Die I Will Not

by S K Rizzolo

  Reading something of her chagrin, Thorogood arranged his bulk a little more comfortably and trained his benevolent gaze on her. “Tell me why you have come to see me, Mrs. Wolfe.”

  Chapter II

  They arrived to find the court packed to bursting, the spectators having paid a fee for the privilege of hearing the secrets of the bedchamber aired in public. Recognizing Thorogood, the usher showed them to seats and accepted the proffered coin with a smile of thanks. When Penelope asked Thorogood to point out the plaintiff and defendant, he indicated curtains on opposite sides of the court where the two men could, separately, watch the case unfold in privacy. Mrs. Grouse, of course, was not a party to these proceedings. Once this case was resolved, her husband would likely seek a suit for separation in an ecclesiastical court, as well as a divorce in a private act of Parliament. And Mrs. Grouse would be utterly ruined.

  Like everyone else in the spectators’ gallery, Penelope observed the barristers—three for the plaintiff, two for the defendant—as they questioned the witnesses, their movements scripted, their voices perfectly modulated. As she settled in her place, a clergyman was deposing about the once-perfect state of harmony between the plaintiff and his wife. Pompously, he said, “They were indeed a happy couple before the serpent usurper invaded their paradise and set Mrs. Grouse on her ruinous course.”

  Burton Dallas, the other defense counsel, did his best in the cross-examination, but the witness had skin like leather. “Mr. Grouse is fond of congenial society?”

  “As any gentleman is, yes. I have myself been the recipient of his hospitality on numerous occasions.”

  “Can you tell us anything of Mr. Grouse’s other acquaintance? Friendships with women perhaps?”

  The clergyman glared yet admitted, “He told me he was involved with another female whom he did not wish to marry, but I believe he broke off this connection upon his marriage.”

  “He cast off this woman?”

  “No, he felt bound to make provision for her.”

  At this point Thorogood whispered loudly, earning a quelling glance from a nearby spectator, “Do you see, Mrs. Wolfe? Buckler and his learned friend attempt to establish that Grouse neglected his wife to pursue his own pleasures. It won’t work, I’m afraid, though it may reduce the damages.”

  She nodded, feeling a little sick. What if Jeremy were to find himself in Mr. Taggart’s position one day? Her husband often enjoyed flirting with the married women he entertained as clients, but what if he were to arouse the enmity of some wealthy man? The disgrace would be appalling. For a while she sat only half-listening to the testimony, breathing in the sweat and perfumes of the people in the gallery. She tried to examine her situation objectively as did the lawyers, arguing first her own case, then Jeremy’s. She had married him much too young, partially in rebellion against her father’s cold severity, partially in surrender to an overmastering infatuation. Jeremy had been weak to allow matters to go as far as they did, but she was the one who organized their plans. Truth be told, he saw her unhappiness at home and came gallantly to her rescue, even though he was not ready for marriage either. She could not condemn him now.

  Buckler rose to cross-examine another witness, a housemaid called Naomi Clarkson, whose account of her mistress’ activities had been particularly damaging. “You’ve testified that your mistress kept the drawing room blinds closed during Mr. Taggart’s visits and this seeming need for privacy aroused your suspicions?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And yet is it not the case that the sun shone strongly on this room and therefore the blinds were kept lowered for much of the day?”

  She looked away. “That’s as may be, but she always put the blinds down before he come.”

  “Did you ever notice the sofa cover disarranged?”

  “No. But I saw the mistress with her hair on end and her dress tumbled when I brought more coals for the fire!”

  As the afternoon wore on, Buckler and his colleague did what they could to defend their client, but the evidence against Taggart was strong. One servant after another gave damning evidence: the footman, the cook, the groom, even a child of fourteen who, when visiting Mrs. Grouse, had peeked through the study window and seen her locked in Taggart’s embrace. One maidservant reported on Mrs. Grouse’s habit of donning fresh undergarments whenever Taggart was expected.

  Finally, a stir of renewed interest rippled through the court when Buckler rose to open for the defense. “Gentlemen of the jury, the learned counselors suggest that you are called on to guard the public morals of our country, which are endangered in this era of licentiousness and revolution. But I’m sure you are far too wise to stand in need of such instruction or to feel it your duty to preach lessons of morality.

  “Mr. Taggart is deemed a calculating schemer, a seducer, and an adulterer. A man who sought to inflame the passions of an innocent wife and contaminate her heart. But adultery is unproved in this instance, and in my conscientious opinion this crime has not been committed.” He paused to scan the panel.

  “I do not mean to say that paying visits to a married woman in the absence of her husband is a proper thing or kissing her is not a censurable familiarity. However, a great deal more must be proved before anything like adultery can be established. I have never heard a charge of this nature made out on such slight grounds.”

  At Penelope’s side, Thorogood gave a faint snort, which he turned into a cough. The spectators seemed to emit a collective breath of satisfaction that the defense finally had an opportunity to draw blood of its own. Journalists scribbled in their notebooks, and the judges in their enormous wigs frowned down upon the barristers.

  Buckler went on to argue that the door of the room where Mrs. Grouse had received Mr. Taggart was never fastened and servants came in without notice, never discovering them in any indecent situation. His words dropping deliberately into the tense silence, he continued: “Can we infer adultery from Mrs. Grouse dressing herself with care when a visitor was expected? The witnesses are the plaintiff’s own servants who owe their first loyalty to their master. One can only wonder why the prosecution has not put forth a stronger case.”

  Finally, Buckler allowed a note of derision to creep into his voice. “If I am to speak, however, of damages, I beg the jury to remember the provocation Mr. Taggart received and to consider what sort of woman this is for whom a husband has come a second time into a court of justice to demand reparation. The first verdict gave him a right to divorce this abandoned wife. A verdict now can offer nothing but pecuniary damages.”

  Penelope found herself leaning forward to catch every word of this speech, and yet it troubled her. The witnesses had testified that the plaintiff treated his wife with affection and she repaid him by carousing and cuckolding him. But how could the jurors know what happened between a man and his wife behind closed doors? How could these men know whether he treated her with cruelty, contempt, or indifference, or whether she was driven to act as she did? Then there was the role of Mr. Taggart. Perhaps Buckler was right to suggest Mrs. Grouse had enticed her lover, in which case the blame must rest more heavily on her shoulders. Still, Penelope pitied any woman condemned for her failure to uphold society’s standard of purity when no such adherence was required of the male sex.

  After the defense completed its case and one of the judges summed up, dwelling at length on Mr. Grouse’s irreproachable character, the jury retired to consider its verdict. Thorogood took Penelope’s arm to help her down from the gallery. Together they approached Buckler, who was talking animatedly to his colleague. Thorogood tapped him on the shoulder.

  He turned toward them, recognition blooming in his eyes. For a moment, he looked happy to see her before wariness shuttered his expression. “Mrs. Wolfe! What brings you here?”

  Penelope smiled. “I showed up unexpectedly to consult Mr. Thorogood.”

  “Then I am sorry to have delayed your bus
iness for so trumpery a matter as this.” Glancing around to find himself the focus of several pairs of interested eyes, Buckler added, “Shall we leave the court and walk the hall? I must await the verdict.”

  “Not long, I suspect,” said Thorogood, wringing his friend’s hand vigorously, his genial countenance beaming all over with pleasure. “Ten thousand pounds? Your client may soon have a rather large hole in his pocket. Or if you’re lucky, the jury has bought your insinuations as to the plaintiff’s greed.”

  “We did our best.” He lifted his hand to his head to pluck off his gray wig. Underneath he wore a tight silk cap, which he removed, allowing his reddish hair to spring free in all directions. Sensing his embarrassment, Penelope wondered whether it was the salacious nature of the case or the possibility of failure that discomposed him. Probably both.

  They went down the stairs, joining the lawyers and laymen who strolled through the cavernous space under a vast hammer-beam roof. Buckler offered Penelope his arm. “How is Sarah?”

  She laid her fingers on his sleeve, feeling a sense of rightness that banished, for the moment, the fears for her daughter’s future keeping her awake at night. “She is well, thank you, sir.”

  “And your husband?”

  When she did not at first respond, Thorogood said, “Wolfe has set up an artist’s studio in Greek Street.”

  His gaze suddenly on her face, Buckler halted and drew her to one side. “You are looking rather tired, Mrs. Wolfe. Is anything the matter?”

  Penelope forced a laugh. “That is hardly flattering, sir. But it’s true I have not been easy of late.” She paused, suddenly unsure of how to explain, not wanting to sound fanciful or, worse, involve Buckler yet again in her disreputable affairs. She thought he looked alert…happier than when she had seen him in Dorset last spring. Healthy color tinged his cheeks, and he had a brightness about him, as if he’d been getting regular exercise or found a new interest. It seemed he was even securing employment these days.

  With some reluctance, she went on: “A newspaper editor, a relative of my husband’s friend, was stabbed last night in his office on the Strand. It is not known whether he will survive. This editor was engaged in a war of words with another man calling himself Collatinus.”

  Buckler reached up to remove an errant lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead, interest sparking in his eyes. “I’ve been following the exchange in the Daily Intelligencer and The Free Albion. The references are rather cryptic: an injured mother at the mercy of unscrupulous men, conspiracy, and foul murder. Collatinus—the repentant radical who claims he wants to atone for past folly but still manages to damn the aristocracy and anyone who benefits from the patronage of the great. Skating dangerously close to seditious libel with references to a ‘bloated corruption’ indulging in sordid intrigue. A not-so-subtle jab at the Regent, I should think. What have you to do with this commotion, Mrs. Wolfe?”

  “My father used the name Collatinus as an alias before he went into exile.” Penelope’s father was Eustace Sandford, a renowned radical philosopher who had married a Sicilian woman and produced one daughter along with numerous works of political philosophy, which he sent from his island retreat to be published in his native country.

  Buckler seemed to make light of her concern. “That need not worry you. Someone has merely adopted the alias. Some scribbler or other who wants to make a noise and hide behind a Roman patriot.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said, annoyed by the hint of condescension in his tone. “These letters betray details of a personal nature—details only my father or someone close to him would know.”

  “The murder? The writer hinted a murderer would be unmasked in a future letter. The language was remarkably obscure, and I took it for no more than contrived melodrama designed to sell a few extra papers. You think Mr. Sandford may be drawn into this affair?”

  Thorogood broke in. “You are quick on the mark, my boy.”

  “He knew a woman who was slain.” Penelope met Buckler’s eyes, though speaking the words that cast the shadow of suspicion on her father made her sick at heart. She wanted Buckler to think well of her family—and of her.

  “Who was she?”

  “He never told me her name, but she may be the N.D. the letters allude to. My father said only that she died and he felt somehow responsible.” Her throat tightened. She was remembering the night, her eighteenth birthday, when her normally repressed father, working his way through a bottle of brandy, had opened the floodgates. Slurring his words, he alternately raved and cried in anguish, but the next day it was as if the incident had never happened. A month later, she married Jeremy Wolfe, an artist who had braved wartime travel to tour British-protected Sicily.

  Thorogood put a large, steadying hand on her shoulder. “I’ve seen the letters myself. Collatinus has expressed regret for betraying his own class.”

  “Your father said something similar?”

  “Yes, Mr. Buckler. He told me he was born a gentleman but did not always act the part. And the woman died as a result. So, you see, these new letters fit.”

  Buckler regarded her soberly, and after a moment Penelope resumed her story. “We left my mother behind. I don’t know why he brought me, but I suspect he thought he might not return to Sicily. We spent a short time in France before the Terror, then came here.”

  Thorogood shook his head ruefully. “You are both too young to recall the ’94 trials in London. The government was terrified about the prospect of a bloodbath, the like of the one occurring in Paris. You can’t imagine—habeas corpus suspended, spies and informers, the constant threat of arrest. An unwise remark overheard in a tavern, and a man might end in prison. Thank God for English juries. They found the men accused of high treason innocent. But unfortunately, the government just got Parliament to pass new laws and crush the radicals another way. Go on, Mrs. Wolfe. Explain the rest.”

  “My father escaped just ahead of his arrest. If he had stayed, he’d have taken his pick between being tried for a traitor or hanged for a murderer. I assumed he meant false evidence would have been trumped up against him.” She was aware of the bitterness creeping into her voice, but before she could say more, a lawyer, hurrying by, interrupted her. “Make haste. The verdict is in,” he called, his black robe flapping around spindly legs, the wig on his head slightly askew.

  Buckler did not move. “You fear that Sandford is guilty of more than the folly of writing political letters? You fear he might be directly implicated in this woman’s death? I am certain you are mistaken.” His hand came out to grip hers.

  “We will resume this conversation later,” said Thorogood. “Buckler, I see Dallas beckoning.”

  They went up the stairs into the court, and Buckler took his place next to his colleague below the bench, where the scarlet-robed judges in their enormous wigs had resumed their position. The jury, upright and substantial men all, waited in the box. As it turned out, Thorogood had hit the nub of the matter: the jurors bought the defense’s insinuations, after all. They had the power to find for the plaintiff but reduce the damages to reflect that Mrs. Grouse was not criminally connected to the defendant alone. And that is precisely what they did. Buckler and Mr. Dallas lost the case, damages awarded of one shilling.

  Chapter III

  After the trial Penelope dined with Thorogood and Buckler at a coffeehouse, where they resumed their interrupted conversation. Listening to the affectionate raillery of the two men raised her spirits, especially since they were generous in their offer of assistance. She told them of an assembly she had promised to attend with Jeremy that evening at the home of Mr. Horatio Rex and his wife, the dowager Countess of Cloondara. “Mr. Rex was the editor and printer of the journal that published the original Collatinus letters. I hope to question him, which may prove difficult in the crush.”

  “You can rub shoulders with the nobs, at any rate,” said Thorogood. “For our
part, we will ask around in the Temple and Lincoln’s Inn to see what gossip we can glean from our finest legal minds. Buckler, now that your sugar-broker has been brought off finely, you will have plenty of time for such inquiries.” Eyes twinkling, he added with spurious gravity, “Mrs. Wolfe, did I ever tell you about the time that Edward, coming home at twilight, spotted a large, white rectangle on his table, which he supposed, for a moment, to be a brief promising employment? His poor clerk had to tell him, ‘Alas, it is only a napkin.’”

  “Hardly original, old man,” Buckler retorted. “I’ve heard that one before. You may add plagiarism to your other sins.”

  Smiling, Penelope turned the conversation and agreed to dine with her friends at the Thorogood home in Camden Town some three days hence, though she wondered whether she acted wisely to involve them. But the insuperable relief of turning to people she trusted quickly drowned any qualms.

  After they made their farewells, Thorogood insisted on putting her into a hackney and paying the driver in advance. And as the coach wound its way through streets showing lights at the windows, the chill in the air intensified. She sat in the dim interior, huddling in her too-thin pelisse, thinking of her father, who often remarked that after years of residence in Sicily, the damp of an English winter would strike his bones like the coldness of the grave. His recent letters had been filled with exultant details about the new Sicilian constitution the British envoy had forced on King Ferdinand. As was typical with her father, he offered hardly any personal information.

  What had he meant about being responsible for a woman’s destruction? Had she been his lover? Did he abandon her and break her heart, or involve her in unsavory business? His radical activities had brought danger and suspicion from the authorities, and he had confessed to having failed this woman in some essential way. That was bad enough—if only Penelope could be sure he had done no worse.