Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Time Travel Romance Book 1)

by Anne Meredith

  The chilling truth sank in; he meant at his death. He believed this was divine retribution for his dealing in human lives.

  “Do you want Emily to remember you as a murderer?”

  His voice was raw. “How can you even ask that?”

  “Leaving her now with neither mother nor father?”

  “Stop it,” he snapped.

  “Then pull yourself together! Tell me who you think might’ve wanted to kill her. Could it have been a love affair?”

  He sighed. “Likely more than one. But it could’ve been something much simpler. You saw her proclivities, Rachel. She may have simply found someone whose appetite for cruelty surpassed her pleasure.”

  “Have you at least discovered when she was killed?”

  “She was found perhaps an hour before I was arrested. The coroner believes she’d been dead less than a day.”

  “So she was killed the night before.”

  “’Tis likely.”

  “Where were you that night?”

  “Traveling the countryside.”

  “Were you with no one?”

  “No. I saw the man who painted the portraits, but I don’t even know his name, let alone how to find him.”

  Rachel felt hopelessness threatening, but she ignored it.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Trying to find out about a man named Robert Miller.”

  “Miller?” It was a common enough name. It was her father’s name.

  “Time’s up, milady,” the gaoler called.

  “Just another minute, please.” Her eyes searched Grey’s face. “My father?”

  His gaze met hers impassively. “I looked at the newspaper again when I was almost home. Only then did I understand where you’d come from. Rachel, if you’d only told me—”

  The door swung open as the awful truth sank in. Grey had no alibi because he’d been searching for her father’s killer—a man who lived in another time.

  He straightened. He gave Rachel a long, hungry stare. “Thank you for bringing me sustenance.”

  “Grey!” she whispered, even as the gaoler escorted her out.

  On the steps of the gaol, she stood for only a moment. “I’d like to see Letitia Trelawney’s body.”

  The gaoler’s mouth screwed up in distaste. “Why?”

  “I’ll give you–oh, all the money I have in my purse.”

  His eyes went round at the exorbitant bribe, and Rachel dipped into her bag, producing a handful of gold coins. “Where has she been taken?”

  He jerked his head, hiding the money away. “Out back.”

  He led her to a small shed a few feet away from the gaol, and inserted a key into the lock. The chain fell away, and he opened the door.

  “Griffin’s to bury her this morning at Rosalie.”

  “Griffin? Who’s that?”

  “Deputy sheriff.”

  She’d steeled herself for what she might find, to no avail. The foul odor almost drove her away. “Can you—” she began, gesturing toward the body.

  “Don’t touch no dead folk, ’less I have to.”

  She forced herself to examine the woman. “Was she found this way?”

  “What way?”

  “Unclothed.”

  “The coroner had to disrobe her to get a look at her bruises.”

  “I thought she was supposed to have been drowned.”

  “So the coroner says.”

  She inspected, finding three sets of bruises. One at either wrist. And the clear imprint of human hands around her slender neck.

  “Who found her?”

  “Griffin.”

  “Thank you. Can you tell me where Mr. Griffith lives?”

  “Down ’t the other end of town. ’E runs a ordinary down there. Just look for a shingle with a bird on it.”

  She walked quickly down the street, not stopping until she found the sign of the phoenix. She rapped at the door persistently until it opened. None other than Jarvis Griffin stood there, wearing hastily donned trousers and shirt.

  “What?” he snarled.

  “How did you say Letitia Trelawney died?”

  “What the—”

  “You said she drowned.”

  “I said I found her body in the river, and that’s where it was. The coroner’s the one who said her lungs was filled with water.”

  “She has several unidentified bruises—”

  “How would you know that?”

  “—around her neck,” Rachel went on. “And—”

  “I expect Trelawney can strangle good as the next man.”

  “What of the bruises at her wrists?”

  “What bruises?”

  “Large, wide bruises on both wrists. The sort of bruise a tight shackle might make.”

  “Lady Windmere, shackled? That’s a right pretty picture.”

  “What about those bruises?”

  “’Twas dark. I didn’t see ’em.”

  Rachel faced him calmly. “How much do you hear about the goings-on of the gentry, Mr. Griffin?”

  “I ain’t no gossip!” he retorted, his ire rising with each accusation.

  “But you’ve never heard gossip of Lady Windmere? Her fondness for instruments of torture?”

  “Hell, you’re acting like I’m on trial here. Be gone, or I’ll toss ye in the cell next to m’lord’s.”

  And he slammed the door in her face.

  Jennie was sitting in the garden when she returned. Rachel saw her unfocused gaze on the carpenter’s yard in the distance, and she wished she could ease the concern for her child that weighed upon the young woman’s heart.

  Jennie noticed her presently, and she broke into a bemused smile. “Oh. Hello.”

  “I went to the gaol and saw Grey.”

  “How is he?”

  “Discouraged.”

  “Grey’s a respected man. But suspicion has been cast upon him, and Williamsburg deals swiftly with criminals.”

  “He isn’t a criminal! Anyone who knows Grey knows—”

  “That he’s a man of quick temper, when he’s been wronged. Thomas is right.”

  “Jennie, did you know … well, of course you couldn’t have.”

  “What?”

  “Grey says that Letitia had strange appetites. Sexually.”

  “She was indiscriminate with her favors. That’s common knowledge.”

  “No. I mean—she enjoyed, well, sick games. Inflicting pain and having it inflicted.”

  Jennie’s mouth fell open. “Rachel!”

  “I wonder—Grey suggested that perhaps one of her games got out of control.”

  She looked ill. “I doubt the court would even discuss such a matter.”

  “What?”

  “We’re discussing a dead lady’s reputation. And whether she bedded half the colony, that wasn’t a reason to kill her. She was still a lady.”

  “See! Now there you have it. The only reason they’re so jacked up to pin her death on someone is because she’s a member of the gentry.”

  Jennie’s frown went deeper, and Rachel realized how politically incorrect her words were, for these times. But Jennie only asked in confusion, “Jacked up?”

  “You don’t understand. If she were—”

  “No, dear, you don’t. A gentleman won’t discuss such things.”

  “When a man’s life is at stake?”

  “I’m not saying all is lost. I am asking you not to raise your hopes too high. And certainly don’t pin them on Letitia’s misdeeds. The case against Grey isn’t good.”

  “But…” She grew fearful at the somber warning in Jennie’s tone. “Thomas said Peyton Randolph might be helpful?”

  “Peyton Randolph,” Jennie said quietly, “is the man in charge of prosecuting Grey.”

  Rachel felt her breath leave her in a moment. “What? Wouldn’t he—recuse himself, or something?”

  “Why?”

  “Well … he’s Grey’s friend.”

  Her blue eyes gazed unblinkingly at
Rachel. “And the cousin of the victim, a lady whose reputation you propose to sully in order to free Grey. Friendship means nothing in these matters, Rachel. He’ll prosecute this case as impartially as if Grey were a stranger. Peyton Randolph has been charged by King George with executing justice in the largest American colony. A greater honor cannot be bestowed upon a man; nothing is more highly prized than his honor. Mr. Randolph will be fair. But if two credible witnesses are produced, Grey has little hope.

  “Where’s Thomas?”

  “He was gone this morning before I awakened. He left me a note saying he’ll be back tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “He didn’t say. It has something to do with Grey, but I’ve no idea what.”

  If two credible witnesses are produced.

  Rachel felt panic and fear, and she did something she didn’t often do. She offered a silent prayer for wisdom.

  She walked into the front room, gazing out on the street, watching two men in ornate wigs and waistcoats walking along the street as if on their way to court. Her mind raced in endless, insane circles as she sought an answer. Hopeless. It seemed absolutely hopeless.

  She sighed. What they could use right now was a good, old-fashioned twenty-first century bulldog of a defense lawyer.

  Rachel stopped in her tracks. And she ran through the house, searching for a servant. “Get me a horse—and hurry!”

  Jennie stared, bewildered. “Where are you going?”

  “To Rosalie.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The modest cabins were quiet when Rachel rode in on horseback. She knocked at the newest of them, and after a moment Camisha opened the door.

  Rachel sighed. “I’m so glad you’re here. May I come in?”

  After only a second, she nodded. Dressed in the simple homespun garments of a slave, she stepped aside for Rachel to enter. She did so, uncomfortable. She was about to ask something of her that, in another time, Camisha would’ve already offered to begin with. Now, Rachel felt awkward; Camisha had never had reason to hold Grey in high esteem.

  “What’s up?”

  The casual greeting surprised her, but perhaps she hadn’t heard the news. Rachel met her gaze, finding only the faintest veneer of interest in her friend’s eyes.

  Something wasn’t quite right.

  “Did you know Letitia Trelawney was murdered?”

  Camisha blinked, and she slowly nodded. “I’d heard that, yes.”

  Her prevaricating bothered Rachel. Contempt for Letitia, she understood. But it was unlike her to callously dismiss a woman’s murder.

  “Doesn’t that surprise you?”

  She laughed shortly. “Not much surprises me, Rachel.”

  “Grey’s been arrested for her murder.”

  Looking away, she exhaled. “I’m sorry, Rae. I guess you kind of cared about him.”

  “Kinda cared about him?” Rachel was wounded that the woman who’d always known her heart before she herself did, could dismiss such a fundamental part of her life. “I love him, Camisha. The way you love Ashanti.”

  “Big difference. Ashanti doesn’t run up and down the coast of England, capturing pasty Trelawneys to sell.”

  “What the hell? Are you saying that because of his past, Grey deserves to die for a crime he didn’t commit? That’s nothing like you. You spent your life defending the innocent, especially those with murky pasts.”

  Several moments of silence passed. “Rachel, do you know how many slaves will eventually be brought to America?”

  “No.”

  “Six hundred thousand. And just take a wild guess how many American lives will be lost in the Civil War?”

  “What does that have to do with Grey?”

  “God has a way of working things out. Maybe he’s getting exactly what he deserves.”

  She voiced the fears Grey had voiced that very morning.

  Her indifference transformed Rachel’s anger into desperation. She was her only hope. She had every right to her hatred of Grey. But somehow, Rachel knew she needed her help if his innocence were to be proven.

  “What did you want, Rachel?”

  She wasn’t making it any easier. “I’ve got to figure out who really killed her. I know you don’t like Gray, and I frankly don’t blame you. But Camisha, he’s changed. You showed him, where no one else could, that what he was doing was horrible. Now, maybe you can help … save his life.”

  She turned away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything. And if I did—I just can’t help him.”

  Rachel’s throat ached with unshed, frightened tears, and with the pain of her rejection. She moved numbly across the room until she stood just behind her, awkwardly making her listen to what she must say.

  “Camisha, you know you’re the dearest friend I’ve ever had. You befriended me when your own mother said you shouldn’t. You … you were put on this earth to help people who’d been deserted by everyone. You started by standing up to Max Sheppard when you were just a little girl, and you never stopped. Wherever you saw injustice, you did your damnedest to make it right.

  “You’ve been there for me through the worst times of my life, even when I didn’t deserve it. And now—although I know I don’t deserve it, I beg you to help me.” Rachel wiped futilely at the tears streaming down her face. “Please, Camisha. You’ve spent your life fighting for those who were without hope. Now—”

  “I can’t help him, Rachel,” Camisha’s voice, thick with tears, was a tense, constrained whisper. “Don’t ask me to.”

  “I’m asking you—I’m begging you—to help me. If you ever loved me, please try to understand. He’s everything to me.” Rachel bit her lip, resting her hand on Camisha’s shuddering back.

  “Oh, God, Rachel!” Camisha cried, dissolving in wrenching sobs. Her voice was thin and high when she turned, and her face was contorted with grief. “Don’t you know? You could always read my mind. Now, you can’t even see what’s right in front of you. To save the man you love, I’ll have to condemn the man I love.”

  Through her tears, she saw the agony in Camisha’s eyes. Sickening realization settled over her. “No. Not Ashanti.”

  Camisha buried her face in her hands, and Rachel took her in her arms, absorbing the force of her fear. At last, a grim calm came over them, and they moved to sit on the straw pallet. When she finally spoke, it was with the soft-spoken grace Rachel had always loved in her.

  “Night before last, I was sent to the house with the news that you were back and calling for me. I didn’t feel very good about it, because I knew you wouldn’t ‘call’ for me. Ashanti didn’t want me to go. Still I went, because I thought it might be an emergency. The house was empty, and it was almost completely dark. When I got to the second floor, someone hit me over the head. And when I woke up, I was shackled to a bed.”

  Disgust filled Rachel.

  “And that damned Manning was there, with Letitia.” Camisha gave her a grave glance. “Then Manning thought he heard gunfire outside, so he went out to investigate. Letitia was standing over me with a riding crop, half naked, laughing this insane laugh as she hit me with it. And the next thing I knew, Ashanti was there, and he had her around the neck, choking her.

  She looked numb. She gazed vacantly at the floor, and she slowly shook her head. “He was in a blind rage. I’ve never seen anyone like that. But I made him stop—and I did not think he killed her. I still think she was just unconscious.”

  “What happened when Manning came back?”

  “Oh, we were long gone by then.”

  Rachel frowned. “I looked at the corpse. And there were bruises on her wrists.”

  Camisha pulled back one cuff, then the other. “Like these?”

  “Yes.” Rachel examined the ugly dark bruises at her wrists.

  “That was one sick woman. She had all kinds of devices you could never even imagine. Manning had probably used the same cuffs on her recently.”

  For several moments, they sat
in ponderous silence.

  Camisha exhaled. “The thing is, I really don’t think he killed her.”

  “He didn’t. The coroner says she drowned.”

  “Oh, okay, that makes sense. Then she was probably still alive when Manning came back, but he thought she was dead. And he figured he’d be executed for her death, so he threw her in the river.

  “Then, when somebody found her … How much you want to bet that son of a bitch is one of the witnesses they have against Grey?”

  Rachel felt sick. “They won’t really execute someone just based on the testimony of two people, will they?”

  “They will. Perjury’s a serious crime, Rachel. At least, back in these days it is. The only reason somebody’s going to lie is when the truth is going to get him killed.”

  “We’re going to have to tell someone about this.”

  “Rachel, do you know what they do to slaves who kill their owners?”

  “Ashanti isn’t a slave. And she had no right even to be at Rosalie. Grey had sent her away.”

  “They burn them at the stake,” Camisha went on, her voice shallow. “Then they behead them and quarter their bodies. And they place the head on a pole in town, to discourage other transgressors.”

  “Surely self-defense—”

  “Lord above. You’ve got a hundred-pound white woman, a freaking countess, and you think some 200-pound buck’s going to be able to convince anyone he was afraid of her?”

  “You were chained to the bed, and they were abusing you. Ashanti’s your husband—he had to stop it.”

  “And you think any of those slave owners sitting there on that council are going to care about some black wench—the common law wife of a man whose family is known as instigators—when the cousin of the blasted King’s attorney is dead?”

  Her mind raced. “What about Hastings? Where was he during all this? He had to have heard something.”

  “Carter Burwell had some kind of party, and Hastings went in Grey’s place. He stayed overnight.”

  Rachel pressed her face into her hands. “What are we going to do?”

  “We need somebody who’s respected … who’d believe—” she gasped, touching Rachel’s arm. “Find George Wythe.”

  Rachel’s head jerked up. “He knows Ashanti’s been missing. He was speaking of it the night he was here.”