Excerpt from my current work in progress, A Proper Deception:
A single candle barely bit back the darkness in the tiny attic room. Laura Courtenay pulled up a thick shawl around her shoulders and looked at the shriveled form of her mother, resting on the room’s only bed. Sometimes death came quickly, like in the chaos of a runaway carriage crash, or the leaden sting of a pistol’s ball. Other times it danced a slow dance, dipping and swaying, beckoning and teasing, as it did now for Lady Amanda Courtenay, overcome with consumption a scant few months ago.
Laura leaned over to dab her mother’s forehead, letting a hot surge of anger push back the impending grief. How had her feckless gambler of a father, let it come to this? Her mother should be home, at Courtenay Hall, dying in the dignity of her own bedroom, not here, in this cramped and barren room, the only thing they could afford in London’s East End since her father, Lord Robert Courtenay had lost everything – their home, the stables, even the paintings on the walls.
The candle guttered, sending shadows against the wall.
“Reuben”, whispered her mother. “Please promise me you’ll keep Reuben from the workhouse. Promise me you’ll look after him.”
“I promise.” Laura tucked the blanket beneath her mother’s chin. “I’ll do whatever I have to.”
A weak smile crossed her mother’s lips. “You’ve always been a good girl.” She held out her hand and Laura took it. One final sigh and her mother was gone, her spirit flitting out the window, leaving a trail of shivers down Laura’s back. The candle guttered again as if the passing soul tugged it along.
A toddler’s fretful whimper sounded. Reuben. Her three-year old brother.
She turned to gaze at him, sagging against the bed at the enormity of the realization she was solely responsible for his welfare.
***
Laura scrunched herself as close as she could to the stone wall beneath a slit that barely passed for a window. If she was lucky, from time to time a faint breeze would waft through, a brief respite from the stench of her cell. She glanced around and shuddered. How had she ended up here, in Newgate Prison? A poor choice made, born of desperation, that’s how. She glanced around the ward filled with other female prisoners.
“Ye can’t push yerself through the wall if that’s what yer thinking,” wheezed one of her cellmates, a grey-haired wizened women sporting the tattered remains of black servant’s garb.
“Ah Lizzie, leave ‘er be. Can’t ye see she’s in a hobble?” Another prisoner, who had introduced herself as Martha, shifted her bulk and turned to peer through rheumy eyes at Laura. “There’s naught ye can do,” she said, “other than pray the magistrate looks kindly upon ye. Which he might,” she added, “you’re comely and if ye lift yer skirts high enough. Like I would ‘ave done in my younger years.” Her voice trailed away, and she looked up as if she could see back in time before looking back at Laura.
Laura’s face heated at the vulgar reference. Lift her skirts indeed. Her distaste must have shown on her face for Lizzie chuckled.
“Ye’ll change yer mind soon enough,” Martha continued. “When yer belly cramps with hunger and ye long for a clean frock.”
“What sort of man would take advantage of a defenseless woman?” asked Laura.
Martha shook her head. “Ain’t no gentlemen here.”
“No, I suppose not.” Her chains clanked as she pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around her shins. Not only was it smelly and dark, but cold seeped through her clothing, chilling her to the bone. Today was her second day in jail, how long would she have to wait until her trial?
Curses and shrieks added to the clamour sounding through the barred window of the door. It was mealtime although she knew from past experience one could scarcely call it food. The door squealed open and the guard tossed chunks of black bread on the ground.
Laura wasn’t quick enough. By the time she got to her feet, a jumble of bodies had surged to the bread, scrabbling on hands and knees to find what crumbs they could. Apparently, manners weren’t high on the list. But then, why would they be when one had to do what one could to survive in these wretched conditions?
Taking pity on her, Lizzie ripped a piece off her portion and handed it to Laura. “ ‘Ere. Let this be a lesson. If ye don’t fight fer yerself, no one else will.”
She nodded her thanks and bit into the hard crust, gagging at the sour taste. She had to keep up her strength. She finished the bread then sipped the ale she had obtained yesterday from the guard in exchange for her lace handkerchief before peering into the half empty container. She would have to make it last as long as she could otherwise she would have to drink the foul water from the bucket in the corner beside the slop pail.
Laura swallowed a sob. Any sign of weakness and her cell mates would be upon her like ants to honey, tearing her clothing from her, searching her pockets for anything to sell or barter.
After she settled herself back into her position beneath the slit, she thought of her brother. How was he? Where was he? She’d left him with her neighbor but the woman had four children of her own to feed. Who knew how long she’d tolerate a little boy that could do naught to earn his keep?
She cradled her head in her hands. How long would she be kept here? And if found guilty, would she be hung or transported?
Then what would happen to Reuben?
A single candle barely bit back the darkness in the tiny attic room. Laura Courtenay pulled up a thick shawl around her shoulders and looked at the shriveled form of her mother, resting on the room’s only bed. Sometimes death came quickly, like in the chaos of a runaway carriage crash, or the leaden sting of a pistol’s ball. Other times it danced a slow dance, dipping and swaying, beckoning and teasing, as it did now for Lady Amanda Courtenay, overcome with consumption a scant few months ago.
Laura leaned over to dab her mother’s forehead, letting a hot surge of anger push back the impending grief. How had her feckless gambler of a father, let it come to this? Her mother should be home, at Courtenay Hall, dying in the dignity of her own bedroom, not here, in this cramped and barren room, the only thing they could afford in London’s East End since her father, Lord Robert Courtenay had lost everything – their home, the stables, even the paintings on the walls.
The candle guttered, sending shadows against the wall.
“Reuben”, whispered her mother. “Please promise me you’ll keep Reuben from the workhouse. Promise me you’ll look after him.”
“I promise.” Laura tucked the blanket beneath her mother’s chin. “I’ll do whatever I have to.”
A weak smile crossed her mother’s lips. “You’ve always been a good girl.” She held out her hand and Laura took it. One final sigh and her mother was gone, her spirit flitting out the window, leaving a trail of shivers down Laura’s back. The candle guttered again as if the passing soul tugged it along.
A toddler’s fretful whimper sounded. Reuben. Her three-year old brother.
She turned to gaze at him, sagging against the bed at the enormity of the realization she was solely responsible for his welfare.
***
Laura scrunched herself as close as she could to the stone wall beneath a slit that barely passed for a window. If she was lucky, from time to time a faint breeze would waft through, a brief respite from the stench of her cell. She glanced around and shuddered. How had she ended up here, in Newgate Prison? A poor choice made, born of desperation, that’s how. She glanced around the ward filled with other female prisoners.
“Ye can’t push yerself through the wall if that’s what yer thinking,” wheezed one of her cellmates, a grey-haired wizened women sporting the tattered remains of black servant’s garb.
“Ah Lizzie, leave ‘er be. Can’t ye see she’s in a hobble?” Another prisoner, who had introduced herself as Martha, shifted her bulk and turned to peer through rheumy eyes at Laura. “There’s naught ye can do,” she said, “other than pray the magistrate looks kindly upon ye. Which he might,” she added, “you’re comely and if ye lift yer skirts high enough. Like I would ‘ave done in my younger years.” Her voice trailed away, and she looked up as if she could see back in time before looking back at Laura.
Laura’s face heated at the vulgar reference. Lift her skirts indeed. Her distaste must have shown on her face for Lizzie chuckled.
“Ye’ll change yer mind soon enough,” Martha continued. “When yer belly cramps with hunger and ye long for a clean frock.”
“What sort of man would take advantage of a defenseless woman?” asked Laura.
Martha shook her head. “Ain’t no gentlemen here.”
“No, I suppose not.” Her chains clanked as she pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around her shins. Not only was it smelly and dark, but cold seeped through her clothing, chilling her to the bone. Today was her second day in jail, how long would she have to wait until her trial?
Curses and shrieks added to the clamour sounding through the barred window of the door. It was mealtime although she knew from past experience one could scarcely call it food. The door squealed open and the guard tossed chunks of black bread on the ground.
Laura wasn’t quick enough. By the time she got to her feet, a jumble of bodies had surged to the bread, scrabbling on hands and knees to find what crumbs they could. Apparently, manners weren’t high on the list. But then, why would they be when one had to do what one could to survive in these wretched conditions?
Taking pity on her, Lizzie ripped a piece off her portion and handed it to Laura. “ ‘Ere. Let this be a lesson. If ye don’t fight fer yerself, no one else will.”
She nodded her thanks and bit into the hard crust, gagging at the sour taste. She had to keep up her strength. She finished the bread then sipped the ale she had obtained yesterday from the guard in exchange for her lace handkerchief before peering into the half empty container. She would have to make it last as long as she could otherwise she would have to drink the foul water from the bucket in the corner beside the slop pail.
Laura swallowed a sob. Any sign of weakness and her cell mates would be upon her like ants to honey, tearing her clothing from her, searching her pockets for anything to sell or barter.
After she settled herself back into her position beneath the slit, she thought of her brother. How was he? Where was he? She’d left him with her neighbor but the woman had four children of her own to feed. Who knew how long she’d tolerate a little boy that could do naught to earn his keep?
She cradled her head in her hands. How long would she be kept here? And if found guilty, would she be hung or transported?
Then what would happen to Reuben?