I shifted in my seat. ‘And why is it called the Oak?’
She met my gaze, green eyes steady and shrewd. ‘There’s thick oak doors off each corridor.’ She mimed the doors with her hands, fingertips touching in the middle. ‘The ladies close them when they don’t want visitors. But they’re spread wide open most of the time,’ she added, parting her hands. ‘And then a gentleman can enter as often as he likes. If he’s wanted.’
Behind me, men were coughing into their drinks again. ‘I see. Well, thank you, Miss Sparks, I’m obliged to you.’
She offered me a half-smile, pleased I’d taken her teasing well. ‘What you in for?’
The question caught me by surprise. The Marshalsea was a debtors’ prison, with only a handful of prisoners in for other crimes. ‘What do you think I’m in for?’
She shrugged. ‘How should I know? Sedition? Piracy? Sodomy-’
‘Debt. I’m in for debt.’
‘If you say so.’ She winked and headed back to the fire.
I finished my letter to Charles, explaining what had happened to me. What he could do to help I wasn’t sure; the money he’d lent me was now being spent somewhere in St Giles – and not in a way he would approve, I was sure. I asked if he might speak with his patron, though I doubted Sir Philip would feel inclined to help. Once I was done I called to Benjamin through the window and paid him a ha’penny to deliver the letter to St James’.
After that there was nothing I could do but wait for Gilbert Hand to return with news of my living quarters. As I waited the prison chaplain appeared at the door and greeted Mrs Bradshaw in a vague fashion before limping breathlessly to a seat by the fire. He was a large man with a goutish look about him that made it hard to guess his age, even more so as he wore a long wig in an old-fashioned style. Fifty, I decided. A large roll of fat wobbled over the edge of his white neckerchief, which had yellowed with age and sweat. His black waistcoat and jacket were badly faded and in need of a tailor’s needle – more through absent-mindedness than poverty, I guessed, as his hat and cane were both new and well-made. He reminded me of my old divinity tutor at school; he had the same kind but distracted air and – by the look of him – the same quiet devotion to port wine.
I was about to introduce myself when he pulled out a Bible of all things, settled a pair of glasses on his nose and began scribbling his thoughts down in a little notebook. A Bible in a coffeehouse? Very bad form. I frowned at his offence and returned to my coffee. After a little while Mrs Bradshaw put down her needlework and joined me in a fresh pot, squeezing her way between the tables to reach me. She might have been in debt but she certainly wasn’t starving. In fact she didn’t seem like a prisoner at all. She laughed when I told her this.
