One Night of Surrender: The Brothers Mortmain, Book 1 (7 page)

Turnkey Martin opened the door and behind him shuffled some burly men with a metal bath and several steaming buckets of water. They kept their eyes averted as they set the items down and promptly turned and left. However the turnkey paused to murmur something to Gervais, before quietly closing the door and locking it.

Slowly Katherine climbed from the bed. Her body ached and her sheath felt raw. She would be sore tomorrow…today, but perhaps it would be good to be sore. To remember.

Gervais was busy pouring the buckets of water into the bath, then he took up a piece of soap and lifted it to his nose to smell. “Hmm, orange blossom,” he said with pleasure.

Katherine came closer, watching him, as he stepped into the tub and lowered himself down. It was small, his knees were under his chin, but he splashed water over his body, soaping his skin, with evident enjoyment.

She supposed this was the last bath he would take, the last time he would wash himself with sweet soap and experience the warm trickle of the water over his skin.

“Let me,” she said, coming to kneel by the bath. She soaped him gently, cleaning every inch of him. And as she touched him she remembered that she was washing herself off this man, this warm and vibrant body, and he would be dead soon. He would be cold in the grave or, worse, dissected upon some surgeon’s table before his gaping students.

Her hand trembled but she refused to give in to despair. If there were tears then they fell from her eyes into the water, and if he noticed he didn’t say.

Finally she washed his hair. He ducked his head while she used the empty wine jug to tip rinsing water over him again and again, until his dark hair slicked to his head.

He needed shaving, but when she asked he smiled and said it was unlikely they would allow him a razor in case he decided to cheat the hangman.

“I will have to go to the gallows with my beard,” he said, rubbing his hand over the rough whiskers that had appeared on his cheeks and jaw. They were dark, like his hair and eyes.

She kissed him, little desperate kisses finally finding his mouth, her lips soft against his.

He held her face in his palms. “Hush,” he whispered, and using his thumbs wiped away the tears. “You will be free soon, Katherine. That is something to celebrate.”

He stood but she stayed kneeling, watching as he found his clothing—clean clothing folded upon a chest—and began to dress. Grey trousers and a cream silk shirt, a waistcoat of red and gold swirling threads, and an expertly cut jacket. He pulled his polished boots back on, while his cravat he left till last, tying it carelessly about his neck.

“Let me,” she said, and came to help.

“My father offered to send me a valet,” he said, with a poignant smile, “but I refused. Newgate doesn’t require one to dress for dinner.”

Her laugh was almost a sob.

With a groan he bent his head to kiss her, feeding off her lips and mouth, his tongue desperately mating with hers. Katherine wouldn’t have imagined it possible, but suddenly desire reared up inside her, as hot and as desperate as ever. He pulled her body to him, his own warm against her naked, chilled flesh, and in two steps had her pressed against the tapestry on the wall. Fumbling at his recently buttoned trousers he freed himself.

She felt the embroidered cloth against her back, abrading her skin as he lifted her up, her thighs wrapped around his waist. Her breasts ached from the rub of his waistcoat, her nipples peeking from the friction, and he squeezed her bottom in his big hands as he entered her, sliding deep inside her once more. Her sheath felt raw but her body didn’t seem to care. She was wild for him, already coming as he gave several rough, desperate thrusts up into her. And when he buried his face in her breasts, both of them shuddering from the experience, she held him closer.

Gervais had never come like that before. He wondered if he could survive it. He stood, panting, holding her still impaled upon him, feeling light-headed from lack of sleep. He made a decision then that he would think only of Katherine’s face when he stood before the crowd. As they cheered and jeered he would picture her beautiful smile and the way she arched her throat and cried out when he came deep inside her.

He could bear it then, he thought. He could bear anything.

A knock came on the door again.

Katherine clung closer, wrapping her arms tight about him, but he gently pulled them away and let her slide down to her feet. For a moment they stood pressed together, both warm and very much alive, and then he stepped away and began to neaten himself.

“Do I look like a gentleman highwayman?” he said, spreading his arms for her inspection.

Katherine nodded, and then reached to smooth back a lock of his damp hair. She might have clung to him again but he moved backwards, away from her, still watching her. And then he took another step and another. He was moving further away and she stood and let him.

“
Adieu
,” he whispered, his dark eyes delving into hers, and then he turned and strode quickly to the door.

When it opened Katherine saw there were three gentlemen waiting, along with Turnkey Martin and two guards. On wobbly legs she reached the safety of the bed curtains, but the men didn’t come into the room. The three gentlemen were embracing Gervais, the elder one with grey hair and a stern lined face. Of the younger two, one was fair and taller than Gervais, and he wore a black blindfold about his eyes, and the other was dark, though not so dark as Gervais, and similar in height. His father, the Earl of Mortmain, and his brothers, come to say their farewells.

Their grief was palpable. Covering her mouth with her hands to muffle her sobs, Katherine turned away. A moment later she heard the door close and then steps moving away down the stone corridors.

He was gone.

She was alone.

The night was at an end.

Chapter Nine

The cock had crowed some time ago and Katherine’s sobs had worn her out so that she slept. Afterwards she had bathed herself in the now-tepid water, then dressed in the feminine attire she’d found in a neat pile upon the chest by the door. It was clean and well-made and there were slippers for her feet and a bonnet for her hair. She looked like a lady.

Gervais had thought of everything for her new beginning.

She felt so numb that even the raw discomfort from their couplings was welcome, if only to remind her she was alive. Although it also reminded her that he was dead. Dropped before a waiting crowd outside the smoke-blackened walls. But she didn’t want to think of that. She preferred to remember him alive and vital, his dark eyes glinting with laughter and reckless desire, his lips smiling as they kissed hers.

For such a short time he had been hers and only hers, but in that brief time she had been changed. She’d become a different woman. Despite her grief and sadness, Katherine came to the conclusion it had been worth knowing him, if only for the transformation he had wrought in her. And her freedom, of course. No more filthy cells and brawling cellmates, no more watery gruel and gaol fever.

This morning she would walk out of Newgate a free woman.

In time Turnkey Martin returned. His mood was sombre although he gave her one or two curious little glances. He led her out of the sumptuous room and down the dark, grimy corridors and staircases. She followed him in silence until they reached a small door away from the main entrance and all its attendant bureaucracy.

“Best not to let the pen dippers see you,” he muttered. “The gentleman made a private transaction with the governor.”

He then took her on a circuitous route until she was standing outside the huge walls and gatehouse of Newgate.

The air was chill. Katherine shivered and drew her cloak about herself. Ahead of her lay the city of London and its populace, all with their own concerns, none of them caring what had happened to her. It was a daunting prospect, but one Katherine reminded herself she had faced before.

“Kathy girl?”

It was the turnkey. Katherine had forgotten he was there. She turned to face him and discovered Martin was holding out a leather drawstring purse.

“Your man left you this,” he said. “Better keep it close. Plenty of thieves around here.” He twisted his face into a moue of distaste.

She took the purse and opened it. There were coins inside and a square of folded paper. Removing one of the coins she held it out to her friend.

“Nah, I couldn’t take that,” he insisted. “You’ll need all you got, Kathy.”

“Please,” she insisted, and pressed the coin into his palm. “You have been a good friend to me. Thank you.”

“Well,” he shifted his feet, embarrassed. “Good luck, Kathy.”

Katherine slipped the purse inside her dress, between her breasts for now, and felt the comforting weight. At least she wasn’t completely destitute and this might tide her over until she found work. But for now it was time to go. Time to look to her future.

The prison gates were ornate and grimly impressive and she was glad to get beyond them. She kept glancing over her shoulder as the gates got further away until eventually they were swallowed by the crowded buildings of London town and the press of humanity.

At first she had the sensation that she was floating along, like a ghost, but then as she walked further she realised it was because she was hungry. Food would help her to think straight and allow her to consider what to do next.

Katherine stopped at a pasty shop and bought a hot meat pie. She took out the drawstring purse and shook out a coin. The scrap of paper was still there and this time she took it out to read before returning the purse to the safety of its nest.

There was an address written in dark ink.

For a moment she stared. Was this Gervais’s writing? She’d never seen his hand but assumed it must be. The clothing, the coins, and now somewhere she would be safe. Was that what this meant?

Her heart lifted. She needed somewhere she could rest for a time until she decided what she was going to do.

She began to eat, biting into the pastry and then licking the gravy off her fingers like a child. She ate as she walked and pieces of pastry flaked over her chin and collected on her clothing. The cold air was still sharp and a shower washed some of the dirt away from the cobbles at her feet.

Doubts circulated in her mind. What if the address was a bawdy house? If it was she could say no, couldn’t she? That truly would be the last resort. She knew women, desperate women, turned to the streets and the brothels to keep their bellies full of food and clothing on their backs, but she did not think she could do it. And she did not believe Gervais would send her to such a place.

The pie gone, she wiped her hands fastidiously on the handkerchief he had given her, that scrap of linen he’d handed to her outside the old Bailey when they first met. She’d found it on the floor, amongst the rags he’d torn from her body. She realised, with an inner tremor, that it was one of the few things of his she had. Even the scent of him had been washed from her body before she left, replaced with orange blossom soap.

Katherine asked directions from a street vendor, and she soon found herself in a better sort of neighbourhood. She was tired and it had been a long walk with the cobbles bruising her feet through the thin soles of her slippers. She wasn’t really dressed for walking. Boots would have been a better choice. She pretended to scold Gervais in her mind and then scolded herself for doing so. Entering a narrow laneway she stumbled and almost fell. She righted herself, catching her breath. There was a street sign on the wall of the corner building and reading it Katherine realised she’d almost reached the address she was searching for.

Cautiously she made her way past narrow houses with iron railing fences and narrow front steps leading to painted doors. Halfway along she came to a house with a pot of red geraniums on the windowsill and a large tortoiseshell cat peering at her through the little square panes of glass.

This was it. Katherine opened the gate—well-oiled she noticed—and went up the path to the steps. As she climbed them she suddenly felt like an old woman—she was weary, so weary. Not just from last night but from the long months in Newgate and, before that, the two years of abuse and neglect and unhappiness at Edward’s hands.

Please let this be, if not a home, then at least a safe haven for now.

She grasped the knocker but before she could let it drop the door opened.

A woman stood there, a tiny woman with a wizened brown face and white hair almost entirely hidden by an exotic sort of scarf. She wore a dress that was wrapped around her, the cloth dyed in brilliant colours of green and red and yellow. It was the strangest sight Katherine had ever seen.

“My poor, poor dear,” the woman said, dabbing her eyes with a little embroidered handkerchief. “Come in, come in. You are home now. He said you are to live here with me for as long as you wish.”

Katherine slept for a long time. When she eventually woke she made her way down the creaky stairs to find her hostess in the parlour. Her name, she had told Katherine, was Anila.

“Gervais’s father, the Earl of Mortmain, brought me home with him from India, many, many years ago. For a time…well,” she smiled a secret smile, and Katherine realised that this little old woman had once been the earl’s mistress. “His wife was long dead but he thought to marry again, so he bought me this house, and sometimes he visited me in London. He never did remarry but time passed and although we are no longer lovers we have remained friends.”