by Jo Goodman
Everywhere she went she was treated by the merchants with a deference she had never before experienced. No one suggested there was anything lacking in her fashion taste. If she asked for the crimson ribbon to adorn a particular bonnet, it was agreed that red was the perfect accent to her dark hair. If she refused a design because it was too heavily bordered with ruffles and lace, the modiste assured her she had made the correct decision. There was nothing to be gained by hiding the delicacy of her frame in a series of furbelows.
Ashley assumed the willingness to please her stemmed from the letter of credit she had been afforded by the duke. She did not suspect this was only partially true. She was also respected by servants and tradesmen because of the respect she gave them.
On the fourth day of her London trip she cajoled Arnie into showing her all of London. It was all arranged so quickly that Arnella did not have ample energy to insert her tiresome objections. She would never have thought her exhausted state had been planned as carefully as any campaign.
Ashley sat forward in the carriage, her face nearly pressed to the glass, eagerly viewing the part of the great city she had heard about but never seen. Arnie, encouraged to eat and drink from the food and sherry Ashley had thoughtfully provided, added some commentary as they went along the Strand and later Fleet Street, where the news supplied by the patrons of the numerous coffeehouses had given rise to London's newspaper center.
Ashley admired St. Mary-le-Bow on Cheapside, a masterpiece of architecture by the designer of St. Paul's Cathedral, London's largest church. After passing London Bridge and the crenelated faces of the Tower, Ashley was lost in her own thoughts. It seemed impossible that she would ever be able to make her way in the city on her own. It was simply too crowded and too vast for her to comprehend. There were people everywhere, moving with energetic purpose, even if it was only to beg a few pence from some wealthy merchant on his way to Lloyd's.
When she came out of her reverie Ashley was not surprised to see that Arnella's general weariness from the heavy food, the sherry, and the soporific effects of the swaying carriage, had the abigail snoring less than gently. Ashley directed the driver to take her along the river. She had a mind to see the traffic along the Thames. Long accustomed to the peculiar notions of quality, Bodnar did as he was told. He did have some second thoughts about Ashley's safety when she asked him to stop along the wharf because she wanted to walk a bit.
"It ain't right," he muttered, hopping down from his perch. He secured the horses and watched Ashley's progress along the street. Once assured that she was not going to be accosted, protected as she was by some characteristic that marked her a well-bred lady, Bodnar disappeared into a pub for a quick tip of the wrist.
When he returned, Ashley was not at the carriage, and the driver only felt a modicum of relief to see her being escorted in his direction by two men whose manner of dress indicated they were Yankee seamen. She looked absurdly small between the two men. Her head did not quite reach their shoulders, but it was clear she had said something to charm them, for they smiled generously.
"Miss Ashley, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she replied, lifting the hem of her indigo blue gown to make it easier to enter the coach. She was assisted at each elbow by a Colonial. "These gentlemen aided me and I was in no peril."
The seamen turned on Ashley's driver. "She's a complete infant and has no business being out on her own, man," the brawnier of the two said gruffly.
Ashley felt a moment's shame as her driver flushed under the Yankee's blunt words. "Pay no attention to him, Bodnar, you were doing as I instructed. He is only out of sorts because I told him he spoke the King's English with a regrettable accent."
Bodnar nodded, wondering how Miss Lynne had met these two men but too in awe of them to inquire. Their smiles, when directed at him, were decidedly threatening. With agility and alacrity Bodnar climbed onto his box and drove away, nearly unseating Ashley as she waved to the two men grinning in the wake of her lovely smile.
Ashley's smile faded as she considered the seriousness of her position. She did not want anyone to know she had been at the wharf today. She suspected she could rely on Bodnar's sense of self-preservation not to give her away. She hoped he would not risk a reprimand by blurting out the details of her afternoon tour. Arnella, sleeping ever so soundly in an odd contortion of limbs, was none the wiser, and Ashley prayed she would remain so.
Ashley slid open the panel that allowed her to talk to her driver. "Bodnar, I know it's an imposition, but I've heard so much about Newgate. Would you take me there?"
"No, miss," he said politely but firmly. "You've been slummin' enough for one day. Nothing good could come of going by the prison."
"I suppose you're right," she sighed. "Very well. Take me home. I'll see if I can't rouse Arnie for some amusement."
* * *
Salem examined the pitiful few coins in his palm. He weighed his choices carefully. Should he squander half of what he had for a clean layer of straw and perhaps another blanket, or should he use only a third on a bit of meat to go with his daily ration of bread and watery soup? He tried to make a fist around the money in his hand, but the lack of strength in his arm made him realize his coins could best be put to use to purchase some medicines to clean the festering wound near his wrist and enough water and soap to rid his body of the stench he found almost unbearable.
How the hell did anyone without money survive their experience in Newgate, he wondered, pocketing his precious coins. He decided they probably did not, which is why he had paid heavily in the beginning of his confinement for a small cell that he would have to share with no one.
Salem leaned back against the damp stone wall, plumping the moldy straw beneath him. How ironic if his bid to assist Ashley ultimately cost him his life. Salem sighed heavily, estimating it had been four hours since he had last thought of Ashley Lynne. That established a record of sorts, for even in sleep he had found it difficult to stop her from invading his thoughts. He imagined her in all manner of guises: the naked nymph in his bed; the vulnerable woman-child cowering in the corner of his room; the bride of Lord Bosworth. He groaned, not wanting to torture himself with thoughts that she may already be married. As she had often repeated, what choice did she have?
Any hopes she may have pinned on him had already disappointed her, he thought. The smuggling charge and subsequent imprisonment had dashed all his hopes for freeing Ashley of the duke's influence. He didn't trust any of the barristers he had met to free him. He needed his brother and some of the luck that had deserted him so quickly of late.
He closed his eyes, imagining the Caroline gliding through the Atlantic waters, pushed to her limits by an outraged Irishman in leg splints and an angry crew. James Shannon would be hard-pressed to keep the entire McClellan family from descending on Newgate once they heard the news. His father would take the news stoically and pace in private. His mother would accept the situation calmly for the sake of the girls and weep when she was alone. Noah would want to hear the story several times over, to make certain he understood precisely what had happened and subsequently how to act. Gareth would listen as Noah had and want to fight; there was no risk too great when family was threatened. The girls, Rahab and Leah, would demand to know why everyone was simply standing around when what they obviously needed to do was journey to London and take Newgate apart, stone by stone.
Salem absently stroked the swollen discolored area around the wound on his arm. Ashley was like neither of his sisters in personality though physically she resembled them in different ways. He could see her dark green eyes, so like his father's and Rahab's, staring at him alternately in fear, concern, trust, and sadness. He remembered her small and delicate stature, similar to Leah, braced against him, fighting him fiercely when she thought herself threatened. He had thought, even hoped, that time and circumstances would dull what he had felt so suddenly for her that night at Linfield. Instead his vision of her had crystallized into something clear, sharp,
and fine, and left him aching and longing. Thoughts of her finely formed body pressed intimately against him served not to relieve Salem's misery but rather frustrate him all the more.
And of late the memories were even worse because Salem could have sworn he heard Ashley's soft voice in the corridor beyond his cell. He did not bother to open his eyes when he heard the guard's key in the lock of the door.
"Just put it anywhere," he said wearily, supposing it was supper. He did not immediately remember that he had eaten several hours earlier.
"Get ta yer feet in th' presence of a laidy, you Yankee scum."
The guard's rough voice shattered Salem's meandering thoughts, and he opened his eyes, only to have to shield them with his forearm against the bright lantern light.
"On yer feet, man!" This order was accompanied by a less than gentle nudge to Salem's outstretched legs.
"No! Please don't hurt him." Ashley pleaded with Salem's keeper, significantly patting the burgeoning shape beneath her dark cloak and drab gown.
The guard, a family man with eight children, turned sympathetic eyes on the young woman at his side. His head shook sadly from side to side as he contemplated her gently rounded stomach. "Yer too good fer 'im, ma'am. Me wife is expectin' our ninth any day now, an' Oi couldn't live wi' meself if Oi deserted 'er. It ain't right, 'im plannin' ta leave ya behind. Jest as well, Oi say, that 'e got tagged fer smugglin'. Mayhap you'll be able ta get some 'elp fer you an' the babe." He turned on the captain, ignoring his prisoner's obvious bewilderment. "Ye best be kind to yer laidy, cap'n. Oi won't be far an' she knows to call me if she takes a disloike to yer manner. Oi believe ya should be 'anged fer tryin' ta desert this little flower, wot wi' 'er 'aving yer babe and all." He faced Ashley again. "By yer leave, ma'am. Remember, ye can't stay long. No one must know y'er 'ere this late at noight." Thoughtfully he left the lantern behind.
Ashley, who had been holding a lightly scented handkerchief to her nose, put it aside and tried not to be noticeably ill at the odors. She dropped back the hood of her black pelisse to expose more of her face and the inky cap of her hair. When she spoke it was in a husky whisper. "It is I. Miss Lynne. Do you remember me, Captain McClellan?"
Salem would have laughed at her question if she had not been so earnest. Had she honestly thought he could have forgotten her? God, she looked lovely. He wished he dared to touch the petal smoothness of her face. He rose slowly to his feet, an action made clumsy because he could not use his left arm to push himself up. He was careful to keep his distance, having noted with some agony that Ashley was keenly aware of the stench in this hovel. "Of course I remember you, Miss Lynne. What in God's name are you doing here?"
"I thought I might be able to assist you."
Salem shook his head. "Bear with me a moment. I can't credit any of this. Your presence in my cell is beyond anything I have dreamed thus far, so it must be true. Or I am near death. Which is it?"
"I assure you, I am here. Though I hadn't considered it would take so much valuable time to convince you."
"It's very late," he said, aware of the crier announcing the hour. "You shouldn't be here."
Ashley nearly wept at Salem's concern for her when he was the one so obviously in need of care. She estimated his weight had dropped nearly two stone. His soiled clothes hung loosely on him, and his skin had a jaundiced cast to it. His eyes had lost their edge of alertness, appearing more pewter than silver. His dark hair hung limply where the strands escaped the ribbon at his nape. She noticed he held his left arm at an odd angle and just managed to stifle a gasp when she glimpsed the festering wound.
"Please, captain," she said gently. "I have come to get you out."
Salem's laugh was bitter. "Now I know I am dreaming." His eyes fastened on her abdomen. "Strange, I don't recall ever thinking of you carrying my child before."
"I am not carrying your child," she protested, smoothing the folds of her dress over her rounded middle. Salem's despairing groan made her realize he suspected another man of the deed. "Captain! I am not carrying any man's child. Has prison so addled your brain that you can't understand what I'm saying?" She took a few steps toward him, her eyes sad as Salem seemed to shrink closer to the wall. Gently she took his right hand and brought it to her middle. She could not help but notice his clammy skin. "Here. Touch me here. Can you feel it? That's not a child."
Salem felt the hard bulge and could make out a foreign shape beneath the layers of gown and petticoats. He withdrew his hand quickly. "You shouldn't touch me," he cautioned her. "I'm filthy and infested."
"I expected as much. You're also in need of something for your arm. How were you injured?"
He shrugged. "It doesn't matter now. What have you got in that bundle?"
"It's a pistol. I took it from Nigel's bedchamber at his townhouse."
"A pistol. Have you lost your mind?"
"Not at all." Ashley turned her back on him and raised her skirt. She unwrapped the pistol, handed it to him over her shoulder, and refastened the rolled blanket at her waist. Satisfied no one would be able to tell the difference, she turned to find Salem examining the weapon.
"You might have injured yourself, carrying this."
"I don't see how unless I fell on it. It's not loaded."
"Miss Lynne." Salem sighed impatiently. "I hardly know what to make of this situation. You say that you are going to help me out of here, yet if an unloaded piece is your idea of assistance, I think I'd better take my chances in Newgate."
"I'm sorry, captain," she said while her voice said otherwise. "I didn't know how to prime the thing. And as far as taking your chances in jail, you have no chances here. The duke will see to it."
"The duke? I think you credit him with too much influence."
Ashley's face became set, and her eyes flashed as she lost her patience. "We can discuss this at another time," she whispered harshly. "Are you prepared to do something about getting yourself out of here? We are dangerously short of time."
Salem remained against the wall, looking at the pistol and wondering what good it could possibly do him. "Your plans. I must know how you intend to accomplish this thing."
Ashley gritted her teeth. "I have paid generously for the temporary use of a cab and horseflesh. We will drive the hack to the river, leave it some distance from where I have reserved a room for the night. You will be able to bathe and rest a few hours, but we must leave before morning. There is a ship bound for the Colonies, and I have made arrangements for passage."
Salem was quite astonished at her initiative although he had the grace not to show it. "I compliment you, Miss Lynne. You do know how to manage for yourself. However, I seem to be unclear on how it is we are to get out of the jail. Did I miss something?"
Ashley flushed and dropped her eyes. Quietly she admitted, "I rather hoped you would become inspired by the pistol and think of something. I'm sorry I could not load the thing but no one else need know. Perhaps we should simply bluff our way out?" She glanced at him hopefully.
Salem felt as if his heart was being squeezed by her childlike trust and courage. He wanted to protect her. Instead, she was offering her protection. He gave her a small smile which had the effect of making his eyes brighten. "As it happens, I have indeed become inspired. But this is all very dangerous. Why are you doing this for me?"
"Please," she begged him. "Not now. I can explain it later. The danger means nothing to me." She flinched at his hard gaze. "I don't mean that I'm not frightened. I told you I'm not very brave about dying. But this is important to me in ways you can't understand. Please. I'm helping you for both of us."
"Don't cry now," Salem said, moved by the bright sincerity in her eyes. "I can't think straight when you cry, and I know I shall live to regret I ever told you that. If I live, that is. Here, take the pistol. Aim it at me as if you mean to do me harm. I want you to be angry. Can you do that?" She nodded. "Good. Now we shall see the outcome of a moment's inspiration." He took a breath, steeling himself. "Guards! Quick! I
have need of you! Are you noodled, girl? Don't point that thing at me! Guards! This chit means to cheat the hangman! You'll pay for letting her in here if she does me harm! Put that pistol down, wench!"
Ashley was so startled by Salem's thunderous command that she nearly forgot what she was supposed to do. Her back to the commotion in the corridor and her ears deaf to the uproar in the adjoining cells, Ashley smiled bravely at Salem while she tried to steady her hands around the weapon. When she heard the cell door being opened, she made herself heard above the deep-throated voices of the surprised keykeepers.
"Stay back! I mean to make this rogue pay for what he's done to me! I'm not waiting for justice to be served." She stepped slightly to one side so they could see the pistol she held.
There was a moment of stunned silence as the guards took in the situation. Their prisoner was pressed against the mildewed stones as if he hoped to blend into his background. There was no trace of his usual cockiness. Instead he was looking extremely wary of the young woman whose grip was less than sure on her pistol.
Both guards laughed heartily at Salem's obvious fear and Ashley's fierceness. The father of eight, soon to be nine, spoke after he caught his breath. "Can't say tha' Oi blame ya, miss. 'E deserves no less than a ball through 'is chest. Wot do you say, 'arry, should we let 'er finish off the bloke?"
Harry, who had had to rub the sleep from his eyes upon entering the cell, appeared to give his friend's suggestion serious consideration. "Oi'm of two minds about it, Ned. The cap'n don't 'ave much funds left, so we ain't likely ta get richer on 'is residency. And as ya said, Ned, 'e surely deserves wot the lady intends after the way 'e treated the little flower. 'Owever," he said, raising his voice a notch as Ashley firmed her grip on the weapon. "Oi ain't in any mood ta bury the Yank and then toss the little flower in 'is cell fer murder. It wouldn't be right, it wouldn't. Not wi' 'er bloomin', an' all."