Price of Privilege

by Jessica Dotta

  “Aye, people without enough sense to dress themsells are always happy to see their abigails.” Then, after a pause, “What’s this here? Is this Reverend Auburn’s?”

  I shot straight out of bed, knowing exactly what she’d uncovered. “Don’t touch that,” I cried, snatching it from her fingers. The night of Edward’s arrest, I’d found his nightshirt still tucked in the bedclothes. The maid must have missed it as she arranged the bed. It had comforted me to sleep with something that had his scent that first night. But then, not wanting it to be laundered, I’d stashed it in the wardrobe.

  I dipped my head, seeing Nancy’s punctured expression. “Please, just leave it be.”

  I gathered my skirts as I raced down the stairs, once again amazed at Nancy’s abilities. The ivory gown she’d picked out was one she’d commissioned at Am Meer. It mimicked a short-sleeved dress, only it had sheer sleeves—which I could have blessed her for, as close as the snuggery felt the previous night. The frills were kept at a minimum, though she’d hand-selected my jewelry pieces. Her fingers were raw and cracked, so she wore a pair of my gloves as she wove ribbons in my hair that brought the simple look together with elegance.

  Both Isaac and Mr. Whitney rose as I entered the chamber.

  “Are you ready to begin, Mrs. Auburn?” Mr. Whitney indicated one of the two chairs resting before the hearth. They’d been turned to face the desk and the timeline.

  I gave a nod and took my seat.

  “I won’t need you as long today. I’ve a few questions I thought of during the night.” He placed his hands on both his knees. “But in good conscience, I need to ask again whether you’re absolutely certain Goodbody’s defense isn’t legitimate.” He held up a hand before I could protest. “Please say nothing before I outline our position. Once I’ve done so, you can decide.”

  Isaac’s face was the picture of refinement as he slowly blinked, waiting for Mr. Whitney to continue.

  Mr. Whitney faced me. “First, I ought to make it clear that you’re not Mr. Macy’s legal wife.”

  I placed my hands over my heart. Had shackles fallen off my feet, I could not have felt more free. “You’re certain?”

  In what seemed like an absentminded gesture, Mr. Whitney picked up the pen from last night and started to tap it. “There are things about Mr. Macy that, if true, mean he is not legally married under English law. Do you understand me, Mrs. Auburn?”

  My eyes were drawn to the pen. My mouth parted as I gave a slight nod. How could I not have been considering this as part of the equation beforehand? Macy had married me under a false identity. Of course we weren’t married.

  “This is stunning news!” Isaac grew so excited he stood. “But why the glum face, the angle to plead insanity?”

  “I can’t use it in court.”

  “What do you mean you can’t use it?”

  Mr. Whitney set down the pen. “It’s not something that I can prove.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.”

  “On my word—” Isaac swivelled his body to look at me—“but I’m about to grow as angry as your father. I’m even considering swearing.” Then, after closing his eyes and forcing a deep breath, he looked at Whitney. “Tell me what you need. If I have to walk the earth twice over, I’ll find it.”

  “It’s not that simple, Dalry.”

  Isaac drew in a careful breath, then slowly said, “What harm can it do to try?”

  Mr. Whitney answered with a sharp look. “You’d be killed if you started asking questions. It’s that simple.”

  “You know what?” Isaac’s voice rose a pitch. “I’m sick and tired of hearing how I’ll die if I defy Macy. Well, I defy him! Give me this task!”

  “Fine.” Mr. Whitney looked ceilingward as he loosened his cravat. “Try this one out. Will you take the stand and testify that Macy is Adolphus?”

  Isaac’s nose wrinkled. “How would that help? They’ll think we’re grasping at straws and laugh us out of court.”

  Mr. Whitney spread his hands. “Trust me. They’d do similarly with what I’m not telling you.”

  “But I’m not married to Mr. Macy,” I finally managed to wedge in. “Truly! I’m not married to him.”

  Mr. Whitney gave me a pitying look. “Yes, according to British law, you are not married.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re about today, Whitney, but you’re frustrating me.” Isaac threw himself onto his seat. “Why such a coy answer? What are you not saying?”

  Mr. Whitney’s entire body paused as he addressed me. “What I meant to say was that you’re not married to anyone. Julia Pierson is not your real identity, which means your marriage to Edward isn’t legal either.”

  My hands moved of their own accord to my abdomen, for that morning I had learned I was not with child. I had been disappointed, for I’d hoped it might sway the courts. But now I was thankful at least I hadn’t repeated Mama’s path.

  Isaac placed a supportive hand on my forearm.

  “The courts, however,” Mr. Whitney continued, “will likely pronounce you Macy’s wife, at which time you will be recognized legally as the wife of Mr. Chance Macy. Do you understand now what a curious segment of time we’re in? What we do here and now determines everything.”

  “Then shed light on this technicality,” Isaac said.

  “How can I without making her look mad or proving Macy’s case that Lord Pierson poisoned her mind? Personally I think trying to bring it to light will only bolster Macy’s argument that Lord Pierson used his daughter to injure him. Which leads us back to my original question: are you absolutely certain Goodbody’s defense isn’t legitimate? Think carefully how you answer, for I have a duty to uphold the law, which is higher than the duty of friendship.”

  “Then it’s too late,” Isaac replied. “For as you can see, she’s sane! And it would be unethical for you to say otherwise.”

  “Or we’re all mad.” I twisted the linen handkerchief. “And no one has ever been sane.”

  Mr. Whitney looked at Isaac and spread his steepled hands slightly apart as if to say he could argue in court by holding that hypothesis in his mind.

  Isaac waved to the timeline above Whitney’s head. “Have we grown so ungentlemanly that we’re no longer protecting the innocent? Look at her life spread over that wall behind you, Cudney. Are we now amongst those who trample over her as well? You remember Elliston’s visit to the university and how he abused that poor devil for misplacing his lecture notes. That was the man she lived under for years. How dare we turn our backs? Can you imagine being so desperate you’d entrust yourself into the hands of Lady Foxmore?”

  Mr. Whitney glanced at the timeline, then rubbed his bleary eyes. When he looked up, however, he smiled as he shook his head. “You know that you’re asking me to deliver a miracle, don’t you?”

  “Isn’t that our main forte?” Isaac’s voice was rich with a tone that was new to me. “Accomplishing the impossible?”

  To my surprise, Mr. Whitney instantly brightened. “You can’t use my words against me! I was only thirteen. You can’t hold me accountable to that!”

  “Oh yes, I can!” Isaac faced me, his eyes shining. “When I reached the tender age of twelve, your father decided it was time to begin garnering support amongst the Tories for me. He wanted them to see me as a solid candidate to start grooming for the role of prime minister. He sent a note to my school saying that, instead of taking me home over the break, he’d arranged for us to go hunting with members of the party. I was instructed to prepare arguments about the bills currently before Parliament, and my instructions were that I needed to greatly impress them.”

  “But your father forgot to tell him which bills he meant,” Mr. Whitney added with a laugh. “And Isaac only had a week’s notice.”

  “And it was the same week as examinations!” Isaac sounded more boyish than he ever had.

  “And Isaac had been sick the fortnight beforehand, so he’d not only missed t
he last week of lessons but the lectures intended to prepare us for examinations. It was paramount that Isaac got top-notch grades—”

  “The first question they always asked on our arrival—” Isaac adjusted his sitting position as he forgot himself and interrupted—“was what grades I’d received that term. The whole party took pride in the fact that I got perfect marks.”

  “And,” Mr. Whitney laughed, “your father demanded he brush up on his shooting skills as well.”

  Isaac faced me. “Because I had missed a grouse on our last trip and Lord Galway’s son, Richard, took a shot and hit it.”

  “You mean Dickee.” Mr. Whitney took on a tone of snobbery.

  Isaac groaned, but his voice laughed. “Yes. Do you remember how Lord Galway and Pierson were always at that infernal competition as to which one of us boys was superior? And at that time I hadn’t handled a rifle in months.”

  Mr. Whitney picked up the story. “Because Simmons delivered the letter in person, the headmaster brought it to the common room, so we all read it together. Isaac felt so ill he actually lost the contents of his sto—”

  Isaac shook his head at Whitney, reminding him a lady was present. “I complained that it was impossible. Even then, Whitney was an excellent orator. He stood on the table and gave a speech about how the impossible was our forte and when we accomplished the impossible, history would carry our names until the end of time.”

  They laughed as they recalled how his impassioned, childish speech had motivated Isaac into action. For their sakes, I smiled. But inwardly I felt grieved at the image painted of Isaac’s childhood. Somehow those memories emboldened both of them, though, for when Mr. Whitney returned to the argument of my marriage, there was a sense of adventure the two of them shared, one I was barred from.

  Isaac was the first to notice and sobered instantly. “Forgive us, Julia. We did not mean to exclude you nor take more of your time than necessary.” To Whitney, “So what is our plan now?”

  Mr. Whitney likewise adopted a more formal position and nodded his apologies. “Well, based on everything I know, the strongest argument we have is that the marriage is unconsummated and you did not personally sign your name in the parish registry. We’re weakest in that there are witnesses to the marriage and there are witnesses who can testify you and Mr. Macy spent long periods of unsupervised time together thereafter.”

  I crossed my arms, recalling how Macy refused to let me go home the night he murdered Eramus. Had he known he was killing two birds with one stone by keeping me there?

  “Goodbody is meeting with your father this morning, and they’ve requested an audience with me at ten. Before I commit to a plan, I’d like to hear what they’ve got to say. I’d also like to meet with this Reverend Auburn fellow—”

  I nearly stood. “May I go with you?”

  Mr. Whitney’s tone was kind. “I fear not. Right now it’s nothing short of a miracle you haven’t been arrested. We’re not going to flaunt the fact that you’re still free.”

  “Can I send him a message?”

  “Nothing written. It could be twisted and used as evidence. Tell me what you’d like me to say instead.”

  I frowned, wanting to send Edward something to keep his inner fire alive. But it was too embarrassing to commit such words to Mr. Whitney. Unlike the others in our foursome, I wasn’t good at cryptic messages. Usually people told me what was being said between the lines. Then, realizing that Mr. Whitney might deliver the devastating news that we weren’t married, I decided to touch on that, to let Edward know I wasn’t sinking like before. “Tell him . . . tell him . . . that I’m still me.”

  Mr. Whitney’s laugh was hearty, yet inoffensive. “I’m fairly certain he knows that. Anything else?”

  I knew Edward would be worried that I wasn’t eating, as I had stopped the last time we were separated. If so, he likely hoped Jameson was stepping in. Thus I wanted to communicate something to ease his mind. “Yes, please tell him Jameson is still himself too.”

  Again Mr. Whitney laughed, then teased, “Shall I tell him that your father and Isaac are still themselves?”

  “No!” I said too quickly. “That would only distress him.”

  Mr. Whitney flashed Isaac a humored look. “Very well, then. I shall deliver your message exactly as you have stated it. Are you willing to go over our timeline again? I want to test it for weaknesses.”

  I looked at his chart, wishing I’d never laid eyes on it. Not only was it painful to see Edward’s blue line against Isaac’s short yellow one and Macy’s sinister black one, but it was the cigarette papers themselves that sickened me. Each one held a true fact about me. But not one spoke the truth about who I was. Yes, I had partaken of brandy and had kissed Edward while engaged to Macy. Yes, I’d run away from my husband and kissed Edward again. Yes, I’d lied to the queen and the prime minister. Yes, I’d kissed and betrothed myself to Isaac next. Yes, I’d made choice after choice based on fear.

  On that timeline, I saw myself the way those without eyes of love saw me.

  The depth of who I was, the dream God had spoken over me at my birth, was missing from the story and unseen.

  When I looked at those papers, all the insults Lady Foxmore and Lady Beatrice had piled on me, the opinions of Mrs. Windham, the anger of my father, and the outrage of the crowds outside London House—all felt just.

  And the worst part was, outside of pleading insanity, I had no defense.

  “Yes,” I whispered because my throat was gnarled. “We can go over it again.”

  Isaac turned his gaze on the timeline and studied it as if trying to guess which one of those papers had altered my mood in a matter of seconds. Then, scooting his chair closer to mine as if to reassure me by his presence, he leaned forward and said, “They’re just words.”

  I kept my gaze fixed on my transgressions as I nodded. Rationally I agreed, but I felt their weight regardless. Now I find it ironic that, only minutes after sending a verbal message to Edward that I was still me, I lost sight of myself by focusing on my misdeeds.

  Shame will unmake and warp any soul.

  The newspapers couldn’t print fast enough to satiate public interest.

  Initially I read every single one, dashing downstairs to scan them first in case there was anything particularly devastating. My heart pounding, I’d read sensationalized versions of events and spend the remainder of the day torn between anger and hopelessness. It was Jameson who convinced me to change my habit. On the fourth morning, I rushed into the breakfast chamber and grabbed the Times, which for some reason was at the bottom of the stack. Jameson spun from the buffet and held out a hand to stop me.

  The first headline, however, screamed before he could.

  EMERALD HEIRESS OR TOILETED FILLY?

  I gasped. Had a bucket of muck been thrown on me, I could not have felt more humiliated. Heat filled my cheeks, for even I understood the references—that I was an overdressed woman who galloped between men at racing speed. How well I could picture my father’s coming expression when he saw this, and Isaac’s tender hurt. I shook my head, knowing that even if I burned this, I couldn’t stop it from being circulated throughout London. My body warming, I started to read the article, but Jameson’s touch on my shoulder startled me.

  “Why read it?” he gently asked.

  “Because,” I said, feeling my throat constrict, “I need to know what they’re saying.”

  “Why? People are going to believe what they will. Can you change the public’s view just by reading?”

  Sunlight highlighted one side of his kindly face. For the first time, I noticed how aged he’d become in London House. I drew in a breath, wanting to argue that yes, the more I found out, the better prepared I’d be to counter their thoughts. But Evelyn’s words carried back to me. Just knowing what people said would make it impossible to act normal, making me appear more awkward. My shyness and pain would only be interpreted as guilt.

  “Do you feel more peaceful after reading those?
” Jameson continued softly.

  “No,” I said. The idea that newspaper boys were spreading this throughout the city even now was sickening. A gleaming stack of papers, turned upside down, still awaited my father. Did they also call me a filly?

  “May I offer you advice, O queen?” Jameson asked. He waited until I acknowledged him. “Don’t read them. Spend your time differently.”

  Intense anger flashed through me. “How will I know what is happening, then? My father refuses to speak to me, and Isaac is always behind his mask.” My fingers curled into fists as I tried to keep my pitch from extending outside those walls. “And Mr. Whitney hasn’t stopped by once since he spoke to Goodbody! How do I know he hasn’t decided to go with my father’s defense?”

  Though he tried to hide it, Jameson’s mouth twitched as he nodded in approval.

  “Why are you smiling?” I said, deflated. “I’m yelling at you.”

  He chuckled and brought a porcelain cup and saucer from the buffet. “Oh, I rather like a faerie in a fine temper now and then, so long as they don’t unleash a plague of boils. Here, sit. I don’t know how the faerie courts handle these sorts of things, but we British always find a spot of tea soothing at this point.”

  “You’re not angry?”

  “Oh, I’ve had much worse in my fifty years of service.” He smiled, setting out a silver teapot, loose tea, and its strainer. “Once, in Africa, I angered my master so much, he threw my only boots into a mud hole with crocodiles. I had to wear shoes, which weren’t made for the terrain, I might add. You wouldn’t believe the blisters that week.”

  His story was so jarring in our setting that I didn’t know which direction to take next. Knowing I looked confused, I reached for the teapot. But a glance at the headlines made it weigh a thousand pounds. I found it was beyond my ability to even pour a cup of tea.

  “Do we agree you’ll ignore the papers?” Jameson refolded the Times and stuck it at the bottom of the stack.

  I swallowed, nodding, knowing those words would never be erased. They would defame me a hundred years from now. Until the end of time, perhaps. One day historians would discuss how scandalous I was.