The Bartered Bride by Mary Jo Putney
“I’ll remember that.”
With no business to discuss and no real relationship, an awkward silence fell until Gavin said, “It was good of you to come. I do appreciate it, even if I’m not very hospitable.”
“I can’t say that I blame you. You’re in a damnable position. Please believe that I’m not hoping for an innocent man to die merely to advance my station in the world.” Philip paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I’m very sorry about Lady Seabourne’s death. She was a lovely woman.”
His sympathy triggered one of the swift waves of anguish that struck Gavin many times a day. He nodded thanks and turned away, struggling to control himself. On some primal level, he couldn’t really believe she was dead. Particularly at night, when he tried to sleep, she felt so close that he almost believed he could reach out and touch her.
Perhaps the spirits of the murdered really were restive, or perhaps sudden death had caught her by surprise and she wanted to stay close to him. He hoped the latter. He couldn’t bear to think of her spirit as distressed and crying for vengeance.
The thought was painful, so he was not in a good mood late in the afternoon when Major Mark Colwell stormed in wearing a travel-stained military uniform. Gavin glanced up from the business papers Suryo had brought the day before. Being noticeably foreign looking, Suryo hadn’t been allowed to visit until he came with Kyle, yet a raging major with an unrequited passion for Alex was admitted easily. It was another thought that didn’t improve his mood.
Colwell glowered at him from just inside the door. “You murdering bastard. I’ll cheer when they hang you.”
“Obviously it hasn’t occurred to you that I might be innocent.”
“They had enough evidence to arrest you. I pray the House of Lords doesn’t give you the benefit of the doubt because you’re an earl.” Colwell’s eyes burned with hatred. “You became a peer and no longer need Alexandra’s family connections, so now you want some young girl with no children and a grand fortune. For that, you murdered the sweetest, most beautiful woman on earth!”
Any sympathy Gavin had for Colwell’s grief evaporated. In a cold rage, he rose from the desk and stalked across the room toward his visitor. “You arrogant fool! You may have pined for your vision of Alex for years, but you didn’t know the first thing about her. Do you have any idea how strong she was? How brave? How passionate? How stubborn? How idealistic?”
He stopped a yard short of the other man, his fists clenching as he struggled with a desire to knock sense into Colwell’s thick head. In a quieter voice, he said, “She was my wife, Katie’s mother, the daughter of Lord and Lady Michael Kenyon. Her death is our tragedy. It has nothing to do with you or your fantasies. Now get out.”
Colwell turned white. “May you rot in hell.” He spun on his heel and walked out.
A muscle jumping in his cheek, Gavin crossed the room to stare out the window. Probably Colwell was related to half the peerage and would now tell all his lordly relatives that Gavin was a murderer who must be punished.
What a damnable strange country this was, where Gavin’s fate would be decided by a group of wealthy, arrogant men whose only qualification was an inherited title. There was no need for them to have intelligence, honesty, common sense, or good judgment. If Gavin escaped the gallows—and he figured his odds were no better than even—he would leave England forever.
Without Alex or Katie, there was nothing to keep him here.
The sentry called, “Halt, who goes there?”
“The Keys!” replied the Chief Yeoman Warder.
“Whose keys?”
“Queen Elizabeth’s keys.”
“God preserve Queen Elizabeth!”
“Amen!” A chorus rumbled from the escort of four armed guards.
Gavin gazed into the darkness as he listened to the ceremony that took place every night at ten o’clock. The Virgin Queen had died in 1603, and over two centuries later her damned keys were still being carried around the Tower of London. Very British.
He spent a lot of time at the windows of his prison. Though his cell was spacious, his jailers polite, and his views splendid, he was still a captive. There were times when he felt like hurling himself against the bars like a caged bird desperate to escape. The experience was giving him a gut-deep understanding of what Alex had endured in slavery. Freedom was as natural and invisible as the air one breathed, until it was gone.
He was glad that his trial would begin soon. One way or another, it wouldn’t be long until he left this place.
His anger from earlier in the day had long since dissolved into sadness. For one brief moment he’d had everything a man could want. Then it was gone before he had time to recognize joy.
Rest well, Iskandra, wherever your spirit may be.
Chapter 36
ALEX’S CAPTIVITY settled into a routine. Most of her days were spent relentlessly gouging at the mortar, with regular breaks where she stretched her muscles with wing chun exercises. Jones had given her a pencil stub, and every time he brought a meal she made a careful mark on the cell wall. She’d been here almost six weeks.
Being able to wash helped her morale considerably, and the food kept her and Captain Cat satisfied. The tomcat was a godsend in terms of her sanity. He still prowled the vaults in search of prey, and lately he’d taken to depositing dead rats outside the cell for her admiration. She could have done without the rats, but she enjoyed his company, and whenever she lay down he soon materialized to sleep beside her.
So far she hadn’t needed any of the clean rags that Jones had provided. She had a strong suspicion that she was pregnant again. Unlike the disastrous pregnancy she’d endured on the voyage home, this time she felt fine, except for tiring easily. She’d felt like this when carrying Katie. God willing, she’d have another strong, healthy child. She refused to think about the possibility that she would be sent to the Barbary Coast. She would not bear and raise a child in slavery.
Her long hours of slowly grinding away the mortar gave her time to think about Gavin and their marriage. When they met, he’d been her savior and hero. She’d been profoundly grateful, and deeply aware that she was barely holding on to sanity.
After leaving Maduri she slowly regained her equilibrium, but she’d always felt that she was Gavin’s charity case, protected because he was too much a gentleman to walk away in disgust. She’d been unable to think of them as equals, each giving and receiving. Perhaps a woman needed to be courted by an adoring man so that she entered marriage feeling the power of her femaleness.
She’d felt that with Edmund, and that sense of power had helped keep her from falling apart when he betrayed her. But there had been no courtship with Gavin—only a marriage born of his duty and her desperation.
No wonder she’d never really defined her feelings for her husband. She’d known she was grateful—dear Lord, she was grateful! She recognized his character and charm and how good he was with Katie, and as her fears slowly subsided she’d begun to feel a powerful attraction. But never had she asked herself if she loved him. Now, in the long silences of the vault, knowledge had emerged with vivid clarity.
She loved him as much as she admired him. She loved talking and laughing and being silent with him, loved that he accepted her as an equal like no other man she’d ever known. She also desired him to distraction. She had never fully appreciated how beautiful a man’s body could be, or how profound sexual fulfillment created indissoluble emotional bonds. When she slept at night she dreamed she was safe in his arms, for with him she had found her soul and salvation.
Now she must free herself so she could free him.
She estimated that removing a dozen stones would make a hole large enough for her to escape. She couldn’t remove the stones before she was ready to leave because that would leave a visible hole, so she dug out most of the mortar, stopping when the stone started to feel loose. Wadded shreds of rag pressed into the gaps concealed the empty spaces from a casual glance.
Slowly she w
Hearing sounds in the passage, she scrambled from her working position despite the protests of her strained muscles. Frederica Pierce was making one of her all too frequent visits; her lighter footsteps were distinct from Mr. Jones’s. Amazing how well one learned one’s surroundings when there was so little else to notice.
After straightening herself and brushing off sawdust, Alex lay on her cot as if she’d been napping. When Frederica appeared, she lazily sat up, covering a delicate yawn as if she was a lady of leisure. “Be careful where you step, Frederica. There may be dead rats.”
The other woman gasped and jumped back, almost bumping into the guard. “Where?”
“A cat often leaves them about where you’re standing.” Alex watched with malicious satisfaction as Frederica squeaked and pulled her skirts tight.
There was indeed a dead rat. Without comment, Mr. Jones slid Alex’s food into the cell, then put the rat into a sack he’d brought for the purpose. When the rat was gone from sight, Alex said, “I’m sure you have some bad news for me. Please feel free to reveal it. I’m in need of amusement.”
Frederica gave her a poisonous glance. “Seabourne’s trial begins tomorrow.”
So soon? “I’m sure he’ll be glad to have it over and be a free man again.”
“The general public is convinced he’s a murderer. I’m told most of the lords do, too. They can’t wait to convict him for murdering his gentle lady wife. Obviously few of them know you personally.”
Alex laughed. “Actually, many of them do know me, though I agree they’re being sentimental if they think of me that way. Is there any other news?”
Frederica hesitated. Over the course of her visits, she’d gradually lost control of their interviews. Alex took pleasure in knowing that. “Daisy has vanished with her child. She took the boy and ran away from our country estate.”
“Good for Daisy! Finally she is truly free.”
Frederica’s expression turned ugly. “Barton has charged her with theft so she can be arrested. She’ll be found—a black girl with a baby won’t get far without being noticed. As soon as we have her back, the slut goes to America.”
Alex doubted that. Daisy was intelligent and determined enough to elude capture. She’d have to hide in London, the only city large enough for a black woman to disappear into, but she’d manage. Despite Daisy’s treachery, Alex wished her well. The girl had been doing her best to save herself and her child. In similar circumstances, Alex might have behaved the same. “You do have the worst trouble with servants, Frederica. Perhaps you should treat them better.”
“I have a French maid now. She is far superior to that stupid slave.” With another scowl, Frederica turned and stalked away.
Alex’s smile faded when she was alone. It was pleasant to bait Frederica, but it didn’t alter the fact that she was still a prisoner. She waited until she heard the distant sound of the vault door closing. Then she returned to her work.
Time was running out.
In true British fashion, Gavin’s trial would begin with a lengthy procession. “A pity the Westminster fire last year destroyed the usual chamber. This one barely holds two hundred fifty people,” Sir Geoffrey murmured as he accompanied his client into the hall. “By the way, the Lord High Steward chosen to preside over your trial is Lord St. Aubyn.”
The name meant nothing to Gavin. “Is that good or bad?”
Sir Geoffrey pursed his lips. “It’s not bad. He is hard but fair. You could have done much worse.”
As the lords filed into the long, high-ceilinged chamber, Gavin admired the flamboyant majesty of English ceremony. Dressed in flowing scarlet robes and wigs that erased individuality, the peers entered in order of precedence and seated themselves on the tiered benches. Dukes were in the first row, marquises next, then earls, with viscounts and barons at the top.
At the far end of the room sat an empty throne. King William would not attend; judging one of their own was for peers alone.
In front of the throne, the Lord High Steward took his seat upon the woolpack—literally a six-foot-long bale of packed wool covered with scarlet cloth. Sir Geoffrey had explained earlier that the woolpack was recognition of how England’s medieval wealth had been built on the wool trade. Gavin found it bizarre.
St. Aubyn, the chosen Lord High Steward, was about sixty, but fit and shrewd-eyed. While the King’s Commission to hold the trial was read, Gavin studied the rows of seated lords. As a duke, Ashburton’s robe rated gold lace and four bands of ermine on each side. Ashburton met Gavin’s gaze and gave a faint nod of acknowledgment.
There were other familiar faces as well, mostly men he’d met at Ashburton House. The Duke of Candover and the Marquess of Wolverton, the Earls of Strathmore and Aberdare, and Lord Kimball, who was improbably both soldier and artist.
Kyle was so grave he was almost unrecognizable. His twin brother was nearby, looking uncannily similar and bearing a title from his wife’s family that would have become extinct without a king’s decree. Gavin had met Lord Grahame, who was a more relaxed version of Kyle. Hopefully he shared Kyle’s belief in Gavin’s innocence.
But most of the lords were strangers. Middle-aged or older, some had been ravaged by dissipation, others had the sleekness of men comfortable with their power. His judges, God help him. He wondered which was Lord Wylver, the man who had set the wheels of injustice in motion.
More documents were read, ending with the indictment. In the middle of a long passage, words jumped out. “The said Gavin, Earl of Seabourne, Viscount Handley, did feloniously, willfully, and of his malice aforethought wound his wife, Alexandra, Countess of Seabourne, and did destroy the building with fire and thereby caused the death of said Alexandra, Countess of Seabourne.”
The words were like hammers, driving home that this horror was no nightmare—Gavin had not only lost his wife, but stood accused before the world of murdering her.
“Oyez, Oyez, Oyez! Lieutenant of the Tower of London, bring forth Gavin, Earl of Seabourne, your prisoner, to the bar, pursuant to the order of the House of Lords!”
Aware that every eye in the house was on him, Gavin walked to the accused’s box flanked by the Deputy Governor of the Tower and the Gentleman Jailer, who carried a massive axe. Steeling himself, he bowed three times and knelt. He resented showing reverence for an institution he disliked, but Kyle had convinced him this would be a devil of a time to display his republican principles.
“Your lordship may rise,” St. Aubyn said. His gray eyes sharply assessing, he made a lengthy statement about the nature of the charges and of the court.
When the Lord High Steward was finished, the Clerk of the Crown said, “How say you, Gavin, Earl of Seabourne, are you guilty of the felony and murder whereof you stand indicted, or not guilty?”
“Not guilty, my lords.” Gavin spoke in a carrying voice, wanting every damned peer in the room to hear him.
The clerk asked, “Culprit, how will your lordship be tried?”
“By God and my peers.” This required more gritting of teeth.
“God send your lordship a good deliverance.”
The last was the only part Gavin could agree with.
The Crown opened its case, led by the Attorney General, William Oliver. An imposing man with a sonorous voice, he obviously relished the chance to prosecute such a splendid scandal.
Gavin stood stone-faced as witnesses were called. After being examined by the Attorney General and Sir Geoffrey, any lord present could ask questions to satisfy his own curiosity.
The first witnesses were two of Gavin’s servants, testifying uncomfortably that they’d heard raised voices between master and mistress in the day or two before her death. Questions by Sir Geoffrey established that the servants had heard nothing threatening; the ra
Constable Mayne then testified that he’d come on the scene immediately after Lord Seabourne had killed two men with his bare hands, one by breaking of the neck, the other by fracturing the skull. Murmurs came from the lords at the constable’s graphic description. Some looked at Gavin as if he were a dangerous viper.
Sir Geoffrey rose and asked, “Constable Mayne, you say there were five attackers?” When that was confirmed, the counsel said, “So his lordship was fighting for his life against overwhelming odds. Was Lady Seabourne present?”
“Aye, sir, she was there, too.”
“So his lordship was fighting for not only his own life, but that of his wife. Under such circumstances, any man would fight like a tiger.” Sir Geoffrey waited for that to sink in. “In your opinion, did Lady Seabourne appear frightened of her husband?”
“Nay, sir, she looked at him as if he was the most wonderful man on earth.”
The prosecutor objected that the constable’s statement was mere opinion, but the words had been said. Perhaps they would influence the noble lords.
More witnesses were called to verify what had happened on the day of the fire. Jem Brown was the boy on the street who’d held Gavin’s horse and later told him of the fire. The prosecutor elicited the information that his lordship had looked angry, and told Jem to “never get married.”
Gavin winced internally; he didn’t even remember making the remark. When cross-examined, Jem admitted that his lordship hadn’t seemed crazy-angry, and his own old man said all the time that Jem should never marry.
After him, the elderly man who watched from his window all day testified that Gavin had gone into the warehouse for a time, and no one else had entered before the fire consumed the building. Sir Geoffrey elicited the information that the old man could see only the front, not the river side of the building, and that his lordship probably hadn’t been inside long enough to spread lantern oil all around a large warehouse. Also, no smoke or flames had been visible until well after his lordship left.