Elyse Mady (10 page)

“What is your name?” If this boy was to brave the prison every day until Hester was recovered, it would be churlish of him not to know the name of his benefactor’s emissary.

“Simpson, sir. George Simpson.”

“Thank you, George. You will convey my gratitude to Mr. Ramsay and my best wishes for recovery to my sister.” The conversation was humiliating but it wasn’t the boy’s fault. He was doing his job. “You are to call daily?”

“With fresh provisions? Yes.” George eyed his torn coat. Robert had made it himself, and until it had met with the angry mob, it had fit him very well. Now he doubted even a ragman would be eager to claim it. “Would you like me to take that and have it cleaned, sir? It’s been torn.”

He spoke as impersonally as a valet might but Robert knew the boy could see where the women who had gathered outside the public house had ripped and torn at the fabric, shrieking obscenities at the men who’d been paraded outside the Bear after their interrogations with the magistrates.

The turnkey didn’t even pretend not to be listening. He simply extended his keys and Robert held up his manacles to have them unlocked that he might remove his coat.

“Might I prevail upon you for a few small items?” Embarrassment and gratitude suffused his body in equal measure as he tugged off his coat. He could hear the fabric tear but just taking it off was a relief. The stench was stomach-churning, and if he had been a free man he would have burned it, regardless of the cost. Yet if he were to survive his incarceration and be found innocent at his trial, he knew he must accept help. The footman took the coat and folded it carefully, as though it did not stink and was not covered in blood and shit and filth.

Robert was grateful for his circumspection but recoiled from being an object of pity. He could see it in the servant’s clear eyes, as he gazed around the squalid prison, with its ragged, inebriated inhabitants. Robert was not used to it. It disgusted him, knowing he was dependent on charity, almost as much as his weak nature did. He was a man who had always forged his own success. If he was to survive until his trial and not succumb to the gaol fever or starvation, he must take advantage of what few remaining conduits were open him.

He shucked his bloodied linen shirt over his head for good measure, taking another from the basket. He hadn’t washed and his shoulder blazed with pain as he lifted his arms above his head to slide one of the clean shirts on, but it was worth it just to feel the new fabric against his skin.

“A blanket. Cup and plate. Soap. And paper, that I might write to my sister,” he enumerated, slipping the thread button through the loop. As soon as he had done so, the turnkey brandished his ring and Robert knew his brief liberty from his irons was at an end for today.

Chapter Nine

The small morning room was bathed in a pleasant, soft light, the tall windows open to catch the breeze and the scents of the walled garden, in full summer bloom, out onto which it overlooked. Someone had carried a large bunch of flowers inside and arranged them with care in a wide Limoges bowl atop a delicate mahogany side table. The blooms imparted a delightful perfume that reminded Hester of her mother’s own garden in Malmesbury.

It was the first day that she had descended downstairs since her attack at the shop four days prior.

The first three days, she had kept to her room, sleeping a great deal and recuperating from the blow which Mr. Stroud had so ruthlessly delivered. But this morning, she’d awoken to discover that both the dizziness and headaches which had plagued her had all but disappeared. Mrs. Lytton, no doubt at her employer’s encouragement, had tried to dissuade her from leaving the comforts of the handsomely appointed room, but Hester had insisted, arguing that continued idleness would do her recovery more harm than good.

The housekeeper had finally acknowledged Hester’s determination and allowed her to descend into the main spaces of the house. But she had extracted a promise that Hester would spend her time quietly, and she took their agreement seriously, superintending her convalescence with admirable diligence, returning often to inspect the bandages that still bound her head or to bring her food and drink appropriate to her delicate constitution.

Of her host, Hester had seen nothing, not since their encounter by her bedside, when they had held their strange midnight conversation and he had very nearly kissed her
.
She’d learned from the housemaid who had come to set her rooms to rights that the master spent much of his time away from home. The young girl had not wanted to speculate as to his whereabouts but admitted that when Mr. Ramsay was ashore, he often spent as much time away from his London residence as he did in it.

“He’s not one to settle,” the girl had said, and Hester knew that to be the truth.

There was a knock on the door and George, the footman that Thomas had charged with making deliveries to Robert in prison, entered, a note laid on a small salver.

“I have a letter for you, miss. From your brother. Would you care to read it?” He waited, and Hester held out her hand eagerly.

“Yes,” she said, taking the folded paper from the proffered tray. She waited until she was alone and then opened it. There was no seal to break, as Robert had no wax, but he’d initialled across the fold, the better to secure its contents. She tilted the paper towards the window and studied her brother’s small script.

My dearest sister,

Words cannot express the sensations which the news of your grievous affliction wrought upon my affections. I had not believed any circumstance could make my precarious situation seem more black but knowing of the abuse you have endured on my behalf, I would give myself up to despair entirely, had not I the utter conviction of my ultimate vindication.

I will restrain myself from offering needless warnings towards your continuing good name, contenting myself by urging you to remove yourself from Mr. Ramsay’s home into the care of Reverend Charlesworth and his excellent wife as soon as the doctors deem it safe. Of the former, I have seen nothing since his visit at the beginning of the week but I remain convinced of his continued regard and await daily his next communication.

Hester could not read her brother’s earnest expression of faith in the hypocritical churchman without feeling guilt. She had no doubt that Charlesworth had by now withdrawn all manner of support from their family, due in large part to her intemperate speech, and it pained her to see her brother putting his trust in such as the reverend. There could be no removal, not after their argument at Mrs. Hannaford’s, and Robert’s warnings of propriety stung, for all that she knew herself to be safe from unwanted impertinence.

The danger, she knew only too well, was not that Thomas Ramsay would make a disrespectful offer against her wishes, for he was a gentleman in the truest sense of the word, but that given the inducements he presented, she would make one to him. It was only too easy to imagine welcoming his attentions, should he ever offer them.

But such thoughts were forbidden her. Refusing to dwell on such a reckless course, she returned her attention to her brother’s communiqué.

I have found, through the recommendation of one my fellow accused, a solicitor. I have not yet met with him, but I believe I shall be well served by this individual, as he is reputed to enjoy a great deal of experience with similar matters.

I beg that you will direct your attention to the matter as soon as your health will permit it. Mr. Wooley keeps rooms in Lincoln’s Inn. The sum of twenty pounds will engage him on my behalf—if our savings will not suffice, you must sell what you can of our possessions to secure the fee.

I must conclude. Do not give in to despair but support your spirits by whatever means are at your disposal.

I remain, as always, your loving and affectionate brother,

R.A.

The tone of Robert’s letter conveyed her brother’s personality perfectly, Hester thought. Fond of his sister, good-hearted and loyal with a love of order and consequence that only a leavening of humour rescued from pomposity.

She would have to go and visit the solicitor. She had never been to Lincoln’s Inn, although she was familiar with its general location. It would take her most of the morning to walk there and back. Should she ask Mrs. Lytton if she could spare George?

But before she could consider the problem any further, the morning room door opened and Thomas entered.

“You are returned!”

* * *

Thomas had not intended to seek her out. He had spent the past three days busying himself with his work. After his near miss with Hester—he knew that calling her such, even in his own thoughts, was greatly presumptuous but he could no longer thing of her as a mere Miss Aspinall—he’d thought it best not to strain his resolve any further. He had wanted to kiss her most desperately in the sickroom.

In health, the temptation would be that much stronger, so he had deemed it prudent to remove himself until he was in control of his urges once more.

Clearly his resolve was weaker than he’d believed it to be. The sight of his houseguest, suffused with summer light, so that her dark hair gleamed with flashes of copper and brown, her surprise at seeing him transparent on her face, engendered a feeling of contentment that he did not care to examine.

“I believe that is customary, when one lives in a house?” He tried not to stare at her face too intently. “But I am concerned that you might set back your recovery. Should you be about?”

Hester shook her head. “Do you suppose Mrs. Lytton is inclined to leniency when it comes to invalids? If I had not met her exacting standards, I assure you I would still be tucked beneath my counterpane like a goose trussed for Christmas.” He watched as a blush crept into his companion’s cheeks at her unthinking frankness. She was obviously of the opinion that it did not do for a young lady to mention bedrooms and counterpanes in the presence of a gentleman, but Thomas didn’t mind. He liked the fact that Hester felt free to speak her mind in his presence.

“I see.”

“I am to remain in this room, you understand, checked on every half hour, and have been given leave to believe that if I am very compliant, and she deems me sufficiently recovered, tea may be brought. Whether it comes with cake will depend entirely upon the state of my digestion to withstand such a rich shock.”

This time, Thomas could not contain his laughter. “Mrs. Lytton takes her duties seriously.”

“She has provided exemplary care and I am grateful for it, every day.”

The conversation reached an awkward lull. He studied her face, looking for signs of healing. Her colour was good, no longer pale and wan. Bruises still marked her face and neck though. They had turned a mottled green, with yellow and black marring their borders. From the way she moved, he suspected her dress disguised more vivid marks.

Of course, it would not do to think of anything that might be beneath her clothing. He ought to keep his thoughts as far from there as possible. But in the three days that had passed since he had sat up with her, it had been almost impossible for him to do so.

He had wanted to kiss her so badly.

She had felt so natural in his arms, her reliance melting his normal reserve. He was not someone who trusted easily. His breach with his family and itinerant lifestyle meant that his relationships tended to be perfunctory and shallow. He was fond of people and enjoyed their company while it lasted but he was never reliant on them.

Yet somehow, the rules by which he conducted his life did not seem to apply here. It made no sense but he felt a connection with Hester that could not be magicked away. Her mouth, full and soft, called to him. He wanted to disrobe her, slowly and lingeringly. To lock the door and lose himself in her for days at a time.

He was a cad.

Thinking such things about a respectable young lady who had just risen from the sickroom. His conscience—whose inner voice sounded a great deal like the Right Reverend Hathaway, the stentorian presence who had occupied the pulpit of the church of his childhood—remonstrated him volubly.

He was worse than a cad. A rake. A reprobate.

It didn’t seem to matter though. He still wanted to kiss her. As much too keep his thoughts in line as to satisfy his curiosity, he forced himself to break the silence with a question. “Why were you at the shop that day?”

Hester glanced down at her fingers, worrying at her skirt. “I spent the night.”

“Alone?” Thomas was horrified by the very real risk she had run, a woman alone overnight. Even setting aside the violence she had endured, robbers and burglaries were commonplace in London. If he’d been searching for a topic to distract himself from his impulses, he could not have chosen better. His dismay drove any thought of seduction from his mind. “I think it was foolhardy of you to do so, Miss Aspinall. Rioters pay little heed to a man. A woman garners even less. You were in real danger.” Worry made his voice sharp.

“I did not know there would be violence.” Her chin was raised at a combative angle and her lips were pressed with what Thomas saw as mulish obstinacy.

“Then why? You and your brother keep rooms away from the shop. You should have stayed there and not put yourself in harm’s way.”

“We
kept
rooms, Mr. Ramsay.”

He couldn’t believe what she was telling him. “You have removed from Great Wild Street?” He thought of the neighbourhood which his tenant and his sister had called home. Hardly fashionable, situated between Covent Garden and the Clare Market, but respectable enough and peopled by shopkeepers, artisans and the like. It was unlike the prosperous street his own townhome was situated on, just off of Berkley Square, but for Hester to leave so abruptly was the height of foolishness.

“I left of my own accord,” she insisted.

“I cannot accept that you would act so rashly.” Something of her vagueness alerted him. “Were you asked to leave?”

His instincts were clearly accurate because her blush highlighted her deepening bruises. “My landlady felt it prudent.”

Her answer was so inadequate that Thomas’s anger surged. Since the attack, he’d struggled against a simmering outrage, diffuse and undirected. It had been checked by his houseguest’s urgent medical needs. Now, it roared through him and he could keep his voice level only with concerted effort.

“Prudent? Is that what you call it?” His ire compelled him to his feet. He stalked to the mantel, drumming his fingertips against the cool marble ledge.

“No, but she meant to protect me.”

“By casting you out? Into the streets to meet with who knows what fate?”

“To protect my reputation. She wanted me to live with the vicar of our parish, Mr. Charlesworth.”

The name sounded familiar. In his capacity as one of the principals of Ramsay and Hanney, Thomas met with many people. He searched his memory until a face appeared. “Tall, dour fellow? Voice like an overstretched squeeze box?”

His description brought a fleeting smile to Hester’s face. “The very same,” she agreed. “He would have taken me in but I could not.”

“Why?”

She frowned beneath the wide band of her bandages. “He blamed Robert for his misfortunes and said he would do nothing to help him. His only concern was that he should not share in my brother’s infamy,” she said angrily. “I know I should have held my tongue and submitted to his charity but I could not bring myself to do so. He is pompous and judgemental and the idea of breaking my fast sitting across from him every morning, watching him prose and sermonize and pick apart everyone else was not to be borne.” Her voice trembled with passion and her face flushed.

“You are not beholden to him,” Thomas reassured her. “You were right to act as you did.”

“Except that now my brother’s shop is ruined and as soon as I am recovered, I must find new lodgings. Somewhere plain and inexpensive. Where I am not known. And close to the prison, that I might visit Robert every day.”

He had an image of her, beneath the eaves in some cramped, sweltering rookery, a few pieces of battered furniture for her ease. While her brother was imprisoned, she would forsake her own comfort for his. She would eat as little as possible so that Robert might have more, all the while claiming her tiny frame did not note the lack.

She would do this because that was the sort of woman she was, loyal and loving. Robert Aspinall was lucky to have her as his sister.

“Do you know any dealers in secondhand furniture?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Hester, he now noticed, had a letter in her hand and was frowning as she glanced down at it. “My brother has the name of a solicitor but…” She paused, looking uncomfortable.

“But?”

“Assuming the strongbox is still secure, we have some fifteen pounds. The lawyer has asked for twenty. I don’t think our clothes will bring much—a pound or two, at most—but we have some furniture. If I sold them, I think—”