A Beggar's Kingdom Read online

  “Polite and not rife with disease, what more can one wish for in a husband.”

  “You jest,” Miri says, “but Fulko’s grandfather was a Puritan, and his mother, Repentance, is a Puritan’s daughter. Yes, she went the dissolute way, but she taught Fulko and Monk to respect women. Fulko and I have a union of the mind. He never beats me. Or does anything to me, really. He barely touches me.”

  “Is that what you want, Miri—to be barely touched?”

  She doesn’t know how to answer him. So she doesn’t answer him. She won’t look at him.

  “A union of the mind is good,” Julian quickly says. He’s not going to argue her out of her lifelong opinion arrived at in the worst way—through punishing experience. He needs to get her to forget what she is living for, by showing her what he is living for. Just not tonight.

  Julian helps her take off the yellow jacket and unhook the lilac skirt and then steps into the drawing room to allow her to settle in. He hears her fight sleep a long time, pacing in the bedroom, reluctant and timid to lie down in his bed. Julian knows the intolerable fact about her—that she sleeps on the floor of a dark room behind the galley where she drags her drunken marks. That is her bedroom. That is her home.

  After the pacing stops, Julian lets half an hour go by before checking on her.

  Miri is asleep in his bed. Lovingly and carefully, she has laid out her new clothes on the back of a chair, climbed deep into the center of the mattress, and covered herself to the neck in the goosedown.

  Julian sits next to her, caressing her hair. Miri, I may not be your dream, he whispers. But you are mine. From the beginning, this was so. Since I first met you, against all reason, you were everything I ever wanted. Was everyone right, was my love for you unrequited? Am I unanswered, dissolved, disappearing, undesired?

  Am I requited, Miri?

  Mea pulchra puella. Will we be friends? You are beautiful, but will you soon be dead, like all the rest? I can’t bear it. I refuse to believe it.

  The mystery of human existence is that even here, in this disaster of a ramshackle life, Julian still lives his days with her forward, not backward. He lives as everyone does—as they can, aware perhaps of the timer, but never in a countdown. Each morning brings a new possibility of life beating on, full of plays and pastries and carriage rides, full of yellow silk jackets on slender brides. Each new day Julian continues to open his eyes and feel hope. Despite having marked his trembling arm with another despised dot of ink, everything seems as if it could work out. Julian, next to Miri asleep in his bed, halfway across time and ocean, sees her death side by side with her life, with her beauty.

  But he sees her life and her beauty first.

  22

  Grosvenor Park

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING THEY TAKE A CARRIAGE TO THE halls of justice.

  “Miri, I have to tell you something,” Julian says to her when they’re on the wide steps headed to the Old Bailey’s double doors. He stops her from walking. “Don’t be upset with me, please. I didn’t know what to do. As you’ll see in a minute, the magistrate has no soft spot for your fiancé. Everything I suggested, he shot down. I was out of ideas. So I may have told the man a little white fib, which you should know about before you go in there, in case he asks. I feel he might ask.”

  “What fib?” Miri says. She was in such a good mood this morning. Now the expression in her eyes turns guarded again, and cold.

  “Um, I may have told the magistrate that you were carrying Fulko’s baby,” Julian says.

  “Why would you have told him a thing like that?” she exclaims.

  “I’m sorry. He trapped me. I didn’t know what else to say. Your mother told me pleading the belly worked for her, so I took a chance. Look, tell Colin Ford that I was wrong. Tell him I’m a man and don’t know anything about such things. That I misunderstood. The thing is, when I told him that, that’s when he finally relented and said he’d see what he could do for Fulko.”

  Miri shakes her head in disgust as they continue up the steps into the courthouse. “You clearly don’t know anything about how these baby things work,” she says. “What, you didn’t read all about it in your books about the booming population of London? Have you heard of something called time and opportunity? I really hope you haven’t made things worse with your damnable lies.”

  Julian also hopes this.

  Colin Ford comes into the room where they’ve been waiting without speaking and sits across from Miri behind his desk. Julian remains standing in the farthest corner.

  “Miryam Bromley, how are you, young lady? Do you remember me?”

  “No, sire.” She looks into her lap.

  “I haven’t laid eyes on you in nine years, since you were brought to me for stealing a mattress for your mother. Do you remember me now? How is your mother?”

  “She is well, sire, thank you.”

  “How’s the mattress?”

  Miri doesn’t answer.

  Colin Ford takes in Miri’s new sharp outfit, all yellow and lilac, her crisp collar, her spotless pointy shoes, her clean hands and face, her silk bonnet, her graceful demeanor. He studies her, once or twice lifting his saturated gaze to Julian. “Miss Bromley, tell me, how long have you been with Master Fulko?”

  “A few years, sire, I can’t be sure. We been friends since we was—since we were—kids. Then we fell in together. I was twenty-one maybe.”

  “And how long has he been in jail?”

  “Which time, sire?”

  “This time, Miss Bromley.”

  “Possibly since Advent.”

  “So about six months you’d say?”

  Belatedly Julian sees where this is heading. Damn. This is unfortunate. Miri is right. Julian has no idea about how these baby things work.

  “Yes, sire,” says Miri, casting Julian a condemning glance.

  “And how many times, would you say, in total, have you been to visit your fiancé at Newgate in the last six months?”

  “Twice, I think.”

  “Twice. I see.” Colin levels a stare at Julian. “I doubt you had a chance to be alone with him, so would you say then, that you are at least six months pregnant?”

  “Yes, sire,” Miri says faintly.

  Ford takes in Miri’s narrow waist, her flat stomach. “You’re looking quite well for someone who’s having a child in a few months if I may be so forward as to notice.”

  “Thank you, sire.”

  “Are you aware that the father of your child is scheduled for execution next month?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Is it your wish not to have him executed?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Are you asking me to commute his sentence?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Your cousin here, Mr. Cruz, has asked me to commute his sentence to transportation. Is that in accordance with your wishes as well, Miss Bromley?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “He would be shipped to America, if we can get him on a transport, for a term of no less than seven years. Is that something you would prefer for Master Fulko, instead of a hanging?”

  “Yes, sire.” Miri suddenly sounds unsure.

  “I see. And you yourself are willing and ready to marry him immediately and to accompany him on the transport ship to the Americas as his wife and the mother of his unborn child? Mr. Cruz here told me you would be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”

  In confusion, Miri glances back at Julian.

  “That is why you’re here, isn’t it, Miss Bromley?” Colin Ford says. “To plead the belly for yourself and for your future husband and to agree to leave the country with him on a convict ship?”

  Miri sits without reacting. She doesn’t turn to Julian, she doesn’t look away from Colin Ford’s gaze. Her hands remain folded on her lap. She doesn’t twitch. After a few silent moments, she speaks. “Yes, sire,” Miri says.

  Ford emits an impressed snort. It’s quiet in the small room while he collects himself.


  “Very good, Miss Bromley. That is admirable. Quite admirable indeed. And what about your mother?”

  Julian interrupts. “I will take care of Miryam’s mother,” he says. “I will arrange for her passage.”

  Colin Ford leaves his gaze on Julian. “Miss Bromley, may I make a suggestion?”

  Miri sits.

  “Let Fulko Gib meet his fate head on, so to speak, and you remain in London, with your mother, and get on with your life.”

  “I would agree to that,” Miri says, “if by Fulko’s fate you mean transportation and not a hanging. I would need your assurance.”

  “Assurance?” Ford shakes his head. “No.”

  “Then yes, I will go with him to the penal colonies as his wife.”

  “Well, hold on. I meant, I can try. That’s all I can promise you.”

  Miri takes out the bag of silver she’s brought with her, Julian’s share of the Lamb and Flag money. “There’s fifteen pounds here,” she says. “For Fulko.” She lays the purse on Ford’s desk. He looks at it. He doesn’t touch it.

  Julian steps forward. “Put your money away, Miss Bromley,” he says. “Magistrate, allow me to offer you something more as our thanks for saving Miss Bromley’s future husband from the gallows.” Julian slides the large and gleaming Elizabethan coin across the table. The goldsmiths on Cheapside would not be happy with him for so mistreating the precious sovereign.

  Both Colin Ford and Miri are mute, staring at it. She, because she doesn’t know what it is.

  And he, because he does.

  “Consider it done,” Colin Ford says, reaching for the gold.

  Julian slams his palm over the coin, startling both the magistrate and the girl. “Transportation for Fulko Gib in return for the gold,” Julian says. “Not execution. Do we have your word?”

  “My solemn word. In three weeks’ time I will release Fulko Gib to Pastor Wyatt so he can say goodbye to his family and to Miss Bromley before he sails.” His nominal smile stretched over his prominent teeth, Colin Ford reaches again for the coin.

  Julian lifts his hand. The gold vanishes from the table.

  ∞

  Ahead of Julian, Miri hurries down Ludgate Hill. He runs to catch up with her. “Please don’t be upset with me,” he says. “Look, everything worked out.”

  She swirls to him. Stinging hurt is in her eyes. “You haggled with that man to put me on a ship with Fulko and send me off to the Americas? You wanted me to marry Fulko so I could go with him as his wife?”

  “To save you,” Julian says feebly.

  “You agreed to have me marry another man to save me? To go thousands of miles away from London”—she doesn’t say away from you—“to save me?”

  Julian hangs his head. How can he explain what cannot be explained?

  On Fleet Street she speeds up again, trying to outpace him. “I’m starting to believe you about one thing, though,” she says. “You must be from another world. But as for the rest—I knew you were a fake, and I was right.”

  “I’m not a fake,” Julian says.

  “You tell me some cock and bull story about how you care for me, and then you push me to marry another! You care for me so much you want me to leave the country on a convict ship!”

  “Please don’t be upset with me, Miri,” Julian says. Yes, he may be going about it all wrong. He doesn’t know how to do it right. I’d rather you marry him and live is what Julian wants to say and can’t. “But you’re not going with him anymore,” is what he says, in a tone that suggests he doesn’t consider that good news. “We worked it out, no reason to be upset.”

  “Some suitor you are,” Miri says. “What full-blooded man would do this? What man who liked a young lady would agree to this? Why did you buy me a silk jacket, a new hat? Why did you feed me, take me to a play? Why torture me before you pimp me out?”

  Julian stops her from walking; he takes her into his arms. “Nothing will change if I can’t find a way to save you,” he says, his voice falling in his throat. “Don’t you understand? Nothing will change.”

  “Save me for what? Save me from what? What are you talking about?” Miri struggles to free herself from him. He lets her. “You understand nothing! about women.”

  When he tries to follow her, she scolds him not to. “Leave me alone,” she says. “Why can’t you just leave me alone.”

  Julian stops walking, and she runs off, toward Temple Bar.

  Imagine that. Julian has been cast out of St. Giles. He is not worthy to be in the rookery with Miri.

  ∞

  He wanders the city the rest of the day—past London Bridge, all houses and shops demolished to widen the passage for carts and horses, past Blackfriars Bridge, brand new, six years new, past Westminster Bridge, still looking for that Clock Tower. It is late and he is exhausted by the time he returns to Grosvenor Square. As he enters the iron gate of the townhouse, his path lit by oil lamps, he hears Miri’s voice behind him, from across the street inside the park. Not addressing him. Addressing someone else.

  “No, sir. No, sir. No, sir.”

  Julian runs across the road. “Low women are not welcome in Grosvenor Park,” Julian hears a man say. Miri is pinned against an aspen. A growling man in a posh frock mauls her yellow silk jacket. “It’s a private garden. Why are you wandering around here if this is not what you want?”

  Julian doesn’t wait to evaluate the situation. He punches the man in the back of the head and shoves him away. The man staggers but puts up his fists. “I was here first,” he says. “Go get your own.”

  “This is my own,” Julian says, and uppercuts him. The man falls. Julian grabs Miri’s hand, and they hurry out of the park.

  “I was waiting for you,” she says. “But a constable come and told me women of dubious character couldn’t wait over by the light. So I waited in the dark. The man thought I was offering him something.”

  Julian runs his hand over her face. “Are you of dubious character, Miri?” He wants to smile.

  “Obviously so, since my fella’s in prison and I’m here cavorting with you.” She shows Julian the short, pointed shiv clutched in her fist. “It’s good you come when you did.”

  “Well, certainly for him.”

  They embrace a long time once they’re inside the apartment, and the door is locked. Her small black head is under his chin. “We were waiting for you,” she says, lifting her face to him. “Everybody wanted to thank you for Fulko. Mortimer even bought a pig in your honor. Why didn’t you come? You always come back. No matter what I say to you, you always come back.”

  His palms around her face, Julian kisses her long and true. He kisses her until they’re both out of breath.

  “Could I have some wine, please?” she whispers hoarsely. “It was nice to sit out on the balcony like we did last night. Maybe we can do that again?”

  They sit out on the balcony, their chairs touching. Miri tries to hold the glass with just one hand. Her other hand she leaves inside Julian’s paw.

  “How did they like your clothes?” he asks.

  She chuckles. “Me own mum didn’t recognize me. Barely glanced at me as I walked by. I said to her, Mum, how many children do you have? Then she wailed. That man bought you them beautiful clothes, she said. You can’t go into Neal’s Yard in those. They’ll get ruined like everything’s ruined.”

  Julian gazes at her as she talks.

  “What was that you give the magistrate?” she asks.

  “A gold coin.”

  “How much is it worth?”

  “The last one went for a hundred pounds.”

  “A hundred pounds for one little coin?” She is stunned.

  “It’s half an ounce of pure gold.”

  She whistles. “The magistrate better deliver Fulko to us in a chariot for that kind of money. You got any more of those coins?”

  He smiles. “Who wants to know? Monk? Or you?”

  “Is the answer different depending?” The quiet night is warm. Her expression is impene
trable. Julian has no idea what’s inside her.

  “Why did you tell me mum you was going to put her on a boat, too?” Miri says. “What is it with you, putting everyone on boats, shipping us off to America? Mum told everyone in Seven Dials. He’s going to put me on a boat, first class. I told her you was just joking. Mortimer went mental. He said you wanted to take me away from them from the beginning.”

  “He’s not wrong.”

  Miri points behind them into the luxury rooms and forward into the green square. “But why go anywhere? Look how nice it is here.”

  But where does it last? “It’s nice in Maine,” Julian says. “There’s beauty there.”

  Miri waves her hand to London under the stars. “There’s beauty here, too,” she says. “I never seen it before. But I see it now.”

  They finish their wine.

  And finally, timidly, not looking at him, stumbling over her words, Miri asks Julian if she can have a bath. She’s never had one. Julian finds it hard to believe, but she says it’s true. She’s been washing her body at a sink or a bucket or a standpipe in the street.

  “Not even when you were at the orphanage?” he asks, as they get up to go inside.

  Miri rolls her eyes. “You should ship Mum off to Maine,” she says, “so she stops blabbing with her big mouth.”

  While she mills about, Julian fills the tub. They wait for the coals underneath to get hot, for the water to heat up. Julian throws some water onto the coals. Hissing steam rises like fog, misting up the room. For extra warmth and a dazzling shimmer, he lights a dozen jar candles on the tables around the basin and the window sill.

  He stands. She stands.

  “It’s ready for you,” he says.

  “Can you step out? So I can get undressed and get in?”

  “Don’t you need my help with the hooks in the back of the skirt?”

  Miri lets him unhook her. “Why do women wear silly clothes that fasten in the back?” she asks.

  “Perhaps so men can undress them,” replies Julian, undoing her buttons, unlacing the lilac ribbons. Then he steps out. From the drawing room, he listens as she finishes taking off her clothes and lowers herself into the water. There is an audible inhale and after that, silence. Only her deep, contented breathing is heard through the apartment. While he waits, he draws the drapes on the open balcony doors.