The Pursuit of Pleasure (25 page)

But her legs, which had gotten steadier from all the long hours of walking, refused to work. She couldn’t have walked anywhere, much less to gaol.

No matter. They frog-marched her off to the wagon, where they bound her wrists together with iron handcuffs. Oh yes, the proper treatment for such an unrepentant, dangerous criminal such as herself.

God Almighty. First Jamie and now this. Surely the angels must hate her to serve her such abuse.

C
HAPTER 15

M
rs. Tupper had taken to fussing like a duckling to water. “I’ve got you a warm meat pie and then a few other things from our larder, good cheese and fresh bread. Baked this morning for you. Is that warm enough?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You need to have good warm food, what with the damp, but the distance … And I don’t half like that Mrs. Carter, down the Turks Head. Always asking after people’s business, though she does make a decent eel pie.”

Lizzie let the rest of the words wash over her like the warm ale Mrs. Tupper had also provided. Just as the housekeeper had each day at precisely four o’clock in the afternoon, without complaint. Every day Mrs. Tupper brought more and more food, and with every passing day Lizzie ate less and less of it.

The stouthearted housekeeper kept up a constant stream of chatter, too, as if her bright words and bright, determinedly optimistic attitude could lighten the hideous darkness of the gaol. Or the hideous darkness inside Lizzie’s heart.

At night it was so dark she could see nothing, only hear the incessant sound of dripping water and small scurrying feet. She’d never felt so close and utterly confined. Her fingertipswere nearly raw from the way she scratched compulsively and futilely against the stone. That was one of the things she had liked at home, at Glass Cottage. The house was so open: there were no curtains to cut off the light and the view. In almost every room in the house she could look out over the sea in the moonlight. Lizzie shut her eyes and tried to see the image. The moon making a trail of gold across the water to the shore.

It had been fifteen days now. Fifteen days and fifteen even longer nights of being closed up in this tomb. The air was somehow stale, rank, and damp all at the same time. Only the pests were fresh and lively. They made her skin crawl, but at night the constant discomfort of their bites kept her awake and from slipping into the nightmare world of sleep.

Aside from the turnkey and Mrs. Tupper, the vermin were the most reliable company she had. Mama, poor Mama, had come eleven days ago, her eyes red with weeping and agonized frustration.

“We are doing everything we can. I have engaged solicitors, but the magistrate says the evidence is incontrovertible, though he will not tell us what it is! I am out of my mind with worry for you, child.”

If the county magistrate would not answer the questions of Squire Paxton and Lady Theodora, there was obviously little that could be done. And it was too distressing, both for Mama, and for herself, to see the mutual confirmation of hopelessness in their eyes.

Papa did not come. Instead, Mama had brought dear Celia as her aide and comfort. Poor, appalled Celia grasped Lizzie’s hands through the bars as she apologized over and over again for her inadvertent part in this horrible mess.

“They made me tell them, Lizzie.” Celia’s distress was so acute, her eyes were shining wet with tears. “Sir Ralston said they knew what you had said to me about wanting to be a widow and that I had best cooperate, lest I find myself charged with conspiracy with you.”

After she had sent Mama and Celia away, with entreaties not to return to this ghastly place, she had no more visitors.

The turnkey had put her in a “private” cell, away from the other unfortunate guests. Whether this was due to her being a lady, Mama or Mrs. Tupper’s ability to pay bribes, or her elevated status as the only alleged murderer in gaol, she had no idea.

She could hear the other prisoners sometimes, their voices echoing down the dank corridor with their raucous calls when the turnkey gave them her uneaten food. After he had first taken his fill, of course. At least her unintended beneficence saw that Mrs. Tupper was treated kindly and with respect.

The private cell was undoubtedly cleaner than the communal one—she had only her own filth to deal with, but it was isolated. No one to talk to, no one to watch, no one to help take one’s mind off one’s own seemingly insurmountable problems. No one to ask the questions that careened around in her mind unanswered.

No one had an answer. And slowly, it seemed to matter less and less. A sort of peaceful numbness was finally taking over. It helped when she stopped eating any of the food. But unfortunately, that’s when Mrs. Tupper had taken to fussing.

Poor woman. She was simply indefatigable. She wouldn’t give up.

“And here’s a fresh dress and also fresh smallclothes.” She pushed a bundle of material into Lizzie’s hands. “I’ve had more stays made that lace in the front, the way you like. And I thought to bring another blanket. I’ll just hold it up now so you can change into fresh things.”

Poor woman. She must stink, though Mrs. Tupper brought clean clothes and took away the dirty every other day. Probably burned them once she’d cleared the walls. But Mrs. Tupper kept on, even though Lizzie told her it didn’t matter. None of it would matter soon.

How cruelly ironic she had fought so hard for independence. Her death would certainly achieve that now. She’d be dead but then she’d be with Jamie. She clung hard to that thought, willing the questions, the doubts away.

She would be with Jamie.

“Now, miss. I’m not going to stand for this. I’m not. You need a change. Here.” And Mrs. Tupper went to work, bullying and shoving through the bars to get her out and into her clothes, despite her indifference. But it was better than being alone.

“I want you to try and perk up now, Mrs. Marlowe.”

So no-nonsense was Mrs. Tupper, amidst such incredible nonsense. Nothing could ever make sense again.

“We’ve seen to a solicitor, your mama, Lady Theodora, and I, though it was difficult to get one who wasn’t in the magistrate’s pockets. And such awfully large pockets they do seem to have around here. But he’s to come, the solicitor, and we’ll get this sorted out. You just have to be strong. And eat. And use the comb a little more regularly.” She began to yank a comb through the tangles.

The sharp tugs of pain were slipping under the numbness.

“Leave it go, Mrs. Tupper. I’ll do it. Just leave it go.”

Marlowe and his crew had a fine few weeks of it, bringing
Defiant
up channel from Plymouth. They taken the sloop down to the Channel Islands on a sort of shakedown cruise, but also to advertise themselves there to the smuggling confraternity. The weather held fair, and the sail had become a pleasure, the way it had been when he was a boy and had hours of summer to spend exploring the river and surrounding shoreline. Lizzie would have loved it. Maybe when all this was over, he could find a bit of time to take her out.

And now they’d brought
Defiant
up right and tight into the Dart, and snugged up against the quay, to do the same advertising of themselves in Dartmouth, where the waterfront was always abuzz with the latest smuggling gossip.

And soon enough a conversation came to his ear.

“Ho, there, Bob, how you bin keeping? They ‘ad a rum doing up to the magistrates a while back. Should ‘a seen it, Bob. You see it lad? The old beak Ralston Cawd’yer come wif a company o’ men. Marched over the hill to Redlap, well o’er a fortnight ago it were now.”

“What’d the magistrate want with the business up to Redlap? Thought he were in the game?”

“Nothin’ to do with the trade. Murder it were. A lady.”

Bob sent a long, low whistle through his teeth. “Someone kilt a lady? Who?”

“No, t’other way round. Fingered the lady for the drop, they ‘ave. They do say she were a rum mort—a game one, cool as water—ne’er a pucker tho’ they gave ‘er the sheriff’s bracelets. Offed her ‘usband they do say, for his money.”

“They’ll have some Scragg’em Fair with ‘er. Ain’t off’n they hang a Lady.”

“I’d pay money to see a hanging like that.”

Marlowe grabbed Hugh and shoved him back aboard
Defiant
and down the companionway to the cabin.

“Captain?”

“Jesus God, damn it all to hell! Lieutenant, we have an abrupt change of our plans.”

“Sir? But why?”

“For fuck’s sake! Didn’t you hear?”

“The story? They’ve taken someone up, if I understand correctly. These rogues are worse than sailors with their lingo.”

“Not someone, you jackass. Lizzie. They’ve taken up my wife.”

“For what? Sarcasm?”

“Murder. They’ve clapped her in irons and taken her off. They’ve arrested her for murdering me!”

In the morning the turnkey took Lizzie to a small room with a table and two chairs. And a window. The light wasnearly blinding, making her cover her eyes after the constant half dark of the cell. She groped her way closer, anxious for even the smallest trace of fresh air. My God, it was so clean and warm. She drank in a grateful lungful.

She grasped the bars set over the window, set deep into the whitewashed stone walls, a reminder she was still imprisoned.

“What goes on here?” she asked the turnkey. Perhaps Mama really had managed to hire a solicitor.

“Priest is here for you, miss.”

“A priest?” Good Lord. Had he come for her final absolution? Her hand rose of its own volition to her throat. She could feel the pulse as it beat under her fingers, strong and hectic. She hadn’t even been to trial yet. Why on earth should they be sending her a priest?

As her heartbeat accelerated, she realized this was going to be harder than she thought. The pleasant numbness was rapidly eroding in the face of the harsh reality. It was one thing to decide to die, but it was quite another to have the killing actually begin.

No. She was panicking. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her heart hammered away in her throat, every beat, every breath reminding her she was still very much alive. This strange visit was likely just part of the whole infernally slow, stately progress of the law.

The priest came into the room alone. His long black robes swirled about his feet as he turned to make sure the door was shut behind him. His head was bowed and his face shadowed by the wide, flat brim of his hat. He was wearing the short, old-fashioned bob wig of his profession. She could see skin tanned pink at the nape of his neck.

She looked away from the intimacy of her observation and tried to refocus on the absurdity of a priest being sent to her. Anyone who knew her knew she didn’t care a fig for preaching and all that. God was one thing, but she had never been a regular churchgoer. Rector Marlowe was all right, she supposed, but the rest was all a load of priggish rubbish, the lot of it.

So she was completely unprepared when the priest stepped close and whispered, “Lizzie.”

She nearly screamed, in fright and relief and joy, but his hand was already there, pressing hard and strong and alive, so alive, against her mouth.

“Hush,” he hissed fiercely as he pressed his lips to her ear. His eyes skated in warning to the closed door.

Jamie. Her Jamie. Her eyes strained to look at him, to cover each and every last inch of his dear face. He wasn’t dead. The deep ocean-wide gray eyes she’d thought she would never see again were here, now, in front of her.

Her hands were on his face, touching him, sliding along the smooth skin of his freshly shaved cheeks, delving back into the newly shorn, bristly hairs of his head beneath the wig. She pushed the hideous thing off.

“Jamie.”

“It’s all right Lizzie, I’m here. I’ve got you. Hush. I’ve got you.” As if he needed as much reassurance as she. As if he needed to hold her as much as she needed to hold him. Desperately.

She clung to him like a barnacle, holding him ever so tight. As if she could never again let him go.

And then his mouth was on hers, covering her lips, and nothing else mattered. Nothing but the heat and light that his kiss brought. Nothing but the bruising pleasure of his body pressed hard against her.

He nuzzled her neck and held her close against his body. She could feel the hectic beating of both their hearts. “Tears, Lizzie? For me?”

“You’re alive.”

“So I am.”

A strangled little hiccup burbled out of her, and she gavehim what must have been a watery smile. She wiped her face hastily on her sleeve.

“Oh, Jamie.” It was better than anything to be held against his warm, solid body. “I don’t suppose this would be an opportune time to tell you, I missed you a great deal more than I had planned.”

He kissed her forehead. “I heartily return the sentiment.”

“Oh, Jamie. What have you done to your hair?”

“I cut it.” His mouth turned down in apology.

“It looks awful. If this is what happens to you when you die, God needs a new barber.” She wasn’t making any sense, she knew, because all she could think about was running her hands against the ragged edges of his hair. It looked like it had been done with hedge shears.

He tried to hold her still before him with his eyes. “Everything’s changed.”

“Yes. Thank God. You’re alive.” She ran her hands over his face, across the strong plains of his cheekbones and down his smooth shaven cheeks. She couldn’t stop touching him. She ran her hands over his shoulders, down his arms, hugging and letting go, but never stopping. She couldn’t overcome her need to feel his long, taut body warm and alive under her hands.

Her mouth followed, kissing him and sliding down his neck to put her lips against the strong pulse at the base of his throat. To seek out his scent—bay rum. And it was there: a base note covered by unfamiliar layers of wool and salt and fish. And liquor. How impossibly strange that he should smell of fish oil and cognac. How curious.

It made her wonder what
she
smelled like. Good heavens. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t stand so close. I’ll probably give you lice.” Her forced laugh sounded rusty to her ears.