A/N: I'd like to give a massive thank you to everyone who voted for this story in the Wentworth Fanfic Awards 2017. This fandom is the best!
London, 1889.
The street lamps flickered, creating pools of bright light in the murky fog of London's streets. Bridget Westfall stayed in the shadows as she made her way briskly down Vauxhall Bridge Road. She turned left and headed east along the moonlit embankment, the river Thames winding alongside her.
The riverbank was a mélange of warehouses, docks and algae covered steps disappearing beneath the lapping water. The river, deserted of its usual traffic, was disquieting. Bridget had never seen London so lifeless. Several paddle steamers were moored nearby, their decks creaking in the stillness of the night. Used to the jetties teeming with life as sailors and dockers went about their business, Bridget felt strange, as if she were now a part of the underworld, a world from which her father had tried so hard to shield her.
In the distance the familiar rumble of carriages and clatter of horse's hooves against cobbles comforted her. Her skirts swayed as she quickened her pace and glanced nervously over her shoulder. No one seemed to be following her. Her dress was splattered with dirt, her shoes caked in mud. She'd insisted on going on foot. Hamilton had tried to convince her to take a carriage but she hadn't wanted to draw attention to herself. Secrecy was paramount.
Bridget stopped and gazed upwards. The gaol loomed before her, shadowy and terrifying. Millbank Prison was London's largest penitentiary. Designed to hold 1,200 prisoners it was an enormous imposing white brick fortress that sat on the embankment overlooking the Thames. From the outside it resembled the spokes of a wheel; six wings, hexagonal in shape, branching out from a central tower.
Bridget gathered her courage and moved towards the only entrance.
Fletch, the Chief Warder, stood at the outer gate at the appointed hour. As Bridget approached he gave her a cursory nod and unbolted the gate, letting her in. She slipped past him and ignored the cold chill that ran through her as she crossed the threshold.
They cut across the courtyard. Entering the main building he guided her into a small triangular hall, a staircase leading to the Gate-Keeper's rooms above. Light seeped from the door which stood ajar. She saw movement, heard the scrape of a chair as the Gate-Keeper leaned forward, accompanied by rustle as he turned the page of his newspaper. Bridget's heart stuttered... if she was caught now all would be lost.
Fletch signalled for her to follow him. He steered her through another gate and led her down a narrow, curving corridor, deep into the heart of the prison.
Wails of distress came from the cells they passed. The inhuman sounds assailed Bridget's ears. Misery and despair were steeped into the walls and filled her with dread and an overwhelming urge to flee.
Fletch stopped outside a cell. Bridget wondered how he could tell them apart – all the doors had the same gloomy appearance to her. He pulled out a ring of keys, turned one in the lock and pushed the door open.
The cell before her was sparse. It was narrow with a high ceiling. It had a lone window which overlooked the prison courtyard. There was a washing tub in the corner, a wooden stool and a rickety bed. The bedding was stained and the mattress had tears in it where the stuffing protruded. Bridget immediately felt the dampness in the room; the air was cool and still. She imagined there was little sunlight during the day to warm it.
A tall slender woman stood by the window, gazing out.
Hesitantly Bridget stepped into the cell.
"Five minutes," Fletch whispered and then shut the door. It clanked noisily, jarring Bridget's nerves.
Bridget tried to regulate her breathing; she'd never been so petrified. She came from an aristocratic family and until today had never so much as taken an unchaperoned walk let alone negotiated the streets of London after midnight and bribed an official of Her Majesty's prison service to have an audience with one of its most notorious inmates.
"Miss Francesca Doyle?" Bridget finally spoke, hating that there was a tremor in her voice.
Slowly Miss Doyle turned to face her.
She was beautiful, Bridget hadn't expected that. Her long dark hair hung loosely over her shoulders, eyes bright with defiance and a fierce intelligence. Her complexion was fair and though she didn't wear a corset, her figure was handsome. She had an air of ease about her person that was enviable. She looked so serene Bridget couldn't believe she was capable of committing the atrocious crimes of which she had been convicted.
In her turn Franky scrutinised Bridget from head-to-toe. Sizing her up. Then a wide smile broke across her face and her eyes filled with mischief. "You went to a lot of trouble to see me," she said. "I ain't allowed visitors."
"I may have… circumvented the usual channels."
Franky raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"I have come on a matter of the utmost importance," Bridget continued urgently.
Franky smirked. "Utmost importance," she mimicked cruelly.
A blush rose to Bridget's cheeks. She glanced down at her gloved hands, clasped in front of her. She had been warned of Miss Doyle's coarseness but she couldn't lose her nerve now, she was out of options and the anonymous note had specifically said...
"I need your help," Bridget tried again.
Franky studied her visitor with curiosity but didn't reply. After three months of isolation, with only the Matron and guards for company, Franky had learned the power of holding her tongue.
"My father has been taken," Bridget explained.
Slowly Franky walked to her bed and sat down, facing Bridget. The iron framework creaked under her weight. Her shoulders slouched from habit and her expression was indifferent. "Why would that interest me?"
"He was kidnapped by Dr Ferguson."
Bridget let the name settle between them. Watched its impact on Franky – whose back instantly straightened, like a cat sensing danger. Her eyes widen and she stood-up abruptly, her disinterest immediately replaced by fear.
Just then the Westminster Clock struck quarter past the hour and chimed. Big Ben was so close to the penitentiary its every peal echoed as if it were in the room with them. Its sombre notes filled Bridget with loneliness. She hated this place and its awful marking of wasted time.
Silence encased them again.
Bridget moved towards Miss Doyle imploringly. "Please. You are the only person known to have had direct dealings with Ferguson and survived."
"Sheer luck."
"I do not believe that is all it was. You are wily and you know how her mind works."
"She's devilish clever and ruthless. Whatever you done to cross her, pray she forgets."
Bridget felt desperation invade her. "I have no choice. I need to get my father back."
"Why did The Freak take him?"
Bridget became evasive. "That is a private matter. Will you help me or not?"
Franky shrugged. "I ain't interested."
Bridget stepped even closer, her eyes pleading. "But I… I have no one else to turn to."
Franky scowled. "I don't know ya, why should I help ya? What's in it for me?"
"I can get you out of here."
The brunette's face belied her surprise and her voice came out as little more than a whisper. "What?"
"I have great influence and wealth. I can secure your freedom. I can also have your sister, Tess, released from the poorhouse."
Franky scowled and her voice became hard-bitten. "How do you know - "
"I know many things," Bridget said cryptically.
Franky studied her, suddenly realising she'd underestimated this stranger. She still had her pride, so she shrugged nonchalantly. "You know nothin' or you'd be runnin' away from Ferguson, not tryin' to find her."
Bridget's resolve strengthened; failure was not an option. "Would you prefer to stay here? Awaiting transportation to Australia, shipped off to an over-heated cesspit where you will most likely die or would you rather have your freedom? After you help find my father, you shall be released from any obligation to me and I shall pay you a handsome fee for your services. Enough for you and your sister to start a new life."
Franky stared at this angel of the night; softly spoken with fiery eyes. She studied her closely. Miss Westfall couldn't be much more than 40. Her hair, as yellow as corn, was pulled elegantly back; not a curl out of place. Crowning her head was a satin hat trimmed with flowers and feathers, veil pulled back. She wore a tail coat jacket, the chest and sleeves adorned with silver studs, the neckline decorated with lace. Franky noticed that Miss Westfall was wearing a peculiar necklace; on a long silver chain hung a key-shaped pendant made-up of metal cogs. The outfit was completed by a high-waist skirt with ruffles. She cut a fine figure, every inch of her screamed wealth and refinement.
She was clearly well educated and there was an underlying air of mystery about her… something enigmatic. Something Franky couldn't quite put her finger on. It unsettled her. Suddenly Franky was aware of the danger of being associated with Miss Westfall in the underworld and she felt a wave of excitement. Felt alive again after months of going stir-crazy in this cell – even the forced labour was no release, for she was confined to her cell when she picked oakum.
She was nearing the end of her temporary three month stay before being transported to the penial colonies for 7 years. If she was sent to Australia, god knows if she'd ever make it back. Most didn't. She'd heard the stories; the horrific conditions, the heat, diseases, rapes. That aside, London was her home, it was in her veins. She'd been raised on the streets and knew if she were ever cast out, she wouldn't last a day.
So, despite her misgivings, this Miss Westfall was the first surge of anything other than hopelessness she'd felt in weeks.
"I shall do all I have promised in exchange for your help," Bridget stated sincerely.
Franky considered the offer. She weighed it up but still hesitated; Ferguson was wicked to the core. The worst devil she'd ever come across and Franky lived in a den of criminals. The Freak of Finchley they called her. Those that knew what she was about; those that had an ear to the ground.
The last time she'd encountered Ferguson she had been stabbed and thrown in the Thames. Nearly drowned out at Cuckold's Point. Had managed to drag herself to safety and found a doc to stitch her up. She didn't relish butting heads with Ferguson again but, she glanced around her cell, what choice did she have?
"If I agree – we do things my way," Franky clarified. The last thing she needed was the unworldly Miss Westfall fumbling around and getting them both killed.
Bridget nodded quickly, her heart pounding.
Miss Westfall looked eager, malleable and Franky thought, maybe this could work… if she kept a tight rein on her benefactress. How hard could that be? Just look at her – reserved and naive, her delicate perfume, fair skin and flaxen hair were no match for Franky's street-savvy wiles.
"I give you my word Miss Doyle and I never go back on my word."
Franky stared into Bridget's eyes, looking for deceit, but found none. She couldn't quite get a handle on Bridget. She was so earnest and hapless, yet determined.
"I don't even know your name," Franky realised.
"Miss Bridget Westfall."
"I'm Franky."
Colour rose to Bridget's cheeks again, she was unaccustomed to such informal behaviour. At St. Mary's School for Girls she had been taught it was the height of rudeness to address a stranger by their first name, let alone a nick-name.
"Somethin' the matter?" Franky asked, pleased to have got another blush from Miss Westfall.
"No, it is just that… that…" Bridget faltered, flustered.
Franky pursed her lips and gave her visitor an unflinching stare.
"Franky it is," Bridget conceded as she met Franky's eyes.
Playfully, Doyle contemplated the blonde. This could be fun. Miss Westfall was easy on the eye and it always amused Franky to reduce pretty girls to stammers and stutters and blushes. Either way, getting the hell out of The Tench would be worth it. Conditions were appalling. The slops they were fed weren't enough, she'd heard the Matron tell one of the guards that half the women on her wing were sick from malnutrition and Franky's reduced strength and the enforced hard labour were starting to take their toll. She was ageing rapidly and most nights her back ached and her hands were raw and blistered.
Once she pocketed the fee Miss Westfall had promised she could start afresh. Maybe open a little shop, millinery or sweets or musical instruments - her and Tess. Go straight for once. Have their own place and not have to worry about dodgy landlords with over familiar hands. For now, she'd just have to sit-back and see the lie of the land… this could turn into a nice little earner.
"I think we'll get along just grand," Franky declared.
A broad smile broke across Bridget's face and her eyes shone with a renewal of hope. "Thank you!" she exclaimed. She rushed forward and grasped Franky's hand in a gesture of friendship and gratitude.
Franky stiffened and pulled away, startled by Bridget's touch.
"Sorry," Bridget murmured, regaining her composure and drawing back.
Franky eyed her warily. "So when are you breakin' me out?"
Bridget's smile returned. "I shall arrange for your release tomorrow."
Franky nodded.
There was no more to say.
Bridget knocked on the cell door. Fletch scrabbled to open it and Franky took pleasure in seeing Fletch jump at Miss Westfall's command. She bit her lip, attempting to hide her amusement.
Bridget stepped out into the corridor and Fletch locked the cell door after her.
Moments later Bridget was relieved to find herself standing on the front steps of the prison, the river before her again. She breathed in the night air and silently thanked her mysterious ally.
A week ago she had received an anonymous note attempting to warn her of impending danger to her family but she had ignored it, putting it down to a childish prank. The note had been sent to the house. It was scrawled on lavender notepaper which simply read; Your father is in danger. Ferguson will stop at nothing.
Bridget hadn't given the note a second thought until yesterday when her father had gone to fetch copper wire at her behest; she had run short in her latest experiment. She had been in her lab, engrossed in research, when a police constable had arrived to inform her that her father was missing. He had safely reached H. K. Reily Merchants safely and purchased the wire but shortly after taking his leave, his carriage had been found overturned. The coach driver's throat had been slit and the carriage was empty save for the bundle of wire. No trace of her father had been found.
Bridget knew instantly that he had been abducted, as the anonymous note had forewarned. Then, after having several police officers traipse through the house searching for clues and chasing-up dead-end leads, in the midst of her despair, another anonymous note had arrived. Written on the same paper and in the same hand. It read: Seek out Francesca Doyle.
This time Bridget had heeded her anonymous ally.
Bridget descended the prison steps and turned sharply to her left, not noticing the sinister figure who watched her from the other side of the street, hidden in shadows.
She all but floated along the road elated that Miss Doyle had agreed to her offer. She quickened her step as she reached Millbank Pier and veered left as she had no wish to return via the same route in case she was being followed. She hurried, slipping in and out of shadows, dancing around the edges of light jutting from the street lamps. She must hasten for she had much to accomplish by sunrise.