Elyse Mady (27 page)

“There is nothing for it now. Our priority must be Hester’s safe return.”

“But sir—”

“He is gone. We have his men. His plan is for nothing now.” The Treasury’s men would run him to ground. Wooley’s criminal undertakings had been so thoroughly routed that his life, even if he continued to enjoy his liberty, would henceforth be unpleasant and brutish. Thomas moved forward slowly, not wanting to trip, searching for the lantern Wooley had flung away.

Edward found it instead. Its glass was broken but the fuel had not spilled. He lit it and raised it high, illuminating the space. The factory was long abandoned, home only to the river larks in its rafters. The seamen lay groaning on the floor. Hester was nowhere to be seen.

“Find something to bind the men,” Thomas said over his shoulder, making his way slowly towards a narrow set of stairs.

* * *

From downstairs, came the muffled but distinct sound of shouting.

Hester flew to the door. Barred from without. Escape would be impossible in that direction. The shutters? The mullions were rotten and many of the panes of glass gone, rags stuffed in the openings to keep out the chill. She wrenched at the window, but it did not move. She threw her shoulder against it. It shuddered but held. From below came another noise, this time of men’s voices raised in argument.

She couldn’t distinguish the words but knew the disagreement would disguise her own actions. She had no doubt that Wooley meant to kill her, ransom or no. If she could not escape the room, she must raise the alarm and hope that a passerby would call the watch.

Struggling from her pelisse, she wrapped it around her hand and struck a blow at the window. It resisted. She hit it again and this time, the glass shattered. Careful not to catch her skin on the shards, she reached through, straining to reach the latch that would release the shutters.

Not quite. She stood on tiptoe, biting back a cry of pain as the glass cut deep into her forearm. She must persevere.

Just.

There.

Her fingers, slick with sweat inside her filthy gloves, caught on the iron protrusion. It was rusted shut.

She started to cry. She’d tried so hard to be brave, but it seemed so hopeless. Heavy feet pounded up the stairs. She wanted to sink to the ground in terror but she would not give Wooley the satisfaction. She would fight. She would fight until the death that the evil man might not best her.

She snatched up a shard of glass and held it out like a knife.

The door flung open.

“Hester! My God, Hester!”

Thomas, filthy and disordered and glorious, crossed the tiny space with a few long strides. Gentle hands lifted the glass from her numb fingers and then he was kissing her over and over and murmuring benedictions in her hair.

It felt like a dream, but reality—the pain of her arm, the stench of his body, disguised in filth, the effortless way he gathered her against his body—told her that she was safe.

From below, George and Edward Ramsay appeared. The men took in the reunion and retreated to a discrete distance, inspecting the room for further dangers. Thomas seemed to recall himself and began to run clinical hands over her body. “Has he hurt you? Forced himself upon you?”

Hester shook her head, unable to speak for the joy breaking over her. “No.” She felt as though she might cry again but with a deep breath and a tight compression of her lips, she brought herself under control once more. “How did you find me? I thought no one had seen me taken up.”

“Sir John’s clerks are a very thorough bunch. When Wooley was investigated, Sir John learned of this address. We didn’t know if it was the right one, but waiting was impossible.” His hands discovered her bloody wound and his voice cracked. She wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. It left a streak across his dirty face.

“Don’t,” she admonished. “I am safe. I have come to no lasting harm thanks to you.”

He stepped away, unwrapping his stock as he did so. Hester felt light-headed. Fear and hunger threatened to overwhelm her. Everything seemed strangely bright. He bent over her and began to wind the linen around her wounded forearm, taking meticulous care not to hurt her further.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

She froze, unable to believe the evidence of her own ears.

“I love you,” he repeated, taking her hands in his own. He turned them over, so that her palms were up, and began to undo the buttons holding the kid leather in place. The right one was bloodied; both were ruined.

The pulse at the base of her wrist, visible beneath the translucent skin, beat rapidly. “And Wooley?” she began.

He did not let her finish, kissing her until she forgot everything but his touch. When he drew back, he returned to work on the miniscule buttons of her glove. When at last they were undone, he began to tug gently on her fingertips.

“He has escaped,” Thomas admitted with a sour grimace as he slipped the first glove off and let it drop to the floor. “We have taken some of his men and they will be turned over to the law. But I give you my word that he will never threaten us again. He will be brought to justice too.” He paused, tucking the end of the linen bandage under to secure it. “But this thing between us had nothing to do with Wooley. This has to do with the fact that I love you. That I have loved you almost from the moment I first laid eyes on you, three and a half years ago.

Three years? He had loved her for three years and she had never known it. She was humbled by his devotion.

“I know there could not be a worse time or a worse place for it but I cannot stay silent any longer. I am asking you to be my wife for that reason and that reason alone. Will you say yes?”

Hester was trembling. “You could not make a worse choice of bride than me. I have nothing. No money. No connections. My family, such as it is, is infamous. I have nothing.”

“You have my heart. The rest doesn’t matter.”

* * *

“Your family will not approve.” She said it with certainty and Thomas knew who had warned her against an alliance. “Is that why Edward is here?” she asked, looking across the room to where his brother was situated. He had discovered the packets of forged notes and was inspecting them closely. “To warn you against me?”

“My brother and I have long seen the world differently. He may express his disapproval but it carries no weight.” Thomas paused. “He did come tonight, though and offered me his services when I needed them most. I am grateful. Perhaps, in time—”

“In time.” She nodded and he felt encouraged. The breech between his family might yet be bridged. With patience and understanding on both sides. It was something he had never expected to see and he was grateful, even as he decried the near tragedy that had had to happen to bring it about.

He took a deep breath. He didn’t want to talk about his brother any more. Now, he wanted to speak to Hester alone. “I know you must think this a reaction to the fright we have both experienced today but I want to assure you that it is not. I am sincere in my proposal.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out the special licence. “I have carried this around with me in secret for far longer than I would have hoped. Do you know what it is?”

She took it from him, her eyes bright. She did not seemed surprised though, only delighted, as she unfolded it. “A special licence. You spoke to the Archbishop.” He watched her face closely as she traced the script. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I was afraid you might say no,” he admitted. Afraid didn’t begin to cover the depth of his fears but for now it sufficed. He was more interested in her answer and why she seemed so calm after all she had endured. “How did you know?”

“Wooley had you followed. He told me. He was banking on your being in love with me as reason to pay his ransom.”

“Wooley may be evil and dishonest but he is not a fool. I would do anything—give anything—to keep you safe.”

She smiled through her tears and he thought she had never looked as lovely as she did at that moment. “But why did you wait so long to ask me? This is dated from two weeks ago.”

He looked into her beautiful dark eyes, willing her to see the love he felt for her. He could not live without her. It was impossible to consider. He took a deep breath and bared his soul. “I was terrified. You were so certain, so assured, when you promised me that what was between us was only temporary. I felt ashamed of myself for allowing my desires to get the upper hand over my own judgement. But what I felt for you was so strong that I could not resist. I comforted myself that in time, you might come to feel for me as I felt for you. I was prepared to wait—”

“Yes.”

He was so carried away by his arguments that for a moment, he could not comprehend Hester’s acquiescence.

“Yes?”

She smiled and her whole face lit. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.” She laughed and threw her arms around his neck, heedless of her injuries. Her kiss was warm and inviting and he could feel himself rising against her. He set her from him with determination.

“You will marry me?” He wanted there to be no further misunderstandings between them.

“Yes.”

“I thought you did not love me.”

“I have always loved you,” she whispered. “Even when I thought it hopeless.”

He touched her cheek affectionately. “My brother tells me you are quite the virago when you are riled. Did you really turn down six hundred pounds?

Hester coloured. “I would turn down six thousand if it meant I might spend my life with you.”

Thomas kissed her, deep and passionate. She clung to him as though she might never let go. At length, he lifted his head.

“Tell me again,” he demanded.

She smiled. “I love you.” He kissed her again, luxuriating in the feel of her body and her mouth and her soft, soft skin beneath his palms.

Hester was safe.

She loved him and had promised to marry him. He did not think he had ever seen a more beautiful sight that that of her face, dirtied and pale though it was, as she gazed up at him.

“Let us go home,” she urged.

“Yes.” He wrapped his coat more tightly around her shoulders and swept her into his arms.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The courtroom was nearly filled to capacity. Hester gripped Thomas’s arm as he shouldered his way forward to the front row of the visitors’ stands. They’d arrived early, afraid that the notoriety of the case might bring such large crowds that they would not be able to gain a seat.

The Middlesex Sessions House was an imposing building, built in the classical style. The rotunda was surprisingly grand for a court, she thought, the round ceiling above punctuated with plaster cornices and decoration.

“Here?” Thomas asked solicitously.

She looked down. Their seats gave them a clear view of the space below. Beneath three immense windows was the judge’s bench. The justices were absent still, but clerks bustled up and down its length, readying documents and carrying thick files. In front of the bench, on the floor of the courtroom, barristers in black gowns and wigs moved about, greeting colleagues, holding inaudible conferences with their solicitors and preparing for the long day of testimony ahead.

“Where is Sir John?” she whispered.

“He will be arriving shortly, I’m sure.” Thomas took out his pocket watch and consulted it. “It is only at little past seven-thirty. The court will not be called to order until eight o’clock.”

“But if Robert’s trial should be among the first—”

“We will not hear a criminal case until the lunch hour. The morning is always taken up with the business of a grand jury. They must present the indictments first, and only then, if the bill is taken up by them, can a prosecution go forward.”

“I see. And if the bill is not taken up?”

“Then the accused is dismissed. But do not get your hopes up prematurely,” he advised. “The grand jury is responsible for determining sufficiency, not guilt. The petty jury, who will be called later, will determine your brother’s ultimate fate.”

“Oh.” There were so many aspects to consider. She clenched her gloved hands and tried to loosen her tense shoulders. Thomas laid a gentle hand over hers and squeezed, mindful of the bandages that still covered her injuries. The warmth of his touch was reassuring. She forced herself to breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The tightness in her chest eased a little.

She thought of Thomas’s voice the first time he’d told her he loved her and the ties loosened a small degree more. The miracle had lost none of its bright shine. She doubted a lifetime would ever dull her amazement that she had met and fallen in love with a man as fine as Thomas Ramsay and that he returned her feelings.

He knew everything there was to know of her—the good, the shameful, the discreditable—but he loved her all the same. It was a gift she would never overlook.

Below, a group of some twenty men were led in to a long box. They sat down, murmuring amongst themselves. This was the jury. Hester studied their faces. Some were craning their heads, peering round the high-ceilinged chamber with unabashed interest, as though the day were an interesting expedition. Others stared stoically ahead. One had brought a newspaper and was reading it, oblivious to the business of the court that was unrolling before him.

They looked so ordinary, these men. Some were young, some old. There was one enormously stout man near the end of the box who kept mopping his bald head with a handkerchief, who reminded her a little of Mr. Butters, the greengrocer. These men would decide her brother’s fate.

Would they be just? Would they listen to the evidence and weigh it in their minds, or would the mere accusation be enough to sweep away their doubts and arouse their anger and their prejudices?

There was no way of knowing.

The uncertainty tore at her heart.

Hester understood now how long Robert had resisted the urges he so despaired of. If he had not come across the Vere Street molly house, he would have met another man, in another situation. Robert could not deny that part of his nature and it would be cruel of her to blame him when he had already suffered so terribly. A part of her—the cowardly part—wished it could be different. Their lives would not have been overturned, his future in limbo, if he had only been able to behave as most men did.

The braver part admired him. She thought of their honest conversation in the prison. How much hurt could have been avoided if they had both shared their secret longings earlier? Besides, she and Thomas might never have come to share what they had if they had not been thrown together. With every evil, there came some small grain of good. The costs were still so steep and her brother’s safety far from assured.

Thomas leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Sir John has arrived,” he told her. “He is sitting at the table with the other gentlemen of the law.”

Below, in the courtroom, she could make out the distinguished barrister. He looked at ease, scratching a few short phrases on the parchment in front of him. His confidence seemed to Hester a good omen.

Beside him, all arrayed in similar black robes, were the other barristers, defending and prosecuting not only Robert’s trial but the dozens more that would be heard today. One man, short, with a weak chin and thick spectacles, knocked over a heavy stack of books. They clattered against the floor and when he knelt to collect them, his wig slipped off. He jammed it back on his head, but it still canted at a precarious angle.

“Who is that?” she asked, pointing out the bumbling man.

“Mr. Gurney,” Thomas replied. “Sir John says he has offered his services gratis to the men who were arrested with your brother. It seems he was moved to act by the fact that it was a capital crime.”

“Oh. He seems quite disorganized.”

Thomas looked down at the harried barrister, who had knocked a jar of sand on its side when he’d tried to replace the books. “Very.”

The clerk of the peace came out, followed by the Lord Mayor, the recorder, the sheriff, the Common Sergeant and the judge, the Honourable Sir William Bailey. Each man took their seat behind the high dais, while the clerk of the peace strode down to stand in front of the jury box. Beneath his arm, he carried a thick black book.

“Oyez! Oyez! All rise.”

The first man in the jury box stood and placed a familiar hand on the bible.

“You as foreman of this inquest shall diligently enquire and true presentment make of all such matters and things as shall be given you in charge,” the clerk charged in a loud voice that carried throughout the courtroom. “The king’s counsel, your fellows and your own you shall keep. You shall present no man for envy or malice, neither shall you leave man unpresented for fear, favour or hope of reward but you shall weigh all things truly as they come to your according to the best of your abilities.”

“I so swear,” the foreman promised as the court looked on.

Three by three, the rest of the jury stood and repeated the oath. Then the clerk of the peace began to call the recognizances, and one by one, bills began to be presented. It was repetitious, legal minutiae that held little interest. Questions of interest, of fines, of civil decisions, of the progress of appeals and continuances granted. The morning passed slowly, and Hester let her mind drift. The judge considered dozens of matters, dispatching the applicants with dizzying speed. There was barely enough time to catch a glimpse of the litigants before their cases were pronounced upon and they shuffled once more into the recesses of the Clerkenwell from whence they had come.

Finally, as the sun slanted low through the windows, bathing the space with a soft, golden glow, the sergeant called Robert’s name. A loud, speculative murmur swept through the courtroom, as all around them, people craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the notorious Coterie, as the Fleet Street press had dubbed them.

Through the small door, led by the gaoler, came the men, one by one, shackled to a long length of chain. James Cook staggered a little, still bearing the signs of his beating, and the man behind him caught him by the elbow to steady him. Robert was the last to emerge. He blinked repeatedly as he was brought into the courtroom, as though his eyes were unaccustomed to such brilliance, but he did not duck his head or hunch his shoulders. He walked steadily, with intent and dignity, towards the prisoner’s dock.

Hester was overcome with fear and love for her brother. She wanted to call out her encouragement, but knew from watching the proceedings that any attempt to do so would mean her immediate ejection. So she bit her lip and tried to give all her thoughts over to Robert.

Thomas’s hand was comforting as it slipped into her lap to take one of her icy hands into his own. Hester loved him even more for his staunch support. There was no way she could doubt his feelings for her. Not now. Not after everything that had passed. She had agreed to marry him.

Thomas, her own, forever and ever. It was such a surprising notion that she could not stop the words she had held in her heart for so long.

“I love you.”

He turned away from the drama below them and looked at her, his dark eyes intent. The hubbub of the courtroom below seemed momentarily distant.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I wanted you to know again that I love you,” she said again, her voice barely audible.

“Always,” he said softly.

“Yes.” Hester smiled. It was madness, to feel even a modicum of happiness on this, her brother’s most desperate day, but she did not regret her admission. Thomas had laboured for far too long under the impression that it had been by sufferance alone that she had resided with him. Self-sacrifice had never, not even for a moment, been her motivation.

So little of good had come of the past few months.

Their love was the treasured exception and she valued it all the more for it being so sorely won.

He squeezed her hand again, conveying wordlessly all that their situation would not let him say at present, whilst his free hand went reflexively to his breast pocket. The special licence, she knew, was there, protected from harm until the moment when they could marry.

One by one the prisoners were called to the bar, and when their names were pronounced, raised their hand to acknowledge it.

“James Cook?”

The publican raised his manacled hand to acknowledge the name. One by one, the Vere Street Coterie were hailed.

William Amos.

Philip Hett.

William Thompson.

Richard Francis.

James Done.

Finally, it was Robert’s turn. His name was read and when he nodded, Hester watched as the clerk recorded it in the Session rolls, his quill moving across the paper with meticulous intent.

Then the clerk stood. Around them, in the gallery, all the spectators fell silent.

“The jurors for our lord, the king, upon their oath present that the prisoners here present at the bar, in the city of London on the day of July eighth in the fifty-first year of the reign of our sovereign lord, George the Third, frequented and patronized a certain common, ill-governed and disorderly house in Clare Market and in this said house committed with sundry evil and ill-disposed persons all manner of dishonest conversation and unnatural acts.”

The charges were circuitous and by virtue of their legal language difficult to decipher but even the most ill schooled could understand the charge of an “unnatural act.” Everyone strained to hear the prisoners’ responses.

The judge looked down at the bench. “How say you, Robert Aspinall? Are you guilty, or not guilty?”

“Not guilty.” Robert spoke clearly, his voice carrying throughout the large space.

“How will you be tried?”

“By God and the country.”

“God send you a good deliverance. Has the jury been sworn?”

“They have.”

At this assurance, the judge waved his hand. “Then let Mr. Pooley begin.”

The barrister for the prosecution rose from the table below the bench and gestured to a slight man, with red hair, who looked to be no more than twenty or twenty-one, sitting just behind the prisoner’s dock.

“The prosecution calls Mr. Henry Nichols to the stand.”

Nichols shuffled towards the witness box. It was a narrow, pulpitlike dais, raised above the floor and reached by a matter of four steep steps. The witness’s boots were ill fitting and made an odd gallumping sound as he made his way across the polished floor. He climbed up and the clerk presented him with a Bible. He laid his hand over and the oath was read.

Hester could see the young man’s unencumbered hand, gripping tightly the railing that ran round the witness stand. He was facing the judges’ bench, his back to Robert and the other accused. The delegation of lawyers was between the stand and the bench.

Mr. Pooley, the lawyer for the prosecution, looked very assured as he addressed the witness, his voice strong. There was a substantial stack of papers before him, but he never referred to them. He seemed completely at ease, a great contrast to the witness, who fidgeted and swayed and shuffled from foot to foot before him.

“Please identify yourself, sir, and tell the court what you know of the crime committed by these men here named.”

“My name is Henry Nichols,” the witness said. His voice sounded nervous but as he spoke, he gained confidence in his recital. “I am a police officer with the Bow Street Police. On the first of July, I was ordered to attend a public house to ascertain whether or not acts of an unnatural nature were taking place amongst its patrons.”

“This was the public house known as the White Swan, located in the Clare Market and operated by one Mr. James Cook?”

“Yes. I was chosen, along with Mr. Linnet, my colleague, to infiltrate the establishment, to watch the proceedings of persons assembled there and secure evidence of their behaviour.”

“You dissembled, then, and cloaked your revulsion, in order to pass amongst the accused unsuspected?”

Nichols swallowed. He looked unnerved at the barrister’s question.

“Mr. Nichols, did you masquerade as a practitioner of sodomitical pursuits while in the course of your investigation?”

“Yes,” he blurted. “Mr. Linnet and I acted the part, in order to observe the proceedings.”

“And in the course of your investigations, did you observe criminal acts?”