Underestimating Miss Cecilia

by Carolyn Miller

  “Father, there has been a mistake. I cannot be party to a false accusation, and I will not let an innocent man suffer for another’s crimes.”

  “Come, come.” His father gently steered him to the drawing room where his brother sat, arms crossed, eyes hard. “I would not have you exhaust yourself.”

  Ned stood behind the sofa. He did not need to give the impression of invalidism, else his father might not truly hear. “And I would not wish an innocent man to hang.”

  “Innocent?” Father’s expression cleared. “I suppose you have heard about the rogue who has been locked up. No, there is no need to trouble yourself anymore—”

  “Except there is every need if the man accused did not do it.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Father, I would like to speak to the man accused.” His grip on the back of the sofa tightened, his knuckles whitened. “Surely as the victim here I should have that right. After all, there is no one better than myself to ascertain the culprit’s true identity.”

  His brother made a dismissive sound, his eyes still watchful.

  “Edward, I do not understand why you care so much. Porter is a fine magistrate, and can be trusted to learn the truth.”

  “But has he? I know he’s already interviewed me, but I strongly believe he has got the wrong man.”

  “And how exactly can you know this?” John asked. “Isn’t it best that whoever is responsible for attacking an earl’s son is found and punished quickly?”

  “Only if the man punished is the person responsible.”

  John snorted. “Gypsies are an ill-bred bunch of thieves. How can you stand there, an earl’s son, and care about the niceties of innocence or guilt?”

  Ned’s eyes narrowed, as he said softly, “How can you sit there, an earl’s son, and not?”

  John’s eyes turned to ice, inducing Ned to turn to his father, whose forehead wore a pleat.

  “I do not like what you say.”

  “Father, I’m sorry, but—”

  “No, no.” His father waved a dismissive hand. “If it is true the wrong man has been locked up then we should seek justice.”

  “Yes, yes we should,” Ned urged.

  His father’s shoulders squared. “Very well. We shall see the magistrate today.”

  “At once, if we may.”

  His father acquiesced with a dip of the head.

  “You must have windmills in your head,” John said.

  “Better windmills in my head than an icehouse for a heart.”

  His brother muttered something sure to be uncomplimentary.

  “Edward? Come, let us depart and see what this miserable fellow has to say for himself.”

  Ned chewed his lip. Problem was, if the man was whom he thought it was, the poor man would not be able to say a word regardless.

  “BUT I DON’T understand.” Ned glanced between the magistrate and the gypsy who had proved to be exactly whom he and Cecilia had feared. “What evidence have you got that this man was responsible?”

  Colonel Porter peered at Ned over his bulbous nose. “He was seen running from the scene.”

  “Yes, but by whom? I tell you again, this man”—Ned pointed to the pathetic figure of the man behind bars—“this man could not have done it. He is innocent.”

  Porter scrutinized his notes before giving a name.

  “Hoskins? I know no Hoskins.”

  “He was a visitor to town.”

  “And you would take his word over mine?”

  Porter seemed to pale. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Hoskins appeared all that was respectable, and when he reported seeing a man answering this miserable fellow’s description holding a bloodied stick and then running away when he was chased, I saw no reason to doubt his word. Especially, sir, as you were incapacitated at the time.”

  Ned swallowed the fiery words that begged release. Settled for, “This fellow is miserable because he has been locked up here on a trumped-up charge, and he has little capacity to speak. Or have you not yet realized he suffers from a speech deficiency?”

  Again Porter consulted his notes. “Dr. Hawking attended him and could not make that diagnosis.”

  “Then Dr. Hawking is a fool.”

  “Edward,” his father intervened, “I do not understand why you feel so strongly about this. Why are you being so stubborn?”

  Ned eyed him. Why was he? The words from Cecilia’s note, words that vibrated through his soul, rose to his lips. “Because I believe he has been wronged, and it is our duty in God’s name to not allow prejudice to get in the way of truth.”

  His father blinked.

  Colonel Porter frowned.

  “And should we not consider our Lord’s instructions that mercy triumphs over justice?” Ned persisted.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his father’s mouth. “I am not sure if that is quite the correct context, but I take your point.” He turned to Porter. “I would not have it said we sought vengeance over justice.”

  “Of course, sir,” the magistrate mumbled.

  “Where is this Hoskins fellow?” Ned asked. “Is it not very possible that he simply saw a poor man pick up a stick, then, when he thought himself threatened, he quite naturally ran away? I would certainly be tempted to do so should I be confronted by someone acting in such a manner.”

  “I’m afraid Hoskins seems to have disappeared.”

  Ned’s brows rose. “And you still wish to take his word over mine? Be serious man. Can you not hear how foolish you will sound when you are shown to be wrong? Do you want to be known as the man who took the word of a will-o’-the-wisp over the son of an earl and condemned an innocent man to death? I demand you drop the charges.”

  “But sir—”

  “Drop the charges and release this man at once.”

  “But—”

  “You may be assured I will do all in my power to see this man set free, and to see justice prevail.” He eyed his father, who returned the look with an expression akin to surprise. “Father, surely you can see the injustice this man faces.”

  “It certainly seems an injustice.”

  Heart swelling at his father’s support, Ned returned his attention to Porter, whose jaw hung low. “Well, hurry up. We don’t have all day.”

  “But he … he is a gypsy.”

  “He is one of God’s children.”

  Porter blinked.

  Ned gentled his tone. “And even if he has done some things that are not strictly by the law, can you blame him, when all he has received is prejudice and intolerance? Who of us can say we are without sin? I know I cannot. I also know that I would prefer to be known for compassion than narrow-mindedness.”

  “I …” the magistrate fumbled for his words. “I will see what I can do.”

  “You do not have to see yourself to opening that door now, do you? Surely an earl’s wishes should trump whatever procedures your little book contains.”

  “Edward,” his father murmured.

  “Forgive me, Father, but I knew you would prefer to err on the side of grace rather than see a miscarriage of justice.”

  “Well, yes.”

  Ned nodded, satisfied, and refocused on Porter. “We shall return in an hour. I expect to see this man released and his possessions returned to him. And perhaps you might see yourself to restoring his cloak. I seem to recall a handsome affair of bold colors that I’m sure this man would prefer returned to him. Good day.”

  He exited the building, his father close behind, and exhaled. His steps grew unsteady, his limbs trembled, as the rush of strong emotion faded.

  “Come, my boy. Let us adjourn to the Green Man.”

  Minutes later, ensconced in the private parlor, Ned was drinking a glass of wine and eating a pork pie. The food helped clear his focus, the drink helped quench his thirst, his father’s solicitude helped restore his soul.

  “Ned, I don’t know what to say. I have rarely heard you speak so passionately.”

  “I am sorry if my actions
displeased—”

  “I’m not displeased. Far from it. Such passion gladdens my heart, helps me see you with fresh eyes.”

  “I might have grown a little carried away.” He swallowed. “But I do feel strongly about this. I … I have come to learn what it is to be at the end of prejudice, and it is not at all a pleasant thing, and this when I have been in an exalted position in society. I can scarcely imagine what it must be like to be considered social scum, to have nobody wish to look at you, let alone fight for what is right.”

  “Because it is illegal to associate with gypsies,” his father reminded gently.

  “But the law is wrong.”

  His father studied him for a long moment, then rubbed his chin. “I still do not understand where this has come from.”

  Ned looked into the patient eyes, looked away, and quietly began to speak of the incident, leaving nothing out. He then shared about the letter he had received from Cecilia Hatherleigh, and her conviction, shared by Ned, that a grave miscarriage of justice was taking place and should be stopped.

  “Cecilia Hatherleigh availed you of this information?”

  “Yes.” He gave a wry smile. “I know it is not the done thing for a young lady to write a letter to a gentleman, so I would prefer it if Lord and Lady Aynsley do not hear of it.”

  “They shall not hear of it from me.”

  “Thank you.”

  His father smiled, a twinkle lurking deep in his eyes. “Little Cecilia Hatherleigh. Well, well.”

  Ned could feel his neck heat and turned his attention to his plate. “She is but as a sister to me, Father. There is nothing more.”

  “Of course there isn’t.”

  The words snapped his focus back to his father, but his look was bland as he leaned back in his chair, eyeing Ned with that steady gaze. “And so you want the man released.”

  “Yes.”

  His father’s hands folded, his fingers tapped together. “And then what?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What do you think will need to happen then?” Father leaned forward. “You are aware that there will be those in our community who will chase them away as soon as he’s released.”

  “But his wife is gravely ill. She could die without medical care.”

  “So what would you propose?”

  Ned stared at him. “I … I hadn’t given it much thought.”

  “Then may I suggest you do.” His father smiled. “It’s not as if we can invite him to Rovingham Hall.”

  A snicker escaped. “John would have a fit.”

  “And I suspect your mother, tenderhearted as she is, would not find such a thing easy. And it would not be fair when we are supposed to be those who uphold the law.” He held up a hand, staving off Ned’s continued indignation. “Even when that law is unkind.”

  “Unjust,” he muttered.

  “Again, what would you propose?”

  “Perhaps he could be given a spare cottage. His wife was very sick, and I cannot think she will last much longer without proper medical care. It might prove very helpful for them if they could rest for a time. He could perhaps help with the horses, or in the gardens.”

  His father snorted. “I can imagine how your brother would feel about such a scheme.”

  “John will not like it, that is true, but you are still earl and can make what decisions you wish regarding your own estate.”

  “I can, yes. But you forget the law which states we are not supposed to have any association with them at all.”

  Ned muttered something uncomplimentary about the law.

  His father’s eyes gleamed. “If you feel such passion, then why not do something about it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You have studied law.”

  Ned blinked. “You want me to change the law?”

  “Surely focusing on such things would prove a better use of time than doing whatever it is you’ve been doing these past months.”

  His neck prickled, and he said stiffly, “I do not feel as though my time these past months has been entirely wasted.”

  “Forgive me. That may have sounded harsher than I meant. I simply mean that it has been some time, a very long time, since I have seen you passionate about any cause. Your brother has the estate to learn, but you, my dear son, have always felt yourself to be rather more unfettered and fancy-free, have you not?”

  Ned’s gaze lowered to study the remains of his meal.

  “Please understand. I am so thankful that you returned to us, and I know your mother has no wish to see you away to London, but perhaps it is time to give some consideration to the future, and what you will do. If not London, then remember you have Franklin Park as your inheritance. Perhaps you should see to its management, ensure all is as it should be for the happy day when you bring it a mistress.”

  Ned’s gaze slid up to meet his father’s. “The miraculous day, you mean. No father would wish me for a son-in-law.”

  “I did not think you would marry the father. In my experience, it is the daughter whose love for a man can persuade her father to overlook any perceived inadequacies.”

  Like his maternal grandfather had.

  “God can still do miracles, Son.”

  “I know.” His lips pulled to one side. “Do you think He can do miracle enough to show me a way to see this poor gypsy helped?”

  “And we are back to him. If you think this will meet with praise from the local community, then you are quite mistaken.”

  “I am well aware it would not be popular. But neither can my conscience permit me to ignore this man’s plight. Not when we have the ability to help.”

  His father studied him a long time before that smile appeared again, this time untinged by speculation. “Well, well.”

  “Well what?”

  “You gladden my heart, Edward.”

  The approbation burrowed within, soothing the disappointment and regret he had carried in his soul for too long. How long had he waited to hear his deeds were good, to not simply be painted as the wicked son? His eyes burned, he lowered his head, studied the crumbs on his plate.

  “So, does this mean you shall finally use that law degree?”

  His head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “For your championing of the poor. It is not merely the gypsy folk who see discrimination. The Irish do also, and there are those of the working classes, too. Surely it would behoove you to know exactly what legalities are necessary if you plan on overcoming prejudice and the like, and want to see the lives of others improved.”

  Ned glanced out the tavern’s window, a glorious vista rolling out before him. Suddenly he could see himself as someone more than a second son trying to fill his days with distractions whilst his brother learned the estate. Could he really help those without a voice, help the poor like his father believed?

  A verse flashed to mind. Isn’t that what his Lord had asked, for His followers to visit the sick, care for the widows, tend to the poor? And isn’t that what Cecy had believed of him?

  He drew in a deep breath and returned to face his father. “Perhaps it does.”

  His father nodded. “Which may necessitate your eventual return to London, will it not?”

  His heart panged. “Perhaps it will.”

  Another nod, as if satisfied. “Then let us return and see what we can do about this poor gypsy fellow.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “AND HOW is that sister of yours now, Miss Cecilia?”

  “Still fretting at being confined to her room, I’m afraid. Though it’s already been nearly a fortnight, the doctor has said she must continue to avoid much activity for yet a few more weeks, and—”

  “She would be missing that horse of hers, no doubt.” Mrs. Cherry nodded sagely. “I remember just how much she likes—why, it’s Mr. Amherst!”

  Pulse quickening, Cecy quickly brushed the crumbs of scone from her mouth as her hostess hastened to answer the door. Her heart danced. He was here! He
must be better. Oh, she hoped he had not thought her letters too forward.

  A low-voiced rumble at the front door gave way to a heavier tread, forcing her eyes to the room’s entrance. Oh, if only she had thought to wear her green silk—

  “Miss Hatherleigh.”

  “Mr. Amherst.” She smiled, willing her chest not to pound so hard. How shocked Mrs. Cherry would be to know her heart felt like it might escape! “How good to see you appear much better.”

  “Better enough to ride independently now.”

  “I’m so glad.” She dimmed her smile, conscious of Mrs. Cherry’s scrutiny. “We were so worried.”

  “Thank you.” He offered her a wry smile, accepting the invitation to sit issued by Mrs. Cherry. “I certainly did not think an opportunity to do good would have such adverse consequences.” His eyes held hers. “I have appreciated the prayers of many, and I’m certain that is why my recovery was faster than Dr. Hawking anticipated.”

  Mrs. Cherry shook her head. “I don’t know what it is about those travelers. I always lock up tight to make sure none of those thieving rascals steal my belongings. You know when Mrs. Poole’s chickens went missing last year, ’twas the same time as when the traveling folk be around these parts.”

  Cecy glanced at Ned’s closed expression, and said quickly, “Oh, I’m sure they are not so bad as that. Is it not a trifle harsh to believe all gypsies capable of trespass because of the misdeeds of a few? Why,” she tempered her words with a smile, “I would think it as bad as believing all persons possessing reddish hair as having a poor temper, or those with fair hair as somehow being less intelligent than others.”

  Mr. Amherst chuckled. “Well said.”

  She glanced at him. At his fair head. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Was that warmth in his eyes? Amusement? Oh, that he would think on her kindly.

  “Well, I’m very glad to think the scoundrels have been brought to justice. I cannot like knowing they are in the vicinity, and I’m always happy to see the end of midsummer gatherings as it means we see the back of the travelers, too.” Mrs. Cherry turned to offer Ned a cup of tea and a scone then bustled off to prepare them.

  Mr. Amherst leaned forward. “I was very glad to receive your notes, thank you.”