A Heart Deceived (27 page)

Thorne advanced and stood over him. “So what’s it to be, mate? The gallows or a fat purse flung my way once a year?”

Blackmail? Ethan laughed, long and loud, then winced from the pain of it. The world started to spin again, and he let his mirth wind down like a spent top.

“You’ve wasted your time traveling here to drag me back. Even if I wanted to agree, which I don’t, I haven’t got a blessed halfpenny to pay you off.” He frowned. Something still didn’t make sense. “And you should have known that.”

“You don’t know the half of what I know.” Thorne bent, his voice a raspy whisper in Ethan’s ear. “But I wager my life you’ll pay me good to keep quiet. Real good.”

Turning his head, Ethan went nose to nose with the man. “Never.”

“Ye’ll change yer mind.” Thorne’s confidence was as strong as his breath.

Still, Ethan would not look away and appear the cowering dog. “What makes you so certain?”

“Newgate.” Thorne stood. “A few nights in that hellhole and you’ll change your mind, all right. You’ll change it right fast.”

Ethan locked his jaw, refusing to give Thorne the pleasure of seeing him grovel for mercy. Never! If Newgate would be the death of him, then so be it.

An abnormal silence settled over the Cricket and Crown, magnifying the sound of Miri’s heartbeat in her ears. As Witherskim stepped forward, rage shook through her. He glanced at her momentarily, as if she were of no more consequence than a dead fish at market. A slow burn worked its way up her neck until it engulfed her face. If she didn’t speak now, she’d explode. “How dare you question my mental state?”

He raised his arm with a sweeping gesture, indicating her, but kept his attention solely on the panel of men before them. “The unkempt hair, the bedraggled garments, why look … this woman goes about wearing only one shoe. It is plain to see she cannot care for herself. Is not the flush of her skin, the wild cast of her eyes, even the way she clenches her hands into fists evidence enough that Miriall Brayden is not fit for society at large?”

Miri swallowed as she realized every person in the room fixed their sight on her. The gaze of the living God could not have been more terrible. At once, she loosened her fingers and smoothed the fabric of her skirt, forcing herself to remain calm. “I fail to understand how appearance is sufficient indication of one’s suitability for society.”

Licking a finger, Witherskim slicked back a hair that might have been out of place—if he’d not already greased it down with a tin of pomade. “It is enough that Miriall Brayden is a woman, and as such is prone to hysteria. An
unmarried
woman, I might add. And we all know”—he paused to meet the eye of each man on the panel in front—“that spinsterhood frequently upsets the natural fluids and functionings of a female’s mind, leading to melancholia and derangement.”

Miri’s jaw dropped. “Is that what this is all about? Revenge? Just because I turned down your proposal, you have the gall to publicly accuse me of insanity? You’re a bigger fool than I gave you credit for, sir.”

He merely sniffed, completely ignoring her questions. “Additionally, several times she has cast her body against mine in an untoward manner. On one occasion, she even went so far as to bite my ear so that it bled. This woman is clearly as mad as her brother.”

“Those are lies!” She whirled back to the table where Bishop Fothergill, Magistrate Buckle, and Squire Gullaby sat open-mouthed. “Surely you cannot indict me simply because of one man’s accusations.”

“Of course not, Miss Brayden,” said Mr. Buckle.

Miri blew out a long breath. Thank God, reason and justice would prevail—

“There are two more men who would bear witness to your instability.” Mr. Buckle rummaged through his stack of documents.

Miri staggered back a step. Two men? “Impossible!”

“Bishop Fothergill, if you would, please state aloud for this inquiry what you have seen,” said Buckle.

The bishop stood, hooking his fingers onto the lapels of his waistcoat and puffing out his chest. “Since residing at the rectory, I have observed Miss Brayden in her natural state. At first, I detected no hint of abnormality, except perhaps for noticing she was a bit high-strung, especially around her brother. She was cordial to the point of perfection, yet her overall humor lacked. Noting such, this made it all the more peculiar when I caught her speaking to garden tools.”

She stiffened as a shock ran through her. Fothergill wouldn’t have to lie to make her appear a lunatic. He’d seen more than she’d ever wanted him to. “I can explain—”

“One day,” he continued, “before God and man, I caught her in the act of spinning about the yard, arms wide, speaking gibberish.”

“Listen to me—”

“And there have been many nights, allow me to restate—more than just once—I witnessed her roaming about the hallways like a spirit, an agitated spirit. Darting about at the most witching of hours and”—he paused, driving home his words with a terrible gaze—“most notably during the full moon.”

Several gasps sounded behind her, each one adding an uncanny validation to the bishop’s words. She slanted a glance toward the back door. If she ran full speed, could she make it?

“Are these things true, Miss Brayden?” Mr. Gullaby leaned forward, brows merging into a solid line on his forehead.

Miri bit her lip. Running away was clearly not an option, and neither was lying, though both were tempting.

Fothergill lifted a fat finger and aimed it at her. “This woman is cursed. Hers are not the acts of a sane and sanguine mind. The sins of the father have obviously been passed down upon both brother and sister. It is my opinion she be put away, that her influence will not taint this good community. Bad company corrupts good morals, as stated in—”

“Thank you, Bishop.” Mr. Buckle cut him off.

“The book of Proverbs, chapter—”

“I said thank you, Bishop Fothergill.” Buckle’s voice cut through the monologue.

“And again in—”

“Enough, Mr. Fothergill!”

The bishop flipped out his coattails and sank to his seat, clearly rankled that his opportunity to speak had been cut short.

Witherskim’s lies and Fothergill’s truth settled on Miri like the beginning of a great sickness—heavy on her chest and foggy in her head. How could it possibly be fair that this panel of men should decide her fate? A disgusted sigh escaped her. Would she never be free of this lot in life?

She lifted her chin. “May I be allowed to speak?”

The magistrate eyed her an instant before turning toward the end of the table. “In due course. Mr. Knight, if you would.”

She snapped her gaze to where the apothecary stood, still clutching the pen he’d used to seal Roland’s future.

He did not meet her eyes. “As Mr. Witherskim has already pointed out, it has long been held that women are predisposed to hysteria, melancholia, and in the worst cases, derangement. Medically speaking, a woman’s fluids are in a constant state of flux and can easily swell into the tide of mania. I witnessed Miss Brayden in such a state, just last night, when she accosted me quite forcefully.”

Bowing her head, Miri studied the floor and shut out his words. With a whole profession to back him up, who would doubt his assessment? Who would believe in her?

Ethan.

The dull ache in her heart sharpened. So consumed with Roland, and now herself, she’d had no time to consider him. Where was he? Still locked up? Alone and cold or—

“Miss Brayden?”

She jerked up her head. The entire panel’s eyes bore down on her, squashing the breath from her lungs.

“I said”—Mr. Buckle annunciated with large movements of his lips—“have you anything to say?”

Her mind went blank—no. More like numb. What could she say against lies and incriminating truth?

The only thing possible. She lifted her face and clipped her words so that the entire room might hear. “I. Am. Innocent.”

“Very well,” said Buckle. “If there is nothing more to add, Mr. Knight, would you please sign the committal document?”

“But—” Her tongue froze as she watched him dip the pen into a bottle of ink, allow a drip to land on a blotter, then set the nib to paper. Behind her, whispers flew around the room like swooping bats.

“No!” The panic in her voice struck a discordant gong in her head.

And stopped Mr. Knight’s hand.

“I should like to call my own witness.” She threw back her shoulders. “Mr. Ethan Goodwin will vouch for my character.”

The room went silent again, except for a snort that came from Witherskim.

“Such a request provides witness enough.” Magistrate Buckle stood, briefly nodding at Mr. Knight, then locked his eyes on her. “Only a madwoman would ask for a murderer to speak on behalf of her character.”

29

Ethan a murderer?
Impossible. Miri wrapped her arms about herself, vainly trying to re-create the safety she’d felt in his arms. With each stroke of Mr. Knight’s pen, she trembled more violently. Behind her, harsh comments and I-told-you-so’s rushed from one end of the Cricket and Crown to the other.

“Mr. Handy, if you would.” At Mr. Buckle’s command, a man advanced toward her, the same man who’d clouted Ethan the night before. The one who’d dragged Roland away. She didn’t stand a chance.

Miri spun and bolted into the press of bodies.

Fear choked her as physically as the yank on her collar. Stumbling backward, she darted her gaze from face to face, hoping—desperately—that someone would come to her aid. Pity glistened in a few eyes. Very few. Most squinted judgment.

“Help me!” Did that shrill voice really belong to her? “I am not mad!”

“Come along now, miss, peaceable like.” A strong arm clamped around her torso, slamming her against Mr. Handy’s body.

Her toes barely scraped the floor as he dragged her from the crowd. Nothing good ever came of being whisked away. Suddenly she was six years old again, as helpless to stop this from happening as the innumerable times her father had hauled her off for a beating.

“Noooo!” She wriggled, clawed, bit—anything to break loose.

Mr. Handy’s grip tightened, squeezing the breath from her until shadows rimmed her vision. If only he’d squeeze tighter and end this nightmare.

Once outside, he hoisted her onto the back of a waiting cart. Roland huddled in one corner, hands manacled to an iron ring attached to the wagon’s side—

Just like the one Mr. Handy clamped onto her wrists. She twisted. The metal bit sharp teeth into her flesh. Tears carved hot trails down her cheeks. “Please, don’t do this. I swear I am not mad.”

“Not for me to say, miss.” Mr. Handy jumped down and walked the cart’s length to the front, dismissing her as if she mattered less than yesterday’s porridge.

Truth was, she did matter less. No one was left to care for her. That single, stunning thought made her cry all the harder as she welcomed the pain into her soul.

The driver yelled, “Hyah!” and the cart lurched forward.

Wiping her nose on her sleeve, she slumped onto the cart’s wooden planks, the mirror image of her brother. He made no sound. No eye contact. Nothing. Did he know what was going on somewhere deep beneath the layer of madness? The vacant look on his face gave no hint.

Before the final dust of Deverell Downs rolled beneath the wagon wheels, Miri closed her eyes. Why watch the death of a dream? She’d never have a home of her own, nor any home, for that matter. Sniffling, she fought back another wave of tears.

The jarring motion of the cart, combined with exhaustion and despair, eventually lulled her to sleep. When she awoke, shadows stretched in the waning light. Roland was a dark ball, curled into the corner like a pill bug.

Pushing up, she peered over the cart’s edge. The jostling ride was over. Mr. Handy and the wagon driver spoke in low tones with another man. Much gesturing ensued, and the conversation took on a more lively tone. None of them paid her any mind, so she studied what would be her new home.

A sprawling two-story brick building crouched uneasily on a crumbling foundation. Ivy strangled its walls. The roof slanted at precarious angles, as if the shingles wanted to jump off and run away. Windows, some barred, others boarded, dotted the facade like the grimace on a toothless hag. Above an iron gate that served as a front door, the words
Sheltering Arms Asylum
were engraved into a granite placard—only the
A
and
y
in the last word were covered over with creeping vines, making it the Sheltering Arms slum. How fitting.

The huddle of men broke. Mr. Handy and the driver swung up to unfasten her and Roland from the cart. In that one instant of freedom, she considered making a run for it. Roland wailed like a banshee. New cuffs were clamped onto their wrists, and the Sheltering Arms keeper led them along. Though her feet moved, she kept her eyes on the darkening sky all the way to the door. Who knew when she’d see it again?

Panic flashed through her, and she turned to Mr. Handy. “Don’t do this. I am not mad, and you know it.”

“What I know or don’t know ain’t the point. Orders is orders. Now move along.” He urged her with a nod of his head.

Miri shut her mouth. Trying to reason with a big man housing a small mind wasn’t worth the effort.