Chapter One
Inveraray, Scotland
Winter 1861
He cracked open a weary eye, his vision blurred by pain
and fever.
"Evenin', yer lordship." A heavy set of iron manacles
dangled ominously from the warder's grimy fist. "How are
we keepin' tonight?"
Haydon regarded him warily and said nothing.
The warder laughed, exposing a jagged array of rotting
teeth. "Quiet this evenin', are we?" With his muddy boot
he nudged the dish of congealed porridge abandoned at the
foot of Haydon's wooden bed. "What's this? Supper not to
yer likin', milord?"
"The lad can have it." Haydon nodded at the scrawny figure
opposite him hunched upon the frigid floor. "I'm not
hungry."
The rawboned youth did not bother to look up, but remained
huddled in a ball, his thin arms locked around his knees
in a vain attempt to find some warmth.
"What say ye, Jack?" asked the warder, shifting his
attention. "Are ye wantin' his lordship's supper to fill
yer belly?"
The boy looked up, his gray eyes hard and glinting with
naked hostility. A thin white scar marred the otherwise
smooth skin of his left cheek. "No."
The warder laughed. The rations provided in the prison
were as foul as they were mean, and he knew the lad had to
be hungry. "Hard little bugger, ain't ye? Don't need a
thing from anyone — except for what ye steal, of course.
Thievin' runs in yer blood just like whorin' ran in yer
ma's, don't it, lad?"
The boy's lean body tensed. Haydon watched as his skinny
arms tightened farther around his knees, fighting to keep
his anger undercontrol.
"That's the trouble with ye whores' bastards," continued
the warder. "Ye're born with bad blood and ye die with bad
blood, and in between ye do nothin' but stink and make
life a misery for the rest of us. Well, today," he
drawled, jangling his manacles ominously in front of the
lad's face, "I'm goin' to see if I can't beat some of that
bad blood out of ye."
A hint of fear seeped into Jack's cold gaze.
Haydon clenched his jaw as he slowly eased himself onto
one elbow, fighting a wave of pain and dizziness. The
beating he had received some two weeks earlier had broken
several ribs, and fever had sapped him of much of his
strength. Even so, concern for the lad made him force
himself to a sitting position. "What are you talking
about?" he demanded.
"Been sentenced to thirty-six stripes o' the lash, our
young Jack has." The warder took perverse pleasure in the
alarm that drained the blood from the youth's filthy
face. "Did ye think I'd forgotten about that, lad?" He
laughed, then spat on the floor. "The sheriff takes a dim
view of scum like you stealin' valuables from honest folk.
Thinks a little beating and a few years spent at a
reformatory school in Glasgow might cure ye of yer evil
ways. But we know different, don't we, Jack?" He sank his
beefy hand into the boy's hair and hauled him roughly to
his feet. "We know a filthy little shit like yerself can
only end up dead, either killed by yer own kind, or hanged
as a murderer, like his lordship over there." He shoved
Jack hard against the wall. "Now, I suspect that bein'
strapped to the whippin' table with yer wrists manacled
and yer bare arse bleedin' beneath the lash of my whip
ain't goin' to cure ye of yer wicked ways. All the same, I
want ye to know," he finished, laughing, "that I am goin'
to bloody enjoy it."
Rage, hard and hot, suddenly flooded the lad. With a
quickness and strength that Haydon found surprising in a
half-starved youth, Jack plowed his bony fist deep into
the warder's flaccid gut. Sour air blew from the jailer's
rotting mouth, part groan and part curse. Before he could
recover, Jack had drawn his fist back and rammed it into
his tormentor's jaw. The warder's head snapped back,
cracking his decrepit teeth together with a sickening
crunch.
"I'll kill ye!" the warder raged. He dropped his manacles
and swung a heavy fist at the boy. Jack ducked just in
time, deftly avoiding the blow. "Come here, ye rotten
little prick!"
He swung a clumsy fist again, and Jack spun neatly beyond
it, betraying an uncommon ability to evade assault. His
fury augmented with frustration, the warder charged at the
boy like an angry bull, ramming into him with all the
power of his substantial girth. Jack went flying into the
wall, his thin body and head crashing against the frigid
stone surface. Pain glazed his eyes and he stood
helplessly a moment, fighting to regain his strength and
focus.
"I'll teach ye to dare raise a fist to yer betters!"
roared the warder, pinning the boy against the wall as he
prepared to smash the lad's face with his fist.
Powerful hands suddenly clamped upon the warder's
shoulders with brutal force. In one swift motion, the
warder was ripped from Jack and sent hurtling across the
cell. He crashed into Haydon's wooden bed, shattering the
structure beneath his considerable weight. With a groan,
he extricated himself from the debris, then stared at
Haydon with equal measures of surprise and fury.
"Touch the lad again," Haydon intoned softly, "and I'll
kill you."
He forced his labored breath to come in shallow pants,
trying to manage the pain tearing through his side. It was
an effort just to stand, but Haydon could not let the
warder see that or he would be finished. And so he stood
tall and locked his legs beneath him, hoping to God that
the dizziness swirling through his brain would cease
before he was forced to succumb to it.
The warder hesitated. Haydon was a man of impressive
stature, and a convicted murderer besides. Clearly his
jailer was trying to assess his odds of besting him before
he made his next move.
A drop of fevered sweat trickled down Haydon's cheek.
The warder's mouth split into an ugly smile. "Not feelin'
well, are ye, milord?" Sneering, he rose to his feet.
"I'm feeling well enough to bash your skull in," Haydon
assured him.
"Are ye now?" His opponent looked doubtful. "Somehow, I
don't believe ye."
With that he grabbed a heavy wooden plank from the broken
bed and smashed it with all his might against Haydon's
injured side.
It was a blow that would have been debilitating for any
man, but with his broken ribs and nauseating fever, it was
unbearable. Haydon sank to his knees, fighting the
agonizing pain racing through the muscle and bone of his
fractured rib cage. Before he could shield himself from
the next blow, the warder struck again. The heavy bat
cracked against his spine, knocking him to the floor.
Overcome, Haydon was unable to protect himself as the
warder began to kick him savagely about the ribs and back
with his heavy, mud-crusted boots.
"Stop it!" screamed Jack, springing onto the warder's back
and pummeling him with his fists. "You'll kill him!"
The warder abandoned his attack on Haydon as he tried to
knock Jack off his shoulders. He rammed backwards into the
wall, effectively disengaging Jack's hold. "And I'm goin'
to kill ye as well, ye stinkin' little son of a bitch!" He
jerked the boy to his feet, locked his hands around his
throat and began to strangle him.
"Take your hands off him," commanded an outraged woman's
voice. "Now!"
Startled, the warder released his grip on Jack.
"Good God, Sims," gasped the prison governor. "What the
devil is going on here?"
With excruciating effort, Haydon turned his head. Governor
Thomson was a short, round apple of a man, with a badly
receding hairline. He compensated for the lack of hair on
his head by proudly promoting the wiry gray bush that
sprouted from his chin, which he kept neatly trimmed in
the precise shape of a gardening spade. He was dressed
from head to toe in his customary black, which Haydon
supposed was appropriate attire for a man who spent his
days within the forbidding walls of a prison. In a way, he
mused, Governor Thomson was just as condemned by his
profession as those whose pathetic lives he imprisoned.
"These two prisoners were tryin' to kill me!" yelped the
warder.
"Governor Thomson, is it your policy to permit the use of
brutal force on mere children?"
The woman standing beside the governor was an apparition
in gray, her face sheltered by her bonnet, her slender
body lost somewhere within the folds of the dark cloak
that enveloped her. And yet there was a self-assurance to
her that was unmistakable, a dignified confidence and
barely contained fury that filled the frigid little cell
with righteous energy.
"Of course not, Miss MacPhail," Governor Thomson assured
her, his head shaking nervously from side to side to
underscore the point. "All our prisoners are treated with
fairness and dignity — unless, of course," he amended,
glancing down at Haydon, "they pose a threat to others. In
a situation like that, I'm sure you understand, Mr. Sims
here is obliged to restrain them."
"They were tryin' to kill me!" the warder squawked, trying
his best to look as if he had barely evaded
death. "Attacked me like a pair of wild animals, they did —
I'll be lucky if I haven't broken anything." He rubbed
his elbow, evidently in the hope of eliciting some
sympathy.
"And why do you suppose they did such a thing?" demanded
the woman icily.
The warder shrugged. "I was just takin' the lad for his
whippin', when he suddenly went mad and—"
"You were going to whip this boy?"
Haydon couldn't decide which was greater, her horror or
her fury.
"The sheriff has sentenced him to be lashed," explained
Governor Thomson, as if that somehow absolved him and the
warder of any responsibility in the matter. "Thirty-six
stripes, in addition to forty days imprisonment here. Then
he is to spend a further two years in a reformatory
school."
"For what crime?"
"The lad's a thief," Governor Thomson reported.
"Is he, now?" The woman's tone was blatantly caustic.
She turned and approached Haydon, releasing the ties of
her bonnet as she did so. The dark headpiece slipped down
her back, revealing a woman of far greater youth and
beauty than he had initially suspected. Her face was pale
against a mass of honey-colored hair tinged with red,
which was carelessly escaping the pins she had used to try
to contain it. Her eyes were large and dark against her
milky skin, her features small and elegantly carved. Her
beauty was as luminous as it was out of place in the foul
darkness of the cell, as if a glorious flower had suddenly
bloomed between one of the cracks in the filthy floor.
Untroubled by the prospect of dirtying her clothes, she
knelt beside Haydon, her brows drawn together with concern
as she studied his pain-etched face.
"Are you badly injured, sir?"
Haydon regarded her in silent fascination. She was not so
young after all, for the fine web of lines around her eyes
and across her forehead were testament to a life lived at
least twenty-five years, perhaps more. She had known
trouble in those years, the faint shadows beneath her eyes
and the furrows between her brows made that clear enough,
but he sensed there had been much laughter as well. In
that moment he longed for nothing more than to see her
smile, to watch the warm light of amusement drift across
her lovely face, and see the sweet lines around her eyes
crinkle with pleasure.
"No," he murmured thickly. For all he knew, inside he was
bleeding to death. It scarcely mattered. Dying upon the
floor with this magnificent creature looking down upon him
with such tender concern was vastly preferable to being
hanged the following day before a jeering mob. He stared
at her intently, willing her to stay near, afraid that if
he so much as blinked she would be gone and he would be
left to finish whatever remained of his miserable life
alone.
She laid her hand against the rough growth of beard on his
cheek, then placed it lightly upon his fevered brow. Her
touch was soft and cool and sure. Somehow, it filled him
with a kind of fragile hope. It must be the fever, he
realized with vague disappointment. There was no hope for
him.
"This man is gravely ill," she announced, her eyes never
leaving his. "He is almost afire with fever and he has
been badly beaten. You must send for a doctor immediately."
The warder snorted with laughter.
Governor Thomson was only slightly more courteous,
regarding her as if she were utterly innocent in matters
that were best handled by men. "I am afraid, Miss
MacPhail, that this man has been found guilty of murder
and is sentenced to hang tomorrow. Since his crime is of
the most serious nature and his punishment but hours away,
I'm afraid I cannot justify troubling the prison surgeon
to examine him — especially considering he will not live
long enough to benefit from any treatment that might be
prescribed."
Her body stiffened, although she was careful to keep her
expression composed. Clearly the mention of murder and
hanging had affected whatever her previous assessment of
him had been. She withdrew her hand and Haydon felt lost,
as if the gentle thread of compassion joining him to her
had snapped.
"No," he protested, grasping her wrist and pulling her
toward him again.
Alarm flared in her eyes, and he realized his mistake. He
could well imagine how he appeared to her; a battered
prisoner sprawled on the floor of a dank cell, filthy and
unshaven and perhaps crazed by fever, trying to hold her
against her will. He closed his eyes in despair, still
clinging to her slender wrist, but his grasp was gentle
now, and she could have broken free if she wished.
She remained where she was, the skin of her wrist clean
and cool against his grimy fingers.
"I am no murderer," he murmured, unable to fathom why it
should matter to him that she know this.
She hesitated a moment, studying him soberly. "I am sorry,
sir," she finally said in a soft voice, "but that is now a
matter between you and God." Gently she extricated herself
from his hold. "Jack, would you kindly help me move this
man to that bed?"
"I'll move him," growled the warder.
"Thank you, but I think it would be best if the boy and I
did it," she returned firmly.
Jack obediently went to Haydon's side. Together he and the
woman helped him to his feet and onto the remaining bed.
"If you will not call for the surgeon, perhaps you will
permit me to send my maid to tend to this man this
evening," she said, adjusting the coarse folds of a foul-
smelling blanket over Haydon. "I see no reason why he
should not be permitted some measure of comfort on his
final evening."
Governor Thomson stroked his thick gray beard
uncertainly. "It really isn't necessary—"
"It would scarcely reflect well upon you or your prison
were he not fit to stand during his execution tomorrow,"
Miss MacPhail pointed out. "It might give cause for some
to question the treatment he received while he was
entrusted to your care." She cast an accusing look at the
warder.
"On the other hand, I see no harm to your maid paying him
a visit," Governor Thomson relented.
"Very good." Satisfied that she had done all that was
within her power to help Haydon, she turned her attention
to Jack.
"Permit me to introduce myself, Jack. My name is Genevieve
MacPhail, and I would like to speak with you—"
"I never stole nothin'," he spat vehemently.
"I don't care whether you did or not."
Surprise flickered in his gaze, but he was quick to shroud
it with sullen indifference. "Then what do you want?"
"I live in a house in Inveraray with some other children
who, like yourself, have been through some rather
difficult times—"
"I'm not a child," he interrupted rudely.
"Forgive me. Of course you aren't. You must be what —
fifteen?"
He straightened his posture, pleased that she had
overestimated his age. "About that."
She nodded as if greatly impressed by this. "Well, I was
wondering, Jack, if instead of staying here in prison and
then proceeding to a reformatory school, you would be
willing to come and live with me for the duration of your
sentence."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "You mean like a servant?" His tone
was openly scornful.
"No," she replied, untroubled by his hostile
attitude. "But you would have chores to do, the same as
everyone there does."
He regarded her skeptically. "What kind of chores?"
"You would be expected to help with cooking and cleaning
and washing, and all the other things that are necessary
to run a busy household. And you would be required to
spend part of each day learning to read and write and
cipher numbers. You don't know how to read, do you?"
"I get by," he assured her tersely.
"I don't doubt that. But my hope would be, Jack, that
after you finished staying with me, you would be able to
get by far better than you have been."
He was silent a moment, considering. "Could I come and go
as I pleased?"
"Unfortunately, no. Should you decide to come with me, you
would then become my responsibility. That means that I
would have to know where you were at all times. I'm afraid
I would have to insist that you agree to that," she added,
as a scowl twisted his sharply chiseled features. "And
your days would be structured, so you would not be
permitted to simply wander off and do as you wished. I can
assure you, however, that you would find your situation
far more tolerable than what awaits you at reformatory
school. You would be well fed and cared for. The others
who have come to live with me actually find it quite
pleasant."
"Fine."
His answer was just a touch too quick, thought Haydon, to
be genuine. It was clear to him that the boy had decided
that going with this Miss Genevieve MacPhail was
infinitely preferable to getting thrashed by the warder
and spending any more time in jail. Once he had relieved
her of a warm set of clothes and a decent meal, he would
steal whatever he could and be gone, by tomorrow at the
very latest. Haydon wished he had time to speak to the boy
alone, to make him understand the incredible opportunity
he was being offered.
"Can you get him out as well?" Jack inclined his head
toward Haydon.
Haydon looked at the lad in surprise.
"I — I'm afraid not," Genevieve stammered, startled by the
question.
Her dark eyes were veiled with what appeared to be regret.
Haydon thought that rather amazing, given all that she
knew of him was that he had been convicted of murder. It
was scarcely the kind of credentials that roused the more
tender sensibilities of a gently bred woman like Miss
MacPhail.
"Excellent," said Governor Thomson, pleased that the two
had come to an agreement. "Let us retire to my office and
work out the necessary details of this arrangement, shall
we?" He scratched his beard in anticipation.
So that was it, Haydon realized. This Miss MacPhail was
securing Jack's release in exchange for payment of some
kind to the prison governor. She wore no jewelry, and a
closer inspection revealed that her cloak was void of
ornamentation and the fabric was cheap and somewhat worn.
Whatever she was paying for the dubious privilege of
taking on the responsibility of a half-starved, lying,
thieving urchin, it was clear she could ill-afford it. The
certainty that Jack was planning to take advantage of her
well-meaning intentions and then abandon her made him feel
sad for both of them.
Governor Thomson was already on his way out the door,
evidently anxious to have the transaction completed.
But the lovely Miss MacPhail hesitated.
"I will send my maid to attend to you as quickly as
possible," she promised Haydon. "Is there anything special
you would like?"
"Do not take your eyes off the lad until you are certain
he will stay with you — otherwise he will be gone by
morning."
Her dark eyes widened. Obviously she had expected him to
ask for something simple and self-indulgent, like whiskey,
or perhaps that a particular dish be prepared for him.
"There is one more thing."
She waited expectantly.
"I would like you to believe that I am innocent."
The warder snorted with amusement. "All ye murderers want
the world to think ye're sweet an' pure as bairns —
especially before ye're due to have yer neck snapped."
"Why does it matter to you what I believe?" she asked,
ignoring the warder's jeer.
Haydon regarded her intently. "It just does."
She was silent a moment, contemplating his request. "I'm
afraid I do not know the facts of your case, sir, and
therefore can pass no judgment." Her voice was soft and
laced with remorse, as if she would have far preferred to
tell him that she believed him.
He nodded, suddenly feeling immeasurably weary. "Of
course." He closed his eyes.
"Come, then, Miss MacPhail," said Governor Thomson, who
was waiting impatiently for her at the cell door. "Let us
have this matter of the lad settled."
"I will have my maid prepare something special for you,"
Genevieve promised Haydon, perhaps hoping that he would be
somewhat consoled by this.
"I'm not hungry."
"Then she will do whatever she can to see to your
comfort," she persisted.
"Fine. Thank you."
He sensed rather than saw her hesitate, as if there was
something more she wished to say to him.
And then she left the cell, leaving him to face his final
hours alone in the frigid darkness.
"The contract is the same as those to which you have
previously agreed, except, of course, I have included the
particulars of the lad's sentence," said Governor Thomson,
laying a sheet of paper on the desk before her. "I'm
certain you will find it is all in order." It was clear he
was most anxious to have the document signed and receive
his payment.
"I'm sure it is," Genevieve replied. "But it would set a
poor example if I were to sign it without reading it
first. One must always read a document thoroughly before
putting one's signature on it," she instructed Jack. With
that she began to carefully read the contract.
"Well, now, lad, this is a fortuitous day for you, is it
not?" asked Governor Thomson, lamely attempting to fill
the awkward silence.
Jack said nothing.
Genevieve glanced up at the boy. He was staring intently
at the passage beyond the doorway of the governor's
office, apparently transfixed by Warder Sims, who was busy
piling scummy porridge bowls onto a heavy wooden tray.
Perhaps, Genevieve reflected, the boy was considering how
close he had come to being beaten to death by the horrid
man.
"Jack, you must respond when someone asks you a question,"
she instructed gently.
Jack blinked and looked at her in confusion. "What?"
"In polite conversation we don't say 'what,' we
say 'pardon me,'" Genevieve corrected, deciding this was
as good a time as any to begin work on the boy's manners.
He regarded her as if she were crazy. "What are you
talkin' about?"
"Governor Thomson was speaking to you," she explained,
deciding to put the issue of "what" versus "pardon me"
aside for the moment.
"What did he say?" he asked, not bothering to look at the
governor.
Later she would explain that it was rude to speak of
someone who was present as if he weren't there. "He asked
you if you felt lucky to be leaving this place with me,"
she said, realizing he would likely not understand the
word "fortuitous."
Jack shrugged. "Anythin's better than this pisshole."
Governor Thomson's gray brows shot up and his face
reddened with indignation. "Why, you ungrateful little—"
"You're quite right, Jack," interjected Genevieve,
untroubled by either the lad's surly indifference or his
colorful choice of words. If anything, she admired him for
his honesty. "Anything is indeed better than here." She
smiled at him, then proceeded to study the contract.
Looking bored, Jack slumped in his chair and began to bang
the heels of his filthy, worn shoes against the elegantly
carved legs.
"Here now, stop that, you'll scratch the wood!" protested
Governor Thomson.
Jack shrugged. "It's just a chair."
"It may be just a chair to you, you filthy ruffian, but it
is solid mahogany and cost more than you shall ever earn
honestly in your entire life!" the governor snapped.
Oozing defiance, Jack kicked the chair again.
"Why don't you wait in the hall, Jack," suggested
Genevieve, trying to avoid an altercation between the
two. "The governor and I will have completed our business
shortly."
Needing no further encouragement, Jack stomped out the
door and began to pace restlessly up and down the corridor.
"You'll have your hands full with that one, mark my
words," huffed Governor Thomson. "I wager he'll be back to
his lawless, pilfering ways and in here again before the
month is through. My recommendation, Miss MacPhail, is
that you take a firm position with him — with a regular
beating, just to keep him obliging."
"I am not in the habit of beating my children, Governor
Thomson," Genevieve informed him coolly.
"The Lord tells us children must be beaten," Governor
Thomson argued. "'He who spares the rod hates his son, but
he who loves him is diligent to discipline him.' Let the
lad know in no uncertain terms that you own him now. If he
gives you one whit of trouble, send him right back to me."
"What did he steal?"
"Pardon?"
"You mentioned in your letter to me that the lad had been
found guilty of the crime of stealing. What did he steal?"
Governor Thomson pulled a pair of spectacles from his
jacket and placed them on his nose before opening a file
upon his desk. "He broke into a home and stole one pair of
shoes, one blanket, one round of cheese, and a bottle of
whiskey," he reported gravely. "He was later found asleep
under the blanket in a neighbor's coach house. The whiskey
and cheese were all but gone, the stolen shoes were on his
feet, and the lad was thoroughly drunk." He regarded her
seriously over the rims of his spectacles. "I'm afraid
there was never any question of his culpability in the
matter."
"And for the crime of being cold, hungry, and without
decent shoes, he was to be imprisoned, lashed, and sent to
reformatory school." Genevieve's tone was flagrantly
bitter.
"We live in a lawful society, Miss MacPhail. Where would
we be if everyone who was cold and hungry decided they
could just walk into someone else's home or shop and help
themselves to whatever they wanted?"
"No child should ever be that desperate," she argued. "We
need laws to protect our children from starving, so that
they don't have to resort to stealing food and clothing to
survive."
"He did not starve while he was here, nor would he have
starved at the reformatory school," Governor Thomson
pointed out. "Regardless of whether you had decided to
take him or not, his arrest was the best thing that could
have happened to him. It usually is for strays like him.
He claims his parents are dead and that he has no home or
kin who might take him in. At least in a reformatory
school he would have a roof over his head, a blanket to
cover him at night, and three meals a day."
"Boys cannot live on thin gruel and water, and stealing
some cheese and a pair of shoes scarcely merits being
lashed and locked in a freezing cell with a murderer,"
retorted Genevieve. "As for our precious reformatory
schools," she continued mockingly, "they are little more
than a place where children are abused and forced to slave
under intolerable conditions. If, somehow, they find the
will and strength necessary to survive, they are then
tossed onto the street with no appreciable skills or
money, and callously told to get on with their lives.
Which, of course, leads them straight back to thieving and
prostitution."
"Regrettably, we who work within the system can only do so
much, Miss MacPhail," Governor Thomson responded. "By
bringing the lad to your attention, I hope I may have
played some small part in the possibility of his
salvation. The other children I have directed to your
custody are doing reasonably well, are they not?"
"They are doing extremely well," Genevieve assured
him. "Far better than they would have otherwise."
"And I don't doubt that you shall do your utmost to try to
help Jack overcome his baser instincts and eventually,
perhaps, lead a life that is both honest and productive.
Let us hope so, at any rate, for his sake." He closed his
file. "One more altercation with the law, and I'm afraid
there will be nothing further that either of us can do
except let him suffer the full burden of his sentence." He
rose from his desk and regarded her expectantly,
indicating that their business was all but finished.
Satisfied that all the details of their arrangement were
in order, Genevieve signed the document, then retrieved
the money she carried in the inner pocket of her cloak and
handed it to Governor Thomson.
"Thank you, Miss MacPhail," he said, smiling as he quickly
counted it. "I do hope this arrangement shall work out
satisfactorily for you."
"I have no doubt that it shall." Genevieve rose and moved
toward the door, ready to tell Jack that they were leaving.
And froze.
Having completed his task of collecting the dirty crockery
from each of the cells, the abundant Warder Sims was now
struggling to hoist his heavy tray onto his shoulder. His
back was turned to Jack, leaving him blissfully unaware of
the fact that the boy had sidled up to him and was
stealthily slipping the ring of keys off the warder's belt.
"Here now, what the devil do ye think ye're doing?" the
warder growled suddenly, spinning about.
"Nothin'," said Jack, casually stepping away from him.
"Open yer jacket and let me see what ye've got there,"
Warder Sims commanded, "before I rip it off yer skinny
hide myself."
Panic gripped Genevieve. If Jack was found stealing before
he had even left the prison, Governor Thomson would have
no choice but to forfeit their arrangement. Jack would be
lashed and thrown back in his cell to half-starve before
suffering years of abuse in a reformatory school.
"Mr. Sims, watch out!" she screamed suddenly, her cry
almost ear-splitting as it reverberated against the cold
stone walls. "There is an enormous rat by your foot!"
Pure horror blanched the warder's face. "Where?!" he
shouted, hopping awkwardly from one foot to the other, as
he valiantly tried to balance his tray. "Where?!"
"Right there!" she shrieked, pointing at his ankles.
The next thing Genevieve knew, he was flying through the
air, yelping in fear, before crashing amidst a mess of
gluey bowls and lumpy porridge.
"Get him off me!" he screeched, scrambling to rise. He
raced toward her with outstretched arms, as if he expected
her to save him. His foot got caught in a wayward bowl
which skidded on some porridge, sending him barreling into
Governor Thomson's office, where, fortunately, the
governor's precious mahogany chair helped to break his
fall.
The chair itself did not fare so well.
"For God's sake, Sims, what the devil is the matter with
you?" thundered Governor Thomson furiously. "Just look at
what you've done to my chair!"
"Is it gone?" whimpered the warder, staring frantically
behind himself. "Is it?"
"I'm not sure," said Genevieve, searching the shadows of
the hallway for Jack, who had disappeared.
"I don't see any rat," the boy reported calmly as he
emerged from the darkness around the corner. "It must be
gone."
He strolled past Genevieve into Governor Thomson's
office. "Too bad about your chair," he remarked, his voice
edged with sarcasm. He bent over to pick up the mangled
piece of furniture. "Maybe it can be fixed."
When the chair was precariously righted upon its three
remaining legs, Mr. Sims's prison keys were lying
innocently upon the floor, looking as if they had simply
fallen off when he crashed into it.
"My chair!" lamented Governor Thomson, turning over the
broken mahogany leg. "It's ruined!"
"I'm sorry, sir," apologized Warder Sims, looking
forlorn. "It's just that — I hate rats."
"If there is nothing further, then Jack and I must be
going," interjected Genevieve, anxious to have the boy out
of there before he tried to steal something else.
"Yes, fine," said Governor Thomson, looking as if he was
torn between weeping over his chair and cracking Warder
Sims over the head with its shattered leg. "As for you,
young man," he said, regarding Jack sternly, "see that you
abandon your lawless ways and do everything Miss MacPhail
tells you. One misstep and you will be back in this jail
and on your way to reformatory school, do you hear?" He
shook the fractured chair leg at him.
"I'm sure Jack understands his situation," Genevieve
swiftly replied, afraid to let the boy speak lest he
offend Governor Thomson yet again. "Good evening, Governor
Thomson. Warder Sims," she added crisply, nodding at the
dejected jailer, who still had gray globs of porridge
stuck to his uniform.
She put her hand firmly upon Jack's shoulder and steered
him toward the door, trying not to think about what the
boy had wanted with the warder's keys.