The Countess' Lucky Charm

by A. M. Westerling

  “Rags? You want me to get rags?” She resisted the urge to break out into hysterical laughter.

  “Yes. Go.” He pushed her again.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m not leaving. I won’t watch you, just get on with it.” Turning away, she drew a shuddering breath. “Do as I say, get on with it.”

  Ted grunted, already fiddling with the lock. The minutes ticked by in silence save for the scrape and scratch of the pin against iron.

  Clasping her elbows, she girded herself for the ordeal of facing Temple’s body. Don’t cry, she ordered herself. He wouldn’t want you to cry. She stared into darkening space. Dark as death.

  “Aha, I got it.”

  She turned back to see a triumphant Ted hold the padlock aloft. Without waiting, she flung herself past him, wrenching open the door and darting to the comatose body curled face down on the floor. She knelt and cradled Temple’s head. Desperate, she leaned down to hold her ear close to his mouth.

  Did a breath disturb an errant curl?

  “Temple? Temple? Can you hear me?”

  She lowered her ear again. Yes, a breath! Faint but a breath nonetheless.

  “He’s breathing,” she shouted over her shoulder, elated. “Ted, he’s breathing!” She rained kisses on Temple’s head, careful not to jostle him.

  “Splendid,” Ted patted her shoulder. “What did I tell ye? Don’t judge by the blood.”

  “We must get him out of here.”

  “Aye, we’ll do that. Seeing as how ye wouldn’t get the rags, I’ll do one better and fetch the whole cart.” He winked at her.

  “He’s alive,” she repeated, tears streaming down her face to drip onto Temple’s head. “Hurry, before anyone comes back.”

  Ted gave her a big smile. With a tip of his hat he hurried off with clattering footsteps that disappeared abruptly once he reached outside.

  In the quiet, she sat and held Temple’s head, placing a cool hand on his fevered forehead. She forced herself to look at the knife handle jutting from one shoulder. It didn’t look too bad. It looked as if most of the blood had actually seeped from a wicked gash on the back of his head.

  “Breathe,” she ordered. “You’re not going to die now, Temple. You must live. You must keep breathing.”

  She could barely see him in the dimness. Did she imagine it or did one side of his mouth twist into a smile? Nay, he must be dreaming.

  She dropped a multitude of kisses on the top of his head. “Don’t die on me, do you hear me? I should like to waltz again. ” She lifted her head. The moon had risen—a harvest moon burning its way through the sooty skies and sending slivers of light into the warehouse.

  His face was clearer now in the moonlight and her eyes roved over it greedily, devouring every detail, every hair, every pore.

  “I love you, Lord Temple Wellington, Earl of Leavenby.” She was unafraid to say the words, cocooned in the dark as she was, secure too that he could not hear her. “I love you.” She leaned down to whisper in his ear.

  In the shadowed corner, a rustle.

  The rats had followed her. Oy, now she had to keep the rats at bay. A wounded man was fair game for the disgusting creatures.

  “I shall keep them away from you,” she promised, stroking his stubbled check. “But only if you don’t die.”

  Time dragged on.

  Her skirts grew wet with blood where she sat. Temple’s blood, from the still seeping gash on his head. He needed a doctor’s attention. Where was Ted? Surely he should be back by now?

  She strained her ears but could not hear the cart’s creak. Had something happened to him?

  She slapped her hands on the floor to scare away a rat that had come too close.

  The rats grew bolder, darting over Temple’s legs and stopping just out of arm’s reach to leer at her. Her hands grew sore from slapping at them. Desperate, she looked around for a weapon of any kind to scare the creatures away but could find nothing. She pulled away from Temple and flailed at the rats with her feet.

  Still Ted did not come.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Temple drifted in and out of consciousness.

  Demons peopled his dreams, demons that bound him and beat him. Demons prodding and pinching and howling for revenge, demons laughing maniacally.

  Then an angel appeared. An angel who smoothed a cool hand over his brow. An angel who professed to love him. An angel who wanted to waltz with him. What utter nonsense, what angel would ever love him?

  And the dark. Where was he, that it was always dark? Was it actually dark or was it his mind that was dark?

  His treacherous mind teased him with thoughts of sunshine and smiles and lemon verbena yet when he opened his eyes, all he saw was blackness. Sinister, murky shadows. Dark, swirling mists.

  He couldn’t pull himself free from the black that consumed him, sucked him down, pulled at his legs and wouldn’t let him reach the light.

  He gave up and let it take him.

  * * *

  Voices? Simone cocked her head. Did she hear voices on the evening breeze? Had help finally arrived?

  “Maybe Ted has come back,” she whispered to a comatose Temple. “Forgive me for leaving you but I must see who it is.”

  She pulled out the orange Gentry Ted had given her in the Royal Swan and rolled it away. It wasn’t much for rat bait but it would have to do. Then she drew off her shawl and laid it over Temple’s face as best she could, anything to deter the rats if only for a few moments.

  Fumbling with the linen sack, she managed to extract the package to place it on the floor beside him. A weak offering and perhaps too late, but would Mortimer-Rae not be pleased at its return? And if leaving the package meant the end of her dream of an ale house, so be it—saving Temple was the only thing that mattered right now.

  Simone got to her feet and lurched through the door, taking a single step before stopping. Her heart thumped so, she was certain it would leap from her throat.

  A lantern shone through the door at the far end, outlining two figures. Could one of them be Ted? Had he found someone to help them? Nay, the one was too tall and the other too portly to be Ted.

  It wasn’t Ted. But who? Terror stabbed her. It had to be Mortimer-Rae or his henchmen.

  She ducked behind the crates and crouched, holding her breath. Blood pounded in her ears and she swallowed hard in a vain attempt to still the hammering. Willing herself not to faint, she placed her palms against the crate in front of her, concentrating on the slivered wood pricking her hands.

  The two men ambled into the deserted warehouse, lantern swinging crazily, throwing distorted shadows against the walls and ceiling.

  “We killed Wellington, what should we do with him?”

  “I say leave him, who’s going to find him here?”

  “I say throw him in the river,” argued the first. “The Thames has a way of disposing of unwanted garbage.”

  A shout from outside interrupted them.

  “What the…!” The two chimed in unison before sprinting for the door. The lantern light blinked off and then came the echo of pounding hooves.

  Simone didn’t hesitate. She got to her feet and tore the length of the warehouse.

  At the entrance, she stopped to listen.

  Silence. She poked her head out. A lantern lay tipped on the ground, glass smashed and oil puddled. The lane was empty—whoever had left, had left in a hurry.

  She sidled out and throwing caution aside sprinted down the lane toward the river to find Ted. Shadows chased her, clutched at her. Cobblestones caught her toes and she fell once, hard on her hands and knees, so hard her breath jarred in her lungs. She ignored the pain, stumbling to her feet to continue her frantic flight. Panic stricken, she turned the final corner and fled toward the shimmer of moonlight on black water.

  Chest heaving, she pulled up at the river quay. There, under the shadow of the bridge, stood the ragman’s cart. With cocked ears, she edged closer, searching the gloom until her eyes ache
d.

  Neither Ted nor the ragman were there. Only the ragman’s bony nag stood, forlornly picking at a few stalks of hay.

  She couldn’t risk shouting, couldn’t risk spending more time on what appeared to be a fruitless search. Ted had disappeared. The onus was on her—she must get help for Temple. She must go to his townhouse and enlist the aid of Joanna.

  She spun on her heel and pelted back the way she came, stopping only long enough to retrieve her cloak before making her way westward toward Mayfair. Grateful for its warmth against the chill of her sweat-stained blouse and the thickening evening air, she hurried as best she could down Cheapside Street.

  She had just reached St. James Palace when a burly hand literally yanked her off her feet. She tripped, wrenching her ankle.

  “Well, well, who do we have here?” The hand clamped down on her shoulder, squeezing with such force pain shot down her arm.

  She turned. A sickening wave of terror welled up from her belly when she saw who it was.

  Constable Carstairs. Dismayed, she shook her head. What a dreadful coincidence. Why now?

  “Mona Dougherty, I’ve been looking for you. You made me look a fool but I knew your luck would run out sooner or later.”

  “Let me go.” She tried to wrestle free from the ham-handed fist. “My husband, Lord Wellington, the Earl of Leavenby is hurt and close to death. I must save him.”

  “Sure, and you think I’m going to fall for lying words from a gallows bird? No, I’ve been waiting for you to make a mistake. Heard you were back in town. Eh, what’s this?” He turned her about to see her better in the lamplight, pushing back her cloak as he did so. “Looks like blood. Have you added murder to your list of crimes then?”

  “No, let me go or my husband will die! They’ve come back for him, let me go!”

  “Save it for the magistrate, Miss Dougherty. I don’t believe a lying word that passes your lips.”

  “No! No!” Simone wailed, struggling to pull free. It was no use. She was no match for the constable’s bulk.

  He dragged her down the street, mindless of her kicks and screams. No one paid attention to just another piece of street riff raff.

  “No,” she moaned, tears spurting down her cheeks. “I must help my husband. No.” The hubbub on the street drowned her wail.

  “Shut your mouth,” he snarled. “It’s prison for you and in prison you shall rot.”

  * * *

  Newgate Prison.

  The name struck terror into the hearts of those who might find their way there with or without the help of their own transgressions. Dark, evil, its stone walls were permeated with desolation and defeat, permeated with the stench of human waste and unwashed bodies, permeated with lost hope and lost souls.

  With each step that took Simone deeper and deeper within its bowels, her despair grew. It flooded her mind and drowned all reason.

  At length she was shoved into a narrow cell, which although barely wide enough to stand with arms outstretched, was not empty. Vacant faces stared at her in the brief flash of lantern light before the door clanged shut. She turned and clutched the iron bars in the tiny window while unknown terrors scratched at her back.

  “No!” she shouted, trying to force her face through the bars. “I am innocent, let me go!” She battered the heavy door with her feet.

  No one could hear her over the din of moans, screeches and wails. Still she battered at the door until, spent, she clung to the bars and leaned her head against her fists.

  In her mind, she lined the facts up: rightly or wrongly, she was in prison. No one knew she was here. Temple was hurt. Only Gentry Ted knew where Temple was. Gentry Ted had disappeared.

  Her stomach rebelled at the stark hopelessness of the situation and she vomited in the rotting straw at her feet.

  Someone shifted behind her and goose bumps pimpled her arms at the sound. In her initial frenzy, she had forgotten she wasn’t alone. Shivering, she pulled away from the door, wrapping her hands in her cloak to pull it tight around her before turning to face her cellmates.

  “Welcome to our hen club.” A low pitched voice sounded out of the murk. “I am Tess, and here is Bonnie and beside her is Elizabeth.”

  She could barely make out her companions in the dim light. Tess appeared to be a woman of generous proportions. It was difficult to see much of Bonnie and Elizabeth, however, for they huddled together beneath a shredded blanket. All were of an indeterminate age as if the prison air had sucked the vigour from their skin leaving a wrinkled, sagging mass in its place.

  She drew in a shuddering breath. “I am Simone Wellington. Countess of Leavenby,” she added.

  It may not be wise to tell them her name but she had nothing of value on her. Perhaps if more people knew of her identity then word would spread beyond the prison walls.

  Tess hooted. “Countess, you say? Why, we’re all countesses here, aren’t we, girls?”

  “It’s true,” Simone protested.

  “Well, Countess Leavenby, no one cares about you here. You’re just another prisoner awaiting your turn with the judge. Mind telling me what you are in for?”

  “Thievery.” Her shoulders slumped. What was the use, Tess was right. She was just another prisoner. Who would believe that she, with her blood stained skirt, unkempt hair and dirty, broken fingernails, was the Countess of Leavenby?

  She forced herself to look at Tess. “And you? You are educated, why are you here?”

  “I had a position as governess to a fine family. A lovely posting it was, until I caught the lord’s eye. The lady did not like it in the least and accused me of stealing her silver comb. Of course, the comb was found in my room.” A ribbon of bitterness twined through her words. “Who would believe me, a child’s governess over the lady of the family?”

  “So why don’t you believe me, then? I speak the truth.”

  “If I may be so rude, you hardly look the part.”

  “Well, it is true. I am the Countess of Leavenby.” She spoke boldly although inside she quaked. Temple had told her once it was all in the mannerisms. Project an aristocratic air and like as not people will believe it. “I am certain this is all a misunderstanding.”

  “That’s as may be,” Tess said with a knowing smile. “But it will be difficult to convince the magistrate. He’s not very sympathetic to the plight of the prisoners.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “I don’t really know. Long enough to know there’s no getting out of here. Unless one has money, perhaps. You may be able to send word to your count. He may be able to bribe your way out.” Her sarcastic tone lacked conviction.

  Simone’s brief surge of hope dissipated and she sagged to her knees, fingers curled into fists. Her left hand felt bare; she missed the comforting mass of Temple’s signet ring. It lay beneath the workhouse floor boards where she had hidden it before embarking on this mad venture this morning, in the same spot where she kept her medallion when not wearing it.

  “Aw, Tess, don’t scare the poor thing. She’ll find out soon enough what it’s like here.” A thin voice, scratchy with ague, joined the conversation.

  “When I want your opinion, Bonnie, I shall ask for it.” Tess turned back to Simone. “I’m not lying about the money. Having it makes life in here more bearable. We can buy better food and drink with it. Do you have anything we could barter or sell? You would share with your cell mates, wouldn’t you?”

  Simone shook her head. “I have naught.” Without thinking, she fingered the medallion hanging between her breasts.

  Tess’ sharp eyes missed nothing. “What is this?” she said, yanking at the chain. It gave way and the medallion tumbled to the floor.

  “No!” Simone swiped at it but Tess beat her to it.

  “This will buy us a day or two of comfort.” The other woman pocketed it. “Tomorrow, when the guards come, we shall see what we can get.”

  “Please no, it’s the only thing I have that ties me to my past.”

  “Don�
�t worry,” Tess cackled, “A few days in here and your past won’t matter anymore. Neither will your future.”

  Tears trickled down Simone’s cheeks. “Please. Give it to me.” It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help Tess and the others, it was the chance the medallion gave her, however slight, to be able to somehow barter it for her freedom.

  Tess ignored her and made her way to the stone bench in the far corner, flopping down on the stained mattress and turning her back.

  Anguish buried Simone in an avalanche of brutal finality. The tears flowed unabated, wetting her wretched cheeks. She was lost, confined in an underworld more cruel than anything she had ever imagined.

  Aye, Newgate had been an ever present threat but she had always been careful. Thanks to mischance, she now lived her worst nightmare.

  Nay, being in Newgate wasn’t her worst nightmare. Losing Temple was.

  Even now, Temple could be dead. She would never be able to love him, to hold him, to tease him to coax forth the boyish smile.

  Regret pierced her. Fool that she was, she had only told an unconscious Temple she loved him. Why hadn’t she told him before?

  Because she had felt unworthy of him.

  Yet he had never made her feel that way. He had always treated her with charm and consideration. Always, she had felt his equal.

  Why had she doubted him? He had rescued her from her miserable street urchin life, taught her how to be a lady, had married her, had brought her back to London society. He hadn’t been ashamed of her.

  And what had she done? Let her insecurity turn her into a shrieking harridan against his peers. Then she had fled, even though he had wanted to stay at the ball and show them all for the fools they were.

  And it was in his search for her that he had been captured and tortured. The blame lay squarely on her shoulders but she couldn’t help him now.

  She couldn’t even help herself.

  Great hacking sobs rose and she couldn’t hold them back. Her howls of misery disappeared into the din that was Newgate.