Marriage of Mercy. Carla Kelly

marine returned their papers and hitched himself up next to the coachman. The chaise rolled through the first gate, which led to another gate. There appeared to be three gates and then an interior wall that bisected the circle, with a still-smaller gate yielding to what must be the prison blocks beyond.

      Mr Selway eyed the grey government buildings. ‘It takes a lot of paper-pushing to run a prison, I suppose. Even misery must be documented.’

      ‘You sound like a radical,’ Grace whispered, her eyes widening at her first sight of prisoners, dressed in yellow smocks and unloading supplies into a warehouse.

      ‘Do I?’ he asked. ‘Fancy that.’ He tightened his grip on her hand as the chaise slowed and stopped, and the coachman set the brake. ‘End of the line. We walk from here.’

      The marine jumped down from his perch and opened the door, holding out his gloved hand for Grace. She took a deep breath and regretted it immediately. A foul stench rose from the very stones of the prison. Grace put her hand over her nose, but it did little good.

      They were led immediately into an office on the second floor of a building that looked out on to the prison yards, as though the caretakers of misery felt they would be somehow beyond the noisome odours, sights and sounds below. She looked out of the window in horrified fascination. The prison appeared to be divided into pie-shaped wedges with high walls around each three-storey building.

      After a long wait, she and Mr Selway were ushered into the prison governor’s office, a comfortable haven with sweet-smelling fragrances in bowls on every table. The governor introduced himself, holding a scented handkerchief to his nose, then took their papers. He spent a long time looking at the signature that had surprised Grace yesterday.

      ‘Imagine,’ he said at last, flicking his handkerchief at them, as if they smelled bad, too. ‘What possible interest his Grace has in this one, I can’t understand.’ He waved his handkerchief again. ‘Go on. Take him. Take them all! What an argumentative, carping lot.’ He looked at the letter again, then at the clerk hovering at his elbow. ‘Daniel Duncan, captain of the Orontes. Building Four. Keep an eye on him, for God’s sake.’

      He turned back to the paperwork in front of him. They were dismissed. Mr Selway lingered a moment. ‘Captain? Could Miss Curtis remain here while I fetch the prisoner?’

      Shortland frowned at Grace. ‘No. This damned document specifically states she is to accompany you to retrieve the prisoner.’ He looked at the corporal at attention in the open door. ‘Send a squad. She’ll be safe enough.’

      ‘Safe enough doesn’t thrill my bones,’ Mr Selway muttered as they followed the marine downstairs. ‘Still… Chin up, Gracie. This shouldn’t take long.’

      Surrounded by a squad of marines, they entered the prison courtyard. ‘Don’t look at anyone. Eyes ahead,’ Mr Selway murmured, keeping a tight grip on her hand.

      She did as he said, taking shallow breaths as the stench grew the closer they came to a single prison block. Two men in plain uniforms stood at the entrance, blocking it with their muskets. As the squad advanced, one of them stepped forwards.

      ‘We’re here for Daniel Duncan of the Orontes,’ the corporal said. ‘Produce him at once.’

      One of the warders shook his head. ‘Can’t. He’s ill. You’ll have to fetch him out.’ His eyes stopped on Grace and she felt her face begin to burn. ‘Good Lord deliver us! He’s halfway back. Stall Fourteen, I think.’

      The squad of marines pressed closer to Grace and Mr Selway as they entered Block Four. Even above the odour of too many unwashed bodies, Grace could smell mould and damp. As dark as it was, the walls seemed to shine and drip. Dear God, how could anyone survive a day in this place? she thought, trying not to look at the misery around her: men lying on the rankest straw, others huddled together, one man muttering to himself and then shrieking, someone else coughing and coughing and then gasping to breathe.

      ‘We’ve passed into hell,’ she whispered to Mr Selway, who clung tighter to her hand.

      Guarded by the marines, they walked half the length of the building, which appeared to be comprised of open compartments that reminded her forcibly of the stalls in her father’s stable. Ten or more men appeared to be crammed into each stall, sitting or standing cheek by jowl.

      ‘‘Twas built for far fewer,’ the marine next to her said.

      Grace’s feet crunched over what felt like eggshells. It might have been glass; she was too terrified to look down. She walked on what she fervently hoped was nothing worse than slime and mould. The straw underfoot was slippery with it.

      ‘Here,’ the corporal said, and there was no denying the relief in his voice. ‘Daniel Duncan? Captain Duncan?’

      Grace screwed up her courage and peered into the enclosure. A man lay on the odourous straw, his head in someone’s lap. All around him were men equally ragged, some barely upright.

      ‘There he be,’ said one of the scarecrows, gesturing to the man on the filthy floor. ‘What can thee possibly do more to him that hasn’t already been done?’

      His voice was stringent and burred with an accent she was unfamiliar with. Grace looked at him and saw nothing in his expression to fear. She looked at Daniel Duncan and her heart went out to him. She came closer, the marines right with her, which forced some of the prisoners to leave the enclosure. She knelt by the still form.

      ‘Captain Duncan?’ she said. ‘Can you hear me?’

      After a long moment, the man nodded. Even that bare effort seemed to exhaust him.

      ‘Mr Selway and I are here to parole you to Quarle, the estate of the late Lord Thomson, Marquis of Quarle. Do you know that he was your father?’

      Another long pause, as her words seemed to seep into his tired brain, and then another nod. ‘I know,’ he whispered. She had to lean close to hear him. ‘I’m dying, though. Best you leave me alone to do that.’

      ‘You can’t die!’ she exclaimed and the prisoners close around her chuckled.

      ‘Like to see you stop him,’ a Yankee said. ‘It’s the only right we have left and, by God, we’re good at it.’

      ‘But we’re here to parole him,’ Grace said. ‘Mr Selway, do something!’

      Oddly, Mr Selway backed away, as though he hadn’t the stomach for such desperation. She hadn’t expected that of him, but then, he was a gentleman, and not the baker’s assistant she had become, used to throwing slops on middens.

      ‘I don’t know what I can do,’ he said.

      She shivered, then knelt in the straw. ‘Maybe we can help you,’ she said.

      Duncan shook his head. ‘Too late, miss.’ He turned his head slightly. ‘Choose another.’

      ‘But …’

      She stopped, listening to another commotion near the entrance to the prison block. The prisoners started to hiss in unison, which made her jump in terror. She looked at the enclosure entrance to see a warden carrying a cudgel. He spoke to Mr Selway, who looked at her.

      ‘I am to go with him and sign yet another infernal paper.’

      ‘Don’t leave me here!’ Grace said, her hand at her throat.

      ‘I’ll be right back, Gracie,’ Mr Selway said uncertainly. ‘You’re safe with the marines.’ He hurried after the warden. ‘I’ll bring a stretcher,’ he shouted over his shoulder, as the hissing started again.

      ‘Thee is safe with us, miss,’ said the first prisoner who had spoken to her. ‘We mean thee no harm.’ He chuckled. ‘Besides, thee has marines and we don’t.’

      She jumped again as Daniel Duncan reached out slowly to touch her arm. One of the marines moved closer, but she waved him back. ‘Please, miss,’ Duncan whispered, ‘I have