And now, in the courtroom once more, Meg, completely unaware of Jake’s presence a few paces behind her, was crossing her fingers and hoping that Mr Henderson’s cleverness would win the day for Percy.
Theobald Finch gave his testimony precisely, clearly and, strangely, quite impartially. When responding to questions it was obvious that he was trying to be entirely truthful and would not allow himself either to be led by Mr Snape or trapped by Mr Henderson.
‘My family has always found the Rodwells to be excellent tenants. I have nothing against the defendant in a business sense.’
Mr Snape was quick to leap in. ‘But you have in a personal sense, haven’t you, Mr Finch?’
Theobald cleared his throat and glanced briefly at the judge. ‘All I can say is that the engagement between Rodwell and my sister was a definite fact. Rodwell came and asked for my permission and we held a party.’
When it came to Mr Henderson’s turn to cross-examine Theobald, he asked, ‘Why do you think it was that there was such a long delay between the couple becoming engaged and setting a date for the wedding?’
Theobald shrugged. ‘I expect Rodwell felt unable to provide for my sister in the manner to which she had always been accustomed, as they say. I expect he was trying to get a bit more capital together. Buy a better house, perhaps. I don’t really know. It was never discussed with me.’
‘Do you mean to tell us, Mr Finch . . .’ Mr Henderson glanced around the courtroom, surprise on his face. ‘Do you really mean to tell us that your sister never discussed these matters with you?’
‘Ar-humph,’ Theobald shifted uncomfortably and ran his forefinger around his collar as if it was too tight. He was growing redder in the face with every minute. ‘Well, she might have said something of the sort. That – that she didn’t like his poky little house.’
Laughter rippled around the court and, hearing it for the first time, Jake was startled.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Henderson, satisfied. ‘His poky little house, eh?’
‘But we offered for him to live with us – at the Hall – after their marriage.’
‘At the Hall? Really? And you also offered to give Mr Rodwell the deeds to the property where he conducts his tailoring business? Is that not so?’
‘It is so,’ Theobald replied.
‘Then why do you suppose – with all this on offer to him – that a date was never set?’
‘You tell me,’ Theobald shot back. ‘I don’t understand it myself.’
Mr Henderson leant forward on his knuckles as he said slowly and deliberately, his gaze boring into Theobald’s eyes, ‘Do you suppose it could possibly be because – even before this young girl appeared on the scene – Mr Rodwell was unsure of his true feelings for the plaintiff? He was having doubts about committing himself to her – for life?’
‘Yes – no – I mean – I – er – um – suppose it’s – it’s possible.’ Poor Theobald was obliged to admit the fact and for a brief moment, Meg felt quite sorry for him. ‘But then,’ he volunteered, regaining his composure, ‘he shouldn’t have got engaged to her, should he?’
‘No.’ Mr Henderson nodded solemnly. ‘I am obliged to agree with you there.’ He paused and Meg held her breath. Was Mr Henderson giving up? Whatever was he thinking of, agreeing with Mr Finch?
But then Mr Henderson’s smile was deceptively benign. ‘But is it not possible, Mr Finch,’ he went on smoothly, ‘that in the early days of their – er – romance, my client did have a genuine fondness for the plaintiff? Perhaps, it was only when she found that his poky little house – the place that had been Mr Rodwell’s home for the greater part of his life – wasn’t good enough for her to live in, when she began to make demands about whom he should or should not employ in his business, when she began to threaten . . .’ He paused and then said quietly, ‘Need I say more?’
Theobald Finch did not answer.
When all the speeches had been made, the witness heard and the plaintiff and the defendant had each appeared in the witness box to be examined and cross-examined, the judge adjourned the case over the weekend whilst he made his decision. As Meg stood to leave, she glanced up and her gaze met Jake’s. She climbed the steps towards him, pushing through the chattering crowd who were filing out.
Her immediate reaction at the sight of him was to smile, but that faded when she saw his solemn face, the censure in his eyes. By the time she reached him, her mood was belligerent. There were enough people blaming her – she could tell by all the whispering and nudging – without Jake joining their number.
‘What are you doing here? Come to gloat, have you?’
Jake opened his mouth to make some biting retort, but then he closed it again. He was shocked by the look on her face. She seemed genuinely distressed as she pushed her way past him, down the stairs, through the entrance hall and out onto the wide steps at the front of the building. She stood there, pulling in great gulps of fresh air as if she had not been able to breathe in the confines of the courtroom.
‘He doesn’t deserve all this,’ she said as Jake came to stand beside her. ‘He’s a good man – a kind man – and that – that bitch is dragging his name through the mud.’
‘And yours,’ he murmured.
She gave a wry laugh. ‘Mine? Oh, what does my name matter? My name’s in the mire already. But his? Like I say, he doesn’t deserve it.’
She turned and hurried away from him but not before Jake had seen the tears in her eyes. Perplexed, he stared after her and one of old Albert Conroy’s sayings crept into his mind. ‘Funny creatures, women. They take some understanding, lad.’
Well, Jake thought, his Meg did. He still thought of her as ‘his’ and probably always would. But had he misjudged her? Had he really got it all so very wrong?
Thirty-Three
On the day that the judge was to sum up the case and give his verdict, the public gallery was crowded again. Jake and George Smallwood were once more squeezed in at the very back. The hubbub in the courtroom ceased abruptly as the door below opened and the judge entered to take his place. He shuffled his papers and cleared his throat.
‘This has been a difficult case,’ he said at last. ‘By the evidence presented, I am convinced that an engagement did exist between the parties and that that engagement was subsequently broken. But who broke it off? That is the question.’ He cleared his throat and glanced around as if enjoying the suspense he was creating. Get on with it, Meg wanted to shout, but she kept her lips pressed together.
‘We are told that the plaintiff threatened to end the engagement if her fiancé did not comply with her wishes in the matter of the employment of the young woman. One could’ – he spread his hands expressively – ‘deduce from this that, because her fiancé did not comply, then it was she who broke off the betrothal. The defendant took her at her word, so to speak. Now, mindful of the vagaries of a woman’s mind . . .’ At this there was heartfelt laughter from the men in the gallery and the judge allowed himself a small smile, ‘we could assume that the lady did not mean what she said. That she was, indeed, only using it as a threat to get her own way.’ He paused and seemed lost in his own thoughts for a moment. ‘But the defendant did take her at her word. Called her bluff, as you might say. But what follows makes us think that even if we believe the so-called threat, then the defendant used this threat to break the engagement for his own ends. He had taken up with the girl and wanted to marry her and here, presented to him on a plate, was his excuse. He could, he thought, release himself from the now unwanted entanglement of his engagement in order to marry the girl.’
The courtroom was silent now, hanging on the judge’s every word. He recapped at some length what had already been ably said by the two solicitors. One moment he seemed to be in favour of Clara, the next on Percy’s side.
‘After much deliberation,’ he said at last, when the folk in the gallery were beginning to get restive, ‘I feel bound to accept the plaintiff’s story.’ He paused to wait whilst the excited whisperin
g from the women onlookers in the gallery subsided. Clara Finch’s face was a picture. Eyes narrowed, she smirked with satisfaction, and glanced across towards where Percy was sitting with his head in his hands. Vindicated, she was almost preening.
‘And . . .’ The judge looked slowly round the whole courtroom before he said in ringing tones, ‘I award her the sum of – one farthing.’ He banged his gavel and stood up to leave.
There was a stunned silence and then a loud guffaw of laughter from all the men present whilst the ladies twittered with indignation.
‘What does it mean?’ Jake asked George Smallwood. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘It means, lad, that the judge felt compelled to find in her favour, as they say.’ When he saw that Jake was still frowning, he explained in simpler terms. ‘That he believes Miss Finch’s story. That Percy Rodwell did break their engagement to marry Meg. But in awarding her only one farthing in damages he’s indicating that he doesn’t really blame Percy one bit.’ George laughed loudly. ‘And I bet there’s not a man here who wouldn’t agree with him. Why, you’ve only got to look at that skinny spinster with her vicious tongue and your Meg to side with Percy. He’s a lucky feller. That’s what we’re all thinking. Lucky to have escaped that biddy’s clutches and lucky to be married to that young lass.’
Aye, my Meg, Jake was thinking bitterly. But she’s not ‘my Meg’ any longer. She’s Percy Rodwell’s. And yes, Percy was a lucky fellow.
The unusual court case, the way it had been conducted and its surprising outcome were the gossip of the town for several days. Gradually, however, folk settled back into their normal routine and other matters took their attention. But for some life had changed dramatically. Clara Finch rarely ventured out of the Hall. She had been humiliated in front of the whole community and she felt she could never hold her head up again.
‘I told you not to be so daft, bringing an action against him,’ was her brother’s comment. ‘What can you expect when it’s men making the judgement?’
‘I expected justice,’ Clara replied through clenched teeth. ‘And I expected a little more support from you – my own brother. It was you who lost the case for me. Standing up there and sounding as if you sympathized
with – with – him. I’ll never forgive you for that, Theo. Never!’
‘Well, it wasn’t my idea to bring the case.’ Theobald paused and eyed her speculatively. ‘Where did you get the idea from anyway?’
‘Why do you assume I got the idea from someone else?’ she snapped back. ‘Don’t you think I’ve got a mind of my own? Don’t you think I’m capable of thinking for myself?’
Theobald’s answer was a disbelieving grunt. ‘Well, did you think of it for yourself?’
‘Not – exactly.’
‘So?’
‘Oh, if you must know I was taking tea in a cafe in the town with Letitia and—’
‘Letitia?’ Theobald was startled. ‘Letitia Pendleton?’
‘Of course Letitia Pendleton. How many other Letitias do we know?’
‘Well! You do surprise me.’ He cast her a keen look. ‘I thought,’ he said, and there was a pointed edge to his tone, ‘that she wasn’t good enough to be in your company.’
‘No more she is,’ Clara snapped, ‘but if the wretched woman has the effrontery to join me at the table – without being asked, I might add – I can hardly make a scene in a public place.’
‘Mm, well, you made quite a scene in a public court, didn’t you, my dear?’ If he hadn’t been her brother, Clara would have thought he was revelling in her humiliation. ‘But she’s not the vindictive sort,’ he murmured mildly. ‘Not Letitia. Now, if you’d said it had been Isaac’s idea—’
‘Oh, and you’d know that, wouldn’t you, Theo. If anyone’d know that, you would.’
Brother and sister glared at each other and, though not another word was spoken, ghosts from the past lay between them.
At last, Clara sighed. ‘It wasn’t Letitia.’
‘Ha!’ Theobald let out a sound of great satisfaction. ‘I thought not. Then who was it? Was it Isaac?’
‘No. She’d brought some woman with her from the workhouse. She works for Letitia – has quite a good position there, so I believe.’ Clara was at pains not to let her brother think that she had been taking tea with a workhouse pauper. ‘It was this woman’s birthday. I forget her name. Walters or Waters or something like that. Letitia had brought her into town as a treat. Well, it was her suggestion. “If it was me,” she said, “I’d sue him.” And I’ll tell you something, Theo. I’m not sorry. No, I’m not. In spite of that horrible judge, I’m glad I let the women of this town know just what men are capable of. They’ll be on my side, I can assure you. And when I’ve finished with Percy Rodwell and his fancy piece, he’ll wish he’d never been born!’
Percy and Meg settled into a contented routine. Each day they worked together in the shop until mid-afternoon, when Meg went home to the little cottage to prepare an evening meal and to do her housework. On Monday evenings she washed. On Tuesdays she ironed. On Wednesdays she cleaned the bedrooms and on Thursdays she cleaned the downstairs rooms. On Saturday evenings she lit a fire in the front room and they sat together companionably, Percy with his newspaper and Meg with her sewing and mending. On Sundays, when the shop was closed, they attended morning service at church and then after lunch they went for a walk, if the weather was good, or again sat together in the front room. And at night in the privacy of their bedroom, Meg would open her arms to Percy and submit herself to his trembling lovemaking.
It was a quiet, well-ordered life and Meg told herself it was what she wanted. She closed her mind to her former life. She determined never to think of her father or of her lost little brother. And she hardened her heart towards her mother.
If she doesn’t want to see me, she told herself, then I don’t want to see her. I’ll never think of her again. I won’t even think about that place and the people she’s chosen to live with. I shall wipe them from my mind. The master, the matron, Louisa Daley, Waters – all of them. Even poor old Albert had to be banished from her thoughts, for if she were to allow herself to think about him, then unbidden memories of the others at the workhouse would creep into her mind.
But there was one whom, try as she might, she could not banish from her mind or her heart. Jake Bosley refused to be forgotten.
Though she was unaware of it, Jake was finding it just as hard to put Meg out of his thoughts. He buried himself in his work at the farm, labouring from dawn to dusk and falling into his narrow bed in the little room in Ron’s cottage. But even there he could not forget her. Where he slept had been her room, her bed, even. Her head had rested on the very same pillow he now used. Her young, lithe body had made the hollows in the mattress where he now lay. Her hand had touched the doorknob. She had washed in the bowl and ewer on the washstand, and she had brushed her hair, staring at herself in the cracked mirror. And his pledge to keep away from her, to let her get on with the life she had chosen, was thwarted by the kindness of his employer. Mr Smallwood had not forgotten their conversation about Jake’s clothing – or rather the lack of it.
Just before Christmas, he said, ‘Now, lad, I promised you a Sunday best suit and the missis has agreed. We hadn’t realized that you’d only got the clothes you stood up in.’ He made a sound of disapproval. ‘What that place is coming to, I don’t know.’ He nodded his head in the vague direction of where the workhouse stood across country from his farm. ‘You’d think the parish could run to equipping a young lad out when he ventured into the world. Anyway, ne’er mind about that. We don’t mind forking out for a new suit for you.’ He smiled and nodded. ‘You’re a good lad and we’re pleased with the way you’re shaping up, so we hope you’ll stay with us.’
Jake, feeling suddenly happier than he had done for months – ever since Meg had married Percy Rodwell in fact – beamed. ‘Oh, I will, sir. You and the missis have been very good to me.’
‘There’s just one
other thing. I know you like living with Ron – and they like having you – but he tells me his missis is expecting another bairn.’ For a brief moment there was an expression of envious longing in the older man’s face, but it cleared quickly as he went on. ‘And they’re going to be a bit short of room. We wondered if you’d consider moving into the farmhouse with me and the missis. There’s . . . there’s . . .’ again a fleeting glimpse of deep pain, ‘only the two of us now.’
Jake hesitated, torn between wanting to stay with Ron and his family in the house where Meg had once lived and yet at the same time longing to be freed from her ghostly presence in his room in the long night hours.
He smiled up at his employer. ‘I’d be glad to, sir. I’ll try not to be a trouble to you and your wife.’
‘Oh, you won’t be, lad, no more than . . .’ George cleared his throat and swiftly changed the subject. ‘Just one other thing. The missis will expect you to go to church with us every Sunday. You’d do that for her, lad, would you?’
Jake grinned. ‘Of course, sir. I’ll be able to show off me new suit.’ As they walked across the yard together towards the house to tell Mabel Smallwood what had been arranged between them, George put his arm across the young man’s shoulders and they laughed together.
Watching them from the window, Mabel, for all her hard exterior, felt a lump in her throat. ‘Aye,’ she murmured. ‘He’s the son you’ve never had, George. Let’s hope he’s a mite more biddable than that good-for-nothing daughter of ours.’
So, two days later, Jake stepped into Percy’s shop to be measured for a new suit. It seemed as if his path and Meg’s were destined to cross. It would not be possible for him never to see her, for he knew she attended church on Sundays and now he was expected to do the same.
Forget it, Jake told himself. It’s in the past. She’s married and nothing can change that. She’s lost to you and you’d better get on with your own life. So Jake buried his feelings deep inside himself and when he walked into the shop, it was with a bright smile plastered on to his face and a cheery word on his lips, as if all that had gone before was forgotten – and forgiven.
Without Sin Page 23