The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister #3)(92)
The magistrates turned back. “Your Ladyship, have you anything to say in your defense?”
“Merely that the years will prove me correct.”
“Then we sentence you to four weeks in prison on the charges in the indictment—and two days for the contempt.” The gavel banged. “This court is adjour—”
The remainder of the sentence was lost in the roar of those present, a hundred throats shouting all at once.
Sebastian stood. “Violet!” he called, but the word was swallowed in the din. He took a step toward her, but the crowd was thick. He couldn’t push close enough to do anything more than take hold of her wrist.
“Violet.”
She turned to him. Her face was alight.
“What have you done?” he asked helplessly.
She set her hand atop his, plucked his fingers from her wrist, and turned his palm over. She mouthed something at him, but he couldn’t hear it. And then, with a wry smile, she placed a blue marble in his hand.
Sorry. He knew her precise sentiment even if he couldn’t hear her words. His nerveless fingers seemed unable to grasp. The marble slipped, spilling off his palm.
She smiled at him—a sad smile—and then turned and allowed herself to be conducted away to prison.
Chapter Twenty-five
VIOLET WAS UNDER NO ILLUSIONS: her stay in prison was substantially more pleasant than the lot of most inmates. She was a countess, for one; she knew a great many powerful people, for another. And most importantly, the manner of her conviction would make her the object of curiosity.
She’d counted on that when entering her plea. She had the benefit of expecting favorable treatment; that gave her an obligation to refuse to knuckle under to the contemptible bullying they’d subjected her to.
She was left alone in a cell of her own—one that had been cleaned for her visit. The straw mattress on the bed was new, the sheets given her freshly laundered and without holes. There had been a time years ago when Oliver had been tossed in a cell on trumped-up charges; he still spoke eloquently of the fleas and lice. But the smell of paraffin oil pervaded her space; if there had once been noxious insects here, they’d been carefully eradicated.
After the second day, she no longer even had a headache from the odor. She was brought water to wash with in the mornings. The warden’s wife lent her a few books, and talked to her about them when she finished, holding her in obvious awe. She was allowed visitors on Thursdays, and although that only included family, it was enough.
She was given an hour to walk in the prison yard each day, so long as she made no efforts to speak with the other female prisoners who walked at the same time. They walked like dark ghosts in their prison attire, heads down to avoid a reprimand from the guards.
She was even fed relatively fresh bread and real meat for her evening meal. She’d read the accounts of prison fare in the newspapers when they’d been investigated a few years earlier, and while she knew there had been some improvement in the meals since those dire reports had been written, she suspected that they didn’t extend to meat and vegetables. After the second day, she began to suspect that the warden was feeding her from his own table. No doubt he feared what might happen to his position if she gave a poor report of the conditions in his prison.
She passed one visit with her mother in relative peace; her mother conveyed no message from Sebastian, nor news from the outside world beyond, “You’ve caused quite an uproar.”
Violet wasn’t sure if she’d expected to hear from Sebastian at all, but she was glad he wasn’t mentioned. She tried not to think of him. If she allowed herself to think of the look on his face when she’d turned from him, of how his skin had drained of all color, the way his fingers had refused to close around that marble, she might have lost her composure.
Her composure was the only thing she had brought with her into this cell; she couldn’t afford to lose it.
She knew only that she loved him—and that she couldn’t regret what she’d done, even if it had caused him pain.
On her twelfth day in prison, the warden came to see her.
“Your Ladyship,” he said, as he unlocked her cell, “it would be much appreciated if you’d come with me.”
She’d heard a few of the other prisoners addressed in the yard—sharp reprimands that labeled them brusquely by number rather than respectfully by title.
She stood and smoothed out the uncomfortable fabric of her prison smock. “Where are you taking me?”
“You’re being released.” He paused, shifting from foot to foot, and rubbed his balding head. “I know this has been quite an ordeal. You’ve managed well.”
She looked at him and thought of the women she’d seen at a distance. She wondered what they’d been eating, what insects they had dwelling in their straw mattresses. It seemed foolish to call what had happened to her an ordeal in light of that. She’d had it easy; she knew it. She hadn’t even served out her full term. It made her feel vaguely ill to be praised for simply having survived.
She shook her head. “I suppose the time that has elapsed has given everyone a chance to calm down.” She shrugged. “Now at least I’ll be able to go home in peace.”
The man gave her a bemused look. “Don’t set your heart on it,” he finally said.
Six buildings made up the prison, buildings of dark, greasy, soot-stained brick enclosed by a wall. That, in turn, was encircled by another higher wall. Violet was conducted to a room where her belongings were returned to her. She was allowed to dress in the clothing she’d arrived in, and then she was brought through the inner wall.