A Fiery Dalliance

XXXIX

"There is nothing so rewarding as to make people realize that they are worthwhile in this world." Bob Anderson

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XXXIX.

Joe did not sleep. How could he when the cries and sobs of the gentlemen in such proximity to him did not let up for the entire night? Though, Joe could not blame them. He would have cried as well had he any tears left to shed.

His only and constant thought as the night went on had been Perrie. It was as though he had dared to hope, and what a place for a dream to manifest. Joe leaned his head against those bars and thought of her, thought of every inch of her.

How he had loathed her, and yet now he could not imagine wanting a single hair on her beautiful, maddening head to ever change. All Joe wanted was Perrie. She was his sole desire. If he was ever granted one wish, it would be to endeavour to be good enough to deserve Perrie Beresford.

Joe had never allowed himself these thoughts before, and now that they were suddenly appearing in his head, and he was not pushing them out, Joe could feel the desperation and horrid fear rising.

Just a smile would be enough. He wanted to see the look upon her face just one more time as he called her a 'little imp'. If he had to go to the hangman's noose, then let God grant him his dying wish.

But how he did not want to die.

The cries surrounding him were of men who shared the same desperate wish.

As Joe allowed this fear to envelope him, he realised just how complacent he must have felt about death before. Perhaps he had not wanted to die explicitly, but he had not put much value in the gains his existence brought to others.

Joe had so much to say. He wanted to tell Perrie everything. He wanted to explain every horrible thing that he had ever said to her. He wanted to bare his soul to her, for her to see everything, and then he wanted her to choose him anyway.

Sunlight began to creep in through the small window of the cell and morning came. Outside, Joe could hear the faint hum of the city awakening.

"They'll get the magistrate now," murmured one of the men fearfully. "Charge us. Beat us. Hang us. Sentence us to hard labour. Transportation. Anything."

One of the men then cried out for his mother. Another pushed Joe out of the way from the cell door as he shook the bars violently. "Let me out!" he shouted. "You've made a mistake! You've got the wrong idea!"

"Quiet!" barked an angry, impatient voice from out of sight. The authority in him was evident and assumed him to be one of the Bow Street Runners who arrested them. Joe heard the sound of heavy boots stomping down the cold, stone walkway. He appeared soon after, and revealed himself to be a gruff, burly, angry looking fellow with a portly frame and a thick, greying moustache. His eyes were disgusted with what he saw, and the pale hue of them distinctly reminded Joe of his father's eyes. "Which one of you is Joseph Parish?" he sneered.

Joe's eyes widened. Was he first to face the magistrate? Was he the first one of the men to be charged? How had they learned his name? Joe had not given it to them. They had been far too preoccupied with beating the patrons of that molly house and arresting as many of them as they could that they had not bothered to collect their names the night before.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other men in the cell shuffle back as far as they could, leaving Joe at the forefront of the cell.

The runner's disapproving glare fell upon Joe, and he arched a bush brow. "Joseph Parish?" he assumed.