I cringed and shrank back in my seat, jolted by the sudden noise. My breath quickening, I glanced toward the door, debating whether I should flee to Macy then and there, before anything worse happened. Only my legs wouldn’t move, as if my own body rejected the notion.
Isaac’s gaze pivoted on me for the first time in days. His eyes bespoke that I remain calm. Then he shook out his napkin unhurriedly, though the jut of his jaw showed stubbornness. “I take it they printed my letter to Mr. Macy, then?”
My father gave an inarticulate scream as he swiped his place setting to the floor.
I jumped, covering my ears.
“How could you not have consulted me?” My father stood and fisted the tablecloth, bending forward. “Have you any idea the damage you’ve just caused?” My father’s mouth trembled, but whether from tears, anger, or both was impossible to say. “I won’t allow it! I won’t!” He pounded the table with his fist.
Isaac never changed expression, though he wrapped his fingers about his teacup as if seeking warmth and comfort there. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think you have a choice.”
With both hands, my father wrenched the cloth from the table. Dishes crashed to his feet in a mighty clatter before he kicked them and stomped from the chamber.
Isaac said nothing but kept his blue eyes trained on me. His skin was the palest I’d ever seen it. “Forgive me, Julia, for having done this without consulting you, but Evelyn is right. It would have been the breaking of you.”
Jameson retrieved the paper from amongst the porcelain shards and set it before me.
I gave Isaac a questioning look, then opened the newspaper.
Isaac had sent a letter to all the papers, expressing his desire for a compromise with Mr. Macy. In his clear, precise style, he argued how the neutrality of his position, plus his privileged knowledge of me, gave him the clearest vision. He toppled the debate of who should represent me in an unexpected manner. He stated that, given the circumstances, he could see Mr. Macy’s point and agree. Isaac called for a truce, arguing that without acknowledging Mr. Macy as my legal husband, an agreement could easily be reached by allowing Macy to pay for my legal defense, with a concession that Isaac alone would pick the barrister to represent me. He gave the name of one whom he trusted, but who was wholly unconnected with the case and with either party. Isaac publicly proclaimed that it would greatly reduce the stress on me, as I feared Mr. Macy but trusted Isaac. And it would relieve Mr. Macy’s mind, who believed my father was poisoning me against him.
“I don’t understand,” I finally said.
“She’s not been following the papers,” Jameson said softly behind me. Then to me, “For the last couple of days, lass, Macy has declared his right to choose your legal counsel, as he’s your husband. The papers have been abuzz with the argument. He claims your father’s learned counsel is being too harsh in their care of you, pressuring you to change your testimony. Your father denies it, but Macy claims a sympathetic staff member has secretly come and told him you’re growing fragile beneath the strain your father is placing on you.”
My heart hammered as I stared at the black-and-white print. How on earth had Macy known that I was shattering? The only servants I recalled seeing were Jameson and Nancy. But then again, I hadn’t exactly been paying attention.
I couldn’t even speak as I looked to Isaac. Unable to help it, I confirmed, “Then you don’t think me mad?”
Isaac rubbed his temples. “Oh, at this point, I think we’re all mad as hatters.”
Still in disbelief, I stared at the paper in my hands. “Have we any chance of winning? I mean, without the argument my father planned to use?”
Isaac’s expression filled me with gravity, but he remained silent.
It was impossible to feel fear, however. For I had just been redeemed from one of the darkest pits. Like a man unexpectedly pulled out of the Bastille, I was more amazed at the glimpse of the stars than I was concerned about how to finish the escape plan. I hadn’t realized how badly I wanted a chance—even an impossible one.
I clutched the paper against my chest, savoring the respite.
“With your permission, Lord Dalry, I’d like to inquire what Mrs. Auburn was thinking during the past few days,” Jameson said slowly, moving back to the buffet, where he could see me. “When Edward learned you’d stopped speaking, he ordered me to keep two eyes on you at all times.”
“You’ve seen Edward?” I faced him, hungry for news.
Jameson only frowned. “Yes, and he worried that your refusal to speak was a sign you were about to do something bullheaded and contrary.” He crossed his arms. “Did the boy guess right?”
When he wished to be, Jameson could be austere. In return, I felt contrary. “Yes. If it came down to a choice between being imprisoned in a lunatic asylum or fleeing to Macy, I was going to Macy.”
Both Jameson and Isaac recoiled, but for different reasons.
“Balderdash!” Jameson swung an outraged hand in the air. “Who fed you that bold lie! No one would dare send you to a place like that!” He gestured to Isaac. “Tell her!”
Isaac stared at me, aghast. “How could you even consider that? That man murdered your mother.”
I felt the cords of my throat tighten as I pointed in the direction of the library. “Make no mistake; if my father would commit me into such a place, then I would do whatever is necessary to survive. Whatever is necessary.”
Neither Jameson nor Isaac responded for a long moment. Whether my words awoke in them pity, awareness, or shame, I could not tell. It was Isaac who spoke first. “Promise me this, then. From now on, allow me to handle these matters.”
I swallowed. “I can’t promise. If someone comes to cart me away, I will do what I must.”
“No one—” Jameson’s voice shook with anger—“will take you anywhere.”
Isaac held up his hands. “If I give you my troth that nothing like that will happen to you, can I get your agreement?”
I gritted my teeth but nodded.
One blessing flowed after another that day. A joyous Evelyn Greenley showed up within an hour. Apparently visitors had been prohibited from London House, preventing any chance of my father’s defense being damaged. Evelyn’s cheeks radiated with a pink glow as she flew across the chamber. Laughing, she ran to Isaac first and embraced him. Her skirt swished to one side as she took a step back. “I knew you would find a way!” She clapped her hands. “I just knew it! Ben would be so proud. He would! Thank you, oh, thank you!”
Isaac looked pained but gave her a slight bow.
Then, spinning and greeting me as enthusiastically, Evelyn joined me on the settee. “I can see you’ve suffered. How I wish I’d been allowed to be here with you, but it’s over now. I won’t leave you at all today. I’ve brought my sewing and cancelled all visits.”
I felt my mouth twist into a queer smile, for allowing someone back into my life—after having shut everyone out again—was still exceedingly painful. Yet I also knew that Evelyn had played a part in helping to save me too.
Tears blurred my eyes as I decided to accept her, without walls, without defenses, to just admit I was weak too. Her fingers were long and pale compared to mine as I slipped my hand in hers. “Thank you.” My voice came out soft and small. “I needed someone today.”
Isaac stilled as his keen gaze fastened on us. Though his face wore no expression, his ebullient eyes were alive with an emotion I could not name.
That night during dinner, the bell jangled, splintering my world anew.
Twisting my napkin beneath the table, I eyed the three doors, planning which one to take if necessary. My father threw his napkin on his plate. “What the deuce now? James, answer it!” He glowered in Isaac’s direction. “Are you expecting anyone?”
Isaac collected his wineglass. “No. No one.”
Rain pattered against the leaded panes as I strained my ears to hear the exchange in the hall. I surmised it wasn’t more magistrates, for their tones h
ad been quite harsh. I wondered if Mr. Goodbody might have shown up, demanding to know what had happened to his case. I inched forward in my seat just in case it might be that man Hutchinson from the asylum.
A moment later James returned with a young man wearing silver spectacles. Friendly brown eyes met mine as his full lips curved in a smile. He wore side-whiskers that came halfway down his cheeks, though they didn’t suit him. Thick, damp hair graced his head instead of a hat. He wore a half cape, under which was a layered cravat. The bit of frock coat that peeked through had a rolled silk collar—the combined effect made him appear top-heavy. In his hands he carried a satchel, and beneath his arms he had rolled papers that were the size of blueprints or maps. They were wrapped in waxed paper and beaded with water.
“Whitney!” Isaac found his feet. “My word, but I’m heartened to see you!”
Mr. Whitney bowed, his smile growing. “Dalry! Not as glad as I am to be alive to see you. I’ve had quite an adventure today. Though you shall learn more about that in a moment. What was the idea with the paper this morning?”
My father steepled his fingers. “Mr. Cudney Whitney, barrister at law, I presume.” His tone was nearly guttural. “So I take it that Isaac didn’t inform you of his stunt, either?”
“Both your assumptions are correct. No, I had not a clue what was coming. You should have seen the Inner Temple. The senior members were running about each other’s offices aghast.” Mr. Whitney bowed to my father, setting his travelling case on an empty chair. He then removed the rolled papers from beneath his arm and added them to the growing pile. “I take it I am finally standing in the presence of Lord Pierson? I do hope the stories about you and your famous temper turn out to be true.” He smiled politely as he unbuttoned the top of his cape. “You were a legend amongst us boys at Eton, you know.”
My father glared in Isaac’s direction.
Mr. Whitney’s fingers started on his scarf, which had been knotted in a helical fashion. “Oh no, not Isaac, sir. Ben told all the tales.”
My father dug a finger into his cheek and glared at Mr. Whitney with a look of intense dislike.
With a grin, Mr. Whitney shrugged off his cape as he addressed Isaac. “And here I thought Ben exaggerated.”
Isaac stood and gestured to an empty spot. “Will you join us?”
Mr. Whitney turned his smiling face in my direction and bowed. “I will if my client gives me leave.”
“Client?” My father frowned. “I don’t recall hiring you for the representation of my daughter.”
“Well, that’s an interesting story, actually.” Mr. Whitney deposited his cape over the back of a chair, then tugged on the fingers of his gloves. “This morning after my name was discovered in Dalry’s appeal, and right about the same hour the senior bar members were all demanding answers as to what I was about being publicly named in this case, four men arrived—brawny ones, I might add.”
My father drummed his free hand on the arm of his chair.
“Shoulders of at least the width of two men.” Mr. Whitney spread his hands as if to demonstrate. “There were no cards, no introductions, just the simple statement that Macy wished an audience with me. Before I could object, I was blindfolded and forcibly shoved into a carriage.” Candlelight cast a sheen over his spectacles as he looked at me. “Do I have your permission to sit?”
I gave a slight nod, feeling my father’s wrath turn in my direction.
Jameson pulled out a chair, while William poured the newcomer wine.
“Thank you, my good man.” Mr. Whitney swirled the glass beneath his nose, inhaling. Then to Jameson, “Would you mind fetching me pen and ink too? I must begin working straightaway.”
“During dinner?” My father’s eyes narrowed.
“Quite right. Now where was I? Ah, yes!” He faced Isaac. “The next thing I know, I’m dragged through some blowsy tavern and pushed upstairs, where I finally meet the infamous Mr. Macy.” He paused so William could set his plate and glasses. A desk mat, inkwell, and pen were also set before him, provided by Jameson. Mr. Whitney divested his waistcoat of a small packet of cigarette papers. “I don’t smoke,” he explained, “but I find these sheets most useful.” He opened his bag, consulted a sheet of paper, scrawled a new note of several lines, then pulled out a second sheet and scrawled several more lines. He handed the first one to Jameson. “I’ll need these books fetched from Lord Pierson’s library. Bring them immediately, please.”
My father seemed both fascinated and rebuffed. “And what makes you think I own those particular books?”
“Oh, Mr. Macy was quite thorough.” Mr. Whitney pinched the tip of his nose as if to satisfy an itch. “He had a list of your books—kept track of them in a rather thick ledger, as a matter of fact. He also had made a list of books he found your library to be lacking. He wants his wife well represented—”
“His wife?” Isaac asked.
Mr. Whitney gave a soft smile. “Ah, yes, there are rather odd contingencies. One being that while in London House, I must refer to my client as his wife, though I have permission to call her Mrs. Auburn if she wishes it.”
My father looked dumbstruck as he shook his head.
Before he could ask, Mr. Whitney supplied, “He feels it will help her adjust, as he is most confident you shall lose.” Mr. Whitney looked directly at me. “But I always win my cases, and even though your husband is paying my bills, I consider myself to be working solely for you. This promises to be the trial! Likely it will define my career, so you can feel free to trust that I shall do my best to win, or at the very least, to tie it up in court indefinitely.” Before anyone could speak, Mr. Whitney handed the second list to Jameson, directing him to hand it to Lord Pierson. “These are the books Mr. Macy suggests you buy to best help prove that Mrs. Auburn is not married to him.” He grinned at Isaac. “All my ethics training went straight out the window today.”
“Jameson, go see if the books on that first list are all in my library,” my father ordered. Then to Mr. Whitney, “How the deuce would he know what’s there?”
Mr. Whitney pulled a book from his bag and opened it. “Your guess is likely to be better than mine.”
“And tell me why I would buy the books he recommends?”
Mr. Whitney peered over the top of his spectacles. “Would it not make sense for me to know the arguments he’s already prepared to combat, rather than go in blindly planning my entire defense without them? At least he’s had the decency to share his groundwork.”
I picked up my wine goblet and turned my attention on Isaac. For the first time in days, he looked unburdened. He leaned back in his chair with an air of relief.
“Now then,” Mr. Whitney said, smiling at my father and opening a ledger. “If you’re willing, Lord Pierson, I’d like to hear your arguments. Mind, though, that our conversation will likely be repeated to Macy. Your daughter and I shall need to meet privately, of course.” He glanced at Isaac, his mouth pursed. “Mr. Macy has suggested we use your snuggery, though he cautions that you’ll need to cover the floor vent to keep the servants belowstairs from hearing.”
“How could he possibly know about that?” Isaac asked.
Mr. Whitney gave a mild shrug. I looked at the chair Mr. Forrester usually occupied, glad he wasn’t here to conjecture his theory.
My father sat back and crossed his arms, looking dismayed. “How—?” Cutting himself off, he stood. “We need to check every chamber, talk to every staff member.”
Mr. Whitney’s nose wrinkled. “Why are we doing that when we have so little time?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” my father snapped.
“Not to me. Not when Macy has already told me which rooms to avoid when I want privacy with my client.” Mr. Whitney straightened, looking to Isaac to explain it.
My father gripped the back of his chair, leaning forward. “And you trust him?” He spoke very slowly. “The man who has just proven himself unethical by admitting there are chambers in my own home where I can’t
have a private conversation?”
“Given the circumstances,” Mr. Whitney asked as though also stating the obvious, “why wouldn’t I?”
Half-smiling, Isaac leaned forward. “I fear I don’t follow your thought process either, Whitney.”
Mr. Whitney paused and stared as if finding it extraordinary they hadn’t already bridged this idea. He looked at me. “But you understand, yes, Mrs. Auburn?”
I felt my father’s displeasure that I’d been invited to speak, making me feel like a mouse charged with addressing a party of cats. I clenched my skirts. “I agree we should take the advice, though I couldn’t tell you why.”
“Intuitive. Good.” He nodded approval. “We shall make a good team.” He smiled. “That is, if you agree that I may represent you.”
I gave a slight nod, as it felt right.
“Well. That’s at least officially settled.” He turned to Isaac. “As far as saving time by simply following Mr. Macy’s instructions, it’s just logical. Obviously he intends to show us his dominance and cause consternation. It would scarcely suit his purposes if his information proved faulty. What he meant to put us in a dither now simply can give us peace of mind. After we win the trial, we’ll have to remember to send him thank-you notes.”
Isaac’s laugh was golden.
Even my father loosened and considered the list. “Fine. I’ll buy the books. Use Isaac’s snuggery.”
Mr. Whitney again looked in my direction and nodded at me as if to say this was going much better than he’d hoped.
All at once I realized this was my barrister! Not Merrick nor Goodbody! A sense of relief filled me as Jameson returned with a pile of books. Mr. Whitney pointed to where he wanted them.
I sank back in my chair, stunned at how much better I felt, for he instilled confidence. Mr. Whitney had somehow managed to hurdle both Macy and my father—each an impossible feat by itself. Stunned, I looked over the books and papers spread about him. Not only that, he’d managed to intrude upon one of Lord Pierson’s impenetrable dinners as naturally as if he were dropping in for tea with his grandmother. Surely here was a prayer answered!
Price of Privilege Page 33