The Veil of Virtue

by Karen Joyce

  “Hat’s off!” cried the people in the crowds to those in front whom were obscuring their view, as soldiers wearing scarlet coatees and tall, cylindrical shako military caps with gold badges of a rayed star, holding spike bayonets, guarded the gallows and maintained order within the crowds. The three prisoners were displayed before the disorderly and boisterous crowds, as the executioner assembled them onto the drop where metal brackets and chains hung from a grey, timber beam, from which hung three ropes each tied at the end into a noose.

  “Murderers! Sinners! Heretics!” chorused the spectators, their words and faces like flies buzzing around the prisoners in a relentless cacophony of fading, blurry images and incoherent, discordant echoing sounds. A large bell upon the roof of the prison began to toll, heralding the senseless act that would soon be done. To the men, women and children whom stood in the crowds, the prisoners looked like dead men walking, but what they didn’t see were the memories racing through their minds as their lives began to flash before their eyes. They didn’t see what was in their hearts. They didn’t feel the pain that was searing their flesh. They could never understand, as they did, that whatever was in their hearts, in their minds, it was all the same in the end. It all hurt the same way. Each name no longer a face; each moment no longer a memory. In the end they were only left with the pain of loss that can only be felt by those whose life will forever remain untouched by the hands of tomorrow. Their lives would soon turn to dust. Their dreams never to live outside of them; eternally within: to never be borne. One of the male prisoners, a man of middle age with an average physical build and brown hair had until this moment been unable to understand what was happening, what would soon happen. Still believing that there had been a mistake and his pardon would soon come. Surely, it would come. And now he was running out of time. His heart was beating so loud within his chest that it was all he could hear. And the people in the crowds, he kept straining his eyes and his ears struggling to make sense of what it was they were all so keenly focused upon. What excitement caused them to bellow and roar like wild animals at a zoo. He was losing his hold on reality but he could no longer confront what it would reveal if he continued to watch it unfold. Kew gardens are not a great deal from here. Perhaps, if you are of a willing mind, you may care to join me for a stroll. Of course, he remembered now, she was such a fine, sweet, young woman. He had been quite smitten with the elegance of her ways; this woman whom had spied him from across the lane and had hurried over to his side to take refuge under his umbrella from the rain that had begun to fall. He had been feeling a little foolhardy that day and taken a chance that he never would have taken had they not met. Why, Sir, how forward you are, yet I do believe there would be no harm in accepting an offer from such a fine gentleman as yourself, spoke a lighter, more feminine voice within his mind. It was quite unseemly for a lady to take the arm of a man to whom she had not met before. Even stranger for her to accompany him on an outing without her chaperone but what was strangest of all was that though she entered the gardens, she never came out of them again. Except for the men and women whom had seen her strolling arm in arm with a young gentleman, no one had seen her since. When the police came knocking upon his door, he tried to explain that when he had left her that day at the Garden’s she had been full of life and vitality and free from the molestations of the rain. She had informed him she would be returning home immediately, lest her elderly parents and younger siblings become concerned for her wellbeing. Resounding laughter, snickering voices and arms with pointed fingers singled him out from the others. He had begun frantically mumbling the many conversations that were running through his mind; mimicking their voices, yet, no one could make heads or tails of his rambling. The other male prisoner, a young man of twenty odd years with fair, blonde hair and large, wide-eyed charcoal-grey eyes had begun panicking and calling for the people in the crowd to come to his aid.

  “HELP ME!” he screamed with unbridled fear, not able to understand why they just stood there and did nothing. “I AM INNOCENT!” he cried in desperation, as the executioner began to put a noose around his neck. “I DON’T WANT TO DIE!” he shrieked, as a white hood was lowered over his head and his knees buckled under the weight of what was happening. A fair, young woman in the crowd began to scream in terror as she fell to the ground in a distorted mass of black crepe. It had been said in the days that followed that she had come to say goodbye to her young lover for the final time. The third prisoner, a young woman with dark hair, stood placid and never spoke in the face of this horror, as a noose was brought around her neck but, the tears falling from her eyes told the story of a woman who was deathly afraid of what was to come. To the others they saw it as evidence of her guilt, believing they were tears of penance but only heaven knew that those tears were spent for the wasted days of her life that she had not yet known; and for all that had been promised within them.

  “There’s no more to hanging then a wry neck and a wet pair of breeches,” yelled an old man in the crowd who had no patience for the formalities that were now being adopted by the prisons and longed for the simple days where a man would be turned off a ladder or tripped out of a cart and hung from a tree. The executioner finished tying the nooses around the prisoner’s necks and lowered the hoods over their heads.

  “All good people, pray heartily unto God for these poor sinners who are going to their death for whom this great bell doth toll. You that are condemned to die, repent with lamentable tears; ask mercy of the Lord for the salvation of your souls through the merits, death and passion of Jesus Christ, who now sits at the right hand of God, to make intercession for as many of you as penitently return unto him. Lord have mercy upon you. Christ have mercy upon you,” said the reverend, Mr Jones, as he made the sign of the cross and descended the stairs of the gallows. After the final prayers, the Under Sheriff gave the signal. An unnerving silence fell upon the crowds as the executioner moved a lever, which was connected to a drawbar under the drop traps, and they fell with a loud crash. In an instant, the audience held their breath as the prisoners fell 3ft into the wooden box structures hidden from view; but not all went quietly and swiftly into the night. One of the hanging bodies could be heard, as they violently kicked their legs and fought for breath. It was often the case that the neck would not break cleanly, for it was not enough to simply have the condemned fall from a certain height but the rope must also be tied into a loose running knot, to allow the noose to snap tight with enough force that it will fracture the spine. Upon hearing one of the prisoners showing signs of life as they struggled to free themselves from the rope, the executioner looked down into the drop and saw that the female prisoner’s hood had lifted and could see her blackened and congested face as she slowly choked to death. Descending into the drop box he reached up and took hold of her legs, frantically kicking and writhing like a wild animal caught in a trap.

  “Aye, M’Lady, settle yerself. Take it easy now. Keep yerself still. ‘Tis just a small bump in the road. It won’t be long now. That’s a girl,” he said, as he pulled her body down. Though she was struggling to breathe, her desperate pleas were just barely audible within the cries of her suffering.

  “No….please….God…help…me….God…” The executioner gave one last tug on her legs until, at long last, he heard the snapping of her neck and the surrender of her final spasms, as she took her final bow and was born into death. Their lives were no more: to laugh, to cry, to feel the rain upon their skin, the wind gently brush against their cheek. No more would their lips call the name of that other whom dwelled within their hearts. No more would they see the light fall upon the earth as night turned into day, for their lives had been extinguished and the eternal darkness at long last settled upon them.

  And so, to the victor goes the spoils. But who was the victor? Was it justice? Was it this great British Empire? Or was it the people? No. It was none of them. It was death. After the sentences had been executed, the black flag was raised over the prison and the lifeless bodies wer
e left hanging from their ropes for an hour before being taken down and prepared for the formal inquest, which was to take place that afternoon where they would then be buried in shallow, unmarked graves within the prison walls, as if their existence within this world had never been.

  Lincoln walked away from the macabre spectacle; from the terrifying cries of the merciless crowds intoxicated by the scent of death lingering within the air. The birds sounded the same. The people in the streets, they looked the same. The sound of his footsteps as they struck the pavement, all of it: the same, but, it wasn’t the same. It would never be the same again. And as he climbed into his carriage he remarked upon how none of them were free from death. In one way or another all of us are condemned. Condemned to navigate our way through the wicked web that is weaved by the misdeeds of others. Condemned to expire once we are marched through life by the relentless passage of time. As the carriage rode away, the haunting melody of children playing in the streets echoed the senselessness that lay in the aftermath of their deaths.

  “Oranges and lemons. Say the bells of St. Clements. You own me five farthings. Say the bells of St. Martin’s. When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey. When I grow rich. Say the bells of Shireditch. When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney. I do not know. Says the great bell of Bow.” The children began running faster and faster to make it through the arches before the final words were chanted.

  “Here comes a candle to light you to bed,” they sang in hushed tones, as the last pair of shrieking children ran under the arch and raised arms and quickening voices came down upon their screaming necks. “And here comes a chopper to chop off your head. Chip chop, chip chop, the last man’s dead!”

  E P I L O G U E

  As the days turned into weeks, the seasons passed until that measure of time found those whom had been left breathless by the mourning touch of eternal rest many months hence; their seeds still yet to be watered by the hope of life that will go on; that will be lived. To somehow find a way to acquiesce in the crucifixion of what will never be resurrected and revive those vestiges of their heart so they may wander down a new path, leaving behind those broken promises that lay unwritten within the forgotten pages of memory. For no matter the form in which they come, endings are indeed the most difficult task to put asunder, but surrender they must; supinely they shall yield. For providence has spoken, ordained not by the divine power of God, but instead guided by the cold hand of death hastening to disrobe that proverbial veil, as their loved ones slipped through the weakened grasp of living flesh, shielded from that iridescent dawn. And so, here they had come, gathered together within the parlour of the Rinehart Estate. Those kindred to whom Lincoln had always been a part; those whom had reared him from infancy and those others whom he shared that other tie that is formed through blood and marriage. Lincoln felt as one does when standing outside in the cold looking in upon those whom are sheltered within, listening as they discussed those events that had passed since the Duke of Montague’s death.

  “Duchess Montague and the Willoughby’s must be overcome with grief,” said Lady Winchester, as she wound her handkerchief tightly around her hands.

  “Alas, my dear sister, the Willoughby’s are devastated beyond measure and no one has seen nor heard from Duchess Montague for many a day but, I do believe at least for her, there has been some light breaking through the dark, heavy clouds in her sky,” replied Lincoln’s mother, as she poured another cup of tea to calm her sister’s poor nerves.

  “Of course,” said Lady Winchester, “Lady Madeline’s union with Mr Percival Fox must have softened these unfortunate events somewhat and perhaps, God willing, in time, a new addition to the family will lift her spirits again.” At the mention of Lady Madeline, Lincoln’s mother looked over at her son lest it had caused any vexation.

  “An old acquaintance has written news that he had the good fortune of spying them whilst they were on the final length of their honeymoon,” added Sir Winchester.

  “Pray tell,” asked Lincoln’s young cousin, Marguerite whom was enchanted by the young lover’s elopement.

  “Now dear, I am sure Lincoln does not care for such details and I wouldn’t want us to cause him any discomfort when we have waited much too long for him to return from attending to his affairs in Gravesend,” said his mother proudly. Upon hearing his name, Lincoln looked over to his uncle with reassurance.

  “Uncle, you must not allow my presence to disturb your conversation. Please, do go on,” he said. Encouraged by Lincoln’s prompting, Sir Winchester rose from his seat and walked to the carafes tray to pour a glass of sherry.

  “Well, it seems my good friend, Sir Brokenshire was travelling through the French Riviera to treat his poor, sickly sister who has been diagnosed with consumption and has sought out the warm winter climate known for its healing qualities, when he happened to chance upon the young newlyweds. On any account, he informed me that they were as you can imagine, quite full of gaiety and merriment, as only two people who are in love can be.”

  “Of course, it came as such a surprise,” said Lady Winchester.

  “But, mother, surely you can see now they are a match made in heaven”, said Marguerite wistfully. “Why, looking back it is little wonder their match did not come to pass much sooner,” she added, pondering the thought with the seriousness of one whom is faithful to love at first sight, as a pastor is to God.

  “Well, we only have our meddling to blame,” added Lincoln’s mother, as she smiled at her son apologetically.

  “I hear he is a fine gentleman in all respects,” said Sir Winchester.

  “Yes, Duchess Montague is quite pleased with her new son-in-law,” added Lincoln’s mother.

  “Why, I believe I made his acquaintance in London at Lady Delphinia’s debutante ball. Is he not a dear friend of yours?” Sir Winchester asked Lincoln.

  “Why, yes,” interrupted Lincoln’s mother, “Lincoln and Percival have been dear friends since their college days at Oxford. I only wish their happy ending had not been foreshadowed by the scandalous death of the Duke.”

  “Imagine that his death was caused by the hand of another,” exclaimed Lady Winchester.

  “Such treachery!” exclaimed Sir Winchester. “Why, it has the makings of a gothic novel with its twists and turns and ghoulish revelations.”

  “For once, you are quite right, brother-in-law. It is of an unimaginable horror indeed. One that it is hard to imagine can lend itself to anything other than the literary pages of fiction” agreed Lincoln’s mother.

  “I hear tell it was the maid that led them to the discovery,” said Lady Winchester.

  “Yes, you are quite right,” said Lincoln’s mother. “The Duke was under her care when he suddenly became ill and though it took her some time to come forward she finally revealed the truth of whom was the guilty party.”

  “I cannot begin to imagine what would have been the outcome had this not been brought to light,” whispered Lady Winchester, as she took Marguerites hand in her own for strength.

  “We have the gift of modern science to be grateful for and we should never underestimate the functions of such a superior discipline,” said Lady Rinehart.

  Quietly excusing himself from the room, Lincoln stepped out onto the cream latticed porch and leant against the balustrade, lest their words should cause the memory of that day of those unspeakable executions to re-emerge from within his mind.

  Looking out into the garden he could feel something begin to stir within his breast. Hearken to the footsteps of yesterday, it was calling to him. Hearken to that time when the whims of childhood’s fancy is fresh and alive. And as if no time had passed at all he is taken back. Back to another time where the shadowy presence of laughter echoes through time and he sees them, Madeline and Fin running through the evergreens when they had been so vibrantly young and full of life. He sees himself as he had once been and he is chasing them; always chasing them, as they weave in and out through the bowing willows and sweet, che
rry blossoms. Their laughter resounding again and again through the air. Lincoln, catch us, he hears Madeline call, as her phantom image disappears behind the broad trunk of an Evergreen; and another ghostly spectre dashing carefree like the wind with long, waving wisps of auburn hues and the deepest shades of chestnut brown trailing behind. He is reaching out to hold on to her but just as he feels her within his grasp, she slips from him, again and again. And so it was always the way with them; the three of them. Always running fast to catch them, as they beckoned sweetly with their song, Lincoln…Lincoln…Lincoln… Always chasing after them; after her but never reaching her in time; always slipping from his grasp: wishing he could hold on to her; wishing she would stay. For she had always been that person to whom his heart had called before he had ever known her name. Hers was the face that he had always seen within his mind’s eye. Each delicate curve and line as if it were his own long before he had ever laid his eyes upon her. She was that other to whom we are destined; who hears our thoughts without uttering a single word. Even before they had met he knew of her existence in the longing he had felt in the absence of her. And when they had finally met he had found that part of himself that had been lost without her.

  “Poor, dear Felicity, she must have been beside herself,” Lincoln overheard his mother’s concerned voice from within the parlour.

  “Indeed it has been a difficult turn for my sweet, darling daughter,” replied Lady Winchester, “but I have received news only yesterday that she is finding immense enjoyment in her studies abroad in Florence and with some divine intervention,” she added, winking to her husband, “she has made the acquaintance of the son of our good friend, Sir Beaumont, whom she is quite taken with.”

  “It has been a small blessing indeed and by Jove what an exceptional young man,” said Sir Winchester, who had been singing the young man’s praises ever since he had learnt of his daughter’s growing infatuation. “He has been taking his first sabbatical as a lecturer of Anthropology from the University of Cambridge. To be sure, his will be a promising future and I do believe if things continue to progress in a positive fashion, he shall prove to be the force of practicality that will keep Felicity’s feet firmly planted upon the earth.”