Now, sitting in the drafty carriage, she moved her shackled wrists to the left side of her body and rubbed the place beneath her petticoat where she’d tucked the monogrammed handkerchief. With the fingers of one hand she traced its faint outline, imagining she could feel the thread of Cecil’s initials intertwined with the family crest—a lion, serpent, and crown.

It was all she had, would ever have, of him. Except, apparently, for the child growing inside her.

The carriage made its way west, toward the river. No one spoke in the chilly compartment. Without realizing what she was doing, Evangeline inched closer to the solid warmth of the constable next to her. Glancing down, he curled his lip and shifted toward the window, widening the space between them.

Evangeline felt a prickle of shock. She had never in her life experienced a man’s revulsion. She’d taken for granted the small gifts of kindness and solicitude that came her way: the butcher who gave her choice cuts of meat, the baker who saved her the last loaf.

Slowly it dawned on her: she was about to learn what it was like to be contemptible.

Newgate Prison, London, 1840

This part of London was like no place Evangeline had ever seen. The air, dense with coal smoke, reeked of horse manure and rotting vegetables. Women in tattered shawls loitered under oil lamps, men huddled around barrel fires, children—even at this late hour—darted in and out of the road, picking through rubbish, shrieking at each other, comparing finds. Evangeline squinted, trying to make out what they had in their hands. Was it—? Yes. Bones. She’d heard about these children who earned pennies collecting animal bones that were turned to ash and mixed with clay to make the ceramics displayed in ladies’ china cupboards. Even a few hours ago she might’ve felt pity; now she only felt numb.

“There she is,” one of the constables said, gesturing out the window. “The Stone Jug.”

“Stone Jug?” Evangeline leaned forward, craning her neck.

“Newgate.” He smirked. “Your new home.”

In tawdry penny circulars she’d read stories about the dangerous criminals locked up in Newgate. Now here it was, a block-long fortress squatting in the shadow of St. Paul’s Cathedral. As they drew closer Evangeline saw that the windows facing the street were strangely blank. It wasn’t until the coachman shouted at the horses and pulled hard on the reins in front of the tall black gates that she realized the windows were false, painted over.

A small crowd, idling near the entrance, swarmed the carriage. “Misery mongers,” said the constable with the droopy moustache. “The show never gets old.”

The three constables filed out of the carriage, barking at the crowd to stand back. Evangeline crouched in the cramped compartment until one of them gestured impatiently. “Come on!” She hobbled to the lip of the door and he tugged at her shoulder. When she stumbled out of the carriage, he hoisted her like a sack of rice and dumped her on the ground. Her cheeks burned with shame.