Without a Summer

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  The Solicitor General narrowed his gaze. “I was aware that he had taken commissions from His Royal Highness. That is not quite the same thing.”

  “But they met in their college days.” Jane kept her hands closed.

  “As his Royal Highness is some twenty years older than your husband, I rather doubt that.”

  Jane hesitated. It was true. They had not attended college together. The Prince Regent had come down for a fête. Perhaps she was over-stating their acquaintance. “I am certain that, if it is possible to get a message to His Royal Highness, he can vouch for our innocence. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes … yes, I can. Though I make no promises, of course.” A complaisant smirk crossed the solicitor’s lips. “Many people claim a friendship with His Royal Highness when in a similar position.”

  Jane dug her fingernails into the bug bites on the back of her hand. “I see.” She looked to the wall where the list of rules was posted, concentrating on the tack in one of the corners so that the Solicitor General was only a shadow at the edge of her vision. Jane let her breath out slowly. The charges were specious. The Prince Regent held them in high regard. So long as she was honest, it was only a matter of time before they were free. “Thank you, sir. Now, how may I help you?”

  “First, I need to know exactly what your husband said about his part in the plot.”

  “Once we realized that Lord Verbury had contrived the march to look like an revolt, Sir David and Mr. O’Brien attempted to stop it—”

  “Lady Vincent, please.” The solicitor’s voice was entirely level. “I am offering you a chance, which not many would. If you do not cooperate, then I will walk out of this room, and you will not get another.”

  “But—but I am cooperating.”

  “By inventing a conspiracy to cover up your own? I assure you, I am well aware of the differences between Lord Verbury and his son. Attacking him with your fancies will do you no good.”

  “This is a dilemma. You ask me to be honest, then reprimand me for that honesty. What am I to do?” Jane’s heart trembled. In the silence of the prison, she could hear only it and the solicitor’s breathing. She stared at the tack, counting the holes in the paper where the notice had been pulled down and replaced. Seven times, it appeared.

  “It seems we have nothing to discuss at this time, then. When you are on the witness stand, remember my offer to commute your sentence to transportation.” He shoved his papers back into his satchel.

  “And your offer to contact the Prince Regent on our behalf?”

  “Of course. I am a man of my word.” With a grunt of irritation, Sir Jeremiah swung around on his heel and strode out of the room. The door hung open behind him, showing Jane a view of the long hall and the cells bordering it.

  She stared out the door, but it was beyond her reach.

  * * *

  The breakfast that Sir Jeremiah had so ostentatiously ordered for Jane never arrived. She suspected that he had cancelled the order on his way back out. Certainly, the gaoler was not in a good humour when he returned to lock her door.

  Jane gathered her gown around her and sat down in the middle of the floor, not trusting the bed. She rested her head on her knees and tried to think. Thought came slowly. Her very mind seemed to fight her. Jane passed her time sitting on the floor, retracing her errors, pacing the room, or staring at the pocket of sky.

  It had gotten significantly lighter, and Jane had time to regret the want of breakfast, before she heard footsteps again. The gaoler opened the door with fewer smiles, though still more cheerfully than when she had last seen him. “Your father.”

  Jane scrambled to her feet as Mr. Ellsworth walked in. His face told her everything she needed to know about her state and their prospects in general. He carried a bandbox in one hand and a covered basket in the other. Tears dimming his eyes, he set both down and hurried across the room to wrap his arms around Jane. She clung to him and let herself fall apart, weeping as she had when she had been small. Her father murmured to her and patted her on the back, but Jane had no illusions that he could make anything all better.

  “Oh, Papa. I am so glad to see you.”

  He pulled back, beaming at her, but his face was wet and his chin trembled. “I am sorry I could not be here earlier. I went round to our solicitor first.” He sighed and gestured to the covered basket. “But we should eat something. That man said you had nothing to eat yet.”

  Jane shook her head.

  “Well.” He wiped his hands off and looked around at the bare cell. “Hm. A moment.” Going to the door, he pulled it open. Briefly, Jane was afraid he would leave her. He called down the hall instead, voice shockingly loud in the hush. “Sir!”

  The gaoler was back in short order. From the sound of his footsteps, he had not gone far. Jane suspected he was used to this sort of thing. In fact, he brought a small folding table and two chairs with him. He did not, however, offer them to Mr. Ellsworth until that latter worthy had presented him with a banknote.

  “Thank you, sir.” The gaoler carried the table and chairs in and set them up. “If I might suggest, sir, the young lady might be more comfortable with fresh linen and perhaps some candles.”

  Mr. Ellsworth’s face turned red and a vein stood out on his forehead. Jane realized that she had never seen her father truly angry before. He pulled his pocketbook back out of his coat and removed two fresh banknotes. “I trust that I shall not hear of my daughter wanting for anything while she remains here.”

  “Oh, no, sir.” The gaoler was unshaken. “I think you and I understand each other well enough now. I can always just send a bill around if that would be easier.”

  “Thank you.” Her father’s teeth clacked against each other as he bit the words off. “Now. If you will excuse us.”

  “Of course, sir. Of course.” The gaoler bowed his way out, folding the money and putting it into his pocket.

  Mr. Ellsworth shuddered as the man left. “Major Curry warned me that this would be the case. I was still not prepared.”

  “He came to see you?”

  “Yes. This morning” Mr. Ellsworth pulled out a chair for Jane and held it until she was seated. Even such a commonplace courtesy made her eyes water. “He is why you have this cell instead of being in the general stews. He made arrangements for Vincent as well. I tried to restore his funds this morning, but he would not allow it.”

  “He is a good man.”

  Mr. Ellsworth set the basket on the table and pulled out a meat pie and a small wheel of cheese. “I recall you speaking fondly of him. Your mother is convinced he is the worst man in the world, in spite of my efforts to explain.”

  Jane’s mouth watered as her father set an orange on the table. “I can well imagine.”

  “She sends her love.” He put out a pair of tin plates. “These were Melody’s idea, by the way. I can leave them with you so you have something to eat on.”

  Jane pulled the plate closer. “By which I take it that the visit to the solicitor did not go well.”

  Mr. Ellsworth paused before setting a knife and fork on her plate. “No. I am afraid it did not.”

  “Ah. Well, the morning seems full of unhappy visits with solicitors. The Solicitor General came this morning to interview me.”

  “Dare I ask how that went?”

  “He wanted me to testify against Vincent. He offered to make my charges go away. I told him no.”

  Her father spun, aghast. “Call him back.”

  “How could you?” It was not possible that her father could even contemplate such a thing. “No.”

  “Jane—” His voice shook and he clenched his hands into fists at his side. “I do not think you understand. The punishment for treason is—”

  “I know. But—during the war, when Vincent was a prisoner … no. I could not live if I were … No.” She turned in the chair to face him, her chain rattling against the chair leg. Her father looked down, wincing. “Besides, the Prince Regent thinks highly of us. Once he he
ars that we are imprisoned, he will let us out.”

  Her father looked at the floor and covered his face. He drew in a deep breath and then dropped his hands. Something like a smile was on his face. “Well, then. Let us enjoy our meal, and we shall talk about this all later.”

  He drew up a chair next to Jane’s and cut a piece of pie for her. During the rest of his visit, he told her stories of Long Parkmead, and how their neighbours were, and other gossip from London. He would say nothing about the charges, or Mr. O’Brien, or her situation at all.

  When his visit came to an end, he reached into the basket and brought out a piece of paper and a pencil. “I thought you might want to write a letter to Vincent. I shall see him next.”

  Jane pulled the paper toward her, but could think of nothing to fill it with. Where could she even begin? There was so much to say that any words she imagined failed.

  Her father stood at the window again, looking out.

  “Can you see anything?”

  “Hm? Yes, the river is just visible.”

  She ran her finger over the page, imagining Vincent’s face beneath her fingers. Taking up the pencil, she began to write.

  My dearest Vincent,

  My room has a view of the river …

  Twenty-three

  Volcanoes and Weather

  Every morning, Jane expected to hear that the Prince Regent had called for their release. Her father reported that Vincent had written to him, and yet they heard nothing. She tried very hard not to become vexed, but the continued silence—oh, the silence. It broke only when she had a visitor, and then Jane found herself inclined to chatter as if she could prevent the silence from returning.

  Jane and her father fell into something of a routine over the next several days. True to his purchased word, the gaoler brought Jane clean sheets, a washbasin, and even a rough chest to put her few possessions in. Her father brought Jane’s work-basket from home, with letters from her mother and Melody. He refused, however to let either of them accompany him to see her.

  By that, Jane guessed that they had a rosier picture of her environs than was the case, and that he did not want to undeceive them. Melody sent her several novels, including St. Irvyne, by A Gentleman of the University of Oxford; The Sleeping Partner, by Mrs. Robins; and a translation of the German novel Undine, by Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué. She also sent along newspapers with interesting articles circled, though Jane noticed that others were cut out, and that the papers had no mention of the coldmongers. She asked them to stop cutting the articles out to no avail. Instead, Jane learned about the riot in Italy over Rossini’s opera The Barber of Seville, that the latest colour for day dresses was mulberry, and more about the Tambora volcano explosion of the previous year in the East Indies. Next to that article, Melody had written, “Mr. Benjamin Franklin proposes in Poor Richard’s Almanack, which I read at Beatts’s, that volcanoes can cause unnaturally cool weather.”

  Jane chuckled at that. Quietly.

  The unnatural stillness of the prison weighed on her. It was broken only once, when a prisoner somewhere started screaming. The shrieks echoed off the walls and through the window. Jane pressed her hands to her ears, but nothing could keep out the raw terror.

  She thought, Thank God it was a woman and immediately hated herself for having so little compassion. But as long as it was not a man, it was not Vincent.

  Footsteps ran through the halls, keys jangling, as the gaoler and guards attended to whatever had caused the screaming. Jane rocked back and forth in her chair, waiting for it to end. The sound was first muted, as if someone had pressed a hand against the woman’s mouth, then slowly subsided into racking sobs. When the quiet returned, it was welcome.

  Jane put her head on the small table, hiding her face with her arms. Why had the Prince Regent not answered? Had she mistaken his regard as well? He always seemed so amiable and approachable, so pleased with their work, and had showed them such attention that it was difficult to believe that he would let them languish like this. What had he been told about their involvement in the revolt? The keys rattled in the lock. Jane sat up, wiping her eyes and thinking, Please, God, let it be someone from the Prince. Her surprise could not be described when Lady Stratton entered her cell. She carried a work-basket and had a cape over one arm.

  For a moment, Jane could only stare, before remembering herself, scrambling to her feet, and dropping a curtsy.

  When she straightened, Lady Stratton returned the courtesy, addressing her with calm civility. Looking about the room, she said, “I am glad that your family is taking care of you. I only heard yesterday that you were here as well.” She stepped farther into the room and set the basket on the table. “I thought you might want for some necessaries.”

  Jane’s eyes burned at her unexpected generosity of spirit. “Your ladyship is most kind.”

  “I have volunteered in the school here and was familiar with the conditions.”

  “There is a school?”

  “Indeed. May I?” Jane nodded and Lady Stratton pulled out a chair and sat. She knit her hands together in front of her. “I was able to get some of the coldmongers enrolled in it, so they have at least some relief while here.”

  Jane sank back into the chair across from her. “How is … how is Mr. O’Brien?”

  “He is more distressed for them than for himself.” Lady Stratton sighed and rubbed her temple with one finger. “I—I must confess that I am here for not entirely disinterested reasons.”

  Somehow, that confession relieved a measure of Jane’s guilt at Lady Stratton’s generous condescension in calling. It made the visit more understandable, and made Jane feel as though she might have some purpose. “Will you tell me how I can help? I will do anything I can for Mr. O’Brien.”

  Lady Stratton’s gaze lifted, eyes astonishingly blue. She relaxed and reached her hand for Jane. “Thank you, my dear.” She took a shuddering breath, clearly more undone by recent events than she wished to admit. “Our attorney would like to speak with you. He is hoping that you and Sir David can testify that Alastar did not have any intention of overthrowing the government. We are trying to convince his oculist to convey the conversation we had in his shop as a disinterested witness, but he is reluctant to be associated with my son at this point.”

  “Of course.” This was testimony that Jane would provide willingly.

  The rest of the call they talked over what Lady Stratton knew. She shared with Jane the details that her own family had kept from her. Mr. O’Brien was being painted as the leader of a plot to overthrow the Crown in cooperation with the coldmongers. The newspapers had named it “The Coldmongers’ Revolt” and sketched all those involved in the darkest possible light.

  Though Jane was dismayed at what she heard, simply knowing gave her a purpose. Lady Stratton ended her call with a promise to send Mr. Leighton, their attorney, to discuss the options for the defence. Talking to him was the least that Jane could do.

  * * *

  The sixth day she was imprisoned, Jane turned the pages of one of Melody’s novels in a pretence of reading as she awaited her gaoler. Today was Mr. O’Brien’s trial, and his attorney had requested Jane’s presence as a witness. She would not go on trial yet—each of the accused were to be tried separately—but she still looked forward to it as an opportunity to leave the prison, even for a short time. She had awakened early and dressed with care, but did not know how much time she would have until they came to take her to the Old Bailey for the trial. So she sat with her book, trying to lose herself in Mrs. Robins’s adventures of an agent of inquiry. Jane idly wondered if her sister had chosen The Sleeping Partner in order to give her hope that someone would prove her innocent.

  Then she heard the gaoler’s footsteps proceeding steadily toward her cell. She lifted her head from the page, counting the number of people with him. Four, she thought, just before they arrived at her door.

  With a rattle, the gaoler unlocked the door and opened it. He was scowling. “Pack your
things.”

  “What?”

  “Did I give you leave to speak?”

  Jane shook her head and stood. She had thought they were taking her to the trial, but they must be moving her to another cell. But why? Did someone pay more for this one? Jane had few possessions. Her second dress was already in the bandbox. She shoved the books on top of it and the plates atop that. She hesitated at the bed linens. Her first inclination was to leave them to be burned or given to someone else, but not knowing what her new environs would be, Jane removed the bedclothes and folded everything into a neat parcel.

  The soldiers stood and watched as she did so. No one offered her any help.

  Jane swallowed, wanting to ask if she should wear her pelisse or if she were just being moved within the building. Finally deciding that it would be harder to carry, she put it on along with her bonnet, then picked up the bandbox and the parcel of sheets to indicate her readiness to go.

  “All right, then.” The gaoler stepped back and bowed her out the door. “Off you go, your ladyship. I’ve washed my hands of you.”

  Barely able to support herself, Jane walked back through the silent halls, accompanied by four soldiers in red and the quiet stares of the women in other cells. She was led all the way to the front, then through the gate into the yard.

  A dark carriage sat in the yard with the livery covered.

  Jane halted, struck by fear. She was outside—surely she was allowed to speak? “Is that Lord Verbury’s carriage?”

  The soldier closest to her frowned. “I am not at liberty to say, madam.”

  “I cannot go. No.” Jane shook her head. She would have gone back into the prison to avoid that fate, had not a soldier at the rear stopped her.

  “You will not be harmed.”

  “Then you do not know him.” Short of throwing herself on the ground and screaming, there was nothing she could do, and even that would not keep her from ultimately being put into the carriage. Clutching the bandbox and the sheets, Jane let the soldiers lead her.