The Veil of Virtue

by Karen Joyce

  “Many people still believe that it’s made using a process known as three threads which involves the fusion of ale, beer and two penny, but interestingly enough, it’s now brewed from 100% malt.”

  “I suppose one might find that interesting if they had the mind to.”

  “Do you know who the most profitable market of their supply are?”

  “I assume there are many profitable markets of their supply, but Mr Davenport, I still don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

  “There are quite a number of purchasers, but taverns and pubs are the most profitable market for the porter industry. Do you know what kind of people like to frequent pubs and taverns?”

  “All kinds I’d presume.”

  “Lincoln, you’re disappointing me. You know exactly what kind of people. Why, I have it on good authority that you are not a stranger to these dwellings yourself.”

  “And, if I am, what business is that of yours?”

  “When it involves the company of unsavoury types that are caught up in this Chartist movement, then it is all my business. Lincoln, you may have fooled Lord Ashwood, but I know all about you. I make it my business to know about everyone I have the good fortune of coming into contact. I know all about your support of the Chartist’s cause, and I know that your very signature is on that petition, along with half of the population of your constituency.” Lincoln understood now the price that he would have to pay and notwithstanding his strong reservations, he knew this was the only chance he had; and nothing would stop him from taking that chance. He would do anything and everything within his power, whatever the sacrifice to emancipate Lady Delphinia from the final dance of death, but he refused to be in this man’s presence any longer. Placing his drink upon the desk he stood up from his chair.

  “If you give me your word that Lady Delphinia will be acquitted of all charges against her then I will do everything within my power to stop this petition from going through.” Mr Davenport rose from his seat and extended his hand.

  “You have my word, Lincoln,” he replied. Reluctantly, Lincoln took his hand in acceptance of their gentleman’s agreement and then without saying another word he walked out of Davenport’s office unable to get away from the suffocating smell of yeast.

  XXIII

  The horse-drawn carriage made its way through the cobblestone streets halting before the formidable, castellated, stone structure that stood on the corner of Newgate Road and Old Bailey Street just inside the City of London, amidst a cluster of architecture: St. Sepulchre’s Church, the College of Physician’s, St. Paul’s Cathedral and Christ’s Church. An institution of incarceration since the Reign of King Lincoln II, the prison had been rebuilt many times throughout its long and violent history and was now the common gaol for the municipality of London and Middlesex. Emerging from his carriage, Lincoln was intimidated by the imposing edifice that now stood before him. The sojourn for the suffering of those poor, wretched souls too numerous in number. Many whose minor transgressions did not warrant the merciless punishment by the cruel, misguided hand of justice to the festering pit within these walls. Moving toward the front entrance three hundred feet in length and fortified by the grilled lattice design of the lowered iron portcullis, Lincoln approached the gate keeper attired in a domed hat and blue uniform with a truncheon fastened to his hip.

  “Sir, I have come to visit with a prisoner.”

  “Your permit, Sir…” asked the prison guard.

  “Sir Lincoln Rinehart,” he answered, as he reached inside his coat pocket for the visitor’s permit he had obtained from the Lord Mayor of the City of London. The prison guard looked over the permit then returned it to Lincoln and raised the gate to allow Lincoln to walk through the secondary door of the postern.

  “Follow me,” said the prison guard, as he walked ahead of Lincoln and led him through the prison courtyard where he was confronted by a cartload of lifeless bodies heaped into a pile. As they went through the carriage way, a wave of nausea washed over him, causing him to lift his turned collar and partially cover his face.

  “Aye, it’s an unfortunate display, but it can’t be helped. ‘Tis the goal-distemper. What with the overcrowding of the prisoners packed as they are so tightly together like sardines in a tin,” said the gate keeper, as if he were the curator of a museum taking him on a guided tour.

  “Where are they taking them?”

  “Out to the yard of Christ Church.”

  “Will they be afforded a proper Christian burial?”

  “The allowance paid out of the city funds is insufficient to support a monument or ceremony to mark the occasion of their passing.”

  “Does the Lord Mayor not provide medical treatment?”

  “Aye, the prison has a chaplain and surgeon whom visit with the prisoners, but with poor ventilation there is the occasion for the corruption of air.”

  “And what of their dietary provisions?” he inquired, as he observed the great rustic interior of the prison walls.

  “The prisoners are well provided for with a pint of oatmeal gruel for breakfast, one pound of bread and on every other day half a pound of boiled meat or quart of vegetable soup.” Making their way through the yard, Lincoln observed the great rustic interior of the prison walls with large iron bars over the windows on each floor and arched brick vaults containing large cisterns filled with water from the New River. Upon the roof of the prison where two watchmen were patrolling the prison walls were two wooden handled bronze bells: one for the chapel service and the other of a larger size to be rung to mark the tolling of the executions. The buildings were divided into sections: stations, yards, day-rooms and wards and as they passed through the north wing, Lincoln observed three yards with sleeping and day rooms attached, occupied by scores of men, their fierce and mournful bellows telling an endless story of woe.

  “What is the fate of those men yonder?”

  “Those convicts are under sentence of transportation to New Holland.” The journey continued, taking them through London’s forgotten wasteland where men and women are fated to perish without the dignity of remembrance for their inconsequential lives; but for the very few whose memory would be carried like a shield against oblivion by those they left behind. After what seemed like an endless descent into hell, they arrived at the south wing of the prison, wholly occupied by female prisoners and consisting of two yards, sleeping-wards, day-rooms, an infirmary and prison cells. Lincoln harked to hear the whimpering moans and gut-wrenching wails of those condemned and wondered to himself what dark forgotten corner of God’s mind did they dwell. For this, he thought to himself, was what it was to be devoid of hope. The beauty of their lives reduced to the four bare stone walls that now sheltered these condemned men and women. How conflicted he was, for there were equal parts within him that wanted to turn from this hell on earth. For the thought of seeing her here, he could not bear.

  Summoning the strength of mind, Lincoln followed the guard through the entrance of the wing, as the keeper of the keys opened the door for them to enter. Lincoln held fast his sights before him, not allowing the poverty and squalor that lay within its walls to deter him from walking the path that finally led to Lady Delphinia’s cell. What he saw before him beyond those steel bars, he could never have been prepared. The interior was befouled with the stench of dirt. The floors soiled with grime and with the admission of a small, raised sky-light for the admission of air along the corridor, it was so dark that an old kerosene oil lamp was obliged to be used by the guard who stood nearby. On the floor of the cell lay rope mats six by two feet in measure for sleeping on, with filthy, worn threadbare blankets. Lincoln could smell the scent of tar that had been used to treat the mats in an attempt to prevent the lodgement of vermin. He could barely make out the dark figures cowering in the shadows of the devil’s playground. Where the age of reason had lost its voice, coloured in the paint of mourning. And then he saw her. Like a light at the end of a dark tunnel. And he wanted to fall like Romeo looking up
at his young lover standing upon the balcony from her room: But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the Sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid art far more fair than she.

  “What does my heart see before me?” she said, as she emerged from the darkness and looked upon him. The grey ashen pallor upon her face turning to white as if she had just seen a ghost. She was dressed in a plain white linen garb with a dark grey shawl wrapped around her frail shoulders. Seeing her this way, Lincoln could not speak. Could not find the words that would break through the dam he had built within his heart.

  “Now you come to me, Lincoln. When I am here in this destitute place? Why did you come? Have you come to pour salt upon my wound? Look at me and it shall be done.” How he envied those walls for the treasure they held. How he wished he could take her from this place, far from here.

  “Forgive me…” he said, again holding the words he could not say.

  “There is nothing to forgive. What is done, is done. If you have come to unburden your soul, then I give you your pardon.” My love, he wanted to say to her, I have come to save you from this hell. But he was silent, the words buried too deep.

  “You have what you have come for. Now please leave,” she said with a ferociousness and vulnerability that Lincoln had never known. In all his days this would be the one single moment that would haunt him. Seeing her there locked up within that cell, he wondered how her heart still beat within her chest, for she was but a flower bereft of the sun’s warmth, withering away. All her cells and vessels and veins and organs shed from this dungeon and displaced by her mother’s grave, upon her father’s tomb, within the garden of her youth and upon the bank of the River Thames. He understood now the pain he had caused to her and he knew he deserved whatever punishment she deemed worthy of his crime. But even if her heart now turned from him, he would not give up on her. He had to fight for her.

  “What happened on that day, I am so ashamed to speak of it…the way I spoke to you…treated you, for accusing you of such unspeakable acts. I will never forgive myself for betraying you,” he said, as he stepped closer to her.

  “We could have been so happy, you and I. I almost believed it could be true, but I was a fool to believe that you could still love me after what I have done.”

  “Fin, you must not speak this way. There was no choice for you. And this was the only way out. Anyone else would have done the same,” he said, as images of what the Duke had done to her flashed before his mind causing the anger to boil within him. “I would have gladly put my hands around his neck and strangled the life out of him should he have still been alive on this day,” he said, as he clenched his fists by his side.

  “It is my cross to bear,” she said, as her face softened by his emotion for her. And as though his words had cast a spell upon her, her eyes began to lose their focus as she was taken back into the darkness of her past and she spoke to him now as if he were a priest performing the last rites and she was making her final confession.

  “Sometimes death doesn’t happen after you die. Sometimes, just sometimes it begins when you’re young and full of life and ends while you’re still here, barely. Do you remember when you were a child and the world stretched out before you far in the distance like a long and winding road. I knew there would be sadness waiting for me at the end. I felt it keenly, as though those days were upon me, but still I believed they were far from me where they could not yet touch me and whatever they would take from me was safe for a while; but I was wrong and I was not prepared for what came to me too early in life. How a child can lose so much and still look upon the world with delight in her eye. How she can see the colours of spring and still hold on to those feelings of wonder when all that she loves and holds dear has been taken from her. Her mother…her father…my mother…my father. How they suffered while I longed for their kind words. How I dreamed of hearing their voices once again, feel the safety of their strong and loving embrace. But all there was in those days that followed was the empty silence, never again to be broken by their laughter and their tears. Death came to them like a thief in the night and stole them away from this life; from me too soon before their time. Gone forever. To hold onto hope in the face of that loss was a difficult task for me but I tried, even though I was now an orphan. So when my guardians sent me to England to be taken in by my aunt and uncle it was as if I was one of their own and I felt I was no longer alone; and to again be with my dear, sweet cousin. My very own flesh and blood. As if I had found a sister that had been long lost all of these years. You cannot imagine the joy I felt again. For not all was lost. God was not the cruel and vengeful man I had believed. There was still love for me within his heart and it would shower upon me once more.” She turned now as if from a light unseen that lit up a corner of her memory where they could still be seen and her eyes searched for another place that was dark and filled with the skeletons of her past.

  “Then one day turned into night and it was like any other night that had come before, but this one, this one was different, for it held so much more. When I look back upon that night I see myself as I was then, so tender with the spring of youth. So innocent with the silly whims and fancies of a little girl who still believes that fairy tales will come true and we will all live happily ever after; but my dreams were written in sand. What naiveté! What foolishness I believed! For that was when I discovered dreams do not come true and there is no happily ever after. And princes are not noble and brave. They are cowards. For you were my prince and I believed you would come to me on that night; that night he took me up to that cold attic and turned the key in the lock like a princess locked in a castle tower. How I prayed you would come and save me from him and take me far from there but, while he was pulling back the sheets upon me, you did not hear my cry. I pleaded with him. Please let me alone, but my words were spoken in vain. When I heard him moving in the dark how frightened I was. I felt my beating heart would tear right thought my chest and it was as though I was paralysed, for I could not move when I felt his hand upon my skin. His searing flesh upon mine, touching me, lifting my night dress. This ghoul, this monster. I was at his mercy and then I could not bear it any longer. I tried to fight him off. I struggled to halt his advances, but he was too strong, I was crushed beneath his weight while he had his way with me. He took all the sweetness of my youth and stained it with his sacrilege. I was at his mercy as he trespassed upon my soul and forced his way into me. My purity forever lost to that night.” She paused then, as she held her shawl a little tighter as if protecting herself from him all over again and then she continued. “Weeks passed and I told myself it was but a nightmare to be endured and would not allow myself to think of it once more but, I had not awoken from it, for it was just beginning and he came to me again. Until he came so many nights that I no longer fought him, knowing it would only prolong his merciless deed. Each time becoming more and more brazen until not a night would pass without the smell of him lingering upon my skin, as I laid there night after night waiting for it to end. Praying to God to make it stop, but he never heard my cries. No one did. There was no one there to help me. No great heavenly father watching over me. No sweet guardian angel or dearly departed resting their hand unseen upon my shoulder to give me the strength I couldn’t find within myself. There was no one. Only the emptiness. No one to come and grant me my freedom as I waited night after night, year after year for my aunt, my cousin, for any other to save me and take me away from that living hell. How I wondered what I had done to deserve such punishment.”

  “My God, Fin. You must know you did nothing to deserve what he did to you. You were a defenceless child. May his damned soul forever burn in hell!” How Lincoln wished he could reach inside of her and hold her pain within the palm of his hand. To nurture and comfort it. To soothe its quiet agony. But he could see there was nothing he could do to calm it. To relieve her of the internal anguish that tortured them bo
th. So, instead, he listened. Listened to the darkness and the heaviness that lived inside of her as she struggled to articulate into words the raw emotions that ate away at all the little bit of goodness that was left inside of her.

  “In those days I became a dark room, the door forever closed and Madeline, how free and beautiful she was. Her light, how I envied that light within her and longed to feel it inside of me again. Everything I had ever dreamed of shattered and lost to the wind. I don’t live anymore. Not the way I used to. Not the way you do. You might think you know every shade of man but there are as many secrets within him as there are grains of sand. I know those secrets because they are within me. If you could open me up and look inside, you would never look at another the same way ever again. I wish I could be like you. Not knowing all the dark secrets that are buried within a man. Never really seeing what’s there just below the surface. Now he is only a memory, but I can still feel him there as if it were yesterday. I wish I could remember the innocence but instead all that is left is his stain upon my virtue. I never knew there could be such endless suffering within this world and I longed for death to release me.” Lincoln felt the days of her suffering falling upon him, as she confided to him this secret that she had carried with her all these years. How alone she must have felt within the world. Now he understood how broken she had become. How his heart went out to her.

  “Fin, if I had known. All those times I went there and I never knew what he had done to you. What they, all of them had done. I was so blind to the truth. Every vile and sordid act he forced upon you against your will. How he defiled you with his inconceivable sin. How could they let him get away with what he did to you? To leave you locked up in that attic all those years. Fin, forgive me for failing you,” he said, returning to the past and imagining himself in that attic, pulling the Duke off her and carrying her out of that eternal damnation.