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“It is a pleasure, Anna Vale. What brings you to London?”
Anna hesitated for one moment. “A family matter. A most urgent one. It is my brother, you see.” She drew in a steadying breath. “He isn’t…he is… He is unwell.” Tears gathered in her eyes once more. She brushed them away with a hurried, impatient motion of her hand.
Hetty clucked sympathetically. “Aww, that is always a heavy burden, when we must hasten to be with our dear ones because they are not well. It reminds us that our days are numbered and that we had best savour each one for as long as we might. Surely there is a hope for his recovery?”
Anna gave a bitter smile. “I am very much afraid there is not.”
Hetty murmured further condolences to which Anna merely nodded. She turned her head towards the window and stared outside, entirely blind to the passing landscape.
Chapter 17
The first thing one invariably noticed about London was the stench that rose from the Thames, a nauseating blend of rotting fish, human waste, and decaying debris. Anna made her way through Southwark, weaving between carriages, horses, and a throng of people, until she reached a building with imposing columns, the courthouse. Next to it stood the grim, brick structure of Marshalsea Prison, the notorious debtors’ gaol.
Anna’s entire body shook in fear as she stared at it. Her hands were cold and clammy, and her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. Every fibre in her body told her to run and hide.
Prison.
Torture.
The falling blade of the guillotine.
She had lost her parents.
Would she lose her brother, too?
The clattering of hooves tore her out of her thoughts. A carriage approached, passing right into a puddle in front of her, splashing her skirt. She wiped a speck of cold, dirty water from her face.
She formed her hand into a tight fist. No. She would not lose her brother. She would fight for him and get him released.
Drawing in a shaking breath, she stepped up to the building.
A bailiff escorted her into a plain, narrow room furnished with only a wooden table and two rickety chairs.
“Wait ’ere while I fetch the French count.” He left the room, chuckling to himself.
After a long silence, she heard the clanking of keys, and the bailiff returned, this time with her brother Jules in tow.
He looked pale and gaunt, far thinner than she remembered. Dark shadows ringed his eyes, and his once-immaculate clothes were crumpled and soiled. His neckcloth hung limply, untied. It startled her. Jules, always a paragon of fashion, was meticulous about his starched cravats and pressed linen. She had never seen him in such a dishevelled, defeated state. She noted with relief that he didn’t appear to be gravely ill, but his blackened eye suggested he must have got himself into a scuffle with fellow inmates.
“Jules.” Her voice hitched. “What happened to you?”
His face lit up at the sight of her. “Anna,” he replied in French, his voice hoarse. “Thank God you’re here. This place is a living hell. You have no idea. Please, get me out of here.”
He moved as if to embrace her, but the bailiff, a bald man with a protruding belly, held him back. “Not so fast,” the man grunted. “First, the debt must be settled with the creditors. Once I have proof of payment, you’ll need to pay the prison fees for room and board. Only then can he be released.”
Anna dug with trembling fingers into her reticule. “I have money. How much is it?”
“You pay off the debt with the creditors directly, and only the prison fee with me,” the man repeated.
“Who are they?” She turned to Jules.
Jules gave her the information.
She braced herself. “And how much do you owe?”
He named the sum.
Anna dropped down again in her chair. The amount was staggering.
