NaGeira (15 page)

I felt my shoulders tighten and the chill return to my stomach.

“I don’t have one,” I said.

The playwright picked up some straw and dropped it again, then knitted his hands together in a steeple above his knees. “Tell me, is your stepfather rich?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“And your mother, did she have money?”

“She had property. Everyone was after it when my father died.”

The playwright nodded and looked to the window.

“What I said to you before,” he said quietly, “about you being here because they feared your judgment …” He hesitated.

“Yes?” I prompted, leaning forward.

“That’s probably only part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“Money,” he said with a sigh. “Gold again!” He gazed at me intently, as though willing me to absorb some knowledge that had long ago become a part of him. “It’s at the bottom of everything,” he breathed, his voice trailing to a whisper. “It’s the cause of oppression, the currency of love.” He raised both palms upwards and tipped them slowly to face the ground; nothing was in them, so nothing fell. But I got the idea. “Your stepfather means to use his son to further his position. The child of a rich man is a precious commodity. His boy can buy him a dowery. He will not be given away for free.”

“I know he thought me not good enough for Thomas,” I said, looking down and breaking straws with my hands. I was aware the message was more complicated than this, but I allowed myself to slide into a sulk. It felt comfortable too, like a luxury I had denied myself.

“Don’t play the fool,” the playwright said. “I know you are sharper than that, and you’ll need to be if you are to find your way out of here.”

“But how do I get out of here?” I asked suddenly, my heart quickening.

I felt the playwright had unmasked me and set me before a mirror. I had imagined myself in love with Thomas Ridley and thwarted in love by my incarceration. But my cellmate had shaken the fancy loose. Thomas Ridley was no more essential to me than a daydream, and the wings of my own ambition were broader than I had painted them.

“You should do something that will utterly convince your stepfather you are no threat to his son’s affections, and no impediment to his growing estate.”

“How?” I demanded.

The playwright took a deep breath and stared at the floor, considering.

“Telling him will not be enough. You must take yourself out of the picture.”

———

Mr. Ridley and Mr. Jarvis sat close together, their shoulders almost touching. I was in my customary place in this room at the end of the table. Bess and Gilbert had been dismissed. I stood looking directly in front of me, my brow furrowed, my eyes watery with repentance as the playwright had instructed.

“So,” said Mr. Jarvis, moving backwards and forwards in his chair like a bull wallowing in a lake, “you see your kind guardian has come in response to your missive.” He glanced nervously towards Mr. Ridley, as if unsure of his role in the discussion. “I trust we have taught you enough about obedience to ensure you do not abuse Mr. Ridley’s kindness.”

Mr. Ridley didn’t look at either the governor or myself. He merely swallowed and gazed at the table. Mr. Jarvis glanced at him again. “We have been experimenting with your stepdaughter, Mr. Ridley, trying to discover the degree to which she has been infected by the scourge of witchcraft. Is that not so, young woman?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied softly. “I have looked the horrors of corruption in the face. I am ready to repent such wickedness forever, and
pay for my sins with a lifetime of good works, if God wills it so.” My short time with the playwright had given me a strong sense of drama. My voice was resonant with feeling. My lip trembled as I spoke, and by the time I had finished speaking, I almost believed myself.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Jarvis, somewhat taken aback. “And what did you make of our playwright?”

“A mind diseased with wickedness, sir,” I replied in quavering tones, “a soul in the very torment of unrepentance.” I felt badly talking of my cellmate in such a manner, but he had insisted that I must.

“Well,” said the gaoler, brightening. “You can see, Mr. Ridley, you can see how we work here for the reclamation of our inmates, no matter how far they have fallen.”

“Indeed, sir,” Mr. Ridley whispered, his gaze still on the table.

“So,” said Mr. Jarvis, shifting and preparing to rise. “I will leave you together, as you have requested, sir. This is entirely in your hands and a matter for your own discretion.”

The chair scraped against the floor as he rose. He walked to the exit in silence then, coughing slightly in a gesture of studied dignity, as he left the room. Mr. Ridley did not lift his gaze from the table until the governor had closed the door. When his eyes met mine, I was aware that accusation was trying to burst forth from my face and show itself. But I relaxed my brow and cheek as the playwright had advised and I felt the danger pass away.

“You mentioned a convent,” he said. It was like a sentence from the middle of a conversation rather than an introduction. I had to remember what I said in the letter.

“When I thought of the danger I had put you and your family
through, sir,” I said quietly, “I began to think of ways to make some recompense.”

“It is an idea,” he said quietly, “and there are such convents abroad.” He paused for a moment and added carefully, “They follow the church of Rome, you understand.”

“But that is why I must go,” I said with breathless enthusiasm. “Such an institution would give your honoured family a sense of safety, as I could not easily return. And if I should return to wicked ways,” I said, slowing down and clasping my hands together as though struggling with myself—I needed to draw as much attention to the next part as possible; the playwright insisted it was a line that never failed to please—“and you know how weak and fragile is the will of woman, how changeable, how easily distracted from its course—I would nevertheless be far away, cloistered, and unable to cause harm.”

Mr. Ridley suddenly stood and turned away from me.

“No one must know,” he said quietly. He turned his head slowly until I could see his profile. “There must be no letters, and you must never return.”

I had the most curious feeling in my chest. It was as though my heart had swelled and was pushing against my ribs. I had won. I had accomplished what I had set out to do. Yet here, in the very midst of victory, I felt like screaming out in anger. I was merely leaving one prison for another, and this new gaol would be as elaborate as a palace and as impregnable as a fortress. Each one of its bricks would be fashioned from pure deceit.

I trembled in fury, watching the side of this man’s face.

“Do you agree?” he asked.

“Never to write to my mother?” I said, as calmly as I could.

“It would be best for us all,” he replied. He turned slightly towards me again and, for the first time, I saw fear in his expression. “You don’t know how close we all were to damnation,” he murmured. “It was a warning.”

Now I knew there was something I did not know, something beyond the gold of which the playwright spoke, beyond even the shame of Mr. Ridley’s hasty marriage with my mother. My heart thumped hard and my throat felt constricted. I had to know.

“Tell me,” I said. “Tell me what you’re afraid of and I’ll agree to everything.”

I didn’t care what I promised now. I knew I was on the verge of something and I could not back away.

He stared at me for a moment. All the angular strength was gone from his face, washed away by his anxiety. “I knew your mother before,” he said, bowing and resting his knuckles on the table.

“I know you did,” I replied, slightly impatient.

“I knew her for many years, many years.” The last part was like an echo fading into space. “I knew her before you were born.”

He was silent again, but my heart drummed its battle rhythm.

“When you say ‘knew,’” I said quietly, “do you mean … ?”

“Yes!” he interrupted, bowing again and gritting his teeth. “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“So,” I said doubtfully. “What has that got to do with me?”

He took his knuckles from the table, stood up straight, and sighed.

“Everything,” he said. “It has everything to do with you, and everything to do with you and my son.”

Newgate is hardly ever silent. There is constant audible motion from somewhere within its many cells and chambers—doors opening
or closing; people yelling, screaming, laughing, arguing; gaolers walking the corridors with jangling keys; stonemasons working. But this, at least in my memory, was one of those rare moments when there was not the slightest sound. I looked into the moist eyes of the man in front of me and, against my will, I understood.

“No,” I said with a certainty I did not feel. “It isn’t true.”

“It might not be true,” he said through pursed lips. “But, then again, it might be.”

“Your eyes are dark and mine are green.”

“Thomas’s eyes are pale also, yet I know for certain he is my son. Your eyes prove nothing.”

“But I am like my father …”

Mr. Ridley raised his eyebrows, then looked to the floor.

“I mean the father who died. I am like him in disposition and taste. We had the same minds, the same interests!”

“All of which can be learned from habit, from the long practice of company and conversation.”

“But I would have known,” I insisted, suddenly angry. “I would have known if Thomas were so forbidden. My senses would have warned me.”

“But you have trained your senses in the bogs and forests of a heathen land,” said Mr. Ridley, his voice sharp now. He stood behind the table again, leaning into it as though it were a shield. “The values it has taught you are those of rank bestiality. Your senses would have told you nothing awry because they have long wallowed in evil.”

“He is not my brother,” I said with conviction. “And you are not my father.”

He winced at the last words as though receiving a blow, then he
squared his shoulders proudly. “Father or not, I have been severely tested by you. You bring chaos to order, darkness to light. I am not trying to punish you, and I owe you this one chance of redemption. It is my atonement. You must agree to my terms or remain in this place.”

There was a pause and his eyes locked on mine.

T
he boards of the schoolhouse floor vibrate beneath me as the witnesses enter. I hear their breathing and the rustle of their clothes as they move, but I cannot catch as much as a single whisper. My arms pull against the ropes again—I can’t help struggling, although I know it’s futile—and my skin chafes. The wood of the cross on the wall is splintered and its surface disfigured by wormholes. I imagine myself crawling into one of these minute tunnels and disappearing. I laugh suddenly at the idea. Of all the situations I have been in, this is the most absurd. If only I could tell them they are acting like fools, that they should untie me at once and go home or go about their business. Suddenly, I feel a movement and a shadow above my head.

“See how she mocks the holy cross with her laughter,” says Seth Butt. His arm reaches over me and takes the cross from the nail. “She will put a curse upon it.” The wall above me is now bare and I hear Seth retreat behind me, returning to the group.

“Should we begin with a prayer?” asks someone—I think it must be Joshua.

“We must pray afterwards, when the deed is done,” says a man with a soft voice. Though he sounds rather timid, everyone becomes silent as they listen to him. I can taste fear and respect in the air. “First we must recite together the words we learned for our protection.”

“Of course,” says Seth. “Simon is right.”

There is a general murmur of agreement and a pause. Like a wave crashing on the shore, the voices begin, those of men, women, and children interweaving, yet slightly mistimed, like the grinding of pebbles under the incoming tide:

“Lock them out; lock them out. Lock them out forevermore.

“Lock them out; lock them out. Lock them out forevermore.”

There is a momentary pause.

“Curse go back; curse go back. Back with double pain and lack.

“Curse go back; curse go back. Back with double fear and flak.”

Silence. Someone shuffles his feet. Another person coughs. I stare at the grimy wall. The wood is paler where the cross has stood and wormholes stand out sharply and clearly defined. Again I imagine myself crawling into one of them. This time I stop myself from laughing, though I do not know how laughter could make things any worse.

“Let us hear from our principal witness,” comes the soft voice of Simon Rose.

There’s a sound of people shuffling to the side, making room. David Butt coughs.

“Don’t worry, boy,” says Seth. “Tell the truth and no harm will come to you.”

There is a hesitation, and then David clears his throat again. “It started when I collected wood for the … accused,” he begins uncertainly. “I listened to Mr. Simon reading from the gospel on Sunday, how he told us to help those who were less fortunate than ourselves.”

There is a rumble of approval behind me.

“I thought about the old woman, Sheila, up on the hill,” he continues with more confidence. “I knew she couldn’t move around much and I thought how difficult it must be for her to collect her own wood.”

“A gracious and Christian thought,” says Simon Rose in an encouraging tone.

The ropes are constricting my ribs and making it hard to breathe. It occurs to me to interrupt this foolishness, but I haven’t the energy at the moment. The first bead of sweat trickles down my forehead. I calm myself and listen.

“I went and collected wood for her and she asked me to come in and sit down,” David continues. “Then she told me that I was in love with Sara Rose and that I should let no one stand in my way.”

“And what did you reply?” asks Simon Rose.

“That I loved and honoured my neighbour as the Bible instructed me to, sir, but that nothing else was between us.”

“Go on,” says Simon quietly.

“And then … and then, everything went dark …”

“Yes?” Simon’s voice is a whisper and the room is suddenly
unnaturally hushed, as if all the spectators were holding their breath.