PROLOGUE
The heavy thump of a cell door somewhere in the dark recesses of the gaol, followed by the metallic clanging of the gaoler’s keys, rang through the claustrophobic cell of the condemned. Despite the thick stone walls, they could hear the mournful cries of pleading from other prisoners echoing hollowly through the large building that housed the prisoners of Derby.
She curled her knees tighter into her chest, rested her head on her knees, and began to pray. She didn’t know what she was praying for, but she did know with certainty that, on this occasion, all her prayers would remain unanswered.
After all, there was no absolution for the condemned.
There would be no respite from the daily hell of living in the squalid cesspit that was so dark that she couldn’t even see her hand resting on her own nose. The inky blackness of the condemned cell was the closest thing to hell she had ever imagined possible. The small room was approximately twelve feet long and four feet wide, and was packed with eight other men, all waiting for their turn on the gallows. There was no window, and only one heavily fortified door that didn’t even let in a sliver of light.
On the day of their arrival, Jemima had been the first one roughly pushed into the blackness. As the other inmates had been pushed behind her, she had been shoved to the darkest corner at the back of the room, where she sat on the hard wooden bench, locked into a world of fear. The pervasive darkness that had swept over them as the door slammed shut was cloying; teasing sanity with its relentless grasp. If it wasn’t for the clanking of the manacles as they shuffled around in search of a more comfortable spot on the unforgiving wooden benches, Jemima would have thought herself the only person in there.
Luckily, nobody within the condemned cell had sought to vocalise the unfairness of their trials, and judgement, as verbally as others within the gaol, and had instead lapsed into a morose silence that was just as heavy as the atmosphere. Jemima wasn’t sure which was worse; the silent desolation within the room, or the pitiful howls of denial from other prisoners that echoed hauntingly throughout the stone walls.
She knew, just as well as everyone else, that there was no way out. Their only escape from their misery was via the gallows.
They had been tried very quickly by a court that hadn’t been interested in full judicial process. Clearly intent on issuing swift judgements, it had sought to stem the rising tide of public unrest, whatever the cost. Jemima knew that, even if they had been given full judicial process, they would still have been found guilty. After all, she had been found standing by the magistrate’s body holding a bloodied knife, and his pouch of coins. The only people around her who could vouch for her innocence had been found guilty of the brutal murder of the coachman; and the mayor’s wife, and were now sitting alongside her in the cell.
The image of the judge resting the black piece of cloth on his head, followed by his cold intonation, “May you be hanged from the neck until the life leaves your body,” loomed over her like a sinister spectre waiting to claim her soul.
There was nobody to save her. She was stuck in a hellish situation that would ultimately result in her being put to death, in front of a crowd of strangers who had travelled to Derby just to watch the spectacle of not just seeing a woman hang, but the woman who was responsible for murdering the Mayor of Derby.
The two people she held close to her heart, thankfully, didn’t even know she was there. While sitting there with nothing to do, and even less to look at, she had thought about writing them a note to plead for their help. Turning the options over and over in her mind led her to only one conclusion. Even if she could get a note out to Peter, hoping for rescue was futile. If he learned of her fate, he would undoubtedly try to help her, but there was little even he could do. Although he was titled, and had connections in high places, even he wouldn’t be able to overturn a court of law, and in all conscience she couldn’t ask him to publicly associate himself with a condemned, unmarried woman. There were no grounds to request a stay of execution, even. Writing a note to them to plead for their help; would achieve nothing but bringing untold distress to the two people she held most dear to her heart.
Peter and Eliza.
She tried her hardest to blank out the image, but his handsome face swam before her anyway. Her heart clenched tightly in her chest, as the memories of him came flooding back. Over the past few months she had managed to keep her memories tightly locked away by busying herself with work and Eliza, but now she was helpless before the emotions that roiled through her.
She couldn’t do it. They were currently ignorant of her plight and, as such, were free of the ordeal of watching her die. If they did ever learn of her fate, then it would be too late. They would most probably grieve for her, but their grief would be free of the memory of watching her being put to death in such a publicly gruesome fashion.
She owed it to them to remain on her own and accept that this time, there was no way out. Nobody could get her out. At dawn tomorrow, she was going to the gallows and there was nothing she could do about it.
She jumped and turned fear-filled eyes to the door as it swung open. The heavily garbed figure of a gaoler carrying a flaming torch appeared in the doorway, a dark scowl of foreboding on his face as he tried to peer through the darkness within the small room, one hand resting on a wicked-looking pistol at his hip.
Jemima’s stomach dropped to her toes. She hadn’t thought it was so late, or early. Surely the time wasn’t already upon them?
“You, woman, get out here,” he growled, lifting his light higher in order to see into the depths of the cell.
Jemima’s heart flipped and she wondered if she would throw up as she stared at him in horror. She began to shake as she tried to stand, and found the stiffness in her limbs and heavy weight of the manacles too much, thumping back down on the hard wooden bench with a cry of defeat.
She jumped as a great looming figure suddenly leaned over her, lifting the heavy chains for her. Giving them a rough tug, he effectively propelled her out of the cell. With little choice, Jemima stumbled over the prone bodies lying squashed on the floor and found herself in the wide space of the inner corridor that ran the length of the gaol as far as the eye could see. She didn’t know how big the gaol was, but stood looking down into the murky gloom, outlined by occasional flaming torches protruding from the walls. Their flickering did little to break the shadows.
The stench of urine, faeces, unwashed bodies and boiling potatoes assaulted her nostrils, and she fought the wave of sickness that threatened. She swallowed rapidly against the lump in her throat, and stumbled as her chains were tugged, dragging her unceremoniously down the corridor. Fear lodged in her chest, and she stared with horror-filled eyes at the small shaft of light glowing through the partly open doorway.
“Where are we going?” Jemima whispered, too scared to glance left or right.
She didn’t need to turn her head to see the pale, ghostly faces peering helplessly out through the bars at her as she passed. As she shuffled, she became aware that the mournful cries had ceased leaving a watchful
silence in their wake. Obviously everyone knew it was futile to seek help from one of the condemned. They couldn’t help themselves. Morbid curiosity shone in their faces as they watched her pass.
Once or twice, Jemima caught a softly issued, “God bless ye, girl.” With each step she wondered if she was going to be hanged there and then, and a wave of terror swept through her so strongly that the cold, black walls of the gaol began to swim around her mockingly, leaving her wondering if she was going to faint.
“The boss wants you,” the gaoler grunted, dragging her onwards.
Jemima struggled to keep up with his long stride, and was grateful he was carrying her chains for her. The heavy iron manacles on her ankles slowed her climb up the steps to what she supposed must be the gaoler’s office. Luckily the gaoler was sympathetic enough to wait while she shuffled awkwardly up the steps.
She blinked rapidly against the glare of the brightly lit room as the door was swung open. She didn’t want to go in, but had to follow her chains as the gaoler dragged her behind him into the warmth of the brightly-lit room.
Despite the warmth and light within the room, Jemima began to shiver. She squinted through the light for several moments, shoving the wild tangle of her unwashed hair out of her eyes with a grimy hand, and waited for her senses to settle. Only then did she become aware of the occupants within the room, watching her silently.
Her stomach dropped to her toes, and she fought to silence a cry of denial as the realisation of who they were sank in.
“Have you forgotten to tell us something?” The harsh rumble of the gaoler’s voice broke the tense silence within the room.
Jemima stared blankly at him, refusing to turn her head and look at the one man she really didn’t want to be there. She ached to run toward him, and beg for his help. She longed to feel his strong arms around her, just one last time. How had he known? How had he found her?
Peter.
The man she loved, and the very last person she wanted to see. She wanted to weep with joy, and scream in misery. The very last thing she had wanted was to see him there, in the midst of such desolation. He was standing so very tall and proud. The fine cut of his clothing stood out against the sinister surroundings of the gaol, marking him as someone special; someone who didn’t belong there. She didn’t know who the other men were, but their resemblance to each other was startling. They were all of similar height to Peter, with broad shoulders and jet black hair. They were a handsome group of men. Were they the Cavendish brothers, Peter often talked about? Somehow Jemima knew they were, but for the life of her couldn’t understand why they were there too.
A wild surge of hope swept through her for one exquisite moment, before the cold wash of logic and reasoning swept it away.
The gaoler – Mr Simpson – sighed deeply and stared thoughtfully at her for several long moments, clearly waiting for something. Heaving another sigh, he nodded toward the window encasement where Peter stood, his face stark.