Chapter 22
Trust is dangerous, so beware.
Juliet fingered the note in her pocket as she paced a route around her cell. She didn’t need to see the scrawled ink anymore. The words were seared into her mind. And likely would be forevermore.
She chewed on her thumbnail as she swung into another circuit, which honestly didn’t take long, so small was the cell.
Ignoring the stench of her own unwashed body—ahh, but she’d give her left arm for a rose-scented bath—she focused on the message.
Was this a broad warning or a specific threat about a particular person?
Probably not the former, because who would bother to deliver such a vague note?
And if the latter, did it mean she’d misplaced her trust in someone she’d thought an ally but was really working against her?
A shiver lifted gooseflesh on her forearms, but not from the chill of the stone walls.
If that line of thinking were correct, there remained precious few people to beware of, for she’d allowed her heart to trust only Aunt Margaret, Charity, and …
She chewed her thumb more furiously, not wishing to admit the last person.
Henry.
Her step hitched, the thin soles of her shoes so damp her toes squished inside them.
Logically, Aunt could do nothing in her condition.
And Charity was the victim in this whole scenario.
So that left … him. The man who’d held her in his arms, claiming she undid him.
The one who’d looked at her as if no other woman existed.
The one she’d given her heart to.
Wind howled through the cracked window high up on the wall, but the mournful sound might as well have slipped out of her own throat. What a fool! She deserved to be in here for being so naive.
Juliet whumped down on the hard cot, teeth juddering. Better to move on to the next part of the note than dwell on such a hideous truth.
Near the old stone gate, truth lies buried where lies take root.
Clutching the coarse blanket to her chest, she hugged the filthy fabric, thoughts awhirl. She knew exactly where the old gate was, but what truth lay beneath the dirt there? Something to prove her innocence? Something that revealed Charity’s true tormentor?
She cast the blanket aside, shoulders slumping. For all she knew it could be naught but a cruel jest. Or worse. A trap.
Yet was she not already trapped?
Her head dropped to her hands. She would never know the answer unless she got out of here. She had to find what lay near that gate! But how could she possibly do so while locked in a prison of iron and stone?
“What do I do, God?” The prayer was little more than a whisper—one that startled. One that felt like breathing. How easily her petitions flowed now that the floodgates of her spirit had been opened.
Or maybe she was just too exhausted to fight on her own anymore.
“Oh, Lord.” She exhaled shakily. “How can I possibly find what is buried when I am trapped behind these bars? Or—” She jerked up her head, sucking in air as a realization hit her hard. “Is this yet another thing I must surrender to You?”
The only answer was the scrape of an iron latch and creak of hinges. Heavy boots thudded against stone, the jingle of keys whapping against the turnkey’s thigh as he came into view. “Pull yourself together, Miss Finch. You’ve another visitor.”
He tipped his head towards the door, signaling for whoever it was to enter.
“Hear that, Jackie? Queenie’s holdin’ court again.” The woman in the next cell over cackled at her own jest.
“Hope it’s one o’ her knights armed with a battering ram,” Jackie bellowed back. “A big hole in the wall would do us all good.”
Juliet rolled her eyes as the hefty guard once again pulled out his club and lumbered off, banging the bars and threatening the inmates. Such behaviour was becoming as routine as the mealy porridge served twice a day.
She rose, not even bothering to smooth the wrinkles from her gown. If Mr. Scather wished for another session of gloating, why bother trying to mould herself into some semblance of propriety? The man would never respect her anyway. She folded her arms, prepared for battle.
But nothing could have prepared her for the silent figure standing tall in the gloom—one that stole the breath from her lungs.
Henry’s dark coat clung to his broad shoulders, his collar turned up against the cold.
Wet hair curled beneath his black felt hat, torchlight flickering against the droplets like the sky had wept over him.
He said nothing as he approached, his jaw fixed as his gloved fingers wrapped around the bars.
Never once did his gaze stray from hers.
He was a handsome, brooding spectre, one she loathed to admire so much.
She dropped her arms, her fingers flexing, unsure if she ought to curl them into fists or cover her face and weep, for far too many emotions churned in her belly.
Part of her—the traitorous part—wanted to run into his arms. The other longed to spit in his face.
How dare he show up now, after three endless days of cold and want and fear?
Even so, the very sight of him—drenched and haggard, unmistakable pain in his grimace—squeezed her heart. She planted her feet, unwilling to take a step towards him, for yes. She was a fool. She was a stupid, blind-eyed namby when it came to this man.
And that infuriated her more than anything.
He worked his jaw, struggling for words as if they’d turned to stone in his mouth. Good. Let him struggle. It was but a mere taste of the melee her life had been this past year.
“Juliet.” A thousand heartbreaks lived in that one, throaty word. “Are you—” He drew in a stuttered breath. “Do they treat you well?”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from scoffing.
What sort of question was that when he could see the black mould on the walls and hear the scathing skirmish going on between Jackie and the turnkey at the end of the passageway?
She lifted one shoulder nonchalantly. “As well as any gaol, I suppose, though I haven’t much former experience to compare this with. ”
He pressed his forehead against the cold iron, his eyes closing, lines of grief etching deeply at the sides of them.
Juliet’s brow crumpled. What was this? Why such sympathy from the man who’d sent her here? “Why have you come, Mr. Russell? How fares your sister?”
“Charity is on the mend. I …” He closed his eyes for a moment, and when they reopened, red rimmed the whites. “I need to know the truth, Juliet.”
“Well, you surely seemed certain of it when you allowed the constable to escort me to this fine establishment.” She flung out her arms, indicating the rough wooden cot in one corner and horrid waste bucket squatting in the other. “I am here because you believe me the villain!”
A muscle jumped on his jaw. “I know you are angry but—”
“Angry? Angry!” She stomped to the bars, facing him nose to nose, and lowered her voice to a guttural tone. “You underestimate the depth of my fury, sir.”
“Please.” His breath puffed hot against her brow. “I want to believe in you. I truly do, but surely you admit the evidence against you does not bode well.”
“I could say the same of you.”
“Me?” He reared back his head. “What do you mean?”
“You told me you would never betray me.” She stabbed him in the shoulder with her finger. “You said it out loud, right to my face. Yet here I am, by your hand, your own words branding you a liar.”
“No.” He shook his head violently, droplets of water hitting her face. “I would never willingly betray you.”
“Nor would I poison your sister. I am not the monster everyone makes me out to be!” Her voice—harsh and crackly—bounced from wall to wall like a mad woman’s.
She retreated a step, breathing ragged, hating the awful sound of it, hating even more that this man could drive her to such unbridled passion.
Henry whirled, slapping his open palm against the opposite wall. His head hung as if she’d whipped him.
Bootsteps thundered their way, the smack of the turnkey’s club against her bars a lightning bolt down her spine.
Henry turned back swiftly.
The grizzly turnkey merely hitched his thumb towards her. “She giving you trouble, Mr. Russell?”
“No.” Henry scrubbed his palm over his face, the motion rough with fatigue. “I would appreciate a moment more with Miss Finch, if you please. Alone.”
“Aye.” The big man gave a nod. “As you wish. I’ll wait near the door, then.” He ambled off, but not before he directed a dark look her way.
Slowly, Henry approached her cell, the lines of his jaw hardening. “Will you swear before God you are innocent? Think very carefully before you answer.” His voice lowered to a menacing whisper. “Do you swear it?”
She searched his face, her gaze flicking between each of his grey-green eyes. Oh, but she was desperate to read what went on inside this man, to know that he would believe her if she but said the word … but would her word alone be enough? Was she enough for him?
She pressed her lips tight.
Oh God, please let him believe me.
Inhaling deeply, she stepped up to the bars and grasped the cold metal. “Yes, Henry. I vow before you and God that I never have done—and never will do—anything that would harm your sister. And now I must ask the same of you.”
She lifted her face to his. “Will you swear before God that you believe me?”
Henry stood at the very tip of a precipice, teetering above a black abyss waiting to swallow him whole if he answered no …
or yes. Either promised dire consequences.
Again, he spun away from Juliet’s beseeching eyes.
A cowardly move, perhaps, but altogether necessary.
This was no small question. He must bear the weight of it without allowing himself to be swayed by the sight of a woman worn thin by three days in this wretched place.
A woman who still had the power to squeeze his heart.