Chapter 20
Betrayed. Again. By another man she loved.
How was such a nightmare to be borne? Juliet curled into a ball on the wooden cot, trying hard not breathe in the stench of sweat and blood woven into the thin blanket pulled up to her shoulders.
Not that it did much good. The threadbare piece of wool was more a memory of a blanket than any real guardian against the chill of the damp cell.
And the reek of this place! It would take a blistering bath to rid her skin of it …
if she ever had the chance to bathe again.
A sob choked past her lips. What was to become of her?
“Quit yer cryin’ and get some sleep!” the woman on the other side of the wall barked. “Don’t do ye no good, nor none o’ the rest of us.”
“Caw! Leave her be,” a man’s voice rumbled in the darkness. “Fine lady like ’er ain’t accustomed to sleepin’ where rats play in the dark.”
Another man hooted. “Ain’t no rats hereabouts, Jackie. They’d starve a’fore their chompers could graze any flesh off yer skinny bones.”
“Better scrawny than stinkin’ like a mule’s backside,” Jackie shot back.
“Everyone shut yer gobs!” her neighbour shouted. “All this racket is keepin’ me from me beauty sleep.”
“Beauty? Hah! That’s a howler.” Jackie whooped, his coarse laughter harsh on Juliet’s ears. “T’aint no amount o’ shut-eye that’ll fix what God din’t finish on yer face.”
“Keep it up, Jackie, and I’ll come over there and finish what the Almighty started with yer rotten teeth!”
A crude curse ripped out of the man. “I’d like to see ye try, luv.”
Enough!
Juliet sat straight up on her cot, covering her ears with her palms. “Stop squabbling! Is it not bad enough in here without quarreling amongst yourselves?”
Everyone chuckled then, loud enough to be heard past her stopped-up ears.
“Well, well.” The bass words were muffled. “Looks like Queenie got her a spine after all.”
“Aye, luv. Day or two more and ye’ll be snappin’ like the rest o’ us.”
She sank back to the cot, the wobbly legs creaking, trying hard not to lose her composure once again.
Her eyes already stung from so much crying.
It seemed anger kept desperation at bay, so better to hold on to her irritation at her gaol mates than give in to tears.
Like the woman next to her had said, it didn’t do any good anyway.
Weeping wouldn’t unlock her cell door or clear her name of the taint of poisoning Charity.
She scrunched her eyes closed, trying to pretend she was beneath the cozy counterpane of her bed at Bedford Manor.
But no. All she saw on the inside of her lids was Henry, his mouth pressed tight, his left eye twitching, fear and shock and other emotions crossing his face so swiftly she could hardly name them. In the end, though, doubt had reigned.
Right before he’d turned his back on her and told the constable to do as he must.
She’d fought that man’s grip like a rabbit caught in one of her snares, kicking, wriggling, screeching of her innocence.
If she lay on her other side, she would yet feel the pain in her bruised bicep.
But that didn’t hurt nearly as much as Henry’s betrayal.
Did he honestly think she had poisoned his sister?
Had she not tenderly cared for Charity during her illness?
Stood side by side with him in trying to free the woman of her tormentor?
Had she not kissed his lips with all the passion he’d stirred within her?
She turned her face to the wall, ashamed she’d thought that kiss had meant something to him. For all his pretty words, clearly it had not, for how quickly he’d tossed her aside.
Worse than that, though, was the death knell to her hope.
How stupid she’d been to think he had seen her at her worst—a lady fallen from status, a poacher, a nobody—and believe that he’d accepted her for who she was …
determined, capable, trustworthy. She gritted her teeth.
No. He’d chosen to doubt her instead of trust. Ahh, yes, she could understand his loyalty to his sister, but to think of her as someone who would willfully poison her?
And if Henry couldn’t believe her, who on God’s green earth would? There was Aunt Margaret, of course, but the word of a poor widow would carry no weight in court.
Chill seeped into her bones, and she shivered. She would end up like her father, godforsaken in these walls of doom and despair.
Unless, of course, they hanged her first.
That thought went down like a mouthful of rancid meat.
Oh, that Charity would live! Not for Juliet’s sake alone, but because the mere thought of that sweet woman’s life coming to an end at such a young age just wasn’t right.
If Henry’s sister didn’t make it, her death would destroy him.
Juliet pressed her knuckles to her mouth, pushing back another sob.
Despite how much he must doubt her now, no matter the pain he’d caused by casting her in here, she could not bear the thought of him enduring such a grief …
for well did she know the pain of losing a sibling.
A bond that, once broken, could never be rejoined.
She sank into an exhausted sleep, surrendering to hellish images and darkness so thick, it lived. How long she lay in such torment, she could not say, but when her eyes did open, night yet reigned, only now it was accompanied by the snores and heavy breathing of her gaol mates.
Driven by an urgent need she could no longer put off, she rose and wrinkled her nose at the bucket in the corner.
She’d avoided the horrid thing, but it was inevitable she would have to give in to such an indignity.
Likely better now, under the cover of shadow, than when eyes might witness her shame.
Her empty stomach heaved at the thought, and it took all her fortitude to take the first step towards it.
But as she did, her foot slipped on something. Frowning, she caught her balance and, ever so tentatively, crouched to see the cause. A small square of white paper lay stark against the filthy stone floor.
A paper that had not been in the cell when she’d first been so roughly shoved inside.
Glancing about, more from habit than from actually expecting to see anyone, she swiped it up and unfolded the tiny note.
Thankfully, the author—whoever it was, for no signature graced the bottom—had used a very dark ink.
Holding the paper up to her eyes, she read the few words twice over in the spare light of the torch flickering outside her cell.
And tried to ignore the gooseflesh rising on her arms.
Trust is dangerous, so beware.
Near the old stone gate, truth lies buried where lies take root.
Henry pounded a tight route on the runner, pacing the corridor to the closed door of Charity’s bedchamber, then back to the alcove where Clara perched on one of the chairs.
Each grinding step a fruitless search for hope and healing.
If only he could turn back time. Do things over.
Serve the blasted tea himself. Never be a witness to his sister’s pale face or laboured breathing.
And especially not have agreed to allow Juliet to be hauled off to gaol.
“Sit down.” Clara reached out, snagging his coattail. “Working a rut into the floorboards will do your sister no good.”
Did she think he didn’t know that? Would to God there were something he could do that would help Charity!
Exhausted, he dropped into an adjacent chair, rubbing his palms along his thighs. “The doctor has been in there a long time,” he grumbled. “Too long.”
Tipping his head back, he stared at the ceiling. He’d been so determined to shoulder everything on his own. To prove he didn’t need his father’s guidance or interference. That he was capable. He could handle it.
And now … now he couldn’t shake the fear his pride might be the thing that killed his sister.
Leaning aside, Clara stilled one of his hands with a firm grip. “Actually, I believe it is a good sign he’s still in there. If things were going terribly wrong, Dr. Branch would have been out here by now.”
A small amount of relief pulsed through him—a very small amount—yet for that he was grateful. He flipped his hand over, giving Clara’s fingers a little squeeze before releasing her. “Thank you for staying here tonight.”
She pulled back, tucking an imaginary swath of hair behind her ear, for no curl ever broke rank from her perfect coif. Clara was always polished, poised, so unlike … He swallowed hard, stopping himself before he could finish that thought.
“I will always be here for you, Henry. That’s what friends are for. Besides, I sent word to Mother so she will not worry, leastwise about me. I have no doubt she will be praying for Charity every waking minute.”
A comfort, that. He’d take all the prayer he could get on his sister’s behalf. He forced his lips into what he hoped was some sort of smile. “I appreciate how your family stands with ours no matter what.”
She shook her head, her tone resolute. “No gratitude needed. I would do so even if the past generations did not bind us together. You must know you mean the world to me.” She paused a beat. “And Charity, of course.”
Admiration shone in the brightness of her gaze and the blush on her cheeks, making him feel …
nothing whatsoever. What was wrong with him?
Any man would be moved to some degree to receive such an adoring look from a beautiful woman.
Naturally he cared for Clara. He had ever since they played together as children.
Yet she’d always—and ever would be—naught but another sister to him.
A very loving sister, yes, but nothing more.
Guilt settled over his shoulders like a cloud of black smoke.
It would kill him to disappoint this woman, but he could not return any other affection than the brotherly sort.
No. This faithful friend of his deserved better.