by Jane Feather
Juliana shrugged. "I don't see that that makes any difference."
"Well, if ye don't, then us'll thankee kindly fer yer assistance," Tina stated. "That so, ladies?"
"Aye." There was a chorus of hesitant agreement, and Juliana was about to expand on her plan when the piercing squeal of a whistle drowned her words. There was a crash, a bellow, shrieks, more whistles from the room beyond. The young bloods were calling in their high-pitched excitement, furniture crashed to the floor, the sound of blows.
"Oh, dear God, it's a riot," Emma said, her face as white as a sheet. "It's the beadles."
The women were surging to the back of the room, looking for another door. Someone flung up the casement sash and they hurled themselves at the opening. Juliana just stood there in astonishment, wondering what the panic was all about. The disturbance was all in the room next door. If they stayed quiet, no one would come in. They'd done nothing. They were doing nothing to disturb the peace.
Suddenly a voice bellowed from the open window, "No ye don't, woman. Y'are not gettin' away from me. All right, my pretties, settle down now. Mr. Justice Fielding is awaitin' on ye."
Deborah gave a low moan of despair. Juliana stared at the glowering face of the beadle in the window, his rod of office raised threateningly. Behind him, two others were wrestling with one of the women who'd managed to get through the window. Then the door flew open. She had a glimpse of the room behind, the scene of chaos, the mass of grinning or scowling faces lost in a frenzied orgy of destruction. Then she saw Mistress Mitchell standing with another woman in a print gown and mob cap. They were both talking to a constable as his fellows surged into the room where the women were now huddling, swinging their batons to left and right, grabbing the women, herding them toward the door.
Juliana was caught up with the rest. She lashed out with a fist and a foot and had the satisfaction of feeling them meet their mark, but it did her little good. She was hustled out, pushed and shoved by the officious and none too gentle constables. And as she looked over her shoulder, Mistress Mitchell smiled with cold triumph.
They had been betrayed, and it was clear by whom. The whoremasters of Covent Garden wouldn't see their nymphs escape the yoke without a fight.
Chapter 24
The duke's coachman was sitting on an ale bench outside a tavern under the colonnades of the Piazza, pleasantly awaiting the return of his passenger. He could see the carriage and the urchin who held the horses, but he could see little else beyond the sea of bodies eddying around the square. He heard the ruckus from Cocksedge's as just another exploding bubble in the general cacophonous stew and called for another tankard of ale.
"Beadles is raidin' some 'ouse," a shabby bawd observed from the bench beside him. "Daresay some of them varmints from up town are causin' trouble. Breakin' 'eads no doubt, drunk as lords… a'course, most of'em is lords." She cackled and drained her tankard. "Not that that Sir John'U do much more 'an turn a blind eye to their goings-on. It's the women who'll suffer, as usual."
She stared into her empty tankard for a minute, then gathered herself to her feet with a sigh. "That ale does go through a body summat chronic." She staggered into the road, raising an imperative hand to a flyter, who stood with his pail and telltale voluminous cloak a few yards away. He trotted over to her, and she gave him a penny. The flyter set his bucket on the cobbles and then spread his cloak as a screen for the woman, who disappeared into its folds to relieve herself in relative privacy.
John Coachman paid scant interest to a sight that could be seen on every street corner in the city. He eyed his carriage in case the disturbance should show signs of coming this way. There were the sounds of running feet, more yelling and cursing, mostly female. With a grunt he hauled himself to his feet and clambered onto the box of the coach to see over the heads to the turmoil across the square.
He could make out little, except a group of constables herding a crowd of women toward Bow Street, presumably to bring them before Sir John Fielding, the local magistrate. Around the beadles and their prisoners surged a crowd of raging women, throwing rotten fruit at the constables, cursing them with fluent vigor. The constables ducked the missiles, ignored the curses, and moved their prisoners along with the encouragement of their rods. The young men from Cocksedge's roared and swayed in a drunken circle before suddenly affected by a common impulse; like lemmings, they turned in a body and reentered Cocksedge's. The sound of breaking glass and smashing furniture was added to the general tumult, Mother Cocksedge's vituperations and desperate pleas rising above it all.
John Coachman began to feel a little uneasy. Where in all this chaos was Lady Edgecombe? Presumably he should have accompanied her on her errand, but she hadn't really given him the opportunity to offer. A little shiver of apprehension ran down his spine at the thought of the duke's possible reaction to this dereliction of duty.
He stood on his box and gazed intently over the throng. The party of women and beadles was reaching the corner of Russell Street. He caught a glimpse of a flaming red head in the midst, and his heart jumped. Then he sat down again with a thump. Lady Edgecombe couldn't possibly be in the company of a group of arrested whores. Presumably she was waiting for the tumult to die down before she came back to the carriage. He couldn't leave the horses to go and look for her, even if he knew where in this inferno she had gone. If she came back to find him not there, they would be worse off than they already were. He yawned, sleepy from the ale he'd been imbibing freely, and settled down on the box, arms folded, to await Lady Edgecombe's return.
Juliana was continuing to struggle and protest as she was borne out of Covent Garden toward Bow Street. She could see only Lilly and Rosamund of the Russell Street girls and hoped that the others had escaped. The beadles couldn't possibly arrest the entire roomful of women, and it seemed to her that they were somewhat selective in the ones they harried along the street. She noticed that several women at the outskirts of the group were permitted to duck away from their captors and disappear into the dark mouths of alleys as they passed. But there was no possibility of such a move for herself. She had a beadle all to herself, gripping her elbow as he half pulled her along.
Rosamund was weeping; Lilly, on the other hand, cursed at her captors with all the vigor of a Billingsgate fishwife. Her face was tight and set, but Juliana didn't think she was going to break down. "Where are they taking us?" she asked.
"Fielding's," Lilly said shortly through compressed lips. "And then Bridewell, I expect."
Juliana gulped. "Bridewell? But what for?"
"It's a house of correction for debauched females," Lilly told her with the same curtness. "Surely you're not so naive you don't know that."
"Yes, of course I know it. But we weren't doing anything." Juliana tried to keep her temper, knowing that Lilly's impatience was fueled by apprehension.
"We were in the middle of a riot. That's all it takes."
Juliana chewed her lip. "Mistress Mitchell was there, together with some grimy-looking creature I assume was Mother Cocksedge."
"I saw her."
"D'you think she put the beadles on to us?"
"Of course." Lilly turned to look at Juliana and her fear was now clear in her eyes. "We tried to tell you that it's impossible to escape the rule of the bawds," she said bleakly. "I was a fool to be carried away by your eloquence, Juliana. There was a moment this evening when I thought it might happen. We would buy our own necessities, look after each other in illness or ill luck, thumb our noses at the bastards." She shook her head in angry impatience. "Fools… we were all fools."
Juliana said no more. Nothing she could say at this moment would improve the situation, and she needed to concentrate on her own plight. She couldn't admit her identity to the magistrates-neither of her identities. She had to keep the Courtney name out of her own disgrace. The duke, for all his deviousness, didn't deserve to have his cousin's wife publicly hauled off to Bridewell.
Hauled off? Or carted? Her blood ran cold, and a cl
ammy sweat broke out on her hands and forehead. Would they drive them to Bridewell at the cart's tail? Was she about to be whipped through the streets of London?
A wave of nausea rose in her throat. She knew it was part of the customary punishment for bawds. But they weren't bawds. They were the slaves of bawds. Surely that would be a lesser offense in the stern eyes of Sir John Fielding.
They reached a tall house on Bow Street, and one of the constables banged on the door with his staff. A sleepy footman answered it. "We've harlots to be brought before Sir John," the constable announced with solemnity. "Creating a fracas… debauching… soliciting… inciting to riot."
The footman looked over his head to the surrounded women. He grinned lasciviously as he noted their disordered dress. Even the well-dressed women had suffered in the arrest and now tried to hold together torn bodices and ripped sleeves. "I'll waken Sir John," he said, stepping back to open the door fully. "If ye takes 'em into the front parlor where Sir John does 'is business, I'll fetch 'im fer ye."
The constables herded their little flock into the house and into a large paneled room on the left of the hall. It was sparsely furnished, with a massive table and a large chair behind it, rather giving the impression of a throne. The women were pushed into a semicircle around the table while another yawning footman lit the candles and oil lamps, throwing a gloomy light over the bare room.
Then silence fell, as deep as a crypt-not so much as the rustle of a skirt, the scrape of a foot on the bare floor. It was as if the women were afraid to speak or to move, afraid that it might worsen their condition. The beadles kept quiet, as if awed by their surroundings. Only Juliana looked around, taking in details of the molding on the ceiling, the embossed paneling, the waxed oak floorboards. She was as scared as the rest of them, but it didn't show on her countenance as she tried to think of a way out of this dismal situation.
After an eternal fifteen minutes the double doors opened and a voice intoned, "Pray stand for 'Is Honor, Sir John Fielding."
As if they had any choice, Juliana thought with a brave attempt at humor, unable to ignore the shiver that ran through her companions.
Sir John Fielding, in a loose brocade chamber robe over his britches and shirt, his hastily donned wig slightly askew, took his seat behind the table. He surveyed the women with a steady, reproving stare.
"Charges?"
"Disorderly be'avior, Sir John," the head beadle spoke ponderously. "Inciting to riot… debauchery… damage to property."
"Who brings the charges?"
"Mother Cocksedge and Mistress Mitchell, Yer 'Onor."
"Are they here?"
"Awaitin' yer summons, sir." The beadle tapped his staff on the floor and twitched his nose with an air of great self-importance.
"Then summon them."
Juliana turned her head toward the door. The two women bustled in. Mistress Mitchell looked like a respectable housewife in her print dress and mob cap; Mother Cocksedge had thrown her apron over her head and appeared much affected by something, her shoulders heaving, great sobs emerging from beneath the apron.
"Cease yer blubbin', woman, an' tell 'Is Lordship yer complaint," instructed one of the constables.
"Oh, I'm ruint, Yer 'Onor, quite ruint," came from beneath the apron. "It's all thanks to those evil girls… them what encouraged the young gennelmen to break up my 'ouse. Flaunted theirselves at 'em, got 'em all excited like, then wouldn't deliver. An' them three…" With a dramatic gesture Mother Cocksedge flung aside her apron and pointed at Juliana, Lilly, and Rosamund. "Them three, what ought to know better, they was encouragin' the others, poor souls what don't 'ave 'alf the advantages, to use my establishment fer himmoral purposes."
Juliana gasped. "Why, you old-"
"Silence!" The justice glared at Juliana. "Open your mouth once more, woman, and you'll be carted from St. Paul's Church to Drury Lane and back again."
Juliana shut her mouth, seething as she was forced to listen to the two women spin their tales. Mistress Mitchell was all hurt feelings and good nature taken advantage of as she explained that she'd allowed some girls to use her best parlor for a birthday party, but instead they'd been preparing to create a riot at Mother Cocksedge's oh-so-respectable chocolate house. They had a grievance against Mother Cocksedge and intended to be avenged upon her by causing her house to be wrecked by a group of angry young bloods.
They were evil, fallen women with no morals, set on their wicked ways, put in Mother Cocksedge, once more retreating beneath her apron. "But me an' Mistress Mitchell, 'ere, Yer 'Onor, we don't think as 'ow they should all be punished as much as them what lead 'em into evil. Them three from Russell Street."
Mistress Mitchell bristled and agreed with a dignified nod.
Sir John Fielding regarded the two complainants with an expression of distaste. He was as aware as anyone of the true nature of their trade. But they were not on this occasion brought before him, and their complaint was legitimate enough. His head swung slowly around the semicircle of defendants, and his gaze rested on the three chief malefactors.
Lilly and Rosamund immediately dropped their eyes, but the bold-eyed redhead met his accusatory glare head-on, her green eyes throwing a challenge at him.
'"Name?" he demanded.
"Juliana Beresford." She spoke clearly and offered neither curtsy nor salutation.
Lilly and Rosamund, on the other hand, both curtsied low and murmured their names when asked, with an "If it please Your Honor."
"Do you have anything to say to these charges?" He gestured to Juliana.
"Only that they're barefaced lies." she replied calmly.
"You were not gathered in this woman's chocolate house?" The justice's eyebrows rose in a bushy white arc.
"Yes, we were, but-"
"You weren't gathered behind a closed door?" he interrupted.
"Yes, but-"
He thumped his fist on the table, silencing her again. "That's all I wish to know. It is against the law for people to gather together for the purposes of incitement to violence and riot. I sentence you and your two companions to three months in the Tothill Bridewell. Those whom you have corrupted are free on payment of a five-shilling fine."
With that he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, yawning prodigiously. "I sat overlate last even, and then to be dragged from my bed in the small hours to deal with a trio of hotheaded troublemaking harlots is more than a man can abide," he remarked loudly to a somber-suited man who had stood behind him throughout the trial and who now accompanied him from the room.
"Ye'll be showin' a little more respect to yer betters after three months beatin' 'emp,'' Mother Cocksedge declared, coming up to the three young women with a leer in her little pink eyes. "I doubt Mistress Dennison and 'er man’ll be ready to take ye back afterward. We don't like troublemakers in the Garden, and don't ye ferget it, missie." She jabbed a finger at Juliana's chest. Juliana would have retaliated if she hadn't been held so tightly by a constable. The urge to spit in the woman's face was almost overpowering, but somehow she resisted it and looked away from the hateful, triumphant grin.
"Rosamund cannot survive Bridewell," Lilly whispered to Juliana. "I can, and you can. But Rosamund is fragile. She'll not last on her feet for more than a week."
"She won't have to," Juliana declared with a confidence she didn't feel. They were binding her hands in front of her with coarse rope, and with each twist and knot she was secured in the chains of powerlessness.
Lilly gave her a scornful look as if to say "Face reality" and endured her own bonds with tight lips. Rosamund continued to weep softly as she was similarly bound. The other women had been hustled from the room and could be heard across the hall, declaring penitence and gratitude as the two bawds paid their fines. They'd just been given a lesson on which side their bread was buttered, and it would be a rainy day in hell before they would contemplate standing up for themselves again.
"Come along, then, me pretties." A beadle grinned at them and chuck
ed Rosamund beneath the chin. "Ye'll spoil them lovely eyes with yer tears, missie. Save 'em for the Bridewell, I should." A hearty laugh greeted this sally, and Juliana, Lilly, and Rosamund were half pushed, half dragged out of the house to an open cart waiting outside.
Juliana waited in sick dread for them to fasten her bound hands to a rope behind the cart and pull her bodice to her waist. But they were shoved upward into the cart, and her relief was so great that for the first time since this ordeal had begun, she thought she might faint. She put an arm around Rosamund and took Lilly's hand in a fierce grip as they stood in the benchless vehicle, swaying and lurching over the cobbles.
Dawn was breaking, and the city streets were filling with costermongers, night-soil collectors, barrow boys, servants of all kinds hurrying to the market. The nighttime din had died down in Covent Garden, replaced with the coarse cries of the market people, the rattle of wheels and the clop of horses. As the cart bearing the three bound women was drawn through the streets, people jeered and threw clods of mud and pieces of rotten fruit; small boys ran along beside the cart, chanting obscene songs.
Juliana thought of being burned at the stake. She imagined being tied to the stake in front of a jeering crowd. She thought of the noose around her neck, mercifully squeezing consciousness from her body before they lit the faggots. She lived that nightmare and thus defeated the ghastly reality of the humiliating journey.
******************************************************************
John Coachman had fallen asleep on the driver's box. He'd intended to nod off for a minute or two, but when he awoke, it was almost full light. He leaped from the carriage with an oath, still thick with sleep but his heart pounding with fear. Abandoning his horses, he plunged across the Garden, dodging the market folk as they put up their stalls. He'd seen Lady Edgecombe disappear in this direction, but where had she gone then? He stood wildly looking around as if he would see her sitting at her ease under the Piazza. But he knew that something was very wrong. And he'd slept through it. The duke would have his hide and throw him without a character into the street to starve.