Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

The Dorchester gaol consisted of several blocks and courtyards, surrounded by a strong grey stone wall. Iron bars covered the windows and the heavy wooden doors had iron spikes. One could easily imagine that whoever entered through these gates would not easily leave. As Louisa and Wilbur approached, she was overcome with doubt. Surely one couldn't just walk into a prison and ask for information about the inmates.

In the end, as they were not visiting a prisoner, they could get no further than the entrance block,

The guard who opened the door was unhelpful and unfriendly.

"I would like to speak to the warden," she insisted.

"Impossible. Ye can't just walk in here and talk to the warden." He pulled out a long knife and picked at his fingernails. "First, ye must make an appointment. Which is difficult enough as it is with his schedule. Might take several months."

"Several months?" Louisa groaned .

Wilbur stepped up close to the guard and pressed a small velvet bag into his hand. "All we need to know is what happened to the inmate Will Cole, who was incarcerated here in June 1804. We need to know his fate. If you could help us, we might procure a second one." He gave him a speaking look.

The guard weighed the bag in his hand. "Will Cole, ye say?" he grumbled and left.

After an eternity, he returned. "The records say there was a Will Cole incarcerated here for theft June 21, 1804. Transportation. Was sent to the galleys the day after he got sentenced."

"Does it say anything about what happened to him afterwards?" Wilbur persisted. "Did he survive?"

The man held out his hand. Wilbur dropped another small bag into his palm.

"Died July 21, 1804. That's all I know." He slammed the door into their faces.

Coldness spread through Louisa. She shivered. Wilbur heaved a sigh. Then he gently led her away from this terrible place.

They didn't speak a word the entire trip back.

When he saw her hut, Wilbur was shocked. "I can't believe you're really staying here," he protested, refusing to leave her there. "There must be some mistake. Let me take you up to Meryfell Hall."

Louisa smiled wearily. "It's quite all right. You can leave me be. I will reimburse you for the money you spent on that guard, of course."

He brushed her away. "Don't mention it, Louisa. It was nothing at all. "

When Louisa entered their cottage, Robert was already there, kneeling in front of the fireplace, building a fire. He looked up with a frown.

"Where the deuce were you, madam wife?" he demanded. "Without taking leave or writing a note."

"In Dorchester."

He frowned. "In Dorchester? How did you get there?"

"Wilbur from the bakery gave me a lift."

He scowled. "I don't approve of strange men giving my wife a lift without my permission. The road is dangerous, as you have experienced yourself, and I don't want you out and about on your own."

"For your information, I can do whatever I want, and I need not consult you about every move I make," she told him. It was really the last straw. Was he playing the domineering husband now?

He pulled himself up to his full height, and she found herself at a disadvantage having to look up at him.

His eyes, hard and unyielding, pierced through hers. "You seem to have misunderstood. You will not go off on your own without first informing me of what you intend to do."

"Oh, I understood you perfectly." She took off her bonnet and threw it on the table. "Except I have no mind to listen. The role of an autocratic husband doesn't suit you."

"What were you doing in Dorchester, anyway?"

"None of your business." She was tired and hungry, and all she wanted to do was lie down on her lumpy mattress and sleep .

That was the wrong thing to say.

He stepped up so close to her she felt the heat of his body. "Let me be clear. Everything you do is my business. You are my business. And if my wife goes with a man on a pleasure trip to the next town without telling me, that is very much my business." His words were laced with a chilling anger that sent shivers down her spine. If Louisa hadn't known better, she might have concluded he was jealous. But that was nonsense.

"It wasn't a pleasure trip. We visited the gaol."

"The gaol?" He paused, lifting his eyebrows. "What in all that's good and holy were you doing there?"

"I was looking for some information." She walked to the shelf, looked for a mug, and poured herself some water. Her throat was parched. Was the hut hotter than usual? Yet, she shivered. Robert followed her with every step, scowling down at her.

She wished he would stop following her. She wished he would stop scowling. She wished he would stop being so large. She wished he would envelop her in his powerful arms and help her forget.

"The deuce? What kind of information do you expect to get from a gaol?"

She turned to him. "Robert Jones. Is that even your real name?" He was towering over her. "I suppose not. Or is it Lord—" She closed her eyes, wanting to remember the name. "Lord Richard Pelham? Or Robert Pelham?" She opened her eyes to gaze directly into his. "That was the name, wasn't it? That smart Corinthian with a military past. He did everything perfectly. I called him Lord Frippery Fop. Seemed to be more appropriate. That was you, wasn't it?"

A cynical glint entered his eyes and his lips twitched. "Ah. Trying to change the topic, I see."

"Was it?" she pressed.

He stared at her with hooded eyes. "Not quite, but you're getting there."

Her head throbbed.

"It might also have been Lord Paget. Is that the name I'm looking for? Something with a P. The one who went on and on about horse breeds and horse races. I was bored out of my mind."

"Upon my word. You really despised your suitors, did you not? Or was it just me?" he asked softly.

She leaned her head against the wall. The bed was on the other side of the room, but it seemed far away. Besides, Robert was in the way.

"Yes," she sighed. "I despised them all. What does it feel like to have won, to have outwitted them all? Are you enjoying your revenge, Lord Robert Pelham? Having reduced the Highworth heiress to living here"—she waved her hand—"in this hovel. No doubt you must've come to some sort of agreement with Papa regarding the inheritance. It must've been such a lark."

The room swam in front of her. He attempted to take her hand, but she pushed him away.

"Louisa."

"Quite clever of you, I must say, to take advantage of my difficulty of remembering faces. But I must confess that I realised there was something wrong with you as early as London. But I wasn't willing to admit it to myself. I ignored it. I just wanted to get away from it all. I wanted the fantasy so badly, you see. To be married to a costermonger. How uncomplicated life must be, I thought. I wanted this particular adventure more than anything else in the world." Her voice hitched.

She closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against the wood. It felt cool and rough. She felt his hand on her forehead.

"Louisa. You're burning up with fever."

"I let you think I didn't know. But you're not a good actor." A strange weakness took hold of her legs, as if they had turned to jelly. She opened her eyes. "Are we on a ship?" she asked. "Because everything is wobbling."

He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. He smelled of smoke, earth, and musk. It was not unpleasant, she decided. She clung onto him because the ship was swaying, and he seemed the only steady, solid thing on the ship.

"I killed him, Robert," she sobbed. "I will never forgive myself."

"By Jove's beard. Who?"

"Will. I killed Will."