“I’ll write a light, fluffy pastoral romance with a trans girl,” I said. And then a couple months later I was researching the nightmare that was Regency-era prisons.
—
Out of Bridewell
November 1812
Theresa Chesterley was wearing a dress, and not a flattering one. The work dress was too large for her and not at all fitted, doubtless recycled through inmates and washings until the pattern, which might have once been white and blue, was now just mottled grey. Sitting at the bare desk in this bare little room, she looked like a pile of laundry piled on top of the chair.
“Miss Wright,” she exclaimed, rising at Amelia’s entry. Emotions flashed across her face like startled fish in a pond. “What a lovely surprise.”
Amelia stepped in, followed by the warden who, after reading the viscount’s letter, had turned incredibly solicitous. Still, she checked her expression and gestures as she crossed the room. She clasped Theresa’s forearms instead of embracing her as she wanted to. Even that was still the most contact they’d had since Theresa marched her through Uskweirs to see Ashbourne. She gave the woman’s arms a gentle squeeze and smiled at her—whoops, wrong smile, more placid, more family friend calling on an unfortunate acquaintance.
She sat down carefully on the only other chair in the room.
“I’ll give you ladies some privacy,” the warden said. He was a florid man, dressed just well enough to distinguish himself from the inmates and prison guards that must have made up most of his day. Halfway out the door, hand on the knob, he said, “We serve luncheon in two hours and wouldn’t want Miss Chesterley to miss her meal; will that be enough time for your visit, Miss Wright?”
“I think so, sir,” she answered with a gentle nod.
The inmate in question waited until the door closed before snorting. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it called ‘luncheon’ here.”
Not knowing what else to say, Amelia patted the handle of the basket that she put down between them. “I brought you some food from outside. The pies won’t last long, but there are oranges, too.”
Chesterley looked down at the basket as if it were full of puppies. “And a blanket.”
“I worry about you freezing in your cell once winter comes,” she explained. “There are gloves somewhere in there, too.”
She looked back up at Amelia, eyes shining. “That’s very kind of you, Miss Wright.” Her voice was tight and constrained. She pressed her lips together, folded her hands in her lap, and then looked significantly past and above Amelia. The girl turned to look and found a grate, set high in the wall behind her. A shadow moved behind it.
Well at least everyone in the room understood that the privacy promised by the warden was a lie.
Amelia had to say something, anything, so she started with the banal: “When I heard that you were… here… I was so saddened, and well, a little shocked, to be honest. I knew I had to come see you. I had actually hoped that you’d come see me, and was asking Ashbourne if he’d mind your visit when he told me where you were. It’s just ghastly, Miss Chesterley, that you’re in such a place. I can’t see the sense in it. And I know they’ve worked hard to make things better here, but prison? It feels so absurd to think of you here. And I know it’s a short sentence, but even a few months of you here seems silly. If it weren’t for the deprivation and all, I suppose. No, not silly, silly’s the wrong word. What did I say before? Absurd. I think that’s… more… apt.”
As the torrent of words flowing out of her mouth wound down, Amelia became aware that Chesterley was simply watching her talk, a soft smile on her lips. Amelia rolled her eyes and looked out the single window onto the featureless white sky. “I’m the silly one, here.”
The woman opposite her didn’t respond at first, long enough to make Amelia wonder if she’d botched it, if she had proven herself nothing more than a silly girl. When Chesterley finally spoke, she said, “You hoped that I might visit you?”
Amelia looked back, met her eyes, looked down. “I was going to write.” She could feel her cheeks burning, and the only thought in her head was: no, she wasn’t subtle at all, was she?
“I would love to call on you at my earliest convenience,” Chesterly said, voice lilting just a touch too much to fit into the formal cant that she affected. “How does four months from now sound?”
“I’d like that,” Amelia smiled, and managed to maintain eye contact for more than a moment. “But you’ll have to give me a list of books to read by then. I finished Traits of Nature and I’m not sure what to pick up next.”
Chesterley’s answering smile broadened. “I won’t let you leave without a reading list. And a few booksellers: some titles are hard to find. But first tell me what you thought of the book.”
And so they talked about the novel and its characters and how it highlighted problems in the real world and what it all might mean. Amelia was surprised to find Chesterley receptive, even eager to hear her thoughts; on the few occasions that she pushed back on some impetuous thing that came tumbling out of Amelia’s mouth, the girl listened intently. She was pointedly but not painfully aware that Chesterley had far more experience living as a woman, and had also paid attention to the mechanisms of society in ways that Amelia had never thought to. She found the conversation both dizzying and fascinating.
“Which is why staying here has given me a greater appreciation for our mothers’ insistence that the best thing for women is education for all,” Theresa was saying. “And better access to divorce; there’s so many women in here because of their husbands. But I like to think being able to read and having a better understanding of the wider world might mean fewer poorly-thought-out marriages in the first place.”
“What are your, erm, fellow prisoners like?” Amelia couldn’t help but ask.
“Poor, mostly,” the other woman sighed. “And imprisoned for the crime of being poor. Sometimes literally. For every woman who stole bread to feed her children, there’s four more who are here because they missed rent and ended up vagrants.” She shook her head. “I’ve never been more grateful for my aunt’s forethought in creating my trust. When I leave here, I’ll go right back to my life, hardly interrupted.”
“And them?”
“Most will be hired, which sounds good, but… well.” Chesterley smiled sourly. “The men, they get apprenticed, taught a trade, hired out. Lots of rope-makers, to supply John Bull’s ships. They leave here tradesmen. But the women don’t get trades, they go into service: maids, sculleries, washer-women, maybe a position as cook for the lucky ones. And somehow I don’t think it’s the houses that pay the best and respect their servants the most that hire staff out of prison.”
Amelia frowned softly. “Better than vagrancy, at least?”
“More better for those who’d like a surplus of cheap labour, and a little less better for the cheap labour,” came the sour response. She went on, and Amelia paid rapt attention, just… not to the woman’s words.
It’s not that Amelia hadn’t noticed Theresa Chesterley before. Her first impression had been set off-kilter by the woman’s masculine dress that first night, not to mention her casual offer to dispose of Amelia’s body. After that night, though, she had seen her a handful of times—no wait, had it only been twice? regardless—she had left an impression. And this despite the fact that at the time Amelia had, uselessly, been waiting for her eyes to start trailing after well-proportioned men.
Theresa Chesterley was rather well-proportioned in her own way.
Warm brown eyes that flashed whenever she spoke, set above high, round cheeks. Her lips could have been a sculpture. Even with her hair pulled into a tight, utilitarian prison bun, Amelia marvelled at how it curled and coiled into shape. And yes, Amelia knew exactly why Lizzie called her ‘Miss Chesty.’
Reminded of their conversation last night, a thought occured to Amelia and before she could quash it, she all but blurted out: “May I call you Theresa?”
The woman had been in the middle of a sentence, itself in the middle of a panengyric on the disregarded value of women’s time, but she stopped and—was Amelia imagining it, or did she blush? She smiled, regardless. “I’d be honored.”
Giddy heat pooled in Amelia’s belly, and she reached out to clasp her friend’s hand. “And you must call me Amelia.”
Theresa turned her hand so that the pads of her fingers grazed Amelia’s palm. “As you like. But in the future I might find something better to call you, if that’s all right.”
Amelia wasn’t even sure what that meant, but her ears burned, anyway. “I… look forward to hearing it.”
“On the topic of futures, Amelia,” the inmate said, drawing out her name with a smile, “what does yours look like? You’ve said that marriage isn’t for you, and until you become a hardened criminal like me, neither is the Bridewell work program, so…”
“I think I’d like to find work as a governess,” she answered, knowing that her plans for after Uskwiers were shallow, at best. “I’ve always loved children, and learning. I’ve…” Here she stumbled, having to translate ‘spent entirely too many aimless years at Oxford’ into something appropriate to her realized gender. “I’ve read a great deal. I do love a library.”
“Is that the appeal of your present lodgings? Ashbourne’s library?”
“It’s a wonderful collection,” Amelia demurred, thinking: oh good, more scrambling for a plausible story, both for the ears in the walls and for Theresa, who doesn’t even know how awkward the question’s real answer would be. “But I think the appeal is more the company. Lizzie and I have become… rather fast friends.”
Theresa nodded, a ghost of sympathy passing over her face. “I do worry about her being lonely, even with the… flow of people through her father’s house. I’m glad you’re there for her.” She smiled, and the heat in Amelia’s belly coiled up her spine. The feeling only intensified when she realized Theresa was looking her over with an air of concentration. When she saw Amelia noting her look, she explained, “I’m trying to imagine you as a governess.”
Amelia looked into her lap. “Is it so hard to imagine?”
“Not at all. You’ll be wonderful.” She waited until Amelia, beaming, met her eye. And then Theresa tipped her head to the side, considering. “I do worry that it will grind you down, though. Children can be lovely, and they can also be little holy terrors. Alternating in the blink of an eye, depending on who is looking their way.”
Amelia smirked. “Do I detect a trace of memory in your description, Theresa?”
The woman scoffed. “Except I was never lovely.”
Amelia’s heart leap up into her throat as she heard herself say, “I beg to differ.” She smiled, falteringly, but the answering smile was warm. Then she flicked her eyes back up to the grate in the wall: this next bit is for the audience. “I’m sure you were a lovely child.”
“My own governess would disagree,” the inmate laughed. “You can confer with her later, under the aegis of professional courtesy.” She then told Amelia a story from her childhood that involved a visiting cousin with a sharp tongue, a pair of her bloomers, and a frog from the creek.
Amelia responded with a story of her own, minimally adapted, which featured her brother, a rare family dinner due to visiting clergy, and a deftly-delivered dose of epicac.
Theresa then described her long-running relationship with the local rector’s wife, who was, at first accidentally and then in increasingly intentional circumstances, regularly scandalized by her childhood antics. Theresa’s long-standing love of trousers had only been the beginning. The epic of needling and pestering eventually expanded to encompass ruined Easter pastries, ‘impertinent’ commentary on bible stories, and a dozen moths smuggled into the vestry closet. Finally she played nice for months to ingratiate herself in the eyes of the minister’s wife, securing the role of Mary in the Christmas pageant, only to go off-script standing above the manger to deliver a diatribe about the plight of women to the captive audience.
“How am I not surprised you were a precocious child?”
“I was raised by bluestockings,” Theresa answered with a shrug, and then raised a single finger. “They found my sermon delightful. The rest of the village, not so much. Oh! I meant to give you a list of books. You’ve said you enjoy histories; have your read Macaulay’s?”
Amelia had not had the foresight to bring writing materials to take notes, so as Chesterley rattled off her essential reading list, she nodded and repeated each author and title, desperate to commit some, if not even most, to memory. She paid especial attention to the much shorter list of booksellers, and couldn’t help giggling as she said, “I’ll drag Elizabeth out of the modistes to come book shopping with me.”
“Oh, is she in town with you?”
“She might even be awake by now,” Amelia said by way of confirmation, smiling. “Lizzie did ask if I wanted her to come along today,” she added, not wanting Theresa to think her friend had abandoned her, and only after she’d started talking did she realize the import of revealing her answer last night. She couldn’t very well trail off like a buffoon, so she committed to it and smiled. “I told her I wanted you all to myself.”
Both Theresa’s answering smile and her words were uncharacteristically soft. “Did you?” She did not elaborate, and neither did Amelia; they sat in companionable silence for some time.
Finally there was some distant commotion beyond the door, and Theresa roused herself a little. “That will be… ahem, ‘luncheon.’” She leaned forward to take Amelia’s hand in hers, squeezing gently. “It was so good of you to visit.”
“I couldn’t very well not.” She tried to do Theresa’s hand-turning trick to stroke her palm, too, but it was trickier than it had seemed.
The prisoner stood up. “Well it’s been the highlight of my incarceration,” she smiled. There were footsteps, now, approaching the door. “How did you manage it? You’re hardly staying close to London.”
“Lord Ashbourne arranged it. I’m so terribly grateful.”
Chesterley snorted softly at that. “The viscount does enjoy playing fairy godmother to all of us, doesn’t he?”
But then the door squealed open and the warden ducked his head inside. “Miss Wright, Miss Chesterley. Luncheon is being served; I trust you’ve completed your visit?”
“We have.” Amelia turned to give Theresa’s forearms one final squeeze, trying to push into that brief contact every swelling emotion roiling in her heart, smiled demurely instead of kissing her cheek, and they said all the typical pleasantries of leavetaking. She promised to write, and turned to go.
As she followed the warden out to the entrance, Amelia realized that not once had she paid attention to her voice, and not once had it dropped out. She shook her head. Would she ever get to have a moment of emotion without some part of her brain evaluating her performance? She sighed gustily, told the warden that no, she wasn’t sighing at him, and yes, she would be very grateful if he could hail her a hackney.
—
There were only three of them in the carriage on the way out of London, two days later. Ned had indeed impressed his introduction and was staying on. His luggage—as well as Cordelia’s luggage—would be sent along via post. His empty seat was taken up by a sizeable stack of books.
Amelia buried herself in her reading, or tried to, but kept finding herself staring out the window at the pale autumn skies. Finally she turned to Ashbourne. “Milord, I have been put in a frame of mind to think about my future.”
He lifted his gaze from the book that he had pinched from her stack and was already halfway through. His eyebrows lifted even further. “Oh?”
“You’ve been so terribly generous with your hospitality,” Amelia said, “but I can’t remain your guest forever.”
The viscount closed the book soundlessly and gave her a soft smile. “You’ve been nothing but a joy in my home, my dear, and a good friend to Elizabeth.”
“You can’t be meaning to leave us!” his daughter squealed in dismay. “I’ve become so accustomed to your company, Amelia; I wouldn’t know what to do without you in the house.”
“Yes, but you’re not going to be in your father’s house forever, either,” Amelia reminded her gently, with the barest curl at the corner of her lip. Elizabeth blushed, rolled her eyes at her own response, and looked out her window again. “Besides, I’m not talking about ending my visit, not unless I’ve worn out my welcome.”
“You have not,” Ashbourne put in quietly, so as not to interrupt her.
“But I am thinking about what happens after my visit does eventually end,” she went on, “and how I should like to leave Uskweirs. In what…condition. Which is to say.” She took a deep breath. “You mentioned, milord, that you knew a surgeon.”
“Ooo!” Elizabeth squealed again, this time in excitement. “Are you ready for The Snip, Mellie?”
Amelia winced and laughed. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Are you ready for the Snip, Amy?” Elizabeth tried, instead. “Ames? Lia?” She quietted as Ashbourne placed a hand over hers.
Amelia focused on Ashbourne. If Theresa was going to be in prison until spring, she might as well get herself gelded and recover through the dreary winter months. “But yes. I think I’m ready for your surgeon to… make things rather permanent.”
“Very well.” The viscount nodded. “I’ll write to him as soon as we’re home.”
