by Jo Robertson
The woman furrowed her bushy white brows and lowered her voice conspiratorially. "The children left alone in that big house. No one watched over Aaron and Phoebe. They sort of fended for themselves as far as I could tell."
"What about Joseph?"
"Humph. The Missus got that one on one of the Mister's trips home, if you get my meaning. But that was much later. Joe, Jr., was nearly twenty years younger than Aaron. A change of life baby, you know?"
Emma thought she did know. Aaron and Phoebe left to themselves with little or no parental supervision. What mischief might they have gotten themselves into while their mother lay sick in bed and their father absented himself whenever possible? Surely that was an unhealthy environment to grow up in.
"Who took care of the baby, then?"
"Why, I suspect Phoebe did. Mrs. Machado wasn't good for much by that time, her nerves and all. Phoebe would've been, hmmmm, let's see, about fourteen or so when Joe was born, able to do plenty for her mum. And she always liked to play the lady of the house, she did."
"The lady of the house?"
Mrs. Henderson waved a hand of dismissal. "Oh, fanciful stuff, that was. She'd put on her mum's old clothes and shoes and play dress up, walking around with the babe on her hip like it was her own." She laughed mirthlessly. "Acted like she'd given birth to Joe herself!"
Emma's neck prickled with a strange sensation, but she placed a bright smile on her lips. "What nonsense! You delivered Joseph yourself didn't you?"
"Well, that's the strange thing," the older woman said, a puzzled look on her wrinkly face. "They waited too late to fetch me. The babe was all birthed and cleaned up by the time I got to the house."
She paused in the consumption of her next biscuit and shrugged as if the habits of the gentry were beyond her. "Missus was abed, but looking quite well rested, while Aaron, bless his heart, was holding the babe, all swaddled up and sweet as candy."
"Where was Phoebe?"
"Well, now, I never thought to ask them. Just checked the babe out to be sure the cord was tied proper and all."
"What about Mrs. Machado? Did you attend to her also?"
"Humph, that one was quite prickly. Wouldn't even let me examine her, said the doctor would see to her."
A few moments later, Emma made her good-byes to Mrs. Henderson. The elderly midwife had given her quite a bit of food for thought, but none of the information was exactly evidence, was it? However, it was enough to foster a dark suspicion of the perverse activities that might've gone on in the Machado household.
She shivered and wrapped her jacket tighter. There might have been strange, even unnatural, behavior going on twenty years ago, but was it anything to incite a recent murder?
#
Emma arrived at The Gazette shortly before noon to find Stephen and Thomas already working hard on the next edition. Her uncle informed her that Malachi had spent the entire morning in court, only to have Judge Underwood adjourn for the day. He failed to remark on the court events except to say that closing remarks would begin on the morrow.
Emma knew that tomorrow the prosecution would present the salient points of their case first, then the defense, and then the prosecution would be given a final chance to address the jury. She surmised that Malachi was hard at work in his law office preparing his remarks. Although eager to tell him her discoveries about the Machado family, she would not interrupt him now.
Would he agree with her suspicions or believe she was being fanciful?
She also wished to speak with her uncle about the charges her parents had made against him, but she remained silent. If they were not true, she shouldn't want to embarrass him, and if they were, he'd tell her of his own accord. She thought of the ugly turn of events her parents expected to occur today and wondered what nefarious plans Charles Fulton had in store for Malachi and how it affected her family.
She'd just decided to abandon working in the back office and talk to Uncle Stephen when the bell over the door jangled, signaling a visitor.
She hurried to the front. Thomas had the machinery running and her uncle stood beside the elderly man, both in their shirt sleeves, pondering over the clattering noise emanating from the press.
"What is that ungodly racket?" Malachi asked Emma as he shut the door behind him and glanced to where she stood behind the wide counter.
She laughed. "The press has gone off kilter and apparently the men are playing at engineering."
Malachi's lopsided grin set a small tingle starting in her belly. He looked devilishly handsome today, his head hatless yet again, his navy jacket brushed, the white shirt crisp above the lapels.
"Is there anything I can help with, Mr. Knight?" Malachi shouted, looking in her uncle's direction. "I'm clever with my hands, I'm told."
He flashed a wicked grin Emma's way.
Stephen waved him off without looking up from the machinery cogs. "No, you and Emma get on with the trial business. Thomas and I are quite able to bumble along by ourselves."
In the back room, Malachi threw himself into the guest chair while Emma perched behind the desk, her back straight and proper, but her eyes straying now and again to the open archway where she could just see the corner of Thomas' suspended gray workpants and the back of her uncle's faded blond hair.
"I have bad news, Emma," Malachi said, fidgeting with his neck cloth and twisting his neck as if his collar were too small. "Charles Fulton called a rebuttal witness today."
"What? But I thought the prosecution had rested its case!"
"As did I, but apparently they sneaked this one by the judge. The witness's testimony was designed to discredit a member of the community and by extension me as his friend and Alma's defense attorney."
He looked fierce with anger, to be sure, but with another emotion she hadn't seen in him before. Was it revenge? It looked awfully like he wanted to carve someone's pound of flesh from his chest.
"What discredit? Who?" But even as the words escaped her lips, she slid her eyes from Malachi to the men in the other room and knew immediately this was what her parents had warned her of.
"You can't mean Uncle Stephen," she whispered. Her heart twisted at the thought of her beloved uncle's name being bandied about so maliciously.
"Apparently, someone – a young gentleman – has admitted to being ... friends with Stephen." He paused and looked into her eyes, his own bright blue with emotion. "I'm so sorry, Emma."
"It is Uncle Stephen for whom you should feel sorrow," she snapped realizing even as her harsh tone registered in her ears that she was taking out her grief on the messenger. She shook her head angrily and swiped at the tears in her eyes.
"He does not deserve this," she muttered. "He is the kindest man I know."
"Did no one know of his ... preferences?"
"Not until my parents warned me that the trial would take an ugly turn today."
"What?"
"Yes, before I ... before this weekend they tried to persuade me to sever my relationship with you and warned that Uncle Stephen would put the family name in an unsavory light." She rose and walked to the open door to the alley, chewing on her thumb as she gazed out onto the narrow, graveled path. "God, I should have warned him."
"Warned who of what?" Stephen's voice sounded behind her.
She jerked around at the same moment that Malachi rose and turned toward the older man who stood in the archway. He looked from one of them to the other. "Ah, I see, so it's come out in the trial then? I suspected I should have attended court this morning."
"No, Stephen, it was best you were not there," Malachi said. "I'm sorry, sir. The trial should have nothing to do with your personal life."
"You knew?" Emma asked.
Her uncle nodded and rolled down his shirt sleeves. "Charles Fulton has used every nefarious trick at hand to win this case." He reached for his jacket hanging on a hook beside the door. "Including my personal ... habits. Well, I wouldn't worry. My private behavior should not affect Alma Bentley's innocence or guilt."
"No sir," Malachi answered. "In fact, Judge Underwood quashed the witness examination the moment he realized where the questioning was going."
Stephen smiled wanly as he shot his cuffs. "With strong disapprobation, I hope."
"A five hundred dollar fine and threat of jail." Malachi smiled grimly. "Not nearly enough."
"It's a large sum." Stephen raised his brows in amusement. "Fulton will not like losing so much money."
"But the damage was done." Malachi shook his head. "The information had already been spoken even though the judge instructed the jurors to ignore the entire line of questioning."
"Not to Alma, I hope."
"No ... but unfortunately, your secret is out."
Stephen shook his head sadly. "It doesn't matter. Fulton is a mean, spiteful little man and his acrimony was bound to spill onto one of us." He sighed and bussed Emma's cheek. "I shall return quite soon to San Francisco where my friends and patrons do not concern themselves with the nature of my personal life."
Emma put her arms around her uncle and hugged him tightly. "I am sorry, Uncle Stephen."
He patted her shoulder awkwardly. "You'll likely bear the burden of this by association, m'dear. I only regret that you did not learn of this from my own lips. I – I thought to spare you embarrassment – "
"Fiddle sticks! I don't care one whit about that."
"Good girl." He kissed her cheek and made his leave with a short nod to Malachi.
His dapper form looked worn, but not defeated, as Emma watched him exit through the front door of The Placer Gazette.
Malachi slammed his fist against the door jamb. "Damn Charlie Fulton's sneaky hide!"
Chapter 23
"Frailty, thy name is woman!" – Hamlet
They had quarreled again, he and Emma.
After she'd formulated her outlandish theories from speaking with the midwife, he'd dismissed them without hearing her out. How could he not?
Incest? Family abuse? Neglect? What nonsense had she burrowed into now?
Emma Knight was a princess, a woman spoiled and indulged from infancy. But he'd seen the real Emma, the girl fierce about her social causes. The woman who'd braved the Sacramento docks and risked her life to see where their client had sprung from.
This current quarrel between them was a variation on the old one – how best to defend Alma Bentley. This late in the trial, with no new evidence – no provable evidence – Malachi knew he must proceed with his original defense strategy. He must garner sympathy for Alma from the twelve men who sat in judgment over her.
Stubborn to a fault, Emma insisted the knowledge that Aaron Machado was in the vicinity of Placer Hills the night of his brother's murder, along with the strange relationships in the Machado family, was enough to gain a postponement while they gathered more concrete evidence.
Malachi knew better. A delay in the proceedings would only arouse suspicion in the jurors, all men who had businesses to run and farms to tend to. While they were willing to perform their civic duty and sit on a jury for a matter of weeks, these gentlemen would not appreciate further investment of their valuable time.
This point was one that Emma could not – or would not – understand.
Malachi had never doubted his stratagem. He was willing to risk Alma's acquittal on his professional judgment, and he had hoped Emma would respect his acumen in the matter of trial design. But it appeared he was wrong.
#
Emma slammed her fist into the pillow, hoping for a more comfortable place to rest her head, but even as she did so, she knew that was not the problem – nor was the weight of the blanket or the smoothness of the sheets against her skin.
No, the issue was her anger towards Malachi. He'd barely let her begin her recitation of the strange background of the Machado family before he'd interrupted, saying the presumed facts were not relevant. He claimed the information she'd gained from Mrs. Henderson was mere supposition, not evidence. After all the work she'd done, he'd refused to listen.
But after she'd returned home and engaged in serious reflection, she had to acknowledge his superior judgment in the matter. The trial was fast closing. The jury would begin its deliberations by the end of the week. Perhaps Malachi was wise not to change strategy this late in the proceedings.
After all, she was a newspaper woman. What did she know of trials and defense schemes? What did she know of news reporting, her conscience whispered?
She groaned, gave up trying to get comfortable in bed, and pattered down the staircase in her thin slippers and heavy cotton nightdress. Perhaps a glass of warm milk would help her sleep.
She'd just placed the sauce pan on the stove when a light scratching sounded from the kitchen through the mud room to her right. Sarah and Ralston had long ago retired to their cottage. Who else could it be but Malachi?
Still, the repeat of the eerie sound sent icy streams through her blood. She was utterly alone, the nearest help many yards away at the Ralston residence.
Since her visit to Elizabeth Henderson, Emma had pondered the risk of the case. What might a person do to maintain a dark secret? Murder? Had Joseph been killed to keep the hidden vices of a twisted family? Might not that same person harm her for prying?
Malachi thought it didn't matter, but she was certain the truth of Joseph Machado's death lay in those intrigues.
Another scratching at the door, followed by a loud knock and then a voice wafted from the rear entry. "Emma! Open the door! Emma, it's Malachi."
As if she would not recognize his voice among a thousand similar ones. She abandoned the sauce pan of milk and tiptoed through the mud room to the back door, listening quietly. Even through the barrier of the solid wood, she could hear his heavy breathing and realized he'd walked or run the few miles through the woods.
"What do you want?" she asked through the threshold.
"We need to talk. I – I cut you off earlier when you would've spoken of what you learned from Mrs. Henderson."
Even though he'd asked her to assist him, Malachi had been drattedly territorial about the case, and she suspected this was as close to an apology as she would get. As she swung open the door, the wind blasted through her gown. He eyed her up and down before crossing through the doorway and removing his boots and overcoat.
"Are you alone?" he asked, looking quietly around the kitchen. "We should discuss this new theory of yours."
She remained silent, but glowered at him.
"You have every right to be angry with me, Emma. I should've allowed you to finish your report." He peered into the pan of milk beginning to steam on the stove top. "Trouble sleeping?"
She shrugged and pulled down the cocoa and two mugs from the cabinet.
"Emma, I'm sorry. Let's drink hot chocolate and discuss what you learned from the midwife. Please. I dislike you being angry with me."
The sound of a real apology made her feel better and she released the tension in her shoulders.
"Now tell me everything," Malachi said as they sat on the sofa in the parlor minutes later. "You suspect some kind of unusual relationship among the Machado siblings."
Emma sat facing him, her feet tucked for warmth beneath the voluminous folds of her gown. Suddenly the taboo subject she was about to broach brought a tinge of warmth to her face. And what if she were completely off the mark? Malachi would think her foolish indeed.
"What is the relationship?" Malachi's hand rested on the back of the sofa, his fingers playing with the corded seams close to her unbound hair.
She cleared her throat. "This is difficult to speak about."
His laughter, rich and mellow, warmed her like a good brandy going smoothly down the throat. "I shouldn't think there was anything difficult for us to speak about. Not now."
He reached for a lock of her hair, splaying it through his fingers, rubbing the strands between thumb and forefinger as if he were testing the tensile strength of a precious metal. She couldn't shake the feeling that he also was measuring her tensile. Sh
e ploughed on, determined to be undaunted by his possible rejection of her wild theories.
She sat forward, placed her feet on the floor even though it was quite chilly, and leaned her elbows on her thighs. "The night that Joseph, Jr., was born there was no midwife or doctor in attendance."
"What does that signify? I should imagine many women are unattended in childbirth."
She arched a brow at him and glanced over her left shoulder. "Not high-born women."
He nodded. "And yet Mrs. Machado delivered her youngest child without assistance. Is that even possible?"
She shook her head. "She must have had some help. When Mrs. Henderson arrived to take care of the mother and babe, the necessary cleaning process had been accomplished."
"By whom? Phoebe would have been ... what? Fifteen?"
"Fourteen. And she was nowhere to be found. Neither was Mr. Machado."
Malachi looked puzzled. "Who assisted her then?"
"Mrs. Henderson discovered Aaron holding the baby, swaddled and clean, rocking him as though the child were his own."
Malachi rose from the sofa, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and wandered to the wide front window. The draperies were drawn tight and he could not possibly see the dark, eerie shadows of the woods beyond Emma's property, but he stared at the shuttered window as if he could find some kind of answer written in the lines of fabric.
"You are traversing a dark and dangerous road, Emma," he said at last, his broad back turned to her. "You must be careful of being too fanciful with the facts. Often the truth of a situation is far less complicated."
She snorted rather ungraciously and threw herself back against the cushions. "I knew you would not believe me!"
He turned and squatted before her, his thighs bunching beneath his trousers, his fingers dangling from his knees. "I believe that a human being will do almost anything to another person."
Perhaps he did not understand her meaning. She gathered her courage and spoke the words quickly before she could retract them. "Shocking as it sounds, I think Phoebe and Aaron Machado are the parents of Joseph, Jr."