Chapter 14- The Condemned Cell

Lizzie and Mr York return to the village while Thomas is moved to the condemned cell. There are guards here at all times, and the cell is lit inside and out all day and all night so they can make sure he does not kill himself. He knows what happens next. The Home Secretary will decide whether or not he is to be granted mercy. Then he will have only a week to appeal the decision. After that, he will hang.

He spends his first week worrying about Lizzie, hoping she has recovered from her coughing and that she is doing well in the village. He tries not to wonder to much about what she is doing or if she thinks of him, but it is difficult and he yearns so much for the sound of her little cart clattering down the stone halls to bring food and a little companionship. He misses her smile. Her signs. How she would tap her head to ask what he was thinking or press a hand over her heart and point to him to ask how he felt. He knows thinking of her so often is dangerous and doing exactly what he told himself he would not do- he would not let himself become attached. But as she is not here and the only person it will hurt is himself, he resigns and lets himself think fondly of her.

Men come to interview him for the Home Secretary. They are there to determine if he is sane enough for hanging or if they have a madman on their hands that should, instead, be locked away in Bedlam. The interview is short, the questions they ask simple and direct. He answers the best he can. He knows he could cheat, he could play insane in the hopes that the crown would spare his life, but it does not seem to be worth the effort. And he has spent enough of his life around lies and explosively unpredictable people. There is no sense avoiding his fate, and it is likely better than being stuck in an asylum.

Thomas starts writing to the Yorks every other day. The letters are short. He asks for news about life in the village. Is everyone well? Have Ezra and Victoria set a wedding date? And are there any new inmates in the jail? And the letters that come in return answer his questions and more. They are mostly written by Mr York, but others contribute as well. One week, Rebecca responds. Another, Nathaniel. And Helga takes another week, her handwriting as big and looping as her personality. He has been waiting for a month when his first note arrives from Lizzie.

Thomas,

I recovered with little difficulty from my fit in the courtroom. I hope it did not impede the trial any. I did my best to be truthful. I did not want to hurt you and I have been praying that my testimony did not damn you. I have not seen what the papers are saying about the assize cases. We do not get them here very often. For once, I am grateful that the outside world has forgotten our little village.

I have been thinking about you often. I have hesitated writing because I did not want to say things wrong or to trip on my words and make things harder on you. I have muddled through this letter four or five times before settling on this draft. It is as careful as I can be.

In case they hang you before I am able to write again, thank you for your kindness and your honest listening ear (or, rather, reading eyes). You are one of the first men that has not known me since childhood who has seen me as a whole person, not just as a mute potential wife.

Sincerely,

Lizzie York.

The letters both soothe and hurt. He is happy that there are people willing to write to him, that Rebecca is burning holy herbs for him in her witching, and, in a strange way, that Thaddeus has volunteered to bury him when the time comes. Having seen the care they gave Lucille, this is a comfort.

But Thomas also worries, and he hates the wait, and eventually he works himself into a despondence and tries to stab himself in the stomach with his supper fork. His guards easily stop him. One takes the rest of the tableware out while he other sits down beside him.

"Eh, Mr Sharpe, what did you do that for?"

"I can't handle waiting anymore. There are people in the village writing and waiting to hear I have died from whomever it is that will bother to tell them, if anyone."

"So you thought you'd end it early so they won't be stringing along?"

"Yes."

"Come on, boy, let me see your stomach. I don't think you even scratched yourself, but I want to check."

Thomas opens his shirt and the man quickly examines his skin, "You're fine. But you wouldn't be if you'd driven that deep. Do you know what a stomach wound does to someone?"

"I assume it kills them."

"Eventually. There was this lad here- young man, younger than you. Probably just barely a man. He'd been born out in the wilds in Scotland and told us he couldn't right use a fork. He was right, he couldn't. Never was raised to know how. He'd always eaten with a knife. Someone had he bright idea to give him one- a dull one. I was the junior watchman at the time. I was asleep when I heard something- a grunt, I think. Woke up, turned around, and there he was with that thing sticking out of his belly. My partner was in the loo. I fumbled getting up, got to him after he'd managed to twist it and drive it further. We called the doctor, but he didn't seem concerned. Boy bled out over five hours. I watched the whole thing. Tried to keep him comfortable, but we couldn't do much for him. He was in a bad state. Don't do that to your family. It's not worth it."

"I haven't any family."

"Well then don't do it for whomever you're writing to back home. And don't argue that it's not home. You have people there, it's where your heart clearly rests, it's your home."

"Thank you. Might I ask your name?"

"Geoffrey. Call me Geoff. And instead of trying to kill yourself, talk to somebody next time."

Thomas nods and Geoff returns to his post, his partner back from depositing the tableware.

Thomas continues writing and receiving letters, the back and forth at least something to occupy his mind. He tries not to think too much about death. But death thinks about him and one night, Lucille appears in his cell. He is lightly dozing when her skeletal hand inches from his shoulder to his hair.

"Wake up, my love," she whispers in his ear.

He turns over, sees her face, and startles, shoving away from her, "Don't touch me, Lucille."

"Oh come now, dear brother. Surely you're not angry with me?"

He lays down and turns his back to her, "Go away."

"But I came for a reason. I miss you."

"And I do not miss you. Go."

"Yes you do. I see how you pace. You are bored."

"I am awaiting execution. I am trying to keep from thinking about death. You are not helping."

Her face and tone both sour and she clenches his shoulder, "You will regret this, Thomas. Every moment you did not listen to me. You will walk to the gallows. I will watch you. And then I will keep you." She disappears. Thomas shudders.

Geoff turns to his fellow watchman, an only slightly younger man named Ovid, "I think we've got a sleeptalker."

"Either that or he's talking to a ghost."

"I doubt that. But you never know. Stranger things have happened."

Lizzie looks for Thomas' letters every day, visiting the post with her father. Some are addressed to her, some to others, and she dutifully awaits every morning as Mr Kittering sorts the mail so she can deliver his letters to their intended recipients.

On this day, she receives a letter that concerns her. She opens it eagerly while she is still in the livery and reads it quickly.

Lizzie,

I see little hope that the Crown will grant me a reprieve, and even if they do, I will be here for fifteen years alone. Being alive and living are two different things and being denied one while still the other is a cruelty I do not think I can face.

Tell Ezra he is welcome to my machine.

And read my letter in your notebook.

Yours faithfully, Thomas.

She runs home and thrusts the letter in her father's hands. He reads and gives it back. She presses it over her heart and then crosses her hands over her stomach and closes her eyes as though she is dead.

"I'm afraid so, too, Lizzie. You'd better get ready to travel. I'll call on Nathaniel. Start packing, you'll drive through the night." He pauses, "What letter did he leave you?"

She opens her notebook and jots, "One he said to read only after he was dead. I haven't read it. So I can't tell you what is in it. And I don't know that I will once I do. It wasn't meant for you."

"Alright. I'll make arrangements. We're not going to lose him this way. If the Crown kills him, that's different. But this... He's not going to die alone." He leaves and she dashes upstairs to throw a few things in her travel trunk.

Mr York stops in to see Mr Kittering first, "Hey, Gerry. Do you have someone going out today?"

"Yes. He's just getting ready. Bad news?"

"Hold him for just a moment. I've got another letter I need sent."

"Urgent?"

"Lizzie thinks the letter she got's a suicide note."

"Oh. And we like Mr Sharpe to be alive, correct? Even if he's going to hang?"

"Lizzie's set her heart on him, so yes. Now can you stop the man and get me some stationary or not?"

Mr Kittering hands him paper and a pen before heading out to the horses. He writes fast, a letter to the governor, a letter to gain Lizzie access to a visit. He writes a second letter to Mr Hayes to explain the situation. He addresses envelopes, stuffs them, and leaves them on the counter with a few coins. He is leaving as Mr Kittering returns with the young postal carrier.

"Ready a carriage. The kids are going to Carlisle."

Not far down the road, Mr York knocks on the door of a little red brick house. Ezra opens the door.

"Mr York! Good to see you, sir. What brings you here to our doorstep?"

"I need someone to escort Lizzie to Carlisle as fast as possible for as long as she wants to stay there."

"Nate!" Ezra calls, "A mission for you!"

Nathaniel ambles from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, his apron damp, "Aye? Oh, Mr York. What brings you by?"

"Lizzie got a letter from Thomas. She's afraid it's a suicide note. He gives his mining machine to Ezra and asks Lizzie to read the letter he wrote her for after he was dead."

"So what's the plan, gov?"

"Would you be willing to take Lizzie to Carlisle?"

Ezra holds up a hand, "Isn't he going to be hanged? Why the fuss for a condemned man?"

"Because I'd rather he be killed quick and painlessly by the Crown with people he knows beside him that alone and slowly in a cell when he strangles himself with a belt or his bedsheet. There's something more cruel about it. And beside all that, Lizzie needs this. So will you go to Carlisle?"

Nathaniel nods, "Anything for our Lizzie. I'll pack as soon as I get this pie out of the oven. Can Mr Kittering provide a wagon? And how long might we be staying?"

"He's getting a carriage ready for you. You'll be staying at least as long as it takes for Lizzie to get a visit. No idea beyond that. She might want to stay a while."

Nathaniel tosses his towel to Ezra, "House is all yours, Ez- maybe Miss Tory'll stop harassing you for time alone if she knows you've got your whole house for her." He smirks, and Ezra whips at him with the towel.

Mr York shakes his head, "Be good, boys. And Nathaniel, I'll expect to see you at Mr Kittering's as soon as possible." He leaves their little house and returns to his own. He heads up to the bedrooms. Lizzie has her small trunk out and has been stuffing clothing into it haphazardly. He sighs and starts folding. In less than half an hour, she is ready, and he has gone through her packing to make sure she did not forget anything. She has Thomas' letters in a leather folder on top of her clothes, her châtelaine and an apron with a pocket big enough for her notebook. Once her father leaves, she sits in her room and waits for the carriage. Something catches her eye- the quilt on the end of her bed. Thomas' quilt. She pulls it around her like a cloak and cries. Mr York returns to the livery. Nathaniel has already loaded his trunk in the small carriage and is ready to drive. Neither man says anything about the quilt wrapped around her shoulders instead of her cloak. After picking up Lizzie, they are off.

Mr York returns to the livery and sighs, "Well, Gerry, we've done the best we can for the boy. Godspeed to the kids, I hope they make it in time."

Mr Kittering takes his hand and shakes it once, reassuring, "You did more than your best, Reg. He's had a proper Christmas and people to care about him. It's more than anyone else would have done, myself included."