The heavy thump of a cell door somewhere in the dark recesses of the gaol, followed by the metallic clanging of the gaoler’s keys, rang through the claustrophobic cell of the condemned. Despite the thick stone walls, they could hear the mournful cries of pleading from other prisoners echoing hollowly through the large building that housed the prisoners of Derby.
She curled her knees tighter into her chest, rested her head on her knees, and began to pray. She didn’t know what she was praying for, but she did know with certainty that, on this occasion, all her prayers would remain unanswered.
After all, there was no absolution for the condemned.
There would be no respite from the daily hell of living in the squalid cesspit that was so dark that she couldn’t even see her hand resting on her own nose. The inky blackness of the condemned cell was the closest thing to hell she had ever imagined possible. The small room was approximately twelve feet long and four feet wide, and was packed with eight other men, all waiting for their turn on the gallows. There was no window, and only one heavily fortified door that didn’t even let in a sliver of light.
On the day of their arrival, Jemima had been the first one roughly pushed into the blackness. As the other inmates had been pushed behind her, she had been shoved to the darkest corner at the back of the room, where she sat on the hard wooden bench, locked into a world of fear. The pervasive darkness that had swept over them as the door slammed shut was cloying; teasing sanity with its relentless grasp. If it wasn’t for the clanking of the manacles as they shuffled around in search of a more comfortable spot on the unforgiving wooden benches, Jemima would have thought herself the only person in there.
Luckily, nobody within the condemned cell had sought to vocalise the unfairness of their trials, and judgement, as verbally as others within the gaol, and had instead lapsed into a morose silence that was just as heavy as the atmosphere. Jemima wasn’t sure which was worse; the silent desolation within the room, or the pitiful howls of denial from other prisoners that echoed hauntingly throughout the stone walls.
She knew, just as well as everyone else, that there was no way out. Their only escape from their misery was via the gallows.
They had been tried very quickly by a court that hadn’t been interested in full judicial process. Clearly intent on issuing swift judgements, it had sought to stem the rising tide of public unrest, whatever the cost. Jemima knew that, even if they had been given full judicial process, they would still have been found guilty. After all, she had been found standing by the magistrate’s body holding a bloodied knife, and his pouch of coins. The only people around her who could vouch for her innocence had been found guilty of the brutal murder of the coachman; and the mayor’s wife, and were now sitting alongside her in the cell.
The image of the judge resting the black piece of cloth on his head, followed by his cold intonation, “May you be hanged from the neck until the life leaves your body,” loomed over her like a sinister spectre waiting to claim her soul.
There was nobody to save her. She was stuck in a hellish situation that would ultimately result in her being put to death, in front of a crowd of strangers who had travelled to Derby just to watch the spectacle of not just seeing a woman hang, but the woman who was responsible for murdering the Mayor of Derby.
The two people she held close to her heart, thankfully, didn’t even know she was there. While sitting there with nothing to do, and even less to look at, she had thought about writing them a note to plead for their help. Turning the options over and over in her mind led her to only one conclusion. Even if she could get a note out to Peter, hoping for rescue was futile. If he learned of her fate, he would undoubtedly try to help her, but there was little even he could do. Although he was titled, and had connections in high places, even he wouldn’t be able to overturn a court of law, and in all conscience she couldn’t ask him to publicly associate himself with a condemned, unmarried woman. There were no grounds to request a stay of execution, even. Writing a note to them to plead for their help; would achieve nothing but bringing untold distress to the two people she held most dear to her heart.
Peter and Eliza.
She tried her hardest to blank out the image, but his handsome face swam before her anyway. Her heart clenched tightly in her chest, as the memories of him came flooding back. Over the past few months she had managed to keep her memories tightly locked away by busying herself with work and Eliza, but now she was helpless before the emotions that roiled through her.
She couldn’t do it. They were currently ignorant of her plight and, as such, were free of the ordeal of watching her die. If they did ever learn of her fate, then it would be too late. They would most probably grieve for her, but their grief would be free of the memory of watching her being put to death in such a publicly gruesome fashion.
She owed it to them to remain on her own and accept that this time, there was no way out. Nobody could get her out. At dawn tomorrow, she was going to the gallows and there was nothing she could do about it.
She jumped and turned fear-filled eyes to the door as it swung open. The heavily garbed figure of a gaoler carrying a flaming torch appeared in the doorway, a dark scowl of foreboding on his face as he tried to peer through the darkness within the small room, one hand resting on a wicked-looking pistol at his hip.
Jemima’s stomach dropped to her toes. She hadn’t thought it was so late, or early. Surely the time wasn’t already upon them?
“You, woman, get out here,” he growled, lifting his light higher in order to see into the depths of the cell.
Jemima’s heart flipped and she wondered if she would throw up as she stared at him in horror. She began to shake as she tried to stand, and found the stiffness in her limbs and heavy weight of the manacles too much, thumping back down on the hard wooden bench with a cry of defeat.
She jumped as a great looming figure suddenly leaned over her, lifting the heavy chains for her. Giving them a rough tug, he effectively propelled her out of the cell. With little choice, Jemima stumbled over the prone bodies lying squashed on the floor and found herself in the wide space of the inner corridor that ran the length of the gaol as far as the eye could see. She didn’t know how big the gaol was, but stood looking down into the murky gloom, outlined by occasional flaming torches protruding from the walls. Their flickering did little to break the shadows.
The stench of urine, faeces, unwashed bodies and boiling potatoes assaulted her nostrils, and she fought the wave of sickness that threatened. She swallowed rapidly against the lump in her throat, and stumbled as her chains were tugged, dragging her unceremoniously down the corridor. Fear lodged in her chest, and she stared with horror-filled eyes at the small shaft of light glowing through the partly open doorway.
“Where are we going?” Jemima whispered, too scared to glance left or right.
She didn’t need to turn her head to see the pale, ghostly faces peering helplessly out through the bars at her as she passed. As she shuffled, she became aware that the mournful cries had ceased leaving a watchful silence in their wake. Obviously everyone knew it was futile to seek help from one of the condemned. They couldn’t help themselves. Morbid curiosity shone in their faces as they watched her pass.
Once or twice, Jemima caught a softly issued, “God bless ye, girl.” With each step she wondered if she was going to be hanged there and then, and a wave of terror swept through her so strongly that the cold, black walls of the gaol began to swim around her mockingly, leaving her wondering if she was going to faint.
“The boss wants you,” the gaoler grunted, dragging her onwards.
Jemima struggled to keep up with his long stride, and was grateful he was carrying her chains for her. The heavy iron manacles on her ankles slowed her climb up the steps to what she supposed must be the gaoler’s office. Luckily the gaoler was sympathetic enough to wait while she shuffled awkwardly up the steps.
She blinked rapidly against the glare of the brightly lit room as the door was swung open. She didn’t want to go in, but had to follow her chains as the gaoler dragged her behind him into the warmth of the brightly-lit room.
Despite the warmth and light within the room, Jemima began to shiver. She squinted through the light for several moments, shoving the wild tangle of her unwashed hair out of her eyes with a grimy hand, and waited for her senses to settle. Only then did she become aware of the occupants within the room, watching her silently.
Her stomach dropped to her toes, and she fought to silence a cry of denial as the realisation of who they were sank in.
“Have you forgotten to tell us something?” The harsh rumble of the gaoler’s voice broke the tense silence within the room.
Jemima stared blankly at him, refusing to turn her head and look at the one man she really didn’t want to be there. She ached to run toward him, and beg for his help. She longed to feel his strong arms around her, just one last time. How had he known? How had he found her?
Peter.
The man she loved, and the very last person she wanted to see. She wanted to weep with joy, and scream in misery. The very last thing she had wanted was to see him there, in the midst of such desolation. He was standing so very tall and proud. The fine cut of his clothing stood out against the sinister surroundings of the gaol, marking him as someone special; someone who didn’t belong there. She didn’t know who the other men were, but their resemblance to each other was startling. They were all of similar height to Peter, with broad shoulders and jet black hair. They were a handsome group of men. Were they the Cavendish brothers, Peter often talked about? Somehow Jemima knew they were, but for the life of her couldn’t understand why they were there too.
A wild surge of hope swept through her for one exquisite moment, before the cold wash of logic and reasoning swept it away.
The gaoler – Mr Simpson – sighed deeply and stared thoughtfully at her for several long moments, clearly waiting for something. Heaving another sigh, he nodded toward the window encasement where Peter stood, his face stark.
“Are you married to him?”
Jemima’s heart flipped and she immediately realised Peter was trying to get her out. He was willing to put everything at risk to try to save her.
She just couldn’t allow him to do it. She knew her journey to the gallows was inevitable. Even Peter, bless him, couldn’t overturn the judgement of a court of law. Clearly he knew that too and had decided to risk his own future wellbeing in a desperate attempt to claim her as his wife.
The gaoler tapped his desk. “He says that you are his wife.”
It took every ounce of brazenness she possessed to continue to stare blankly at Mr Simpson. Her heart clenched painfully in her chest as she fought the urge to run across the room and hug or hit Peter, she wasn’t sure which. She was humbled that he was prepared to take such a drastic step on her behalf, and angry with him for risking everything to try to resolve what was a hopeless situation.
Reluctantly she turned to stare at the one man she wanted to see more than anything in the world and in equal measure, never wanted to see again.
Especially here.
A heavy weight settled in her chest as she looked at him, and despite the emotions that battered her senses, she kept her gaze impassive as she studied him from head to toe. His fashionably cut brown hair was windswept, as though he had been running his hands through it repeatedly, or had ridden there at a full gallop. His clothing, although fine, was dusty and crumpled, and there were dark smudges beneath his eyes. Wherever he had been when he had learned of her fate, he had called at the gaol swiftly in an attempt to help her.
Even from several feet away, she could see the hard determination, warring with lurking fear shining clearly in his beseeching eyes. Looking into his eyes now, she knew that he realised that he couldn’t save her, but was trying anyway. The fact that he was trying to claim her as his wife snuffed out the last flickering ray of hope she possessed, turning it to ash in her heart.
In that moment, she understood just how much of a hold Peter had on her heart. It warmed her and chilled her to the bone in equal measure. It was wonderful that he had put everything he had at such risk to come to her aid, but it was horrifying that he had learned of her situation and imminent future – or lack of it. The last thing she wanted was to know that he would be there in the morning to watch her die.
It helped her make the right decision. Despite the growing knot of grief in her chest, she firmed her jaw and turned flinty eyes back to Mr Simpson, the gaoler.
“I have no idea who he is. I’ve never seen him before in my life,” Jemima stated boldly, her emotionless eyes holding the gaoler’s defiantly for several moments. Peter’s immediate objection cut deeply into her wounded soul, and she couldn’t look at him. Her hold on her own emotions was tenuous at best. If she looked at him, or allowed him to see the cracks in her armour, she would crumple.
“Are you sure?” His voice dropped several notches as he studied her, clearly giving her a chance to change her response. Did he know she wasn’t being honest with him? Jemima wondered why he was studying her so closely and, in particular, why he didn’t seem willing to accept her answer.
“Jemima, for God’s sake!” Peter spat, moving swiftly forward.
As he approached, Jemima shuffled sideways to avoid him, her chains rattling against the stone floor. The noise made him pause and look down at her hands and feet in consternation.
Her love for him drove her to take the horrible step of pushing him away forever. With every ounce of fortitude she possessed, Jemima turned her head sideways to glare contemptuously at him. Inside, her heart swelled with longing for something she knew could never be hers. Sucking in a deep breath, she turned her gaze back to the gaoler.
“He’s lying. I’m not married to him,” she said flatly, shuffling toward the door. She didn’t want to go back to the horrid pit of a cell. The warmth of the fireplace had soothed her achingly cold flesh and it was bliss to feel human again, if only for a short while, but she couldn’t stay there for much longer without giving in to the clawing need to touch him. She was struggling enough to contain her own emotions; she couldn’t cope with his as well.
“Jemima, you are my wife!” Peter protested, following her and grabbing her elbow to swing her around to face him. He cursed when she yanked her elbow out of his hold.
Immediately the gaoler who had escorted her to the office stepped forward to intervene, only to be waved back into his corner by Mr Simpson.
“I am not your wife. I don’t know who you are, or what you want,” Jemima bit out, clenching her teeth hard against the need to cry.
Dominic Cavendish, the oldest of the Cavendish brothers, who until now had been standing before the fire, slowly moved forward to stand beside her. His brother, Sebastian, moved with him, clearly prepared to step between her and the door if she tried to leave until this was resolved. But it was the youngest man standing next to the door, Edward Cavendish, who captured her attention. He was silent and watchful as the scene played out before him.
Her gaze met and held his for several long moments, and a wealth of understanding swept between them. Immediately her thoughts turned to Eliza. She didn’t know why. Why him, and not the others. But she knew, somehow, that if anyone could get a final note to her sister, he would.
“Jemima, for God’s sake, stop this,” Peter pleaded from directly behind her.
Jemima could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. Her body cried out in desperate need as the memories of their nights together came flooding back. She couldn’t turn round. She couldn’t look at him. His voice held a hint of desperation that was clear to everyone, and it made her sick to her stomach with the unfairness of it all.
“I want to go back,” she murmured to the gaoler, her desperate gaze meeting his for several long moments. She fought the urge to scream at him when he made no move to take her back to the cell.
“You can’t go back, Jemima. You don’t belong here. We know you are innocent,” Peter declared, his voice heavily laced with frustration. Why wasn’t she helping herself?
Her hair hung in a tangled mass down her back; so wildly unkempt she looked like a banshee. Dark smudges lay beneath eyes that shone out from a gaunt face, so pale that she was almost ethereal.
The months since he had last seen her had clearly been anything but kind. She was so thin, he felt certain that he could pick her up with one hand. He could see the bony protrusions of her knuckles so clearly, the skin was almost translucent. But it was her eyes that disturbed him. Or, rather, what lurked in those amber orbs.
The helpless desolation he had seen in them when she had looked at him earlier had branded his soul. His heart clenched painfully at the soul-wrenching hopelessness he could see in the depths of her steady gaze. When she had looked at him so contemptuously, he had - for one very brief moment - wondered if he had finally lost her after all. But he had seen the look she had shared with the gaoler, the emotions she was trying so desperately to hide, and knew that she wasn’t lost. She just thought she was.
If he was honest, he knew the odds were stacked against them, but the battle-hardened warrior within him refused to just stand back and simply accept that she was going to the gallows. While she had breath in her body, there was still a ray of hope that they could get a stay of execution, or persuade the gaoler that she was a lady of quality and not the person she claimed she was. It would be enough – maybe – to get a stay of execution while they got her out. She may have given up on saving herself, but he wasn’t going to admit defeat so readily. There simply had to be a way to get her out of there. If the marriage thing didn’t work, then they would have to come up with another plan. He wasn’t going to leave her there.
“You are my wife. We can request a stay of execution and demand a retrial,” Peter argued, his hard glare of warning defying the gaoler to contradict. “If you don’t admit the truth here and now, then you are going to die.” Desperation clawed at him when after several moments, it became clear that she wasn’t going to help herself.
Grabbing her thin arm, he dragged her over to the window and pointed out into the darkness to the solitary wooden structure. The gallows stood in shadowy menace, waiting for dawn to approach. Jemima felt a jolt of horror surge through her as she stared at the gruesome sight with glazed eyes. She knew that, once she had been condemned, they would have to build the gallows, but hadn’t realised that they would be able to build it so quickly.
Standing so close to him, his scent teasing her nostrils, so achingly familiar, she was sorely tempted to simply lean against him and beg for his help. To take the opportunity to declare her love and longing for him one last time. But she knew that to do so would bring him nothing but more pain.
She had heard the old adage, ‘if you love someone, you have to let them go’, but she didn’t realise how much it would hurt. Somehow she had to spare him. Chained like an animal, with men deciding everything for her, there was little she could do except make him hate her.
Turning to face him was the hardest thing she had ever done. She studied the beloved lines of his face for several moments, committing each sun-kissed dip and hollow of his angular face to memory. Tears pooled in her amber eyes as they met his turbulent green gaze solemnly for several moments. The words she ached to voice hovered so temptingly on her lips. She swallowed against the lump in her throat.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, for his ears only. All her longing, fear, desperation and sorrow were contained in those two simple words.
“For God’s sake, Jemima, help yourself, tell the man I am your husband and we can get a stay of execution,” Peter demanded, fighting the urge to shake her.
Jemima looked over to the gaoler, who sat shaking his head sadly. He knew the futility of their attempts to get her out, but appeared willing to at least let Peter try.
“I don’t know what you want from me, but there is nothing you can do. I thank you for your efforts, but you must get on with your own life now,” she declared boldly, her chin raised in defiance as she began to shuffle away from him.
He grabbed her elbow on a painful hold. “So that’s it? I’m just supposed to go and watch you swing?” He knew he was shouting, but desperation clawed at him. Why wasn’t she listening?
“Go away!” Jemima gasped, wincing as his hard fingers bit cruelly into her flesh. She could feel the rage trembling in his fingers.
“You are going to die! Does that not mean anything to you? Do we not mean anything to you?” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her once, far harder than he ought. He was aware of a flurry of movement on the other side of the room, but didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Desperation drove him to force her to realise the significance of her plight. There was going to be no second chance. This was it. Failure would mean death.
“Goodbye, Peter,” she whispered, trying to ease out of his hands. The pressure of his hold on her branded her chilled flesh, and she suddenly could stand no more.
Drawing her chin upwards, she glared at him defiantly. “Thank you for trying to help me, but you really have to go now.”
“What about Eliza?” Peter shouted, desperately searching for anything to make her see reason. “Does she mean nothing to you?”
Jemima wrenched out from beneath his hands with a cry, and shuffled across the room.
As she passed, her gaze landed on the oldest of the brothers. Even his ruggedly handsome face was filled with sorrow and sympathy. He knew there was no way out, but his affection for his best friend ensured he was there for him.
“Jemima, please don’t do this. They are going to hang you, for God’s sake. Just admit that we are married and we can ask for a stay of execution,” Peter argued, his voice rising as he watched her cross the room.
“We aren’t married,” Jemima replied, almost hearing her fate being sealed by her own declaration. “We have never been married,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with the depth of her emotion. “But you simply cannot and will not put your life – your very future – at risk because of me. I didn’t do it, I didn’t kill the mayor, of course I didn’t; but I have no way of proving that I didn’t do it.” Her gaze met and held Peter’s with an air of finality that made him curse fluidly.
He stalked across the room toward her, bristling with temper.
“Guards!” Mr Simpson bellowed, launching out of his chair at the ferocity on Peter’s face.
“It’s all right,” Dominic soothed, moving to stand between the door and Jemima. He glared at Mr Simpson. “What do you think he is going to do?” Dominic snapped, glaring at the officious man from across the desk. “There is nowhere to go. She is chained, for God’s sake.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Mr Simpson announced. “It’s time for her to go back to her cell.”
“But you just heard her say she didn’t do it!” Dominic argued. “You have a duty to make sure her side of things are taken into account.”
“She was given the opportunity in court,” Mr Simpson argued.
“No, I wasn’t,” Jemima interjected. “Nobody listened.”
“What do you expect?” Mr Simpson snapped, his patience clearly running out. “You were caught standing over the body, holding a bloodied knife and the dead man’s coins in your hand.”
Silence settled over the office.
“I was set up,” Jemima replied weakly, feeling another wave of helplessness sweep through her. She was suddenly so very tired. She wanted to curl into a tight ball and forget everything.
Within moments two burly guards appeared in the doorway.
“Wait by the door,” Mr Simpson ordered them, resuming his seat with a glare at Peter.
“From what I can see, there is no evidence to confirm you are married. The prisoner herself admits she is not married to you. There is no ground for a stay of execution, or even requesting the courts to go over the evidence again,” he reasoned. His eyes met and held those of the gaoler standing quietly in the corner of the room before he turned back to the prisoner, his face a mask of dispassionate arrogance.
“You are adamant you didn’t marry this man?” he asked, his voice now officious and brusque. Clearly, his decision had been made and he would do little else to assist them.
A sense of finality hung in the air as Peter turned his horrified gaze back to Jemima.
“Why won’t you help yourself?” he demanded, so frustrated with her that he wanted to punch something. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her harshly. “Why? Why would you want to go to the gallows?”
Jemima gasped, and reluctantly lifted her hands to place them on his forearms. Beneath the layers of material, she could feel the hard strength that thrummed with life and almost cried out with the need to be held by him just once more. Tears pooled in her eyes as she stared into his eyes one last time.
“I have no life now. Scraggan has seen to that. Even if I got a stay of execution, he would still haunt my every waking moment. There is no stopping him, you see,” and she swallowed harshly, wishing she had longer to make him understand.
But inside she knew that even if she had several hours, he would never agree; never accept what she was about to say. “Scraggan set me up. So professionally, so completely, that I am going to die. He doesn’t have to sully his hands with murder. His deviousness has led to me being killed by the authorities - how clever is that? Even if I got out, what life do I have? Always looking over my shoulder; always waiting for the day he will reappear. He will be there tomorrow,” she nodded at the wooden structure outside. “To see for himself that his scheming has beaten me.”
She turned soulless eyes up to his, so lost in misery that she was unaware of the tear that had managed to escape and begin a solitary journey down her pale, dirty face.
“Eliza: do you know where she is?” She turned instinctively to the man beside the door.
Edward coughed and shifted closer. “Jemima, Eliza is perfectly safe from Scraggan. She is alive and well. She will soon have the protection of my name, and me to keep her from any further threat from anyone. I’m going to marry her,” Edward’s sympathetic eyes met hers. “She will be perfectly safe and cared for; have no fear.”
“You have affection for her?” Jemima asked, feeling driven to ensure Eliza was a willing participant in this new turn of events.
“Oh yes, most definitely,” he assured her, his own voice shaken.
Jemima studied him for several moments, her tremulous hold on her emotions wavering alarmingly. “Then be happy.” At least her sister would find happiness, in spite of Scraggan.
“Does she know?” She closed her eyes at Edward’s solemn nod. “Please keep her away.”
“Jemima,” Peter’s whisper shook with clawing fear. “Did you ever feel anything for me?”
Jemima couldn’t answer him. The words were there, but she couldn’t speak.
“Please don’t stay. I don’t want you there.” She croaked, watching the panic on his face with growing dread. She couldn’t bear to see him debased in such a way. Not someone as brave and stoic as her beloved Peter.
“Jemima, darling, please-” Peter argued, moving forward to grab her again and swing her around.
Ready this time, Jemima twisted out of his grasp and found herself face to face with Dominic, the eldest Cavendish brother. She was aware of Sebastian and the silent man behind the door rushing forward to hold Peter back, and took a few precious seconds to study the man before her.
“Keep him safe,” she whispered softly, tears flowing freely now she was away from Peter’s close scrutiny. “Please, if you have any affection for him at all, please take him away from here and don’t look back. I don’t want him there to watch.”
She could hear her words as though they were spoken by someone else. In the past few moments something inside her had closed down and was gone forever.
“I’ll take care of him,” Dominic declared, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. He wanted to sweep her into a hug, but instinctively knew she wouldn’t allow it. He felt the bitter sting of regret at the unfairness of it all as he watched her shuffle to the door and pause beside Edward.
“Jemima!” Peter shouted, watching her move toward the door. “Please don’t do this. Please. Darling, I love you. Please don’t do this.” He twisted and fought against the hands that held him back.
She daren’t look back. Tears trickled freely down her face as she stared out of the now open doorway into the darkness of the corridor beyond. It was like going down into the bowels of hell and she knew what awaited her at the end.
She turned to the man beside her. Edward. “Take care of Eliza; tell her I love her.” She watched as Edward swallowed harshly and nodded. “You need these.” She dug down into the front of her dress and removed three folded sheets of paper and a letter, handing them solemnly to Edward. “She is to read the letter first. Make sure Scraggan doesn’t get to her too.”
“I promise you here and now, Jemima, that Eliza is perfectly safe from harm. Nobody, not even Scraggan, will harm her while I have breath in my body,” Edward promised solemnly, frustration and grief at his inability to help sweeping through him as he watched her blink back the tears and square her shoulders.
“You should have agreed he was your husband,” he scolded, knowing as well as everyone else that it was pointless.
Slowly she shook her head. “He has sacrificed so much for me, given me so much that I can never repay him. I know that I have no way out of this: we all do. There is no absolution. Even if there was a stay of execution, it would only delay the inevitable. He doesn’t deserve to have his good name associated with a condemned, woman. Not after everything he has done for Eliza and me. Keep him safe. When this is over, and you are all old and grey-” Jemima paused, her voice wobbling with her tears, “tell him that I did love him, to my very last breath.”
With a sad smile, she shuffled out of the door and into the darkness. Peter’s shouts were swiftly cut off by the heavy slam of the door behind her. The only sounds left were those of the booted feet of the men returning her to the condemned cell to wait for death.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” Dominic murmured. The sound of Peter’s desperate pleading echoed hollowly in Dominic’s ears until he couldn’t stand it any longer. With little choice on how best to help him, Dominic stalked across the room, drew back his fist, and felled him with one well-aimed blow.
Stunned silence settled over the room as Peter’s unconscious body was slowly lowered to the floor by Sebastian and the gaoler.
Dominic turned to Mr Simpson, his cold eyes laden with menace. “We will prove her innocence, and the men who hang her will be brought to justice for their ignorance.” His eyes met and held the gaoler’s for several moments in silent warning. With some satisfaction, he watched the gaoler grow pale and drop into his chair, clearly shaken.
“Let’s get him out of here,” Edward murmured, heaving Peter’s prone form over his shoulder and turning toward the door Sebastian held open. “He shouldn’t be here when he wakes up.”
Once outside the office, they watched the heavy cell door close at the far end of the corridor. Its heavy thud rang solemnly through the silence. A dank, musty smell of stale air hung over them, heavily accentuated with urine, vomit and a plethora of unidentifiable smells that assailed the nostrils and churned the stomach.
“Sweet Jesus,” Sebastian muttered, shaking his head and studying the long line of cell doors. Although the wall esconces were lit, their meagre brightness did little to penetrate the gloom within the cavernous walls. It gave the building a fatalistic air that scarred the soul. He wondered if anyone ever made it out alive.
His respect for the woman who had returned to the condemned cell grew as he considered the last few moments. Despite her dire situation, she had sought to protect those around her, namely Peter, from any scandal that being associated with her would undoubtedly cause. Even Eliza hadn’t escaped her protection. He was humbled and awed by her strength and generosity in the face of such desolation.
“Wait,” Dominic ordered, frowning at Peter for several moments. “Peter’s going to want her back.” His eyes met and held those of his brothers. “In the morning, when it’s all over.”
“He can’t stay here to watch. Jemima doesn’t want him there. You saw what he was just like,” Edward reasoned. “Don’t think for one second that I’m stopping to watch.” He didn’t add that, if he was away from Havistock Hall for too long, Eliza would most probably set out after him to find out what was happening. He was eternally grateful she hadn’t been with them to witness that past half hour.
“We need to get him away from the area, and then make plans before he wakes up,” Sebastian added, moving toward the door. He had to get out of the fetid place before he threw up. The pervading sense of gloom was starting to fray his nerves. If he remained in the desolate hole any longer than absolutely necessary, he was going to start screaming himself.
“Hold on a minute,” Dominic snapped, returning to the office and throwing open the door without bothering to knock. He scowled at Mr Simpson and the gaoler, who were deep in conversation. They froze at his intrusion, but made no move to call for the guards.
Closing the door behind him, Dominic met each man’s gaze in turn and made his demands. Moments later he swept from the office, slamming the door behind him. He winced as the sound echoed hollowly down the empty corridor, and mumbled an apology at the faces that gazed helplessly out of the cells as he passed.
Within minutes they were stepping out into the fresh air of the prisoners’ yard, the heavy thud of the gaol door echoing threateningly in their ears as it was slammed behind them, leaving them to face the long walk across the prisoners’ yard alone. To the left of the path lay nine empty graves, ready and waiting for the new arrivals. Dominic cursed and quickened his stride, flicking Peter a glance to make sure he was still unconscious and wouldn’t witness such a macabre scene.
On their arrival at the gaol a lifetime earlier, it had been pitch black. They had stood before the heavy wooden doors waiting for their ring of the bell to be answered, not knowing what to expect. Having never been inside a gaol before, they had been lost in their own thoughts, mentally planning the few desperate options available to them.
With only the gaoler’s torch to light the way, they hadn’t seen the open graves.
Now, as the first stain of sunlight began to shimmer on the horizon, the haunting sight of the empty pits was almost painful to see, especially knowing that one of them was meant to contain the remains of the woman who had touched all of their hearts with her bravery in the face of such overwhelming adversity.
Edward quickened his stride and, moments later, draped Peter unceremoniously over his horse. His breath fogged in the cool morning air, and he took a moment to steady himself as he breathed the crisp air deep into his aching lungs, the stench of the gaol still heavy in his nostrils. He ached to have a bath, to scrub himself clean and rid himself of the horror of the hellish pit of inhumanity, but he knew that it wouldn’t be enough.
“We need to secure a cart,” Dominic announced, mounting his horse and turning toward his brothers. “I’ll stay if you want, and wait at the back of the gaol for-” his voice hitched as he considered his next words carefully.
He had to make sure nothing went wrong when it was over. The consequences were just too dire; if they were late, she would be quick-limed and buried before they could retrieve her.
“When she is-” he paused and sucked in a breath, unable to voice the words aloud. “When she is cut down, she will be taken into the holding area at the side of the gaol, away from prying eyes. It’s there that they take the death masks. When they are done, they will take the bodies around to the graves and cover them in quick-lime before they are buried. We only have a short amount of time to get her back before they move the bodies. The quicker they are put in the ground, apparently, the quicker they can move on and forget.”
His voice was contemptuous as he considered the brutality of the judicial system, and the unfairness of it if you were innocent. Although he initially had doubts about Jemima’s innocence, after the night’s events, he knew with certainty that she had done nothing wrong other than be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“So do you want to stay and watch her die?” Sebastian’s voice was incredulous as he studied his older brother. There were lines on his face that Sebastian could have sworn weren’t there earlier that day, or was that yesterday? He couldn’t be sure. He felt as though he had been in the hellhole for a lifetime.
Dawn was already fast approaching and, if they didn’t move soon, they would be hemmed in by the public who were already arriving to get the best views to see the spectacle.
“Gruesome bastards,” Edward spat, shooting a look of contempt at two women who were carrying their knitting and a basket of food.
“Of course not,” Dominic snapped. “I’m just saying that one of us has to stay here with a cart to collect her afterwards. I’ll do it.”
“No,” Edward shook his head and threw Dominic a look of dread. “I’ll do it. It’s the least I can do for Eliza. You are right; nothing can go wrong. It’s too important.”
As they rode away from the gaol, they quietly came to the agreement that they would take Peter to a tavern on the outskirts of the town while he was still unconscious, far enough away that - even if he rode flat-out - he would not be able to get back in time to see the woman he loved swing from the gallows. Meanwhile, Edward would secure a horse and cart, and the necessary items they would need to move a body to Havistock Hall without being a public spectacle and would go to the gaol to wait at the back doors. When it was over, and her body was released by the authorities, they would take her to Havistock Hall via the Golden Fleece where Sebastian and Dominic would be waiting with an undoubtedly bitter and very angry Peter.
Jemima spent that same hour in a haze of dejected misery so stark, so hopeless, that she wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. She never spoke, despite the quiet whispers demanding to know what the gaoler had wanted, and instead curled up tightly in a futile attempt to close the world out.
Despite the shattered remnants of her heart, she knew she had made the right decision. Peter would undoubtedly hate her for her callousness, but she also knew that he wasn’t an unfair man. As soon as the fog of grief lifted, he would see the wisdom of her decision and, she hoped, not hate her too much.
Although she knew it was coming, she still jumped when the lock slid back on the cell door, heralding the arrival of the new day.
“Up,” the gaoler ordered, dragging the man closest to the door onto his feet and out of the room. Five of the men were manacled to him, and had no choice but to lurch awkwardly to their feet and shuffle after him.
Jemima waited her turn and followed. She wasn’t manacled to the others, most probably because they knew she would hardly be able to move under the weight of the heavy ironwork around her hands and wrists.
As she stepped out into the long corridor, she knew she wouldn’t be returning to the condemned cell. Given the fate that awaited her, the claustrophobic darkness suddenly didn’t seem all that bad. She had the wild urge to run back into the gloomy depths and stay there.
Squaring her shoulders, she ignored the tracks of tears on her grimy face and stared stoically at the back of the man’s head before her as they shuffled down the corridor to a side room. Inside, a single table laden with nine plates of steaming food sat waiting for them. The aroma of cooked vegetables, the only decent food they had been given since their arrival several days ago, teased their nostrils.
Despite her hunger, Jemima couldn’t swallow any of it. She tore off a piece of the chunk of stale bread beside her plate and chewed absently, watching the faces of the men around her. She didn’t know if they were fully aware of what lay in store for them. Throughout the ordeal they had been a reticent bunch. Briefly she wondered if they all knew Scraggan. They had all been there on that night. They had all looked as shocked and horrified as she had when they had been carted off to gaol. During their trial, each man had repeatedly declared they had been innocent, and set up.
Even if she did learn the truth about that night, there was nothing she could do about her own fate, let alone theirs. It was too late.
Unable to force any of the food down, she simply sat and waited. When they were finished, they were visited by the vicar who prayed with those who wished to pray for forgiveness. Some of the men began to weep as the realisation of their situation rose before them.
Having lost her faith some time ago, Jemima simply remained quiet, strangely detached from everything. When the gaolers ordered them to move again, she shuffled after the line of men. As she left the room, her eyes met and held those of the gaoler who had been present in Mr Simpson’s office earlier. There was something strange about the way he always seem to be watching her, ever present, silent and watchful.
While standing in line to have her manacles removed, she could feel his eyes boring into her back. She knew if she looked over her shoulder, he would be there; waiting. She shivered and fought off the strange feeling of unease that swept through her.
Whatever he was doing didn’t really matter anymore, she thought, shuffling forward a couple of steps. Even over the clanging of the ironmonger’s hammer, they could hear the rumble of the chattering crowds gathering around the gallows. It was a special occasion, and some people had taken a rare day off specially to watch the hangings.
Small shafts of sunlight valiantly attempted to penetrate the cloying gloom within the dank building, as the men had their iron manacles hammered off before their hands were tied behind their backs.
Jemima glanced down in horror at the small black piece of cloth that was held out to her when her manacles had been taken off. She carefully did as she was instructed and tied her hair up, before having her wrists tied behind her back.
A fine tremor of horror settled over her, and she knew she was beyond weeping; beyond feeling anything other than a sense of loss so deep, she knew her only chance of finding peace was through death. If she remained alive now, she would be forever changed.
Silently she sent a prayer heavenwards that Dominic and his brothers had been true to their word and taken Peter far away. She wouldn’t look for him in the crowd. She couldn’t.
With the formalities over, they were ushered into a long, dark corridor that was very similar to the one that led to the condemned cell, but with a door at the opposite end that led outside to the front of the gaol.
At first Jemima was at the front of the queue and was quickly held back by the gaoler who had been watching her. Fear had locked in her throat and she was unable to voice the questions she wanted to ask as she turned to him, her eyes full of questions he refused to answer. She stood back and waited as the men shuffled one by one before her and then it dawned on her why she was being kept until last. Obviously the sight of a woman being hanged held far more importance than she had realised, and they wanted to make the crowds wait for the spectacle.
On legs that trembled violently with fear, Jemima waited at the end of the queue. Somewhere in front of her, one of the men began to weep and plead for his life. They all jumped as the door at the end suddenly opened, and the small space was suddenly filled with a cacophony of shouts and screams of the crowd.
The first man was dragged unceremoniously outside, his vociferous protests ignored as the door was slammed closed behind him, encasing the corridor in darkness once more.
Jemima closed her eyes and tried not to listen, but with silence inside the gaol, it was impossible to block out the raucous calls, crude suggestions and cries of horror. The loud slamming of wood, followed by the cheers of the crowd, were impossible to ignore.
Tears gathered in her eyes and for a moment she had to lean against the wall, or else fall to the floor in a wailing heap.
“Are you all right?” The gentle question came from the ever-watchful gaoler. Jemima stared at him blankly, unable to answer.
Alright? Alright? She would never be alright again. Silently she shook her head and returned her gaze to the floor. It seemed to take an age before the door opened again and the corridor was flooded with daylight once more.
How long she stood in the corridor, waiting for her turn to be put to death, she couldn’t be sure, but she was certain she had aged a thousand years before there was just her and the man before her left in the confined space. The crowd outside were baying louder than ever. The slamming of the gallows floor echoed menacingly time and again as the Crown meted out its justice. Cries and screams were accompanied by suggestions and shouts of denial from family members who had come to the hangings to hang on to their loved ones’ legs, and ease their suffering.
“Pull the other leg,” was shouted over and over, until Jemima couldn’t stand it any longer and began to weep openly.
Suddenly the door opened, and the man before her was dragged out into the morning sunshine. The heavy thud of the wooden planks only a few feet from her face made her cry out in horror. Her stomach flipped as she began to shake. She was so intent on keeping herself under control that she missed the silent motion of the gaoler toward the shadows.
“Move up,” he ordered, nudging her toward the door.
Slowly Jemima did as she was told. She had learned on her arrival at the gaol that if she didn’t follow orders, she would be dragged through them anyway. It was far less painful simply to obey.
She was about to turn back to the gaoler and ask for some water, when a foul smell assaulted her nostrils. It was so cloyingly sweet that she immediately felt sick, and her head began to swim alarmingly. Fighting the wave of dizziness, she sucked in a deep breath. Turning, she tried to peer through the gloom for the source of the stench.
She didn’t even have time to cry out before the world went black.