Fortunate Son
Page 38
“I know not,” whispered Charity.
“You know not? Surely Lady Anglesea told you why she wouldn’t—”
“Nay!” Charity squalled, tears welling in her eyes. “She didn’t.”
“All right, Madam Heath. So…Mary Sheffield, the supposed mother of the plaintiff, left Dunmain House without taking him, her supposed son, with her. Is that correct?”
Charity dabbed her ashen cheeks, then sat straight, crossing her arms. “Aye.”
“After she left, you say she went to New Ross, then on to Dublin?”
“Aye, she did.”
“And during that time, did she ever receive James as a visitor?”
“Never.” Charity’s gaze was now fixed on the venerable oak walls.
“Did she talk of seeing the child, as if he was her own?”
Again Charity cut a long glance at Richard. “Nay.” Tears dribbled again down her flushed cheeks. “She did not.”
James lurched forward angrily, wanting to stand, wanting to shout at her, to call her the liar she was. Mackercher put a hand on his arm. “Settle,” Mackercher whispered, “I’ll have my turn with this witch.”
“Did she ever attempt to see James?”
Charity clenched her jaw, then took a deep breath and answered, “Not that I was aware.”
“Lying hag,” whispered James.
Bowes cut his eyes to James, but said nothing.
“Madam Heath, I can see this is emotional for you. No doubt it has been difficult, caring for your lady as you did, while seeing an imposter attempt—”
“Yar lordships!” Mackercher protested.
Bowes shook his head at Malone, who nodded, continuing calmly, “We thank you for your candor.” He looked at the bench. “I have no further questions for this good lady.” He veered back to his seat.
Mackercher stood and slowly advanced on Charity. “Madam Heath, ya certainly have a fanciful story for us today, do ya not?”
“Nay, indeed, ‘tis true,” she murmured, not looking at him.
“When ya were sworn in, did ya not swear on the blessed Holy Bible that yar testimony would be the truth before this court and God?”
Again, her eyes flashed to Richard. “So I did.”
“Madam Heath, no doubt all in this court have observed the most curious of things, that ya keep looking at the defendant before answering. And yet ya seem unwilling to look me in the eyes, or the plaintiff. Do tell us, how long have ya known Richard Annesley?”
She looked down, her hands clasped together in her lap. “Many years,” she whispered.
“How many?” bellowed Mackercher.
“I don’t know,” she growled back.
“All right,” snapped Mackercher, raising a hand. “Since when have ya known him?”
“‘Twas many years ago. I’m not—”
Mackercher thundered, “‘Twas since he assumed the title, Earl of Anglesea! Is that not correct?”
“I suppose, ‘tis.”
“Indeed ya met Richard on the very day Arthur was buried. Is that not correct?”
“I don’t know. I had seen him at Dunmain, before, but….” She squirmed, as if physically entangled on Mackercher’s hook.
“But in Dublin, that’s where ya became Richard’s bedmate, at that time, did ya not?”
“By honor, I must object!” Malone shouted.
Bowes flicked a hand haphazardly in the air. “Sit down, Sergeant Malone.”
Mackercher leaned on the witness box railing. “Madam Heath, did ya, or did ya not, become Richard’s bedmate at that time?”
Charity looked away, tears welling in her eyes.
“Madam?” asked Mackercher.
“You will answer the question,” growled Bowes.
She began a slight nod, then whispered, “Aye.”
“And did ya not stay in Dublin, specifically to be with Richard when Lady Anglesea left for England?”
“Aye.” Her voice was barely audible now, her hands shaking.
“And are ya not currently employed by Richard in some capacity within his household?”
“Aye…I am.” She sobbed.
“No more questions, my lords. I won’t ask her in what capacity she now serves.” He looked at the jurors. “I think that’s clear enough.” Though Malone sprang to his feet, he remained silent. Justice Bowes peered at him blankly, as if willing the man back into his seat.
*
Eight more witnesses were questioned that day. Then, at half past five, the defense rested. In the course of the prior week Malone had called seventy-three witnesses, all of dubious integrity—James could only hope truth would speak for itself, and that the lies would be equally manifested and clear.
Closing arguments commenced the next morning, each side allowed two hours to spin what tales they may. Their droning speeches palled James. Seemed to pall everyone. Even Mackercher’s went on forever. Each witness was discussed punctiliously, their evidence weighed and argued, measured and discussed. Why did the jury need anything but Giffard, James wondered silently. Hadn’t he said enough? But four hours of wearying argument ensued. Occasionally, the judge on Bowes’s right nodded off before awaking with a snort. And one juror appeared to sleep through it all. Finally, just before one o’clock, it was over. Justice Bowes instructed the jury before sending them out to deliberate.
James stood and gave Mackercher a nervous grin. “Surely they’ve seen the truth here.”
The man nodded but James could see he was worried. “I hope so,” Mackercher whispered, fingering his eyebrows.
James decided to wait with Laura, who was still on the front row of the gallery, softly talking with Seán and Ann. He stepped around Mackercher and saw Richard standing frozen, leaning forward on his table. James started to walk by, but as he opened the gate, he stopped.
Richard looked over, scowling.
“Parlez-vous Francais?” James asked, smirking before walking on.
As they waited together, James and Laura, Seán and Ann, the drafty courtroom grew colder. They talked about trivial things. When the conversation waned, Seán relayed a naval story, then told Ann about the fanged centipede, giving them a welcome laugh.
Minutes turned slowly into heavy hours. Time became sap. Finally, three hours and fifteen minutes later, just after the cathedral bell rang four o’clock, the jury filed in and James hurried back to his seat. There he stood, watching the judges enter, resuming their places on the bench. His heart drummed. His hands became slick. Justice Bowes sat resolute, then leaned to one side, whispering something to one of his peers. James wanted to sit. For as laborious as this had been, it all seemed terribly quick now, at this moment. Here. Now. It was time. It would be said. It would end. James studied the jury. Most were looking at the judges. One flicked a glance at Richard, then to James, then to the bench again. James could read nothing in it. Throats cleared behind him. Someone sneezed. Then more silence, save the judicial whispering. Then Bowes abruptly straightened. He nodded at Malone, then to Mackercher, then addressed the jury. “Gentlemen of the jury, your service here over these two weeks has been of the greatest importance and most notable honor to your country, to this court and to your King. None of us (he indicated himself and the other judges) remembers nor has heard of a trial that persisted for such length of days. Your patience and enduring service is duly noted and most gratefully appreciated. Now, I ask you sirs, how do you find? For the plaintiff or for the defendant?”
The foreman stood. “We find for the plaintiff, my lords.”
The courtroom exploded, cheers erupting, deafening, startling shouts. James dropped back into his chair, slumping forward, suddenly flushed and out of breath. His hands were trembling. He turned to Laura and grinned.
Mackercher spoke loud to be heard over the commotion, “My lords, I pray ya render a formal judgment on behalf of the plaintiff, and that it may be recorded, and that the effect of this judgment be announced.”
Malone was shouting, “My lords, the effect of the judgment should not be rendered—”
“Nay, Sergeant Malone,” Bowes said. “It should indeed. Silence! Order in this courtroom! Silence!” James and Mackercher returned to their seats as the room was rendered to a nervous hush. James glanced at Richard who was standing, staring at the floor, not blinking, not moving, just frozen and fixed, and yet in the same instance dissolving. A salt pillar in a torrential rain.
“Richard Annesley, in accordance with, and resulting from, the verdict of this jury, the title and property of the Baron of Altham and the Earl of Anglesea is hereby removed from you. You shall desist all occupancies and surrender all possessions of said property, resign your seat in the English and Irish Houses of Lords, and remove any and all such references from your title. Is that understood?”
Richard continued to stare at the floor without response.
“Is that understood, Mr. Annesley?” Bowes thundered.
When Richard still said nothing, Malone rose to his feet. “‘Tis understood, my lord.”
“When he returns to his senses, Sergeant Malone,” Bowes grumbled, “make it clear to him that I shall hold him in contempt if he ever once violates, or attempts to violate, this order. And I am sure appropriate action will also be taken by the Earl.”
“Aye, my lord,” Malone conceded.
Bowes turned to face James. “The Right Honorable James, Sixth Baron of Altham, Eighth Earl of Anglesea, shall no doubt enforce my decree as well, aye?”
James popped up and enthused, “Most certainly, my lord.”
“On that, I declare this matter finished. This court stands adjourned.”
Again, the spectators clapped and cheered. James turned and clasped Mackercher’s arm. “We did it! Well done, Mr. Mackercher. Well done, indeed! We did it!”
Mackercher stood, appearing stunned, then nodded slowly. “B’jingo, I guess we did.”
“I can never thank ye enough—”
“Please, Lord Anglesea,” Mackercher intoned, “I pray ya’ll keep our bargain. I have been fully compensated today.”
James beamed. “Ye’re a great man, Daniel Mackercher.”
Mackercher smiled, then looked at the noisy crowd. “Ya’d better go, m’lord. I’ll see ya at the Stag’s Head.”
“Very well. We’ll meet there,” James replied, then walked away. As he came through the barrister’s gate, people rushed him. People he had never seen before were bowing, curtsying, calling him Lord Anglesea, congratulating him on his victory. He looked for Laura and pulled her to his side. Seán went ahead of them, clearing the way. Though grateful for the kind words, he needed to get out, to breathe, to talk with Laura, with Seán. They left the courtroom only to find the foyer more crowded with shouting people. Pushing through the masses, James turned away from the main doors. “Here. In here,” he said, pulling Laura around and down another corridor.
“I’ll get Mr. Mackercher,” Seán offered, with Ann close behind.
“Aye. Thank ye, Seán,” shouted James. “He’ll meet us at the Stag. And you two as well? Ye’ll be there, won’t ye?”
“Aye, we will. How will ye get out of here?”
“Isn’t there a back way through the cathedral? There used to be.”
“Best I remember. Ye’d better go,” Seán said, smiling. “I am happy for ye, Seámus. This is a great day.” Another quick embrace and Seán turned, disappearing in the crowd.
James held Laura’s hand, pulling her down the hall until the throng was well behind them, the noises growing soft. “Somewhere back here is a passage that opens into the churchyard,” he said. A bit farther they found it and stepped outside into the nippy, brumous air, and into the blast of the bells of Christ Church. Somehow, inside, over the dissonance of the crowds, the explosion of joy, they had not noticed the bells—which were not ringing rhythmically, as they would to announce a service, the hour, or even a death knell. They were clanging chaotically, jubilantly peeling the victory. Squinting up at the bell tower, tears welled in his eyes. Then he looked down, slowly shifting around, realizing the place. “This is the churchyard,” he muttered. “This is the place, Laura. Right there,” he pointed at the south transept door, “that is where I walked out. And here….” He released her hand and walked slowly forward. “This is where Richard rode up, those years ago.” He studied the ground, the wet yellow grass. Laura cinched her cape tighter, watching him move about. “These benches weren’t here then,” he continued. “This was all open in this area. He rode up on us. And declared me a bastard. And I received this scar.” He touched the right side of his face. “This is the place.” Laura came behind him and put her hands on his back. James looked up again. “And those bells were ringing for my father.” He turned to his right. “And Fynn was beside me. Juggy and Seán were over there.” He pointed to the far wall near Fishamble Street, then fell silent, the velvety mist covering their faces.
“I’ll ride with Mr. Mackercher, or Seán,” she breathed gently.
He kept his eyes ahead, still envisioning the past. “Aye. Ye should get out of this dampness.” He turned to her. “I’ll walk ye.”
“Nay, Acushla,” she said, her eyes replete with compassion. “Stay for a while. I’ll go round that way. It leads to the carriages, aya?”
“It does. Promise me ye’ll come back if ye don’t see one of ours?”
“I will.” She didn’t move right away, but instead gave him a small smile, unblinking, as though her vivid blue eyes were seeing straight through him. “I love ya, James, Earl of Anglesea,” she said.
He meekly whispered, “Acushla. Sweet lady of mine. I love you.” As she turned to go, he reached for her hand and kissed it tenderly. “I’ll see ye at the inn?”
“Aya, James.”
“Thank ye for…. Thank ye,” he said. She sighed with a smile and a slight shake of her head, then walked away. He watched her down the path until she disappeared around the corner. Then he walked quickly, farther into the churchyard. From there he could see her. She was at the street, a footman helping her into their carriage. James turned back, tilting his face up. The cathedral’s gigantic, ashen stone walls towered over him, its sombrous buttresses stretching high into the Dublin sky, disappearing into the low, dove-grey clouds. He could not tell where the spire ended and the sky began. As he lowered his gaze, focusing on the transept door, the bells finally stopped. In the silence, a calmness fell, the sound of the mist, the sound of distant hooves on cobblestones, coach wheels rolling, faraway voices. It was quiet. It was peace. It was over. It was his. He walked slowly to the door, gravel crunching under his feet, then turned the big iron handle and went in.
Chapter 40
The great cause wherein the Hon. James Annesley, Esq., was Plaintiff ended today, when the jury brought in a verdict for Mr. Annesley. Never was a cause of greater consequence brought to trial; never any took up so much time in hearing, nor ever was there a jury composed of gentlemen of such property, dignity and character. Never was there so universal a joy: the music that played in the streets, even the bells themselves, being scarce heard amidst the repeated hussas of the multitude.
— General Evening Post, Dublin,
November 25, 1743
The cold air followed him in. James walked to the front of the nave and stopped. He could hear whispers, saw a few people moving in the shadows, talking quietly, a few in the nave, on their knees. He looked back at the choir chamber, then up, past the chancel screen, watching the organ’s pipes stretch for the vaulted ceiling.
“May I help ye, sir?” asked a man with an Orphean voice.
James turned. “Ah, nay sir. Thank ye kindly.”
The clerk nodded, s
miling, then slipped away.
“Sir?” James called after him. “Pardon me, but where is the chapterhouse?”
“‘Tis outside, sir, between the south wall and the Four Courts.”
James thanked him and turned to go.
“But ye may get to it through there, if ye wish,” the man added, gesturing to a small door under the darkly arched arcade.
“Good. I thank ye.” James walked slowly down the middle of the nave, then back to the south wall. He knocked on the door softly. When no answer came, he eased it open. Entering, he noticed it was windowless, lit only by a sole rush light flittering against the stone wall. He surveyed its tables, books and assortment of chairs. It appeared more of a rector’s study than what he thought to be a chapterhouse. He walked to one of the tables, running his fingers across its smooth coolness. “I’m finally here, Mum,” he whispered. He leaned against the wall, exhausted, rubbing his forehead.
Suddenly a man in a minister’s robe entered. “Oh, pardon me, son,” exclaimed the man, obviously surprised to find someone there.
James stood straight. “Nay, Father. Pardon me. I was just leaving.”
“Do ye have business with me?”
“Nay, I was leaving,” whispered James, stepping past him. “Sorry to intrude. I was curious, and…. Pardon me.” He walked into the nave, his footsteps echoing softly across the flagstones until he took a seat on an empty pew near the center. Above, he saw the stone arches curving into the dark overhead, then noticed the carvings at the top of each pillar along the arcade. The faces he had seen so many years ago were staring back at him now with their same implacable expressions. He considered each in turn, looking for one in particular. Then he found her. The young woman’s face was still dead, her eyes still closed. He stared at her. Nothing happened. He glanced to his right, at the tombs of Strongbow and his halved son, and realized where he was sitting. He rose and moved up two pews, and over to the middle. Now he was in the same pew where he sat at his father’s funeral. He closed his eyes, imagining Fynn beside him, then opened his eyes, picturing his father’s casket at the front of the nave. Then he remembered his father was in the crypt below, but nothing lured him to go. Again he closed his eyes. He heard the swish of a dress from behind, feet treading slowly down the center aisle. His eyes eased open but he kept them down, hoping not to be recognized. The woman slipped in beside him, yet across the aisle. He heard the clump of an object being set on her bench.