Chapter 21
“Did you tell Maudie?” Ralph asked. He wished to protect his half-sister from the knowledge of his imprisonment if he could, but if she learned of it, she would not shatter. She had endured enough loss in her life to bear up under hardship and disaster.
“No,” said Geoffrey, leaning against the door with his arms folded, head bowed so that he did not scrape it on the low ceiling.
Although the room was grimy and cramped, it was one of the best rooms in Newgate Prison.
Geoffrey’s coin had paid for it—for the privilege of Ralph having his own bed, an edible dinner, and no need to share a cell with a dozen of London’s nearest ne’er-do-wells.
The chilly, sordid surroundings, however, had done nothing to improve Ralph’s chest cold, and his cough had grown worse with each successive day inside Newgate.
Geoffrey’s jaw twitched. “But I did write to Helena.”
“Good heavens! What did you say?” demanded Ralph.
He had purposely avoided penning anything to his pregnant wife.
Better to have her sit in the uncertainty of no news about his return than to hear the worst about what had really transpired.
Was it foolish to hope against hope that this nightmare would dissipate before the week’s end?
To dream that the real murderer would be found, that he would be released from his cell, riding hell for leather up the Great North Road back to his wife’s side where he belonged?
“I told her the truth. That you’ve been charged with murder and imprisoned at Newgate.”
Ralph was tempted to swear in frustration, but long discipline over mind and mouth caused him to bite his tongue. “Why, Tilbury? Why?” He broke into a peal of ragged coughs. “You’ve certainly been chary enough with telling her the truth about other things.”
Geoffrey’s hands flexed. “You are referring to our agreement? To not tell her that I forced Will, at sword point, to offer for her?”
Ralph’s lips set into a firm line. “I am.”
“What point would that truth serve? It would only hurt her, and likely give her a poor opinion of both Will and myself.”
Ralph shook his head. Or it would allow her to heal.
To realize that Will’s love had never been real and that it was as pale as a ghost compared to the flesh-and-blood yearning of the man who had married her.
But he had given his promise to stay silent on that matter, and now was not the time to argue the point with Geoffrey.
“I’ll admit,” said Geoffrey, “that I’m torn between haring up to Scotland myself to be with her and staying in London to make sure you get clear of this charge. But I deem the latter more important. I’ve hired a barrister for you. A good one. Sir Philip Phipps.”
Ralph took a deep, slow breath, glad that his lungs had not seized up again with another bout of coughing. “Thank you.” He knew the man by reputation, and he knew that Sir Philip would defend him ably in front of jury and magistrate.
“But I must confess that I have some curiosity of my own.” Geoffrey’s blue eyes fixed on Ralph’s brown ones. “Why are you in London again? And what exactly were you doing backstage at the theater?”
Ralph coughed. “Cleaning up some more of Will’s mistakes. The actress there, the one who was murdered—she claimed to be carrying Will’s bastard.”
Geoffrey’s eyes gleamed like candles in the gloom of the cell. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have handled it.”
“It’s not your responsibility, Tilbury. And besides, I didn’t want Maud to worry about it.”
“I’m fully capable of keeping secrets from your sister,” said Geoffrey reprovingly. It was true—even though he was young, he was shrewd. And he knew how to protect the woman he loved. “Was the actress blackmailing you?”
“She was attempting to do so. I demanded that she provide some evidence of her claim.”
“Was that demand by letter?”
“Yes.”
Geoffrey’s fist hit the door involuntarily. “Deuce take it, Ralph. I thought you were cleverer than that. If the authorities find your letter, it’ll be incontrovertible proof of a motive for murder. Did they bring up your letter at the inquest? Was that why you’re being accused?”
“No, it was something else. Another actress named Dolly claimed that she saw me going into Miss Clifford’s dressing room following the performance that night.” Ralph looked at Geoffrey’s narrowed eyes. “It’s false. I swear it. I only went there in the daylight, before the show began.”
Geoffrey groaned. “There’s your word against everything else, Ralph.
I don’t think Sir Philip will have much to go on besides his own impressive rhetoric.
Perhaps I ought to engage that Runner as well, the one who almost pinned Will’s murder on me.
He was a perceptive fellow. Jacob Pevensey was his name. ”
“Trust me,” said Ralph wryly, “he already knows about the matter. I engaged him a couple months ago, the last time I was in London, to sound out Miss Clifford’s claims. He was one of the officers who called on me earlier this week to inform me of the murder and demand my presence at the inquest.”
“Ah,” said Geoffrey, with a tone of regret.
“Ah, indeed,” replied Ralph. It was no longer clear whether Jacob Pevensey was working for him or against him. He could only hope that it was neither and that the Bow Street Runner was working in service of the truth.
Helena laid her reticule on the desk and rifled through the drawers. Ralph had said that he had left her a sheaf of banknotes should she need them in an emergency. Well, the announcement in Geoffrey’s letter certainly constituted an emergency.
She and Polly had walked into the village that morning, posted the letter to Miss Cecil, and discovered that Auld Donald was the proud owner of two market carts and one rickety chaise, ancient enough to have carried Jacobite spies across the border in the days of their grandparents.
For a tidy sum, Donald had agreed to drive the women of the Carham Hall guest house all the way to London in that very chaise.
He would call for them in a little over an hour, attired in a faded frock coat and a tricorn hat with a white rose in the corner.
Now, while Polly was packing a trunk for her mistress and a small bag for herself, Helena must find the money to pay the fellow. She opened another drawer. There were loose papers inside this one. She lifted out a letter, written in a feminine script.
Darling,
You may not know it yet, but you’ve left something of yourself with me. Never fear, I fully intend to give it back to you. Before the year is out, I plan to present you with a babe that will have my own fine looks and the Aldine charm.
It will not be long before Danvers finds out that I am increasing. Perhaps that snug hunting box you mentioned would be better sooner rather than later. Then we could spend time together at our leisure and have a place for your son.
Come and watch me tonight. I will keep my dressing room door open for you afterwards.
With anticipation,
Libby
Helena put a hand over her mouth. The opening lines of the letter had put a knife to her heart, and every successive sentence was another twist of the blade. She was afraid that her courage would fail her and a scream of utter anguish would escape unbidden.
Where had this letter in Ralph’s desk come from? And who was Libby? From the closing lines, she seemed to be an actress. Was she the actress from the King’s Theatre? The one whose death had shackled Ralph to London until a trial could take place?
Helena let out a little moan. Merciful heaven! Was this woman the reason he had traveled to London in the first place? Had he fathered the child this actress carried as the letter indicated?
She recalled that she knew nothing of Ralph’s predilections or associations before she had sped with him to Scotland for a midnight marriage. Had he kept a mistress in London? One that he had given up when Geoffrey made a hasty bargain with him to salvage Helena’s respectability?
Helena pressed her long white fingers more tightly against her mouth. Oh, Ralph! What was she to think of him now?
She heard Polly pluckily sliding the trunk down the corridor to heft it down the stairs. The sound reminded her of the reason she was rifling through Ralph’s desk in the first place. The money. She must find the money. Was it somewhere in this disheartening drawer?
Beneath the first loose letter was another sheet of paper, this one in a more masculine hand. Trembling, Helena picked it up, wondering what fresh wound this epistle would deliver.
My One and Only Love,
She stopped. Her heart could take no more of this.
What else could this be but a draft of the reply that Ralph had sent to his mistress?
She would read no further. Indeed, the tears filling her eyes would hardly let her decipher another word.
Blindly, her fingers dug farther into the recesses of the drawer until they latched hold of a sheaf of bank notes.
She pulled them out. Whatever Ralph’s failings, he had been faithful enough to leave her the means to leave Carham.
“Mrs. Aldine!” called Polly from the top of the stairs. “Auld Donald is here.”
Helena stuffed the two letters and the sheaf of bank notes in her reticule. Then, she lifted the back of her hand to dash away the tears from her eyes. “I’m coming, Polly. Just let me fetch a bonnet and my boots, and I’ll be downstairs in a trice.” She exited the study and crossed the corridor.
Polly snorted and stopped dragging the trunk.
“Now ye listen to me, ma’am. Ye can’t be puttin’ yer boots on yerself.
Ah don’t think ye could even reach that far to touch yer toes.
” She followed Helena into the bedroom, seized the boots from the floor of the wardrobe, and knelt down at Helena’s feet.
Gratefully, Helena sat still on the edge of the bed as Polly laced up the leather half boots. She might not be able to bend down low enough to put her boots on, but she could still tie her bonnet strings. Still trembling, she tied the black ribbons into a tiny bow beneath her chin.
“Are ye feared to go t’London?” asked Polly, finally noticing her mistress’ distress. “Ah’ve never been to such a great city.”
“Feared?” Helena repeated. “No, I’m not afraid. I know London better than I know most people.” London was familiar. London was tried and true. It was her husband who was a mystery.
She remembered his words to her as she lay in this same bed, a little over two weeks ago.
Goodbye, Helena. I love you. She remembered the touch of his lips, the press of his hand, the light in his eyes.
Those parting words, at least, had been true.
But it was clear now that his reasons for visiting London twice in as many months could not simply be arranging transport of her pianoforte.
Polly stood up and dusted off her hands. “Are ye ready, ma’am?”
“Yes, Polly,” said Helena, forcing a resolute smile onto her face. “I am ready.”
She was ready for a four days’ journey of excessive discomfort to seek out the man who brought her sweet rolls and made her coffee, the man who dried her tears and cooked her omelets, the man who married a ruined woman and treated her with kindness.
She was also ready to confront the man who kept a mistress at the liveliest theater in London, the man who was accused of murder and imprisoned in a cell at Newgate, the man who—despite it all—she still loved with all her heart.