by Megan Chance
Only the hard carapace of my dress kept me from dissolving before him. My corset felt cruelly tight; I could not breathe.
“Mrs. Cushing alleges that you were certain something terrible had happened to your husband—that you thought so long before any reasonable person would. ‘As if you had some superior knowledge,’ she said.”
“My God,” I whispered—surely there was nothing more now that could be done to me; surely there was not a single other hurt to be inflicted.
But Robert Callahan, as if he knew what little reserve of strength I had left, said, “Your husband’s family has alleged that you married your husband three years ago to get your hands on his fortune. That you manipulated him to write a will, and then you either murdered him yourself or had him murdered.” He paused, looking up from his paper with a gaze so coolly detached I could see no humanity within it. “What say you to these charges, Mrs. Atherton?”
“I want a lawyer.” Was that my voice? That thin and wispy sound?
“One will be appointed for you at your arraignment tomorrow morning.”
“My arraignment,” I repeated. I felt as if I were watching myself from far away, as if my body was not my own. “What time tomorrow? Where shall I present myself?”
“Present yourself? Oh, you needn’t worry. One of the guards will take you there.”
“They’ll pick me up? At what time?”
“They’ll retrieve you from the holding cell.”
I frowned. “From the holding cell?”
He gave me a cold smile. “Where did you think you were going, Mrs. Atherton? Home? Not until after your arraignment. And only if you can make bail. If they even set it, of course. I have several statements here from people claiming you’re likely to flee the city if you’re released. It seems no one really knows where you’re from.”
“I’m from here,” I managed. “I grew up in the city. My father… I was born on Duane Street. Near the market.”
“Were you?”
“I’ve never… I don’t know anywhere else. Where would I go?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Atherton.” He sighed again. “So, is there anything you wish to say? Any response to these accusations?”
Faintly, I said, “Only that I’m innocent.”
He nodded. Then he stood, and shouted, “Tyler!”
There was the sound of footsteps. The door opened, and my guard stuck his face back in. “Yes, sir?”
“Take Mrs. Atherton back to her cell.”
I remember nothing of the return to the basement. The next thing I knew, the barred door was closing firmly behind me, and my three companions were looking up with wary interest, and I went numbly to my bunk and curled as best as I could upon it, and waited out another sleepless night.
9
_
THINGS AREN’T ALWAYS
WHAT THEY SEEM
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 1857
The next morning, after a meager breakfast of bread and weak tea, I was escorted again from my cell. This time, I was put into a Black Maria—a police wagon—and taken to one of the district courts. I was weary and listless; I could not even bring myself to look around me as they hustled me from the carriage and into the building that housed the court. I could not have told where in the city I was.
The lawyer I’d asked for had not materialized. The patrolman who escorted me was quick to say that after the arraignment, I’d probably be taken to the Tombs, the notorious Egyptian-styled Halls of Detention at Leonard and Elm Streets, where I would wait out the weeks or months until my trial date, unless I could afford to pay whatever bail was set. If indeed it were set at all.
I listened to these sentiments with only half an ear. Callahan’s listing of the accusations against me had cluttered my mind all through the night. Irene Cushing’s betrayal had been hard to bear; I shuddered to think of all the things I had told her, all the secrets of my marriage I’d revealed. It was the knowledge of her duplicity that had finally stolen my hope. Dorothy Bennett had pledged me her support, but I wondered now if she would even remember. And as for the rest of the circle: the Dudleys, Sarah Grimm, Jacob Colville, and Wilson Maull… I’d seen no sign of them at Peter’s funeral. I knew they didn’t believe in such ceremonies, but in my despair their absence took on a new meaning. Their lack of help implied that Peter had been right to suspect one of them. They must know something about my husband’s murder, and now I was imprisoned and unlikely to discover it. I burned with resentment and anger, but it was better than my fear, and so I nurtured it.
The two patrolmen who had guard of me took me up the stone stairs to the courtroom, which was large, but stuffy and stinking even on this cold day, and ill lit, so the prisoners and policemen and lawyers moving about were cast as grotesque shadows against the wall behind the judges, who sat on a high dais flanked by large globed lamps. There was a cast-iron rail separating the audience from the judges, and between that and the dais was a step, also surrounded by a railing, at which a man stood now, conferring with a judge.
The courtroom was full; I saw reporters scribbling away in their notebooks, and family members crying into their handkerchiefs as they waited for their friends and relatives to be charged.
“Here, ma’am,” said one of my guards, directing me to a bench that lined the wall perpendicular to the audience, separated again by a railing. There were others on those benches too: several men, and one other woman, who gazed with mutinous silence on the proceedings. I sat down, and my guards sat on either side of me as I waited my turn. I found myself searching the courtroom for someone I knew, a friendly face, but there was no one, although several reporters studied me with interest. In dismay, I realized my name and misfortune would be splashed all over the newspapers by tomorrow.
Then, the back door of the courtroom opened, and I started as my relatives—all clad starkly in mourning—walked in. Paul first, and then John and Pamela. Penny came last, her face as pinched and sour as I’d ever seen it. Paul did not even occasion a glance in my direction, nor did John, but Pamela and Penny darted me vicious little looks.
“Looks like they wish you dead,” whispered one of my guards, chuckling. “I wouldn’t count on bail set today.”
The four of them took seats in the front row before the judges. It seemed clear that now the Athertons had arrived, my name would soon come before the judges, and I’d not yet seen any sign of a lawyer. Surely I’d been assigned a public defender? Anxiously I looked about, trying to catch sight of any harried, over-worked young man, but the few fitting that description were in conference with other prisoners.
Then the door opened again, and into the courtroom stepped Benjamin Rampling.
He looked so confident and self-assured in his dark suit and somber vest and necktie, so competent, and though I knew he was not on my side, I could not help feeling an overwhelming relief at his presence. I know I gasped; the sound was loud enough that he turned to look, and I watched in stunned disbelief as he stepped past the Athertons without a word and crossed the courtroom to me.
“Evelyn, my dear,” he said, and then surprisingly, his dark eyes went glassy with unshed tears. “How can you forgive me?”
I could not answer. I thought for a moment this must be a dream—how could he be here standing before me now? I struggled to keep what faint hope I had from rising.
He sat beside me on the bench and reached for my hand, clasping it between his. “You must have thought I’d abandoned you. Trust me when I say nothing was further from my mind.”
“But—where have you been? You—you weren’t at the funeral.”
“In Albany. The wretched case took longer than I’d hoped. I’m afraid I was away from my hotel for some days. I didn’t receive the telegram from the office until yesterday. I came as soon as I could.”
“Oh, Ben,” I whispered. Damnable tears filled my eyes; I could not stop them.
His hand tightened on mine. “How terrible this must have been for you. What you must have thought… I woul
d have done whatever I could to prevent it. Peter would never have wanted this.” He released my hand long enough to take a handkerchief from his pocket. When he offered it to me, I took it gratefully. Then I saw the avaricious way the reporters were watching, and I straightened and attempted to restore myself.
“I was afraid of what to think,” I admitted quietly. “When you sent no word—”
“You must believe I didn’t know. I’d assumed Peter had returned, that all was well. When I discovered what had happened… Dear God, Evelyn, I cannot apologize enough.”
I glanced toward the Athertons, who watched with bitter animosity, and murmured, “You don’t believe it then? The things they’re saying of me?”
“No, I don’t believe it.”
“Peter’s family means to see me hang.”
“They’ve been angry since Peter’s mother left him the house.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Peter protected you from it. My dear, there is so much we must speak about. I’ve contacted several people in the short time I’ve been back. I believe I can help you. Will you allow me to do so?”
I took a deep breath. “I’d be so grateful, Benjamin. Truly. It’s been so horrible! Everyone’s abandoned me, I’m afraid—”
“Not everyone. You’re not alone, my dear. There are still some who deplore what’s happened here.” His voice lowered with what seemed a fiercely contained anger, and he glanced quickly over his shoulder at Peter’s family. “This time, they shan’t get their way.”
I whispered, “Are you certain, Ben? Peter’s family can be formidable—”
“Peter would have wanted me to do this,” he told me. He looked as if he would say something more, but just then the bailiff’s voice rang out over the room.
“Mrs. Peter Atherton, approach the bench.”
Benjamin gave me a reassuring smile and helped me to my feet. He directed me past the benches, to the small table on the step before the judges, who looked down from their high desk like avenging angels.
“Benjamin Rampling representing Mrs. Peter Atherton,” Benjamin said, waiting while a secretary scratched his name onto a piece of paper.
One of the magistrates peered at me over the order before him. “Are you Mrs. Peter Atherton?”
I gripped the railing before me. My throat felt too dry to speak, but finally I answered, “I am, sir.”
“Evelyn Graff Atherton, you are charged with first-degree murder in the death of your husband, Mr. Peter Atherton, on January fifteenth, 1857. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
Again, the scratching of the pen. I heard the whispering behind me, the furious scribbling of the newspaper reporters.
“So noted,” said the judge. “We’ll set the trial date for Monday, March twenty-third, 1857. Will that give you sufficient time to prepare, Mr. Rampling?”
“It would, Your Honor. Now to the subject of bail. Mrs. Atherton begs for leniency. As you will note, Mrs. Atherton is an upstanding member of society—”
“Your Honor, sir, Mrs. Atherton is hardly upstanding.” The district attorney stepped forward. He motioned to Pamela and the others. “The family of Mrs. Atherton’s late husband believes she murdered him for his fortune. They state that before her marriage, Mrs. Atherton was not known. They’re uncertain where she came from. Surely three years of marriage is hardly enough time to solidify the ties that keep a criminal from taking flight. The crime itself was especially heinous. The state requests that bail be denied.”
“Denied?” Benjamin looked at him in disbelief and then back at the magistrate. “Your Honor, Mrs. Atherton was born and raised in this city, as anyone who has taken the time to investigate would know. In her life, she has seldom set foot out of it—before the last three years, when she summered at Saratoga with her husband and his family, never so.”
“Mrs. Atherton has nowhere to go,” protested the district attorney. “She is not welcome to stay with her husband’s family, and no one has come forward to vouch for her. We believe, Your Honor, that she may have unknown friends who would help her leave the city before the trial.”
Benjamin turned to him. In exasperation, he said, “Either she has no friends and will flee the city, or she has unknown friends who will help her flee. Which is it, Hall?”
The magistrate peered over the podium. “Did you have something to add, Mr. Burden?”
I glanced back to see that John had raised his hand. Now, he stood. “I do, Your Honor. Mrs. Atherton has shown herself capable of great duplicity. She has no family; her friends have shunned her. In short, she has no reason to remain in this city. Peter Atherton’s family wishes to see justice done. They would ask that Mrs. Atherton be kept safely behind bars.”
“Mrs. Atherton is a lady, Your Honor,” Benjamin objected. “And Mrs. Dorothy Bennett has given her word that Mrs. Atherton will be present for her trial. I myself will vouch for her as well.”
I looked at Benjamin in surprise, but he didn’t turn his gaze from the judge.
“Dorothy Bennett? Have you a paper to that effect, Mr. Rampling?”
“I do, sir.” Ben opened the case he carried, rummaging around until he found the proper document. He stepped forward and laid it upon the bench.
The judge picked it up and read it closely. Then, with a sigh, he set it down and turned to the district attorney, who was frowning. “Mr. Hall, have you any objection to Mrs. Bennett’s promise that Mrs. Atherton will be present for her trial?”
“Only that I don’t believe it, Your Honor. Mrs. Bennett has been ill these last years. I wonder if she knew what she was signing.”
“Not only did she know,” Benjamin responded tartly, “but she has lent her financial assets to the promise. Mrs. Bennett is willing to post bail for Mrs. Atherton.”
“Then bail is set in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars,” said the magistrate. “Mr. Rampling, you may make arrangements with the bailiff.”
It was over, and yet I couldn’t move. I stood speechless, my hands curled about the railing until Benjamin touched my shoulder and murmured, “Come, Evelyn. You’re free to go.”
I turned just in time to see my in-laws rising; Penny’s stare was venomous, and Pamela’s face was set. John did not bother to look at me, but Paul inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. Then the four of them left the courtroom.
It did not take long to secure my release. Benjamin took my arm, leading me from the district court and out to the street. He hailed a cab and helped me into it, spoke a few words to the driver, then climbed in to sit across from me.
“I’m so grateful to you,” I told him as the carriage started off. “But I’m afraid you’ll be as much a pariah in this city as I am, now that you’ve decided to help me.”
“I’ve no regrets,” he said.
“The Athertons have so much influence—it would have been much easier to let me face them alone.”
“Peter wouldn’t have wanted that,” he said.
“So you said, but I doubt he would have asked you to sacrifice so much—”
“You don’t think so?” His voice was quietly venomous. “Things aren’t always what they seem, Evelyn. Didn’t you wonder why Peter left everything to you?”
“He wanted to take care of me.”
“I’m certain he did. But he could have done so by leaving you a yearly income, which would have satisfied you and soothed his brothers and sisters as well. He didn’t do that. Don’t think that his disinheriting them was an accident. He did it deliberately.”
“But he loved his family—”
Ben snorted. “The biggest curse of Peter’s life was being an Atherton! There are tensions in that family you know nothing about, Evelyn. Suffice to say that it’s no sacrifice for me to oppose them. In fact, I relish the opportunity.”
I was taken aback. “I had no idea.”
He waved my comment away. “It’s enough for you to know that I dislike the Athertons on Peter’s account, but even
if that weren’t true, you and I are friends. I need no other reason to help you. I’ll hear nothing more about it. Now there are some things we must discuss. Some changes have occurred since you were arrested.”
“Changes? It’s been only two days.”
“More than long enough for this city,” he said grimly.
I leaned back as well as I could against the seat, raising the tang of onions and sweat from the stained upholstery—still a better smell than the mildewy, stinking jail scent that clung to my skin and hair. I wanted desperately to change from these wretched clothes I’d worn since my husband’s funeral.
“I’m exhausted, Ben. Can’t it wait until we reach the house? I imagine Penny will throw a fit when I ask her to leave, but if you’re there—”
“We’re not going to the house.”
“We’re not?”
He gave me a sober look. “The Athertons have taken it over pending the trial.”
I forgot my clothes and my exhaustion. “They can’t do that. Peter left it to me.”
Ben laughed shortly and bitterly. “Are you really so naive, Evie? The Athertons have conspired to have you arrested since the moment they learned the contents of Peter’s will. A few bribes, one or two discussions with police commissioners… No, the house is theirs. You won’t be able to dislodge them, and you’ll be arrested again if you show up on the doorstep.”
I stared at him in disbelief. My rage over the injustice was so overwhelming it was all I could do to keep still. “They’d have me on the street? I won’t let them do this!”
“Come, Evie. You’ve lived among the upper ten long enough to know how things work. You’ve no power here. However, you do have other options. Dorothy Bennett’s been quite a friend—she asked that you stay with her, but I’ve taken lodgings for you at a boardinghouse near mine. Very respectable, though it will be quite a comedown in circumstance for you, I’m afraid. The court has approved it on the condition that a watchman be posted out front to make certain you don’t flee.”