in his voice, which appeared to convince the clergyman almost as much as the oath had done. ‘Very well, we will begin. Let us go down to the chapel.’
The ceremony passed like a strange dream for Katherine, who was aware only of the hand holding hers as Philip stepped forward to give her away, the tall presence next to her and the sudden shock of hearing his real name.
‘Will you, Nicholas Francis Charles Lydgate, take Katherine Susanna Cunningham …’
‘I do.’ It sounded as though he meant it.
‘With this ring …’ the chaplain began, then paused, looking expectantly from one man to another. Philip and Arthur looked confused, then anxious. Katherine found her hand being released as the prisoner tugged the signet ring off his finger and handed it to the priest. It felt odd on her hand; warm from his, smooth and old from long wear. She glanced down, but the engraving was worn and unreadable. The fruit of some robbery?
Then her mind was jerked back to the present as he repeated, ‘With my body I thee worship …’ She shivered convulsively and the filthy fingers tightened around hers for a moment. Strangely reassured, she tried to force herself to concentrate on the rest of the ceremony; it was, after all, a sacrament and she should be suitably attentive.
The chaplain droned to the end and then began, apparently out of habit, ‘You may kiss the—’ He broke off at a warning cough from the Assistant Governor. Beside her the prisoner—her husband, for goodness’ sake!—made a small noise that might have been a chuckle. Katherine found her hand lifted and her knuckles were brushed by his lips. The heavy beard obscuring most of his face felt strange on the soft skin on the back of her hand.
Before she could say anything, thank the clergyman even, Philip’s hand was under her arm and she was swept towards the door. She heard Mr Rawlings say, ‘At about eight this evening, then, Mr Cunningham?’ and Philip’s muttered acknowledgement before she was out of the chapel.
Chapter Three
‘That went off very well, I think,’ Philip announced when they were once again sitting in the old family coach and it began to move off up the Old Bailey.
Katherine simply gave him a long look and he subsided into sulky silence. What has he got to sulk about? she thought. If he had said one word that showed he understood how devastating this is for me, it would help. At least Arthur seems to feel it as he ought.
She gazed out of the coach window at St Giles’s church. The journey home was taking longer than it might, for they only had the single pair of horses, which somehow her scrimping and saving allowed them to retain. Still, it was a useful punctuation in this unreal day. Time, perhaps, for some practical planning. Anything was better than dwelling on what she had just committed herself to.
The Assistant Governor had promised them a decent room. Well, she would take her own bed linen and candles. And he had promised that Mr Standon—no, Mr Lydgate—could have a bath and a shave. Not that that would do much good if he had to put those revolting clothes back on again. Now, where could she get some the right size? Philip and Arthur were striplings by comparison. Of course, John was the answer.
John Morgan their coachman turned general factotum was up on the box now, an impressive broad-shouldered figure in his old caped coat and cocked hat. He would be able to spare one outfit that would fit the highwayman, surely. He would have to go straight back to the prison as soon as she had packed a parcel.
Katherine fished in her reticule and found her tablets and a pencil. Clothes, soap, shaving tackle—Philip could sacrifice some of his—candles. She would take the bed linen and some food with her when she returned at eight o’clock. Should she take Jenny with her? She watched the maidservant covertly as she sat silent in one corner of the coach. No, better go in with John; Jenny had been horrified by what she had seen already, there was no point in making her spend a night in that place, always assuming there was somewhere suitable for her to wait the time out.
Making the list and thinking of practical matters had steadied her. When they reached Clifford Street, she found she could get down from the carriage and bid farewell to Arthur with every appearance of calm.
John leaned down from the box. ‘Shall I take the carriage back to the mews now, Miss Katherine?’ He always asked her for orders, much to Philip’s irritation.
‘Yes, please, John, I have another errand, but you had best take a hackney for that to save time. Can you come and see me when you have finished in the mews? I will have some things I wish you to take to the prison.’
‘What things?’ Philip enquired querulously as they climbed the steps to the front door. ‘You are going back there tonight, what do you want to send now?’
‘Soap,’ Katherine replied briskly. ‘A lot of soap. Some towels and, Phil, let me have your spare shaving tackle.’
‘What, for that jailbird?’
‘For the husband you have found for me. As I have to spend the night with him, I would prefer it to be without his beard and whatever is living in it.’ She turned her back on him. ‘Come along, Jenny. Is there anything else you can think of?’
‘A comb,’ the maid volunteered as they shut Katherine’s door behind them. She looked at her mistress, her lower lip quivering. ‘Oh, Miss Katherine, that it should come to this!’
‘Yes, well, it has. Now stop it, Jenny, or you’ll have me weeping too and I cannot afford to do that.’ She began to search in drawers for towels. ‘There, these will do. And some soap, a comb …’
‘What are you going to do, Miss Katherine, when he’s … I mean, when you’re a …?’
‘When he is hanged and I am a widow?’ Katherine enquired, her tone harsh. ‘I will find a small country town to move to with you and John and I will earn my living taking in pupils for foreign languages. My French and Italian are excellent and my German would be good if I applied myself a little.’
‘And Mr Philip?’
‘Mr Philip will have to find some employment himself, I am afraid, Jenny. I cannot think for all of us any more.’ Something was falling on to her hands as she folded the linen towels, something wet making dark splashes on the fabric. She was crying. Blindly Katherine raised her hands to her face and found the tears were pouring down her cheeks. Her shoulders began to shake and she sank onto the bed, curling up and weeping as though her heart would break.
‘Oh, Miss Katherine, don’t now, don’t, you will make yourself ill. Oh, it is so wrong that you have to go back to that terrible man tonight, so wrong …’ Jenny, the same age as Katherine and devoted to her mistress, had been struck almost dumb with terror at the sight of the unkempt, sinister figure of the highwayman. The thought that Katherine—slender, fastidious, chaste—was going to have to give herself to him was hideous. She wrapped her arms around her and cried too.
Eventually Katherine found the tears were stopping and sat up, sniffing and groping for a handkerchief. She found two and passed one to her maid and they sat curled up together on the big white bed, mopping their reddened eyes. ‘It is not the highwayman I mind, Jenny,’ Katherine ventured, surprised to find that was true. Tonight was a frightening prospect, but it would have been whoever the man was, and the setting made it worse. ‘He was kind and not at all coarse in how he spoke to me or what he did. I think he was a gentleman once. He makes me feel safe somehow. Perhaps it is because he is so big!’ She smiled at the maid’s scandalised face.
‘You know I always tell you the truth, Jenny.’
‘Then why are you crying?’
‘Nerves, I suppose, and the shock of that prison. And realising just how desperate our situation is. None of it seems real—and then it is all too real.’ Discovering just how Philip had used and betrayed her hurt almost beyond anything. And she felt bad about