Jarrettsville

by Cornelia Nixon

  Mr. Jones’s face remained quite bland. “And did she ever encourage the attentions of any other gentleman, or of any man that you know of, of whatever degree?”

  This was so offensive that my head went light, and I slumped back with a cry. Oh, they really might kill me!

  Something rustled toward me, and my eyelids flew up in alarm. Two ladies I had never seen before advanced boldly across the floor, shrugging off the bailiff, the sheriff, and the crier. One held out smelling salts, the other a fan to cool my face. I closed my eyes and breathed the bracing scent and the cool air, so grateful that tears surged out. My head began to clear, and they returned to their seats. Around the room the general satisfied flapping of fans picked up.

  “Mrs. Cairnes,” Judge Grason said gently from a few feet above. “Do you feel well enough to continue?”

  “I suppose so,” I said, not bothering to cloak my resentment, as I frankly dabbed a hankie at my eyes. “And yes, I remember what this man had the impudence to ask. No, sir, my daughter never encouraged the attentions of any other man, of whatever degree, as you so delicately put it. No man but Nick McComas, not in all her life. I have often accused her of chasing suitors off. She could have had a lot of beaus, some of them far better men.”

  I threw a look at Martin Jarrett, blaming him. Why couldn’t he have won her over? I knew there was a time when he had wanted to.

  “And why did she not choose a better man?” Jones had the temerity to ask.

  “Because she never wanted anyone but him. And she was always a headstrong girl.”

  I heard how I had said that, as if she were already dead, and new tears slipped out. There seemed no direction I could turn that would not make me weep.

  Blue evening light shone in the windows when I was finally dismissed, so wrung out that I could not have climbed the stairs without the arm of Colonel Stump. I thought I might have to go lie down, and I fretted, unwilling to leave. Enduring all those eyes had changed something. Was it because I had sat in her place? I wanted to stop everything and just say Wait. It was sickening to feel the trial rush forward, out of my control.

  But it was now so late, the judges were forced to hold it over another day.

  Mr. Jones stood up, looking pleased. “And will Your Honors allow the prosecution to call more witnesses?”

  “So be it,” Judge Grason said and declared a recess until morning.

  “Stand back! Make way!” the sheriff and the bailiff cried as they closed around the prisoner to lead her out. Men pressed close to her, some leering, faces red with drink.

  Shuddering, I waited till the court had cleared before I let Belle lead me out.

  My older sons and their wives were staying at my house, and I rode home in James’s buggy, grateful for once that he could not speak. My three daughters-in-law set to work on supper, but I was exhausted and had no desire to eat.

  “Thank you, dear girls, but I’ll say goodnight. I want tomorrow to come quickly.” I kissed them and my sons, and thanked God again for each of them.

  But Richard jerked his head away, hand on the pistol in his belt. He looked as if he’d like to swear but didn’t have the nerve with William standing as stern as Cotton Mather next to him.

  “Why did you stop them blaming me?”

  I touched his face. “Dearest, you are a noble boy. But think of your wife. She cannot do without you, and neither can I. We can only hope God will forgive your sister.”

  William put his hands on both our arms. “We’ll say a prayer.” He waited till all our heads were bowed. “Heavenly Father, we know we have trespassed against Your law in more ways than we can enumerate. But we ask forgiveness on our souls, if not our bodies here on Earth. Our poor, weak, suffering sister will soon pass to Your Kingdom, and we humbly entreat you, in the name of Your Only Son, Jesus Christ Our Lord, who suffered on the cross and died for us, that You show her more mercy than she has earned. We ask in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, amen.”

  That night oblivion seized me, and I did not wake till dawn, when I heard my sons’ wives downstairs in the kitchen, clanking pots, stoking the cast-iron stove. It was a beautiful spring morning, but nothing could prepare me for what that day would bring. I brushed my hair and coiled it in a bun, put on my corset and my widow’s weeds, and draped a black veil on my head. I had done my part, and I did not have to let the rabble look at me.

  At the courthouse, the lawyers seemed refreshed, pink cheeked and clean, ready to spar, and both sides had heavy law books on the tables next to them. Mr. Jones sat at the prosecutors’ table, confidently writing notes and dispatching them with runners, as if new information had come his way and he needed even more new witnesses.

  Meanwhile, the defense resumed briskly, calling the dressmakers we had hired to make the wedding clothes. Mrs. Morse was middle-aged and plump, her young assistant, Mrs. Curry, thin and meager next to her. Mrs. Curry went up first, twisting her thin hands and looking scared.

  “Oh, she’s the very first in society,” she said. “The very first.”

  Mrs. Morse was more restrained. She paraded to the stand in a grand dress of dark blue serge and a wide hat topped with a bluebird in its nest, her face flushed as red as a rash.

  “Miss Cairnes was a most kindhearted and amiable lady,” she said with dignity. “We helped in preparations for the wedding more than one time. Several times it was, over the years.”

  She threw a glance across the room as if to apologize to the prisoner.

  Mr. Rutledge took the floor, standing humbly stooped as he cross-examined her.

  “Mrs. Morse, you are one of the only defense witnesses not related to the Cairnes family, and we count on you to tell the truth to this court. Did Mr. McComas ever speak of marriage to Miss Cairnes when you were present?”

  “No, sir, he did not.”

  “So your information in regard to a promise of marriage was from the prisoner herself?”

  “Yes, it was, and from her mother, Mrs. Cairnes.”

  “And you never heard anyone speak of it in the presence of Mr. McComas?”

  “No, sir, I did not.”

  Mr. Rutledge stepped down, and Mr. Archer rose up briskly to counter-question her.

  “Did you ever see Mr. McComas and Miss Cairnes in company?”

  “Yes, sir, I did, several times at church and once at a church picnic up to Painted Rocks.”

  “And what was his manner toward her?”

  “He was marked in his attentions toward her.”

  Mr. Archer thanked Mrs. Morse and let her parade back to her seat before he recalled Gabriel Smithson, who looked wary as he returned to the witness stand.

  “Mr. Smithson, did you ever hear your friend Nick McComas speak of marriage?”

  Mr. Smithson looked embarrassed, his blue eyes going flat. “Well, not before last November. But I had some conversation with him on the subject then.”

  “And what do you recall about that conversation, exactly?”

  “Well, I told him I thought he was getting into trouble. He denied it, and I said, ‘Yes, you are.’ He finally agreed he was. No names were mentioned, but I told him he had better marry the girl in question. I’m afraid he didn’t give me much satisfaction.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “He said he didn’t care for himself that he was getting into difficulties, but he cared for her trouble. He said he wasn’t fit to have a wife, but that he loved her better than any woman he had ever known. He was very much affected. I asked him how long before this thing would be proved for itself?—meaning the child, of course. He said in six or eight weeks. I tried to persuade him to marry her. I told him the consequences, and he burst into tears. He wept quite bitterly.”

  I tried to recall that night at Mr. Smithson’s when we had accosted Nick. Had he shed the smallest tear? No. His eyes had shone, perhaps, but that was all.

  “Were the two of you alone when you had this conversation?” Mr. Archer asked.

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sp; “A number of people were at my house for a corn husking, and Miss Cairnes and her mother came to speak to him. That was the night we talked, after they left. But I don’t think we were overheard by anyone. The subject was so delicate. And then . . .” Mr. Smithson hesitated, and his round fair cheeks went red.

  “Go on, Mr. Smithson.”

  “Well, I pressed him for the reasons he refused to marry her, and I alluded to that slanderous talk I’ve mentioned.”

  Some in the audience groaned. “Not again!”

  Mr. Archer only looked more mournful. “What did he have to say on the subject?”

  Smithson looked relieved at this chance to answer. “He said, ‘No one must say anything against her.’ He utterly denied the language and said it shouldn’t be said in his presence. So you see, he was not the one who promoted that talk.”

  “And did he ever give you a reason for why he would not marry her?”

  “Well, no, sir. I tried to convince him several times, but it did no good. I told him the girl stood high, and if he didn’t marry her he’d better stay out of the neighborhood.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  Smithson seemed to freeze in place, holding his head stiff to stare ahead. His eyes shone, and it was clear he could remember something, but he did not want to say.

  “Witness will answer the question,” Judge Grason said.

  Smithson’s face burned red, and he looked up at the judge defiantly.

  “I would rather not say, Your Honor. It was a most unsatisfactory answer.”

  “Let me remind you, sir, that you are under oath,” the judge said calmly.

  Smithson sighed and closed his eyes. “He said, ‘Anything but marrying for me.’”

  A gasp greeted this, and I felt a small thrill in my chest. Had Nick really been the monster the defense made out? Had it really not been Martha’s fault?

  Soon it was noon, church bells ringing in Bel Air. The judge adjourned the court for dinner, and Richard and Mr. Farnandis rushed out together as if it was prearranged.

  “Where are they going?” I asked Belle beside me, and she patted my hand.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. Won’t you come to dinner at the hotel?”

  I could not face the crowds and said I would prefer to stay inside the building, away from prying eyes. Colonel Stump arranged for me to lie on a sofa in a private room, and Belle loosened my stays and took off my boots, helped me to lie down.

  After she left, I tried to sleep, but my mind was too much disturbed. Tonight or tomorrow, all those hateful staring eyes might watch my daughter die. I wish you were never born—what kind of mother says a thing like that? Filled with misgiving, I could not close my eyes, and I did up my own laces, put my boots back on.

  Belle took me back up to the gallery, and soon we heard cheers and catcalls outside on the square, as happened every time the sheriff brought my daughter back. I dropped my face into my hands and plugged my ears and wondered how it sounded to her on the inside of that crowd. The roar increased as she passed through the lobby, and soon she emerged onto the floor below, looking pale and worn, resigned, and surrounded by the sheriff and his men. When she was in the dock, the judges asked the defense to resume.

  Martin Jarrett was recalled and asked if he thought she was insane that night in Jarrettsville, and he offered his opinion at length.

  “Dementia can be caused by childbirth in the best of circumstances, and especially outside of wedlock when the attendant griefs of childbirth are accompanied by shame and rejection from all who could offer support. Even when pregnancy does not occur, dementia can result from seduction and frequently does. The disruption of a pure lady’s modesty causes incalculable damage, since such excitations are unnatural in women of pure character. Medical authorities have dwelt on the perilous conditions that result from such unnatural feelings.”

  He mentioned several authorities by name and quoted passages he’d memorized.

  Mr. Rutledge rose to cross-examine him. “How frequently does childbirth result in insanity, would you say?”

  Dr. Jarrett had to tell the truth, and it was obvious that he wished otherwise. “Well, postpartum dementia is the exception rather than the rule. But it’s more frequent in the case of spinster birth. And, as I say, the excitations resultant from seduction alone can produce insanity.”

  “Did you attend Miss Cairnes in childbed last winter?”

  “I did.”

  “And how did she seem to you then?”

  “Objection!” Colonel Stump was on his feet, and I gazed at him, grateful for this intervention to protect my daughter’s modesty.

  But the judge overruled it, and poor Dr. Jarrett was compelled to answer. He loosened his collar with one finger. “She seemed unbalanced then and had for several months before her confinement. My father was their family doctor for years, and I could only wish I had his wisdom in the face of such terrible harm done to a pure lady. It was not her fault. She had been driven insane, and I had no choice but to treat her for it at the time of her confinement.”

  “And of what did that treatment consist?”

  I did not want to hear this. I dropped my head back onto the chair, hoping to faint. But dear Belle, meaning well, held the smelling salts up to my nose, so I had to hear.

  “Medical practice dictates a simple operation as the most efficacious step, when a lady has been seduced and driven mad. The procedure relieves her of the burden of desire and restores her chastity.”

  Good God—what had he done to her? I had never heard of such a thing, and he had certainly not asked me if he could. I suppose he meant in some way he had rendered her incapable of repeating the offense. But how? It made me feel afraid.

  The court was now so quiet you could have heard an evil thought scratching its way across the ceiling. Mr. Rutledge’s next question was as quiet as a breath.

  “And did you perform it on Miss Cairnes?”

  Martin nodded and visibly exhaled. “I did when she swooned after the birth.”

  “And did it help her?”

  “I would say so. She showed immediate improvement.”

  “So is it your position that Miss Cairnes was sane after the operation, including four months later at the time of the murder?”

  The court murmured at the lawyer’s cleverness, as if he had caught the doctor in a trap.

  Martin seemed to squirm uncomfortably. “I believe the reappearance of her seducer in her neighborhood may have unbalanced her again.”

  Rutledge would not let that rest. “Has Miss Cairnes seemed sane to you since that time?”

  “Far from it. She has lain weeping in a darkened room. She has been so low in spirits for so long, I have been afraid she might not live.”

  “So would you agree that the operation you gave her was not a success?”

  “I think it was. But she’s a delicate and tenderhearted lady, and the excitations she has endured the past year would have unbalanced anyone. I believe in time she will prove sane.”

  Mr. Rutledge looked skeptical. “How long have you been acquainted with the prisoner?”

  “Most of our lives, since we were children. Over twenty years.”

  “And was she ever inclined to mental disturbances before this past year?”

  Martin was slow to answer. “No. She’s always been sensible and forthright, remarkably so. But, as I say, this past year or two has put extraordinary pressure on her delicate nature.”

  Mr. Rutledge pressed his palms together and tapped his fingertips against his chin as if deep in thought. “Let us return for a moment to the child. How did it appear to you?”

  “It was a healthy boy.”

  “And of what race did it appear to be?”

  “Objection!” bawled all four defense attorneys, springing to their feet, and I almost wept with gratitude.

  But again the judge was hard, and he seemed to want to satisfy the lowest curiosity. “Objection overruled. Witness will answer the question posed.”
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  Martin answered slowly. “I have never delivered a black child, so I am not an expert on their looks. What hair it had looked straight, and when I held it by the feet and swatted it to make it cry out and clear its lungs, it flushed a hard dark red.”

  “Have you had the opportunity to see the child since then?”

  “I have not. It was given immediately to a black wet nurse, who took it from the house.”

  I felt uneasy, remembering the wet nurse I had hired. A cousin of Creolia’s, she had a good reputation, and I had paid her handsomely to take the baby off as soon as it was born—hoping she might take it as her own and I would never hear of it again. I spent the holidays with cousins down in Baltimore, and apparently the birth occurred on New Year’s Day, no sign of the infant in the house when I returned. But since then the wet nurse had come twice to ask for more money, and I feared she might threaten to exhibit it in public unless I paid her more.

  Dr. Jarrett was soon allowed to step down, and the defense called John Hutchins, a prosperous farmer who was distantly connected to our family. He wore big red muttonchop whiskers and a tailored brown suit with a brocade vest, and I hoped he was not there to reveal more to my daughter’s shame.

  Instead Mr. Archer asked him to describe what he had seen the night of the murder, and I groaned inwardly. How many repetitions of that night could be endured?

  Hutchins spoke with eyes fixed as if still afraid. “I was inside the bar, within two feet of the door to the porch, and I saw all but the first fire. I heard the report of the pistol and saw a woman step back toward the door. She then advanced back onto the porch and fired a second time wildly. By this time McComas had reeled to a post.”

  “And did you know the woman?”

  Sudden commotion broke through from the rough crowd in the lobby, startled shouts and cries so loud, everyone paused and turned that way. The courtroom door flew open, and Richard burst in, leading a modestly clothed black woman who held a white baby in a long white dress. Was that the woman I had hired? It seemed to be, and Richard marched her to the prisoner’s dock, where Martha leapt up with a little cry and held out her arms.