In circles. Two circles, one inside the other. For an hour every day, immediately following chapel. That comes out," she added dryly, "to a distance of approximately two miles."
He mulled that. "You walked in silence?"
"Of course."
"Could you cheat? Whisper something to a neighbor as you passed?"
"Some did, yes. The art of ventriloquism flourishes in a prison yard, as you can imagine. But it's not easy; the guards are watchful, and one must always stay fifteen feet behind the prisoner next in the circle."
He tried to picture it. It seemed barbarous. "Was there no enjoyment in it, then, not even the pleasure of moving about?''
"We were a plodding procession, my lord. The pace was set by the slowest—old women or young children. The word 'exercise' doesn't really describe our little parade." He was still flinching mentally from the thought of children in a convict prison when she went on. "But, yes, there were compensations. The chance to see the sky, or the reflection of clouds in a rain puddle. The feel of wind, the smell of it. Sometimes there were birds to look at, rooks mostly, but occasionally a thrush or a lark. Once ..." She broke off, making a sheepish face. He'd never heard her say so much at one go before.
"Once?" he urged, fascinated.
"Once ... a dog bounded out of nowhere and tried to play with us. It was a yellow dog, very large and shaggy, very—excited. I never knew where he came from. I petted him." The bold, wistful way she said this last made him imagine her hoarding the thought of the yellow dog for months, even years, using the memories of soft fur and wet tongue to comfort herself in the long hours of her imprisonment. "But then," she finished softly, "the guards captured him and took him away."
A melancholy silence fell between them. "So," he said to break it. "Flowers and long views of the world in sunlight. One more, Mrs. Wade."
"It's . . . difficult. There are many things I could say."
"Say them, then."
She breathed a sigh. "Food with flavor. Warm water to wash in. Colors. One night of sound, peaceful sleep. But—all that—" She made a gesture with her hand, saying they weren't important. "The main thing . .."
"What?"
She darted another glance at him. "People. Human contact, human warmth. Simple conversation. The lack of it made me sick. Not physically, but in my ..."
'' Soul," he murmured.
She made no answer. Evidently her soul was not a subject she was prepared to discuss with him.
"You were not permitted to speak at all?" he asked grimly. "To anyone?"
"We could speak to the warders, but only in answer to their questions. Never to each other."
"But surely—"
"Ways were got round it, yes, of course. But the punishment- if one were caught made the risk . . . costly."
A chill of revulsion tamped down his unwholesome curiosity in the details of prison discipline. But not for long. "What kind of punishment—"
"My lord, do you come from Sussex? I believe someone told me that," she broke in, sounding almost shrill. He looked at her in surprise; she'd never dared to ask him a personal question before. Her features were set and stiff. It was clear that further inquiries about how order was kept at Dartmoor Prison would be futile.
"Yes, it's true," he answered equably. "I was born in Rye."
"Do you—is it—a large family?"
The simplest social discourse was still an obstacle course for her, around which she lumbered awkwardly, like a woman in shackles and leg irons. Then, too, he was a viscount and she was a domestic servant; no matter how politely or impersonally she phrased her diversionary questions, they were bound to sound forward, even impudent. He could sympathize with her dilemma, but he wasn't much keener to talk about his family than she was to talk about prison.
"No, not large," he said briefly. "Just my parents and a sister."
"Are your parents living?" she tried next.
"I suppose so. The last I heard."
She looked at him in surprise. "You aren't close?" she
He mulled that. "You walked in silence?"
"Of course."
"Could you cheat? Whisper something to a neighbor as you passed?"
"Some did, yes. The art of ventriloquism flourishes in a prison yard, as you can imagine. But it's not easy; the guards are watchful, and one must always stay fifteen feet behind the prisoner next in the circle."
He tried to picture it. It seemed barbarous. "Was there no enjoyment in it, then, not even the pleasure of moving about?''
"We were a plodding procession, my lord. The pace was set by the slowest—old women or young children. The word 'exercise' doesn't really describe our little parade." He was still flinching mentally from the thought of children in a convict prison when she went on. "But, yes, there were compensations. The chance to see the sky, or the reflection of clouds in a rain puddle. The feel of wind, the smell of it. Sometimes there were birds to look at, rooks mostly, but occasionally a thrush or a lark. Once ..." She broke off, making a sheepish face. He'd never heard her say so much at one go before.
"Once?" he urged, fascinated.
"Once ... a dog bounded out of nowhere and tried to play with us. It was a yellow dog, very large and shaggy, very—excited. I never knew where he came from. I petted him." The bold, wistful way she said this last made him imagine her hoarding the thought of the yellow dog for months, even years, using the memories of soft fur and wet tongue to comfort herself in the long hours of her imprisonment. "But then," she finished softly, "the guards captured him and took him away."
A melancholy silence fell between them. "So," he said to break it. "Flowers and long views of the world in sunlight. One more, Mrs. Wade."
"It's . . . difficult. There are many things I could say."
"Say them, then."
She breathed a sigh. "Food with flavor. Warm water to wash in. Colors. One night of sound, peaceful sleep. But—all that—" She made a gesture with her hand, saying they weren't important. "The main thing . .."
"What?"
She darted another glance at him. "People. Human contact, human warmth. Simple conversation. The lack of it made me sick. Not physically, but in my ..."
'' Soul," he murmured.
She made no answer. Evidently her soul was not a subject she was prepared to discuss with him.
"You were not permitted to speak at all?" he asked grimly. "To anyone?"
"We could speak to the warders, but only in answer to their questions. Never to each other."
"But surely—"
"Ways were got round it, yes, of course. But the punishment- if one were caught made the risk . . . costly."
A chill of revulsion tamped down his unwholesome curiosity in the details of prison discipline. But not for long. "What kind of punishment—"
"My lord, do you come from Sussex? I believe someone told me that," she broke in, sounding almost shrill. He looked at her in surprise; she'd never dared to ask him a personal question before. Her features were set and stiff. It was clear that further inquiries about how order was kept at Dartmoor Prison would be futile.
"Yes, it's true," he answered equably. "I was born in Rye."
"Do you—is it—a large family?"
The simplest social discourse was still an obstacle course for her, around which she lumbered awkwardly, like a woman in shackles and leg irons. Then, too, he was a viscount and she was a domestic servant; no matter how politely or impersonally she phrased her diversionary questions, they were bound to sound forward, even impudent. He could sympathize with her dilemma, but he wasn't much keener to talk about his family than she was to talk about prison.
"No, not large," he said briefly. "Just my parents and a sister."
"Are your parents living?" she tried next.
"I suppose so. The last I heard."
She looked at him in surprise. "You aren't close?" she
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