The Prisoner (21 page)

Genevieve hesitated. She sensed she was being led into a trap, and she wanted to answer in a way that would not assist the prosecutor's case.

“Was there something she desperately needed that you refused to provide for her?” he prodded.

“No, of course not—”

“Then what caused her to behave in such a supposedly uncharacteristic manner?”

Haydon watched with concern as Genevieve struggled to formulate a response. If she confessed that she was in dire financial trouble and that her children had been trying to help, it would open the door for the court to examine her ability to maintain and support all of the children in her custody. But if she said she didn't know why Charlotte had participated in the raid upon Mr. Ingram, it would suggest that there was something inherently wicked about Charlotte, especially in light of the evidence that Charlotte had been well cared for and permitted to want for nothing.

“Charlotte believed she was helping me,” Genevieve began hesitantly.

“By stealing?”

“She didn't actually steal anything—”

“Come now, Mrs. Blake, let us not dally with words. The accused was part of a gang of thieves who worked together to steal several precious pieces of jewelry from Mr. Ingram, and in the process did hundreds of pounds worth of damage to the contents of his shop. The fact that she did not actually have the stolen goods on her person at the time of her arrest is scarcely relevant. Are you saying she was trying to help you by stealing this jewelry?”

Genevieve paused. “I believe so,” she finally allowed.

“I see. Forgive me, Mrs. Blake, if this question seems impertinent, but it seems to me the court must know if you are suffering some sort of financial crisis. Are you?”

“I have every ability to support my household, Mr. Fenton,” she assured him evenly.

“Then you must agree that the accused had no compelling reason to rob Mr. Ingram's shop, and therefore must have been driven by her own immoral tendencies, which you, despite your very best efforts, have not been able to curtail,” summarized the prosecutor.

“That's not true!”

“I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

“But what he said was a lie—”

“Mrs. Blake, your testimony is finished,” said the sheriff. “You may return to your seat.”

Genevieve forced herself to regain control of her emotions. She did not want Charlotte to think that all was lost, and surely she would if she saw Genevieve ranting or weeping before the court. She gave Charlotte an encouraging smile before slowly making her way back to her place beside Haydon.

The sheriff studied the papers laid out before him for barely an instant before rendering his verdict. “As there seems to be no dispute regarding the accused's participation in the aforementioned robbery, I have no option other than to find her guilty of the charges against her. What remains to be decided is her sentence. It seems clear that despite Mrs. Blake's best efforts to keep her upon a path of good and lawful conduct, the accused has been unable to overcome her inherent tendencies toward thievery and her lack of respect for the law. Therefore, for her own betterment and to give her the opportunity to correct her apparent lack of moral fortitude, I hereby sentence Charlotte McCallum to sixty days imprisonment, to be followed by four years in a reformatory school in Glasgow.”

“No!” cried Genevieve, stunned. “Please, you must listen to me—”

“The accused will step down so that we may begin the next case,” said the sheriff, pushing the papers concerning the case aside. He was most anxious to get on with things so he could have his tea.

Charlotte stared at Genevieve, her enormous hazel eyes sparkling with fear. “Genevieve?”

“It's all right, Charlotte,” Genevieve called, desperately trying to be reassuring in the midst of her own terror. “Everything is going to be fine.”

Charlotte gave her a single, silent nod, filled with love and sorrow and a haunting courage.

And then she turned and permitted herself to be led away, leaving Genevieve clutching Haydon's arm for support as she stared in agony after her.

Chapter Nine

G
OVERNOR THOMSON LOOKED UP FROM HIS PLATE
of kippered herring in astonishment as Haydon marched into his dining room.

“Forgive me for interrupting your breakfast, madam,” Haydon apologized, graciously bowing toward Governor Thomson's flaccid-faced wife, “but your husband and I have a serious matter to attend to that simply will not wait. I do hope you will accept my sincerest apologies for stealing him away from your lovely presence at such an unearthly hour.”

Janet Thomson was a stout little melon-shaped woman whose face was screwed into a perpetual expression of pained disapproval. As prison matron, she continuously found ample reason to feel vastly superior to most of the world around her, and it was only by virtue of her deep religious convictions that she felt there was any hope for humanity at all. She was a pragmatic woman who had accepted at an early age the severe limitations of her lack of physical beauty, and saw her union with her husband and her life at the prison as little more than a trial by God, for which she expected to be duly rewarded by receiving a particularly exalted place in the hereafter.

Her moral resolve did not mean, however, that she was above being titillated by a morsel of feminine flattery, particularly when it was offered by such an uncommonly handsome man.

“Mr. Blake,” she cooed, as Haydon pressed his lips to the solid bulk of her hand, “it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is all mine, madam,” Haydon assured her.

“I am so sorry to hear about your wife's ward,” she continued, looking appropriately aggrieved. “I have spent some time talking to Charlotte since her return to our prison, and I have found her to be a generally sensible girl, despite the obvious low moral character of her father. After nearly a lifetime spent working with those who have fallen from the path of righteousness, I have learned that the wicked turbulence of the blood cannot be bridled by mere charity.
‘The righteous shall be preserved forever, but the children of the wicked shall be cut off.'
Your wife is, of course, certainly to be commended for her efforts.”

“Thank you.” Haydon barely restrained the urge to tell her to keep her damn theories on wickedness to herself. “My wife and I are firm believers in the essential goodness of children, and so far, we have not been disappointed. It is to your husband's credit that he has shown both wisdom and compassion in the past by bringing these lost children to my wife's attention—especially when he seeks no reward other than the salvation of the child. It must be spiritually uplifting to share one's life and work with such a selfless and dedicated man.” His voice was edged with contempt, which completely eluded Mrs. Thomson's notice.

“Oh, it is indeed,” Mrs. Thomson agreed, thoroughly pleased that a well-bred man of such obvious moral character was praising her husband. “My husband and I may be far from rich, Mr. Blake, but God has charged us with the difficult task of trying to help these poor sinners find the road to piety.
‘Trust in the Lord and do good; so you will dwell in the land, and enjoy security. Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart.'
Our wealth is in the work we do and the respect we have earned over so many years within our community.”

“A most admirable philosophy,” commended Haydon. “One can only hope that nothing ever happens to erode that community respect. It would be nothing short of tragic if you were to find a lifetime of work destroyed.”

Mrs. Thomson permitted herself a confused half smile. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”

“I am certain Mr. Blake is merely making conjecture for the sake of discussion,” interjected Governor Thomson hastily. “Aren't you, Mr. Blake?”

“I must say, you have some very handsome pieces in here, Governor Thomson,” Haydon remarked, ignoring his question. He paused to examine a magnificent gold clock positioned on the mantel. “What a glorious antique—it's Swiss, isn't it? Looks to me like it's from the early eighteenth century. A truly exceptional work. Is it a family heirloom?”

“Oh gracious, no,” answered Mrs. Thomson. “I'm proud to say that both my husband and I come from very modest beginnings, sir. That clock was purchased by my husband just last year, during a trip we made to Edinburgh.”

Haydon arched his brow. “How very interesting.”

Governor Thomson pushed his plate of cold kippers away. “Would you excuse us for a moment, my dear? It seems Mr. Blake and I have some business to discuss.”

“I promise not to detain your husband overly long.” Haydon gallantly assisted Mrs. Thomson as she rose from her chair. “As a newly married man, I understand how time weighs heavily when one is separated from one's lovely wife.”

Color flooded Mrs. Thomson's cheeks. “Of course, Mr. Blake,” she said, her hand flitting at her throat as she regarded him with girlish infatuation. “I do hope we shall have the pleasure of a visit from you again. Good day to you, sir.”

“Get your hat and coat,” Haydon ordered curtly the instant she was gone. “You are coming with me to see Sheriff Trotter.”

Governor Thomson scratched his gray beard in nervous confusion. “Why?”

“You are going to support the appeal that I am about to make to him to reverse his decision yesterday to send my eleven-year-old daughter to prison and reformatory school. You are going to tell him that in all your years of work as a prison governor, you have never known a more exemplary prisoner. You are going to tell him that you take particular interest in Charlotte's case because she is such a sweet and virtuous child, and that having known her personally from when she was first imprisoned over a year ago, you are astounded by the positive changes in her since she has been in my wife's tender care. You are going to tell him that Charlotte is the very model of morality and obedience, and that given these attributes, combined with the unfortunate state of her health, you cannot in good conscience condone her spending any more time in your prison. You will confess that your prison is torturously cold and damp and foul, and that Charlotte is at risk of falling victim to any one of a series of deadly conditions should she remain under its roof even one more night. You shall make it sound as if she could expire at any moment, Governor Thomson, and you will tell Sheriff Trotter that if she dies, it is he and not yourself whom the public will hold accountable.”

Governor Thomson stared at him with bulging eyes, completely flabbergasted. “I can't do that!” he sputtered.

“You can and you will,” Haydon assured him in a tight, savage voice. “And if by the end of our discussion with the sheriff you have not managed to convince him to alter his sentence and return Charlotte to the custody of my wife and myself, I will go straight to the newspaper and alert them that there needs to be a thorough investigation of the prison at once. I will tell them of the abuses that go on in this place—from the beatings and torments doled out by Warder Sims to the foul water, insufficient food that a dog wouldn't eat, vermin-ridden uniforms and bedclothes, freezing dark cells with chamber pots overflowing with filth—”

“That isn't true!”

“Actually, I have a firsthand account. Jack spent time in your festering sewer just a couple of weeks ago, and he has enlightened my wife and myself on many of its less ingratiating points.”

“My prison is a model of modernity,” Governor Thomson retaliated defensively. “I'll have you know it is run in accordance with the recommendations of the Inspector of Prisons for Scotland!”

“Then you won't mind an inspection being conducted by the newspaper this very afternoon, including a thorough analysis of your financial register.” Haydon picked up a handsomely wrought sterling silver carving knife and turned it over in his hands. “I suspect the people of Inveraray would be very interested to know just exactly how much you earn, Governor. It might give them cause to wonder how you are able to afford such lavish furnishings. I know my wife has some fascinating insight on that subject, which, if Charlotte is not safely restored to us by the end of the day, I shall feel obliged to share with Sheriff Trotter and the Prison Board.”

Governor Thomson's face blanched. “If you will just permit me to fetch my coat, I shall be pleased to express my opinion to Sheriff Trotter on the matter of your daughter, Mr. Blake. The prison system can barely afford to support the inmates already within its confines, and is certainly not a fitting place for a gentle young lady of delicate health.” He deposited his linen napkin beside his plate of cold kippers and stood.

Haydon nodded with satisfaction.

 

G
ENEVIEVE PUT DOWN HER PEN AND PRESSED THE
heels of her hands hard against the hot, aching sockets of her eyes.

There was nothing to be gained by crying, she reminded herself fiercely, and everything to be lost if she allowed herself the luxury of wasting time by sitting around weeping. And so she dabbed her eyes for the hundredth time with her sodden handkerchief and dipped her quill in the inkwell, determined to finish this last letter to Queen Victoria, in which she pleaded, as both a woman and a mother, for clemency on behalf of Charlotte. She had already made an impassioned plea in letters to Sheriff Trotter and to Viscount Palmerston, the prime minister. She realized the chances were remote that Her Majesty might actually read her letter, but she intended to write her every day nonetheless. At some point one of her ministers or secretaries would be compelled to bring the matter to her attention. Surely any woman with children would be horrified to learn of the cruelty of sending a mere child to prison for the relatively paltry crime of theft? Or would the queen think that lower-class children who ran afoul of the law were the basis of all that was wrong with the world, and that they were best locked up in dark prisons and forgotten, so the rest of society could go on safely about its business?

The treacherous tears began to leak from her eyes, unstoppable as rain, until the desperately scrawled letter began to dissolve beneath wet blotches of salty ink.

Someone knocked upon her door.

“Please go away,” Genevieve managed, fighting not to sound as if she were on the brink of hysteria. Her children depended on her to be strong and sure and in control of herself. She could not let anyone see her in her current condition.

“I need to speak with you, Genevieve.” Haydon's voice was low and insistent. “It is a matter of great importance.”

Genevieve swallowed and blotted at her eyes with her crumpled handkerchief. She did not want to see Haydon. She did not want to see anyone. Why couldn't they understand that? All day long Eunice, Doreen, and Oliver had been pounding relentlessly at her door, bringing her trays and begging her to go downstairs and eat something. She did not want to eat. How could she ingest even a sip of clean water knowing that Charlotte was sitting in a cell being offered putrid milk and sour porridge? And despite all their kind intentions, she did not want to talk to anyone. Her heart was shattered, and nothing anyone could say or do was going to ease the terrible pain ripping through her.

“Please go away,” she repeated.

“I'm afraid I cannot do that, Genevieve. Open the door.”

“I am not feeling well,” she insisted. “Just leave me alone.”

There was a moment of silence.

The door began to open.

Genevieve turned from her desk, poised to lash at him in anger and despair, to scream at him for being so callous and cruel when all she asked for was to be left to suffer her agony in solitude.

And then she saw Charlotte standing in the doorway, her precious face lit with a hesitant smile, as if she was not entirely sure that Genevieve would be happy to see her.

A cry pierced the air, the sound of utter joy mingled with pain. Genevieve tore across the room, grabbed Charlotte, and wrapped her arms around her before kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her hair, touching her all over to make sure she was well and whole. Jamie, Annabelle, Grace, and Simon giggled and yelled out as they burst from their hiding place in the hallway.

“Surprise, Genevieve!”

“Aren't you glad Haydon opened the door?”

“See, you told us Charlotte would be coming home again, and now she has!”

“Don't you want to let her take her hat and coat off?”

“Why are you still crying, Genevieve?”

Genevieve buried her face in Charlotte's hair and began to sob, the long, heaving sound of emotions that have suddenly burst free from their fetters and then cannot be restrained. The children watched her in stricken silence, unable to comprehend her apparent misery when there was so much to celebrate. Only Charlotte seemed to understand, for she began to weep as well, and the sound of both of them crying vanquished the merriment that had filled the other children with such tittering anticipation as the entire household traipsed secretly up the stairs.