Sweet Awakening

by Marjorie Farrell

  “I was just speaking with Andrew about that,” said Lord Avery. “I cannot like him being involved in such a case.”

  “You and the family are always after me to find a better class of client, Jonathan. I had thought you would be pleased,” said Andrew with mock innocence.

  “We hardly meant for you to take on a murder case, whether the murderess is a countess or not.”

  “I know. You’d rather I spent my time sorting out disputed family settlements.”

  “It is, for the son of an earl, certainly preferable to defending common criminals.”

  “Lady Rainsborough can hardly be called a common criminal, Jonathan.”

  “Of course not,” his brother admitted. “But to be involved even peripherally with this scandal is very distressing to me.”

  “I assure you, Jonathan, it is far more distressing for Clare,” said Andrew sarcastically.

  “Of course, of course. But I still wish you weren’t involved.”

  Andrew turned away from his brother to Sabrina, raising his eyebrows in a way that expressed all his amused frustration with his brother’s attitude. She had to lift her fan to her face to hide her smile.

  “Do you by any chance have a waltz free tonight, Sabrina?” he asked.

  Sabrina examined her dance card carefully. Giles was her partner for the next waltz, but she was sure her brother would not mind if she danced with his friend. She glanced over at Giles with the question in her eyes, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. It was something they both took for granted now, their ability to communicate without words, and Sabrina wondered if she would ever find anyone with whom she could have as natural an intimacy as with her twin.

  “I have the next waltz free, Andrew.”

  “And they are about to strike it up,” said Andrew with a smile. “Come, let us not lose a minute of it.”

  * * * *

  Sabrina had danced with Andrew More upon many occasions over the years, and she remembered him as an average dancer. This evening, however, was different. She felt she had never been so at one with the music or the man who partnered her. They didn’t speak much. It was as though they were both caught up in another dimension, one where every small movement of his hand around her waist and her fingers in his became a source of pleasure. Sabrina realized that every cell in her body was aware of Andrew in a most disturbing but also intriguing way.

  When the music stopped, they both felt they had been dropped back into everyday consciousness and were suddenly embarrassed and ill at ease. Andrew escorted Sabrina back to her brother and muttering his apologies for leaving early, left almost immediately, without even an attempt at polite conversation.

  And when Sabrina glanced over to Giles, hoping for that instant understanding, he merely looked at her questioningly as if to say: “Yes, Sabrina, is there something that is bothering you?” She felt very empty and bereft, and for one odd moment realized it was the lovely oneness with Andrew she was missing and not the lack of communication with Giles. But that was ridiculous, she immediately told herself. Andrew More had nothing in common with her brother or herself. Except for his defense of Clare.

  * * * *

  The morning of the inquest arrived all too quickly for those most concerned and not at all too soon for those of all classes who hoped to watch that very rare thing: the possibility of a peeress being charged with murder.

  It had been unseasonably warm and humid the past two days and when Clare awoke, she felt like the weather matched her mood: heavy, oppressive, and energyless. The smells of London, which usually blew by one, hung heavy in the nostrils, but it was too hot to close her bedroom windows.

  She had to wear black, of course, which made it even worse, for the only black dress she owned was of a heavy twilled silk. Andrew had insisted, though. “You must appear in mourning, if for nothing else than the happy, early days of your marriage.”

  She tried to eat, for Andrew had also recommended a good breakfast, but was only able to force down a half a cup of tea and one triangle of toast. She waited quietly in the drawing room until the hired chaise arrived to take her and the assigned Runner to the inquest.

  She had originally planned to use her own carriage, but Andrew just looked at her and said kindly: “Lady Rainsborough, the streets will be full of those who wish to catch a glimpse of you. You could even be in some danger, if the crowd becomes a mob.”

  Indeed, when the Runner came to greet her, he took her out the back door. “There is too much of a crowd around front, my lady,” he explained. He handed her into the chaise and climbed in quickly afterward, banging on the roof to signal the driver on.

  The shades of the chaise were drawn, and Clare could feel her dress begin to stick to her back. She made a nervous comment about the heat, but the Runner only nodded and then ignored her, so the long ride through the crowded streets was a silent one.

  She could tell when they were close because she could hear people shouting. Some were hawking tickets to the gallery. Others were promising that they had the true, authentic story of this horrible crime for only a penny a sheet.

  When the carriage finally stopped, a hush fell over the crowd. The Runner was out first, and as Clare appeared in the door of the chaise, the crowd went wild. “There she is, there’s the Murdering Peeress.” “Nah, it can’t be ‘er. She’s too little to ‘ave killed ‘er ‘usband.”

  Clare was frozen. The Runner was in front of her but behind him was a gauntlet of Londoners, eager to see her, to touch her, perhaps even to attack her. How could she step down into that sea of humanity? How could she go through with this inquiry at all? She had killed Justin. She should just admit it and let them hang her.

  Then, as the door opened, she saw Andrew More. His eyes met hers, and he nodded his head as if to say: You can do it, Clare. She stepped down slowly, looking neither to the left nor right, keeping her eyes on his as though he offered her a lifeline. She hardly noticed the pawing and the grabbing, and was only half-conscious of a pulling at the hem of her gown. It was only hours later that she realized someone had actually ripped off a piece of the black silk as a souvenir.

  When at last she was beside Andrew, he slammed the door behind her and took her arm solicitously. “Are you all right, Lady Rainsborough?”

  Clare nodded, but her eyes were wide with fear. Andrew thought that only one time before in his life had he seen that look. He had been tramping through the woods of the family estate and came upon one of the traps set out for foxes. A half-grown fox cub was caught by his paw. Andrew knew he should have shot it, but he couldn’t. He had approached the animal, whispering words of comfort and reassurance, and managed to free it. But not before he had looked deep into its eyes. There was mainly fear there, but also a desperate kind of courage. It had actually stood its ground and growled at him. He hoped he was right about Clare: that underneath was enough courage to tell her story. If there wasn’t, they had both lost.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Giles and Sabrina had made sure to be in court early. The crowd had already begun to gather when they arrived, and they had looked at one another apprehensively. How would Clare ever survive all this? The heat became worse as the room filled, and the screaming and shouting as Clare arrived made Giles believe that he now knew what hell was like.

  He watched as Andrew led her over to a side bench. She looked so pale that he could almost believe that she was cold with fear. But when he looked more closely, he could see that her curls were clinging damply to her neck, and even the black gown couldn’t hide the wetness under her arms. He hit the railing in front of him in an angry gesture of helplessness and frustration, and Sabrina put a hand on his arm.

  “I should be with her, Sabrina. She needs me,” he said intensely.

  “Andrew is right, though, Giles. Can you imagine the crowd were you to have been by her side? I know this is terrible for you, but it is best for Clare.”

  When the jury was seated, Giles looked each one over carefully. How on earth co
uld this be considered a jury of her peers, he wondered. And how would they see her? As a pretty young woman who had aroused the jealousy of her husband? Or as the victim of a maniac? It was impossible to tell from their faces, which remained expressionless.

  The coroner, Sir Benjamin Rooke, was a hard man, well-known for hammering suspects into the ground. He was also not happy with the growing trend to use barristers as defense counsel. He was an older man, and more likely to be sympathetic with a husband’s right to “chastise” his wife than a wife’s right to defend herself.

  * * * *

  The first witnesses called were those officials who had been summoned to the scene of the murder: the local constable and the two Runners. They all agreed on the basic details: Lord Rainsborough had been shot twice with his own dueling pistols. Upon closer examination, he was also found to have suffered a blow to the side of his head.

  “Which blow might itself have killed him,” asked the coroner.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And Lady Rainsborough?”

  “Was found standing over her husband, brandishing a poker from the fireplace.”

  “Was there any blood on her?”

  “Yes, her dress was soaked with it.”

  “I have no further questions,” said Rooke.

  Andrew cross-examined the two Runners rather too quickly, thought Giles. When he came to the local constable, however, who had been first on the scene, he took his time.

  “You say you saw Lady Rainsborough standing over her dead husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “Holding a poker?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “How what, Mr. More?” responded the constable, who was obviously puzzled by the question.

  “How was she holding the poker? By her side? In front of her?”

  “Uh, lifted in front of her, Mr. More.”

  “As though she was trying to protect herself, isn’t that true?”

  “Why, yes, although there were nothing to protect herself from. Lord Rainsborough was as dead as the proverbial doornail,” added the constable, looking around the court as though to get others to see the joke: the silly woman protecting herself against a man who was already dead.

  “You found Lord Rainsborough’s death humorous, Constable?”

  The constable’s face fell. “Of course not.”

  “The fact is, that when you entered the library, Lady Rainsborough was convinced her husband was only unconscious and was obviously in a state of terror that he was about to get up and attack her again?”

  “There is no evidence to suggest that Lord Rainsborough had attacked Lady Rainsborough, Mr. More,” interjected the coroner.

  “My apologies, Sir Benjamin. I got a trifle ahead of myself. Constable?”

  “She did act as though she thought he was still alive,” he admitted grudgingly.

  “And could you describe to us Lady Rainsborough’s appearance?”

  “Her dress was soaked in blood, as I said, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yes, and what of her face?”

  “Her face?”

  “Yes, Constable, her face. Did you notice anything about it?”

  “Well, now that you mention it,” replied the man grudgingly, “it was a little bruised.”

  “A little,” asked Andrew softly.

  “Her cheek was red, and her lip was swollen.”

  “And her neck?”

  “I didn’t notice anything about her neck.”

  “I see. Well, thank you very much, Constable.”

  Sabrina turned to Giles. “He did very well with that one, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but I wish he had gotten him to testify to the bruises on her neck.”

  “Sh, Giles. It is Peters up next.”

  Peters was taken through the scenario again by the coroner, who never raised any questions about Clare’s appearance. He did ask whether the servants had been aware of any quarrel between the couple that night.

  “I can’t say as I know of one,” answered the butler, who was so full of his own importance that Giles wanted to slap him. It was clear from the man’s expression that he found it extremely distasteful to be pulled into such a circus.

  “What did you see on the desk and on the floor?” the coroner asked.

  “The desk and the floor, my lord? Oh, the pistols, of course. Or, I should say the empty case on the desk and the two pistols on the floor.”

  “Did you recognize the pistols?”

  “Yes, of course, my lord.”

  “And whose were they?”

  “Lord Rainsborough’s. He was very proud of them. Had them specially made. They were inlaid with rosewood and mahogany.” The butler shook his head sadly.

  “Yes, Peters.”

  “I was just thinking how ironic it is that Lady Rainsborough murdered him with his own pistols.”

  “Objection, my lord. We have not come to any conclusions about this killing.”

  The coroner bowed in Andrew’s direction. “Mr. Peters, your mistress has not been proved guilty of any crime. We cannot draw any conclusions as yet. That is what this inquest is for. Your witness, Mr. More.”

  Andrew began his questioning with his back to the butler. “How long have you been in the Rainsborough household, Mr. Peters?” he asked casually.

  “Two years, sir.”

  “So you are hardly an old family retainer, are you?”

  “No, sir. Although I became very fond of Lord Rainsborough,” he added piously.

  “And where were you employed before that?”

  The coroner leaned over and addressed Andrew. “I fail to see where my learned counsel is going with his questioning.”

  “I assure the court that I have a destination in mind,” replied Andrew turning around.

  The coroner waved his hand. “Continue then, Mr. More, but don’t linger by the side of the road, if you please.”

  “I repeat, Mr. Peters, who was your employer before Lord Rainsborough?”

  The butler cleared his throat. “Lord Monteith.”

  “And why did you leave his household?”

  “I was dismissed,” the butler admitted.

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Unsatisfactory service.”

  “Did you receive a reference?”

  “No.”

  “No? And yet Lord Rainsborough hired you?”

  “He was most understanding and decided to give me a chance to prove myself anew. He was a kind man, Lord Rainsborough.”

  “You were certainly indebted to him. An unemployed butler without a reference. You had motivation to ignore certain occurrences in Lord Rainsborough’s household?”

  “Mr. Peters is not the focus of this inquest, Mr. More,” said the coroner.

  “No, no, of course not, my lord. Tell me, Mr. Peters, what did you notice about Lady Rainsborough’s face that night?”

  “It was like the constable said. Red, her lip swollen.”

  “And her throat? Did you notice anything about her throat?”

  The butler turned to the coroner as though seeking guidance.

  “I am afraid Sir Benjamin wasn’t there that night,” Andrew commented dryly.

  “There were marks on her throat.”

  “If you had to venture a guess at what those marks were from, what would it be, Mr. Peters?”

  “I would guess ... they looked like finger marks.”

  “And how would fingers leave an impression on someone’s throat, do you think?”

  “I suppose if someone were choking someone.”

  “Someone choking someone. But in this case, the only someones were Lord and Lady Rainsborough?”

  The butler nodded.

  “Since we will assume that Lady Rainsborough was not in the habit of choking herself, we put forward the hypothesis that Lord Rainsborough had his hands around his wife’s neck and was holding her tightly enough to leave finger marks. Is that a possible explanation, Mr. Peter
s?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “You suppose so. Had you ever seen Lady Rainsborough’s face or neck in that condition before, Mr. Peters?”

  The butler hesitated.

  “You are under oath, Mr. Peters,” the coroner reminded him.

  “Yes.”

  “Once, twice, often?”

  “A few times.”

  “A few times. And what did you do about it, Mr. Peters?”

  “Do about it?” asked the butler in a puzzled tone.

  “Yes. Your mistress was obviously being savagely attacked by her husband. Surely you would have wanted to protect her. Did you not feel something for Lady Rainsborough?”

  “It was none of my business, Mr. More. A man has a right to beat his wife. Whatever happened in the privacy of his home was Lord Rainsborough’s business, not mine.”

  “And you were dependent upon his goodwill, weren’t you?”

  “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “But it is true, nonetheless.”

  “Yes,” the butler admitted reluctantly.

  “Thank, you, Mr. Peters. I have no further questions,” said Andrew, turning his back again on the witness. Peters sat there for a moment as though unable to believe the lawyer had dismissed him.

  “You may step down, Mr. Peters,” said the coroner.

  “Oh, yes. Thank you, sir, thank you.” The butler had to pass right by Clare, and he averted his eyes as he scurried by.

  “Like a rabbit,” said Giles to Sabrina. “Good for Andrew.”

  * * * *

  “I call Miss Liza Stone to the stand.” The coroner’s voice did not sound as confident with this witness. Now that he could see Andrew’s direction, it was clear that the testimony of the abigail would be useful in the same way the butler’s had been.

  “Miss Stone.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Liza looked cool and composed, thought Giles, and very different from the affectionate and impulsive Martha. How had Clare survived it, he wondered, with not even one friend to support her?

  “You are in the employ of Lady Rainsborough and the late Lord Rainsborough?”