“You are my wife. We can request a stay of execution and demand a retrial,” Peter argued, his hard glare of warning defying the gaoler to contradict. “If you don’t admit the truth here and now, then you are going to die.” Desperation clawed at him when after several moments, it became clear that she wasn’t going to help herself.
Grabbing her thin arm, he dragged her over to the window and pointed out into the darkness to the solitary wooden structure. The gallows stood in shadowy menace, waiting for dawn to approach. Jemima felt a jolt of horror surge through her as she stared at the gruesome sight with glazed eyes. She knew that, once she had been condemned, they would have to build the gallows, but hadn’t realised that they would be able to build it so quickly.
Standing so close to him, his scent teasing her nostrils, so achingly familiar, she was sorely tempted to simply lean against him and beg for his help. To take the opportunity to declare her love and longing for him one last time. But she knew that to do so would bring him nothing but more pain.
She had heard the old adage, ‘if you love someone, you have to let them go’, but she didn’t realise how much it would hurt. Somehow she had to spare him. Chained like an animal, with men deciding everything for her, there was little she could do except make him hate her.
Turning to face him was the hardest thing she had ever done. She studied the beloved lines of his face for several moments, committing each sun-kissed dip and hollow of his angular face to memory. Tears pooled in her amber eyes as they met his turbulent green gaze solemnly for several moments. The words she ached to voice hovered so temptingly on her lips. She swallowed against the lump in her throat.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, for his ears only. All her longing, fear, desperation and sorrow were contained in those two simple words.
“For God’s sake, Jemima, help yourself, tell the man I am your husband and we can get a stay of execution,” Peter demanded, fighting the urge to shake her.
Jemima looked over to the gaoler, who sat shaking his head sadly. He knew the futility of their attempts to get her out, but appeared willing to at least let Peter try.
“I don’t know what you want from me, but there is nothing you can do. I thank you for your efforts, but you must get on with your own life now,” she declared boldly, her chin raised in defiance as she began to shuffle away from him.
He grabbed her elbow on a painful hold. “So that’s it? I’m just supposed to go and watch you swing?” He knew he was shouting, but desperation clawed at him. Why wasn’t she listening?
“Go away!” Jemima gasped, wincing as his hard fingers bit cruelly into her flesh. She could feel the rage trembling in his fingers.
“You are going to die! Does that not mean anything to you? Do we not mean anything to you?” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her once, far harder than he ought. He was aware of a flurry of movement on the other side of the room, but didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Desperation drove him to force her to realise the significance of her plight. There was going to be no second chance. This was it. Failure would mean death.
“Goodbye, Peter,” she whispered, trying to ease out of his hands. The pressure of his hold on her branded her chilled flesh, and she suddenly could stand no more.
Drawing her chin upwards, she glared at him defiantly. “Thank you for trying to help me, but you really have to go now.”
“What about Eliza?” Peter shouted, desperately searching for anything to make her see reason. “Does she mean nothing to you?”
Jemima wrenched out from beneath his hands with a cry, and shuffled across the room.
As she passed, her gaze landed on the oldest of the brothers. Even his ruggedly handsome face was filled with sorrow and sympathy. He knew there was no way out, but his affection for his best friend ensured he was there for him.
“Jemima, please don’t do this. They are going to hang you, for God’s sake. Just admit that we are married and we can ask for a stay of execution,” Peter argued, his voice rising as he watched her cross the room.
“We aren’t married,” Jemima replied, almost hearing her fate being sealed by her own declaration. “We have never been married,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with the depth of her emotion. “But you simply cannot and will not put your life – your very future – at risk because of me. I didn’t do it, I didn’t kill the mayor, of course I didn’t; but I have no way of proving that I didn’t do it.” Her gaze met and held Peter’s with an air of finality that made him curse fluidly.
He stalked across the room toward her, bristling with temper.
“Guards!” Mr Simpson bellowed, launching out of his chair at the ferocity on Peter’s face.
“It’s all right,” Dominic soothed, moving to stand between the door and Jemima. He glared at Mr Simpson. “What do you think he is going to do?” Dominic snapped, glaring at the officious man from across the desk. “There is nowhere to go. She is chained, for God’s sake.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Mr Simpson announced. “It’s time for her to go back to her cell.”
“But you just heard her say she didn’t do it!” Dominic argued. “You have a duty to make sure her side of things are taken into account.”
“She was given the opportunity in court,” Mr Simpson argued.
“No, I wasn’t,” Jemima interjected. “Nobody listened.”
“What do you expect?” Mr Simpson snapped, his patience clearly running out. “You were caught standing over the body, holding a bloodied knife and the dead man’s coins in your hand.”
Silence settled over the office.
“I was set up,” Jemima replied weakly, feeling another wave of helplessness sweep through her. She was suddenly so very tired. She wanted to curl into a tight ball and forget everything.
Within moments two burly guards appeared in the doorway.