Chapter 21
Three days in the belly of a fish. Three in a cold stone tomb.
Juliet hunched listlessly on the wooden cot, note dangling from her fingers.
Despair wrapped its arms around her. Again.
It was her constant companion now—one she welcomed, for at least it was familiar.
Was this how Jonah had felt when he’d been trapped in the dark and deep?
How Jesus had suffered when bearing the load of sins that were not of His own making?
Mirthless laughter caught in her throat.
Who was she fooling? She was not a prophet or a saviour.
She was just a girl in a cage awaiting a fate she was powerless to stop.
So she clung to the only thing she knew: bitterness. And why not? It was all she had left. But it gave no relief, not a shred of it. She was sinking, hard and fast. Hardly able to breathe for want of release.
She crumpled the paper into a tight wad and threw it against the wall, sick to death of this wallowing, this unfair hand she’d been dealt. Had her father never ruined their family, she wouldn’t be in this situation!
And yet where had her anger gotten her?
She huffed a long sigh. Oh, it had worked for a while, she supposed.
Her fury had protected her from facing every lie he’d spun, each promise he’d broken, the scars he’d carved into her heart, but here?
Now? It did no good. So much pain filled her chest it was a wonder her lungs worked at all.
The rage that had been her armour seemed as confining as this cell.
It hadn’t saved her from anything. Not from poverty or hunger.
Not from Henry’s doubt and betrayal. And it certainly hadn’t freed her from this wretched place.
She pressed her fists to her eyes, shoving back the tears that burned, but they slipped through anyway. She just couldn’t contain it anymore.
“You ruined everything!” she rasped. “I hate you! Do you hear me?” She lifted her face and howled at the mouldy ceiling. “I hate you!”
She froze, stunned by her own venomous words, unsure if she were crying out to her dead father or to God.
“Shut yer yappin’!” Jackie barked from down the line.
She barely heard the man’s voice over the rush of blood in her ears and the echo of her own wicked confession. Is that what she’d become? A hater of man and God? Trapped in a snare of her own making?
Shaking started in the pit of her belly and spread, so violently she grasped the edges of the wooden cot and held on for dear life. She had to, or she would break.
But it was too late.
She slumped over, unable to bear the weight of her own deception any longer, pushed down by a truth so heavy it was impossible to raise her head.
She had never truly hated her father. Not really.
She’d merely wanted him to love her as a father should, to care for her more than himself, and when he hadn’t, when he’d rotted in that gaol cell unrepentant towards both God and her to the very end, she’d clung to bitterness instead of that painful truth.
Still, was she not following in his footsteps? She’d ruined herself as thoroughly as he had. No, worse. He’d never blamed her for his sins, yet here she was accounting to him all her woes.
She bit her bottom lip until she tasted the salt of blood.
Jonah had given in to God and gone to Nineveh.
Jesus—despite shouldering the sins of the world—had submitted to His Father’s will.
And here she sat in a damp prison, clutching an anger she never should have clung to in the first place. What a fool.
Her head hung even lower. “I—”
The whisper stuck in her throat like a hot coal, one she would either have to swallow forever or spit out and be rid of for good.
Perspiration prickled cold on her brow, and she tried again.
“I forgive you, Father. Do you hear me, God?” She lifted her face, tears burning her cheeks.
“I forgive him. I forgive all of it. The betrayal. The lies. Everything. He was a broken man, as misguided as I have been. Oh, Lord, pardon my own transgressions.”
For a long time, she sat there. An eternity, it seemed. The air just as damp and reeking of unwashed bodies. The chill seeping through the fabric of her gown and pores of her skin. The door did not magically swing open to offer her a way out.
But despite all that, ever so slowly—yet steadily—the tightness in her chest loosened, enough so she could breathe again. Then more. Something much more. A strange lightness, long forgotten, replaced the strangling tide she’d swum in for so long.
Peace.
Delicate and fragile but growing with every breath she took.
Straightening, she wiped her eyes, bewildered by the profound change. Not a blessed thing was different behind these bars of steel and hard rock walls, but inside … she gasped. The hollow in her heart that’d whistled with nothing but cold air now pulsed with warmth.
She collapsed against the wall, face to the heavens, a bittersweet smile lifting her lips. Why had she not done this long ago?
Screeching hinges barged into her holy moment, followed by the clap of boots against stone.
The turnkey—a burly fellow with a pockmarked face—stopped in front of her cell.
“Look lively, Miss Finch. You’ve got a visitor.
” He turned his face back towards the door he’d come through, gesturing with a wiggle of his podgy fingers.
“Come along. No one here’s going to bite ye. ”
“Hear that, boys!” Juliet’s neighbour on the other side of the wall squealed. “Queenie’s got herself a caller.”
“Hope he brought flowers,” Jackie hollered back. “Might knock down some o’ yer stink.”
A foul curse ripped the air. “I’m a bucket o’ posies compared to yer reekin’ carcass.”
The turnkey grabbed his club. “Quiet down, or I’ll have you all muzzled like the pack of yapping curs you are.” He stomped down the row, banging the bars with his bludgeon.
Juliet rose, tentatively peering as far as she could into the corridor. Had Henry recanted his doubt and come to release her? Or maybe by some great miracle Aunt Margaret had rallied to plead for her discharge?
The crisp cadence of expensive shoes clipped along the passageway. Long legs encased in finely pressed trousers entered her view, topped off by a lean torso and the unmistakable shape of a horse face. The man’s spectacles reflected hellish glimmers from the wall torches.
Her brows rose. She never expected this. “Mr. Scather?”
The apothecary stopped in front of her door, head dipping in a curt nod. “Miss Finch.”
This made no sense whatsoever. Surely he didn’t think she was peddling her aunt’s tonics in here. And even if he did, what could he possibly do about it? She was already in gaol!
She pursed her lips, thoroughly confused. “But … why have you come?”
Before he could answer, the turnkey planted himself next to the man. “You’ve got five minutes.” A few drops of brown tobacco juice dribbled out the side of his mouth, but he did nothing to swipe the mess away. “I’ll be waitin’ by the door.” He shuffled off, slapping his club against his palm.
Mr. Scather’s gaze followed the hulk for a beat before looking down the great length of his sloped nose at her. “I came to see the reckless woman who once again threatens to ruin my business.”
“How can I possibly accomplish that while locked in here?” She snorted.
“It is not what you are doing so much as what you have done. Poisoning a lady of society!” He spread his hands. “Have you lost your wits?”
Dread coiled in her stomach, and she pressed her fingers to her lips. “Has … has Miss Russell died?”
“No. I hear she fares well, no thanks to you and your evil intent.”
Relief flashed through her, followed by a wave of righteous fury. “You have no right to accuse me of such a wicked crime.”
“I have every right,” he growled as he stepped closer, his wafting breath pungent with cloves. “Do you think your actions have not cast suspicion on all who deal in pills and remedies? There is already a noticeable downturn in my business.”
“What have I to do with that? I am no apothecary, as you have repeatedly pointed out.” She paced a small circle, trying to make sense of his words. “I fail to see how my imprisonment affects your sales.”
His upper lip curled slightly. “The people of Bedford make no distinction between a street peddler such as yourself and an upstanding man of the trade like me. Remedies are remedies to them. What you did stains my name as well.”
Juliet folded her arms like a shield against his accusations. “I have done nothing other than to be accused, through no fault of my own.”
He chuckled, the sound hollow. “That is beside the point. Gossipmongers care nothing for the truth. My bottles are being looked upon as liquid death, all because the woman who sold tonics on the street has poisoned a gentlewoman … with laudanum and ether, no less.”
He advanced, grabbing the bars with his long fingers, his voice lowering to a deadly tone. “And I think it may be no coincidence that recently a substantial amount of laudanum has gone missing from my stock, not to mention some oil of ether. What have you to say to that?”
She gaped, hardly believing the gall of the man. “Are you accusing me of theft, sir?”
He glanced from left to right before settling his dark gaze back on her.
“I don’t see anyone else in here who has the know-how and capability to overdose an unsuspecting victim to the point just shy of death.
So”—his head cocked—“how did you do it? Pay a light-finger to snatch a bottle here and there when my back was turned? Or did you somehow sneak in at night? And what are you planning to do with the rest of it now that you are behind bars?”
Her old friend fury sparked into life, burning a trail up from her belly. Had she not suffered enough indignities that she now must bear this man’s indictments?