“Perhaps,” Charles said slowly. “Though it’ll take time. They’ll hang me first.”
“They won’t” she cried. “Charles, I told you that they won’t! Listen.” In a few hurried words she recounted her visit to the Princess Caroline. “So, you see, I think you’re safe until the King returns,” she finished. “They say he may come back for Christmas -- and oh, my love, we must plan fast!”
“Yes,” said Charles looking at her steadily. “But not right now.” He raised his arms and drew her against his chest. Into the kiss he gave her he put all the fervor of his gratitude. Betty yielded her lips, then as she looked into the gray eyes so close to hers, and saw them narrow with passion, she gave a little whimper in her throat. Her bones and sinews seemed to melt in the sweetness which ran through her body. She forgot the dank prison cell, she did not feel the cot’s lumpy straw against which her shoulders were pressed. She knew only the beloved weight of his body on hers, and the wild joy of surrender. He had torn open her silken bodice and was kissing her breasts, when suddenly he gave a shuddering groan and sprang away from her. He got off the cot and pounded his clenched fist on the table. “Betty, I cannot!” he cried in a voice as rough as anger. “Cannot take you here like this. Like a common whore. I love you too much. I owe you too much.”
She lay tense, quivering, looking at him mutely while the blood pulsed in her throat.
For some minutes there was no sound in the cell, except the heavy rasp of his breathing, and the sputtering of the candle. Then she pulled her bodice over her breasts and sat up slowly, while the long auburn curls fell on her shoulders. “You’re right, Charles,” she said faintly. “More right than you know.” The babe, she thought. The new one which was in her womb. On the night of its conception, she had been thinking of Charles. And ever since, in the secret recesses of her soul, she had thought of the babe as belonging to Charles. A pitiable delusion. “Indeed,” she said quickly, “my love for you leads me down many a strange and shameful path.”
He walked back and sat beside her on the cot. He took her long white hand in his, and turning it over kissed the pink, fragrant palm.
“Someday -- Betty,” he said, “when I am not a condemned traitor in Newgate’s stinking jail, someday if I am free. Ah, dear God, if we might both be free -- in France perhaps -- in the sunshine -- in Italy . . .”
She bowed her head against his shoulder, and they sat silent. For each of them the prison wall dissolved and they saw beyond it the deep blue skies, the flooding gold of southern sunlight which they had never seen in reality. Passion had left them both; they sat like two children lost in their dream. Then Betty roused herself, and looked up into his face with a sad little smile.
“Before that day could come, my dear one,” she said, trying to speak lightly, “there are certain considerations. Earlier -- earlier this afternoon, you said you had some plan for escape. Tell me now what it is.”
Muggles, much gratified by all the guineas with which Betty had bribed him, and accurately foreseeing that Mr. Radcliffe would once again be in funds, did not disturb the two in the cell until six o’clock.
By that time they had concocted and discarded several plans, and finally settled on the most likely procedure.
They kissed goodbye, a quick embarrassed kiss, since both were afraid of the urgent flame in their bodies. But they smiled at each other with hope, and, after Betty had left, Charles sat for a long time staring at the purseful of gold she had given him. Then he got up and banged on the iron door until Muggles came and peered through the grating. “Wot’s up, gov’nor?”
“Tell Mr. Pitts I wish to see him at once!” said Charles at his most lordly. “And bring me some coal, candles, and meat. Wine too, if you can find any!”
“Aha!” said the turnkey, his bulbous face splitting into a grin. “There’s bin a chainge in the wind, I see!”
During the next weeks, Charles regained all his former privileges, except the freedom of the Press Yard. Though he did not find Pitts as amenable to certain hints, as he had hoped.
The Keeper’s eyes shifted uneasily when Charles spoke of the improvement in his fortunes, and explained with perfect truth that an aunt of his had come to the rescue. On the day after Betty’s visit, when Alec was permitted to return, the valet brought news from Rodbourne. Lady Mary had sent a draught from Durham to Radcliffe’s agent. It was for five hundred pounds. “Not that I dare hope ‘twill save C. R.’s worthless neck,” wrote Lady Mary, “but that he may pamper himself in prison in a manner fitting to his rank.”
So Charles set to feeling Pitts out, as he and Betty had agreed. After two interviews with the Keeper, Charles was forced to give it up. Pitts’s eyes gleamed at the sums Charles tossed out negligently, his shiny red lips positively drooled, yet at last he backed way, and staring hard at the ceiling, said, “Mr. Radcliffe, I understand you, but you don’t understand me. There’s been some escapes from this jail, which I might’ve known about or I might not. I get me orders same as everyone else. An’ I’ve got ‘em now. If somehow or other you was to break out o’ here, they’d have me swinging at Tyburn in your stead, and wot use would a sackful o’ guineas be to me then?”
“But,” said Charles, and the Keeper interrupted angrily, “I can’t speak plainer. It’s no go, sir. Ye can buy yourself as much comfort as possible here, and here ye’ll stay until ye’re hanged, which won’t be long now.” Pitts walked out of the cell, banging shut the door.
Charles was not unduly discouraged. He had never dared hope much from Pitts. It must be the other plan then. The long complicated one which centered about the little door in the “Castle” latrine.
Charles went daily now up to the “Castle” and sometimes saw Tom Errington there. Errington, though insolvent, managed to retain this and other privileges by acting as secretary for the Keeper. Still, Tom had lost spirit, Charles discovered. He had grown morose and excessively religious. In some way he had got hold of a Missal, which he read constantly. He refused the drinks Charles offered him, and on the one occasion in which Charles mentioned the hidden door Errington shrugged unpleasantly and said, “Forget it,
Radcliffe, you’re getting as crazy as poor Jem Swinburne. You’d best be thinking of the state of your soul, instead of privy doors that don’t lead anywhere.”
So Charles ceased to confide in him; he spoke to Blueskin instead. Blueskin was in high spirits. His chum had already come up for trial at the Old Bailey and been released. Blueskin’s own trial was scheduled for next week and he had had indirect assurance from Jonathan Wild that the outcome would be as favorable. “Too bad ye ain’t one o’ the gang, sir,” he said sympathetically while gulping the gin Charles had bought him. “Ye’d be outa ‘ere in a jigtrot. ‘Tis a sad thing ter be a gent wot the King hisself ‘as taken a scunner at.”
“Aye,” said Charles, glancing cautiously towards the turnkey. Black, though by now less suspicious, and more at ease in his duties, was nevertheless a constant threat. But Black had one night a week off -- Thursdays -- on which various substitutes appeared. This was one point about which Charles thought deeply. Another he whispered casually to Blueskin. “If I had an enemy -- say -- some chap I wanted out of the way for a while, how would I manage . . .” Charles hesitated.
Blueskin’s small black eyes watched shrewdly. “Ye mean--” he said. “How’d ye get some cove thrown in the old Whit ‘ere? ‘Tis easy as winking.”
“Not in here! Not this side!” cried Charles, so sharply that the turnkey looked around and glared. Blueskin immediately went into a noisy fit of coughing, nose-blowing, and spitting, while Charles in pretended disgust got up and walked away. It was some time before he dared question again; then in bits and pieces he got the information he wanted.
And he got Blueskin’s hearty cooperation too. The promise of fifty guineas assured that. On the following Monday, Blueskin was duly taken to trial at the Old Bailey, and next morning Alec arrived in Charles’s cell and reported the thief’s acquittal. No witnesses
had appeared against him.
“So --” said Charles on a long breath of relief. “You know what to do now, Alec. Everything depends on you.”
The valet nodded solemnly. “You may trust me, sir. Rob’s all set too. He’ll be here tomorrow in my stead, though a mighty poor valet he’ll make, I warrant!” Alec chuckled.
“Did you tell Muggles you felt ill as he let you in?”
“Aye. I said I’d the bloody flux and could scarce walk.”
“Good. And does Lady Elizabeth know our exact plans?”
“Yes, sir. I met her in Moor Fields as we’d agreed. Her ladyship was mighty agitated and nervish but she said everything was ready for you. A Thursday she knows it must be. She’s not found a ship for you yet, but that can wait, until you’re safe hid -- and outa here.”
“Out of here . . .” repeated Charles. “Oh Alec, d’you think it’ll work?”
“Have you prayed, sir?” asked the valet slowly. “I know you’re not much of a one for that, yet it might help.”
“I will pray,” said Charles swallowing. “Pray to Saint Leonard. He’s the patron saint of prisoners, Father Brown once said. Go, Alec. Get going! Now that there’s some hope, I don’t see how I can bear the wait.”
“You must have patience, sir,” said the valet gently. “To hurry our scheme would mean ruin.”
“Aye, patience!” Charles repeated. “When now the King will soon be back from Hanover, and that’ll be the end of my reprieves. For God’s sake, Alec, go, my friend, and God bless you!”
As Muggles unlocked the iron door to let the valet out, Charles began to pace his cell.
During the next three weeks Betty’s anxiety was as sharp as Charles’s, and all the harder to bear since she must conceal every sign of it. Her only source of information was now Rob Wilson, because Alec was in Newgate prison on the debtors’ side. The scheme had worked so far, thanks to Blueskin and the iniquitous law. All that was necessary to get Alec arrested for debt was two plaintiffs who swore to a magistrate that this foul rogue owed them each ten pounds he wouldn’t pay. A warrant was issued, a bailiff took Alec in custody, and twenty-four hours later he was in Newgate. Blueskin and his mate had been the plaintiffs, and had performed their parts perfectly.
So far so good, Betty thought, and tried to calm herself as Rob reported progress. In debtors’ prison visitors had free access at any time up to ten o’clock at night, and Rob saw Alec often. Alec had bought himself the freedom of the whole debtors’ side, and by his third day there had crept upstairs and found a dark stone passage which ended in a bolted and locked iron door -- the door he had been seeking. The passage was disused and filled with litter -- broken kegs and the cast-off clothing of long forgotten prisoners. Alec had little difficulty in loosening the bolts on the door so that they would slide easily. Securing the key was another matter. He had hoped to find it in the door, since obviously nobody remembered its existence or would wish to get through to the criminal part of the prison anyway, and if they did would find that side bolted. But he didn’t locate the key and the anxious days passed while he warily questioned and tipped the warders. Betty in her George Street home and Charles in his cell separately chafed and agonized.
Then on a Monday at dusk, Betty stole out of her house while Frank was taking his afterdinner nap. She walked rapidly a block north to the newly laid-out Hanover Square. A few houses were a-building there and Betty went towards one which had been erected as far as the first story. It was still only a hollow shell of reddish bricks, though the cellars were finished. This new mansion belonged to Betty’s brother, the young Earl of Lichfield. As soon as he inherited, he had leased the land and begun building a town house for his prospective bride, and he had given Betty permission to make such use of it as she pleased.
Betty looked cautiously about, in case there should be any lurking workmen, but the square was deserted at this hour. She shivered -- it was now December and very cold -- then stepped over a pile of rubble into the half-finished house. At once she saw Rob Wilson’s big muffled-up figure waiting for her by the stairwell. He had a dark lantern in his hand, and he turned a beam to guide her.
“ ‘Tis found,” he greeted her abruptly as he always did. Rob was not one for chatter, nor even common courtesies.
“You mean the key?” she whispered, dizzy with relief.
“Aye. It had fallen into some mucky cr-rack i’ the stones. Now Alec’s got the door unlocked on his side. All’s ready for Thursday night. If he’ll be.”
Betty swallowed hard, knowing that the “he” was Charles. “He’s making preparations, isn’t he?” she asked tremulously.
“That he is,” said Rob. “And is cocky -- confident. Where’s he to go here?” Betty pointed to the temporary wooden stairs which led to the basement offices. “Wine cellar,” she said, and started gingerly down the steps. Rob followed with the lantern. They passed huge empty pantries, larders, the kitchen, and near the coal-bin found the door to the wine cellar. Betty had the key at her girdle, and unlocked the door. Several dozen of the Earl’s choicest ports and clarets were already lying in their cradles. He had sent them here from Ditchley Park, at Betty’s request so that the workmen might not think it strange the door was kept locked -- though in fact nobody questioned a nobleman’s eccentricities.
“ ‘Twill do,” said Rob glancing around. “Airy. We’ll get him a brazier, and blankets against the cold. Food too. And when he’s thir-r-sty, there’s plenty to drink.” He put his hand on one of the cradled bottles and gave a curt laugh.
Betty looked at him curiously, forgetting her worries for a moment. Rob was only a big rough Northern lad, of the age Charles had been when she first met him. He had a dark, rather ugly face, square-jawed beneath a truculent mouth. Under the black eyebrows his hazel eyes were intent. There was an air of strength and purpose about him, which disquieted her.
“Rob,” she said suddenly alarmed. “Why are you doing this thing?” Why were they trusting this great hulking boy? How had it come about? He now had Charles’s life in his power, and she knew enough of Rob Wilson to be sure that he was neither Jacobite nor had ever felt loyalty towards Radcliffes. Quite the contrary. Dear heaven, she thought. Have we made a terrible mistake? “Why are you doing this thing for Mr. Radcliffe?” she repeated on a shrill note.
Rob looked steadily at her frightened face, and shrugged. “Because,” he said, “I did him a bad tur-rn once, I wish to even the scor-re. And that’s the way o’ it. I pay m’debts.”
Betty was only slightly reassured, though instinct told her this lad was not deceitful. “You’ll be rewarded, you know,” she said quickly. “How much do you want?”
He made an impatient, almost a rude sound. “Naught for this,” he said. “I’d not take br-ribes for a man’s life. Later on, ye can speak a wor-rd for me amangst the rich lords and ladies o’ your ken. It seems the only way to get on in Lunnon is in good sar-r-vice.”
“Service?” she repeated blankly. “You’d be a servant, Rob?”
“Aye,” he answered. “I’d be anything where I can ear-rn honest money, quick, enough to buy m’own land. Ye may be sur-re I’ll brook no master o’er me langer-r than I’ve got to.”
“You mean to turn farmer, then, Rob?” she asked still puzzled. This youth seemed lacking in any traits which would make him either a good servant or farmer.
“Higher than far-rmer,” Rob snapped, frowning. “In time. I’ve scor-res yet left to pay off i’ the North.” He clenched his big coal-blackened hands and picked up the lantern. “We’d best gan now.”
“If --” said Betty with an uneasy smile, “you wish me to recommend you as a servant, what sort of servant, by the way?”
“Running footman,” said Rob promptly. “I can outrun anyone Tyneside or i’ Coquetdale, and I can make high wages i’ the job.”
“Well,” said Betty, “then you’ll have to mend your manners. You speak to me as though I were a serving wench, you know.”
Rob stared at her, h
is heavy brows drawn together, then suddenly he grinned -- a surprisingly pleasant flash of square white teeth. “ ‘Tis true, m’lady,” he said. “I’m in sad want o’ polishing.”
She nodded, and mounted the stairs while he followed. Her mind at once dismissed Rob, and returned to thoughts of the coming Thursday night. They left the unfinished house together after a murmur of agreement that he would meet her here on Wednesday with further news. They were about to part, when they both heard a strange little noise in the shadows by the areaway. Then a child came running forward, stumbling and crying “Robbie! Robbie!”
Betty stood rooted with astonishment, as the child flung herself on Rob, clutching his neck and giving a whimper of joy. The lad lifted and held Jenny tight against his chest for a moment. “There, there, bair-r-nie,” he murmured. “There -- there--” He put her down and patted her shoulder awkwardly.
“Jenny! What are you doing here!” Betty cried.
The child looked up at her, though she clung to Rob’s hand. “Whilst and agyen I come out her-re, m’lady,” she said. “There’s tr-rees and fields up yonder, an’ ‘tis so hot i’ the house, I canna br-reathe.”
“This is very wrong,” said Betty. “Dangerous. Did you follow me?”
Jenny shook her head. “But I saw ye enter this house, m’lady. I cr-rept near and thought I hear-rd Robbie’s voice. I waited--” She paused, and perceiving even through the starlit dusk that the ladyship was angry, she added sadly, “Ye tould me I could see Robbie agyen, yet I havena till now.”
“She means no har-rm,” said Rob. Then he turned to the child. “Now mind this, Jenny! Ye’ll say naught iver o’ seeing me or her ladyship this night. And fra now on, ye’ll bide at hame wher-re ye belang, d’ye under-r-stand?”