The prison chapel is a drab, plain room, without the sacred feel of a church. No stained glass, no icons lend their charm. Even the cross on the altar is made of polished walnut rather than gold. Well, you cannot blame them overmuch for that.
I find it a great difficulty to turn my thoughts to God, sitting in such an environment. Everything carries a weary air. Religion institutionalised. There is no spark of the world beyond ours, nothing to lift the spirit from the body.
On Sundays, Papa and I attend St Helen’s, a Church of England chapel. It is pleasant in its own manner, a great improvement on this place. Yet my soul yearns for the rare occasions I can slip inside a proper church, where there is incense, where I may hear the prayers in Latin and confess my sins to a priest. The opportunity offers itself perhaps only twice in an entire year.
This circumstance alone should be sufficient inducement to leave Oakgate. I cannot be myself, I cannot be the woman I long to be, while I remain under Papa’s roof. His roof, when it was my mother’s house! Soon it will also be hers.
‘Do not concern yourself with any changes to the household,’ Papa says to me on a daily basis. ‘If you are patient, I believe you will soon hear something to your advantage.’ Then he gives me an odd, knowing smile, and everything behind my ribs seems to crumble.
A tear slides down my cheek and I let it fall, clasping my hands together, as if I might squeeze a sense of God from them. Grant me the fortitude to bear this trial, I repeat. Somewhere in the prison, a bolt clangs.
Papa must discover the truth eventually. Sir Thomas sought his permission prior to writing his proposal. Surely he, or perhaps Lady Morton, will reveal that I have already refused the offer of marriage. What shall happen then? Will I be punished like a child? Or will I have already fled my own home to make way for Papa’s new wife?
‘You will not tell Papa,’ I begged Tilda last night. ‘Promise me that whatever happens, you shall never tell him about the offer, or about David, or—’
‘Miss Dorothea.’ The minx was rude enough to interrupt me. ‘In all the years I’ve worked for you, you might be good enough to note one thing: I can keep a secret. Whatever you may think of my hairdressing, or my sewing, you know I can at least do that.’
She does have a fair point. But that point was eclipsed when she went on to perplex me with a piece of advice – a servant, advising me!
‘Mind yourself, miss. I’ve no complaints about your father; he’s always been a fair master. But everyone downstairs knows, he’s not a man you want to cross more than once.’
Whatever can the goose mean? I have always been able to turn Papa aside with a smile, a well-placed witticism. I have defied him merrily for years. Yet when Mrs Pearce becomes his wife … perhaps that shall change. Perhaps those grey eyes will cloud over when they observe me, as they do whenever I mention Mama.
Oh, if only confirmation of David’s post would come through! We could then wed and seek out accommodation in London … But I know in my heart that Mama’s house will always be home to me. And I shall never rest content in the capital while affairs here wallow in such a state.
I bow my head. My own life is an awful thicket of brambles; how much I should prefer to focus upon Ruth.
In these sober surroundings, I find it even harder to credit her far-fetched claims than usual. Both God and Ruth seem distant from this place. No wonder she struggles to repent, in prison. I should struggle to breathe.
Yet there is sorrow in her story! She speaks of regret as one who has truly felt it. I am at a loss to explain. She must have known that Catherine Metyard instigated the arrest. The papers were awash with it. Catherine was the chief witness; it was largely upon her evidence, which was quoted in detail, that the mother was convicted at all! Indeed, there was a moment when it seemed Catherine might stand a trial of her own. Few people could believe she had no involvement in the atrocities committed at Metyard’s. It was only the proof of Catherine’s own abuse that put a stop to that line of inquiry.
Ruth is purposefully ignoring the facts to suit her own narrative. What does this make her? A liar? A fantasist? I do not know. I do not seem to comprehend the true nature of anyone, nowadays.
A door opens. Startled, I look up to see the chaplain walk in with a book tucked under his arm. He is as nondescript as his chapel: dark, almost-brown hair; regular height; sparely built with plain features. But his smile appears genuine.
‘Miss Truelove. I did not think to find you here. I hope I do not interrupt you?’
I sigh, climbing to my feet. ‘I was seeking counsel from Our Lord, sir, but you interrupt only His silence.’
He returns my sigh. It is a comfort, a kind of handshake we have performed. ‘It is difficult for us mortals. We desire responses immediately. But to God, a thousand years are as a day … Do not lose heart. He shall answer you in time.’
‘So I trust. Time is running short for me.’
The chaplain seats himself on one of the plain wooden chairs. His smile softens at the edges. ‘I am but a poor substitute, Miss Truelove, but if you desire it … I shall be happy to listen and offer my own advice?’
I hesitate. This is no priest; he cannot absolve me. Yet there are a multitude of thoughts spilling from my brain, and such palpitations in my chest! This man knows God, knows Ruth. He can offer an informed opinion, at the very least.
Inclining my head, I walk towards him and sit in a chair next-door-but-one. My movements echo horribly around the empty room. ‘You are most kind. I fear I have forgotten your name?’
‘It is Summers.’
‘Mr Summers.’ I look down at my hands. How different they are to Ruth’s: the lily skin, the clean white crescents of nails. ‘Mr Summers, I am rather ashamed to confess that I have been doubting the judgement of my father.’
He releases his breath. ‘I see. Ah. Well, I am sure I do not need to remind you of the commandment to honour our parents.’
‘No indeed.’
‘And yet … Forgive me, Miss Truelove, for an indelicate question. Might I enquire … Would you kindly tell me your age?’
He nods. To my eyes, he appears younger than this himself. ‘I have always felt it is a natural progression, for a child to question those around them. It shows the development of the mind, that they are preparing to judge for themselves – as we all must, at some stage. So it may be with you, Miss Truelove. Not a sin, but a sign of maturity. Your mind finds itself ready to rely upon the judgement of a husband, rather than that of a father.’
Heavens, yes. David is ten times the man of Papa. And while I do not like to imagine myself under anyone’s direction, I will surely do better, be worthier, with a guide such as him? ‘Tell me, Mr Summers, do you believe that people can change? Truly change. A criminal to a saint, a good man to a villain?’
He pulls back in his chair slightly. ‘Do you consider your father to be changed?’
‘No. Not in the least. He is … much as he ever was. This is something beside the point, a matter of my own interest.’
‘Well, Miss Truelove, I think you know my answer. Would I be working as a chaplain in a prison if I did not believe that man can reform?’
‘No, you would not. But prison, most of all, poses the question to me: at what stage do we cease to be merciful, and become fools? I have been ridden over, roughshod, by those I have shown only kindness to. I always trusted that they would repent. But now … I do not know how I should act.’
He steeples his hands together. He was not anticipating me and my challenges, today. ‘All can be forgiven, Miss Truelove. But not all will choose it. God holds out His grace, and we must point towards it, too. Yet some people will be lost. They will go their own way, there is no preventing that.’
How useless I feel, how thoroughly impotent. All my science, all my theology, and this is my reward: the shape of the skull does not change; the Word of God is not guaranteed to transform. Each instrument snaps when I wield it in my hands.
Must I accept this? That some people are born bad, and will remain bad?
‘But what of those that fall from the path, Mr Summers?’ My voice sounds fragile. I am a girl again. ‘Those we cannot lead back? What happens to them?’
He looks at me sadly. ‘I am afraid it is the same with God as it is in the prison, Miss Truelove. The wicked must be punished.’