Mrs. Dill bellowed a curse, hugging her injured hand to her waist, breathing hard. Now you’ve done it, Rachel thought with dread and excitement, that dangerous mix that had resulted in dreadful punishments in the first year of her confinement. She’d thought that wildness had been annihilated long ago, by the prison guards and her own better judgment—but here it came roaring back with exactly the same violence and fury as before. Mrs. Dill’s baffled rage egged her on. “Do you have children?” she asked her, pressing back against the wall, keeping her hands up. “Do you beat them, too? There was a screw at Dartmoor—she looked like you. She used to hold a pillow over her little boys face when he wouldn’t stop crying. It’s true—she told me. She told me when she did the same thing to me!”
The next blow caught her on the elbow, and Mrs. Dill grunted in pain again, clutching her other hand. She had a truncheon in her belt; she was fumbling for it when the door opened and Constable Burdy called out, “Wade, Ra—” He stopped in amazement. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, staring back and forth between guard and prisoner.
“She was insolent!” Mrs. Dill accused, red-faced. “She insulted me!” Stupid, stupid woman; she might have said Rachel had attacked her, but she was too ignorant even to lie.
“That’s enough now, that is,” Burdy blustered, anxious to enforce the law but unable to credit the matron’s accusation. Rachel couldn’t blame him; in all their meetings he’d never seen her anything but docile and reserved, the perfect paroled convict. “Her case is up now, so enough o’ this, whatever it is yer both about. It’s time, I’m telling you.” He took Rachel by her manacled forearm and helped her to stand, and she fancied his grasp was respectful, almost gentle. It helped to calm her, even though she knew it was respect for her erstwhile employer, not herself, that made Burdy touch her almost as if she were a lady.
Mrs. Dill couldn’t resist a parting threat. Still rubbing her wrist, she muttered, “Afterward,” close to Rachel’s ear. Burdy opened the door, and the matron leaned forward to hiss, “Afterward, murdering bitch.” Rachel flinched in spite of herself. Squaring her shoulders, she walked out of the remand cell and into the moot hall.
The strange euphoria evaporated as soon as she saw who was waiting for her at the end of the room. Her last hope died with it, and she was forced to acknowledge the foolishness of the fantasy she’d held in secret for four days—that Sebastian would come in time to save her. But only two black-robed justices sat behind the long table, Mayor Vanstone and Captain Carnock. The third chair was empty.
The courtroom was full, though, almost as crowded as the last time she’d been brought here. It ought not to have shocked her to see Lydia Wade among the spectators, but it did. She had her sewing basket by her side, one of her unwieldy squares of black knitting across her lap. Before Rachel could avert her gaze, she smiled at her in happy triumph. It was the sort of look a bride’s dear friend might send her as she walked down a church aisle toward the altar. Except that Lydia’s eyes had a half-mad sparkle, and behind her smile was raw, inimical glee.
Rachel looked away—-and had a second shock. Across the aisle from Lydia, Claude Sully was twisted around in his seat, grinning a wolfish grin. His suave face unlocked a flood of ugly memories. She missed a step; Burdy caught at her arm, steadying her. Someone laughed. She knew that malicious sound. Looking up, she saw Violet Cocker, sitting on Sully’s other side. She’d left Lynton over a month ago—were she and Sully together? But why?
Burdy let go of her and left her alone. Vanstone began to speak, reading from some legal document on the table. He was asking a question. Of her? She got out, “I beg your—?” before Burdy interrupted to answer; the question hadn’t been directed to her at all. She looked down at the floor, flushing.
“No, Your Worship, accused still hasn’t produced a ticket of leave remittal, which she claims to’ve got in the post from the Home Secretary on the twenty-fifth of last month. No one saw it but her, and she claims she can’t find it.”
Vanstone nodded judicially. Rachel cleared her throat, girding herself to respond, but he didn’t look at her. “What are the precise conditions of her release that Mrs. Wade violated, Constable?”
“All of ’em, Your Worship, since five weeks ago. She failed to report to me fer four visits, nor the county constable twice running, and she’s paid naught on ’er fine since the twentieth of July.”
Heavy silence. They weren’t going to let her speak. The mayor drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully while Captain Carnock combed his bushy gray sidewhiskers, staring off into space. Behind her, she thought she could hear the click-click of knitting needles, fast and excited.
“Is the officer who apprehended Mrs. Wade here today?”
“No, Your Worship, ’e had court business in Plymouth this afternoon and weren’t able to come. We have ’is affidavit.”
“Tender it to the court, please.”
Burdy handed the magistrate a paper.
Vanstone wore gold-rimmed half-glasses to read. He perused the affidavit unhurriedly, then gave it to Carnock.
“Mrs. Wade, a fugitive, was taken up by Officer Grimes of the Plymouth constabulary on Monday of this week,” the mayor recited, speaking slowly so the clerk could write it down. “She was discovered at the Keyham Dock Yard, inquiring about the cost of clipper passage to Canada and America.”
“Only to see—I was—”
Vanstone whipped his glasses off with a flourish, his pale gray eyes widening on her in indignation. “The prisoner will be silent,” he commanded. She obeyed, but she didn’t drop her eyes or bow her head in submission. She held his gaze steadily, without defiance, until he looked away. A minor victory, but it buoyed her.
“Is there anybody who can testify on her behalf?” Captain Carnock inquired, breaking the taut little silence.
No one answered.
Vanstone said, “In that case—”
“I would like to testify.”
Rachel started, recognizing William Holyoake’s voice. She hadn’t noticed him before; he was in a far corner of the room. And now she saw that he was sitting next to Anne Morrell, whose lovely face was tight with worry. When her eyes met Rachel’s, she smiled a quick, hopeful smile, trying to communicate support.
“Do you have information that relates directly to the circumstances of this case?”
“I have,” William said.
“Come forward and be sworn.”
William took the oath and went to stand in the witness box, a small wooden enclosure adjacent to the prisoner’s bar.
“What have you got to say, Mr. Holyoake?” Vanstone asked him after he’d given his name to the clerk—a formality, since everyone knew who he was.
He held his hat by the brim and slowly turned it around in his big hands. Clearing his throat, he said loudly, “I want to say that Mrs. Wade weren’t a fugitive. That is, she didn’t try to escape, which is what I heard she got arrested for. I had a talk wi’ ’er before she went away, and she weren’t ‘escaping.’ She were just leaving, like.” He darted a glance at Rachel, as if to say he hoped that would do her some good, then turned back to the justices.
Vanstone looked unimpressed. “Did she say anything in this conversation to indicate she was coming back?”
William had to say, “No. But,” he added, “she didn’t say anything to indicate she weren’t.”
“What exactly did she say?” asked Captain Carnock.
The bailiff screwed up his face, thinking. “I can’t recollect word for word. Sommat like, ‘I’ve got to go away.’ And she shook my hand.”
“I’ve got to go away’?”
“Mayhap not just like that. Mayhap, ‘I’m going away.’”
“‘For a while’?”
“She didn’t say for a while. But—”
“Did she take all her belongings?”
“As t
o that I couldn’t say. But,” he repeated louder, drowning out the mayor’s next question, “she did say she were going to Plymouth. If she were escaping, why would she say that? She weren’t escaping, I’m telling you, she was just going away.”
Carnock shook his head while the mayor smiled a thin, cynical smile, more eloquent than words. “An interesting deduction, Mr. Holyoake. Is that all you have to say?”
William nodded unhappily.
He started to leave, but Carnock stopped him to ask, “Do you know anything about a letter rescinding Mrs. Wade’s ticket of leave?”
“No, sir. Not until now, that is.”
“You never heard anything about it before today?”
“No, sir.”
“Would you say,” Vanstone put in, “that you and Mrs. Wade are friends?”
William looked directly at Rachel and answered, “Yes, sir.”
“Good friends?”
Seconds passed while he thought that over. “Yes,” he said positively. “I would say we are.”
Vanstone pounced. “But your good friend never told you she received a letter from the Home Secretary in Whitehall voiding the conditions of her prison release? A letter that, in effect, made her a completely free woman?”
Rachel looked down, unable to bear the confusion in William’s plain, honest face. After a long moment, he mumbled something Vanstone made him repeat. “No, she never told me,” he said belligerently. Then he was made to sit down.
Vanstone and Carnock put their heads together and began to whisper. Over the murmuring of the spectators, a woman’s clear voice suddenly rose. “I have something to say. “Anne got up from her seat a bit awkwardly, using Holyoake’s shoulder for support. She wore a voluminous blue wool shawl over her gown, but it couldn’t disguise the prominent swell of her belly. “Reverend Morrell had to go to Mare’s Head on pastoral business, but I’d hoped he would be back by now. He wanted to come to this hearing and speak on Mrs. Wade’s behalf. I would like to say something in his stead.”
The mayor gave a gracious nod. “Does it relate directly—”
“It’s not evidence, strictly speaking. I know nothing about Mrs. Wade’s trip to Plymouth or the circumstances of her prison release.”
“I see.” Vanstone pulled on one end of his silvery mustache, then made a permissive, vaguely condescending gesture. “In that case, you needn’t take the oath, Mrs. Morrell, and you may speak from your seat.”
Anne bowed to him rather stiffly and said, “Thank you,” without much warmth. “I only want to say that Reverend Morrell and I have come to know Mrs. Wade over the last half year or so, and we believe her to be an honorable woman—indeed, a good woman. It’s clear that a mistake has been made, some clerical error, perhaps, a Whitehall mishap that’s resulted in this unfortunate misunderstanding. I hope you will decide what’s to be done with at least as much tolerance and understanding as—as strict adherence to the letter of the law.”
“Is that all?” Vanstone asked politely.
“Yes. No. Is she going to be allowed to speak for herself?”
He smiled blandly. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Morrell. Mrs. Wade is fortunate in her friends.”
He meant for her to sit down, but Anne persisted. “Excuse me. Is she allowed to say anything in her own defense?”
The mayor’s professional smile didn’t waver. “You may not realize, ma’am, that we’re not an adjudicatory body. Mrs. Wade has no legal representative, and consequently no voice in these proceedings. Thank you. Thank you very much.” With that, he turned from her and resumed his low-voiced conversation with Captain Carnock. Frowning, Anne finally took her seat.
Rachel agreed with Mayor Vanstone about one thing: she was fortunate in her friends.
“Mrs. Wade.”
The magistrates’ consultation was over. Rachel stood straighter and faced them. “Your Worship,” she murmured to Vanstone, who was, as usual, the spokesman. She distrusted the look in his cold gray eyes, a combination of implacability and detachment that boded no good.
“The court finds that you violated the terms of your conditional release by failing repeatedly to meet with the parish and county officials to whom you were obliged to report, and also by neglecting to make restitution in a timely way on your outstanding debt. In addition, the court finds it reasonable to conclude that your removal to Plymouth and subsequent inquiries with regard to vessels bound for overseas ports constitute, at best, an attempt to circumvent the stipulations governing your release and, at worst, a plot to flee the country.
“Your sentence for the crime of murder was life imprisonment, with the possibility of release after ten years servitude to be considered at two-year judicial intervals. Mrs. Wade, can you inform this body of any reason why it should not recommend to the assize court that you be returned to Dartmoor Prison for a period of time deemed appropriate by the servitude review office, such period of time not to exceed two years?”
Two years. She hadn’t misheard, even though the light, measured voice had thinned in her ears like a wire turning around, twisting and twisting, stretching to the breaking point. Two years.
She watched her manacled hands reach out for the smooth wood of the prisoner’s bar and grip it until her fingers ached, but she swayed anyway. The bar cut against her stomach and the bones of her hips. She wanted to sag against it, fold herself over it. She locked her elbows and knees and tried to bring Vanstone into focus, tried to remember his exact question. She couldn’t retrieve it from the chaos of her brain—had forgotten how he’d phrased it. Was the proper response yes? No? What if she chose wrong?
“Your Worship,” she got out before her throat closed. She shut her eyes and whispered, “Your Worship, would you . . . I’m not able to . . .” Low murmuring interrupted her; it seemed as if all the people behind her were talking at once. She sympathized with their impatience, but she wanted to get the answer right, and she wanted very much not to faint. “Your Worship,” she tried again, a little louder.
An angry shout cut across every other voice in the room. “Why is she in shackles?”
Someone said, “Because she—”
“Release her!”
“She—”
“Release her!”
Constable Burdy slid a key in the lock of the iron on her right wrist, then the one on her left. The weights fell away with a rusty clank, and suddenly she was too light—ungrounded—she feared she might float up in the air. She imagined herself levitating over the crowded courtroom, and made another grab for the bar. Burdy turned his sloping shoulders sideways, out of the way, and she saw Sebastian.
He was dripping wet. He’d lost his hat. Water trickled from his hair and ran down his face, made dark stains on the shoulders of his coat, flattened his shirt to his chest. He stood between her and the magistrates’ table, breathing hard, his eyes so hot she could feel the heat from here. She could feel his indecision, too; he wanted to go to her, touch her. But he stayed planted where he was, legs spread, hands in fists at his sides, while rainwater pooled under his boots. There was no doubt in her mind that he was close to violence, and that the battle he was fighting for self-control wasn’t won yet.
“My lord,” Mayor Vanstone said loudly, coming to his feet. “We were not aware that you had returned. We’re—”
“Obviously.” He snarled the word; the fire in his eyes became enmity, and he turned it on Vanstone eagerly, as if glad to locate a legitimate target for his anger.
“Perhaps you’ll join us,” the mayor said stiffly, “now that you’ve honored us with your presence.” He touched his hand to the back of the empty chair next to his.
Sebastian ignored that. “Why was Mrs. Wade in chains?”
“My lord, she was apprehended while inquiring about vessels leaving the country for foreign ports. Since then, she’s been treated, not unreasonably, I think, as a potential fugit
ive.”
“What rot,” Sebastian enunciated, with so much scathing disdain that Vanstone colored. “Why shouldn’t she be in Plymouth—or Brighton, or Dover—inquiring about anything she damn well pleases?”
“Because,” Captain Carnock interjected mildly, “she was left in your custody, with the understanding that she would remain at Lynton until your return, my lord. At least, that was the understanding you and I reached on the evening of your departure.”
Somebody chuckled with satisfaction. Sebastian whirled at the sound, and saw Sully in the second row of spectators. “You,” he said slowly, moving toward him. “What are you doing here?”
Sully clasped one knee and leaned back on the bench; he was pretending to be at ease, but the glitter in his eyes gave away his excitement. “It’s a public hearing, isn’t it? Sebastian, my old friend, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Beside him, Violet Cocker snickered into her hand.
Sebastian looked coldly, murderously angry. If Vanstone hadn’t distracted him at that moment, Rachel believed he would have attacked Sully.
“My lord, Mrs. Wade’s defense rests on an apparently nonexistent letter from the Home Secretary voiding her conditional release. If there were such a document, the prison authorities, the lord lieutenant, and we, the jurisdictional magistrates, would have been informed of it. But we were not, and—forgive me, my lord—I’m quite certain Her Majesty does not make a practice of corresponding with convicted felons in secret. In the absence of any proof whatsoever—”
“The letter existed,” Sebastian cut in.
“With respect, have you seen it?”
“No. I believe it was stolen.”
“Stolen? How extraordinary. Do you have any proof of—”