‘As you know, I lived among you for a number of years—’ he waved his hands again to calm the eruption of comments that remark incited ‘—and I admit, I’ve not always seen eye to eye with some of you. If I left hard feelings or harm, I’m sorry for it. But you know me well. You know how resolute I am, how once I give my word, I keep it.’
The whole group was silent now, their attention riveted on the bound man addressing them. Barksdale was a born public speaker, Ned thought, marvelling at the sheer skill and strength of personality with which he controlled a hostile room. Ned could easily see him standing beside the radical Drummond, exhorting the spinners and weavers of Manchester to set off on their hunger walk to London, the ill-fated ‘March of the Blanketeers’ that had taken place just this past March.
How tragic a man of such gifts and tenacity had not harnessed his talents in a nobler cause! Ned thought as Barksdale continued, ‘This late business was unpleasant, but just a misunderstanding. No one was seriously injured. I’m prepared to abandon my efforts to effect a change for the better here and go my own way, leaving you to whatever limited assistance Mr Greaves can offer you.’
‘Go your way? When pigs fly!’ someone shouted.
‘Nay, you’ll stand before the judge!’ another cried.
Barksdale seemed neither frightened nor affronted. Instead, he simply stood shaking his head, a pitying look on his face.
‘It would not be wise to stand me before a judge, good people of Hazelwick and Blenhem. I see among you in this very group many who know why. If I am put under oath, I will be forced to name names and bring the pitiless light of the law glaring upon your neighbours…husbands…brothers. Are you willing to risk them to a system that wants to condemn and hang rather than address the injustices it visits upon the common folk?’
Ned could almost see a wave of apprehension ripple through the room. Everyone here was probably remembering last summer’s riots at Loughborough, after which six men had been hanged and three transported.
So that was Barksdale’s ploy, Ned realised. Blackmail the citizens with the threat of accusing as many of them as possible of involvement in his nefarious schemes so they would be cowed into letting him escape his just punishment.
Escape unscathed, after what he had done to Mary—and tried to do to Joanna? Seeing the crowd beginning to waver, outraged, Ned stepped forwards.
‘Good people of Hazelwick and Blenhem,’ he called, his scornful tone mocking Barksdale’s address, ‘you need not be afraid, as this villain would have you be, of the honest workings of the law. In testimony given by man after man among you—testimony to which even more shocking and horrifying evidence could be given by some ladies here present—the prisoner stands before you accused of heinous crimes. You must not let him intimidate you into releasing him. Do you not want to see justice served for the many abuses you suffered at his hands?’
Ned looked back at Barksdale. ‘Threaten as you will, these people are not cowards. The hearing will go forward, and when all the evidence is presented, it is you who will be hanged or transported.’
As the outcries and murmurs began turning against him, Barksdale’s expression lost its congenial look. His face hardening, he beckoned to Ned.
With distaste, Ned approached him. As he neared the prisoner, he could sense a ruthless desperation under the still-polite veneer.
‘Be careful what you ask for, Greaves,’ Barksdale said, pitching his voice under the noise of the crowd so that only Ned could hear him. ‘If you force me to, I’ll come forth with names you’d rather not hear, names against whom solid evidence can be produced. Names of people important to your schoolmistress sweetheart. Yes, I’ve seen you sniffing up her skirts. Tasty little plum, isn’t she?’
Even realising Barksdale’s purpose must be to goad him to fury—perhaps into striking a bound man and compromising his claim of impartiality in laying evidence before the magistrate—Ned had to call upon all his powers of control to restrain himself from taking a swing at the man.
‘Your morals are as despicable as your politics,’ he said contemptuously.
‘Seeing the way she’s eyeing you now like a vixen hot for mating, ’tis a bit hypocritical to talk about “morals”,’ Barksdale sneered. ‘But then, the world has always allowed a different standard of conduct between the likes of me and gentlemen like you, hasn’t it?’
Gazing into the implacable stare of his adversary, suddenly Ned realised the implications of Barksdale’s last remark.
That comprehension must have registered on his face, because, with a satisfied smirk, Barksdale continued, ‘So she doesn’t know? Well, then, I could tell your little sweetmeat a few things about you she’d be shocked to hear, couldn’t I? How well would she take the news, I wonder? So high-principled a woman, with such a strong prejudice against the ruling class.’ Barksdale’s voice dripped scorn. ‘If you value your cosy little arrangement, you’d better encourage this rabble to let me go.’
Ned couldn’t imagine how Barksdale had found out—by intercepting his letters to Nicky, perhaps? But it was clear the man knew his name—his real name—and was threatening to disclose it to distract and dismay the crowd—incidentally causing maximum damage to his bond with Joanna—unless Ned persuaded the group to let him go.
He’d already accepted that having kept his true circumstances hidden so long, especially after taking her as a lover, Joanna was bound to feel betrayed, even if he revealed the news of his true identity privately, when she might question him and vent her anger.
What would the effect be upon her of discovering that shocking truth in a public forum, where Ned had no chance to explain? Regardless, duty gave him no choice. His heart pierced by anger and regret, wondering if his next words would sound a death knell to his dreams for the future, he replied, ‘I’ll see you go to the noose’s end and nowhere else.’
Barksdale had the gall—and supreme confidence—to smile at him. ‘I suppose I should give you credit for attempting to be a good man, Ned Greaves. But you’re weak—unwilling to fight for what you want. Not a weakness, fortunately, I share.’
Turning back to the crowd, Barksdale called, ‘Have I your leave to go, good citizens?’
‘Never,’ someone shouted while several others said, ‘Aye, straight to the judge!’
‘So be it, then. I’ve tried to reason with your spokesman here, this man who urges you to place your loved ones in danger, to no avail. So let me tell you what I’ll be forced to tell the judge. I’ll have to say Nick Forbes—aye, Farmer Johnston, your cousin—and Tim Harris—old Granny Cuthbert’s nephew—and Mark Matthews—who’s kin to all you Redmans there—were the officers of the local society that met, as you know, Innkeeper Kirkbride, each night in your taproom. Jesse Russell, there, when he wasn’t sighing over his frustrated passion for your local doxy, carried news for the group, along with plans to attack mills from here to Manchester—’
‘Ain’t never attacked none, though,’ a voice broke out. ‘We talked, only!’
‘Aye, he’s right!’ another chimed in.
‘You attacked this man’s carriage,’ Barksdale shot back. ‘You, Joe Bixby, how’d you explain to your wife that shot in your shoulder from the barrel of Mr Greaves’s gun?’
The room erupted as neighbour turned to neighbour, shouting and questioning. Once again Barksdale waved for silence.
‘Attacking a carriage is a serious crime. Especially as a man was injured—and especially that particular carriage. ’Twas the vehicle, as you know, of a very important person, Lord Englemere. But it was carrying another individual who is more important than any of you can imagine.’ With a malicious glance at Ned, he said, ‘Shall I tell them how important…Mr Greaves?’
It was his last opportunity to prevent Barksdale’s revelations. While his mind and heart raged at the infamy being perpetrated against him, nonetheless Ned replied evenly, ‘Say what you will. The people here know how to separate truth from lies.’
‘Ah, it’s truth
we are to have, then! So, my friends, what do you imagine the punishment might be for attacking an aristocrat? Ah, yes, ’tis not just an estate agent who stands before you, but a gentleman of title…Sir Edward Greaves, is it not? Owner of Wellspring Manor and numerous other properties in Kent, as well as a small estate right here in Derbyshire. For in truth, you are the owner, not just the manager, of Blenhem Hill, are you not, Sir Edward?’
Over the shocked silence in the room, Ned replied steadily, ‘I am.’
Barksdale gave a crow of triumph. ‘There you have it, by Sir Edward’s own admission! Why do you think he lived among you in disguise, my good people, hiding his very name? To lull you into complacency with superficial acts of kindness so he might trick you into admissions that could lead you to the gallows, that’s why! He came here not to help, but to gather evidence. A spy bent on bringing you to ruin, like Colonel Ralph Fletcher at Westhoughton. How many twelve-year-olds will you send to the scaffold here, Sir Edward…if these good citizens allow it?’
Chapter Nineteen
H orrified, Joanna stood frozen as the crowd dissolved into chaos around her. Even in India, she’d read of the incident that had occurred during the first Luddite riots of 1812, when among those executed for mill burnings—on evidence, it turned out later, planted by government informant Colonel Ralph Fletcher—was one Abraham Charlston. A boy listed on court documents as being sixteen years of age, but described in some news accounts as only twelve, and slow for his age. He’d cried for his mother on the scaffold. Nausea coiled in her gut, making her so queasy that for a moment she had to concentrate solely on breathing slowly in and out.
When she dared think of it again, she still couldn’t believe it. Ned Greaves, the man she’d ridden beside day after day, worked with hand in hand, smiled at, shared her past with—had taken into her body—was a government spy? Was that possibility any more outrageous than learning—for he’d not denied it—that he wasn’t merely the estate agent, but the owner of Blenhem Hill?She’d set out this morning brim full of hope and optimism. Ned had written yesterday that he’d gathered so much evidence against Barksdale that he felt confident the man would be indicted, his removal most likely bringing about an end to the unrest that had been occurring in the area. Though she’d been disappointed to learn he would not return to ask the question she’d been waiting eagerly all day to hear, she’d dreamed all night of the joy of a future together.
Only her Ned was not ‘Ned’ at all—but ‘Sir Edward’. Wincing inwardly, she now could hardly bear to speculate what that question might have been.
Sick and distraught as she was, she still had an important role to discharge in this hearing. For the moment at least, she must master her distress and get through the rest of it with an outward display of calm.
Still concentrating on her breathing, she started reining in the rampaging emotions, with some success—until she glanced up and saw Ned’s gaze fixed on her, a sorrowful, pleading look on his face. As if scalded, she looked quickly away, while anguish blasted away the fragile boundaries she’d been erecting to contain it.
Around her people pushed and shoved, shouting and arguing in a swirling din that seemed to suck up all the space and air in the room. Her heart a splintering pain in her chest, she felt faint, dizzy, unable to suck in a breath. Panic prickled her skin and she was seized by the urge to bolt out of the door, into the sweet, fresh air outside, away from all this tumult—and heartbreak.
As if from a far distance, she heard Davie’s voice at her ear. ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’
Joanna had to suppress the impulse to laugh hysterically. All right? How could she be ‘all right’ when her whole world had just shattered, leaving her no longer sure who or what she was?
The pounding of hooves and the neighing of horses from without brought a stillness to the room. It must be the magistrate and his party arriving, she realised.
With a frantic glance towards the door that gave the lie to his outwardly confident demeanour, Barksdale cried, ‘Tis the moment to decide, citizens. Let me go…or see your sons, brothers and husbands face the gallows of an uncaring, ungrateful government!’
‘No one will face the gallows who is not guilty of some grievous wrong,’ Sir Edward countered. ‘In Hazelwick, that will mean first, and probably only, the man who organised the attack on my carriage. The man who actually set fire to the mill. The man who took Mrs Merrill hostage and threatened to shoot her. This man—Jake Barksdale. Surely you will not allow him to go free!’
The crowd had quieted again during Sir Edward’s impassioned address. Looking around, Joanna watched the faces of the men pondering that question, Barksdale’s fate hanging in the balance.
Then a man shouted, ‘Aye, he starved my kin! Let him pay for his crimes.’ ‘Turned my widowed sister off her farm!’ another cried. ‘Led my poor Joe astray!’ Mrs Bixby added.
While a growing volume of outcries affirmed the group’s decision, the door opened. The judge checked on the threshold, pausing in surprise at the turmoil within.
Slipping past the constable, Barksdale ran for the back exit. After him in a flash, Sir Edward seized him by the shoulders and held on, absorbing the kicks and desperate swinging blows from the man’s bound hands until several others hurried over to help him subdue the prisoner. They dragged him, struggling, back into the centre of the room.
‘What’s this commotion?’ the magistrate demanded. ‘I’ll have an orderly assembly at this hearing, not a shouting rabble!’
‘It’s not a commotion, sir,’ Sir Edward replied, ‘but the thwarting of an attempt at escape. An escape, I’m sure, that you will never countenance once we lay the evidence before you.’ Gesturing to the crowd, he said, ‘Shall we let the hearing begin, gentlemen?’
As the crowd ceased its jostling and murmuring to settle into place, the magistrate took his seat and the hearing started. Too sick and dazed to hear much of it, Joanna concentrated simply on remaining in place and breathing evenly to keep nausea at bay until she could present her testimony and escape.
Whether Ned—nay, Sir Edward—felt satisfaction or triumph about the accumulating body of evidence against Barksdale, Joanna didn’t know. As much as possible, she tried to tune out the sound of his voice as he introduced the various witnesses—and she simply couldn’t bear to look him in the face.
At last the magistrate called her name. Quickly and succinctly, she presented her story and answered his few questions. She could feel Ned’s—no, Sir Edward’s—gaze on her throughout, but resolutely resisted the temptation to turn towards him and discover if contrition still filled his eyes.
It took all the strength she could summon just to keep her thoughts and emotions suppressed and distance herself from what had occurred in this room so she could survive the proceedings with her dignity intact.
The moment the magistrate nodded a dismissal to her, she seized Davie’s arm and pulled him after her out of the room. Her hands were shaking, she noted with detachment, as she fought off another wave of nausea.
‘Davie, I must return to the manor,’ she told him urgently.
‘Now?’ he asked, his eyes widening. ‘But they haven’t finished giving testimony yet! Don’t you want to see ol’ Barksdale get back his own? And how ’bout Mr Greaves—Sir Edward, I mean—being a toff all that while and us never knowing!’
‘Imagine,’ she said drily. Thank heavens Davie could not know why the news was of such dire import to her. And of course the boy would want to stay. He might still be called on, and the shocking events of this day probably made it the most exciting of his life.
‘Can you ride back with Myles and Mrs Weston, then?’ she asked. ‘I’ll go now and take the gig.’
He agreed with alacrity before his eyes narrowed. ‘Sure you’ll be all right, driving yerself back? No offence, ma’am, but you ain’t looking so good. I can understand, though, after Barksdale hurt and threatened you like he done, must sicken you to have to be in the same room with ’im. I kin
drive you back, if’n you want me to.’
Once again, Joanna had to hold back an hysterical outburst of mirth. If he only knew it was not her attacker, but her rescuer who caused her to feel so ill! But grateful for Davie’s erroneous assumption—and hoping the other residents of Hazelwick and Blenhem had reached the same conclusion about her sudden departure from the hearing—Joanna had no intention of enlightening him.
‘No, I shall be all right. Go on,’ she urged. ‘You don’t want to miss anything important.’
With a nod, the boy loped off again. Joanna was heading on trembling legs towards the gig when someone called her name. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Mrs Winston hurrying towards her.
‘Mrs Merrill, if you are returning to Blenhem Manor, might I ride with you?’
Joanna really didn’t want any company…but perhaps the woman’s presence would keep at bay a little longer the dire questions she must ask herself and the onslaught of emotions the answers to them would entail. Long enough for her to recover from her shock at least at little, so that she might deal with all of this more rationally.
For deal with it she must, and immediately. Before Ned—Sir Edward—Greaves returned to Blenhem Manor.
His manor, she thought, another sick wave of distress sweeping through her.
‘Of course, ma’am,’ she returned the only possible answer.
But her hopes of blocking out the questions and allowing her emotions to calm during the drive back were swiftly dashed when it became evident that Mrs Winston was almost as agitated as Joanna. She had scarcely manoeuvred the gig out of the crowd of tethered horses and vehicles when Mrs Winston burst out, ‘Whatever are we to do about the shocking news?’
Joanna thought about returning some remark about Barksdale’s iniquities, but she knew that was not the shock to which the housekeeper was referring—nor did she expect such a diversion would work. Giving in to the inevitable, she replied reluctantly, ‘It was…unexpected.’
From Waif to Gentleman's Wife Page 21