by Julie Daines
He didn’t give Mr. Shadwell a chance to answer. He took Marianne by the arm and led her down the corridor.
Mr. Shadwell started after them, but the jailer stopped him. “Sorry, sir. Can’t have all three of you back here. It’s against regulations.”
Mr. Shadwell swore. “I have every right to accompany them. You can’t stop me—”
The jailer swung the door shut, cutting him off. The lock clicked, and that was the end of Mr. Shadwell’s protests.
The corridor was dark and wide. If the antechamber smelled bad, this place must be the devil’s chamber pot. She’d never set foot in a jail or prison of any sort before now. A row of cells lined either side of the passageway, each crowded with people.
“Who are they all?” Marianne whispered. Some looked absolutely pitiful while others sneered at her with wolfish lips.
“Thieves, debtors, blasphemers.”
“I’ll show you blasphemy,” called a ragged man, his beard laden with filth. He stumbled toward the bars, opening his mouth to speak.
Mr. Northam turned on him. “Not in front of the lady, unless you want a hangman’s noose to warm your neck.”
The man’s mouth snapped shut, and he backed away to the depths of the cell.
Marianne edged closer to Mr. Northam until she was pressed up against his side. It seemed the only safe place in the building.
Mr. Northam pointed to the next cell. “He’s in there. Are you ready?”
She closed her eyes. His face came to her, as it always did, bidden or not. If she looked on him again, she would never be able to wipe it from her mind. He would always be a part of her, lurking in the dark corners of her mind, waiting for the perfect moment to rise up and kill her.
Such a mistake to agree to this. She should have stayed hidden in her little room in Shrewsbury.
The answer to Mr. Northam’s question was no, she would never be ready. But she would do what she’d come here to do. For her family.
She smoothed the front of her dress and straightened her bonnet as if being properly attired would somehow imbue her with needed strength. “I am ready,” she whispered to Mr. Northam.
He offered his arm again and took her the few steps forward until she could see the feet of a man sitting on a three-legged stool.
She gripped Mr. Northam’s arm like it was a lifeboat saving her from a hungry sea. When she raised her eyes to the man behind the bars, she knew instantly.
It was him.
Her knees faltered, and Mr. Northam’s hand wound swiftly around her waist.
The man’s yellow eyes fell on her. She remembered that look, and the pure evil that raised gooseflesh on her arms. Hair blacker than coal. Skin the color of spoiled cream.
He stood and walked forward, almost as tall and broad as Mr. Northam, but not quite. “Well, well. What a pretty thing you brought me. Better than the maggoty bread, ta be sure.”
His teeth were small in his mouth, leaving gaps between each where the rot leaked through.
“Is it him?” asked Mr. Northam.
She lifted the handkerchief from her mouth. “It is,” she said, turning away so she couldn’t see him, but all she met was the broad chest of Mr. Northam.
“Are you sure? We must be sure.”
“It is him.”
“Yes,” said Hayter. “You’d better look again just ta be sure. It’s easy ta mistake a face in these dark rooms.”
She turned to look again.
Hayter was grinning at her. He didn’t say it, but he knew her. He recognized her. She could see it in his eyes that glowed like a flickering candle flame as he watched her.
“It’s him.”
“All right, then.” Mr. Northam steered her away.
“Thanks for the visit,” he said. “I hope we meet again sometime. I never forget a pretty face.”
She looked back at his unshaven face pressing between the bars. He made a swiping gesture across his throat. “I’ll see you in Hell.”
Mr. Northam whacked his umbrella against the bars, and Hayter dove out of the way.
He did remember her. Those were the exact words he had spoken to her two and a half years ago—right after he’d threatened to slit her throat should she mention his deeds to anyone.
Her hand went immediately to the scar on her shoulder she kept hidden with a lacy chemisette. He had indeed almost ended her life that night. But the vicar happened upon them and Hayter fled—after leaving her the warning.
“You all right, miss?” asked the jailer.
Marianne shook the memories from her head, bringing herself back to the jail. Mr. Northam had both of his arms around her, and she was leaning into him. Had she fainted? No, she didn’t think so.
She straightened herself, righting the bonnet that had been pushed askew by Mr. Northam’s shoulder. “I’m fine. I just need some air.”
“We all do,” said Mr. Northam, urging the jailer to open the locked door.
Mr. Shadwell was waiting for them, pacing the small antechamber. “Well?” he asked as Mr. Northam pushed past him.
“Thank you for your time, sir,” Mr. Northam said to the jailer. He pushed open the front door, and a burst of air rushed in. He opened his umbrella. The instant she stepped out under it, he swung the door closed.
He smiled at her. “I knew you were brave.”
Then they were up into his carriage and away. She leaned back, looking out through the drops of rain on the window as they crossed the River Avon and at the shops as they drove through the streets of Bath. Most were closed now, the crowds of people gone home to prepare for the evening’s entertainments.
Bartholomew Hayter. It was still strange that the man had a name. He’d always been him for so long—the man with the yellow eyes.
“Miss Wood?” Mr. Northam said. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not good company.” She could not pull her mind away from the horror of those eyes. They would haunt her forever; she may as well resign herself to that.
“I’m not worried about company,” said Mr. Northam. “I’m worried about you. I thought you were going to faint for a moment back there. That man is despicable. He deserves the noose.”
If anyone could put him there, it would be Mr. Northam. From what she’d seen of him in these few short hours, he was not a man to be denied.
“Do you always get what you want?” she asked.
He seemed surprised by her question. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t want that man, Mr. Shadwell, to come with us, and the jailer shut him out.” This was only one example.
“A crown goes a long way in a place like that.”
“You bribed him?” No wonder the jailer had been so accommodating. “Isn’t that wrong?”
He shrugged. “I don’t always get what I want, to be sure. But I do know how to play the game.”
“The game?” Murder was hardly a game.
“The game of life,” he said with a grin. “Know who you’re dealing with and what they desire. Then, yes, you can get what you want.”
She turned back to the window. It was all clear now. His kindly manner, his steady arms. He had managed the whole thing very well. Summoning her to testify. Coaxing her out of the coach. Encouraging her until she mustered the courage to enter the jail. He’d gotten her to do exactly what he wanted. So much for the friendly stranger.
“Well, I’m glad I could play along,” she said, swiveling her whole body away from him. She would take care with this man to keep her guard up. She would do her part to see Hayter hanged, but she would do it for her family. For all the people he had hurt. And to keep him from ever hurting anyone again.
“Miss Wood?”
“I’m very tired, Mr. Northam. Could you please take me to my rooms?” She spoke to the carriage window.
He let out a huff, then said, “Of course.”
The carriage turned a few more times before pulling up in front of a row of modest town houses, all in the light
honey stone that marked Bath. The footman opened the door, and Marianne climbed out without a word to Mr. Northam.
The front door of the town house opened, and a woman motioned to her. “Come in, come in. It’s pouring hogs and dogs out here.” She must be Mrs. Strumpshaw.
Marianne hurried across the paving stones and ducked inside the house before the rain could completely soak her through. The footman unloaded her small trunk and placed it inside the front door.
Mr. Northam stood on the doorstep, holding his umbrella about two minutes too late.
Marianne gave a quick curtsy. “Good evening, Mr. Northam.”
He bowed to her with a look of uncertainty—something he’d not yet pulled from his wardrobe of masks. He changed his personage to fit whatever part needed playing much faster than she would be able to change out of her traveling clothes.
Mrs. Strumpshaw waited for Mr. Northam to enter, but he only teetered on the threshold. In the end, he turned and climbed back into the carriage. Marianne closed the door before it pulled away.
Chapter Three
Bedfellows
“Mrs. Strumpshaw?” Marianne asked as she tugged on the sleeves of her pelisse, pulling it off.
“Yes, miss.” Mrs. Strumpshaw dipped her head, taking the pelisse.
“I’m Marianne Wood.” Her bonnet came off next.
Mrs. Strumpshaw reached for it. “Yes, dear.” She gave Marianne a warm smile. “I’ve been told. Now, you must be famished for some tea and supper. I’ve got it all laid out in the dining room for you. This way.”
She followed Mrs. Strumpshaw into a room with a small table better sized for card playing than dining. An elegant lace cloth draped over it, set with lovely china for two.
Mrs. Strumpshaw hustled away.
Marianne leaned back, taking in a deep breath—the kind that filled her lungs near to bursting. She let it all out, hoping it would blow her back to her little room in Shrewsbury. Then she’d wake up the next morning with the simple task of teaching Mrs. Lasham’s daughters their geometry.
Though she had to admit, these rooms Mr. Northam had arranged for her were perfect. Much better than an inn, with coaches constantly coming and going and rowdy drinkers at the bar until all hours of the night. This street was off the main roads, and the quiet solitude eased the tightness in her head.
Blue songbirds perched in linear patterns on the wallpaper. They matched the birds on the dishes almost perfectly, the only difference being the birds on the plates were caged. She glanced back and forth between the two. Which was she?
The caged bird, no doubt. She had not been free for some time. Before Bartholomew Hayter had murdered her family, she’d been the daughter of a gentleman. Hayter had taken away her freedom and left her penniless. Not only that, but she’d had his threat hanging over her head like an anvil. She’d lived the past two years in terror that he would come back and finish the job.
Mrs. Strumpshaw returned, struggling with a heavily laden tray. She edged it onto a sideboard and set the serving dishes on the table. Roasted woodcock, boiled potatoes, carrot and beet salad, celery root in cream sauce, stewed eels, pâté. It was enough to feed a family of eight.
“This is quite a quantity of food,” Marianne said. “More than I can ever eat in a week.”
“Mr. Northam said he’d be taking his dinner here tonight. But I s’pose something come up, and he had to be off.” Mrs. Strumpshaw set out a loaf of steaming bread. “He’s a bachelor, you know, and he has such an appetite.”
He should have said something. No wonder he’d been hesitating at the doorstep. He must think her the most ungrateful person in the world.
Marianne had seen the two place settings and assumed she’d be dining with Mrs. Strumpshaw.
“Will you not join me in his stead?” she asked. Now that she’d denied Mr. Northam of his meal, there was no reason for all this food to go to waste. Besides, a distraction would do her good.
Mrs. Strumpshaw stared at her.
“Please,” she said. “Let us not stand on ceremony here. I have few enough friends as it is. Sit here and eat with me.”
“But . . .” Mrs. Strumpshaw glanced around as if she might get transported for breaching the servant familiarity line. “It would be unseemly.”
“Life is unseemly, Mrs. Strumpshaw. Of that I am certain.” She’d more than learned her lesson in that regard. “I am a governess, not a duchess.”
Mrs. Strumpshaw eased herself onto the seat like a frightened kitten. After a few moments, when she did not spontaneously explode, she let out a soft sigh. “I suppose since my Jamie’s not back yet, I may as well.”
Oh, yes. Mr. Northam had mentioned she had a boy. “Jamie’s your son?”
She beamed. “Aye. He’s almost twelve now. Nearly a man.”
“I look forward to meeting him.” Marianne spooned some celery root and cream sauce onto her plate, then passed the bowl to Mrs. Strumpshaw. Marianne helped herself to a thick slice of woodcock and some salad. Mrs. Strumpshaw stared at the food for a few moments, then seemed to give in and piled up her plate.
“Your cooking is delicious,” Marianne said. “This is one of the best meals I’ve had in ages.” The cook at Langford Hall kept everyone thin with her reckless cooking.
“Thank you, miss. Mr. Northam seems to like it. These eels are his favorite.”
Marianne passed on the eels. As far as she was concerned, eels did not belong on the dinner table.
She could barely keep her head up as she sopped a wedge of bread in the cream sauce. Yet every time she closed her eyes, his face loomed into her vision, leering with his greedy yellow eyes. It would be a long and sleepless night. Like always.
“Poor thing. You look worn to the bone,” Mrs. Strumpshaw said.
“I am. I think I shall retire. Thank you again for the meal.”
She made her way up the stairs where two bedrooms opened onto the hall. Her trunk, pelisse, and bonnet had been placed in the front one, which had two large windows overlooking the street. A seafoam green coverlet stretched across a large and comfortable bed. The place was pleasant and clean.
She tiptoed down the hall to check the other room. This one’s bed was covered in a whey-colored spread with soft blue walls. Neither the bed nor the room was as big as the front bedroom, and only one small window let the light in from the setting sun.
This was perfect, tucked away at the back of the house. Secluded. Protected. She could never sleep in chambers so open to the street as the other room.
Since this back bedroom had an empty wardrobe and no sign of occupancy, Marianne carried her things here and went about unpacking.
She retrieved a candle from the dining room. She could hear the clanking of cookware as Mrs. Strumpshaw worked in the kitchen below. Marianne could have pulled the bell for her, but her days of being a governess had changed her. If she could do it herself, she certainly would.
She locked her bedroom door and checked the window before setting the candle on her bedside table and slipping under the covers. She always read for a while, hoping to stay awake as long as possible. Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Romance of the Forest was perhaps not the best choice under the circumstances. The only other book she’d brought was Robert Burns, and poetry was not strong enough to keep her awake this night.
She leaned back into the soft pillows and read. Adeline, like Marianne, had been denied her birthright and thrust into a foreign life by cruel men. There was nothing she could do about it. She, too, had lost everything.
Marianne was with her, riding through the wild heath, fleeing with Monsieur la Motte and his wife—until their carriage was stopped by angry men. The carriage door opened, and a large man with black hair and yellow eyes peered in. A large woman screamed and fainted on top of her. Marianne tried to run, but she couldn’t budge under the weight.
Marianne looked down at the woman sprawled across her lap. Her empty eyes stared back at her, her throat slit from ear to ear. Marianne cried out. The carriage
rocked and teetered as the men swarmed it, all of them sneering, wielding pistols and knives.
The coach wouldn’t stop shaking. It was going to tip, and Marianne would be trapped in it forever with the yellow-eyed man.
“Miss Wood,” a man said, shaking her shoulder. A man she could not see. “Miss Wood. Wake up.”
She gasped and opened her eyes, sitting up.
Mr. Northam stood on one side of the bed, Mrs. Strumpshaw on the other holding a candle.
The world beyond her bedroom was midnight black. The candle illuminated Mrs. Strumpshaw’s thin face, but Mr. Northam’s was cast in shadow. Her heart beat like the drums marching along with a piper. Sweat trickled down her back.
She gasped again and fell back into the pillow. “What is it?” she asked with a thick and raspy voice. “Am I late?” Why else would Mr. Northam be hovering in her chambers?
Mr. Northam and Mrs. Strumpshaw looked at each other.
“You were screaming in your sleep,” said Mr. Northam.
That was not unusual, but not something that should summon Mr. Northam from wherever he lived.
“Forgive me,” she said to Mrs. Strumpshaw. “I should have warned you that I’m a troubled sleeper. I’m sorry it woke you.”
“A troubled sleeper?” Mrs. Strumpshaw repeated.
Marianne nodded.
“You’ve been screaming for over an hour,” Mr. Northam said.
“An hour?” No wonder her throat tasted like sand.
“Mrs. Strumpshaw tried to check on you, but your door was locked,” he explained.
“You wouldn’t stop, and I didn’t want to break the door down.” Mrs. Strumpshaw’s face was creased with worry. “I thought you must be dyin’ so I sent my Jamie to fetch Mr. Northam. ‘He’ll know what to do,’ I says.”
Marianne glanced at the door. It seemed intact. They must have found a key.
Bad dreams were a nightly occurrence for her. He was always there when she closed her eyes, her constant and loathsome bedfellow. She often woke herself with her cries. But not like this. Not for over an hour. Not that she knew of, anyway.