She could hardly wait to see America. It was a whole new continent and everything would be different: the birds, the trees, the food, the air, the people. She tingled whenever she thought about it.
She had been living in London for four months, and she disliked it more every day. Polite society bored her to death. She and Jay often dined with other officers and their wives, but the officers talked of card games and incompetent generals and the women were interested only in hats and servants. Lizzie found it impossible to make small talk, but if she spoke her mind she always shocked them.
Once or twice a week she and Jay dined at Grosvenor Square. There at least the conversation was about something reaclass="underline" business, politics, and the wave of strikes and disturbances that had washed over London this spring. But the Jamissons’ view of events was completely one-sided. Sir George would rail against the workingmen, Robert would forecast disaster, and Jay would propose a clampdown by the military. No one, not even Alicia, had the imagination to see the conflict from the point of view of the other side. Lizzie did not think the workingmen were right to strike, of course, but she believed they had reasons that seemed strong to them. That possibility was never admitted around the highly polished dining table at Grosvenor Square.
“I expect you’ll be glad to go back to Hallim House,” Lizzie said to her mother.
Mother nodded. “The Jamissons are very kind, but I miss my home, humble though it is.”
Lizzie was putting her favorite books into a trunk: Robinson Crusoe, Tom Jones, Roderick Random—all stories of adventure—when a footman knocked and said that Caspar Gordonson was downstairs.
She asked the man to repeat the visitor’s name, because she could hardly believe Gordonson would dare to call on any member of the Jamisson family. She should have refused to see him, she knew: he had encouraged and supported the strike that was damaging her father-in-law’s business. But curiosity got the better of her, as ever, and she told the footman to show him into the drawing room.
However, she had no intention of making him welcome. “You’ve caused a great deal of trouble,” she said as she walked in.
To her surprise he was not the aggressive know-it-all bully she had expected, but an untidy, shortsighted man with a high-pitched voice and the manner of an absent-minded schoolteacher. “I’m sure I didn’t mean to,” he said. “That is … I did, of course … but not to you personally.”
“Why have you come here? If my husband were at home he would throw you out on your ear.”
“Mack McAsh has been charged under the Riot Act and committed to Newgate Prison. He will be tried at the Old Bailey in three weeks’ time. It’s a hanging offense.”
The reminder struck Lizzie like a blow, but she hid her feelings. “I know,” she said coldly. “Such a tragedy—a strong young man with his life in front of him.”
“You must feel guilty,” Gordonson said.
“You insolent fool!” she blazed. “Who encouraged McAsh to think he was a free man? Who told him he had rights? You! You’re the one who should feel guilty!”
“I do,” he said quietly.
She was surprised: she had expected a hot denial. His humility calmed her. Tears came to her eyes but she fought them back. “He should have stayed in Scotland.”
“You realize that many people who are convicted of capital offenses don’t hang, in the end.”
“Yes.” There was still hope, of course. Her spirits lifted a little. “Do you think Mack will get a royal pardon?”
“It depends who is willing to speak for him. Influential friends are everything in our legal system. I will plead for his life, but my words won’t count for much. Most judges hate me. However, if you would plead for him—”
“I can’t do that!” she protested. “My husband is prosecuting McAsh. It would be dreadfully disloyal of me.”
“You could save his life.”
“But it would make Jay look such a fool!”
“Don’t you think he might understand—”
“No! I know he wouldn’t. No husband would.”
“Think about it—”
“I won’t! I’ll do something else. I’ll …” She cast about for ideas. “I’ll write to Mr. York, the pastor of the church in Heugh. I’ll ask him to come to London and plead for Mack’s life at the trial.”
Gordonson said: “A country parson from Scotland? I don’t think he’ll have much influence. The only way to be certain is for you to do it yourself.”
“It’s out of the question.”
“I won’t argue with you—it will only make you more determined,” Gordonson said shrewdly. He went to the door. “You can change your mind at any time. Just come to the Old Bailey three weeks from tomorrow. Remember that his life may depend on it.”
He went out, and Lizzie let herself cry.
Mack was in one of the common wards of Newgate Prison.
He could not remember all that had happened to him the night before. He had a dazed recollection of being tied up and thrown across the back of a horse and carried through London. There was a tall building with barred windows, a cobbled courtyard, a staircase and a studded door. Then he had been led in here. It had been dark, and he had not been able to see much. Battered and fatigued, he had fallen asleep.
He woke to find himself in a room about the size of Cora’s apartment. It was cold: there was no glass in the windows and no fire in the fireplace. The place smelled foul. At least thirty other people were crammed in with him: men, women and children, plus a dog and a pig. Everyone slept on the floor and shared a large chamberpot.
There was constant coming and going. Some of the women left early in the morning, and Mack learned they were not prisoners but prisoners’ wives who bribed the jailers and spent nights here. The warders brought in food, beer, gin and newspapers for those who could pay their grossly inflated prices. People went to see friends in other wards. One prisoner was visited by a clergyman, another by a barber. Anything was permitted, it seemed, but everything had to be paid for.
People laughed about their plight and joked about their crimes. There was an air of jollity that annoyed Mack. He was hardly awake before he was offered a swallow of gin from someone’s bottle and a puff on a pipe of tobacco, as if they were all at a wedding.
Mack hurt all over, but his head was the worst. There was a lump at the back that was crusted with blood. He felt hopelessly gloomy. He had failed in every way. He had run away from Heugh to be free, yet he was in jail. He had fought for the coal heavers’ rights and had got some of them killed. He had lost Cora. He would be put on trial for treason, or riot, or murder. And he would probably die on the gallows. Many of the people around him had as much reason to grieve, but perhaps they were too stupid to grasp their fate.
Poor Esther would never get out of the village now. He wished he had brought her with him. She could have dressed as a man, the way Lizzie Hallim did. She would have managed sailors’ work more easily than Mack himself, for she was nimbler. And her common sense might even have kept Mack out of trouble.
He hoped Annie’s baby would be a boy. At least there would still be a Mack. Perhaps Mack Lee would have a luckier life, and a longer one, than Mack McAsh.
He was at a low point when a warder opened the door and Cora walked in.
Her face was dirty and her red dress was torn but she still looked ravishing, and everyone turned to stare.
Mack sprang to his feet and embraced her, to cheers from the other prisoners.
“What happened to you?” he said.
“I was done for picking pockets—but it was all on account of you,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“It was a trap. He looked like any other rich young drunk, but he was Jay Jamisson. They nabbed us and took us in front of his father. It’s a hanging offense, picking pockets. But they offered Peg a pardon—if she would tell them where you lived.”