Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine (7 page)

Lillian drew the housemaid’s cloak about her and fastened it at the collar and waist. She pulled the hood far over her face, careful to tuck in every strand of hair. “Jack, you will come with me.”

“Aye, your ladyship.”

“From this point on, you are to address me simply as ‘mum.’ ” She looked back at Ben. “You will guard your lady.”

“With my life, my lady—”

“And I shall pray for you as hard as I know how,” Lavinia said, gripping Lillian’s hand once more. “Thank you, sister. Thank you.”

Save your words for when I return,
Lillian wished to say. But she found herself unable to speak at all.

Lillian slipped her hand free and strode into the night.

Newgate Prison fronted the street with a façade as grim as a medieval fortress. The octagonal stone turrets were flat at the top, from which the peelers could stare down into the central press yard. This time of night, the main gates were shut. Even so, the stench hit Lillian long before she reached the keeper’s lodge.

The head turnkey was always referred to as the keeper. This man was busy with his dinner when Lillian peered through the cracked window. The keeper was obviously accustomed to being disturbed by late-night visitors. He paid no attention to either the faces by his window or the loud knocking upon his door.

“I’ll go in and suss out the man,” Jack said.

“No, let him play his little game,” Lillian responded, and waited.

Memories swirled about her like the tendrils of night mist. When she had been nine years old, her aunt had dressed Lillian in her darkest clothes. Together they had left the house an hour after her uncle had departed for some church meeting. Her aunt had spoken little—she had always been sparse with her speech. They had taken a transom to a portion of town the young Lillian had never seen before, a place of hovels and silence and gloom. They had halted before the porter’s lodge of a prison very much like this one, though that distant night had been far colder. The air had tasted metallic, a dangerous flavor spiced by the same fetid smell that filled her nostrils now. That night, the keeper had not wanted to let them in either. But Lillian’s aunt had insisted. The man had relented only when Lillian’s aunt had slipped coins into his palm. Which was another astonishment. Her aunt had always been tight with her silver.

Lillian was brought rudely back to the present by a deep voice braying, “Well, what is it that can’t wait for the proper hour?”

Lillian shuddered with the force it required to push the memories aside. “I come with an urgent request.”

“Why should yours be any different?” The keeper laughed at his own joke. The room behind him was empty save for a battered pewter plate and mug, and a flickering tallow candle upon a rickety table. He wore unlaced boots and a stained leather apron over filthy trousers. His belly was enormous and shook as he laughed. He did not care that Lillian remained silent through his humor. He no doubt had grown used to laughing alone.

The keeper turned away long enough to drain his mug. “Aye, it’s always the urgent ones what can’t wait for morning.” His eyes squinted in their attempt to pierce the shadows cast by Lillian’s hood. Then he turned his attention to Jack. “Have I seen you round these parts before?”

Lillian halted Jack’s response with an upraised hand. “I have a magistrate’s order for you to discharge a prisoner brought here falsely.”

“False arrest, is it?” The keeper was not impressed. “Walk these lanes, you’ll find not a one of these vermin deserve to be here. They’re all innocent. Every one.”

“I am concerned with a young lady. Brought here earlier this very same evening.”

“Ah.” His eyes gleamed. “A proper looker, highborn and haughty. That the one?”

Lillian handed over the parchment. From the way the keeper frowned over the paper, it was evident the man could not read.

“Abigail Aldridge is the young woman’s name,” she said.

“That’s as may be. But like I said, the prison’s shut until—”

“I can pay.”

The keeper examined the coarse dark robe covering Lillian’s form. “Going against orders, that carries too dear a charge for the likes—”

Lillian slipped her fingers into the sleeve and drew out a single coin. “In gold.”

The keeper licked his lips. “Let’s be having it, then.”

Lillian let the candlelight flicker over its gleaming surface. “Tell me the girl is all right.”

“I let her stay in the association room, didn’t I.” He kept his eyes on the coin. “Didn’t send her off to the cells, where anybody might trap her in the night.”

“You thought there was a chance someone would come and offer good coin for such as her,” Lillian interpreted. She pressed the coin into his hand. “Take me to her.”

“A gold guinea won’t take you far in these parts.”

“Five more when we pass back through these gates.”

“Aye, well . . .” He glared at Jack. “Your man stays back here. Can’t be letting just anyone walk these halls.”

Jack started to protest. Lillian cut him off. “Very well. Let us go.”

The keeper hefted his lantern, grabbed the billy club from its place above the door, and set off across the press yard. He tapped the cobblestones as he walked, a hammering tone that marked his speech. Lillian knew the man was talking to her, but she could not make out the words. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth to keep out the worst of the stench. If only she could hold off the memories as well.

They passed down a long stone hall lit only by the keeper’s lantern. He used one of his jangling keys to open a stout oak door, which he slammed back on its hinges. “Here we are, then,” he declared. “Right as rain, she is too. Get up there, lass. There’s someone come to take you back to the land of the living.” The keeper laughed anew at his own joke.

“Y-you’re here for me?”

Lillian forced herself back to the present moment. A young woman was rising from her crouched position in the far corner, between the side wall and the unlit fireplace. But the shadows were so deep it was impossible to see more than a vague form. “Are you Abigail Aldridge?” she asked.

“Thank God,” the young woman moaned as she rushed forward. “Thank the good Lord above.”

In her haste to flee the chamber, Abigail struck the central table hard and almost went down. But she managed to stay aloft and rushed over. Her eyes apparently were adjusted to the gloom, and she came in close enough to peer under the hood. Her gaze widened in surprise. “Why, you are Coun—”

Lillian placed a hand upon the young woman’s lips. “Your mother has sent me.”

“Aye, it’s a good thing the woman’s come for you. There’s every manner of disease and danger awaiting those who step on the wrong side of the law.”

Abigail clenched Lillian fiercely as she cried, “I did nothing wrong!”

The keeper found that most humorous. “What did I tell you. There ain’t a guilty one among ’em.”

Quietly Lillian said, “Let us be rid of this place while we are able.”

But Abigail held Lillian closer still. “What of my companions?”

Thankfully, the keeper spoke before Lillian could. “There ain’t been nothing said of any others.”

Lillian inspected the face before her. Flaming red hair tumbled about features that remained strong and defiant, even when terrified. The eyes were impossibly clear, the expression alight with an innocence Lillian had never known. Certainly not by the time she had reached this woman’s age.

Abigail protested, “I can’t just leave them here to rot in this vile place!”

Lillian thought swiftly. This young woman was not going to come easily without her companions. There was nothing to be gained by arguing. She turned to the keeper. “Surely you noticed the other names written upon the magistrate’s document.”

The keeper gaped at her. “Other names?”

“The Reverend Derrick Aimes and his assistant, Peter Wise,” Abigail offered quickly. “They did nothing wrong either.”

“Of course not. Why should they be any different from all the others jailed here?” He kneaded the grip of his weapon. “You’ll be paying for them as well?”

“I will.”

He said nothing more. The keeper locked the door behind them, then left them standing in the press yard as he entered the north wing, where the men were kept. The wait was endless. The two women stood and clutched each other, surrounded by their own private worlds of fear and calamity.

Finally the keeper reappeared, leading two other figures. Lillian could not make out their faces in the misty gloom. But as soon as the keeper’s lantern fastened upon the two women, one of those following the man cried out, “Abigail?”

“Pastor Derrick!”

“Praise be to God above!”

“Are you all right, Reverend?”

“Why should I not be, when our gracious Father has released us from our shackles and wrought another miracle?”

“One paid for by this woman’s gold,” the keeper said, his eyes fastened meaningfully upon Lillian.

She was already reaching for her purse. “Let us be free of this vile realm.”

Chapter 7

Six days later, Abigail sat in the very same chair she had claimed as her own the first time she had come to this house. It had a high, curved back, a chair intended to nestle the occupant within its padded comfort. Abigail recalled that first visit to the Wilberforce manor very clearly. She had been nine years old. Her parents had been invited to come and have lunch with William Wilberforce in his home. During the carriage ride her mother had warned repeatedly not to speak out of turn or discuss matters which should be left until they were alone. She was to be a proper young lady, her mother had said, and for once Abigail had sincerely agreed, for she had seen how important this meeting was to both her parents.

They had decided to bring Abigail along that day, because William Wilberforce had been such a dear friend of Erica Langston. Erica and Abigail had grown extremely close during Erica’s stay in England, despite an age difference of more than ten years. Erica had recently returned to her home in Washington, accompanied by her fiancé, Gareth Powers. Abigail had missed her terribly. Introducing Abigail to Erica’s dear friend Mr. Wilberforce was her parents’ way of trying to make her feel better. And it had. Oh, how much better she had felt after the visit. William Wilberforce had not been anything like Abigail had expected. She had imagined a great and powerful man after everything she had heard. Instead, the little man’s eyes had fastened upon her with such gentle intelligence she had felt as though she had known him for years. He had spoken for a time with her parents, then selected the seat closest to Abigail. He had taken her hand in both of his, looked deep into her eyes, and said how he imagined she missed their mutual friend quite as much as he did.

The memory was enough to bring on new tears.

Fortunately, Abigail was the only person in the front parlor that day. Normally it bustled with visitors and guests and the quiet murmur of discreet conversations. Today, however, the drapes were partly drawn upon a rain-swept garden. The entire house seemed swathed in a muted light. Abigail forced herself to regain control and used her handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Occasionally people passed before the doors leading to the rear offices and the rest of the house. A few cast glances her way, swift looks that did not linger.

The previous few days had been the most wretched of Abigail’s entire life. Her nights were riven by fearful dreams. Her days were filled with silent condemnation. When her mother had asked for details about her forays into Soho, Abigail had responded with the resignation of one who was beyond all desire to hide. Her mother had said very little more, not even asking how Abigail had come to lie to her parents. Which of course was precisely what Abigail had done. One falsehood piled upon another. The worst were the ones she had told herself. How she was doing this for a higher purpose. How she was behaving this way for God.

Her mother’s silence was more profound than anything she could have said.

Everything else would wait until her father returned from Brussels. The thought of this had added a feverish edge to her nightmares and filled her every morning with dread.

Then the broadsheets with the awful headlines had appeared, and there was no way they could wait any longer for her father.

She knew why Wilberforce’s household was avoiding her. For two days now, the newspapers loyal to the Crown had spouted the most scurrilous lies. Articles claimed a leading Dissenter had been captured in a raid on a notorious bawdy theatre. “One Aldridge,” the newspapers said. The articles made no mention that she had been the visitor. In fact, one implied that it had been her father who had actually been a member of the audience. They claimed this Aldridge had been captured in a general sweep, one carried out by the Crown at the public’s demand for decency and reform. They suggested this Aldridge had actually been on the verge of entering the stage itself. A stage where most of the performers were without clothes.

Abigail buried her face in her hands. The shame was just too much to bear. Her father was due back in three days. She did not know which meeting she dreaded the most, that with her father or with Mr. Wilberforce.