Remember Me - Lesley Pearse [165]
‘There’s always someone,’ he said blithely.
Mary raised one eyebrow questioningly. ‘Oh really? You believe that the stink of prison will disappear the moment I walk out the gate? That there’ll be a kindly person waiting for me, ready to take me to their house and run the risk I might run off with their family silver?’
James winced. He never liked it when Mary reminded them all that they were convicted thieves. ‘Mr Boswell will help you. Besides, some fine fella will come along and marry you, maybe you’ll have children again too.’
Mary gave a harsh little laugh. ‘I look like an old crow, James, what man would want to marry me?’
‘I would,’ he said, taking her hand and squeezing it. ‘Sam too. You are beautiful, Mary, you are strong, brave, good and honest. Any man with half an eye would be joyful to have you.’
It was on the tip of Mary’s tongue to point out that if she chose to marry either of them, her problems would be doubled rather than solved. But she realized James had intended it as a compliment, and it would be churlish to demean it. ‘You could charm most of the women in London speaking like that,’ she said with a watery smile. ‘But not me, James, I know you too well.’
‘But you don’t know yourself very well,’ he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. ‘Believe me, you are a prize, Mary. Worth far more than you know.’
James Boswell stood warming his backside by the fire in his drawing room, a glass of brandy in his hand. It was past seven in the evening and he felt drained, both mentally and physically.
It was a week since he’d seen Mary, and her despair had made him redouble his efforts for her. Since ten this morning he’d been calling on his most influential friends and acquaintances to secure their involvement. While most had heard him out and had even shown enough sympathy to give him a donation for her fund, not one had been sufficiently moved by her plight to offer their time or expertise to get her freed.
He moved over to his armchair and sat down heavily. As he leaned back in the chair and sipped his brandy reflectively, he had yet another sharp mental picture of Mary. Her large grey eyes which reminded him of stormy seas. That mane of thick dark curly hair, the pert little nose and lips that so easily curved into a warm smile. She was too thin and sallow-skinned to be a beauty, hard times had left their mark and the elements had aged her prematurely, yet there was something indefinably arresting about her.
They had had so many meetings, both alone and with the four men. Boswell knew the escape story inside out now, the individual character of each of those involved, including the ones who had lost their lives after the capture. He had learned to tune in to what lay behind Mary’s words, for she always simplified a tale, usually leaving out her own crucial part in it. She had said what day in December Emmanuel had died in the Batavia hospital, and also mentioned how Will arrived at the hospital before then. Only a chance remark later, about when she rejoined the other men in the guard ship, made him see that she had stayed on at the hospital with Will until he died.
Boswell knew how the other men felt about Will, and why. Mary too felt he had betrayed them all. When he asked why she stayed with him until his death, she shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t leave anyone to die alone without some comfort,’ she said.
To Boswell, that was the core of Mary’s character. She didn’t see such action as noble or generous, to her it was basic humanity. Most women who had just lost their baby would want the father to suffer even if he was only partially responsible. Mary could certainly have used that valuable time to escape with Charlotte, but she didn’t. She stayed and cared for Will.
It hadn’t been easy to really understand Mary. She was adept at changing the subject, making light of incidents and giving others credit when it ought to have gone to her. But Boswell was tenacious and also had a very good memory, and by fitting things the men had told him about