the same transport. That’s the way it works.’

  ‘Mrs Blake was here? When?’

  ‘Two days after you came in, but new prisoners aren’t allowed visitors or letters until they’ve settled a bit. The wailing gives everyone the collywobbles.’

  Rhia could have wept. Antonia had been at Millban
k. Margaret looked cautiously sympathetic. She shook her head in warning. ‘Remember, no wobbles, Mahoney.’ She jerked her head at Nora and company. ‘They already think you’re soft, so you’ll need to toughen up, or at least pretend to. Tomorrow’s a visiting day and you might have someone in.’

  Rhia fought off the emotion. It was always only a breath away. ‘How do you know Mrs Blake?’

  ‘Quakers often visit. Saints the lot of ’em, but Mrs Blake especially, with her own troubles and all. She told me her maid has been poorly, though I can’t say I’m surprised by it. She’s not the full shilling anyway.’

  ‘Juliette?’

  ‘Barmy. Completely. She told me … but I mustn’t say – I promised I wouldn’t.’ Margaret looked disappointed. Presumably she was keeping some kind of secret for Juliette.

  A morsel of gossip was suddenly of huge interest. ‘It was something foolish?’ she coaxed.

  ‘Oh, aye. I’ll tell you this much: Juliette gave me something to carry to Sydney, which is where I’m bound for, and if you were to see it, you’d know she was batty.’

  Before Rhia could ask any more about Margaret’s odd secret, or about Sydney, the clang of the iron bell at the gate to the yard interrupted them and they were rounded up and led back to their cells and their sewing.

  By the time there was no light left to sew by, Rhia longed to sleep for ever. In fact, sleep was no friend in this place and she was often wakeful. At least she now knew why she had received no letter from home. Surely by now her mother would have heard from Dillon. What if Brigit was ashamed and couldn’t bring herself to write? Rhia put the thought firmly from her mind. If nothing else in the world was true, then she could at least be sure of her mother’s love.

  Her thoughts turned to Laurence. Even if his advances had been mere flirtations, she still missed him. She might never see him again. He would not think her so desirable now. Her vanity was in tatters, like a bright print left in the weather to fade and tear.