Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1

Chapter Two

He had been right. His display of anger in throwing his plate at the visitors had not been forgiven. The dark man raised his head as the familiar early evening sound of shuffling feet penetrated the heavy door. There was the thump as the stew pot was set down, a rattle as grills were opened to ladle out the disgusting slop in one cell after another, the duller sound of the water bucket grounding on the flags.

But the sounds reached his door and passed by. Resigned, he reached for the beaker and tipped it to his lips. A small trickle of water touched them. He was used to the taste now, grateful he could not see clearly the colour of it. Thoughtfully he ran his tongue round as much of the damp interior as he could reach and set it down again.

He had spent six years of living the life of a rake and an adventurer, the course he had chosen for himself in defiance of everything he had been brought up to respect. It had given him freedom, amusement, some moments of intense pleasure, some fear, much insecurity. He could have been said to have lived to the full those past years. Was it worth the price of his life? It seemed someone was calling in the debt and he had no choice. He had never been one to rail against fate: you changed what you could and put up with what you could not. Pride was all he had brought with him out of that old life, it was just going to have to be enough to see him out of this one. The rats, who knew the prison’s routines even better than he, skirmished in the straw, waiting for their dinner, which unaccountably had not appeared.

In the study of the house in Clifford Street Katherine stared at the two young men as though they had sprouted feathers and began to cluck. ‘You went to Newgate prison to find me a husband?’

‘Let me explain,’ Arthur said hurriedly. ‘I know the son of the Governor and he plays cards regularly with the Assistant Governor and some of the wealthier prisoners who can afford to pay garnish—that’s the money for better food and accommodation and so on. So that’s how I can get in and out of the prison.’

‘I don’t wish to get in and out,’ Katherine said tartly. ‘I want to stay out in the first place.’

‘Yes, I know that. But me knowing the Assistant Governor and Christopher Hadden—that’s the Governor’s son—means that I can see how we can put my plan into operation. They are both in debt to me, you see. Not much, but Hadden’s on a short string from his father and the Assistant Governor knows there’ll be hell to pay if the old man finds out he’s been involving him in deep play.’

Katherine sank back in the chair. This was like some insane dream. Any moment now she was going to lose all touch with reality and that was dangerous; she could not let herself sleepwalk into whatever desperate scheme the two young men were hatching.

‘And your plan is what, exactly?’

‘Well.’ Arthur steepled his fingers and suddenly became an almost perfect copy of his uncle, a very senior and pompous family lawyer. Katherine stifled a hysterical giggle. ‘You are aware of the situation as regards women’s property?’

‘I think so,’ Katherine said dubiously. Not having any property meant she had given the matter little thought.

‘Well, let me explain in detail,’ Arthur continued. ‘An unmarried woman is effectively the property of her father until she comes of age and marries, at which point she becomes the property of her husband and all her assets come under his control. With an unmarried lady who is of age, or a widow, then you do—subject to any trusts and so forth—have control of your own property.’

‘Arthur,’ Katherine said patiently, ‘the entire problem arises because I do not have any property.’

‘Yes, indeed. But the reverse also holds true. If you are under age, any debts you incur are your father’s responsibility. If you are married, they are your husband’s.’ He paused significantly. ‘Even debts incurred before the marriage.’

‘So you think that by marrying someone in Newgate prison I will be able to pass my debts to my new husband?’ He was obviously mad—she must just humour him. ‘Why should anyone saddle himself with more debt? I assume you are talking about one of these card-playing debtors. It would only make their position worse.’

‘I am not talking about them, Katherine.’ Arthur’s pose of legal dignity dropped away and he looked down at his hands, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. ‘When a man dies without any assets his debts die with him. They do not revert to his wife.’

‘But how do you know who is going to die?’ she began, still trying to humour him in this insane game. Then what she had just said penetrated her consciousness. ‘You want me to marry a condemned man?’

‘It is the only way, Katy,’ Philip suddenly burst out. ‘Don’t you see? The five thousand pounds would be wiped out at a stroke, as the gallows trap dropped.’

‘Stop it! That is an obscene thing to say—how can you even suggest it?’

‘Because it is the only way out,’ Philip retorted. ‘Can you think of another?’

‘There must be.’ But she heard the despair in her own voice as she said it. What choices were there to meet such a debt in so short a space of time? They had no assets, nothing to sell.

‘But what could possibly induce a condemned man to such a course? What benefit to him would there be?’ Even as she asked the question, she knew she was on the verge of agreeing; it did not take the exchange of looks between the two men to see they thought she was won round.

‘Hard to say,’ Arthur shrugged. ‘I’ve heard of half a dozen cases from Hadden. I suppose in some of them the wife promises to take care of the man’s dependents, but you can’t afford to take on any more costs, which is why I have gone for the other option. It seems that for some of the most hardened cases—the ones with nothing to lose or the ones who like to make a show, like the highwaymen—it is a diversion.’

‘In what way?’

‘Someone new to meet, the wedding, getting out of their cell for a bit, being the centre of attention—all those liven things up when you are sitting, waiting to hang, with nothing to entertain you but counting rats and wondering what the ballad mongers are going to write about you.’

‘And you have a convenient highwayman, have you?’ This was not happening to her. This morning she had got up with nothing more on her mind than the fishmonger, who was becoming pressing over his account, and whether she could turn the cuffs on Philip’s shirts yet again. Now she was discussing marrying a highwayman in order to avoid being sent to prison.

‘Yes, Black Jack Standon. Notorious, but not a lout. No gentleman, mind you, but by all accounts he behaves well enough when he holds up stages. Good looking, the ladies say. He’ll be expecting a lot of attention when he’s turned off and, like all of them, he’ll be a bit of a showman. I think he is our best bet.’

The hysteria which she was aware of just under the surface was threatening to break through again. My late husband, Black Jack Standon the highwayman …

Katherine fought it down. ‘And just how is this all to be arranged, assuming, that is, that Mr Standon is willing?’

‘You’ll need a licence and then there’s the Ordinary—that’s the chaplain—to fix and his fees to pay. There’s garnish to the turnkeys as well, but I’ve put it to Hadden and the Assistant Governor that, if they make all the arrangements, I’ll forget what Hadden owes me and nothing about the gaming will get to the Governor’s ears.’

‘Damn good of you, Arthur,’ Philip said with feeling. ‘We’ll go tomorrow, get it fixed up, put it to Standon. If he agrees, we can get the licence and the wedding can be the day after tomorrow.’

‘I think I will go and lie down.’ Katherine got to her feet. It was that or give way to the crazy laughter that was bubbling inside her. ‘Please will you ring for Jenny? I have a headache.’ As she reached the door she turned back. ‘And however lightly you take that debt, I am not going to forget it. Somehow it will have to be paid back, however long it takes. I might be reduced to marrying a highwayman, but I am not going to be a thief.’

The man they called Black Jack stood blinking in the morning light of the Assistant Governor’s office and wondered if bad food and water were making him hallucinate. Had he really agreed yesterday to marry some foolish spinster because she wanted to escape her debts? It seemed he had or he wouldn’t be here. Goodness knows why, unless it was the instinctive reaction that any woman saddled with that dandipratt of a brother deserved some kind of help. And it passed the time more interestingly than sitting in his cell day and night and reflecting on his past sins. Of course, there was the other benefit that the young lawyer had drawn delicately to his attention. Or perhaps it would not prove to be a benefit; he would wait and see.

The more intelligent of the two young men who had made the proposition to him, the lawyer, was speaking to Mr Rawlings. The Assistant Governor frowned, then nodded. ‘Very well, we will have the leg irons off him, no need to alarm Miss Cunningham, but the hand shackles stay.’ There was further hurried speech. ‘A bath and a shave? I think not, Mr Brigham!’ More muttering. ‘Er, yes, there is that. I had set aside one of the better cells; Mr Wiggens left it only yesterday, having cleared his debts. But it will have to be after the ceremony, I cannot detain the chaplain any longer than necessary.’

The dark man caught sight of his own reflection in a mirror hanging in one corner of the office and grimaced. The blushing bride would probably scream and run at the sight of him; he had not realised just how bad he looked and doubtless the smell was worse.

‘Ah, Miss Cunningham, do come in.’ Mr Rawlings was ushering in a tall, slender woman in grey, heavily veiled. A trim maid, wide-eyed with apprehension, was at her back. The woman lifted a hand and put back her veil and the dark man felt the impact as a catch in his throat. She was beautiful.

Huge brown eyes, wide cheekbones tapering to a pointed chin, a mass of dark blonde hair just visible under her bonnet—lovely, terrified, brave.

Katherine sent one searching look around the office and fixed on the man in chains at its centre with almost painful attention. It was hard to look at anyone or anything else. He was tall, broad shouldered, dark, with eyes that looked black. It was difficult to see the rest of his face under a heavy growth of untrimmed beard, but what she could see had a fading tan. She noticed with a strange pang that the skin under his eyes was pale: he was not well.

His hands were filthy and his wrists red raw where the shackles had chaffed. His clothes were quite simply appalling: a torn frieze jacket, buckskin breeches and a pair of muddy boots. If he was wearing a shirt, it appeared to be collarless and a ragged neckcloth, red with white spots, filled in the gap at his throat. She could smell him from across the room. Sweat and the smell of the prison that seeped into everything. She realised it was part of the air of this place.

Then his eyes met hers and he was quite simply a man in desperate trouble, a fellow human being that she and Philip were using for their own convenience.

‘I wish to speak to Mr Standon privately.’ Her voice sounded unnaturally calm to her own ears.

‘I am not sure that is wise, ma’am.’

‘I will speak to him,’ she insisted, walking forward past the highwayman and into the far corner of the room. ‘Mr Standon, please.’ Her legs shook.

He followed her, stood with his back to the room, shielding her, and raised one eyebrow interrogatively. ‘Yes, Miss Cunningham?’

Katherine regarded him, startled. He was so well spoken! A gentleman turned highwayman? It happened, she had heard of cases. ‘I want to know why you have agreed to this,’ she said impetuously, keeping her voice low. ‘What possible benefit to you can there be in it?’

The dark eyes held hers and laughter lines crinkled at the corners. ‘It is an improvement on sitting in a dark cell for twenty-four hours a day.’

‘That cannot be all,’ she said impatiently. ‘If you had some dependents I could promise to take care of, I would do my best by them, despite my circumstances—but my brother says you have no one.’

‘I have no one who needs your help,’ he confirmed and she wondered at the sudden grimness in his voice.

‘Then why?’ She was not going to be fobbed off—suddenly it was important to know why this condemned man should put himself out in any way for her.

The laughter lines were back, and with them a new note in the soft, deep voice. ‘I have to admit that the prospect of tonight was a powerful incentive, Miss Cunningham. Once I had seen you.’

‘What do you mean—“tonight”?’ Her heart was beginning to thud. He could not mean …? No, surely not.

‘A legal marriage requires two things Miss Cunningham. A wedding ceremony and the consummation of the union.’

Katherine felt the blood draining out of her face and the room began to swim. She staggered and his hand was under her arm. She blinked, steadied herself and withdrew from him. ‘I must speak to my brother.’ Turning, Katherine stalked across the room and took Philip firmly by the arm. ‘Outside, please, and you too, Arthur. Excuse us, Mr Rawlings, Reverend.’

The corridor outside the office was deserted. Katherine turned on the two men, her voice shaking with outrage. ‘You did not tell me this wedding would have to be consummated! What are you thinking of? How can I possibly give myself to a man I do not know, a convicted criminal? Am I supposed to retire to his filthy cell for the night? Is that what you expect? Because if that is the case, let me tell you, you are far and away out!’

‘Katherine, please calm down.’ Arthur took her hand. Furiously Katherine swatted him away. ‘The moneylenders will have their spies in here. This is not an uncommon occurrence. If they can find grounds to contest the marriage and pursue their money, believe me they will.’

‘And they promised me he will have a bath and a shave first,’ Philip added, flinching at the look his sister sent him. ‘And a nice cell …’

‘A nice cell? And what does that consist of, pray?’ She had to keep her anger fuelled or otherwise she was going to give way under the wave of fear and embarrassment that threatened to swamp her. ‘House-trained rats and tasteful sackcloth hangings?’

‘No, it is a proper room, Katy, like a room in a good inn, I promise you. It has just been vacated by one of the better-off debtors.’

Katherine took a few hurried steps away from them until she could rest her forehead against a bookcase that stood in the corridor. Behind her she heard Arthur say, ‘Leave her for a moment.’

The tears welled up in her eyes and she blinked them back, but not before two escaped and ran down her cheeks. She scrubbed them away and tried to think. What was the alternative? To end up in this place herself with no prospect of release? Put like that, the choice seemed relatively simple.

She supposed a young lady should be prepared to die rather than surrender her virtue in such circumstances, but was it so very different from the young girls whose families married them off to men old enough to be their fathers, or to some dissolute rake for money or dynastic reasons? Like them, she would be married. And, for some reason she could not define, the condemned man in the other room made her feel ridiculously safe.

‘Very well.’ Do it now, an inner voice urged. Do it while you have the courage of your anger. Without looking at the two young men, she threw open the door into the office and went in to find herself in the middle of an argument between the prisoner and a very flustered chaplain.

‘The name on the licence is incorrect, I cannot proceed.’

‘That is my name.’

‘Your name is Jack or John Standon.’

‘That is what they call me.’ The prisoner reached out a hand, fetters clanking, and laid it on the Bible which the chaplain had placed on the desk. ‘I swear upon this book that what is written there is my true name.’

There was sincerity in his voice, which appeared to convince the clergyman almost as much as the oath had done. ‘Very well, we will begin. Let us go down to the chapel.’

The ceremony passed like a strange dream for Katherine, who was aware only of the hand holding hers as Philip stepped forward to give her away, the tall presence next to her and the sudden shock of hearing his real name.

‘Will you, Nicholas Francis Charles Lydgate, take Katherine Susanna Cunningham …’

‘I do.’ It sounded as though he meant it.

‘With this ring …’ the chaplain began, then paused, looking expectantly from one man to another. Philip and Arthur looked confused, then anxious. Katherine found her hand being released as the prisoner tugged the signet ring off his finger and handed it to the priest. It felt odd on her hand; warm from his, smooth and old from long wear. She glanced down, but the engraving was worn and unreadable. The fruit of some robbery?

Then her mind was jerked back to the present as he repeated, ‘With my body I thee worship …’ She shivered convulsively and the filthy fingers tightened around hers for a moment. Strangely reassured, she tried to force herself to concentrate on the rest of the ceremony; it was, after all, a sacrament and she should be suitably attentive.

The chaplain droned to the end and then began, apparently out of habit, ‘You may kiss the—’ He broke off at a warning cough from the Assistant Governor. Beside her the prisoner—her husband, for goodness’ sake!—made a small noise that might have been a chuckle. Katherine found her hand lifted and her knuckles were brushed by his lips. The heavy beard obscuring most of his face felt strange on the soft skin on the back of her hand.

Before she could say anything, thank the clergyman even, Philip’s hand was under her arm and she was swept towards the door. She heard Mr Rawlings say, ‘At about eight this evening, then, Mr Cunningham?’ and Philip’s muttered acknowledgement before she was out of the chapel.

Chapter Three

‘That went off very well, I think,’ Philip announced when they were once again sitting in the old family coach and it began to move off up the Old Bailey.

Katherine simply gave him a long look and he subsided into sulky silence. What has he got to sulk about? she thought. If he had said one word that showed he understood how devastating this is for me, it would help. At least Arthur seems to feel it as he ought.

She gazed out of the coach window at St Giles’s church. The journey home was taking longer than it might, for they only had the single pair of horses, which somehow her scrimping and saving allowed them to retain. Still, it was a useful punctuation in this unreal day. Time, perhaps, for some practical planning. Anything was better than dwelling on what she had just committed herself to.

The Assistant Governor had promised them a decent room. Well, she would take her own bed linen and candles. And he had promised that Mr Standon—no, Mr Lydgate—could have a bath and a shave. Not that that would do much good if he had to put those revolting clothes back on again. Now, where could she get some the right size? Philip and Arthur were striplings by comparison. Of course, John was the answer.

John Morgan their coachman turned general factotum was up on the box now, an impressive broad-shouldered figure in his old caped coat and cocked hat. He would be able to spare one outfit that would fit the highwayman, surely. He would have to go straight back to the prison as soon as she had packed a parcel.

Katherine fished in her reticule and found her tablets and a pencil. Clothes, soap, shaving tackle—Philip could sacrifice some of his—candles. She would take the bed linen and some food with her when she returned at eight o’clock. Should she take Jenny with her? She watched the maidservant covertly as she sat silent in one corner of the coach. No, better go in with John; Jenny had been horrified by what she had seen already, there was no point in making her spend a night in that place, always assuming there was somewhere suitable for her to wait the time out.

Making the list and thinking of practical matters had steadied her. When they reached Clifford Street, she found she could get down from the carriage and bid farewell to Arthur with every appearance of calm.

John leaned down from the box. ‘Shall I take the carriage back to the mews now, Miss Katherine?’ He always asked her for orders, much to Philip’s irritation.

‘Yes, please, John, I have another errand, but you had best take a hackney for that to save time. Can you come and see me when you have finished in the mews? I will have some things I wish you to take to the prison.’

‘What things?’ Philip enquired querulously as they climbed the steps to the front door. ‘You are going back there tonight, what do you want to send now?’