Page 124 of A Scot Is Not Enough
She swallowed hard—this was only the beginning.
The cot squeaked. Bare feet slapped the watery floor, and a stench clouded the air. When Cecelia opened her eyes, Lilly stood in front of her, offering the cell’s one blanket.
“Take it. It’s only fair. I get the cot, you get the blanket, though be warned, its crawling with vermin.”
She cringed. “You keep it.”
Lilly tossed the blanket over her shoulder without a care to its inhabitants. “You know the day’ll come when you won’t be too proud to take it.”
She shuddered at the grain of truth in Lilly’s words.
Lilly squatted, her gaze on the earbobs. “Those are pretty. We could make a trade, you and I.”
“They’re paste.”
“They’re shiny and pretty, and I don’t get a lot of pretty things, but you look like a woman who does.”
Lilly smoothed ragged petticoats over her knees, her shrewd eyes scanning silk and torn bows. She was birdlike with a sharp nose and a small mouth, her dark tangled hair falling around pale cheeks as she fingered the silk petticoat.
“I heard MacDaniel talking.” Lilly was wistful,rubbing the painted lines. “This is why you’re here. These clan colors on your petticoat.”
“It’s one of the reasons, yes.”
“What’s the other?”
“They think I stole a knife, but I didn’t.” A bark of laughter and, “I wanted to. I tried to, but someone else took it.”
“Must’ve been some knife.” Lilly dropped Cecelia’s hem. “Are you a Jacobite?”
Cecelia’s attention drifted to a corner of the unlit cell. Loyalty blurred in the dark. What time hadn’t finished erasing, her current suffering soon would.
“My father was.” And that was the heart of her loyalty. Admitting it freed her, which was ironic considering she was chained to a cell in Gatehouse.
“My Gemmy died at Culloden,” Lilly said. “Fought for the Government, he did.”
“Your husband?”
“We never married. He said we would after... but...” Head dipping, Lilly flashed a self-conscious smile. It said she really was a good girl despite ragged hems, aT-branded thumb, and following the drum to be with a man she’d never married.
“I’m sorry.” Which was terribly inadequate.
“Why? You didn’t drive a bayonet in my Gemmy’s belly. Joining the army was his choice, like me joining a gang after he died was mine.” Lilly stood up, yawning. “We all make our choices.”
For that wisdom alone, Cecelia removed her paste earbobs. “I want you to have these.”
“A trade?”
“A gift.” Cecelia dropped them in Lilly’s calloused palm.
Lilly petted the paste gems. “You need to be smarter,miss. Giving gifts will leave you empty-handed, but trades . . . now that’ll do you good. But I’ll help you.”
Lilly wandered back to her bed and settled down for the night. Cecelia hugged her legs for warmth and stared at a puddle on the floor. She might be defeated, but she wasn’t crushed. Prison’s quiet was giving her plenty of time to consider her choices, one by one.
Chapter Forty
London’s prisoners thrived by the kindness of friends and family. One needed money to bribe warders and to pay off cutthroats who made a business selling their protection. Commerce was alive and well at Gatehouse. Cecelia counted herself fortunate to be incarcerated with Lilly, and the gift of sparkly paste earbobs a boon.
Lilly, as it turned out, belonged to the Royal Family gang. No one messed with them. Warders slunk by with mouths shut. Prisoners in other cells minded their own business. The gray morning found Lilly and Cecelia alone with the cold. Cecelia shivered in torn silks, eyeing the wool blanket Lilly wrapped around her own frame as she was sharing a tale of a brazen prison break in ’49.
