“Come with me,” he ordered, and then, giving us no time, he raced off toward the massive courthouse, his black robes billowing behind him.
Isaac gathered my arm and followed. The bonnet Nancy chose had such a wide brim, I was able to block everyone else out of view as we made haste.
“The Right Honorable Sir John Bosanquet is giving you use of his parlor today,” Mr. Whitney said, throwing open a door and revealing a surprisingly comfortable room.
“Where’s Pierson and Simmons?” Isaac asked.
“They purchased seats in the gallery this morning. Pierson thinks it will be more difficult for the juries to go against his will if he has glowered at them beforehand.”
Isaac shook his head, then drew me inside and pulled out one of the chairs from beneath the mahogany table. I removed my bonnet, sending up a prayer of thanks that I didn’t have to wait with the other criminals or Mr. Macy. Thick wooden panelling lined the walls. In the winter it would have been comfortable, for there was a mosaic fireplace and a pot cupboard with a tea service on top.
“I suppose it helps to have a father who knows everyone associated with the East India Company.” Mr. Whitney gave the chamber an appreciative nod. “I can’t stay. They’re starting sessions any moment. There are already arguments amongst counsel that the legality of the marriage needs to be determined today. They might not even require a defendant’s plea from her, as the crime isn’t determined until the marriage is.”
Isaac nodded. “Thank you. We understand. Will you escort Kate back out the gate now? Pierson has a carriage waiting to take her to Mother.”
Mr. Whitney frowned but gave a curt nod. “Yes, yes, but hurry, Kate. I’m anxious to find out which jurors are selected. Some of them are staunch supporters of my cases. I’m crossing my fingers.”
I waited until the door was closed, leaving Isaac and me alone. “What is happening? I don’t understand.”
“Trust me, no one does,” Isaac said in a soothing voice, taking a seat. “Not even the most seasoned lawyer can unknot this tangled mess. Simplified, it will be easier for the courts to know how to proceed with Edward’s charges and Macy’s civil suit—once it is settled whether or not your marriage to Macy stands. A criminal case, a civil case, and a charge of treason all hinge on that one legality. Today we learn whether you’re actually married to Macy.”
I nodded, mentally preparing to be placed in his custody. Though it wasn’t ladylike, I placed my elbows on the table and buried my face in my hands. Part of me never wanted to leave this room, never to face what was coming next. And yet the other part just wanted it over.
Isaac didn’t help with his next observation. “How many men do you suppose spent their last day inside this court? Must be scores, perhaps hundreds. How strange that thought is to me.”
“Yes, well, thank you for that,” I said into my palms.
Whereas Jameson would have laughed, Isaac must have shifted, for his chair squeaked. “I’m sorry. That’s not very good company, is it? Would you care for a cup of tea? I doubt Bosanquet would mind.” Then, standing without waiting for my answer, Isaac started to gather teacups. “You know, seeing Kate climb out of the carriage today made me think of my first memory. Did I ever tell you it?”
I drew a deep breath, in no mood to exchange civilities. Lowering my hands, I looked at him and was suddenly reminded of the day he’d come home from Maplecroft. He’d tried to meet privately with me so he could tell me about Edward, but my father discovered us. After my father had burned my letters, Isaac had taken it upon himself to teach me how to keep my composure during crises. How vehement I’d been as I silently declared I’d not sit idle having tea with Lord Dalry as my life fell apart.
I half smiled. And yet he was still here, still trying to make me ladylike. Regret swelled once again as I recalled that he’d been planning to collect me in Scotland. I swallowed, knowing I still barely understood Isaac. How badly I now wished I could go back and start anew. To have asked him about Ben. To have learned more about his school days. To have inquired how he’d come to live with my father.
I glanced at the clock. If Macy won, there were only hours left of our friendship, and it was too late.
Then it struck me.
It had come circular. I was here again with Lord Dalry. I blinked with the wondrous idea that it is never too late to become what we were meant to be. And if Isaac was right, I was a lady.
I gave a laugh. Yes, I thought, looking about the chamber. I would start now. Right now.
“I would love a cup of tea,” I said, wiping aside a tear. What did it matter if my life was crumbling again? When wasn’t it? At least I was safe right at this exact second. And at least I was with a friend—one I didn’t know nearly as well as he knew me. I was tired of losing all the moments of my life to fear. “And yes,” I continued, “I would love to hear about your first memory.”
Isaac’s eyes galvanized me as they turned in my direction. At first he only blinked disbelievingly. Then joy lit his entire face, for he understood. He laughed. Hours and hours of his tutelage had finally paid off, and I’d finally stepped into my role.
“Ah, well.” He laughed again, for his voice was thicker than usual. “It was of Kate being born. It was the middle of the night, and though Mother had tried to hide it, I suspected even at that age that she had gone into labor. . . .”
And thus I spent the morning leading up to the trial having tea with London’s darling. He held nothing back as though he’d waited his entire life to be seen and heard by me.
Five hours later, Mr. Whitney stuck his head inside. “Are you ready? You’re needed right now.” Perspiration trickled down his face from beneath his wig. His robes looked wilted. He gave us a puzzled look, as he’d entered just as we were laughing about the only time Isaac stepped on his dance partner’s toes.
I stood, thankfully not overturning my tea, which had grown cold. My dread returned in panicky needles.
Isaac likewise stood and glanced at the clock. “Is Edward up, then?”
Mr. Whitney motioned for me to hurry and not ask questions.
Tears gathered in my eyes as I looked at Isaac, for the plan was that he would return to London House. My father didn’t want him questioned under oath. Admitting that he’d knowingly hidden the truth would haunt his political career for life.
Isaac’s face was likewise crushed with grief.
“Thank you!” I flung my arms about him, not caring it wasn’t proper. If Macy won, it wasn’t likely I’d see him again. “You’ve been a dear friend.”
“Let’s not say our good-byes yet,” he said, squeezing me back. “There’s still hope.”
I nodded, then hastened after Mr. Whitney. “Have you seen Edward?”
“Yes, yes. He’s next, and we best hurry. The prisoner before him is known here, and it won’t take them long to convict.” Mr. Whitney took my arm and started to hasten me toward the courtroom. Then, in the hall, as we jostled past those waiting in groups, “Remember, you haven’t been charged with a crime, though Edward has been arrested. Right now this trial is to argue the legality of the marriage. You’re being called as a witness for the prosecution—”
“The prosecution!”
“Don’t panic. It’s a high risk on their part, for they’re counting on your testimony being damning to yourself. Stick exactly to the timeline; our legal arguments rest on it. Do you understand?”
I nodded, my feet feeling like blocks of ice. “Is there any chance the trial will spill over into tomorrow?”
Mr. Whitney looked at me as if I’d requested a rock from the moon. “Most cases take about twenty to thirty minutes. Though yours will likely outlast an hour. Steady now.”
We plunged into a courtroom filled with men. While Mr. Whitney plowed forward with poise, I cringed, overwhelmed by the sheer number of people sitting at various levels. White wigs dotted the courtroom, some up high behind what looked like pulpits. The man I assumed to be the judge sat overlooking the chamb
er from a raised area. Though everyone was in rows, nothing made sense. There were barristers standing next to plain-clothed people. Some people sat looking thoroughly bored, while others were in deep, animated discussion.
The courtroom was abuzz with a hum as if a thousand angry flies were competing for attention.
My breath came in short pants, for it was far more crowded than anything I had anticipated. I started to look about for a way of escape, though I wasn’t sure what would happen if I ran.
From across the courtroom, deep-set hazel eyes met mine. Eyes that suggested we beard the lion in his den, that we leave this courtroom breathless with the reality of who we were. Edward’s face had no expression except an outward calm. But his eyes—oh, how they blazed.
I allowed Mr. Whitney to lead me by the hand, but as he did so, I met Edward’s steady stare, turning my head as I went. Like a bride at a funeral, my white dress stood out in a room otherwise clad in black. One by one, the judges, aldermen, councilmen, sheriffs, undersheriffs, and barristers all stilled and observed what passed between Edward and me.
I glanced over their stern faces, realizing that if they had love for truth or justice, then they would perform their sworn duty to protect me. For was not the law created to protect the weak? These men had to know the depravity of Macy—for even Mrs. Windham’s brother-in-law feared him.
Some of Edward’s fire infused my soul. We scoff at those who think in terms of black and white, but at that moment I saw life as Edward did, and it stole my breath.
I saw everything in a startlingly different way. Whereas before I saw men as trees, my sight was adjusted so that I saw mere people. It wasn’t about my winning or losing this case, I realized. It wasn’t even possible for me to lose. I had nothing to lose. Something so much more vital was at stake, for there was a higher reality at work. I was not the one on trial. These men were. And they would pronounce their own judgment on themselves through their treatment of me.
The grand jury found Edward’s charge a true bill, and it was given to the clerk of arraigns and brought to open court. Mr. Whitney frowned and contested this as a strike against the argument that I wasn’t married and therefore unfair. Edward, wearing leg chains, had pleaded not guilty, and Merrick opened his case by calling me first to the stand.
“State your name, occupation, and residence.”
I swallowed, not certain I could form words. But then, determined to make my voice clear, I said, “Julia Josephine Auburn.”
Merrick rolled his eyes. “Your true name.”
My chest and stomach immediately hollowed. I saw the trap. If I said I was Julia Elliston, then clearly I was married to Macy. If I allowed glass to cut my tongue by saying my name was Julia Macy, it was an admission of guilt. If I stated I was Julia Pierson, I would be deemed a liar. If I insisted I was Julia Auburn, I would be seen as hostile.
I looked at my father, who sat without expression, and then at Edward, who calmed me with his eyes.
Lastly I looked at Macy, who leaned back in his chair, fingers laced around his knee, seemingly amused.
I drew in a deep breath, recalling that I wasn’t the only one married under false pretenses. I bit my lip, wishing I’d pressed the matter with Whitney about what to do given the opportunity to reveal Macy’s true ancestry. His answer was always the same: “You’ll never get the chance, as you won’t be asked.”
“I suppose,” I said quietly—and then more loudly, realizing the gallery needed to hear me, “I suppose you should call me Mrs. Augustus Rainmayer.”
Merrick’s wig went slightly askew as he jerked his head in surprise. “I beg your pardon!”
But by now there were shouts all over the chamber, so his words went unheard by anyone but me. Unable to help it, I glanced at Mr. Macy, but he only gave a sad shake of his head. He looked neither alarmed nor frightened that I’d used his gypsy name. My father rubbed his brow, doubtless angry that he’d had the perfect defense, and it was apparently true, but he’d not been able to plan around it.
As the confusion died in the courtroom, Mr. Macy stood. His chest heaved slightly as if he were deeply grieved. Merrick saw him from the corner of his eye and went to him.
I swallowed as Macy’s hands gripped the sides of the table he’d sat at. He leaned forward, and the magnetic tones of his rich voice travelled through the chamber. It was so quiet, even I could pick up the deep concern in his voice. My heart quickened as I felt myself begin to panic again.
The loud clank of chains and irons drew my attention as Edward shifted his legs.
Once again his eyes met mine, and I calmed.
The crowd murmured angrily, seeming to take our fortitude for defiance. Though we had not been found guilty, the proper thing, apparently, was to look contrite.
Merrick rose to address the court. “Mr. Macy respectfully asks that his wife no longer be required to testify. Clearly she’s fracturing under the mental strain. He is well aware this is one of the lies she’s been fed about him while living in Lord Pierson’s household—that he’s really a gypsy prince.” He paused, allowing the chuckles that followed his statement. “Considering the grievous emotional damage that’s been inflicted on this girl, I rather agree with my client. There’s enough evidence to prove the marriage without her testimony.”
Mr. Whitney stood. “First, I’d like to point out that Merrick is unfairly calling her Mr. Macy’s wife. She is not, and her testimony is necessary to proving such.”
The judge thoughtfully sat back. “Did your client inform you of her belief that Mr. Macy is a gypsy prince?”
Red colored Mr. Whitney’s cheeks as he stood stock-still. “Yes, Your Honor, though she did not use the word prince.”
The judge’s eyes widened with surprise. “And were you planning on introducing her unique belief to court today?”
Mr. Whitney turned even more scarlet. “No, Your Honor. I thought it irrelevant.”
“Irrelevant?” The judge’s robes billowed as he half stood. “When there are claims this girl’s mind is being poisoned?” He frowned as he looked over the courtroom as if debating what to do next. His eyes landed on Macy, who had remained standing. He visibly paled, then swallowed. “Remove the girl from the stand. I agree with the prosecution. Her testimony is of no benefit.”
I gaped, then gripped the handrail of the witness stand. For I was the only person who could explain everything, and I’d just been barred from testifying. In a flash of anger, I decided not to leave. I would not. The only thing now stronger than my shame was my anger at being helpless. How many other girls were in my exact position, I wildly wondered, unable to defend themselves, forced to rely on the nearest man for their fate? I wouldn’t do it anymore.
Before I could cry out, however, Mr. Whitney caught my eye with a look that was sterner than any my father had ever managed.
Trembling, and with Merrick’s aid, I made my way down the steps. There wasn’t anywhere for me to go except to the witness box reserved for high-class members of society. I might have been barred from testifying, but I would at least hear the rest of the trial. I picked up my skirts and willed myself to move past Mr. Macy.
My father scooted over so that I could have the nearest seat. He wore a face I’d never seen before, likely the one he used for matters of Parliament. He looked unshakable and unfazed. As I sat, he briefly placed a hand on my shoulder.
Over the next half hour, I learned that Mr. Macy had requested that his witnesses be sequestered until their appearance, as they feared Lord Pierson’s wrath. Most of the testimonies were what I expected.
First the magistrate from the night I’d married Mr. Macy. Then the parish registrar, who’d allowed Mr. Macy to enter my name in the parish books on the combined testimonies of the footman, valet, and magistrate that they’d witnessed the special license and marriage.
I held in my surprise as Reynolds entered the courtroom, for I hadn’t expected him. His blue eyes flashed in my direction with a look of reassurance before he took
the stand.
Like those before him, Reynolds took an oath.
Merrick signalled for him to begin. “State your name, occupation, and residence. Then tell me what you know about the marriage of Mr. Macy to Miss Julia Elliston.”
“I am Edgar Reynolds, the personal valet of Mr. Macy, and I reside at Mr. Macy’s estate, Eastbourne, in Bedfordshire. I witnessed the marriage of Miss Julia Elliston and Mr. Chance Macy.”
“Did the couple spend time alone together after the ceremony?” Merrick asked.
“No, sir. Mrs. Macy became greatly frightened of her husband when Lord Pierson arrived. Then she was forced from the property of Eastbourne by Reverend Auburn.”
“Was she frightened of Mr. Macy before Lord Pierson’s arrival?”
“No, sir.”
“How is it that you’re certain of that?”
Reynolds’s voice kept its perfect lilt. “She was with Mr. Macy nearly every possible hour beforehand, sir. Even requesting audiences with him in the middle of the night when she had nightmares, sir.”
“Was Miss Elliston frightened often during her visit?”
“Yes, sir. The whole staff was under the impression that she was greatly distressed. More than once we commented that she only seemed calm when Mr. Macy was at the estate.”
“Do you know what she was frightened about?”
“Not exactly, sir.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Reynolds’s eyes narrowed as he looked in Edward’s direction. “She acted rather strangely around Reverend Auburn. She didn’t appear to be comfortable in the company of his elder brother, either.”
“How do you mean?”
“She was very skittish, on edge.”
Mr. Whitney caught my eye and gave me a look as if to ask if I knew where this line of questioning was going. I gave a slight shrug; I didn’t see how any of this was relevant.
Merrick walked to his table and fetched a small wooden tray. “Do you recognize this?”
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