by Mary Balogh
“Yes, yes.” The judge waved a dismissive hand. “Foolish of me to ask. It is the turn of Lieutenant Colonel Bennington’s side to persuade me of his claim to assume his daughter’s care. It is to be hoped the persuasion will be brief. It is also to be hoped that not all of these illustrious persons now adorning my courtroom are intending to testify. I can look with some resignation upon the loss of my luncheon. I am not sure I can do the same for my dinner. Or for tomorrow morning’s breakfast.”
He definitely had a sense of humor, Abigail thought, but a strange one. It was impossible to decide which side it would favor. But a judge was not meant to favor either side. That was the whole point of his position. Besides, he had not heard their side yet. She set her hand over Gil’s on the table and felt it jump slightly beneath the pressure. She did not believe she had ever felt more terrified in her life. She could actually feel the blood pounding at her temples.
“Lieutenant Colonel Bennington’s military career has been a model of extraordinary service and courage and achievement, Your Honor,” Mr. Grimes began after he had got to his feet, cleared his throat, and grasped the edges of his robe just below the shoulders. “He has been singled out for commendation in no fewer than six official dispatches, one from India when he was a sergeant, four from the Peninsula after he became a commissioned officer—including one that followed his successful leadership of a forlorn hope—and one from the Battle of Waterloo. I have here, Your Honor, copies of those dispatches that I obtained from—”
“Yes, yes,” the judge said with another wave of his hand. “Leave them where they are. In the unlikely event I should feel the need to read either them or the letters sent from St. Helena, I will know where to find them. We will grant your client’s prowess on the battlefield, as we will grant General Pascoe’s. Get to the child, Mr. Grimes.”
Mr. Grimes got to her. He described—briefly—the size of the deceptively named Rose Cottage in Gloucestershire, the number of servants who saw to its smooth running, Gil’s financial ability to finance it and to raise his daughter in some comfort there. The documents he had received from Gil’s agent were waved away with the dispatches from the Horse Guards and the letters from St. Helena. He described the arrangements Gil had made to ensure the safety and care of his first wife and his daughter before he answered the call of duty to hurry off to Belgium, where he distinguished himself—
“Yes, yes.” The judge was getting a mite impatient, Abigail thought. Or a mite more impatient.
“Before he left for Belgium,” Mr. Grimes said, “there was no question, Your Honor, of his child’s being taken to her grandparents’ home in Essex and left there. No permission was either asked or granted. If there was abandonment, it was not on Lieutenant Colonel Bennington’s part but upon that of the late Mrs. Bennington, who did not even remain at her mother’s house to care for the child herself. My client, upon his return from Belgium, was beside himself with worry when he arrived home to find his wife and child missing and the servants without any knowledge of where they had gone. His agitation upon learning when he first called upon his mother-in-law that his wife was not there was perfectly understandable, especially as he was not permitted to enter the house. His anguish when he discovered through conversation he overheard, at the inn where he was putting up, that though his wife was indeed not at her mother’s house, his daughter most certainly was can only be imagined. What fond father would not have returned to that house to demand that he see his child and take her home with him, where she belonged? And may it be noted, Your Honor, that when Lady Pascoe and her servants refused him access and barred his way from going upstairs to the child’s nursery, he heard his baby crying with fright—and went away rather than terrify her further by forcing his way to her. There, Your Honor, is the action of a loving parent.”
“Yes, yes,” the judge said. “Spare us more of your soaring rhetoric, Mr. Grimes. You are doubtless about to inform us that the same understanding of a parent’s anguish must be extended to the letters your client wrote from his island posting.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the lawyer said, sounding somewhat disconcerted.
“Then we will pronounce it so extended,” the judge said. “Proceed.”
Mr. Grimes proceeded, and ended by explaining how his client had prepared to take back his child and ensure her future care and happiness by taking a new wife, who was unquestionably genteel. She was the daughter of the late Earl of Riverdale and the present Marchioness of Dorchester.
“Yes, yes,” the judge said. “I am not so out of touch with polite society, Mr. Grimes, as to have failed to notice that I have almost the whole of the Westcott family before me, plus a few spouses, including His Grace of Netherby. I assume you have dragged them into court this morning—or is it already this afternoon?—to impress me into incoherence with their testimonials to the good character of your client and his wife.”
He glared at Abigail’s gathered family as though they were a pack of felons, while Mr. Grimes looked unhappy and Beauty woofed and looked hopefully up at Gil as though to say that Judge Burroughs was not the only one forfeiting his luncheon.
“Stay,” Gil said quietly.
“These illustrious persons, Your Honor,” Mr. Grimes said, “have chosen to come here with no urging on either my part or my client’s.”
“It is my sincere hope,” the judge said, “that they are not all going to insist upon addressing this court. I will hear from one representative, if, that is, they have not all come here merely to be spectators and remain mute. Meanwhile, however, I will hear from the one character witness I have been informed of. Assuming that the . . . dog does not have a human voice, I will allow one human to speak on his behalf. I must confess myself more than a little curious to hear what he has to say. Or she. With a name like Beauty, one can only hope, I suppose, that he is in fact a she. Major Westcott, will you provide that human voice?”
“I will, Your Honor,” Harry said, while Mr. Grimes first hovered beside the table and then sat down.
Abigail found herself gripping Gil’s hand. Were these proceedings about to descend into farce when so much rode upon the outcome?
“Lieutenant Colonel Bennington discovered the dog on the battlefield of Waterloo after the fighting was over,” Harry explained. “She was a puppy at the time, starving, frightened, and apparently a stray. He fed her and took her into his care and has kept her ever since. She is, as you can see, Your Honor, both obedient and devoted to him. As he is to her.”
“Alas,” Judge Burroughs said. “The story is not nearly as colorful as I had hoped. The dog has not saved his life upon any occasion, I suppose, or, better yet, the life of a child?”
General Pascoe’s lawyer tittered, and the judge fixed him with a severe eye.
“Not literally, Your Honor,” Harry said. “But my brother-in-law has come from Bath specifically because Gil’s dog has in a very real way saved his son’s life.”
“Ah,” the judge said. “This is better. Identify yourself, brother-in-law from Bath, and tell your story.”
Abigail turned her head to see Joel first half raise a hand and then get to his feet. He looked considerably embarrassed.
“Joel Cunningham, Your Honor,” he said. “My wife is a former Westcott, Mrs. Bennington’s sister. We have a seven-year-old son, an adopted child who came to us from an undesirable, even abusive, background. For three years we have been trying with limited success to induce him to trust us and to trust that life itself is not his enemy. During a recent week we spent at Hinsford Manor with the rest of my wife’s family and with Lieutenant Colonel Bennington, my son discovered Beauty—the dog, that is—and became inseparable from her. The lieutenant colonel allowed Robbie to spend all his daytime hours with her, even when that meant allowing the child into the privacy of his own room. He showed endless patience and kindness to a troubled boy, who now has a dog of his own and is at last showing distinct signs
of improvement. My wife and I will be forever grateful to our new brother-in-law.”
“And his dog,” the judge added.
“And his dog,” Joel agreed. “And might it be added, Your Honor, that Lieutenant Colonel Bennington showed himself to be patient and gentle and good-natured with all the young children who were at Hinsford during that week.”
“It has been added,” the judge said, “whether I wished it to be or not.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Joel said, and sat down abruptly.
“Now,” the judge said, “I will hear from one representative of the Westcott family, unless by some miracle no one wants to speak at all.”
Abigail glanced behind her again. Alexander was getting to his feet.
“I am the Earl of Riverdale, Your Honor,” he said, “and head of the family. I have not known Lieutenant Colonel Bennington for long, but what I have seen has convinced me that he is an honorable man of steady character and mild-mannered disposition. I met him in Paris earlier this spring when I went there with the Duke of Netherby to bring home Major Westcott, who was still recovering from wounds sustained at Waterloo. The lieutenant colonel, having just completed a year of duty on St. Helena, was eager to return to England to see to his own pressing affairs. But he nevertheless delayed his journey after discovering his friend Major Westcott in a convalescent hospital for officers. He made arrangements to bring Harry home and remain with him while Harry recovered sufficient strength to be left alone. He continued steadfast in that commitment even after His Grace and I arrived in Paris. His behavior was exemplary throughout the journey and during the following week, while Netherby and I remained at Hinsford and were joined by the rest of the family. He left Hinsford only a week ago after marrying Miss Westcott, my cousin and Harry’s sister—and after assuring himself that Harry was fit to be left alone.”
“Hmph,” the judge said, but it appeared he had nothing to add.
“And may it be said, Your Honor,” Alexander continued, “that the lieutenant colonel’s choice of a bride and mother for his child cannot be faulted. Mrs. Bennington is a perfect lady in every way. She is modest and sensible and good-natured. And she is a Westcott. We are a close-knit family and invariably stand by our own in both triumph and adversity. When Lieutenant Colonel Bennington made his choice of wife, he also—perhaps without fully realizing it—chose us to be his family. And when he chose her as a mother for his daughter, he was choosing us to be her cousins and aunts and uncles—and grandmother and great-grandmother. Miss Katherine Bennington will never be without the security of family as long as there is one of us alive.”
“We have a courtroom full of orators,” the judge said. “Thank you, Lord Riverdale. It is only a shame we do not also have members of the lieutenant colonel’s family present. We might all leave here in tears.”
“There is one such member here, Your Honor,” a voice said from the back of the room. Abigail turned her head sharply to see that the stranger was on his feet and it was he who had spoken. “I am Charles Sawyer, Viscount Dirkson. Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert Bennington’s father.”
“Ah,” the judge said, “what more could I ask?” He banged his gavel on his desk to hush the swell of sound that had followed the stranger’s words.
But he was a stranger no more. Abigail gazed at him in shock, and Gil, she could see, without turning his head, had stiffened in every limb. His head had snapped back rather as though someone had punched him on the chin. His hands were in fists on the table before him, the leash clutched in one of them. Beauty looked up at him and very softly whimpered.
“Let us hear from you, Lord Dirkson, by all means,” the judge said. “The surprise witness. I shall be the envy of my peers when word spreads.”
Abigail laid a hand on Gil’s arm but she doubted he noticed. His eyes were closed again, his face angled up slightly toward the ceiling.
“Miss Bennington, the lieutenant colonel’s mother, was a proud woman,” Viscount Dirkson said. “She was the daughter of a prosperous blacksmith when I met her and . . . indulged in a brief liaison with her. She was turned out by her father and her whole family when it became known that she was with child, and she lived in desperate poverty as a washerwoman in a village nearby for the rest of her life. She would accept no support from me for either herself or her son—our son. Any gifts I sent were refused. But I never lost sight of either of them. I had my ways of knowing.
“Gilbert was a good child. He minded his mother and learned his lessons and endured the inevitable bullying of other, more fortunate children with a pride she had taught him. At the age of fourteen he went off with a recruiting sergeant and was soon sent to India, where he was obedient to his superiors and did his duty and demonstrated courage. He was never once written up for disciplinary action. He rose rapidly to the rank of corporal and then sergeant and distinguished himself in each role. I was proud of him.”
He stopped briefly when Gil suddenly brought down the side of one fist on the table. Everyone in the room jumped and looked his way, including the judge, who was frowning. He did not say anything, however—Gil was still sitting as before, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. Viscount Dirkson continued.
“Miss Bennington died,” he said, “and at last I felt free to offer some support to my son. I purchased an ensign’s commission and then a lieutenant’s for him. But he had more than his share of his mother’s stubborn pride. He wrote to inform me that any further attempt of mine to interfere in his career or his life would be rejected. So I returned to viewing his career from afar.
“There has been nothing, Your Honor, in all the details I have learned that has shaken my pride in the upbringing his mother gave him and the way he has conducted himself since leaving his home. He honored his mother after leaving by writing to her and sending her money. I know him to be an honorable, dependable man of loyal, steadfast character. It is my opinion that Miss Abigail Westcott would not have married him if it were not so. The Westcotts have a reputation for marrying only when their hearts are fully engaged with someone they deem worthy of their love.” He sat down.
“We may need handkerchiefs after all,” the judge said, drumming his fingertips on his desk before sitting back in his chair, frowning and pursing his lips.
Gil sat staring downward, absolutely immobile. Abigail set her hand in his and he gripped it tightly without turning to look at her.
“In an ideal world,” the judge said after a full two minutes of silence, during which all attention was focused upon him, “this case would have the simplest of solutions. In a sensible world, that is. General Pascoe, you and your lady are Katherine Bennington’s grandparents. I daresay you love her as the only child of your only child, sadly now deceased. Grandparents are supposed to love their grandchildren. It is unnatural if they do not. They are supposed to spoil them and then gleefully restore them to their parents so that they may deal with the consequences. Only under extraordinary circumstances do they take and keep their grandchildren and refuse to allow the parents even to see them. In this case those circumstances hinge upon the unsubstantiated account your daughter gave her mother of abuse at her husband’s hands and presumably fear for the child’s safety. Yet it would seem to me that any mother fearing for her child’s safety would be unwilling to let that child out of her sight, especially when her husband could be expected to return at any moment. Yet your daughter went off to visit friends.
“And you, Lieutenant Colonel Bennington, are the child’s father. You would seem to live in a comfortable home under comfortable circumstances. You left your wife and child well provided for there when you were called away to distinguish yourself at Waterloo. You can hardly be accused of abandoning them when your duty was clear. I assume General Pascoe responded similarly and was himself in Belgium when your wife took your daughter to her mother. You behaved badly afterward when you raged at a lady who was both your mother-in-law and the grandmother of your dau
ghter. You continued your bad behavior when you wrote angry, threatening letters from St. Helena. However, I cannot for the life of me think how else you could have been expected to behave. Any father under such circumstances would have raged similarly. Many would have dashed their mother-in-law to the ground in order to get to their child crying piteously in an upstairs room. And who would blame them?”
“Your Honor!” General Pascoe’s lawyer protested, jumping to his feet.
Judge Burroughs’s gavel banging against his desk made everyone jump again. “You are out of order!” he thundered. “Sit down, sir. Any more such outbursts and I will have you dragged from my courtroom in chains.”
The lawyer resumed his seat as fast as he had left it.
“Mrs. Bennington,” the judge said, frowning ferociously upon Abigail, “was the innocent victim of a father who behaved outrageously and criminally by contracting a bigamous marriage with her mother. I have never understood why the sins of the fathers should be visited upon their sons—or daughters in this case. It would seem to me that Mrs. Bennington has shown good judgment in marrying a man who is devoted enough to his child to put himself through this. And she married him on the full understanding that she would be taking upon herself the role of stepmother to his daughter. I believe that what Viscount Dirkson said of the Westcott family must be true.”
Gil pressed Abigail’s hand hard against his thigh.
“I suppose,” the judge said, his eyes coming to rest upon Gil, “the scar that makes you look so like a disreputable pirate, Lieutenant Colonel Bennington, was honorably acquired in battle?”
Their lawyer had intended to talk about that, but the judge had cut him off.
Gil looked up at him. “Yes, Your Honor,” he said. “In India when I was a sergeant.”
“You were fortunate,” the judge said, “not to have been decapitated. Though I daresay you did not feel fortunate at the time.”
