The Prisoner (2 page)

“No,” he protested, grasping her wrist and pulling her toward him again.

Alarm flared in her eyes, and he realized his mistake. He could well imagine how he appeared to her; a battered prisoner sprawled on the floor of a dank cell, filthy and unshaven and perhaps crazed by fever, trying to hold her against her will. He closed his eyes in despair, still clinging to her slender wrist, but his grasp was gentle now, and she could have broken free if she wished.

She remained where she was, the skin of her wrist clean and cool against his grimy fingers.

“I am no murderer,” he murmured, unable to fathom why it should matter to him that she know this.

She hesitated a moment, studying him soberly. “I am sorry, sir,” she finally said in a soft voice, “but that is now a matter between you and God.” Gently she extricated herself from his hold. “Jack, would you kindly help me move this man to that bed?”

“I'll move him,” growled the warder.

“Thank you, but I think it would be best if the boy and I did it,” she returned firmly.

Jack obediently went to Haydon's side. Together he and the woman helped him to his feet and onto the remaining bed.

“If you will not call for the surgeon, perhaps you will permit me to send my maid to tend to this man this evening,” she said, adjusting the coarse folds of a foul-smelling blanket over Haydon. “I see no reason why he should not be permitted some measure of comfort on his final evening.”

Governor Thomson stroked his thick gray beard uncertainly. “It really isn't necessary—”

“It would scarcely reflect well upon you or your prison were he not fit to stand during his execution tomorrow,” Miss MacPhail pointed out. “It might give cause for some to question the treatment he received while he was entrusted to your care.” She cast an accusing look at the warder.

“On the other hand, I see no harm to your maid paying him a visit,” Governor Thomson relented.

“Very good.” Satisfied that she had done all that was within her power to help Haydon, she turned her attention to Jack.

“Permit me to introduce myself, Jack. My name is Genevieve MacPhail, and I would like to speak with you—”

“I never stole nothin',” he spat vehemently.

“I don't care whether you did or not.”

Surprise flickered in his gaze, but he was quick to shroud it with sullen indifference. “Then what do you want?”

“I live in a house in Inveraray with some other children who, like yourself, have been through some rather difficult times—”

“I'm not a child,” he interrupted rudely.

“Forgive me. Of course you aren't. You must be what—fifteen?”

He straightened his posture, pleased that she had overestimated his age. “About that.”

She nodded as if greatly impressed by this. “Well, I was wondering, Jack, if instead of staying here in prison and then proceeding to a reformatory school, you would be willing to come and live with me for the duration of your sentence.”

Jack's eyes narrowed. “You mean like a servant?” His tone was openly scornful.

“No,” she replied, untroubled by his hostile attitude. “But you would have chores to do, the same as everyone there does.”

He regarded her skeptically. “What kind of chores?”

“You would be expected to help with cooking and cleaning and washing, and all the other things that are necessary to run a busy household. And you would be required to spend part of each day learning to read and write and cipher numbers. You don't know how to read, do you?”

“I get by,” he assured her tersely.

“I don't doubt that. But my hope would be, Jack, that after you finished staying with me, you would be able to get by far better than you have been.”

He was silent a moment, considering. “Could I come and go as I pleased?”

“Unfortunately, no. Should you decide to come with me, you would then become my responsibility. That means that I would have to know where you were at all times. I'm afraid I would have to insist that you agree to that,” she added, as a scowl twisted his sharply chiseled features. “And your days would be structured, so you would not be permitted to simply wander off and do as you wished. I can assure you, however, that you would find your situation far more tolerable than what awaits you at reformatory school. You would be well fed and cared for. The others who have come to live with me actually find it quite pleasant.”

“Fine.”

His answer was just a touch too quick, thought Haydon, to be genuine. It was clear to him that the boy had decided that going with this Miss Genevieve MacPhail was infinitely preferable to getting thrashed by the warder and spending any more time in jail. Once he had relieved her of a warm set of clothes and a decent meal, he would steal whatever he could and be gone, by tomorrow at the very latest. Haydon wished he had time to speak to the boy alone, to make him understand the incredible opportunity he was being offered.

“Can you get him out as well?” Jack inclined his head toward Haydon.

Haydon looked at the lad in surprise.

“I—I'm afraid not,” Genevieve stammered, startled by the question.

Her dark eyes were veiled with what appeared to be regret. Haydon thought that rather amazing, given all that she knew of him was that he had been convicted of murder. It was scarcely the kind of credentials that roused the more tender sensibilities of a gently bred woman like Miss MacPhail.

“Excellent,” said Governor Thomson, pleased that the two had come to an agreement. “Let us retire to my office and work out the necessary details of this arrangement, shall we?” He scratched his beard in anticipation.

So that was it, Haydon realized. This Miss MacPhail was securing Jack's release in exchange for payment of some kind to the prison governor. She wore no jewelry, and a closer inspection revealed that her cloak was void of ornamentation and the fabric was cheap and somewhat worn. Whatever she was paying for the dubious privilege of taking on the responsibility of a half-starved, lying, thieving urchin, it was clear she could ill-afford it. The certainty that Jack was planning to take advantage of her well-meaning intentions and then abandon her made him feel sad for both of them.

Governor Thomson was already on his way out the door, evidently anxious to have the transaction completed.

But the lovely Miss MacPhail hesitated.

“I will send my maid to attend to you as quickly as possible,” she promised Haydon. “Is there anything special you would like?”

“Do not take your eyes off the lad until you are certain he will stay with you—otherwise he will be gone by morning.”

Her dark eyes widened. Obviously she had expected him to ask for something simple and self-indulgent, like whiskey, or perhaps that a particular dish be prepared for him.

“There is one more thing.”

She waited expectantly.

“I would like you to believe that I am innocent.”

The warder snorted with amusement. “All ye murderers want the world to think ye're sweet an' pure as bairns—especially before ye're due to have yer neck snapped.”

“Why does it matter to you what I believe?” she asked, ignoring the warder's jeer.

Haydon regarded her intently. “It just does.”

She was silent a moment, contemplating his request. “I'm afraid I do not know the facts of your case, sir, and therefore can pass no judgment.” Her voice was soft and laced with remorse, as if she would have far preferred to tell him that she believed him.

He nodded, suddenly feeling immeasurably weary. “Of course.” He closed his eyes.

“Come, then, Miss MacPhail,” said Governor Thomson, who was waiting impatiently for her at the cell door. “Let us have this matter of the lad settled.”

“I will have my maid prepare something special for you,” Genevieve promised Haydon, perhaps hoping that he would be somewhat consoled by this.

“I'm not hungry.”

“Then she will do whatever she can to see to your comfort,” she persisted.

“Fine. Thank you.”

He sensed rather than saw her hesitate, as if there was something more she wished to say to him.

And then she left the cell, leaving him to face his final hours alone in the frigid darkness.

 

T
HE CONTRACT IS THE SAME AS THOSE TO WHICH YOU
have previously agreed, except, of course, I have included the particulars of the lad's sentence,” said Governor Thomson, laying a sheet of paper on the desk before her. “I'm certain you will find it is all in order.” It was clear he was most anxious to have the document signed and receive his payment.

“I'm sure it is,” Genevieve replied. “But it would set a poor example if I were to sign it without reading it first. One must always read a document thoroughly before putting one's signature on it,” she instructed Jack. With that she began to carefully read the contract.

“Well, now, lad, this is a fortuitous day for you, is it not?” asked Governor Thomson, lamely attempting to fill the awkward silence.

Jack said nothing.

Genevieve glanced up at the boy. He was staring intently at the passage beyond the doorway of the governor's office, apparently transfixed by Warder Sims, who was busy piling scummy porridge bowls onto a heavy wooden tray. Perhaps, Genevieve reflected, the boy was considering how close he had come to being beaten to death by the horrid man.

“Jack, you must respond when someone asks you a question,” she instructed gently.

Jack blinked and looked at her in confusion. “What?”

“In polite conversation we don't say ‘what,' we say ‘pardon me,'” Genevieve corrected, deciding this was as good a time as any to begin work on the boy's manners.

He regarded her as if she were crazy. “What are you talkin' about?”

“Governor Thomson was speaking to you,” she explained, deciding to put the issue of “what” versus “pardon me” aside for the moment.

“What did he say?” he asked, not bothering to look at the governor.

Later she would explain that it was rude to speak of someone who was present as if he weren't there. “He asked you if you felt lucky to be leaving this place with me,” she said, realizing he would likely not understand the word “fortuitous.”

Jack shrugged. “Anythin's better than this pisshole.”

Governor Thomson's gray brows shot up and his face reddened with indignation. “Why, you ungrateful little—”

“You're quite right, Jack,” interjected Genevieve, untroubled by either the lad's surly indifference or his colorful choice of words. If anything, she admired him for his honesty. “Anything is indeed better than here.” She smiled at him, then proceeded to study the contract.

Looking bored, Jack slumped in his chair and began to bang the heels of his filthy, worn shoes against the elegantly carved legs.

“Here now, stop that, you'll scratch the wood!” protested Governor Thomson.

Jack shrugged. “It's just a chair.”

“It may be just a chair to you, you filthy ruffian, but it is solid mahogany and cost more than you shall ever earn honestly in your entire life!” the governor snapped.

Oozing defiance, Jack kicked the chair again.

“Why don't you wait in the hall, Jack,” suggested Genevieve, trying to avoid an altercation between the two. “The governor and I will have completed our business shortly.”

Needing no further encouragement, Jack stomped out the door and began to pace restlessly up and down the corridor.

“You'll have your hands full with that one, mark my words,” huffed Governor Thomson. “I wager he'll be back to his lawless, pilfering ways and in here again before the month is through. My recommendation, Miss MacPhail, is that you take a firm position with him—with a regular beating, just to keep him obliging.”

“I am not in the habit of beating my children, Governor Thomson,” Genevieve informed him coolly.

“The Lord tells us children must be beaten,” Governor Thomson argued. “
‘He who spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is diligent to discipline him.'
Let the lad know in no uncertain terms that you own him now. If he gives you one whit of trouble, send him right back to me.”

“What did he steal?”

“Pardon?”

“You mentioned in your letter to me that the lad had been found guilty of the crime of stealing. What did he steal?”

Governor Thomson pulled a pair of spectacles from his jacket and placed them on his nose before opening a file upon his desk. “He broke into a home and stole one pair of shoes, one blanket, one round of cheese, and a bottle of whiskey,” he reported gravely. “He was later found asleep under the blanket in a neighbor's coach house. The whiskey and cheese were all but gone, the stolen shoes were on his feet, and the lad was thoroughly drunk.” He regarded her seriously over the rims of his spectacles. “I'm afraid there was never any question of his culpability in the matter.”

“And for the crime of being cold, hungry, and without decent shoes, he was to be imprisoned, lashed, and sent to reformatory school.” Genevieve's tone was flagrantly bitter.

“We live in a lawful society, Miss MacPhail. Where would we be if everyone who was cold and hungry decided they could just walk into someone else's home or shop and help themselves to whatever they wanted?”

“No child should ever be that desperate,” she argued. “We need laws to protect our children from starving, so that they don't have to resort to stealing food and clothing to survive.”

“He did not starve while he was here, nor would he have starved at the reformatory school,” Governor Thomson pointed out. “Regardless of whether you had decided to take him or not, his arrest was the best thing that could have happened to him. It usually is for strays like him. He claims his parents are dead and that he has no home or kin who might take him in. At least in a reformatory school he would have a roof over his head, a blanket to cover him at night, and three meals a day.”