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. Shehadto 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—” Shejerked 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. Shewasa 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?”
