The Wedding

by Edith Layton

  She remembered how Crispin sounded when he was mad at her. She pictured Wrede when he was annoyed with her. She remembered exactly how Lady Charlotte had looked at her.

  “I should like to see Willie Grab—now,” she commanded.

  “Oh. Certainly, my lady,” the jailer said, flinching, then bowing low.

  He led her down reeking corridors. After one glance to the side to see who had called out in such despair, she looked nowhere but in front of her. That was just as well, because she had to watch her step carefully as he led her down what seemed like an endless flight of stairs.

  The jailer kept talking as he went. “Well, but if ’e’d said a word, we’da kept ’im ’igher,” he grumbled. “For two shillings ’e coulda had a fine bed. But not ’im. Din’t say nothin’, not a word. Just shaking like a leaf, ’e was. Them that brought ’im in knew ’is name. The lad never said a word. Is ’e a dummy, my lady? A mute?”

  “No,” Dulcie said in sorrow, taking her handkerchief from over her nose and mouth so he could hear her. “No, he is not.”

  The cell was huge, but there were too many prisoners in it to single out just one of them. Still, she was grateful that the few torches didn’t lighten the gloom enough for her to see them more clearly. The floor was base stone. There was nothing for the prisoners’ comfort on it except some rotting straw. The stench of humanity, human waste, and gin, the omnipresent solace of the poor, was powerful. But not so strong as the stink of fear. The place was as dank as a cave, because they were far beneath London now, and these poor creatures, Dulcie realized, were not far from being put beneath the ground permanently.

  “Willie! ’Ere, where’s the lad called Willie Grab?” the jailer called.

  He and another jailer waded into the cell, pushing prisoners aside, swinging clubs to clear a path through them. Dulcie stood back with her footman by her side; her maid had been too overcome with fear to make this final journey. Dulcie didn’t blame her and was only grateful that the footman’s sense of duty had won over his obvious reluctance to come. They watched as the jailer picked some tattered thing up from the floor.

  “This ’im?” the jailer asked. He left the cell and thrust a little boy at her.

  “No,” Dulcie said, eyeing the small, shivering boy with pity. “No, it is not—Wait! Willie?” she asked, fearfully. “Willie?”

  She saw his thin shoulders hunch at hearing his name. She knelt and looked at the boy’s averted head. There was no recognition in those indigo eyes. He was scrawny, white-faced, shuddering, but yes, this was Willie. Willie, with his swagger and bravado stripped from him. Willie, without his guile and wit. Willie, who was just, after all, a very little boy. She was the one who was kneeling. But it was Willie who had been brought to his knees.

  “Oh, Willie,” she said, and took him in her arms.

  The footman moved to stop her, because the boy was filthy. But then he saw Willie’s body convulse and Dulcie hug him tighter. He stepped back again.

  “They’re going to top me,” Willie whispered, burrowing into the warmth of her embrace, his thin arms wrapped around her as though he were drowning. Her warmth delivered him from the terror that had gripped him, to a horror he could speak of at last. “They’re going to take me to Tyburn and dangle me there. Oh, lady,” he said, his voice shaking, “please don’t let the surgeons get me. Please don’t. I ain’t got the money to pay for my burying. And them that don’t are given to the doctors to be cut up. I’ll go to the topping like a gent. I swear. But don’t let them cut me up after, like they done to my poor Luke.”

  So now the poor ghost had a name. Dulcie drew the small shuddering body closer. Crispin would know what to do, she thought, but Crispin had left her. She would do anything to save this boy. She tightened her grip on Willie and firmed her resolve. No matter what Crispin thought, she was not nothing.

  “No,” Dulcie promised fervently, “The surgeons won’t touch you. I won’t let that happen. You’re coming home with me now, Willie. And so I vow.”

  *

  The Fleet prison was a much gloomier place than Crispin remembered. The last time he was here he’d had Willie swaggering at his side, and the Fleet had seemed like a rollicking street fair. And when he’d seen Dulcie, it had become a magical place. Now that he was desperately racing against time, he saw that the Fleet, even with all its tumult and activity, was a dismal place where a man’s time was never his own. And all the colorful people within it were only poor wretches trying to win their freedom. As he was.

  He was told to wait in the room where he’d been married. The irony didn’t escape him. He peered out the small window at the dying day, and murmured a curse as he paced. He had done much in a short time, but he had more to do, and there was little time left.

  “He won’t come, you know,” a voice said.

  Crispin’s head snapped up.

  Jerome Snode bowed. “Harry’s terrified you’ll kill him,” he said calmly, “so he won’t show his nose.”

  “Odd. There’s money in it for him,” Crispin said. Jerome shrugged. “Well, but it’s hardly worth his life.”

  “True, I threatened to kill him if I saw him again, and I am as good as my word…usually. But this time I need to buy something from him. Are you his emissary?”

  “I could be,” Jerome said.

  “I want that marriage paper and the register it came from.”

  “Oh? Harry said the papers were at the bottom of the Thames,” Jerome said with interest.

  “So I heard. Then I remembered who I was dealing with,” Crispin said wryly. “Meech wouldn’t throw away the bones from his dinner plate if he thought he might find a use for them someday. He would never destroy that register or those papers. I know that. I want them. And I’ll pay well.”

  “How well?” Jerome asked calmly, but his pale eyes glittered.

  Crispin named a price.

  Snode’s eyebrows shot up, but he shook his head.

  “I haven’t time to haggle,” Crispin said impatiently. “A hundred more, then, and that’s my final price. It may be the best he’ll ever get. I am to meet the earl of Wrede in an hour on a grassy field outside of London, with pistols drawn. You’ve heard of Wrede’s prowess with pistols?”

  “Done. The amount will do,” Jerome said quickly. Crispin thought he heard a hastily suppressed gasp from somewhere in the gloom behind Snode.

  “Done, then,” Crispin said, pulling notes from his wallet and throwing them on a table. “The paper? The register?” he asked, reaching out a hand.

  Jerome turned and disappeared into the gloom he’d come from. He returned in minutes, carrying the tattered register. He gave it to Crispin. Then he handed him a torn-out page.

  And watched in astonishment as Crispin put the page back in its proper place and snapped the book closed over it.

  “Done!” Crispin said with relief. A small smile lit his sternly handsome face. “I’ve undone all the mischief at last. Featherstone is free, you see. Who can say what drives a man mad? Whatever it is, influence can declare him sane, and so it has. He is again an ordained minister of God. That’s only fair. He may be closer to God than the rest of us, anyway,” he muttered. “He won’t preach again, but at least he no longer resides in Bedlam. The bishop has found a retreat for him. And all his previous work is again made valid.

  “Tell Harry I wouldn’t have killed him this time,” Crispin said with a wintery smile, “because he was innocent in this, at least. Dulcie Blessing is my wife, and so she will remain, God willing—for as long as I continue to breathe. An unlikely Cupid, our Harry. But a very good one. You might suggest matchmaking to him as a new line of work, now that Parliament’s closed down his old one. Tell him that instead of killing him for squirreling away this proof of my wedding, I’m tempted to shake his hand.”

  “Ah, but you see,” Jerome said with a smile as he pocketed the money, “there’s more. Harry thought you might be angry with him for something else. You know the lad that both you and he empl
oyed? Willie Grab? Well, he’s in Newgate, awaiting the hangman. He’s small, but he’ll hang high enough. Harry peached on the lad, you see. Informed on him, for the theft of over thirty shillings’ worth of jewelry, if you please, and you know what that means. He’ll dangle—”

  Jerome gasped as Crispin’s hand shot out. Crispin grabbed him by the front of his coat and hauled him up so that he could glare into his terrified face.

  “No, no,” Jerome panted. “I had no part in it,” he whined.

  Crispin slowly released him.

  “And Harry didn’t invent the theft,” Jerome babbled. “He just made sure the authorities knew of it.”

  “Well, then,” Crispin said, staring at the shaking man, “you tell Harry he’s lucky I haven’t got the time to seek him out today, and that he had better pray that I don’t have a tomorrow.”

  And tucking the book under his arm, he strode out. It seemed he had more work to do, but not the time to do it in, for he had an appointment at dusk, and the night was coming on fast.

  CHAPTER 19

  The mists of evening looked like those of morning to Crispin as the carriage halted beneath familiar tall oaks. The light was dying in the west, not rising in the east. It was an unusual time for a duel, but perhaps it was more fitting to face death as the day ended, he thought. He had met a man on this field once before, long ago, at the proper time, in the mists of dawn. Afterward, the sun had mounted in the sky, and he had been glad his foe would live to see the day. He had had his revenge: his enemy might never fence again, but he would live to regret his error. Crispin had been on fire for revenge then. Now he only wanted this to be over. And he didn’t want to kill or hurt the man he’d called out.

  He regretted having arranged the meeting, but he could not avoid it. He was a man of his word. The fact that the man was his best friend made no difference. Wrede had made no apology, and no mutual friend had tried to negotiate a peaceful solution. No. Crispin had issued the challenge and his honor had to be satisfied.

  When he had dueled before, he hadn’t thought much about the outcome; he’d been in too great a fury to prove himself. Besides, he’d been very young and had thought he would live forever. He wanted desperately to survive this meeting, but he didn’t know if he would. He wasn’t anxious now—he was numb with despair.

  He could face his own death without flinching, but thinking of Dulcie made that prospect unendurable. He was being selfish, for he wasn’t worried about her. She would do very well by herself. He had left explicit instructions with his lawyers to ensure her prosperity, in case his efforts today hadn’t been successful. But they had been. He had reaffirmed the legality of the marriage. She was still his wife, and she would be his widow, if it came to that. As his sole heir she would be wealthy and titled, with all the influence and honor that came with it. He had seen to that. She was young and beautiful, and clever, too. His lawyers would advise her. And she would not be lonely for very long.

  But she would never have his children. And he would miss her through eternity. That grieved him more than the thought of his death. That was why he’d raced through the day, never allowing himself to think beyond the urgency of his errands.

  Worst of all was the thought that he had not allowed himself to consider until now: Dulcie would never know how much he loved her. At first he hadn’t known it himself, and then he had denied it. And later he’d stupidly believed he had all the time in the world to tell her how he felt. “Wait for me”—those were the last words she’d heard from him. He had not even offered her a fitting farewell. He forced himself to stop thinking about her, so he could try to return to her.

  As Crispin approached Wrede, he could see that the earl’s long face was expressionless. He inclined his head to acknowledge Crispin’s approach. He stood very still in his shirtsleeves. Crispin sketched a bow and removed his coat. A foppish fellow presented a case of matched dueling pistols. Wrede nodded to Crispin, who picked one. It felt right to his touch. But then, any of Wrede’s pistols would; he had a magnificent collection of them. Crispin wasn’t a bad shot, but the sword was his weapon. He stood, arms crossed, waiting for instructions.

  “Let’s get on with it,” Wrede said impassively.

  Strange, Crispin thought sadly as he took his place. It felt so odd to stand back to back with his friend, preparing to duel with him after they’d walked side by side all through their lives. And yet now he would not only walk away from his friend but maybe also from his life, and his love. He would not think of Dulcie, he told himself sternly as he stepped forward to count out his ten paces. He must think only of the moment, and not the whole bungle of his life.

  At the count of ten, he turned. He saw that he was the one with his back to the setting sun. Wrede had to squint into the light to see him, the fool. Not that it made any difference. Crispin’s finger curled on the trigger. He braced himself. There was only one thing he could do.

  “Fire!” Wrede’s second called, his voice cracking with excitement.

  And two shots rang out.

  When the smoke drifted clear, Crispin saw Wrede still standing tall. This was no surprise to him, since he’d fired his own pistol into the sky. He looked down at himself. He’d heard that men with mortal wounds sometimes felt nothing but shock at first. But his heart thundered on, and his shirt remained spotless.

  “I imagine,” Wrede commented as he strolled toward him, “that with a little better aim we might have brought down a pheasant apiece.”

  Wrede smiled as he took his pistol back from Crispin. He sighted down the barrel and weighed the weapon in his hand. Then he looked at Crispin. “Why?” he asked simply.

  “Because you were right,” Crispin said. “At least you thought you were. You believed you were doing me a favor. I never gave you any reason not to, damn my eyes. But I love her, Drum,” he said, using his friend’s old school name for the first time in years. “I really do. More than I thought possible. What I felt for Charlotte was nothing, compared to what I have with Dulcie. I realize that now. She’s everything I need. She is so innocent in everything, and she’s good to the bone, and good for me. When you destroyed my marriage to her, the hurt I felt for what she’d think unhinged me. For that I apologize. How could I have wanted to kill you for trying to be a friend? That’s why I fired into the air. But why did you fire at the rising moon? I insulted you.”

  “Ah, well, I have a thick skin. And when you hit me, I realized that I had done you no favor. You’re a temperate man, Crispin, whose rage is so much more violent because of it. I’ve never known you to be angry for no good reason. Then, too, I remembered that you always get what you want, and yet you were still very much married. I realized I’d botched it. How could I kill my friend for an injury I’d done to him? I never realized how deeply you cared for her.

  “So, are you off to render your abject apologies to your wife?” Wrede asked, as he put on his coat.

  “No. No need to. I never told her any of it.”

  “Really?” Wrede said, genuinely surprised. “What did you do? Lock her in the cellar? Drug her?”

  “Neither,” Crispin said with a reminiscent smile. “At any rate,” he said quickly, as he saw Wrede grin too, “I can’t go home just yet. Before I came here I had word that young Willie’s been clapped up in Newgate. They want to pose him in the sheriff’s picture frame. They say he stole some jewelry—enough to earn a hanging. His brother died of the same complaint at about Willie’s age. I’d like to rush home to Dulcie now, but I know I couldn’t rest easy with the boy in prison. He played Cupid for me, after all. I owe him something—a life, in fact. I’ll have a word with the warden, lighten my purse, and take the rascal home. Why don’t you come along?”

  “You think she’ll never know?” Wrede asked incredulously.

  “Oh, she will. Tonight, in fact. I’ll tell her. But a wrong that has already been righted is easy to tell, and easier to take.”

  “You’re a wise man, Crispin,” Wrede said as they walked back to
the carriage together.

  *

  “The Fleet was a pleasure garden compared to this,” Crispin said grimly as he paced the entry hall at Newgate Prison. “Poor lad. I’ll have him out, but God help Harry when I have time to sort him out!”

  “Doubtless Harry deserves your wrath for many reasons,” Wrede agreed, “but aren’t you forgetting something? Dreadful as the circumstances are, it is entirely possible that the boy stole the jewelry. It’s probable, actually. After all, although he’s young and possesses a bizarre charm, there is the little matter of his being a thief.”

  “A vice he may forgo, but not if he stays here,” Crispin muttered.

  “Well, yes, there is that,” Wrede agreed, as he began to fidget. “What’s keeping the man? He’s politically ambitious enough to know better than to keep us waiting.”

  “My lords—” a portly man in a full wig exclaimed as he puffed into the room and dropped into a low bow. “Honored to have you here this evening. Most unexpected, though. We seldom get callers this late. Still, we are at your service. How may we help you?”

  “As I told your man, we’re here about the prisoner Willie Grab,” Crispin said. “He’s a foolish boy, but no thief, as I understand has been claimed. He’s in my employ. We’ve come to see if we can secure his release. I’m sure if we discuss the matter,” Crispin said as he extracted his wallet, “we can convince you that a mistake has been made. The case need never go to trial. We’re prepared to make full restitution for the amount the boy is said to have stolen—along with adequate payment for the Crown’s trouble in the matter, of course.”

  “Oh, my dear lords,” the man said in consternation, “I should be only too happy to oblige you, but, you see, the lad is no longer with us.”

  “Released, already?” Crispin asked, grinning at Wrede.

  “Ah. No, I am sorry to say,” the man said, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his forehead, though the dank room was cool.