The Countess Conspiracy (38 page)

The men withdrew for a moment, murmuring to each other. Sebastian sat frozen in his seat, unable to comprehend what he’d just heard. She’d just… Violet had just…

The magistrates turned back. “Your Ladyship, have you anything to say in your defense?”

“Merely that the years will prove me correct.”

“Then we sentence you to four weeks in prison on the charges in the indictment—and two days for the contempt.” The gavel banged. “This court is adjour—”

The remainder of the sentence was lost in the roar of those present, a hundred throats shouting all at once.

Sebastian stood. “Violet!” he called, but the word was swallowed in the din. He took a step toward her, but the crowd was thick. He couldn’t push close enough to do anything more than take hold of her wrist.

“Violet.”

She turned to him. Her face was alight.

“What have you done?” he asked helplessly.

She set her hand atop his, plucked his fingers from her wrist, and turned his palm over. She mouthed something at him, but he couldn’t hear it. And then, with a wry smile, she placed a blue marble in his hand.

Sorry.
He knew her precise sentiment even if he couldn’t hear her words. His nerveless fingers seemed unable to grasp. The marble slipped, spilling off his palm.

She smiled at him—a sad smile—and then turned and allowed herself to be conducted away to prison.

Chapter Twenty-five

V
IOLET WAS UNDER NO ILLUSIONS
: her stay in prison was substantially more pleasant than the lot of most inmates. She was a countess, for one; she knew a great many powerful people, for another. And most importantly, the manner of her conviction would make her the object of curiosity.

She’d counted on that when entering her plea. She had the benefit of expecting favorable treatment; that gave her an obligation to refuse to knuckle under to the contemptible bullying they’d subjected her to.

She was left alone in a cell of her own—one that had been cleaned for her visit. The straw mattress on the bed was new, the sheets given her freshly laundered and without holes. There had been a time years ago when Oliver had been tossed in a cell on trumped-up charges; he still spoke eloquently of the fleas and lice. But the smell of paraffin oil pervaded her space; if there had once been noxious insects here, they’d been carefully eradicated.

After the second day, she no longer even had a headache from the odor. She was brought water to wash with in the mornings. The warden’s wife lent her a few books, and talked to her about them when she finished, holding her in obvious awe. She was allowed visitors on Thursdays, and although that only included family, it was enough.

She was given an hour to walk in the prison yard each day, so long as she made no efforts to speak with the other female prisoners who walked at the same time. They walked like dark ghosts in their prison attire, heads down to avoid a reprimand from the guards.

She was even fed relatively fresh bread and real meat for her evening meal. She’d read the accounts of prison fare in the newspapers when they’d been investigated a few years earlier, and while she knew there had been some improvement in the meals since those dire reports had been written, she suspected that they didn’t extend to meat and vegetables. After the second day, she began to suspect that the warden was feeding her from his own table. No doubt he feared what might happen to his position if she gave a poor report of the conditions in his prison.

She passed one visit with her mother in relative peace; her mother conveyed no message from Sebastian, nor news from the outside world beyond, “You’ve caused quite an uproar.”

Violet wasn’t sure if she’d expected to hear from Sebastian at all, but she was glad he wasn’t mentioned. She tried not to think of him. If she allowed herself to think of the look on his face when she’d turned from him, of how his skin had drained of all color, the way his fingers had refused to close around that marble, she might have lost her composure.

Her composure was the only thing she had brought with her into this cell; she couldn’t afford to lose it.

She knew only that she loved him—and that she couldn’t regret what she’d done, even if it had caused him pain.

On her twelfth day in prison, the warden came to see her.

“Your Ladyship,” he said, as he unlocked her cell, “it would be much appreciated if you’d come with me.”

She’d heard a few of the other prisoners addressed in the yard—sharp reprimands that labeled them brusquely by number rather than respectfully by title.

She stood and smoothed out the uncomfortable fabric of her prison smock. “Where are you taking me?”

“You’re being released.” He paused, shifting from foot to foot, and rubbed his balding head. “I know this has been quite an ordeal. You’ve managed well.”

She looked at him and thought of the women she’d seen at a distance. She wondered what they’d been eating, what insects they had dwelling in their straw mattresses. It seemed foolish to call what had happened to her an
ordeal
in light of that. She’d had it easy; she knew it. She hadn’t even served out her full term. It made her feel vaguely ill to be praised for simply having survived.

She shook her head. “I suppose the time that has elapsed has given everyone a chance to calm down.” She shrugged. “Now at least I’ll be able to go home in peace.”

The man gave her a bemused look. “Don’t set your heart on it,” he finally said.

Six buildings made up the prison, buildings of dark, greasy, soot-stained brick enclosed by a wall. That, in turn, was encircled by another higher wall. Violet was conducted to a room where her belongings were returned to her. She was allowed to dress in the clothing she’d arrived in, and then she was brought through the inner wall.

That was when she started to hear the noise. At the inner gate, it sounded like a buzz; by the time they’d walked through the thirty yards of green weeds that stood between the two walls, it had grown to a roar.

“What is that sound?” Violet asked.

“That,” said the warden bitterly, fitting his keys in the door that led to the outside, “is your entourage.”

“Entourage?” Violet frowned. “I don’t have an…”

The wooden door swung open onto a narrow dirt road cutting through the moor. That path was utterly filled. Carts and carriages were pulled up haphazardly along the side. There, in front of the prison, were more people than Violet had ever seen in her life. She didn’t recognize anyone at all.

For a moment, she felt panic overtake her at the sight of that sea of unfamiliar faces.

But then her eye fell on her mother. She was holding hands with Amanda, of all people, and Violet couldn’t imagine what that meant. Next to her stood Alice and Professor Bollingall, and beside them, Free and Oliver and Jane. Free held one end of a banner that proclaimed, “Release the Countess!”

As she stepped out onto the road, a great shout arose—a sound not of hatred or anger, but of jubilation. It was so loud, so primal, that Violet could actually feel it reverberating through her ribcage. She stopped and stared at the gathered throng.

She’d expected that those who disliked her work would seek her out as they’d sought out Sebastian. Likely they would, later.

But here, on the windswept plains outside the prison, with nothing around for miles except the barracks of the prison guards, the people who had come were those who wished her well.

There were tens of millions of people in all of England. Of those, a good fraction might have heard Violet’s story. She’d known they would. She hadn’t expected that thousands of people would care what happened other than to imagine her a curiosity. But here they were—thousands, shouting all at once.

“Good heavens,” Violet breathed. “I have an entourage.”

O
NE PERSON WAS NOT PRESENT
. His absence became glaring around the time when Violet’s mother pushed back her adoring throng—God, an adoring throng; how had she acquired one of those?—saying that the Countess was in need of rest. If Sebastian had been present, he would have found his way to her side.

“Thank you,” Violet said in baffled confusion. “Thank you all. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Nobody could hear her over the roar of the crowd. Just as well. They couldn’t have any idea what it meant to her; she had no idea what it meant herself. She understood vaguely that these people, whoever they were, must have played some role in her early release. More than that she could not comprehend.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m eternally grateful.”

Her mother took Violet by the elbow and gently—forcefully—guided her to a carriage marked with her crest.

“Thank you,” Violet said, just as a few others pushed on board with her. Her mother, Amanda, Oliver, Jane, and, a few seconds behind them, Free.

Free pulled the door shut and beamed at Violet.

“My lady!” she said happily. “We did it! We did it!”

“Yes,” Violet said. She knew she wasn’t normally a stupid woman; why was her brain not working? “We did it.” She rubbed her head. “What did we do?”

She hadn’t really wanted to hear, but Free wanted to tell her. Violet could scarce take it all in, what had happened in her absence. The newspaper accounts. The public outcry.

“Imprisoning you,” Free said, “was the stupidest thing they could have done. The Duchess of Clermont said so—she laughed, actually. She sends her apologies for her absence, by the way, but she knew there’d be a bit of a wild crowd.”

“Of course,” Violet said stupidly.

“You’ve become quite the heroine,” Free said. “You should have seen the headlines: ‘Countess of Cambury announces extraordinary new discovery; is sentenced to one month of hard labor.’”

“There was no labor,” Violet remarked. “The warden was quite kind, except for refusing to allow me my knitting.” She shrugged. “The needles, you know.”

Free blinked. “Well.” She soldiered on. “Alice Bollingall wrote an account for the
Times
of London where she described her partnership with her husband, how they’d shared their work. She detailed precisely who had done what for the discovery you made—your part, her part, Sebastian’s part.”

Violet licked her lips. “And what did—”

Before she could ask what Sebastian had to say about that, Free went on. “There were caricatures of you in chains shouting ‘Eureka!’ while men to your side called for gags.”

“There were no chains,” Violet said. “It was actually restful. Rather like being on holiday.” A foul-smelling holiday where she talked to nobody at all and had no choice about how she spent her days.

“Hmm.” Free said. “Perhaps you needn’t mention that in public? But I didn’t tell you all of it yet. Robert angled an audience with the queen three days ago. He and Sebastian were the ones who went to her. She heard all the particulars and ordered you pardoned.”

“Oh.” That was all Violet could manage. Sebastian
had
been involved. But what did he think? How badly had she hurt him? Would he ever trust her again? What would he say when he saw her next? “Speaking of whom…”

“Yes, speaking of the queen!” Free said. “She wants to meet with you. She pardoned you entirely, except for the contempt charges. Apparently, she said you deserved those.”

Violet subsided in her seat. Free was a force of nature; trying to stop her or turn her back was like trying to blow a cyclone away.

“And now you’re famous,” Free said, “and everyone wants to meet you, and Jane hired guards for your home in London—I hope you don’t mind, but you’ll need them for the next few months. Aren’t you just dying of happiness?”

“Yes,” Violet said, and then—to her astonishment—she started to cry. She had never cried before, not since she was an infant. She didn’t shed tears. She just didn’t. She had no idea why she was doing it now. She wasn’t even sad.

But Jane crossed the carriage and put her arm around her, and Free took her hand.

“It’s nothing,” Violet tried to tell them. “Nothing at all.”

But it wasn’t that. She knew how to steel herself for failure and disappointment. She knew how to smile while her hopes were slowly crushed.