Harriet took her hand. “You are off to a good start.”
“I hope so,” Anne said with more assurance than she felt. “I can imagine teaching deaf children for the rest of my life, long after I'd have to give up the slack rope.”
As a distant clock struck midnight, Anne finished her wine, got up from the table, and put on her cloak. Harriet drew her aside at the door. “Annie, I'm worried. Jack Roach was loitering outside the theater this evening with a couple of his cronies. Don't go aloneâit's late. Let Louis walk you home. He'd love to.”
“That's the problem. I don't want to encourage him.”
“Then stay the night with me.”
“Thanks, Harriet, for the offer.” She embraced her friend, then turned to leave. “But the new horse patrol has made the village streets safer.” She slashed the air with her heavy, steel-pointed walking stick. “This should keep Roach at a good distance.” She stood erect, framed in the open doorway, and waved farewell.
Parody of Justice
The lights grew faint, the voices and music softer, as Anne put the inn behind her. She felt light-headed from the wine. The good company of friends and her favorable prospects at Mr. Braidwood's institute buoyed her up.
Tapping the pavement with her stick, she started briskly up St. John's Street, passing darkened shops. At New Road she waved to the horse patrol, a pair of coarse-looking men, pistols in their saddle holsters, cutlasses in their scabbards. Near the end of their nightly circuit, Anne thought. They were late, past midnight, and they slumped in the saddle. She was grateful they kept the main roads clear of highwaymen.
At the White Lion Inn in the High Street, the publican held up a lantern and showed his last patrons out the door. They waved back to him, then disappeared into lanes so dark and narrow Anne imagined they had mysteriously walked through solid walls.
The marketplace was deserted except for cats on their nightly prowl, poking into piles of refuse, darting after mice among the stalls. But it was already Tuesday, a market day, and in a few hours the place would bustle. Prosperous villagers would shop at the stalls for duck and cheese, ale and porter, fresh baked bread, and whatever else they needed for a fine dinner on forthcoming Michaelmas Day. On past market days, Anne had seen rough men from the country urge on their fighting cocks while others boxed or wrestled one another until bloody. With a shudder she recalled women and children throwing rotten fruit at some poor wretch in the pillory.
As Anne approached St. Mary's, the parish church in the Upper Street, she shoved the evils of the marketplace out of her mind and thanked God for her blessings. Last Sunday, she had met Mr. Newton, the vicar, a large man with a barrel chest, a square ruddy face, thick silver hair, and a deep, powerful voice that reached easily to the back of the church. She had lingered inside until the congregation left, then told him of her puppetry at Braidwood's institute.
The vicar had listened intently and had seemed pleased. For he had a personal stake in her success. She had earlier mentioned to him her desire for new employment. Aware that Braidwood, a frail man, needed help, the vicar had pressed him to take on Anne. Braidwood had at first been reluctant, preferring a kinsman. But none was suitable.
Newton had argued Anne could quickly be useful. After all, she was an actress, half-way to learning how to teach the deaf, who rely on visual cues and facial expressions. Finally, Braidwood had agreed. Newton had then persuaded Anne this was honorable, godly work, and she could do it full tilt in the winter season while Sadler's Wells was closed.
Thinking of Newton comforted her now as she walked past the church. But the reassurance of his voice faded as the building disappeared in the darkness. She continued a short distance in the Upper Street, then turned right into Cross Street. Not a person in sight. Not a sound from the shuttered cottages along the way. A rat scurried in front of her. She stumbled, recovered her balance, then drew in her cloak against the damp autumn air. At the east edge of the village, she glanced up at the sky. Wispy clouds hung low like wraiths, shrouding a pale moon.
The glow of the wine was wearing off. She grew uneasy in her mind. Harriet's inquiry about Antoine Dubois had sown a seed of anxiety. His image surfaced now, his eyes dark and somber, his hands raised palms upward. He appeared to need her. She couldn't guess why. He was not one to complain. She supposed he hadn't found a good situation. But he could cope with that. He always expected a turn for the better. Something else was wrong that he hadn't mentioned in his letters.
A dog barking in the distance broke the eerie silence. At least one of God's creatures was up and about, she thought; let him be gentle. She quickened her steps, her boots echoing on the cobbled pavement. Spying the humped roof of her rented cottage, she let out a breath of relief and turned onto a dirt path. On the left, a hedge's wall of shadows lined the way to her door. At gaps between the bushes, thin rays of light from the neighbor's porch lantern shafted through the darkness.
Suddenly, midway on the path, a large figure leaped out in front of her. A ray from the lantern revealed a familiar face, jaw outthrust, brow knotted with wrath.
“Bitch! Here's a lesson you'll never forget.” Jack Roach swung a thick fist at her face.
She ducked beneath his arm, shoved her stick between his legs and lifted it with all her might. Roach fell to the ground, screaming and writhing and clutching his groin.
As she straightened up, she sensed a man charging toward her from the right. Swinging her stick blindly, she felt it slashing flesh and heard a shriek of pain. Someone rushed up from behind, reeking of tobacco. But before she could turn, he applied a powerful choke hold on her neck. She tore futilely at his arm. Her knees gave way. She couldn't breathe.
***
Tom Atkinson had been sitting quietly on a bench in front of his house, letting the cool night breeze bathe his face. He had dozed off. Suddenly, sounds of violence woke him. He scurried toward the cottage he rented to the French actress and peered through the hedge. As lights went on in nearby houses, he saw a large man on the ground moaning. A companion staggered about, holding a bloody kerchief to his face, while a thickset man bent over a woman. She lay on her back on the path to the cottage. The man pulled a flask from his pocket, forced open the woman's mouth, poured in several drafts and sprinkled more on her clothes.
Tom could smell gin. Sensed evil going on. What should he do? He was old and sickly, no match for the thickset man. And who was the woman? His neighbor? He couldn't be sure. Better not get involved yet. Let the watchmen sort it out. He crouched down and waited.
Meanwhile, other neighbors had been aroused and were shouting. Within minutes, three watchmen arrived, carrying lanterns and staves. “She attacked Roach,” said the thickset man, “and we tried to help him.” He went on about Roach wanting sex, a quarrel over the terms and her unprovoked assault on him. “She's Anne Cartier, the Frenchie from Sadler's Wells. You can smell the drink on her.” He kicked her with the toe of his boot. “Take her to the jail to sober up. The magistrate can deal with her in the morning.”
Atkinson gasped at the name Roach. The bully everyone feared. Something terrible was happening to Miss Cartier. Roach had spread his money freely among the watchmen. Two of them roughly picked her up and carried her away.
While the third watchman was inspecting the scene in the light of his lamp, Tom Atkinson left his hiding place unnoticed and introduced himself.
“Did you see anything?” the watchman asked, lowering his voice to a threat.
“Just heard a racket and saw scuffling in the dark,” Atkinson replied cautiously. “What happened?”
“The woman who lives here, the saucy French actress, got drunk and attacked Mr. Roach and a friend. We'll have none of that in Islington.” He waved Atkinson away with a curt gesture.
Stunned, his heart pounding, Atkinson slunk back to his cottage, woke his wife and told her what had happened. They sat hunched over the kitchen table, the windows shuttered, the doors bolted and barred. A few embers glowed in the hearth, a single candle threw a fitful light from the mantel.
“Miss Cartier attacked three men twice her size?” Winifrid Atkinson shook her head. “Jack Roach is the villain in this piece.” Her brow furrowed in vexation. “We should help her. She's been good to usâcarries my groceries from the market. Pays the rent on time. We couldn't ask for a better tenant.”
Her husband wrung his hands. “What can we do? The police have her now. She's probably best in jail. Roach and his men are out there in the dark, mad as hornets. Probably keeping an eye on us too. They may suspect I saw something. We'd better stay home.”
Winifrid sighed, then pushed her chair back to rise. “We'll have to wait till it's safe to go out in the morning.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Maybe the magistrate will set her free. If he doesn'tâ¦, Mr. Newton should be told.”
***
Anne awoke on a bed of straw, nauseous, her head splitting. She raised herself on one arm and looked about. “Where am I?” she wondered aloud, as the first tingling of fear reached her brain. The room was dark. A thin ray of light shafted through a small high window. It must be morning. Her bed lay on an earthen floor near a wooden door. The stench of urine, unwashed bodies, and moldering plaster wafted through the room. She turned toward the wall and retched violently.
What had happened? she asked herself. She lay still on the straw, trying to recall the evening before. It came back slowly. Roach's fist, the shadowy figure lunging at her, the stench of tobacco, the choking. Her neck was sore and she felt pain in her ribs. So, she had been knocked out and brought to this place. But by whom? Was she Roach's prisoner?
She heard a rustling sound. A large shape moved on the opposite side of the room, and then another under the window, and a third even closer. They seemed to be crawling toward her. She sat up, ignoring her headache, and crouched facing them, her back to the wall.
Like curious animals, three women clothed in rags, hair unkempt, their bodies thin and stinking, drew to within a few feet of Anne. One appeared to be young, the other two middle-aged.
“Who are you?” Anne asked in a whisper, the strongest voice she could muster.
The two older women began to babble through toothless gums. Demented, Anne thought. But the younger one appeared sane. Anne turned to her and repeated the question.
“I'm Sarah Parsons, the carter's daughter.”
In the next few minutes Anne learned she was in a room of the parish workhouse with persons whom the magistrate had decided to lock up. Sarah was a cripple and a compulsive thief, cast out of her family. The older women were lunatics with no one to care for them.
“Meg looks after us,” said Sarah. “She's coming.”
A pair of eyes appeared at the barred opening in the door, keys rattled in the lock and a tall, stout woman entered.
“Here's breakfast, girls.” She put three small bowls of porridge and some chunks of bread on a rough wooden table to the left of the entrance. “And you,” she said, pointing at Anne, “are the saucy actress from Sadler's Wells. The magistrate will see
you
in an hour.” She turned away and put her hand on the latch.
“Wait!” Anne cried. “What does he want with me? What's going on?”
“You'll find out soon enough, slut.” The door slammed behind her. The three women crawled away toward their bowls.
Anne staggered to her feet, so dizzy she had to lean against the wall. “Got to get help,” she muttered to herself, then thought of Harriet, Mr. Braidwood, Mr. Newton. She looked frantically around the room. There was no way to reach them. No way out.
Anne was still leaning against the wall when Meg returned, this time with two women as stout as herself. “I want to contact a friend,” Anne exclaimed. “You can't hold me here.”
Meg ignored her. “Hold out your arms.”
Unthinking, Anne did as she was told. With a practiced gesture Meg snapped on a pair of manacles. Her two companions dragged Anne out of the room, through the yard of King William's Inn, an ancient, half-timbered building, then up a few steps and into a “courtroom” rigged up in the inn's banquet hall. At the far end on a dais sat a black-robed, white-wigged justice of the peace, in front of him a clerk, and to his right the plaintiffs, Jack Roach and his wounded companion. Their supporters sat together on wooden benches to the left. A few more men and women stood on either side of the entrance and watched, mouths agape. Anne recognized Winifrid Atkinson behind a pillar, pale and frightened, out of Roach's sight. Meg jerked Anne forward and made her stand before the judge. She recognized him and her heart sank.
The man in black was the Honorable Thomas Hammer, commander of the local militia and a wealthy landowner. Beneath the wig on his long, narrow head were a pair of thick black eyebrows, a great hawk nose, and a wide clean-shaven jaw. He surveyed the courtroom with cold, shifty, close-set eyes. An unpaid magistrate dispensing local justice for the Crown, he was chosen by the lord lieutenant of Middlesex County from among rich country gentlemen of the area. He sought the support of common folk with generous portions of ale and such official favors as lay in his power.
Anne had heard that Hammer knew little of the law and cared less for its dignity. He had many enemies, but they could not unseat him. Within the wide limits of his discretionary power over minor offenses, he consulted his own advantage and that of his friends and did what harm he could to those in his disfavor. He was distant kin to Roach and, as some suspected, a blind partner in his business enterprises. She noticed the two men exchanging knowing glances as she approached the bar.
The clerk rose to call the court to order but was stopped with his mouth half-open by the crash of Hammer's gavel.
“Let's get on with it,” shouted the judge. “Every fool knows we're in session.” He glanced down at the clerk. “Read the charges.”
The clerk adjusted his spectacles and read Roach's rambling account of the clash by Anne's cottage. The justice frowned at the mention of Anne's public drunkenness, lewd solicitation, and battery. Roach's companion, also pressing a charge of battery, removed a bandage from his face and pointed to a deep, jagged wound from ear to mouth.
“What say you to these charges?” roared Hammer, staring fiercely at Anne.
She replied in a strong, steady voice. “Innocent, your honor.” As she tried to tell her story, however, she was heckled by Roach and his clique and cut short by Hammer's gavel. The room was bedlam until Anne stopped speaking, drew herself up erect and fixed the magistrate with a withering gaze.
For a moment he fumbled with the gavel, then halted the tumult with a simple wave of his hand. “What do you want?” he asked.