by Rue Allyn
Two days later, a terrified Aggie scuttled into her cell.
“Oh, ma’am it’s jes’ awful. They can’t let you stay. My gawd, the noise and the smell … an’ them rats … ” She burst into loud sobs.
Electra looked at the little maid, unable to find a word of consolation. “Just give me what you’ve brought, Aggie, and take yourself away from this dreadful place.”
Aggie sniffed loudly, handed Electra the bag she held and waited, her eyes consciously averted from the bucket in the corner.
“Aggie?” ventured Electra.
“Ma’am?”
“You spend some time with Lord Rann’s groom do you not?”
Aggie swallowed, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Has he spoken about Lord Rann having taken up with another young lady? A Miss Hemingway?”
Aggie’s face drained of color and she bit her bottom lip. Electra had her answer even before the maid spoke.
“He don’t deserve you ma’am, he never did. That little strumpet threw herself at him, so Danny says and … ”
Electra’s stomach clenched as the punch dealt her by Edward’s actions connected. Catching her breath, she held up her hand, “It’s all right, Aggie, let’s say no more about it. And thank you for your help.”
“I’ll come again if you want, ma’am, I will.” The maid swiped a hand across her eyes and sniffed.
“I know you will Aggie. Just go quickly now.” She fought back her own tears as she watched the only contact with her old life disappear down the passageway.
• • •
The trial of a person of consequence always drew a good crowd. As the last day of May was uncommonly warm, there was an even greater number of people at this court hearing than normal. And the trial of the niece of the new Viscount Gascombe would be well worth the outing — or so the woman with the wheezing lungs, who brought her meals, informed her. Electra had yet to hear a word from Edward and wondered briefly if he would be in attendance.
She shuffled into the courtroom behind the seven other accused felons, her gown loose on her desperately thin frame. Her hair was roughly pinned and covered with a cap. She hung her head in shame that anyone would see her in such disarray.
Beside her a middle-aged woman accused of her husband’s murder hissed violent curses through her toothless gums. Electra ignored her, eyes riveted on the judge as he swept into the room. Her hands were ice cold and when she tried to swallow, her throat refused to cooperate. Every nerve in her body tingled — with hope, but mostly with fear.
When justice had been dispensed to her fellow prisoners, the clerk turned to Electra and after she acknowledged her name he asked, “You are charged with the felony of theft through embezzlement. How do you plead?”
Her lip quivered with the indignity of the question. “Not guilty, Your Honour.”
“How will you be tried?”
She straightened and looked at the judge. “By God and by my country.”
The prosecution presented its case and her uncle stood to give evidence.
“My niece has betrayed the family name and the trust of myself and her dear departed father, my brother.” Electra froze as the words of poison seeped from his lips. “She has embezzled large amounts of money over a long period of time from the family business.” He looked at the jury and shrugged his shoulders. “I can only believe that her father knew of this deceit and protected her.” Electra leapt forward to protest this slur on her father’s name but was pushed back and hushed by Mr. Liddell. She swallowed convulsively to keep the anger and tears at bay.
When her uncle’s paid witnesses added their evidence to his, every juror nodded in sympathy. A chill moved through her body and her eyes darted desperately to her lawyer.
Mr. Liddell stood and, armed only with the scant information she had given him, attempted to make a believable case. Even in her distraught state, Electra did not miss the pursed lips and cynical eyes of the jurors as Liddell spoke. Her body trembled and her lungs refused to draw breath as she finally understood that the truth would not save her. As the foreman stood to present the verdict, a soundless scream of denial echoed through her body.
“Your Honour, we find the prisoner guilty as charged.”
The judge looked up through hooded eyes, banged his gavel and said, “The prisoner is sentenced to seven years transportation to Parts Beyond the Seas. Next.”
The blood rushed to Electra’s head in a deafening roar and her legs collapsed beneath her.
Chapter One
Six months later.
“Orders for one Electra Shipley to see the captain.”
Electra swallowed the relentless nausea and turned her head toward Lieutenant Clarke. No recognition showed in his hard eyes as he scanned the hostile faces of the women gathered in the hold. His nostrils flared and a shiver of revulsion disturbed his stony features.
“What’s wrong darlin’? The smell not to your likin’?” snorted one of the women.
He scowled but did not respond as his head swivelled from side to side.
There was nowhere to hide but still she shrank back into her rank, sweat-soaked bedding. On a prison ship, invisibility was always preferable to the alternative.
“Ouch!” yelped Electra, as a sharp fingernail jabbed into her side.
“Here she is sir, take her with yer an’ give us all a rest from her moanin’.” Another vicious jab shoved her toward him. She slapped listlessly at her assailant and was kicked for her trouble.
With a deep breath to calm both her heaving stomach and her fear, she hauled herself up. She stumbled, clutched the doorframe for support, and stepped out of the women’s hold.
The ship lurched and Electra again gripped the walls to keep her balance as she struggled to follow the lieutenant. Why had she been ordered to the captain? It was no use asking the lieutenant; he would need to consider her a human being to respond and this was clearly not the case. Her usually active mind had been taught not to question or argue over the past months. Electra’s compliant submission was testimony to a lesson well learnt.
Dizzy from seasickness and lack of food, she tried to match the lieutenant’s pace. They navigated the dark warren below decks, climbed the ladder, and stepped out onto the quarterdeck. At the risk of a beating, she stopped, closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath of fresh, salty air. This small act of defiance served to ignite a remnant of her former pride as she was prodded toward a polished oak door. She straightened her shoulders, raked her nails through her mass of greasy, matted curls, and brushed at her grimy skirt. The lieutenant rapped on the door, turned the brass handle, and stepped back to announce her presence to the captain.
Ashamed to have a gentleman see her in such a state, she lowered her head and waited.
Before he acknowledged her, the captain removed a clean handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and gave his nose a vigorous blow. He bundled it back into his pocket and spoke.
“Miss Shipley, my log states you are able to read and write and have an interest in mathematics. Is this correct?”
As she lifted her head, the captain stepped back in apparent surprise. She was well used to the effects of her unusual eyes and watched dispassionately as the captain attempted to check his reaction.
“Your information is correct, sir.”
The captain shuffled a stack of papers, regained his composure, and turned to the lieutenant.
“Please see Miss Shipley washed and … ,” he gestured to her gown, “er — re-clothed before returning her to my cabin.”
“Clothes from … sir?”
“Use your head, man. From the clothes the women have sewn for the shops,” snapped the captain.
Electra looked down at her filthy, ragged skirt, bemused at the captain’s discomfort. She had forgotten the feel of water on her skin and wore the only clothes that had survived the last six months. Heat stole up her neck at how she must look, and worse, how she must smell.
She had once lost her way when seeking a
haberdasher in the London area. Somehow, she had found herself in the maze of St. Giles. With scented handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses wrinkled in distaste, she and her companion had turned away from the smell of the poor and unwashed that inhabited the narrow hovels. A hoarse request for coin to buy food had been dismissed with the flick of a fan. She flinched with shame at how quick she had once been to judge.
The lieutenant turned to leave and she almost tripped in her haste to follow. He sent the cabin boy to fetch the clothes and then led her to the back of the galley. His mouth turned down with displeasure as he held out a bucket of seawater, a rag, and a stained, shaggy scrubbing brush. She snatched the brush from his fingers, desperate to begin.
Electra’s body glowed red from the furious scrubbing. How long had it been since she washed? She stopped to savour the moment; the tingle of clean skin, the fresh smell of water on her body, and the illusion of being alone. A runnel of water trickled from the rag she held to her face and she watched it slide down her body. It undulated over her full breasts and prominent ribs to her flat stomach; picked up speed down her long, slim legs, and swirled through a gap in the floor.
She rung out her wet ringlets and pulled a battered brush through the newly washed curls. Perhaps her luck was changing. After all, here she was with a new role, clean clothes … she blew out her cheeks in a loud sigh. Did she truly believe that by scrubbing the dirt from her body, she might scrub away the filth and despair of the past few months? As she pulled the rough brown smock over her head, reality settled over her with the garment. There was no escaping the facts. She was still a convicted felon. And at the mercy of the captain. Did he think to make her his mistress? Was that why he had summoned her?
A sob threatened to escape from her throat at the memory of a young, innocent girl who had sat and dreamed on wet afternoons: of love with a strong, handsome stranger; of two beautiful children and an opulent mansion where they would be forever happy.
She snorted. A silly, childish dream and one that had no place in the world she now inhabited. She swallowed her bitterness and called the lieutenant to escort her back.
• • •
Captain Hawley regarded Electra’s improved state. He was only a few inches taller than she and seemed conscious of his stature, as he shifted from one foot to the other. There seemed to be something that still bothered him as his eyes flickered down her body. She watched him flip the pages of his well-thumbed ledger, but his attention returned to her face, her hair, and then, predictably, to her breasts.
She returned his gaze, irritated by his barely concealed desires. Years of enduring stares and innuendo from males of all ages had left her inured to such behaviour. Besides, the captain, courteous as he was, did not ignite her firmly tamped emotions. He moved his head and she was surprised at traces of softness in his profile. In his youth, he would have been handsome, even dapper, but years of salt and wind had taken their toll.
Opinions on the ship differed with regards to the captain, but whatever they may say about him, she knew his orders were obeyed without question. However, despite the ease with which he commanded his ship, the captain seemed uneasy in her company. As to why, she could not fathom.
“Humph, right then, Miss Shipley. I am aware of your conviction for embezzlement. However, my situation forces me to put aside my concerns in the hope you might also deal honestly with books of account.”
She bit back a caustic response. Her old tutor had been right, she thought. He said a woman should not involve herself with mathematics; it was unseemly and would only lead to trouble. But she had always been a woman who had a mind of her own and found once she had experienced the beauty and symmetry of mathematics, she could not leave it alone. She bristled anew at the old accusation.
“Honesty is all I know, captain.”
The captain seemed disconcerted by her response, and she saw his eyes soften as he continued to regard her. He tapped his fingers on the scratched teak desk, and then moved toward her, seemed to reconsider, and stepped back again. She could see undefined emotions in his eyes and in the slight tic on the right side of his face. He seemed ready to speak. She waited.
Instead, he offered her a chair, sent for tea and bread with jam, and explained his predicament.
“My purser took ill days before we set sail leaving me no time to seek a replacement. I find I cannot effectively undertake his duties as well as my own, and require someone with the skills to record purchases and supplies used in the ledger.”
“You have only to instruct me and I will follow your lead, captain.” She exhaled silently with relief. It seemed she was not to be forced to submit to the captain’s approaches after all.
He frowned at her forthright manner but her stubborn pride would not allow her to play the cowering convict.
Without leave from the captain, she drew a chair over to the desk and sat beside him. His eyes looked straight ahead but she did not miss the twitch of his lips at her actions.
The books were stained with years of handling, and many entries were illegible from smudged ink and spilt liquids. Even making sense of the previous entries would test her capabilities. He presented a bundle of receipts and explained how he wanted the entries made.
Once the captain was satisfied with her skills, he pushed out his chair and stood. “I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?”
She looked up, surprised again at being trusted with the task and treated with such courtesy. “Yes, I can manage, thank you.”
The ledger lay open before her but her eyes were drawn to the small round window where foaming mist spattered against its cloudy surface. The ship was under full sail. Propelled by brisk winds, it rose and plummeted into the heaving sea as it carried her closer to the penal colony. What did the future hold? Would she survive to see England again? She sighed, her defeated imagination unable to project beyond her seven-year sentence. A sentence based on lies and bribery. But survival was all that mattered now. And despite her uncle’s betrayal, she was determined to survive. Seven years imprisonment would not break her, she vowed. Seven years …
She had told the captain she would manage. Was that the truth? She drew in another deep breath of the fresh, salty air. Her father had raised her to be brave, resilient and determined. But he could never have imagined the horrors she had been forced to endure. Four months in the cold, dispiriting malignance that was Newgate Prison, two months moored on the Thames in the fetid hold of the good ship Liberty — a wry grin moved her lips at the irony of the ship’s name — and now six weeks at sea.
She shuddered and lifted her pen to begin, but another thought interrupted its path toward the ledger. If she were honest, her removal from England and society did have some small benefits. There was no longer the need to entertain the band of witless suitors who had jostled and pestered her for attention. No necessity for her to sip tea and make mindless chitchat with other women. No need to ever see Edward again.
A tear slid down her face and dropped onto her skirt at the memory of his despicable behaviour. To think she actually believed he loved her. Blast him! Blast them all! I will get through this and clear my name without them. She straightened, brushed a hand across her wet cheek, then turned to the ledger to begin her task. She would survive.
• • •
Soon after dawn each morning, Electra rose from her bug-infested bed. It took all her self-control not to scratch frantically at the festering bites on her arms and legs as she dressed and splashed water on her face. The smell in the women’s hold was as thick as the sewers of London, and she watched the door like a cat at a mouse hole, waiting for the lieutenant to fetch her. Such was her relief at escaping the confines of the hold and the cruelty of the other women, even the jibes of the foul-mouthed crewmen above decks were preferable.
At first, she believed if she ignored the women they would lose interest but she underestimated their hostility. They hated her difference and determined she would suffer for it. Lizzie Cranston was their ri
ngleader.
Electra gathered snatches of Lizzie’s story from gossip and whispered warnings. It was not much, but it was enough to make her fear the woman. Lizzie’s husband had been hanged four years past for murder and thievery. It was said Lizzie took over where he left off and trained their three sons to work in the family business. Her two youngest sons ended up in Newgate and Lizzie carried an inveterate hatred for those who put her boys away. Electra’s breeding made her the perfect brunt and the others were only too happy to back Lizzie up. The taunts and abuse began the minute they roused themselves from sleep each morning.
“Ooh, was that your cup I spat in, duchess? I’m jes’ too clumsy for me own good,” cackled Lizzie, as she thrust her hip into Electra and jammed her against a wooden beam.
“Goodness, I think as ’ow I’ve splashed what’s in the privy onto yer bed, duchess,” hissed Hetty Bender, as she passed by.
If Electra tried to move across the room, a foot would jut out to trip her as she passed. Or an elbow would happen to jab into her ribs by accident. By the time she escaped to the upper decks, she was bruised, humiliated, and angry.
She recalled the first time they called her “duchess.” The turnkey was delivering Electra and four other women from Newgate to the Liberty. She had not climbed from the small boat quickly enough so he had shoved her over the ship’s railing and sent her sprawling onto the deck. She picked herself up, lifted her chin, and admonished him for his rough handling. At least the beating was swift. The women’s exclusion and brutality that followed continued throughout the journey. Her present status as the captain’s assistant only confirmed the women’s jealousies and prejudices.
The hostility escalated until one evening young Mary Buckley blocked her path to the deck. She grasped Electra’s arm and hissed through clenched teeth, “Yer got the golden eyes of a witch an’ we got ter pertect ourselves from yer.”