by Karen Odden
I’d paused on these same steps yesterday before my uncle and I had walked to the Polk Hotel. But then I’d only seen before me a chaotic mass of pedestrians on a badly paved street. Today I saw the energetic bustle of people going about their lives. Instead of the long shadows of the jail and courthouse, I saw the sunlight where it brightened the storefronts. Today I could even smile at the sight of two boys chasing each other, and a thin dog, its tongue flapping to the side, racing behind them.
Up the steps came clusters of people intent on finding seats for the afternoon session. Many of them looked anxious, and seeing them gave me a pang. Paul’s trial had been so very important to all of us, but his was only one of dozens that would take place during these two weeks. All these people’s lives, I thought as I looked about me, dependent upon a few words here and there, the momentary inclination of a judge, the presence or absence of a particular witness.
From amidst the crowd came a flash of something bright. It was Dr. Morris’s cane, glinting in the sunlight as he turned it this way and that. Beside him, standing close enough that they might converse without being overheard, was a gentleman with silver hair and a well-tailored gray coat.
My heart gave a small thud.
This gentleman looked, from behind, a good deal like Lord Shaw.
I attached myself to a group of women who were climbing the steps and slipped into a pillar’s shadow, so I would be less conspicuous. But I needn’t have worried; the two men seemed wholly engrossed in their conversation. I fixed my eyes on the man in gray, willing him to turn, so I could see his face. Eventually, he glanced to the side, and his profile was unmistakable.
It was Lord Shaw.
Dr. Morris spoke to him for another moment before he and his cane headed off down the street. Before I could think twice, I hurried toward Lord Shaw and called out his name, loudly enough that he swung around, his eyes scanning the steps.
I had thought to maintain a pretense of cordiality, but as he caught sight of me, his jaw clenched, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. He did not even feign a smile, and his voice was barely civil. “Lady Elizabeth.”
My steps slowed, but I came close enough that we could speak in normal tones. “I didn’t see you in the courtroom,” I said. “Were you at the trial?”
“Yes”—stiffly.
I gestured in the direction of Dr. Morris’s retreating back. “And you know the doctor.”
“He is my personal physician.” Lord Shaw’s entire body was rigid; and although there were dozens of people nearby, there was a fury in his face that stirred something like real fear in me. “You and your cousin made quite a fool of him today, not to mention humiliating my friend Mrs. Benedict and her entire family. You must be pleased with yourself.”
I drew back. “It wasn’t my intention to humiliate anyone! But Mr. Wilcox didn’t deserve to be found guilty of manslaughter. In fact,” I added pointedly, “he didn’t deserve to be accused at all, or put through the burden of a trial.”
“Are you trying to claim that you had some noble reason why you shoved your way into matters that don’t concern you?”
I gaped at the contempt in his voice. “I didn’t shove my way into—”
He let out a derisive laugh. “Of course you did! Your visit to me was a presumptuous abuse of my civility and a lie from start to finish—and then you barged your way into the Falcon offices disguised as a servant. Tell me, Lady Elizabeth, how you would describe such behavior, if not improper and meddlesome?”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
How had he found out about my visit to the Falcon? Had Jeremy talked? Or perhaps one of the men at the paper?
And then I recalled the two men who had appeared out of the shadows and followed me toward the alley. With a sudden grim certainty I knew they had been hired by Lord Shaw to watch the Falcon offices. And then I thought about what James had said to me afterward—that despite my disguise, it wouldn’t have been difficult for anyone to figure out my true identity, if they wanted to.
“It’s good for you,” Lord Shaw continued, “that your cousin is no fool and got you out of there, or your words on the stand today would’ve meant nothing. I know you hoodwinked that jury with your little story”—he waved a hand in the direction of the courtroom—“but even you couldn’t explain away the act of spending a night in Whitechapel alone with a man. Your interest in that charlatan of a doctor is indecent—indecorous—and it’s despicable that you try to mask it behind some high-minded desire to see justice done.”
I found my voice, and though it was trembling, I got the words out: “Whatever my interest in Mr. Wilcox, it doesn’t—it doesn’t detract from the fact that he didn’t deserve to be put on trial.”
“There it is again, that word ‘deserve’!” He snorted. “Well, unfortunately in this lifetime, many things happen to us through the actions of others that we don’t necessarily deserve.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you know, watching you testify, I found myself thinking about your father. Perhaps you don’t realize it, but you look a good deal like him—your coloring, your features, even your mannerisms when you’re trying to bring your influence to bear. Your father never lowered himself to tears, of course, but I suppose you have a right to use every weapon in your arsenal.”
I gasped. “My tears were hardly a weapon—and I didn’t manufacture them for effect! That train wreck was the most horrifying spectacle I’ve ever seen. It was beyond anything I could imagine, and I pray to god I never see anything like it again.”
His eyebrows rose, but he seemed unaffected by my outburst. “Yes, it’s ugly when everything goes to smash, isn’t it?” Then he bent toward me, close enough to murmur, close enough that I could smell his sour breath. “But at some point, Lady Elizabeth, we are all victims of fraud and betrayal of some sort. Perhaps even in your short life, you have suffered some trickery or humiliation. And though it is brutally unfair, we must accept that others will steal our property, or the love of our spouse, or the respect of people who know us”—his voice hardened—“and quite often, there is little we can do about it.”
There was no misunderstanding his meaning. I simply stood there, staring into his cold gray eyes, unable to say a word.
He gave an ugly little smile. “Of course, once in a while, the impartial universe deals out a more stringent—and satisfying—justice than the one you can get here.” His eyes flicked to the pillared façade behind me, and his expression suddenly became bland. He drew himself to his full height and bowed politely. “Good day, Lady Elizabeth.”
Then he walked away, leaving me feeling chilled to my core despite the sun.
A hand grasped my elbow.
I spun around, jerking my arm away.
It was James, and he drew back in surprise. “Elizabeth, my god, you’re white as a sheet. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” My voice was shaking.
“Was that Lord Shaw you were speaking to?”
I nodded.
“What was he saying?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. You just startled me.”
He and my uncle exchanged a glance, but I was so rattled that I could barely attend to them. Our carriage drew up, and my uncle helped me inside.
It was a silent ride home. James closed his eyes, as if to sleep or to avoid talking; my uncle was obligingly quiet. But my thoughts were churning, like wheels in mud.
I recalled the anger on Lord Shaw’s face, the condescension in his voice, the coldness in his eyes, and stifled a groan. How could I have been such a fool as to believe he was benign, or indulgent, or—for god’s sake—to be pitied, when I had visited him at Shadwell?
He hated me. And he loathed my father.
Clearly he was well aware of the many ways my father had injured him. He blamed my father for having to mortgage the Scotland property; he knew my father had taken liberties with his wife and had made him look like a fool.
But what had he meant about “trickery and humiliation” in my lif
e? Was he alluding to the duplicity of the railway scheme? Or to the rumors he’d spread about me at his club? Or had he intended those words as a threat of something else?
As for what he called “a more stringent and satisfying form of justice,” obviously he was gloating over the universe having dealt out what he believed to be a fitting punishment for my father’s crimes.
Suddenly I felt like a cold hand had wrapped itself around my heart.
Everyone had always called my father’s death an accident. But what if it hadn’t been? What if my father’s death had been like the railway disaster—something that looked like a natural event, but wasn’t? What if Lord Shaw had had a hand in it?
“What on earth are you thinking about?” James’s voice broke into my thoughts. “You have the most horrible expression on your face.”
I fumbled for a plausible answer. “I was thinking about—about how close we were to losing today.”
His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Well, not really. Your testimony countered most of the prejudices against Wilcox, so the jury would be open to the idea of a complicating factor when the valet took the stand.”
“When did you know he was there?”
“He arrived during your testimony. Didn’t you see Jeremy hand me a note?”
I shook my head.
“Cutting it a bit close, wouldn’t you say?” my uncle asked.
James shrugged. “The important thing is that it worked. At least Wilcox is free. Although that laudanum business will hurt him, at least for a while.”
My uncle nodded. “It’s unfortunate that came up.”
The thought pained me, and I fell silent, lost in my thoughts again until we reached Cobbley’s Knob, when the jerk of the brake pulled me out of them.
I needed to ask someone whether Lord Shaw could possibly have had anything to do with my father’s accident.
But whom?
Chapter 37
“Elizabeth? Are you in here?”
James’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. After dinner, I’d come to the library to be alone, and I’d left the lamps unlit. The embers were burning low in the fireplace, shedding a shallow light that came nowhere near the corner where I sat. But after all he’d done, James certainly deserved better than me hiding from him.
I drew my shawl close about me and came out from the shadows. “Here I am.”
We met in front of the hearth. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said. “But I’m taking the evening express from Bonwell, and I wanted to see you before I left.” He gazed around the room, a wistful expression on his face as he scanned the bookshelves. “I spent a lot of time in here when we were young. While you and Anthony were out of doors, running around and getting into scrapes.”
“Yes.” I gave a small laugh. “You loved your books.”
“Well, it’s not as though I’d have been welcome with the two of you. I was too serious.” He forced a smile. “No doubt you thought I was patronizing back then too.”
“Oh, James.” I reached out and touched his arm. “The other night when we were on the train, I was angry—and defensive—and—well—”
“I can be patronizing,” he broke in.
I had to smile. “Yes, you can. But you are also honest and clever and resourceful and ethical.” I paused. “I want to thank you again, for everything you did for Mr. Wilcox. He never would have been acquitted if he’d had someone less capable to represent him.”
His shoulders shifted. “He might have. The truth has a way of coming out more often than not. But he’s going to have a hard time regaining his footing, even with the acquittal, and he knows it.”
“There may still be a chance,” I said.
“Yes. I know Flynn’s hoping that if he can prove that this trial was just a means to silence Wilcox, it will help.” He dropped his hands into his pockets. “The laudanum business—” He stopped abruptly, gave me a sharp look. “Did you know about it?”
I winced. It was yet another thing I’d withheld from him.
“So you did,” he said with a sigh. “Well, Wilcox had told me too, so at least it wasn’t a surprise when Morris brought it up.”
“He told me—that is, it was in the context of—of something else,” I floundered. “I would have told you if I’d had any idea it would come up in the trial. Truly, I would.”
He nodded absently, and his eyes dropped to the carpet between us.
An awkward silence fell, and belatedly it dawned on me that he seemed ill at ease. In fact, his manner was almost painfully constrained.
“Elizabeth.” He looked up at me at last, and his voice was resolute. “I know that you care for Wilcox. But as you said yourself in the courtroom, you can’t marry him.”
That hadn’t been quite what I said, but I nodded anyway.
“And I—well—” He flinched, and then the words came out with a rush. “I know it’s been a wretched few weeks for you, and the matter of the railway is still unresolved. But I have to go up to Manchester for the rest of the month, and before I leave, I have to tell you—that is, I want to tell you—that I’ve grown very fond of you. Beyond the affection of cousins.”
I could only stare at him, my mind struggling to take in his meaning.
“Indeed, I don’t even know how it came about,” he continued. “But the day I heard you were in the railway disaster—that you’d been on a train you were never supposed to have taken, and that people had died—I realized how very unhappy I’d be if something happened to you.” He stepped forward, touching my elbow with tentative fingers. “And I didn’t want to leave tonight without telling you, so that you’d have time to consider whether, when I come back, you might accept a proposal from me.”
He dropped his hand away and waited for my reply.
But I couldn’t speak. My mind was jolting over the weeks since the accident, reinterpreting his words and actions: his train ride to Travers to check on me; his willingness to talk with Mr. Turleigh on my behalf; the pleasure on his face when I’d asked if I could help with the case; the pain in his voice when he asked whether I was in love with Mr. Flynn; his grim certainty when he confronted me about my feelings for Paul.
“You’re looking quite stunned,” he said.
My eyes jerked to his face. “James, I’m afraid I didn’t anticipate this at all. Perhaps I should have, but—”
He took my right hand from where it clutched my shawl and closed his warm fingers over mine. “It’s unexpected, I know. But although this idea of me as a suitor is new, your knowledge of my character is not. Besides, don’t you see? This would take care of everything. Your mother would be pleased; so would mine. And you needn’t worry about your dowry or railway stocks or any of it anymore. I’d be glad to have you with nothing at all. I’ve plenty for both of us. We could spend some of our time in London, and some here.” An odd smile tugged at one side of his mouth. “Athena could come with us, of course, and you could visit Anne whenever you liked.”
I looked down at my hand, where it lay limply in his. He was right: marrying him would take care of everything—if only I could find it in me to love him that way. Thinking of all he’d done for me the past few weeks, and knowing how patient he was being with me right now, I wondered if perhaps I could convince myself.
I closed my eyes and was back in a second to the sitting room at the Travers Inn, with Paul’s face before me.
A genuine shock of panic kicked through me, and my eyes flew open.
Gently, I withdrew my hand from his. “James, I will certainly think about all you’ve said. But—I can’t promise more than that. At the moment, I don’t know how I feel about anything.”
Disappointment dropped like a curtain over his face. But he made an effort to smile. “I understand.”
I swallowed. “Have you said anything about this to anyone? To your mother?”
He gave a faint shrug. “My mother knows about my feelings for you, yes.” I must have looked troubled, for he added, “But I made her promise
not to say anything to you, and not to try to influence you in any way.”
But how could she not? He was her son, and she wanted him happy.
“I should go. The trains are back to running almost on time now, so I can’t be late.” He held me by the shoulders and bent toward me, kissing my forehead. “Take care of yourself, my dear. Get some rest.”
Chapter 38
I had turned it over and over in my head, and the one person I felt I could ask about my father’s death was Martin.
The next morning, I went looking for him at the barn, but Timothy told me he’d gone to town to see about some new harnesses and wouldn’t be back until at least two o’clock. So after luncheon, I set out to find him again. He wasn’t in the barn or in the near paddock, so I walked out to the far one where Athena was always put out to graze until sunset. As I came down the path, I saw them both: Athena, with her nose deep in the grass; and Martin, who appeared to be replacing a hasp on the gate.
I felt a wave of affection for this man who, in his unobtrusive way, always seemed to be mending something. It had been he who had tried to save my father; he who had patiently nursed all of our horses through their various wounds and illnesses; he whose sturdy kindness had comforted me when, as a child, I’d sought solace in the barn.
He nodded as I approached. “M’lady.”
I made my voice more cheerful than I felt. “Hello, Martin. Is something wrong with the fence?”
“Just fixing this latch.” He drew two loose nails out of the wood, then took two larger nails from his pocket and hammered them into place. “That should do.” He gestured toward Athena, who still had her nose buried deep in the grass. “Time was, the sound of a hammer would’ve set her running. Come a long way from that, ha’n’t she?”
I smiled. “She’s lovely. Plenty of thanks to you.”
He grunted noncommittally and balanced his tools on the middle rail. For several minutes we stood together watching Athena.
Finally, I broke the silence. “Martin, I have something I need to ask you.”