“Fine.” I kneaded my temples. “But isn’t the jury going to expect something incriminating about Macy now too?”
Mr. Whitney frowned. “Well, we’re also hoping that Forrester turns up with information.”
“Forrester?” My laugh sounded crazed even as tears arose. I’d nearly forgotten about him. “Please, please tell me that my defense doesn’t rest with that man. He would toss me to Macy if allowed.” Then, before they could speak, “And if we never hear from him again?”
Mr. Whitney breathed out his nose with the air of a man telling himself to be patient, not to remind me that he already tried his hardest to get me to claim mental unsoundness. He began to unpack his satchel. “I swear to you, Mrs. Auburn, I’m doing the best with what I have.”
“Can we still tie this up indefinitely in court?” I asked, recalling his statement from the first night.
He hesitated before adding a book to his stack. “Normally yes, but I’ve never seen anything like your case before. Every door opens for me; every petition for a legal interruption of the law is answered immediately. I’ve known cases that have waited years to have a single document make it from second-to-the-top of the stack to the top. But not yours. Everything is treated as though the clerk’s life depends—” He clamped his mouth shut.
I stood and folded my hands over my stomach, needing movement. Only there wasn’t any space to pace. For one desperate moment, all I wanted was an audience with Edward. The desire was so overwhelming, I had to shut my eyes and wait for the fierce emotion to pass. When I opened them, both Isaac and Mr. Whitney carefully scrutinized me.
“Then why are you here?” I asked, digging my fingers into my hair, remembering too late it was in plaits. It took several seconds to untangle my fingers, and when I did, a single plait fell over my brow.
Mr. Whitney appeared unable to keep his focus off my hair as he spoke. “We believe it is a ploy to gain public sympathy, but Macy is expressing his great desire to meet with you in public.”
I started to shake my head.
“Now hear me out. I think it’s vital that you agree to this meeting. The longer you refuse his pleas—and they’re quite heart-wrenching—the less sympathetic the jury will feel toward you. Now is the time to prove that Macy’s claims are false. That you’re not afraid of him and that you are open to reason.”
The ringing in my ears began at a distance, but it steadily increased. “I am reasonable!” I cried. “Because it’s completely unreasonable to expect me to take tea with Mama’s murderer!”
“The difficulty with that argument,” Mr. Whitney said, “is that the public isn’t aware of it, and we must do what seems reasonable to them.”
Again I shook my head. I understood the importance and the truth of what he was saying, but I couldn’t keep track of one more reality—what other people knew or didn’t know. I could only act on what I knew was true, whether that made me look rational or not. “No,” I said. “No. I won’t visit him.”
“Once again, I’m begging for you to hear me,” Mr. Whitney said. “We no longer have the option of pleading Mr. Goodbody’s defense, even though now we regret it. We need to take this path while it’s still open to us. This is necessary. I’m asking you to trust me.”
Though he was too much of a gentleman to say, “I told you so,” his message was clear.
“What about,” Isaac said in a thoughtful tone, “agreeing to the meeting with Mr. Macy, but setting the date right before the courts open? That way we publicly get the credit without putting Julia through the excess strain of repeated visits.”
I crossed my arms and bundled them against me. “No.”
Mr. Whitney placed his hand over his mouth to restrain his mounting impatience.
“What if,” Isaac attempted again, “I go with you too? If I’m with you every step of the way? Just like we used to be.”
“Isaac, it’s nothing like it used to be.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Please, Julia. We desperately need this. I promise, I won’t leave your side once.”
I gave a strained laugh, batting back the stray plait of hair. It wasn’t fair of him to pressure me, but what he said was true. Isaac had risked everything to give me this shot, but already I felt as stretched as an embroidery cloth left too long in its hoop. Like the overstretched needlework, I felt misshapen, forever lopsided. “I just can’t, Isaac. I just can’t.”
Isaac and Mr. Whitney exchanged cautious looks, which I read too well. They both feared pushing me any further.
“All right,” Mr. Whitney slowly said, rubbing his brow as if stressed. “We’ll ignore the request. If you change your mind, however—”
Isaac shot him a look.
“Can we go over the timeline once more?” Mr. Whitney said. “I’ve already memorized it, but I want to make certain your testimony is consistent.”
I forced myself to take a breath. I didn’t want to go over the wretched timeline. I was sick and tired of having to revisit my mistakes again and again. Nevertheless, as I caught sight of Isaac, I forced myself to become composed.
His expression was difficult to decipher as he sagged against his chair, keeping his gaze fixed on the desk. He looked for all the world as if he wished he’d not stepped in my father’s path.
I felt shamed, for I’d begged him to interfere and now the case was falling apart. “Yes,” I said dully, “we can cover the timeline again.”
Once more we started at my birth. Oh, how weary I grew of talking about my birth and moving through each year. When we reached the point where I’d returned to Am Meer, determined to marry Edward instead of going to Scotland, Mr. Whitney wrinkled his nose and asked Isaac, “By chance do you know where Pierson was going to send her?”
“Yes, to Widow Melverton’s household.”
Mr. Whitney lifted his head and stared as if horrified. “I’d have gone to Lady Foxmore too.” He patted his pockets and drew out his cigarette papers. Dipping his pen, he asked, “When exactly did you learn you were going to Scotland?”
“The day Mr. Graves informed me I had a guardian.”
“Fancy thinking you were being sent to that wilderness.” The tip of Mr. Whitney’s thumb turned white as he shoved the tack into the plaster and then stood back. “My word,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Isaac, “the two of you would have crossed paths! Doesn’t Widow Melverton live right next to the house you’d rented for that hunting trip?”
Isaac briefly narrowed his eyes at Mr. Whitney, a warning not to say more.
But it was too late.
My breath caught in my throat as I turned and faced Isaac. His discomfited look told me all I needed to know. He’d been planning to rescue me from Scotland all along.
I suddenly saw how my life would have turned out had I not hired her ladyship to find me a husband—had I submitted and gone to Scotland instead.
I envisioned myself, crepe clad, stepping out of the carriage and onto the springy flora to hopelessly view my new residence. Likely I would have spent the bitterest months of my life inside those walls. I knew beforehand I was to be denied any society outside Widow Melverton’s mother’s sickroom. How endless would those days have felt, for my faith in Edward would have been destroyed after his becoming a vicar, and my dream of our foursome crushed.
In this story Isaac would have justly played the knight-hero. I envisioned being informed that my guardian’s protégé had arrived and desired to check on me for himself. En route to meet him, likely I would have endured a lecture about showing gratitude while keeping my place. In my mind’s eye, I saw how I would have entered the chamber, feeling a mixture of anger and self-consciousness, only to find Lord Dalry, London’s favorite son, quietly waiting.
I pressed a hand over my heart. Without doubt, he’d have shooed all unwelcome company from the chamber, leaving just us. How quickly I would have been unmade, for I knew firsthand the benevolent manner he’d have used as we spoke. Living without even a scrap of love, h
ow overwhelming Isaac’s tender ministrations would have felt.
It wasn’t hard to predict how it would have unfolded from there. Surely, all the way back to the sick chamber, I would have rebuffed myself for having been touched by his kindness. Isaac’s visit would have lodged in my mind, prompting me to angrily chide myself for continuing to think upon it.
I have no doubt that Isaac planned to propose during his hunting trip or some subsequent visit—for he would not have long left Lord Pierson’s daughter in those conditions. His idea of chivalry was too developed for that. Furthermore, Isaac wouldn’t have seen the bitter girl who entered the chamber. He saw through eyes of hope and love what others rejected. And how madly I eventually could have loved him back. Eventually, believing that Edward had betrayed me to join the church, I’d have been able to transfer my heart from Edward to Isaac.
I ideated the story to its end, where Isaac would have surprised London House by arriving home with his new bride. At first glance, would my father have known who I was and arched one of those heavy brows in Isaac’s direction? But under those circumstances, would he have been grateful that his protégé brought me home? Would he have choked on his words as he greeted me? Might he have spoken softly to me during that first dinner, the way he spoke to Kate and Evelyn? I wondered what life might have looked like had I not arrived on his doorstep an unchaste daughter, but rather been ushered in beneath Isaac’s healing wing.
“Are you ill, Mrs. Auburn?” Mr. Whitney asked.
I placed my forehead in my palms and bent over. The phantasm had been so vivid, I felt as if I’d glimpsed a lost future as the door of finality shut upon it. I marvelled that my subconscious shouted for me to make haste in my dreams. What was there to be late for? Why wasn’t it screaming for me to honor Isaac and grieve that he’d lost that future too? For unlike me, he didn’t have an Edward diving after him, swimming down to grab hold of his hand and then kick back to the surface.
“I beg you excuse me a moment.” I stood, searching for a pretense. “I need to fetch my shawl.”
Both Isaac and Mr. Whitney stood, but I gave them no time to speak or open the door. I needed to be free of that chamber. By seeing an alternative future—one where loving Isaac would have come about naturally—I finally understood.
I didn’t stop until I reached my bedchamber. There, I slid to the floor and cradled my head in my hands, knowing with certainty I had just glimpsed the real Isaac. I ached that I’d hurt him, for in that single realization I understood the measure of the man I had injured, and I couldn’t stand that I’d brought him pain.
THE COURT DATE arrived quietly. There was a solemnity in the air that I felt from the moment I opened my eyes. No happy sounds carried from any floor of London House. I woke before dawn and sat on the edge of my bed, quietly breathing and mentally prostrating myself before God. Even reading Scripture was too overwhelming, for the first words my eyes landed upon had been, “Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.” I felt the pathos of David’s lament to such a degree that even to this day I cannot look upon that psalm without growing teary.
My head bent, I cried out to God over and over that if he did not rescue me, if he did not hear my prayer, then I had no hope. I was thus as Nancy entered at dawn, shielding a candle. Strips of torn linen lay over her arm.
My fingers deepened their hold on the sheets I clutched, for it hurt to even speak when I felt this strained. “What is that?”
“Just wait, thou’ll see.” She placed her candle atop the vanity. “Miss Moray ordered thee a bath. Th’ girls is on their way.”
The maids entered my chamber with their copper pitchers of hot water. Their ministrations were a far cry from the bath I was given the first morning my father had summoned me to meet him. A measure of ruth was mixed into the expressions of the girls as they gravely upturned their pitchers, pouring water into the tub. Only one dared to peek in my direction before she tucked in her chin and hastened from the chamber. Nancy, thankfully, had managed to oversee that there were several pitchers of cooler water, as the temperature upstairs was sticky.
When alone with Nancy, I stood before the copper tub with my stomach writhing. The idea that this might be my last bath in London House, that tonight I might find myself in Macy’s bedchamber, was so repugnant to me that I nearly considered refusing to be washed. The hairs along the back of my neck tingled as I remembered the bath of rose petals that awaited me the night I arrived at Eastbourne. It hadn’t been a luxury for my benefit, I realized, feeling gooseflesh rise over my body. He’d wanted me washed and fragranced before he began his seduction.
I curled my fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck, shaking my head. “No. I won’t bathe for him. I won’t. I won’t!”
Nancy was one of those souls who managed to keep pace with my rapid thoughts and connected what I meant. “If Macy wants thou clean, he’ll scrub thee himsell! Which is better? Me or him?”
Knowing it was important that I not have red eyes at my court appearance, I nodded, then disrobed and sat in the water. I fixed my gaze on the bed that Edward and I had shared, trying to keep my growing horror at bay. Now that I knew what it was to be with my husband, I could never repeat it with Macy. Never. How on earth did those forced into a lifestyle of prostitution manage to stay sane? Eventually I shut my eyes and placed my forehead on my knees, determining that if I escaped my circumstances, I would join those who made it their life’s work to assist fallen women.
That morning, I learned how much planning Nancy had put into my attire. She had prepared an array of perfumed talc powders and oils in hopes of keeping me dry despite the heavy summer heat and the press of bodies in the courtroom. Once I was bathed and powdered, she used the strips of linen to bind my chest. Afterwards, she opened my wardrobe and withdrew a garment she’d assembled from three dresses she’d rent. The dress was white silk and poplin gathered to fall in soft, feminine frills. The sleeves were only slightly puffed, ending just above the elbows, where layers of tucked lace added to the lovely, soft look. After fastening the hooks, Nancy unwound my curls and gathered them on either side of my head. Lastly, she framed my face with a deep-brimmed bonnet that made my features look small. When she produced a lace parasol, I touched my lips. “Nancy, I scarcely look old enough to attend a dance.”
She collapsed against the bed. “Aye. Let ’em talk ’bout thee now.”
“Kate, you’re descending from the carriage first,” Isaac instructed as he peeked out the curtain he’d lifted slightly. “I’ll join you next, and then I’ll assist Julia.”
“First?” Kate whispered, paling. “Why first? What if they think I’m Julia and throw rotten food on me? It’s a brand-new dress!”
“No one is going to throw anything,” Isaac assured her.
I pressed a hand to my lips, recalling Macy’s plea in the papers that the crowd treat me tenderly and wishing I hadn’t agreed to put Kate through this. Earlier this week, Mr. Whitney argued it would be best for my image if I entered the courts with both Kate and Isaac. That way, if any jurors were watching, they’d see that I was beneath Lord Dalry’s protection and considered a sister.
“But what if they call me names?” Kate asked, her eyes tearing.
Isaac released the curtain and leaned forward to address her. His face was filled with pride. “Have you any idea how brave you are? My little sister, a fighter for justice and equality! Yes, first! Because you’re Katherine Mary Jane Dalry. Nobody else can lead the way for us. Nobody else can help Julia as you can right now. Show the world that the Dalry clan has claimed Julia and we all surround her. She needs you!”
There was poignancy in Isaac’s tone that touched even my heartstrings, though at the time I didn’t understand it.
Kate breathed out her nose, taking on a look of fierce determination. Her chin jutted with pride, she gave a curt nod, and then she dropped out of the carriage. The crowd roared, likely spreading the news that I had arrived.
; Isaac’s eyes glistened as he placed a hand over his chest. “She has no idea how much I love her.” Forcing his emotions back in place, he faced me. “You’ll be fine. Just pretend we’re at another ball.”
I nodded. The knife pains in my stomach, however, were a thousand times worse than they’d been at any ball or soiree we’d attended.
Isaac’s hand was steady as he turned and assisted me from the carriage. Stepping down, I took in my first view of the Old Bailey. We disembarked near the gates set into its circular walls. My father had hired men to hold back the crowds, but I still sensed that we were surrounded by a sea of humanity. Everyone called to me at once. Some whistled; some screamed.
As planned, Isaac took both Kate’s and my hands, then tucked them beneath his elbows and hastened us through the gate.
En route I eyed the gallows, situated high above the crowd, where those given the punishment of death would be hanged later today. One rope hung lower, in case a child or short person was convicted. Those who came to witness the spectacle waited with baskets of garbage.
I squeezed Isaac’s hand, trying to recall what Mr. Whitney had said. Theoretically, by some interpretation of the law, bigamy could be punishable by death, though Whitney had assured me it wouldn’t happen.
Once we arrived in the courtyard, Mr. Whitney raced our direction, wearing a smile.
Isaac released us, stepped forward, and pulled him tight, revealing how close the pair had grown.
Mr. Whitney patted Isaac’s back twice, then stepped away and faced me. His wig alone would command respect. Later that day, I counted twenty-five perfect horizontal rows, not including the large curl along his brow, nor the thousand tiny wool-like curls over the crown, nor the long constant curl that outlined the back. The expensive piece had been purchased by my father and was meant to impress the courts. It was so well-fashioned that it became Mr. Whitney’s signature wig and lasted the whole of his brilliant career.
Price of Privilege Page 37