by Sara Donati
Q: She never struck you or anyone else, to your knowledge?
A: Never.
Q: No fits or apoplexies?
A: None. I would never have left her alone with Cookie if there had been any danger to either of them. Haven't you had testimony about this from Curiosity Freeman?
Q: I'll ask the questions here, Mr. Wilde. But no, Curiosity Freeman has not testified and will not testify before me. If your wife was so docile why didn't you take her to Johnstown with you?
A: She was easily upset, most especially by loud noise. And her condition had been worse of late.
Q: In what way?
A: In every way. She was in a decline.
Q: Her mania was worse?
A: I— Yes.
Q: You hesitate, sir. What is it you meant to say?
A: She was worse, I cannot deny it.
Q: Well, then, to the subject of your recent marriage to the Widow Kuick.
A: Ask her to leave the room, first.
Q: This is a public hearing, sir, and the accused has a right to be present. You will answer the questions put to you about Mrs. Wilde, or go back to gaol.
A: Then send me back to gaol, for I've nothing to say except this: I'll be filing for divorce with the court in Johnstown as soon as I can get there.
Q: Quiet! Quiet! I'll have quiet or see the lot of you out into the weather. Constable McGarrity, can you do nothing with this rabble? Now, Mr. Wilde, you say you intend to divorce your wife of a few weeks. Has the marriage been consummated?
A: That's none of your business.
Q: Quiet, or I will put you all in gaol if I have to drag you to Johnstown to do it! Now. Mr. Wilde, you must have grounds for divorce.
A: She lied to me.
Q: Your wife lied to you. Are you referring to the letter written by her first husband and submitted into evidence in this hearing?
A: That and other things.
Q: I doubt the court will be swayed, if that is all you have to offer when pleading a divorce.
A: I won't live with her as her husband, no matter what the courts have to say.
Q: Did this change of heart have to do with the death of your wife, or of Cookie Fiddler?
A: It has to do with many things.
Q: Well, then, do you think Mrs. Wilde had something to do with those deaths? Mr. Wilde?
A: I don't know.
Q: But you think her capable of violence?
A: I don't know.
Q: Mr. Wilde, your wife's name has been raised in connection with a number of deaths. The elder Widow Kuick, your first wife, and Cookie Fiddler. Do you know her to be guilty of any of these crimes?
A: I don't know anything about her, and it seems I never did. You'll have to talk to her if you want to know what happened. Not that you should expect to hear the truth.
Chapter 19
For once, Elizabeth would have welcomed a good hard January blizzard, but the weather would not cooperate. She saw that when she went out on the porch to put on her snowshoes. Overhead the skies were crystalline blue and uncaring of her dilemma.
“You don't have to go,” Nathaniel said next to her. He finished buckling her shoes and unfolded himself, looking down at her with a disapproving frown that reminded her, for just a passing moment, of Daniel.
“I promised Curiosity that I would be there,” Elizabeth said, squinting at the glare of sun on the snow. “To speak up for her, if need be.”
At that Nathaniel made a deep sound of disapproval. His dislike for Baldy O'Brien, always a substantial one, had been nourished by the things he had seen and heard in the first day of the hearings. Sitting next to her husband in the meetinghouse, Elizabeth had felt his irritation taking firmer hold of him with every new witness or statement.
“He shouldn't have read Isaiah's letter out loud,” Elizabeth said now, as if Nathaniel had complained. “For the sake of the girl, he could have kept that much quiet, at least.”
“There's a lot he could have left unsaid. No doubt there will be a lot more of it to listen to today.”
With that they set off into the clear morning, and for a long time they didn't speak at all. Nathaniel was listening to the world, to the rustlings and calls and whispers that gave him a clear picture of the woods beyond what Elizabeth could see or even imagine. It was his way, and she could not find fault with it, no matter how much she would have liked to carry on the discussion.
The evening before, on the way home, she had found it very hard to keep her silence until they reached Lake in the Clouds. They had barely closed the door behind them when she said, “That did not go very well.”
“Goddamn Baldy O'Brien for a pompous fool,” Nathaniel had answered. “By Christ, I'd like to know how he holds on to these appointments of his. He's got a headlock on somebody in Albany, that much is sure.”
“What would you have him do?” Elizabeth had asked, a little taken aback at the degree of her husband's anger. “He must question the witnesses.” And thus found herself in the odd position of defending a man she did not respect or trust.
“Well, Christ, Boots. Ain't it obvious? Curiosity could have done what six of the others did, in no more than a quarter hour, clearer and cleaner too—” He broke off and sent her a sidelong frown. “I'm surprised you ain't more put out about it yourself, him not letting Curiosity testify.”
“I am put out,” Elizabeth said. “But I know when my energy is wasted, Nathaniel Bonner. As do you. What is really bothering you?”
Elizabeth was at the window, pulling the curtains shut. A white owl swooped suddenly out of a spruce, almost invisible against the snow. It was gone just as suddenly, a limp form caught in its hooked beak.
Behind her Nathaniel said, “I'm disappointed in Nicholas Wilde. But I'm madder at myself for not seeing the weakness in him. I had just about decided that he was the right kind of husband for Lily, when he goes and proves what a damn fool he is.”
Elizabeth turned and opened her mouth but nothing came out but a squeak of distress, much like the one the owl had caused just a moment ago.
Nathaniel managed a grim smile. “Did you think I didn't know?”
“Know? Know what? There was nothing to know,” Elizabeth said, moving to the other window. “They both showed a great deal of good common sense and reason.”
“Now that's a first,” Nathaniel said. “I've never heard it described that way before when a married man takes up with a young girl. And tell me why is it you never told me about this, if you knew?”
“First of all,” Elizabeth said, struggling to contain her voice, “there was no taking-up. They might have been in love—”
Nathaniel grunted.
“Don't you growl at me, Nathaniel Bonner. They were in love, yes, that much must be supposed, but nothing—inappropriate happened.”
“You know that for a fact? She tell you that?”
“No,” Elizabeth said, more quietly. “I could never think of a way to broach the subject. But I know she would have come to me, had things advanced that far. I know it.”
“Rest easy, Boots. You're right, it didn't go beyond a few kisses. That's bad enough, but it ain't a hanging offense.”
Over the years he had surprised her many times, but now Elizabeth found herself almost short of breath. “And how do you know that much? And if it's true, why didn't you tell me?”
“I know because I talked to Wilde, that's how. The day Lily told us she wanted to go to Montreal. I wanted to make sure she was going for the right reasons.”
Elizabeth said, “And those were . . .”
“To suit herself,” said Nathaniel. “And not him.”
At that Elizabeth said nothing, could think of nothing to say, because she was embarrassed to have been so silly. Of course Nathaniel had known about the flirtation, and of course he had acted.
“And so his foolishness, as you call it, was what?”
Now it was Nathaniel's turn to look at his wife in surprise. “He could have written to her, asked
her to come home from Montreal.”
“Now you are being dense,” Elizabeth said. “What do you think she would have said if he had asked her to give up her art and teachers and all the rest of it?”
“I don't know for sure,” Nathaniel said. “But one way or the other she would have figured it out, finally. What she wanted more, Nicholas Wilde or the life she's made for herself in the city.”
Elizabeth pushed out a great breath. “Yes, all right. I concede that point. And you're angry at him because—”
“He was too much of a coward to write the letter,” Nathaniel said. “And he went down in front of Jemima Southern like deadfall in a high wind.”
Then Gabriel had come to fetch them to the supper Many-Doves had made for them, and there had been no more opportunity to talk with the children present.
Now, on their way back to the village for the second day of the hearing, Elizabeth thought of Nicholas Wilde as he had been yesterday. Straight of back in the witness chair, his complexion pale under a few days' growth of beard. Older, suddenly, with lines bracketing his mouth. Grimmer, and with good reason. For all his foolishness—and Elizabeth must agree that he had been foolish—it seemed he was being punished very harshly. After almost ten years of marriage to a woman who could not be a wife, he was now bound to Jemima Southern and would not be her husband. His pride had been injured, not so much by the trumpeting of her sins, but by the fact that he seemed to be the only one in the village who had not heard the rumors over the years.
Beyond that, he had lost his daughter. Callie had left the orchard house to live at the doctor's place with Curiosity and Hannah, and she showed no interest in going home again. He could make her, of course; the law was with him, if he wanted to force her. But after yesterday, Elizabeth doubted he would do such a thing. She wondered if he would even stay in Paradise.
They had come as far as the bridge, iced over once again and slick. Nathaniel took a shovel from the sand barrel and cast it out in a smooth arc, and then he took her arm anyway as they crossed.
On the other side he stopped at the second sand barrel and cast another shovelful, and then he looked up at the millhouse and his mouth contorted. The millhouse was one of the newest buildings in the village, but looked to be the oldest. Broken shutters hung here and there like loose teeth, and many of the fine glass windows the first Widow Kuick had been so proud of were boarded over. The house looked deserted, Elizabeth thought and then corrected herself: it looked unhappy. It was a silly idea and yet it stuck with her—the millhouse collapsing in on itself in mourning.
“What do you think will happen to it?” she asked.
“I heard Charlie and Becca were going to try to buy it. They could use the space since the twins come along.”
“Oh, yes, that would be just the thing for Becca,” Elizabeth said. “But Jemima will hate it.”
Nathaniel took firmer hold of her arm. “She might not be around to see it happen.”
The meetinghouse was crowded so that to get from one side to the other they had to wind their way around benches and stools and settles, all dragged here by people who wanted to be entertained in comfort. Baldy O'Brien sat at the very front at a table with Jed McGarrity and Ethan, and directly before them was the witness chair.
Elizabeth studied Jemima, something she had not been able to do for a very long time. She didn't show her years, even with the trouble at hand; instead she radiated . . . what? An angry heat, a fierce purpose, a conviction of sorts, and it came to Elizabeth that for all her faults, Jemima was one of the bravest women she had ever known. She faced the crowd and the law with courage that bordered on religious fervor; were they to burn her at the stake, Jemima would use her last breath to spit on them.
Across from Jemima sat Nicholas Wilde. Elizabeth had thought that after his testimony yesterday he might have gone off to hide and nurse his sorely wounded pride, but he sat with the Fiddler brothers. The three of them were silent and untouched by the loud and almost cheerful crowd that surrounded them.
“Scoot on over,” Curiosity said, coming up beside Elizabeth with Jennet. “Baldy's about to get started.”
The voices died away as O'Brien began to talk. He had to shout to be heard anyway, over the noise of a rising wind, the scuffling of feet and sneezing and coughing and whining of children. It was inevitable that everyone be here, Elizabeth knew, but she wished again for the blizzard that would send them home in a hurry and leave this sad business to the injured parties.
Jemima's voice brought her up out of her thoughts, and Elizabeth realized that she had missed the first question.
“Yes,” Jemima answered in a clear, almost impatient voice, the same voice she used to answer all his questions. She understood the charges against her, she understood the nature of the hearing, she understood that she could be bound over for trial in Johnstown.
Baldy O'Brien had a sharp manner, but it was no match for Jemima, who met him straight on and without apology. Like a dog up against a bear, Elizabeth thought.
O'Brien was studying the papers before him. “What do you say to these charges, Mrs. Wilde?”
Jemima looked over the crowd, her expression imperious. “Damn you all to burn in everlasting hell.”
A ripple ran through the room, part disapproval but mostly, Elizabeth knew, excitement. They had come to this hearing as they had come to see the firecrackers on the lake, wanting the noise and the shock, and Jemima would not disappoint them.
Dryly O'Brien said, “I take it you are pleading innocent to the charges.”
“I am. I do. I never laid a hand on Cookie nor on Dolly.”
That brought her a sharp look from O'Brien, shot up through the tangle of eyebrows. “You never struck Cookie Fiddler?”
“I didn't kill her. I didn't hit her in the head or throw her in the lake.”
“Answer the question, Mrs. Wilde.”
Jemima shrugged a shoulder. “When she was a slave at the millhouse I hit her, and more than once. Is that a crime, taking a hand to a slave with a smart mouth?”
Elizabeth's gaze shifted to Levi and Zeke, who sat straight backed and never flinched, even while O'Brien led Jemima through a list of questions about her relationship with their mother.
“So it's fair to say you hated Cookie Fiddler,” O'Brien concluded.
“Fair enough,” Jemima said, looking directly at Levi. “As much as I hate snakes. But I wouldn't go out of my way to step on one.”
“Mrs. Wilde, it sounds to me as if you had a motive to want Cookie Fiddler dead.”
At that Jemima looked directly surprised. “You mean, so I could get Nicholas to marry me? You think Cookie could stop that?” She snorted softly. “She didn't stop me marrying Isaiah, did she?”
There were sharply indrawn breaths all around the room, and whisperings that were meant to be heard.
“Oh, listen to them,” Jemima said. “As if they ain't had their heads together talking about that very thing since you read Isaiah's letter out loud yesterday.”
“Mrs. Wilde,” O'Brien said. “You'll restrict your comments to answering questions put to you. You heard Mr. Wilde's testimony yesterday, and his statement that he would petition for divorce on the grounds that you lied to him.”
Jemima's mouth twitched. “I heard him. You want to know if I lied?” She looked up, and seemed for a moment seriously amused. “Of course I lied to him. I lied and I let him into my bed. If that's a trick, then it's an old one and I'm not the only woman here who used it to advantage.”
“That's all very informative,” said O'Brien gruffly. “But it has nothing to do with my line of questioning—”
“Oh, but it's what they want to hear. Look at them, like crows ready to peck out a lamb's eyes. They want the dirty details. They want to know what I had to do to get Nicholas Wilde to marry me. Now see how he goes pale, my dear husband, to hear the truth told. Did you think I'd keep still, Claes, and let you go free so easy?”
The room had begun to shift and quak
e like a ship in high winds, voices rising. O'Brien's face flushed a good deep shade of red and he pounded with his fist on the table so his papers jumped.
“Quiet! Quiet! Quiet, or I'll have the lot of you put out, I swear it!”
From the back of the room Missy Parker called, “Mr. O'Brien, don't cut her off just when she gets going!”
O'Brien began to sputter, but Jemima cut him off with a wave of her hand. “If you'll just hold your trap long enough, I'll tell you what you want to know.”
“I'll hold you in contempt, missus, if you dare speak to me like that again.”
Jemima laughed out loud. “You do that, if you like. Won't matter much to me if I hang a few days sooner. Now do you want to hear this story or not?”
It took another ten minutes of negotiations between O'Brien, Jed McGarrity, and the crowd before Jemima was allowed to go on. By that time Elizabeth found that she was perspiring so heavily out of dread and unease that her handkerchief was already damp through. Nathaniel sent her a sharp and questioning look, which she ignored.
“So then,” Jemima said, almost primly. She turned her head to catch the constable's gaze. “Jed, you'd best see Nicholas out before he pukes on his shoes.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” said Nicholas Wilde.
Jemima shrugged. “Be it on your head.”
“I'll remind you once more, Mrs. Wilde,” Baldy O'Brien said in his most imperious tones. “I run this hearing, not you.”
“Aren't you so high-and-mighty, Baldy O'Brien, and need I remind you how I paid my taxes last time you came knocking on my door?”
This time it took fifteen minutes until the room was settled enough for Jemima to go on. O'Brien's complexion was flushed bright with indignation and, Elizabeth noted to herself, guilt.
Nathaniel leaned over and whispered, “I got a feeling she might be bringing Lily's name into this,” he said. “If she does, you sit tight and let me handle it.”
Elizabeth was so taken aback at this suggestion that for a moment she sat staring at her husband.
“I won't shoot her,” he said, as if to assure her. “At least, not right here and now.”