by Pamela Clare
Matthew sat in one of the ornate French chairs, ignoring Woodhull’s furtive glances at his wooden leg. He was used to curious looks and staring. “I’ve come for information about the old man who was brought in the morning after my brother-in-law’s murder.”
“Oh, there’s little to be said about him, Lieutenant. He died of fever within days.”
“I was hoping you might be able to help me uncover something that had been overlooked.” Without breaking eye contact, Matthew dropped several sovereigns on Woodhull’s desk.
“That was a very long time ago, Lieutenant. As much as I’d like to help an honorable gentleman such as—”
Matthew dropped several more.
“I’ll send for the guard who was on watch when he came in.”
In short order Matthew stood face-to-face with one of the filthiest men he’d ever seen. Dressed in clothes that might have been decent had they been washed, the man’s hair—or what was left of it—was greasy and matted. His skin was scarred by pox and covered with grime, and his teeth were rotted so that his breath stank, even from a distance. Matthew was sorely tempted to ask for that brandy after all, just to mask the odor.
“It’s just as I told the constable, Sir,” said the guard. “The ol’ codger said ’e saw two blokes kill a man an’ take ’is eyes.”
“Is that exactly how he explained it to you?”
The guard looked confused.
“Were those his exact words?”
“Well, Sir,” began the guard, his eyes fixed on Matthew’s wooden limb. “Pardon me, Sir, but doesn’t it ’urt? Your leg?”
“Aye. It hurts every day.” Matthew struggled to be patient. “Why don’t you tell me everything the old man said from the beginning?”
When the guard was sent back to his duties nearly an hour later, Matthew found himself fighting off disappointment. He’d learned little new. Instead, he had more unanswered questions. Why had the attackers only knocked Alec out to begin with if their purpose had been murder? They’d slit the driver’s throat on the spot. Why not Alec’s? Why had they carried his unconscious body into an alley? They had already committed one murder in the street. What made them seek privacy to kill Alec and mutilate his corpse?
For months Matthew had had a feeling that not all was as it seemed regarding Alec’s murder. First there was the strange brutality of it. Then there was Matthew’s mysterious letter from the colonies that Socrates said he’d seen, which Philip had stolen and burnt. Though he had initially dismissed Socrates’ conclusion about the handwriting as nothing more than the grief and love of an aging servant, Matthew hadn’t been able to put the letter from his mind, nor Philip’s refusal to discuss it. He was not given to gaming, but he was willing to wager that Philip was at the center of this somehow. Matthew had paid a man to trail Philip, but the spy had learned little Matthew did not already know.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like that brandy, Lieutenant?” Woodhull raised his own glass in question.
“No, thank you, Magistrate.” Using his cane to steady himself, Matthew stood. “I appreciate your helpfulness.”
“I must say I was surprised when I received notice that you would be coming today. Your brother-in-law made it quite clear your family wished to put this behind you, despite the letter.”
“Letter?”
“Aye, the letter from the colonies. I sent you word of it in June.”
“From the colonies? I heard nothing of it.” Matthew felt his blood turn hot, but remained calm.
Damn Philip!
“Do you still have the letter? Do you remember what it said, who it was from?”
“It was addressed to me from a colonial sheriff, as I recall. He said there was an indentured convict nearby who claimed to be Alec Kenleigh. Strange your brother-in-law didn’t tell you. I think I still have it here somewhere.”
Matthew’s heart gave a thud. “Then find it, man!”
* * *
Cassie gazed apprehensively into the mirror, her hands too unsteady to put on the earrings Lucy had lent her. Fears flitted through her mind one after another, never resting.
Had Alec suffered these past six weeks? Had they beaten him? Had they forced him to go without food, to go without blankets in the cold? Were the judges’ hearts already hardened? Was it too late?
“Let me help.” Lucy took the small pearls from her trembling fingers. “With these earrings and your new gown, you’ll look as fresh as a meadow in springtime.”
Cassie’s gaze brushed distractedly over her own reflection, noticing for the first time the new gown. It was one of the nicest she’d ever worn, cut from silk the color of the sky and trimmed with ivory lace. The seamstress had left enough cloth so the waistline could easily be let out when her condition began to show. Lucy had ordered several new gowns made for her, together with matching slippers and bonnets, and her father had paid without protest. Cassie had been so preoccupied with her grief and worry, she hadn’t even thanked them.
“You’ve been so kind to me, Lucy.”
“It’s nothing you wouldn’t have done for me.” Lucy put the pearls on Cassie’s earlobes.
Cassie smiled at Lucy’s reflection, but she knew Lucy was just being generous. No daughter of King Carter would ever have found herself in this predicament to begin with. Even if she had, Cassie’s father did not have the power to do what Lucy’s father had done. If not for King Carter, she would likely be sitting in gaol this morning, facing trial for murder and horse theft.
She had arrived at Corotoman late that terrible afternoon, exhausted, in tears, desolate. In private, she’d confided the entire story to Master Carter and Lucy. She’d told them about her father’s condition, about the lies she’d told for his sake. She’d told them of her love for Alec, how she knew in her heart he was telling the truth.
She’d told them about Geoffrey, how he’d taken over Blakewell’s Neck, found her in bed with Alec, had Alec nearly flogged to death. She’d told them how Geoffrey had tried to force her to marry him, how she was certain Alec was now dead, shot while trying to save her. She’d told them of the child she carried.
She’d told them everything except the location of her father’s island.
She had expected that Master Carter would call her a whore and throw her out of his house, or worse, summon the sheriff, but he hadn’t. Instead he’d had the horse she’d ridden delivered to Crichton Hall with a note of condolence and several pounds in payment for her use of the animal. He’d instructed Lucy to take Cassie upstairs, help her bathe, and see to it she was properly fed and allowed to sleep undisturbed. Cassie had wept out of deepest grief that night, wept until there were no tears left, Lucy stroking her hair until she’d fallen asleep.
She’d awoken the next morning to the stunning news that Alec was alive and unhurt. The shot she’d heard had been a harmless misfire. But her relief was replaced by new fear when Master Carter told her Alec had been hauled in chains to Williamsburg to await trial for murder. Benumbed by the news, she hadn’t been surprised when Sheriff Hollingsworth arrived later to arrest her as an accomplice. She’d been resigned to her fate, only to watch the sheriff ride away without her, the whole question of her role in Geoffrey’s death having been settled with Master Carter over a game of whist. The next morning she, Lucy, and Master Carter had boarded a small schooner and set out for Williamsburg to await the day of Alec’s trial.
That day had finally come.
“There.” Lucy smoothed two wayward curls into place with her gloved hand. “You look absolutely lovely. Shall we go?”
“Aye.”
The clack of horses’ hooves on cobblestone announced the arrival of the carriage in the courtyard below. Cassie dreaded going out in public. Except for church each Sunday, she’d stayed indoors, away from the tittering crowds of Williamsburg. Even those Sundays had been torture. The whispers, stares and pointing fingers were hard enough to endure, but the sound of clanking chains as the gaoler led in prisoners from the public gaol ha
d been all but unbearable. While the rest of the congregation recited words from the Book of Common Prayer, sneaking glances at her over the tops of their Bibles, she’d held her head high, praying silently for another miracle, for comfort and protection for Alec, who sat in fetters some twenty rows behind her.
Though they’d prayed under the same roof, Cassie hadn’t been able to catch so much as a glimpse of him. Master Carter had made certain they reached the church early, long before the prisoners arrived, and they’d always sat in the front, far from the rough wooden benches in the back meant for the imprisoned. Nor had he allowed her to send Alec letters. Though Master Carter had himself been to visit Alec in gaol a few times, he’d refused to convey any messages between them. It would not be proper, he’d explained, declining to discuss Alec’s plight with her.
But Cassie would see Alec today, for today a jury would decide if he would hang.
She took Lucy’s arm, and they made their way downstairs to the courtyard, where footmen helped them into the carriage. Master Carter, who, much to Cassie’s surprise, had hired counsel for Alec, had gone to the courthouse ahead of them.
She sank into the plush cushions of royal blue and closed her eyes, commanding herself to be strong. It would be a short journey to the courthouse, around Duke of Gloucester Street to the Capitol. Though the crowd outside the courthouse would be great—she’d heard Master Carter say the excitement of a murder trial had the inns and alehouses packed to overflowing—the townspeople had already done their best to humiliate her. She would survive this. With a lurching motion the carriage rolled forward and rounded the corner onto the street. On the sidewalk, people turned to look up at them with sneers and whispers.
Lucy pulled the shades. “It’s much better this way, isn’t it?” Her voice was unnaturally cheerful.
“Aye. Thank you.”
Cassie hated the stares and whispers as mothers pointed her out to their daughters and warned them to protect their virtue. She hated even more the knowing smiles of men who leered openly at her and shouted obscene offers meant to disgrace her. Today the courtroom would be filled with such people, men and women who had gathered to watch the trial as if it were but a play, Cassie’s and Alec’s grief and suffering mere diversion.
Though the ride was short, it seemed to stretch on forever. Surely they would have passed Raleigh’s Tavern and John Carter’s general store by now. Soon they’d pass Unicorn’s Horn Apothecary. The wooden sign that hung over its doorstep and displayed the head of a regal white unicorn had fascinated her as a little girl. Her father had taken her there to buy her candy in the years when they’d come to Williamsburg each summer. He’d lifted her high on his shoulders so she could touch the unicorn’s carved horn and painted mane.
Where had those happy days gone?
The carriage soon turned to the right and slowed, and she knew they had reached the courthouse. With a sense of dread, she heard the door handle turn. Daylight streamed in, and with it the murmur of the crowd.
“It’s time, love.” Lucy gave Cassie’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Summoning her courage, Cassie took the footman’s hand and stepped from the carriage. The crowd fell silent. She felt hundreds of people watching her. Legs shaking, she forced herself to lift her chin and, looking straight ahead, climbed the stairs, clinging tightly to Lucy’s arm.
“She’s a pretty young thing,” whispered one woman.
“What a shame,” whispered another.
“Well, I say she got what she deserves.”
“She can come sit on my lap,” called one man. “I’ll cheer her up!”
“Harlot!”
Suddenly, as if set free from a trance by that one vile word, people began to shout at her, hurling insults and obscenities. Tears burned Cassie’s eyes. She wanted to flee but forced herself to take each stair slowly, deliberately. She’d done nothing of which she was ashamed.
“Don’t listen to them, Cassie!” Lucy held Cassie’s arm tightly. “Vultures!”
Cassie thought of Alec’s feet climbing these same stairs a short time ago. Had the crowd cursed him? Had he been forced to drag heavy chains? Was he afraid?
Three more steps. Two more. One.
Lucy pushed open the polished oak doors, and they entered the darkened hallway. If Cassie had hoped to escape the crowd indoors, she was sadly disappointed. Stretching out before her was a sea of faces, their eyes turned toward her, their expressions merciless.
Her step faltered, and she felt Lucy’s fingers tighten around hers. The taunting and curses began afresh, bodies pressing in so closely against her she felt angry breath against her cheeks as she passed. Could they all truly hate her so much?
She gasped as pain shot through her arm, and looked down in disbelief to find bony fingers pinching her flesh, an old woman with dirty nails glaring up at her as if she were a witch to be burned at the stake.
Lucy rapped the old woman’s fingers sharply with her folded fan. “It seems, Cassie my dear, all of Williamsburg has turned out today. I’m surprised good Christian folk would take such delight in others’ misfortunes.”
Voices drifted into an embarrassed silence. Several heads dropped, gazes falling to the floor.
Cassie took a deep breath and allowed Lucy to lead her to the courtroom, the crowd parting in a guilty shuffling of feet to let them pass. Stopping just inside the doorway to let her eyes adjust to the darkness, Cassie followed Lucy to the seats reserved for them in front. She sat and smoothed her skirts into place, keenly aware that hundreds of eyes stared at her from the gallery above. She realized with a start that those who stood in the hallway and outdoors were the ones who hadn’t come early enough to get a seat.
“Here comes Master Crichton.” Lucy gave Cassie’s hand a squeeze. “He’s such a mean, contemptible man.”
Cassie heard Master Crichton’s footsteps as he walked up the aisle, felt his hateful gaze as he passed and took his seat in the section to their left. She could not bring herself to look at him, but stared straight ahead, her stomach knotted. She could not blame him for hating her. Geoffrey had been his son and heir. Because of her, Geoffrey was now dead. That was how most people saw it, and though she wanted to protest her innocence with every fiber of her being, she couldn’t help feeling they were right. Every contemptible thing Geoffrey had done, he’d done because of some misguided impulse he’d called love. He’d followed society’s rules. She had shunned them. Now he lay in a grave.
Her thoughts were interrupted as the door to the council’s chambers was thrust open and the court crier, a short man with an enormous belly, strutted into the courtroom.
“Oh, yea! Oh, yea! Oh, yea!” The crier struck the floor three times with the base of his staff. “Silence is commanded in court on punishment of imprisonment while His Majesty’s governor and council are sitting! All manner of persons that have a plaint to enter or suit to prosecute, let them come forth, and they shall be heard!”
From behind him appeared the court’s bewigged magistrates, followed by members of the governor’s council and finally by the attorney general and Governor Gooch himself. The governor and his men stiffly took their seats behind the high benches at the front of the room.
A hush fell over the courtroom.
“Bailiff, bring in the jury,” the governor said.
The door opened again, and a dozen men, most of them members of the assembly, shuffled to their seats.
The attorney general strode forth into the center of the room, his long red robe almost brushing the wooden floor.
“That’s Hugh Drysdale’s eldest son, Edward,” Lucy whispered.
Cassie nodded, feeling an instant dislike for the man. It was his job to make sure Alec was convicted.
“Honorable Governor, esteemed councilmen, and worthy men of the jury, I have here an indictment against one Nicholas Braden, convict and bondsman, lately of Blakewell’s Neck, who calls himself Alec Kenleigh,” said Master Drysdale, handing the bailiff several sheets of parchment.
&nb
sp; The bailiff passed the documents to the bench, where Governor Gooch, a heavy frown on his face, examined them.
“Bring in the prisoner,” ordered Gooch.
“Bring in the prisoner!” repeated the crier.
Chapter Thirty-two
Cassie fought not to turn her head as the creak of doors and the tap of footsteps announced Alec’s arrival. Unable to breathe, only dimly aware of the clamor Alec’s appearance had caused among those seated in the gallery above, she stared down at her clasped hands as his footsteps drew nearer. But as he passed her, it was not his bare feet she saw but silk hose and a gentleman’s polished leather shoes, brass buckles shining.
Unable to stop herself, she lifted her gaze slowly to look at him, stifling a gasp. This was not the Alec she knew. Far from the dirty, bruised prisoner she had expected, he stood, proud and tall, dressed not like an indentured servant, but the finest of English gentlemen. Breeches of the darkest blue velvet clung to his thighs, the matching waistcoat accented with gold brocade. Ivory lace was gathered at his throat and wrists. His hair, sleek and dark, was braided into a ramillie, held in place by a dark blue velvet ribbon. His face was clean-shaven, his expression unyielding—the face of an astonishingly handsome stranger.
His name a whisper on her lips, she met his gaze, and his blue eyes softened as they looked into hers. Then he was gone, making his way toward the stand reserved for the accused, its platform surrounded by a waist-high barrier of slatted wood.
“Silence in the courtroom!” the governor shouted over the hubbub. “This court shall not become a circus. Anyone disrupting today’s hearing will find himself keeping company with rats in the public gaol.”
A tense silence fell over the gallery.
“Is the accused aware of the serious charges against him?” asked Gooch.
“I am, Governor.”
“If it please Your Honor, I should like to read the allegations to the court so we all might know how serious they truly are,” Drysdale said.