Marriage of Mercy

The servants were given their due next, some of them turned off with a small sum and thanks. Others were allowed to keep their jobs, probably, Grace reasoned, no longer than it would take for the new Lord Thomson to decide them superfluous. Still, a pound here and a pound there could mean the world to people on the level she now inhabited.

Mr Selway put down that document and picked up the last one remaining in front of him. He cleared his throat, looking uncertain for the first time, as if unsure how this final term would be received.

Without a look or a word, Grace knew instinctively that whatever the term was, it would fall on her. She looked around the room in sudden panic. Everyone had been accounted for and Mr Selway had explicitly insisted on her presence. She started to ease toward the door, afraid for the attention soon to be thrust upon her and wanting only to return to the bakery. She stopped moving when Mr Selway looked directly at her.

‘There are two final items in the will, recently added, but no less attested to,’ he said. ‘One is a small matter, the other a large one. Let me mention the small one first. I will read what the late Lord Thomson dictated to me, only one month ago.’ He cleared his throat and took a firm grip on the document. ‘For the last five years at least, I have been kindly treated by Mr and Mrs Wilson’s assistant, Grace Louisa Curtis. She has never failed to bake precisely the biscuits I craved, and—’

The new Lord Thomson groaned. ‘Good Lord, next you’ll tell me that my uncle is bequeathing her a brewery on the Great Barrier Reef that we have no knowledge of! Let her have it and be damned.’

Now dependent on this new marquis for whatever thin charity he chose to dispense, his relatives laughed. Grace cringed inside and started sidling toward the door again. It looked so far away.

Mr Selway stared down the new marquis and continued. “Knowing of her kindness to me, when none of my relatives cared whether I lived or died, I have arranged for Miss Curtis to take possession of this estate’s dower house and its contents for her lifetime.”

‘Good God!’ Lord Thomson was on his feet, his face beet red.

Mr Selway looked at him and then down at the page. ‘… for her lifetime. In addition, she will receive thirty pounds per annum.’

‘This is outrageous!’ the marquis shouted.

‘It is a mere thirty pounds each year and a small house you would never occupy,’ Mr Selway said mildly. ‘Do sit down, Lord Thomson, I am not quite finished.’ He glared him down into his chair again. ‘As I said, this was the easy part.’

Grace stared at the solicitor. The colour must have drained from her face, because the gardener standing next to her guided her towards a stool that a footman had vacated.

‘I don’t want this,’ she murmured to the gardener, who shrugged.

‘Since when has what we wanted made a difference?’ the man whispered back.

‘Go on, tell me the rest,’ Lord Thomson exclaimed. ‘Lord, this is a nuisance!’

Mr Selway put down the document and folded his hands over it. ‘Lord Thomson, it will probably come as a surprise to you that your predecessor had a son.’

‘I’ll be damned,’ the new marquis said. ‘A bastard, no doubt.’

‘Takes one to know one,’ the gardener whispered, but not in a soft voice. The back row of relatives turned around, some to glare, others to titter.

‘Yes, my lord, a bastard, so you needn’t fear you will lose a penny of your inheritance,’ Mr Selway said. ‘While his regiment was quartered in New York City during much of the American War, your uncle dallied with one Mollie Duncan, the daughter of a Royalist draper. The result was a son.’ He looked at the document again. ‘Daniel Duncan.’

‘How could this possibly concern any of us?’ Lord Thomson snapped.

‘Ordinarily, it would not. Through various means, your uncle managed to keep track of Daniel Duncan’s career. When this current American war began, Duncan commanded a privateer called the Orontes, out of Nantucket.’

‘So Uncle’s bastard is making life difficult for British merchant shipping,’ the marquis said, smirking. ‘Why do you think I even care about this?’

Mr Selway picked up the document again, and pulled a thicker packet from a drawer in the desk. ‘Because before his death, your uncle arranged for Captain Duncan, currently a prisoner of war in Dartmoor, to be paroled to Quarle’s dower house.’ He glanced at Grace, his eyes kind. ‘He specifically requests that Grace Curtis provide his food and care during his parole here. When the war ends, he’ll go free. That is all the connection you will have with him.’

Lord Thomson laughed. ‘You can’t seriously honour this. The old devil was crazy.’

He had gone too far. Grace could see that in the way the other relatives whispered to each other. The new Lord Thomson seemed to sense their disgust of him. He folded his arms and sat silent, his lips in a tight line. ‘Well, he was,’ he muttered.

Mr Selway spoke directly to him, leaning forwards across the small desk. ‘Lord Thomson, your predecessor would have done this sooner, had he not had this sudden decline that led to his death. Everything has been approved for such a transaction. I tell you that the deceased had friends in high places, whom it would be wise not to cross. You are in no way rendered uncomfortable at an estate you seldom visit, anyway.’

Apparently Mr Selway was not above a little personal pride. He smiled at Lord Thomson, even though Grace saw no humour there. ‘I build only airtight wills, Lord Thomson.’ He looked down at the document before him. ‘Any attempt on your part to alter or in any way hinder the carrying out of this stipulation would be folly. I repeat: Lord Thomson had friends in high places.’ Mr Selway folded the will and left the room.

Lord Thomson sat slumped in his seat. After a disparaging glance at her husband, the new Lady Thomson rose and gestured his relatives toward the dining room, where refreshments waited. Grace sidled out of the door ahead of everyone, eager to leave the building by the closest exit. If I hurry, I can be out of here and pretend none of this has happened, she thought.

But there was Mr Selway, obviously waiting for her. She sighed.

‘Mr Selway, please don’t think I need any of the provisions mentioned in Lord Thomson’s will,’ she told him, even as he guided her into the bookroom. ‘I want to go back to the bakery.’ She tried to get out of his grasp ‘Mr Selway, please!’

‘Sit down, my dear,’ he said, his expression kindly. ‘There is no stipulation that you must remain in the dower house, if you don’t wish to. The thirty pounds is yours annually for life, though.’

Grace nodded. ‘I want to save money to buy the bakery some day, when the Wilsons are too old to run it.’

‘Then this is your opportunity.’ The solicitor said nothing else for a long while. When he spoke, his words were carefully chosen. ‘Grace, I have observed in life that most of us place our expectations abnormally high and we are disappointed when they remain unfulfilled. Have you placed yours too low?’

She shook her head. ‘I have not,’ she told him quietly. ‘You know as well as I do that thirty a year will not maintain me in any style approaching my former status. It will not induce anyone to marry me. Heavens, sir, I am twenty-eight! I have no illusions.’

‘Indeed you do not,’ Mr Selway replied. ‘You may be right, too.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Think about this, Gracie: it is 1814. This war with America cannot last for ever. Dartmoor is a fearsomely terrible place. You would be doing a great favour to our Lord Thomson to succor his only child, no matter how boisterously he was conceived.’

‘I suppose I would,’ she said, feeling that the words were pulled from her mouth by tweezers. ‘Could I discuss this with the Wilsons? If I have to live in the dower house with a paroled prisoner, I’d like to keep working at the bakery.’

‘I see no harm in that, as long as the parolee is with you.’

Grace stood up, relieved. ‘Then I will ask them directly and send you a note.’

‘I ask no more of you, my dear,’ Mr Selway said.

The Wilsons had no objections to any of the details of Lord Thomson’s will, so amazed were they that a marquis would consider doing so much for their Gracie, a woman others of her class seemed content to ignore in perpetuity.

‘What’s a year or less?’ Mr Wilson asked. ‘You can live in a nice place, take care of a paroled prisoner, then return to us and all’s well. Or keep working here, if you wish. Maybe he’d be useful to us.’

‘Maybe he would be.’ She hesitated. ‘And… and might I some day buy your bakery?’ Grace asked timidly. ‘I’d like nothing better.’

Both Wilsons nodded. ‘The war will end soon, Gracie,’ Mr Wilson assured her. ‘You’ll be doing a favour for old Lord Thomson. How hard can this be?’

Grace had sent a note to Mr Selway and was greeted by him the next morning as she opened the shop.

‘We’ll go at once,’ Mr Selway told her. ‘I’ve heard tales of Dartmoor and how fearsomely bad it is. Let’s spring the man while we can.’

‘Must I be there, too?’

He nodded. ‘I fear so. Lord Thomson stipulated there would be three signatures on the parole document. Yours and mine, signed and notarised in the presence of the prison’s governor—a man called Captain Shortland, I believe.’

‘Three?’

Wordlessly, he took the parole document from a folder and opened it to show her the first signature. Grace gasped. ‘The Duke of Clarence?’

‘Sailor Billy, himself.’ Mr Selway put away the parole. ‘Let’s go get a man out of prison, Gracie.’

And they would have, the very next day, if news had not circulated through all of England—glorious news, news so spectacular that all of Quimby, at any rate, had trouble absorbing it. After nearly a generation of war, it was suddenly over. Cornered, trapped, his army slipping away, the allies moving ever closer, Napoleon had been forced to abdicate.

Mr Selway told Grace he must return to London, muttering something about ‘details’ that he did not explain.

‘If the war is over, will the American return home?’ she asked, as he came by the bakery in mid-March. She didn’t want to sound too hopeful, but as each day had passed, Grace realised how little she wanted to honour Lord Thomson’s will, not if it meant the continuing animosity of the new marquis, who still remained in residence.

‘Alas, no. That is a separate conflict. We still have a parolee on our hands, or at least, I think we do,’ he told her. He nodded his thanks as she put a generous handful of Quimby Crèmes in a paper for him. ‘Our recent peace could be worse for the Americans, if better for us.’

‘How?’ she asked, embarrassed at her ignorance of war.

‘Now we can focus all our British might on the pesky American war.’ He nodded to her. ‘I expect I will be back soon, though. War seems to grind on.’

He was back in less than a week, knocking on the bakery door after they had closed for the night and she was sweeping up. She let him in and he gave her a tired smile.

‘I am weary of post-chaises!’ he told her, shaking his head when she tried to help him off with his overcoat. ‘I just dropped by to tell you that we are going to Dartmoor tomorrow.’ He sighed. ‘Captain Daniel Duncan is still ours.’

She could not say she was pleased, and she knew her discomfort showed on her face. Mr Selway put his arm around her. ‘Buck up, my dear. At least we needn’t stay in Dartmoor.’ He gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘Let’s make old Lord Thomson proud of us Englishmen.’

Chapter Three

Grace knew she had a fertile imagination. After only a brief hour in Dartmoor, she knew not even the cleverest person on earth could imagine such a place.

Her mood had not been sanguine, but she credited their first stop of the morning to the lowering of her spirits. Mr Selway had had the key to the dower house and said they would visit her new home first, as he handed her into the post-chaise.

When they had arrived, the solicitor had unlocked the door and they found themselves in an empty house.

‘I thought the will mentioned house and contents,’ Grace said, as she looked around the bare sitting room, where even the curtains had been removed.

A muscle began to work in Mr Selway’s jaw. ‘Wait here,’ he said. He turned on his heel and left the dower house.

Grace wandered from room to room, admiring the pleasant view from uncurtained windows, even as she shook her head over Lord Thomson’s petty nature.

Mr Selway had returned in no better humour. He walked in the door and threw up his hands. ‘Such drama! Such wounded pride! Lord Thomson can’t imagine what happened to the furniture in the dower house and heartily resents my accusation that he emptied it out like a fishmonger’s offal basket.’ He shook his head. ‘He says all will be restored to its proper place.’

‘I won’t hold my breath,’ Grace said.

‘Wise of you. There might be furniture here, but I think Lord Thomson will send his minions to the attics to find the dregs.’

‘We don’t need much.’

‘What a relief. I doubt you’ll get much!’

It’s good you did not ask me if I am afraid, Grace thought, as they left Quimby by mid-morning and began a steady climb onto the moors. This spares me a lie of monumental proportions.

The higher they climbed, the colder the air blew, until she had wrapped herself tight in an all-too-inadequate shawl. Shivering, she looked on the granite outcroppings and the few trees. ‘Is it April here, or only April in the rest of England?’ she asked.

‘Many have remarked that even nature conspires against this place,’ Mr Selway commented. ‘I have heard complaints about the change in atmospherics around Dartmoor.’ He glanced out the window. ‘Could England have chosen a more unaccommodating place for a prison? I doubt it, perhaps that is the point.’

They were both silent as the post-chaise wound its way along a dirt track of considerable width, as though armies had marched abreast. Or prisoners, Grace thought. Poor men.

When she thought they would wind no higher, the fog yielded to cold rain. She peered out of the window as the chaise entered a bowl-shaped valley. And there was Dartmoor Prison, an isolated pile of granite with walls surrounding it like a cartwheel. She looked at Mr Selway. ‘Perhaps it’s a good thing old Lord Thomson never got here,’ she said. ‘It would have broken his heart.’ It’s breaking mine, Grace told herself.

‘There must be thousands of prisoners inside,’ she said, touching the small carton of biscuits she had brought along as a gift, suddenly wishing it were loaves and fishes and greatly magnified.

‘The prison’s first inmates were Frenchmen, acquired during the war,’ Mr Selway told her, his eyes on the tall grey walls as the carriage drew nearer. ‘I don’t know when Americans started arriving, but I can surmise it was after 1812.’

‘I don’t want to go in there,’ Grace whispered as the chaise stopped and a squad of Royal Marines approached at port arms.

‘Who can blame you?’ the solicitor murmured. ‘Here we go, Gracie.’

He rolled down the glass and handed over the papers. The corporal took them inside a small stone building by the gate. He was gone long enough for Grace to feel even more uneasy. ‘There is nothing about this process to put someone at ease, is there?’ she commented to Mr Selway.

‘No, indeed, child,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been in Newgate—just as a solicitor, mind!—and it’s the same there. I don’t know why it is that everyone seeking entrance, even by legal means, is made to feel so small.’

The marine returned their papers and hitched himself up next to the coachman. The chaise rolled through the first gate, which led to another gate. There appeared to be three gates and then an interior wall that bisected the circle, with a still-smaller gate yielding to what must be the prison blocks beyond.

Mr Selway eyed the grey government buildings. ‘It takes a lot of paper-pushing to run a prison, I suppose. Even misery must be documented.’

‘You sound like a radical,’ Grace whispered, her eyes widening at her first sight of prisoners, dressed in yellow smocks and unloading supplies into a warehouse.

‘Do I?’ he asked. ‘Fancy that.’ He tightened his grip on her hand as the chaise slowed and stopped, and the coachman set the brake. ‘End of the line. We walk from here.’

The marine jumped down from his perch and opened the door, holding out his gloved hand for Grace. She took a deep breath and regretted it immediately. A foul stench rose from the very stones of the prison. Grace put her hand over her nose, but it did little good.

They were led immediately into an office on the second floor of a building that looked out on to the prison yards, as though the caretakers of misery felt they would be somehow beyond the noisome odours, sights and sounds below. She looked out of the window in horrified fascination. The prison appeared to be divided into pie-shaped wedges with high walls around each three-storey building.

After a long wait, she and Mr Selway were ushered into the prison governor’s office, a comfortable haven with sweet-smelling fragrances in bowls on every table. The governor introduced himself, holding a scented handkerchief to his nose, then took their papers. He spent a long time looking at the signature that had surprised Grace yesterday.

‘Imagine,’ he said at last, flicking his handkerchief at them, as if they smelled bad, too. ‘What possible interest his Grace has in this one, I can’t understand.’ He waved his handkerchief again. ‘Go on. Take him. Take them all! What an argumentative, carping lot.’ He looked at the letter again, then at the clerk hovering at his elbow. ‘Daniel Duncan, captain of the Orontes. Building Four. Keep an eye on him, for God’s sake.’

He turned back to the paperwork in front of him. They were dismissed. Mr Selway lingered a moment. ‘Captain? Could Miss Curtis remain here while I fetch the prisoner?’

Shortland frowned at Grace. ‘No. This damned document specifically states she is to accompany you to retrieve the prisoner.’ He looked at the corporal at attention in the open door. ‘Send a squad. She’ll be safe enough.’

‘Safe enough doesn’t thrill my bones,’ Mr Selway muttered as they followed the marine downstairs. ‘Still… Chin up, Gracie. This shouldn’t take long.’

Surrounded by a squad of marines, they entered the prison courtyard. ‘Don’t look at anyone. Eyes ahead,’ Mr Selway murmured, keeping a tight grip on her hand.

She did as he said, taking shallow breaths as the stench grew the closer they came to a single prison block. Two men in plain uniforms stood at the entrance, blocking it with their muskets. As the squad advanced, one of them stepped forwards.

‘We’re here for Daniel Duncan of the Orontes,’ the corporal said. ‘Produce him at once.’

One of the warders shook his head. ‘Can’t. He’s ill. You’ll have to fetch him out.’ His eyes stopped on Grace and she felt her face begin to burn. ‘Good Lord deliver us! He’s halfway back. Stall Fourteen, I think.’

The squad of marines pressed closer to Grace and Mr Selway as they entered Block Four. Even above the odour of too many unwashed bodies, Grace could smell mould and damp. As dark as it was, the walls seemed to shine and drip. Dear God, how could anyone survive a day in this place? she thought, trying not to look at the misery around her: men lying on the rankest straw, others huddled together, one man muttering to himself and then shrieking, someone else coughing and coughing and then gasping to breathe.

‘We’ve passed into hell,’ she whispered to Mr Selway, who clung tighter to her hand.

Guarded by the marines, they walked half the length of the building, which appeared to be comprised of open compartments that reminded her forcibly of the stalls in her father’s stable. Ten or more men appeared to be crammed into each stall, sitting or standing cheek by jowl.

‘‘Twas built for far fewer,’ the marine next to her said.

Grace’s feet crunched over what felt like eggshells. It might have been glass; she was too terrified to look down. She walked on what she fervently hoped was nothing worse than slime and mould. The straw underfoot was slippery with it.

‘Here,’ the corporal said, and there was no denying the relief in his voice. ‘Daniel Duncan? Captain Duncan?’

Grace screwed up her courage and peered into the enclosure. A man lay on the odourous straw, his head in someone’s lap. All around him were men equally ragged, some barely upright.

‘There he be,’ said one of the scarecrows, gesturing to the man on the filthy floor. ‘What can thee possibly do more to him that hasn’t already been done?’

His voice was stringent and burred with an accent she was unfamiliar with. Grace looked at him and saw nothing in his expression to fear. She looked at Daniel Duncan and her heart went out to him. She came closer, the marines right with her, which forced some of the prisoners to leave the enclosure. She knelt by the still form.

‘Captain Duncan?’ she said. ‘Can you hear me?’

After a long moment, the man nodded. Even that bare effort seemed to exhaust him.

‘Mr Selway and I are here to parole you to Quarle, the estate of the late Lord Thomson, Marquis of Quarle. Do you know that he was your father?’

Another long pause, as her words seemed to seep into his tired brain, and then another nod. ‘I know,’ he whispered. She had to lean close to hear him. ‘I’m dying, though. Best you leave me alone to do that.’

‘You can’t die!’ she exclaimed and the prisoners close around her chuckled.

‘Like to see you stop him,’ a Yankee said. ‘It’s the only right we have left and, by God, we’re good at it.’

‘But we’re here to parole him,’ Grace said. ‘Mr Selway, do something!’

Oddly, Mr Selway backed away, as though he hadn’t the stomach for such desperation. She hadn’t expected that of him, but then, he was a gentleman, and not the baker’s assistant she had become, used to throwing slops on middens.

‘I don’t know what I can do,’ he said.

She shivered, then knelt in the straw. ‘Maybe we can help you,’ she said.

Duncan shook his head. ‘Too late, miss.’ He turned his head slightly. ‘Choose another.’

‘But …’

She stopped, listening to another commotion near the entrance to the prison block. The prisoners started to hiss in unison, which made her jump in terror. She looked at the enclosure entrance to see a warden carrying a cudgel. He spoke to Mr Selway, who looked at her.

‘I am to go with him and sign yet another infernal paper.’

‘Don’t leave me here!’ Grace said, her hand at her throat.

‘I’ll be right back, Gracie,’ Mr Selway said uncertainly. ‘You’re safe with the marines.’ He hurried after the warden. ‘I’ll bring a stretcher,’ he shouted over his shoulder, as the hissing started again.

‘Thee is safe with us, miss,’ said the first prisoner who had spoken to her. ‘We mean thee no harm.’ He chuckled. ‘Besides, thee has marines and we don’t.’

She jumped again as Daniel Duncan reached out slowly to touch her arm. One of the marines moved closer, but she waved him back. ‘Please, miss,’ Duncan whispered, ‘I have an idea.’

He looked into her eyes, then up at the marines. He did it twice, and she thought she understood. Grace stood up. ‘Would you mind giving this dying man some room?’ she asked the corporal. ‘I’d feel a great deal braver if you would guard the entrance to this enclosure. You can face out. It might be safer for all of us. I don’t trust the ones roving in the corridor.’

‘Nor I,’ the corporal said. He glared at the prisoners in the enclosure. ‘No trouble, mind, or you’ll be taken to the cachot and left there to rot!’

Can there be a worse place than this? Grace thought. With an effort, she turned her attention back to the dying man. ‘Captain Duncan, what can I do?’ She knelt again, taking his hand. His bones felt as hollow as a bird’s.