The Courtship of the Vicar's Daughter (13 page)

“I suppose you recognize Lady Hamilton and her son?” Major Spencer asked, staring through his steepled fingers. The prison warden was a man of an indeterminable age, with dark hair graying only at the temples and hooded brown eyes. A severe man he was reported to be, one almost as heavy-handed with the guards as with the prisoners, but a just one.

“Yes, sir,” Seth mumbled, his eyes still directed toward the carpet in front of him. He heard a sniff and glanced again at Lady Hamilton. The veil hid any hint of expression upon her face, but young Benjamin’s pale green eyes were rimmed with red. Seth had no time to wonder at this, for the portly gentleman seated at Lady Hamilton’s left rose from his chair, took a few steps forward, and offered his hand.

“My name is Lyle Kelmscott, Mr. Langford. I was Lord Hamilton’s solicitor.”

Speechless at still another display of respect in so short a time span, Seth took the gentleman’s soft hand in his large work-hardened one. When the solicitor had resumed his seat, he cleared his throat.

“The reason we are here, Mr. Langford—”

“Benjamin should be the one to tell him,” Lady Hamilton’s soft voice cut in.

Mr. Kelmscott gaped at her and at the young man. “I don’t believe that is necessary, Lady Hamilton.”

“I disagree.” She nodded at her son. “Go ahead, Benjamin.”

Now Seth looked at them squarely. Benjamin blew his nose again, then with trembling lips said, “Do you remember when you forbade me to ride Quicksilver?”

Seth nodded, clearly recalling the day. Lord Hamilton had been away at a session of Parliament, and Benjamin had wanted to impress some visiting older cousins by ordering his father’s recently acquired Arabian racehorse to be saddled. The animal was high-strung and would have likely killed the boy, so Seth had stoutly refused.

Now it was Benjamin who stared down at the carpet. “My cousins mocked me, and I was furious at you for it.”

The fog that had shrouded the events of those days lifted, allowing Seth to see with astonishing clarity. “
You
put the brooch in my trunk?”

“Yes.” Benjamin’s hands shot up to cover his face. “I’m so sorry!” he sobbed.

Stunned, Seth watched him weep.
Why ten years?
he wanted to ask but could not. But then Lady Hamilton provided a reply as if she had read his thoughts.

“He assumed you would simply be dismissed,” she said somberly, placing a black-gloved hand on her son’s wracking shoulders. “And then he feared his father’s anger too much to admit to his prank. But now that Lord Hamilton has passed away …”

Seth blinked at her. “Prank?”

“He was but eleven years old at the time, Mr. Langford,” the solicitor reminded.

A silence settled into the room, save the sound of Benjamin Hamilton’s soft weeping. As the implications of his confession made their way into Seth’s mind, he met the warden’s eyes. “Does this mean I’ll be allowed a new trial?”

Major Spencer shook his head. “No, Mr. Langford. It means you’re to be released. Today, in fact.”

“Today?” The word, so commonplace, had never sounded so beautiful and so strange. It was odd to think that he’d risen from his cot this morning with no inkling of the events to come.
Haven’t you prayed for release?
he reminded himself. Apparently, with little faith. Still, God had looked down through walls of stone and heard him.

“Lady Hamilton wishes to offer some compensation for the years of your confinement,” Mr. Kelmscott said magnanimously, as if about to bestow knighthood upon him.

Seth let out a sharp bark of laughter at the absurdity of it. “Will that restore ten years of my life, Mr. Kelmscott?”

The solicitor’s well-fed cheeks reddened. “Of course not. But five hundred pounds can soften the rest of it. I daresay you would have earned less than half that amount in wages.”

“Yes, and married the woman I loved and had children.”

“No one is denying you’ve suffered, Mr. Langford.”

Finally moving his hands away from his face, Benjamin Hamilton stared at Seth through swollen eyes and rasped, “If I could give you ten years of my life, I would.”

“Actually, it could come to that,” Major Spencer said, causing the solicitor and Lady Hamilton to exchange worried glances. “Mr. Langford has the right to register charges with the Crown Prosecutor for being falsely accused and imprisoned. No doubt you’re aware of that, Mr. Kelmscott.”

“I’ll gladly—” the young man began with fervent voice but was silenced by his mother’s hand upon his shoulder again.

Seth realized then the significance of the five hundred pounds. “You’re offering to
pay
me not to register charges?”

“That is a condition, yes,” Mr. Kelmscott admitted. “Surely you understand that there can be no profit in revenge.” Again he cleared his throat. “
And
Lady Hamilton requests that you use the money to settle elsewhere. While you have been vindicated today, there is young Benjamin’s reputation—”

“I’ll accept the offer,” Seth cut in, suddenly weary of the whole conversation. And as for leaving London, he was more than willing, for the city was a repository of too many painful memories.

“Then I take that to mean the matter is settled between you and young Lord Hamilton?” the warden asked.

“Not quite.” Seth looked over at the young face, now as pale as whey save the reddened eyes.
The same age I was when I was arrested
, he thought. It would be so easy, even comforting, to give over to hatred. But by doing so, could he regain the third of his life lost to him? And it
had
taken courage to admit the wrongdoing, even after so many years.
The Wesleyans have gotten to you … made you soft
, Seth thought with self-disgust.

To the new Lord Hamilton he said, “I’m accepting the money as back wages for ten years of walking the treadmill. Spend one day on it, sir, and you’ll see that you’re paying out a fair price. And as for what you did …” In the thick silence that swelled about them, Seth imagined he could hear the young lord gulp. “I forgive you.” He turned his head from the trio and looked at the warden again. “May I leave now?”

Major Spencer nodded. “Young Lord Hamilton has already signed his portion of the paper work. Your signature is required on two documents.” He went to the door and said to the guard, “Fetch Mr. Langford’s belongings.”

Seth penned his signature to the two papers without reading them. For all he knew, they could have been confessions to murder. But obviously they were not, because the warden actually smiled as he handed one back to him.

“Proof of your exoneration, should it ever be questioned,” the warden said.

Minutes later Seth found himself being led down the corridor to an empty office. Mr. Baker, disbelief thick upon his face, thrust a bundle at him—the clothing he had worn to prison ten years ago. Over the years maturity and the treadmill had built up muscles so slowly that Seth had not been aware of them, and now found them to be a hindrance because the corded trousers and muslin shirt were too tight for comfort. The guard was of the same opinion, for he grinned when Seth stepped back out into the main corridor.

“You’ll be wantin’ to buy some new clothes, won’t yer? But I reckon yer got the money for it.” This last part was said with a bit of envy in his voice, proof that the guard had listened at the door.

Seth merely nodded—he wasn’t used to conversing with any of the guards on an equal level. Until he actually left the premises, he would not be fully convinced that Mr. Baker wasn’t going to lead him back to his cell and declare the whole set of events a cruel joke.

He was led to the same thick oak door that had slammed behind him so ominously ten years ago. A gray, driving rain greeted him on the other side, with claps of thunder rolling across the distant sky.

“You can wait it out inside,” the guard offered.

Seth politely declined and stepped out into the walkway of Newgate Street. He wouldn’t have turned back if a blizzard had raged. His daily exercise breaks had consisted of a half hour in the prison yard, canceled in the event of rain. The deluge was the most wonderful thing he had experienced in years. Within seconds his shirt was plastered to his skin, his brown hair soaked, and water ran into his eyes so freely that he had to blink rapidly in order to see.

He wandered out to the roadside and watched the traffic pass as if he’d never seen it. Wagons and carriages and omnibuses, hansoms and delivery carts—their horses’ hooves sent up great sprays of water, and wheels hissed upon the wet cobblestones. Drivers either wore mackintoshes or attempted to keep umbrellas aloft while holding reins at the same time. A hackney cab pulled to the walkway in front of him.

“A ride, sir?” the driver called out to him above another roll of thunder.

Seth looked over his shoulder to see whom the man was addressing and realized it was he. How strange to be addressed as “sir”! He nodded and felt the lump of money in his shirt pocket.

“Hey!” the driver of a butcher’s cart in the rear bellowed. “Got a delivery to make here. Get moving!”

The hackney driver flung back a curse at him, then turned to Seth again. “Best be gettin’ in, sir. Where to?”

“Are there still clothing shops on Regent Circus?”

As the question left his lips, Seth realized he was giving himself away as a former convict. Sure enough, the change in the driver’s expression was evident in spite of the rain. “Plenty of ’em,” he replied. No “sir” this time.

“People has work to do!” the voice from the rear called.

Seth stepped himself up into the carriage, and it began to move along with the flow of traffic. Rain sprayed in on him from the edge of the hood, and he was beginning to feel a chill in his bones despite the late July heat.

He was deposited at Slater & Sons on the north side of the circle of shops and intersections. After handing the hackney driver his threepence fare, Seth waited under the awning so that he would not go dripping into the shop. A ferret-looking little man approached when he finally entered, with shoulders hunched forward and protruding teeth. He swept a doubtful glance over Seth’s wet, ill-fitting clothes.

“Yes?”

“I would like to buy some clothes,” he said, feeling like some creature who had just crawled out from under a rock. “I have money.”

At the word
money
, the man assumed a more respectful posture. “Certainly, sir. Do come in.”

Seth looked self-consciously down at his sodden boots. “I’m sorry about the rug.”

“That’s to be expected,” the shop assistant said, waving a dismissive hand. “Weather like this.” He motioned Seth to a curtained compartment and instructed him to strip down to his linens. They were almost as soaked as his trousers and shirt, but Seth could do nothing about that, and he stood mute while the assistant took his measurements and penciled them in a small notebook. When he was finished, the little man said, “I can have a suit ready in nine days. We have some fine black wool, which is of course the most practical, but pinstripes are becoming rather popular—”

“Nine days?”

“Isn’t that a wonder?” The assistant clicked his tongue against his protruding teeth. “Marvelous inventions, sewing machines. You would have had to wait three weeks just a few years ago.”

Realizing that his reaction had been misunderstood, Seth shook his head. “I won’t be here in nine days.”

“You won’t?” The man scratched his forehead with the blunt end of his pencil, then gave him a cagey look. “We’ve some orders ahead of yours, but if you pay an extra ten-bob, I’m sure we could have it ready in half that time.”

Even five days in London was too much to consider. In fact, Seth could see no reason not to leave today. But he had to have something to wear. “Haven’t you any ready-made?” He motioned to the heap of wet clothes on the floor. “Like these?”

With a disappointed heave of the narrow shoulders, the assistant left the compartment. He returned with a pair of navy trousers and a shirt of thick gray cotton. “Fustian—very sturdy,” he said of the shirt, albeit with less enthusiasm than he had had for the black wool suit.

Seth bought three sets. When he left the curtained area, he peered at himself in the wall mirror. It was strange, seeing his own face again after ten years, for prisoners were not allowed mirrors or anything else that could be broken and turned into weapons.

A decade of scant acquaintance with the sun left his skin ghastly pale, save the dark shadows under his brown eyes. He had the droll thought that perhaps he might even glow in the dark. Elaine had been kind enough to tell him he was handsome, way back when, but he was aware that he had inherited his father’s brutal looks—deep-set narrow eyes, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw.
I could hire out as a gargoyle
, he thought. But what did appearance matter when he was free?

Fortunately the rain had ceased when he walked out of the shop. He purchased boots from a cobbler three doors down and then crossed the circus to
Candler Brothers’ General Mercantile
, where he purchased a canvas satchel, shaving kit, toothbrush, comb, handkerchiefs, underclothing, wool socks, a cap, and, after debating with himself, a watch and umbrella. By the time he walked outdoors again, his stomach was sending up signals that the noon hour had long passed.