"Well be all right," he said, putting his arm around her. He hated the reassuring, confident sound in his voice, hated her for needing that reassurance, and hated himself for needing to give it Callie had taken his own thoughts from out of his very heart and put them into words. He was afraid. He didn't know what could be done or where to begin attacking the mesh of law that was as strong as steel and as debilitating as disease.
An Englishman held on a capital offense was allowed no counsel. Prisoners conducted their own defense with the disadvantage of not being permitted to give evidence in their own behalf.
There was one other horror that Stephen saw clearly even though Callie did not: She had been able
to say openly that she believed Natalie had killed Rosalind and Albert, while he had not; but Stephen, deep inside himself, admitted it was true. What was also true—and Stephen recognized it—was that no one else, last of all judges and a jury, would ever believe it Peter might think he was protecting Natalie by refusing to proclaim his own innocence, but what little evidence there was all pointed to Peter, and popular opinion had it that he was guilty.
Stephen was painfully aware that the only hope Peter had was for Stephen to find someone who had actually seen the crime, or something that would prove Peter hadn't committed the murder—or more unlikely still, for the murderer to step forward and admit guilt. None of these possibilities seemed likely, and no one was more aware of that than Stephen. He also knew there was very little time in which to search for a witness. If English justice tended to be harsh, it was also unquestionably swift.
Stephen was correct. Peter s trial, to be held in London at Mrs. Foxe's request, was scheduled just three days after his arrest.
Stephen left Callie at the house, then rode off searching for someone or something to prove Peter innocent. He dared not think what he might find, or what it would mean to Natalie. He still could not find it in himself to choose between the love he felt for his sister and the love he felt for his brother. Instead he prayed and left the decision to a higher order.
He rode back to the farm late that evening. When he took the horse to the stables, Frank was there watering and feeding the plow horses. "Where were you? I could have used your help today."
"I was looking for someone to testify for Peter," Stephen said tiredly.
"You re wasting your time," Frank grumbled as they
walked back to the house. "No one is going to stand up for him. Listen to the talk around."
Stephen stood silent and dejected just inside the study, gazing at the spot where Peter had been last night
It was true what Frank said. No one was going to stand up for Peter. He was going to stand alone in that courtroom, and there was no one who could help. Even the truth would not help. There was no way of proving it
All day long he had heard talk of the murder. Mouths overflowed with half-truths and scandal. Eyes lighted with curiosity; people all over the parish had been on Peter s side, but in such a fashion that their very support would help to convict him. He had every right, they all said, to do away with an adulterous wife, no matter how imprudent he had been in shooting Albert as well. They didn't believe him innocent, only justified.
Stephen walked fully into the room and took Peter s seat. He leaned forward, tired deep inside, propping his head up with his hands. It was all so painfully clear why Peter had always longed to leave England, why he had always felt hemmed in and trapped. Peter had always associated with the people who came most under the law's thumb. He understood the fear and futility that Stephen was only now learning. But why, if there were a God, had it to be Peter who became trapped by this thing called justice?
And then he remembered the morning prayer James used to say to begin each day of their lives. "Teach us to be just to those dependent on us."
He stared into the blackness so long and so hard that it seemed to undulate before his eyes, shaping and reshaping itself into human forms, some dependent, and some who prayed to be just It was the whole
essence of the Bloody Code to him that night. One group of people praying faithfully to a god, knowing he was there to answer because he was of their own making. And the others never praying at all, never knowing that God was there because they didn't know they were of His making.
That night he spent hating England and her Bloody Code, which could boast nearly two hundred thirty offenses for which a man could be hanged. English justice!
"What are you doing, Stephen? I've been looking all over for you," Callie said as she came into the study.
"Nothing. Thinking/' he said moodily.
She fumbled at the table, trying to light a rush lamp. "Did you find someone to testify?"
"No."
"You're not giving up? There must be someone. We must keep looking." She turned away from him, biting her lip. "Oh, why did we ever come back here? None of this would have happened if we had just stayed in America."
"Shut up, Callie. Stop talking about it."
"I can't! I can't just sit here and do nothing. How can you? You know who did it. Why won't you just admit it, and do something about it?"
He glared at her. "Shut up, Callie. You're talking like a bloody fool. You want to drag it out of me that I think Natalie killed them? All right, I think it. I think she did it. But get this through that block you call a head, my opinion doesn't mean a bloody thing in a court of law, and neither does yours."
"Stephen—"
"I've ridden this whole parish today and found not one soul outside this house who believes in Peter's innocence, or who has seen or heard anything that
would help. I've heard plenty that would hang him, but not one word that might save him."
"Stephen, no."
"Yes. If you still believe in that God of yours, you might pray he gets a compassionate jury/' he said and strode out of the room.
Chapter 27
The following Friday, Stephen, Callie, and Frank went to the courtroom. Curiosity seekers crowded in among those present as witnesses or because of a connection with the trial. Stephen was surprised to see so many farm laborers there. It was a strange mixture of people, he thought. Ragged, soil-dirtied clothing rubbed against fur-trimmed velvets. Plumed bonnets waggled in the air over the flat caps of neighboring spectators. There were so many there, but none of them gave Stephen hope. He felt as though he was about to view something that had been preordained, and nothing would change Peters fate or help Callie or him to accept it.
He looked around at the room itself. Golden, oiled panels of wood covered the walls. The judge's seat, high so that one had to look up to him, the lawyers' boxes, all carved and carefully crafted of the finest wood, lined up on opposite sides. The prisoner's box was set back and also built high so that the spectators could view it. Everything Stephen looked at seemed to be enclosed in wood, and while he thought that it
was probably to provide a sense of permanence, it gave him only the apprehensive sense of impenetrability. He couldn't help but feel the truth could never be arrived at in this place, which was already so set in centuries of rules and laws. A man's life meant so little when it was pitted against fixed minds and rigid principles.
There was a stir in the room as people adjusted their seats for better views and the judge's gavel hammered. Robed lawyers moved papers, straightened wigs, and tugged at their robes in a final ritual of preparedness.
Stephen looked up and fixed his eyes on the ceiling, unable and unwilling to watch the final stages of what amounted to the ceremonies of righteousness. He didn't listen to the opening statements, nor to the first few witnesses.
Callie and Frank listened to every word spoken, their hopes rising and dashing as one witness after another told of having known about Rosalind and Albert's affair. Peter's part in the Swing riots came out and was discussed at length. His temper, his impetuosity, his recklessness in years past were repeated so often and with such enthusiastic vigor that it sounded as though he had spent his life riding the highways and stirrin
g up trouble. It was also made clear that he and Albert had been in opposition to one another on several occasions. Mrs. Foxe was having her revenge on the "harlot's keeper" and would forever be satisfied that she had been right.
Callie sat stiffly in her seat. An idea formed as she heard a witness verify that Albert had once arrested Peter during the Swing riots. As the witness stepped down, and there was a lull in the courtroom, Callie kept remembering Albert asking her if she were willing to take the witness stand in Peter's behalf then.
She had been, but it hadn't been necessary. Now it was.
Quite suddenly, before Stephen could realize what she was doing, Callie stood up. "May I speak, Your Honor?"
A hum of motion filled the room as people shifted in their seats to look at the young woman who stood pale and frightened asking to speak to the court
"I ... I have testimony pertinent to the defendant's case, sir," she said, her voice shaking.
Stephen grasped her hand. More than anything he wanted to pull her down into her seat, but he didn't She'd never forgive him; nor would she rest until she had tried her best to s^ve Peter and to tell the truth. Most of all he dreaded what it would do to her when she discovered the truth did not always prevail. He increased the pressure on her hand, gently, reassuringly, letting her know he was there.
"I wish to speak, please," she said louder, her voice firmer.
The judge rapped his gavel as the barristers began objecting to her request
Quickly she took her hand from Stephen's, stepped past Frank, and boldly walked to the witness box. Stiffly, not daring to look at anyone, she sat there waiting for the argument to abate, or for them to forcibly remove her.
When all was quiet and the proceedings resumed, the barrister, his white wig impeccably straight on his head, walked toward Callie. After a sarcastic comment about her audacity, he asked preliminary questions about her place of residence and her connection with the defendant. "Cousin," he repeated her answer. "A close cousin?"
"No, sir, distant I'm not sure of the connection, only that it comes from Aunt Meg's side of the family."
"And were you not the cousin that the witness"—he glanced down at the notes in his hand—"Job MacBride told us about?"
"I don't know, sir. I don't know who Job MacBride is.
"Were you the woman who came into Albert Foxe's headquarters the night of the Swing arrests and claimed to have been out riding in the middle of the night with Peter Berean?"
Callie hesitated, then spoke in a low but clear voice. Yes, sir.
"Cousin, are you? More likely that you'd be the reason he had no use for his wife." He strutted around the immediate area for some seconds, a smile on his arrogant face. "Well, Miss Dawson, shall we now get to the present problem? Here we have Mr. Berean embroiled in another misadventure, and again we have you sitting here telling us he is innocent. Why this time are you so certain of his innocence? Were you also out riding with him on this occasion?"
"No, sir."
"No, sir? Well, well, Miss Dawson, I am pleased to see that you have sufficient respect for this court not to foist that same story on us again."
"I have no desire to tell this court anything but the truth," Callie said quietly.
"The truth. Ah, yes, the truth. The truth will set him free, something like that, Miss Dawson?"
Callie began to stammer. "Y-yes, sir."
Stephen cringed in his seat, barely able to hold still as he watched the predatory barrister stalk back toward the witness box. He glanced up at Peter. The guard had his hands on Peters shoulders holding him seated. On Peter's face was a mixture of grief and anger.
"Were you present at the farm the day the murder took place?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you see anything of note—unusual that day?"
"No, sir, but . . ."
"Were you witness to the crime? Do you know anyone who was? Is there any reason we should waste our valuable time listening to you, Miss Dawson?"
"He didn't murder his wife ... or Albertl I know he didn't It was ... it was someone else!"
"Who, Miss Dawson? Can you tell us that, or has it slipped your mind?"
"Must I say?"
The barrister glanced up at the judge, barely able to stifle his laughter. "Why, yes, Miss Dawson. You do want to free the accused on the basis of your testimony, do you not? Isn't it reasonable, and why, yes, even fair, that you should tell us whom we are to try in his place?"
'It was Natalie," Callie whispered. "It wasn't her fault She couldn't help herself. She isn't well. She . . ."
"Repeat your statement, Miss Dawson. Aloud. So all can hear. Whom do you claim committed the crimes?"
Callie was ghost-white, her eyes wide with pain and fright. "Natalie Berean Foxe."
The barrister laughed aloud, turning, his arms outspread to the spectators. "Natalie Foxe! Do you realize, Miss Dawson, that your testimony contradicts that of the elder Mrs. Foxe and her household servants? Natalie Foxe was confined to her bedroom all day under doctor's orders. You weren't at Foxe Hall, were you? And yet you presume to tell us that you know more about Natalie Foxe's whereabouts than those people who were with her all that day and night as well"
Callie sat straight and rigid in the seat "They're
wrong! Natalie went to the pickers' cottages. She knew about Albert and Rosalind. She had told me just the night before. And . . . and why was Albert's horse found in the field behind his house if someone didn't ride it there?"
"Most horses can find their way back to their stalls, Miss Dawson."
"Rosalind's horse didn't run back to his stall. Only Albert's was gone."
"Perhaps he had a more intelligent horse?" The barrister guffawed, then turned to look at the spectators. "Well, Miss Dawson, you've had your moment of glory, but Fm afraid we have indulged you enough." He turned back to Callie, his head lowered. "The truth is, Miss Dawson, that you want the murderer to be someone other than Peter Berean. You want that badly, and are willing to sacrifice anyone to achieve that end Even this man's sister, a dangerously ill woman who has just lost her husband and her child. A woman who at this moment lies at death's door! It is this woman you want us to believe tramped through a mile of dense woods, entered the Berean farmhouse unnoticed, stole her father's dueling pistols unseen, tramped across the yard of the Berean farm—unseen-back through the woods, intercepted her husband and his lover and coldly shot both of them, then returned to her sickbed to await the news. Of course, I might add that in addition to this diabolical piece of story telling, we must also in that case believe that this same woman wished the death of her unborn child and perhaps herself; for otherwise we would have to accept her behavior as hysterical grief, and we cannot do that if we take your story>as the truth. Can we, Miss Dawson?"
"It's true!" Callie sobbed, standing in the box, pounding on the front panel. "You have twisted it all
around. But it's true! It is a simple matter for Natalie to come from Foxe Hall. She does so all the time."
Stephen held to his seat white-knuckled, one fist pressed hard against his teeth. He couldn't bear to see her, nor could he stand hearing her voice, but he watched her and listened to her plead, cry, and beg the sneering, cynical barrister to listen. He called her every name but whore, and he implied that; and still she kept telling them the truth, stating Peter's innocence over and over, until she had no voice left and they forcibly took her from the witness box.
Peter leaned forward, his hand outstretched toward her until the guard pulled him back. The prosecution called Frank Berean, whom they didn't actually need, for the trial was already over.
Frank, his jowls quivering with rage and resentment at Callie, swore his testimony was true, then neatly placed Peter at the scene of the crime, identified the dueling pistols as his father's, and claimed that Peter, like all the members of the family, had access to them. Then, unasked, he volunteered information of the argument that had occurred the night before the murders—the night, Frank said, that Pete
r had nearly attacked him because he had made bold to tell Peter to watch better over the activities of his wife.
After having been warned that she would either be quiet or be expelled from the courtroom, Callie pressed her handkerchief into her mouth to silence her sobbing. Stephen had tried to get her to leave, to wait outside, but she wouldn't. She'd stay to the end. He held her close, no longer caring what they thought of him or of her. All the name calling had been done; so he held her and glared defiantly at the curious who persisted in staring and pointing and talking.
They listened to the final business of the trial being argued and decided.
There were three means considered sufficient to deter a murderer. One was hanging. To the poor it was the most satisfactory. Since the time of George III they were given eight holidays a year to attend the hanging days. If there were no hangings, there would be no frivolity and gaiety at the Tyburn Tree and at Newgate.
If the jury was not in a hanging mood—and they might not be, for hangings were more often for villainous men, or property offenders—Peter might expect to live his life chained within the frame of one of the hulks that crowded the Thames near Newgate, or he might be transported halfway around the world to live the rest of his life in servitude in one of the penal colonies.
While Stephen prayed to his tarnished God for a miracle, Frank sat two seats away from him, hoping that Peter would be hanged. Hanging had the single advantage of being relatively quick, ana there would come a day when Peter, and Stephen too, would see the virtue in that.
Peter remained like a stone in the dock as he waited for sentence to be pronounced. He didn't know what he had expected, but somehow the reality of it hadn't reached him until he had heard Callie take the stand and tell the truth. It had been one thing for Peter to feel that he was keeping his sister from suffering prison, or worse, incarceration in a madhouse where she'd most likely be chained to a wall and treated like an animal for the rest of her life. It was another to stand there and hear the truth laughed at, to know that he was being condemned because the judge and the jurors "knew" they were condemning a murderer.
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