Cross took a key from the ring at his belt and slotted it into the lock at my chest. Then he pushed his face up close to mine, his breath reeking of bad gums and worse liquor. ‘Oh. That’ll be sixpence, sir.’
And then he laughed.
I had been beaten. I had been robbed. I had lost everything and now I was trapped in the most notorious debtors’ gaol in London. Anything would have provoked me in that moment; his laughter was more than enough. Without thinking, I raised my fists and swung them hard against his jaw, the iron cuffs about my wrists adding weight to my punch. He staggered back, blood bursting from his mouth, then leapt at me in a fury, hands tearing at my throat.
‘Mr Cross!’ A voice cut the air between us. ‘Stop this at once!’
A small, slender woman stood in the doorway – a widow, dressed in deep mourning. Her husband must have left her rich, judging by her fine black bombazine gown and hood. I lowered my fists.
‘Mrs Roberts.’ Cross gave an ill-tempered bow. ‘Didn’t see you there. Madam,’ he added, forcing the word from his lips with great effort.
‘Evidently,’ she murmured. She was turned from me, hood shielding her face, but I could tell from her voice and bearing that she was a gentlewoman. I could not imagine what she was doing here in the Marshalsea of all places.
‘My apologies, madam,’ I said, and bowed as best I could while wrapped in chains. ‘I fear we have startled you.’
‘I’m not easily startled, sir,’ she replied, tilting her head towards me.
My heart jumped. She was still young – close to my own age of twenty-five – and exceptionally pretty, with a fair complexion and delicate features. Her eyes were most striking – a clear grey, fringed with dark lashes – but there were deep shadows beneath them, from grief and lack of sleep I supposed. Her husband’s death must have been recent; she was still wearing a pair of dull black shammy gloves. Beneath her hood and cap, her hair was dark brown, laced with auburn that burned bronze in the light from the window. I caught myself wondering how it would look tumbling about her shoulders.
She did not seem as pleased by my appearance. Her gaze flickered over the shabby coat Moll had lent me, my mud-spattered stockings and patched breeches. She pursed her lips, nostrils flaring in disapproval. You would make a fine abbess, I thought; chilly and severe. A shame. I was rather fond of widows, in the main. Especially rich ones.
