Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [99]
Crow conducted us through a passage so dark and narrow, it barely permitted the span of Mr. Cranley's shoulders, and as the walls were damp with mould, I feared for the barrister's good wool coat. Our guide's taper cast flickering shadows as he progressed before us, as comfortable with his lot as one of the Duchess of Wilborough's footmen. We mounted stairs, and followed still more endless corridors, and glimpsed leering faces from occasional barred doors; a fearful babble assailed our ears, part moan, part feverish talk, part muttered curse.
Our guide stopped short before a door, the taper making a grotesquerie of his bulbous nose and thatch of greasy hair. He fumbled at the waists of his many pairs of breeches, and came up with a large key; which, fitted into the lock, succeeded in turning the bolt. I peered timidly about me. Could Isobel really be lodged within?
She was.
Crow threw wide the heavy door and preceded us into the chamber, his face set in a lascivious grin; and upon following Mr. Cranley across the threshold, I quickly perceived the reason.
All manner of strumpet and pickpocket and gypsy beggar were housed within the room—women blowsy and ragged, tall and short, comely and fearsome to look upon. Some seven were confined together in a space perhaps fifteen feet square; they huddled upon the ground in attitudes of dejection, or stood brazenly in groups, conversing with as much ease as though walking the Strand of a Saturday afternoon. One of these last, a snaggle-toothed hag, sallied up to Crow and ran her fingers through his dirty locks, with a leer to match his own.
“Eh, luv,” she cackled, “whattuv you brought us tidday? Summat nice?”
“Leave off, Nance,” the gaoler said, thrusting her backwards with a cuff to the head; “I've business with the lady.”
“The lady, is it? Ho ho.” Nance ran her eyes the length of my gown, with remarkable impertinence for one of her station, and spat upon the ground. “That's for ladies, that is.”
Mr. Cranley offered the protection of his arm, and led me to a door in the far wall opening into another chamber. There, in a darkened, corner, I discovered the Countess. Isobel sat upon the ground, her arms hugging her breast, as though that pitiful gesture might offer some protection from the nightmare of her circumstance; she raised a face suffused with dumb suffering at our approach, and her brown eyes widened with horror.
“Jane!” she whispered hoarsely. “How come you to be here? And witnessing my shame!” She looked wildly about, and struggled to her feet, as if to fly from our sight.
“My dear girl,” I said affectionately, taking both her hands in mine, “I see no shame, only great forbearance in the midst of so much misfortune. Your courage is a credit to your name, Isobel—your friends can only honour you.”
“One friend, at least, I have,” she cried, and gripped me in a fierce embrace. Mr. Cranley shut the door of Isobel's cell upon Nance and her confederates, then hovered on the periphery, his eyes averted, until recalled to attention by the Countess's hand.
“And you, Mr. Cranley,” she said, in a softened tone; “most excellent of barristers, and a true gentleman. I am fortunate, indeed, in your friendship. But you seem distressed, good sir.”
“I am only outraged, my lady,” Mr. Cranley said, “in witnessing your continued degradation. I had ordered Snatch to obtain more suitable lodgings for you, and the man has expressly violated the terms of our agreement.”
Isobel looked away, and raised a hand to her eyes; then faced us with better composure. “I believe the man Crow is incapable of honour, Mr. Cranley. You are well advised to bargain with his superiors, if you wish to waste your coin. But do not concern yourself with me. I care little for which room in hell I may call my own; none is likely to offer comfort.”
I surveyed the Countess with profound emotion, unwilling to imagine the trials she had already undergone. Her simple