The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Jemima stared down at her lap and her tightly entwined fingers. Her face was white and her disgust was plain. “Yes, that’s right. Papa never realised what was going on. He thought Alba threw the girls from the house, and he was too busy ever to check. Selfish, naturally. But he says he just laughed at Alba’s jealousy, and never thought of the girls again. And he doesn’t even remember the name of the last one.”

  Frowning, Richard paused, then said, “The possibility is a little disturbing. The third girl is – perhaps – Sybilla Barton. She was a close friend of Mary’s, and had a suspicion of what had occurred. She informed Mary’s father that she was going to discover the truth. But after some days she had gone and was never seen again.”

  “So you really did do some investigating during those first months after we met.”

  With a faint smile, Richard leaned over, taking Jemima’s hand and untwisting it from her frantic resistance. “I did, my love. And then stopped, since proof was impossible – and I became far more interested in aiding my future wife.”

  “Three poor innocent young women.” She hiccupped. “It’s utterly horrible. I don’t think I can ever face Alba again.”

  “And yet it is pointless, after such a length of time, to tell the sheriff. Nor can we prove any of this supposition, nor would I expect your father to repeat his knowledge to the judge.”

  They had still not heard of the tragedy and Alba’s death was unknown to them, when the messenger arrived, breathless.

  “Lords. Ladies. ‘Tis Master Thripp. Gotta come back to London and quick, or t’will be too late.”

  The information had been clear enough.

  Written by Elisabeth on tear-stained paper, “Jemma, you must come to help dearest Edward. It was Alba who killed those girls in the attic. Jealous creature. Now she has killed herself which is confession enough, though Edward already knew. But now the royal guard has arrested Edward himself, accusations of murder and piracy. Who has reported this lie to the authorities? Alba? Or Richard? But your father will be hanged. Come quickly.”

  They had already settled in the Wiltshire estate. Vast and spilling its luxuries beyond the ill-lit shadows, the palace had welcomed them. The preparations for the quiet wedding had begun. A bustle of proud excitements permeated, from the concentrated contentment of the master, the bubbling thrill of the mistress, through to the delighted involvement of every servant.

  But now the joy subsided and once again Richard and Jemima rode out in haste and headed north. Richard’s rapid return message was addressed to Thomas Dunn. Then wind, speed, galloping hooves and an entourage of just two men, armed, saddle bags half-filled and no time to discover more. Even Nurse Katherine, who would have required a slow-pulled litter, was not permitted to accompany them.

  Spring blossom along the hedgerows had tumbled, replaced by summer wild flowers and the tips of scarlet poppies spotted the soft green fields of wheat. The starlings were courting and the kestrels were flying high, watching for the new litters of rabbits, fledglings in the nest and voles by the river banks. But Richard and Jemima continued to ride with overnight delays as short as might be managed.

  “He deserves to die.” Jemima was crying. “perhaps I should have stayed at home safe in your arms, my beloved, and let justice prove itself just.”

  “You are still in my arms, little one, and must remain always.”

  The wayside tavern’s bedchamber was small, and the shutters crooked. The single candle stub guttered with a rank smell of tallow, and Richard pulled Jemima closer. He wore nothing beneath the heavy folds of the bedrobe, and her arms cradled him, slipping between the loosed ties to embrace the warmth of his body.

  Nestled against him, Jemima whispered, “You say your list contained three names. Alba first, then. Then your Papa. The other was mine, wasn’t it?” He nodded and she sighed. “He says he knew nothing of the killings until much later, and that was when he told Alba to leave. But he had no wish to see her go to gaol. It was too late for the girls, he said, so why cause more misery. I don’t know if that was right. Should he suffer now, for his silence then? But after all, the accusation of piracy is accurate enough.”

  “Thomas will do whatever he can. Don’t judge your father before the trial is held, my beloved. We should arrive tomorrow and will understand more.”

  They spoke of Alba’s death and the danger to Edward Thripp, but earlier that evening in the drinking chamber downstairs, the folk in the tavern had been speaking of another death.

  “She was a good queen, was the Lady Anne. Spoke for the true religion, and didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  “They said she was a whore.”

  “Queen Anne had beautiful eyes. I saw her once.”

  “But his majesty is wed again already, though they reckon Queen Jane is as plain as a hedgehog caught in a bog.”

  “It’s a world of death,” Jemima now whispered, cuddled still in Richard’s embrace. “Murder and execution. Hatred and jealousy.”

  “And love,” Richard reminded her. “I thought you delightful immediately.” He paused, then murmured, “At first sight I wondered if the tedium of my life might ebb.”

  Jemima sniffed. “Nonsense, Dickon. Don’t flatter me. You probably thought me a fool, which wasn’t so far from the truth. When you came to poor Katherine’s awful little hovel, you were arrogant and looked down your nose at me. But you liked the intrigue of unravelling crime. So you didn’t want me, you just wanted the mystery.”

  “True, perhaps,” half laughing, “but I soon changed my mind. In spite of the rude remarks about my nose.”

  “I adore your nose.”

  He was sitting beside her on the edge of the mattress, his bedrobe partially open and his long legs stretched. Once again she laid her head on his shoulder and curled her arm around his waist. “We met because you took an interest in those three poor women. Meeting Dickon the Bastard was the most glorious thing that ever happened to me, but I didn’t think so at the time.”

  He shrugged. The wheel of destiny was kind for once. Yet I began simply wondering if my own father was the culprit.”

  “He must have been a horrible man if you think him capable of such a thing,” She said, blinking up at him.

  “He was a man I knew less well than I originally wished, but then far better than I wanted. Before he died, I had no desire to see him at all, nor speak of him.” Richard rose suddenly, taking up the jug of wine which stood on the stool beneath the shuttered window. He poured two cups, bringing them to the bed and handing one to Jemima. “Now it is your father under suspicion.

  Her fingers, inside the bedrobe and against his naked skin, crawled up the ladder of his spine, pulling him close. There was no remaining candle, nor beam of moonlight through the wooden shutters, but Jemima smiled into the glitter of Richard’s dark eyes. “I was so shocked. Sometimes I used to think Alba was an angel. When I was a child and my father was away at sea, Alba floated around the house in white satin. She used to sing too, and I thought she was so beautiful. I could never, ever, have thought of her strangling some poor young woman. And after all, it was my father to blame, not the girls.”

  “And even once he knew what had happened, he continued to live in a house of corpses, his own bedchamber beneath their graves.” Richard’s fingers twisted gently into her hair, and he kissed her forehead. “My poor beloved. You lived in that house most of your life and loved the murderer, and the man who hid the truth.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” She sighed. “How horrible. And afterwards Alba went to live in a tiny cottage that Papa bought her. He paid her an allowance for a few years too. Was that affection? Guilt? Or blackmail? I’ve no idea. I don’t want to know.”

  He rolled over and sat, smiling down at the woman in his arms. “I must admit that I cannot fully understand why these women so loved your father, since he seems to me a man unworthy of such devotion. An adventurer who laughs at danger and at all of life may seem attractive, but pirates are ruthless and kill mercilessly at s
ea. But,” and his smile widened, “I know very clearly why I adore you, my beloved. “

  Jemima whispered, “I think myself undeserving too.”

  “Then let me confess my own selfish self-regard,” Richard grinned. His grin lightened his eyes, tilting his mouth and softening his jaw. Jemima remembered how long it had been when she had thought him incapable of smiling at all. Now he smiled as though he had never stopped, and he said, “My enemies bothered me not in the least. Boredom was my inner antagonist. The devil tedium. Amongst the wretched stupidity of court gossip and the stultifying pointlessness of corruption and conspiracy, I searched for escape in many mental alleyways. I found only rare relief. Many of us face the same demon. The impoverished battle with survival each day and have no spare moment for such a luxury as languid monotony, but those of us with more benefits and an easier life, often find as little satisfaction. My father’s escape was into brutality, harsh control and the exploration of cruelty. My step-father explores the intrigues of court life and the ambition for empowerment. My half-brother already dallies with the world of pain, though only as a bystander and does not yet dare to practice more than watching from afar.” His hand wandered down beneath her neck to the first soft rise of her breasts, still enclosed within blue brocade. “Tom’s answer to boredom has been hard work and the law. To capture the criminal and protect the innocent. I admired Tom’s road, and helped him. But it brought no more than a twitch aside from tedium to lassitude.” His fingers pushed down between cloth and flesh. “Now,” he murmured, “I discover that falling in love makes me feel ten times more alive. Perhaps a hundred times. I hear my heartbeat like the rudder of a ship slamming against the waves. I have changed direction.”

  “Oh Dickon,” she sighed. “What beautiful words. I feel like that all the time with you.” She closed her eyes, as if dreaming. “When you’re with me, the candles burn brighter. The sun shines hotter.” He kissed her hard, swallowing the last gulp of her words.

  On the morrow, having awoken to rain and the first day of June, Richard Wolfdon and his fiancé arrived at the Strand house shortly before dusk leaked from the overhanging cloud, and squelched through the courtyard to the stables. The solar was ablaze with lights and busy with people. Penelope, inhaling deeply, marched the principal solar, and was the first to see Jemima arrive.

  “They will hang him,” she said between gritted teeth. “If we can’t save him, then he will hang on the scaffold down river at low tide, until the high tide rushes in and drowns what is left of our beloved Edward.”

  “I shall be sitting on the river bank,” interrupted Philippa, running past Penelope and into Jemima’s arms, “and I shall sob until I drown myself too – with tears.”

  Richard spoke quietly, taking Jemima’s arm. “Stay here, and reassure your mothers. I’m off to see Thomas, and discover what has to be done.”

  “Edward’s in Newgate,” whispered Elisabeth as Richard strode off. “It’s been eight days now. The poor darling has been hurled into the most hideous place in London.”

  “Richard and I have brought the rest of Papa’s coin with us from Wiltshire,” Jemima said, stripping off her gloves and cape. “That will more than pay for a private chamber and a warm bed with good food daily until Thomas Dunn can get him freed.”

  “Edward is a rich man now,” sighed Ysabel. “He already has all the luxuries his gaolers allow. But that won’t serve if they hang him.”

  As the evening slipped into night and the sky flung out stars, Jemima called for a page to put up the shutters and bring wine and oat biscuits, as she settled down to wait for Richard’s return. They spoke of Alba’s death and the amazement of discovering what she had done.

  “She always said that Edward loved her best. Now we know dearest Edward was unfaithful to her all the time.”

  Alba was buried in the churchyard at the church of St. Clement Danes, but none of the other women had attended her funeral. Edward Thripp had paid, but at the time of interment, had accompanied Elisabeth to the nearest alehouse.

  The rain had now stopped and the chill of damp slunk under the night’s passing. A sickle moon peeped but was unseen within the house, where a warm chatter and animated gossip reigned. The concern banished sleep and no one spoke of bed.

  “I went to visit him in gaol. He laughed as he always does. He said it was apt and proper for the ocean to bring his death. He said he’d be smiling as the waters rush over his head. He is – a wonderful man.”

  “He’s a drunken bastard.”

  Almost, Jemima expected to turn and see Alba. But it was Ruth.

  Then, quite suddenly, the dark red liquid flung by an unseen hand, flooded over Ruth’s hair. Ysabel squealed and swore, Ruth struck out, and Jemima moved away, biting her lip. She muttered, “This will help no one. Not us. Not Papa.” But her voice faded beneath the noise of the squabble.

  Squirming and entwined, Ysabel and Ruth scratched at each other's faces. Jemima stared. Ysabel was the plump and contented, comforting and complacent woman Jemima remembered well, yet now she was a wobbling ball of fury. Philippa was laughing. Penelope ran at the battling women and joined the fight, trying to pull them apart but quickly engaged herself in both attack and defence. Elisabeth moved back and burst into tears. Wine stained the Turkey rug and cups rolled across the boards.

  With a stamp that vibrated and shook the little stools and the long trestle table, Jemima flung out both arms and yelled, “Stop.”

  Everyone, surprisingly, stopped. Even Elisabeth stopped crying. They were unused to Jemima’s temper and had barely heard their little adopted daughter raise her voice before. Ysabel was sitting on the ground, hugging her knees. A long raw scratch marked the side of her face and her lip was bleeding. Ruth stood over her, glaring, scratches up her arms and her hair a mess of wet tangles, red wine dripping down her neck.

  Into the following silence, Ysabel blurted, “It must have been Ruth that told the sheriff about dearest Edward. She’s always been the one with the sharp tongue. She’s always angry. She’s always mean. She told on your beloved Papa, and put him in gaol.”

  Ruth went slowly white as though the veins in her face emptied in shock. “Me? As if – I would never. Edward is no saint. But I loved him – as you all do.”

  Elisabeth hurtled from her chair and faced Ruth, both fists raised and clenched. “Admit it, and I shall spit in your face. Come on, sow-arse, admit it.”

  Blanching, Ruth stepped back. “I never did,” she whispered. “Why do you all think of me as the culprit? Do you all hate me?” She reached out a trembling hand to Elisabeth. “And you. You’re usually so sweet and kind. Do you hate me too?”

  The following babble was interrupted quite abruptly as the front doors flew open, shuddering back against the inside wall. A scullery boy rushed from the kitchens to the reverberating crash, stopped, stepped back and bowed. Richard Wolfdon in dark mahogany and broadcloth marched into the house, gloves in hand and mud on his riding boots. Behind him trotted Edward Thripp, feathered hat askew and the lace at his neck torn and grubby, satin ribbons on sleeves and belt loose, and hose both baggy and laddered at the knees. His eyes were bloodshot and bruised, but his smile was wide. Then walked Thomas Dunn, quietly respectable and neat. The moonlight swept momentarily into the chamber spinning its own silver streamers. Then the door was closed by the steward, and the candles in the solar shivered.

  Edward grinned and ordered the best wine and a late supper of bread, cheese and ham. “Tis done,” he said, voice cracking. “Saintly friends – loving daughter – Spanish coin for bribes – the right words from the clever lawyer – and here I am, my lovelies. A free man, and a bloody happy one at that.”

  Thomas stood aside, Jemima clung to Richard, kissing his cheek, and the other women cascaded into Edward’s arms, cooing and fondling. Ruth was the first to rub her face against the rough stubble of Edward’s unshaven chin.

  “My own love.”

  But Edward reached for Elisabeth. “Tis a feast I need
, and enough ale and wine to forget the miseries of the last week and more.”

  Elisabeth whispered, “A wedding feast?” but Edward ignored her, cackling and seating himself in the deep cushioned chair beside the empty hearth.

  “First, a hearty thank you for my lawyer. Thomas, I shall pay you a chestful of treasure.” The scullery boy, bleary eyed and shuffling from his straw bed, had brought the wine. Edward raised his cup. “And to my son-in-law Richard, the grand gent who has saved my life.”

  Richard led Jemima to the settle, accepting the cup of wine he was handed. “Tom convinced the sheriff that the information laid against Edward had no basis, no proof and no substance.”

  Thomas smirked. “Bribes helped. Bribes to the sheriff’s assistant. Bribes to the Newgate guards. But also the common sense of the law.”

  “And I, said Edward, leaning back and pulling Elisabeth onto his lap, “shall pay this expert in law to be my legal advisor for the rest of my life, however long that may be.”

  “A hundred years, my dearest.”

  Ruth stood by the hearth. “And who,” she asked quietly, “spoke to the sheriff about you, Edward dear? Who caused your arrest?”

  Richard interrupted. “We may discuss that in the morning,” he said. “It is now past midnight and there is much still to be done tomorrow and no sleep will ensure failure. I suggest we retire, as I have every intention of doing.”

  “Right, right enough,” Edward nodded. “The grand bedchamber for my little daughter and her handsome lover. The rest of my lovelies must share the space remaining, while I cuddle up in my own chamber with my own little darling.” He gulped and finished his wine. “And I shall see you all tomorrow, rather late in the morning I’d guess, but eager to scrub out whatever mess is left in my life.”

  “And I,” said Thomas, yawning, “will sleep here on the rug, if some kind soul will throw me a blanket.”