To Haveand To Hold

by Patricia Gaffney

  “Who put you up to this? Sully? How much did he pay you to make sure she goes back to prison?”

  The mayor’s face turned bright pink; he drew himself up. “How dare you! By God, sir, that’s a base lie! I demand an apology for it.”

  Sebastian turned on Sully, who smirked at him with undisguised delight—and, possibly, surprise. “Can’t prove it, D’Aubrey. Wait, it’s Moreton now, isn’t it? The bloody earl of Moreton. But you still can’t prove a thing.”

  Sebastian saw red. Over the muttering of the crowd, over the pounding of Vanstone’s fist on the table for order, he heard a soft, insistent voice calling his name. He looked at Rachel. She had one hand on the wooden bar, the other stretched out to him, straining toward him, and the distress in her face brought him to his senses.

  He couldn’t help her like this. All he wanted was to get her out of here, by force if necessary—no, preferably by force; he was dying to smash something, anything—but if he lost control, he would be playing into Sully’s hands. He mustn’t let Rachel’s fear, so heartbreakingly obvious, spread to him and cripple his judgment.

  Deliberately turning his back on Sully, he demanded of the mayor, who was still sputtering from wounded dignity, “What are the charges against Mrs. Wade? Let me hear them again.”

  “She—”

  “She missed a few meetings with Burdy, is that it?”

  “And the county constable as well. And she—”

  “Why wasn’t she notified? If she wasn’t showing up for her appointments, why didn’t somebody complain about it?”

  Constable Burdy spoke up. “She were sent a letter once, m’lord, by me, telling ’er she were remiss in her meetings.”

  “And?”

  “She wrote back sayin’ she was ‘relieved of the obligation.’”

  “And you didn’t follow up after that? Except to arrest her?”

  Burdy shrugged.

  Sebastian muttered a disgusted curse. “What else?”

  “’Er fine, m’lord,” he mumbled. “She quit paying on ’er fine.”

  “How much does she owe? Well?”

  Burdy cleared his throat and pulled on his ear. “She ’ad to pay ten shillings a week. She missed four times running.”

  “She owes two pounds?” It was an effort not to roar it. He drew out his purse and snatched a handful of bills from it, and then it was an effort not to stuff the money down Burdy’s throat. “Here,” he gritted. “Now her fine is paid.”

  Vanstone had resumed his seat. Whether or not he was in league with Sully, Sebastian’s accusation had turned him into a dangerous enemy. “Lord Moreton,” he said with icy formality, “the most serious charge against Mrs. Wade remains—her attempt to flee. That cannot be dismissed lightly. It speaks for itself and it is grounds alone, in our opinion, for remanding her case to the assize.”

  Sebastian stared back at him thoughtfully. Gradually, not all at once, the solution came to him. He smiled at the simplicity of it. “But she wasn’t fleeing, you see. She went to Plymouth at my suggestion, as it happens. To begin shopping for her trousseau. She inquired about passenger ship schedules because I asked her to—for our honeymoon. Mrs. Wade and I plan to marry at the end of the month.”

  Amid the gasps and exclamations, he turned his smile on Rachel. The shock he’d expected was there in her face, but not the gladness. He held her gaze, willing her to believe it. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? But there was nothing in her searching eyes but sadness. She gave a little shake of her head and looked away.

  Vanstone must have noticed the byplay. When the noise died down, he leaned forward and asked pointedly “Is that true?”

  Disoriented, sensing disaster, Sebastian said quickly, “Are you calling me—”

  “No, it’s not true,” Rachel interrupted in clear, carrying tones. “His lordship is mistaken.”

  “Do you mean to say he’s not telling the truth?”

  “He’s mistaken,” she repeated. “There is no engagement. He’s . . . mistaken.” Finally her voice broke.

  But when Sebastian took a step toward her she shrank back, letting go of the bar. He halted, shocked. “Rachel,” he whispered. “Rachel, for God’s sake.” She wouldn’t look at him; her frozen profile shut him out.

  Vanstone was saying something. A woman laughed; he thought it was the maid, Sully’s confederate, but when he looked up he saw it was Lydia Wade. She was clutching her knitting to her chest and muttering to herself. Had she gone mad?

  He needed to sit down. He couldn’t think. Rachel wouldn’t look at him and he couldn’t think what to do or say next. He slicked his dripping hair back with his fingers and used his sleeve to wipe the water from his face. Now Vanstone was winding up; whatever he’d said, it ended with “when the assize judges meet in September,” and Carnock nodded heavily in agreement, muttering something about “unfortunate” and “no other choice.” Two against one.

  Was this the end, then? Was he going to just stand here while they took her away? Five months ago he’d gotten his way, in this same circumstance, through bluster and intimidation. They weren’t working today—but the blow that completely defeated him was Rachel’s repudiation. Her situation couldn’t be more desperate, but she wouldn’t let him save her. Wouldn’t let him come near her.

  Christy Morrell had come into the hall. Sebastian didn’t notice him until he walked to the front of the room, drenched and dripping, leaving a trail of water from a closed black umbrella. He was out of breath. “Forgive me for interrupting. I’d have been here sooner, but I was delayed. May I speak to—”

  “Excuse me, Reverend,” the mayor broke in, “we aren’t taking testimony in this matter anymore. Your wife spoke eloquently in Mrs. Wade’s behalf, and we don’t require any further evidence. Thank you.”

  “Let him speak,” Sebastian burst out. “Whatever he’s got to say, I’d like to hear it.”

  Vanstone threw up his hands. “Speak, then.” He folded his arms and scowled.

  Christy moved closer to the magistrates’ table. “A matter has just come to my attention, gentlemen, something extremely important. I have to speak to you in private.” He gestured to include all three justices.

  “Does it bear on Mrs. Wade’s case?”

  “It does.”

  “Then take the stand and say it for the record,” the mayor decreed, and for once, Sebastian agreed with him.

  But Christy didn’t move. “With respect, Mayor, this isn’t something I can say in open court. I’d ask that you adjourn this hearing indefinitely.”

  “That’s out of the question. If you have evidence that relates to the case, you can say it under oath, here and now. Otherwise, we’re prepared to rule.”

  Christy shook his head. “That would be a mistake. I’ve misled you—what I want to say doesn’t relate to this hearing.”

  “Then—”

  “It relates to Mrs. Wade’s original case. I’ve come into possession of evidence that she was wrongly convicted of murdering her husband.”

  Chaos erupted. Vanstone called for order, but no one could hear him. The spectators were on their feet, talking at once. In the confusion, Sebastian saw Sully edging toward the side of the room. On impulse, he made a dash for the door and cut him off.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Sully smiled his turned-down smile. “Looks as if the fun’s over for now, and I’ve got better things to do. Stand aside, there’s a good lad.”

  “Oh, not likely.” Alert, spoiling for a fight, he moved in closer. “Where’s your knife today, Claude? In your boot? Pocket?”

  “Don’t be an ass. Get out of the way or I’ll—”

  A woman’s scream from behind Sully made him twist around. Over his shoulder, Sebastian saw Lydia Wade lift her arm in the air and slash it down. Christy Morrell jerked back in the nick of time, out of range, but his coat
sleeve was torn and dangling. His wife screamed again.

  But the minister wasn’t Lydia’s target. Sebastian watched in frozen, disbelieving horror while she scuttled around Christy, sharp, silver scissors high again in her fisted hand, and darted across the empty aisle to the prisoner’s bar.

  Nightmare. Sully wouldn’t move—he was frozen, too. Sebastian half shoved, half tackled him, pushed him violently aside, and finally the way was clear. But only for a second; immediately bodies came between him and Rachel again. He saw her face change from confusion to terror just before the way was blocked again. He flung himself against a man’s back, pushed someone sideways, stiff-armed somebody else. Over the bobbing heads and shoulders of more people, he saw the scissors rise and fall, rise and fall. Shouting, “No! No!” he lurched and twisted, throwing his body against the stubborn press, cursing flesh that wouldn’t move, wouldn’t move—

  A break opened, big enough to punch through. He saw Lydia from the back, bent over Rachel across the magistrates’ table, grappling, struggling to bring the scissors down in her face. Rachel’s frantic grip on Lydia’s wrist faltered, slipped. Sebastian’s heart stopped beating. He couldn’t get to her in time.

  Behind the table, Vanstone and Carnock were shouting, feinting, a blur of panicked, ineffectual fumbling. From nowhere, a huge body hurtled, heavy as a cannonball, through scarce empty space and smacked into Lydia’s shoulder. The scissors soared in the air and stuck in the ceiling. With a grunt, she flew sideways and crashed against the wall. William Holyoake landed on top of her.

  Rachel struggled up and tried to stand. Her knees buckled; Sebastian caught her as she was sliding to the floor.

  They sat beside each other, halfway under the table, oblivious to the turmoil all around. “Are you hurt?” He couldn’t see any blood; her eyes were still glazed and staring, but her hands clenching at his shoulders were strong. “Rachel, answer me, are you hurt?”

  The question finally registered. She shook her head. “Are you?”

  He gathered her up and held tight. His heart slowed its staccato pounding as the truth slowly sank in that she was all right. “No, I’m fine,” he answered automatically, even thought it wasn’t true. Setting her away from him, he fixed her with a baleful stare. “Why the hell won’t you marry me?”

  XXI

  Dear Reverend Morrell,

  By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. I pray that God will forgive me for not having the courage to tell you this story while I’m alive, but it’s too painful—I can hardly bear to write it. And I console myself that a few days or weeks longer won’t make any difference. The terrible damage has already been done.

  I’m not strong, and I must write quickly—but where shall I begin? The truth came to me so gradually, I didn’t understand the full horror until a few months ago. My awakening coincided with Mrs. Wade’s prison release, because that was when my niece’s shaky hold on reality began to slip away completely, with no more brief but blessed periods of normalcy to disguise what was happening. At first I refused to believe it; she was raving, I told myself, the horrible things she said must be the work of a hysterical imagination. But the disjointed rumblings would not stop, and they were chillingly consistent. Then I read her journal—I admit it; I couldn’t help myself, I had to know the worst—and finally I believed it.

  Dear God, I can’t bear to write this! But I have to. I haven’t said the words in my own mind, and now I must set them down for strangers to read. It’s this: Lydia and her father, my brother, Randolph Wade, were intimate. Physically intimate, I mean. I am saying they were lovers.

  It began, I think, when Lydia was eleven, although perhaps, poor girl, she was even younger. I know now, because I have heard, she has told me, some of the details of this wicked liaison, but I can’t write them. And I swear before God that I knew nothing, nothing of it when it was occurring. Should I have known? We lived in separate houses; my brother and I weren’t close; Lydia was strange, standoffish, never a warm or confiding child. These are my excuses, but you must know that my conscience will torment me until I die.

  It’s clear to me now that the perversions Lydia engaged in with her father began to affect her mind even before his death. She’s grown worse over the years, but the real disintegration began when she learned of Mrs. Wade’s release from prison. Before that, the only thing standing in the way of a total breakdown was her satisfaction in knowing that Rachel, whom she blamed for all her unhappiness, and whom she hated with an intense, fanatical bitterness, was suffering. But after Mrs. Wade’s release, Lydia lost all restraint and all natural discretion. In her ravings, she told me something else, and it was worse, even more horrible. Ten years ago, driven mad by jealousy and grief, she killed her own father.

  She has repeated to me the details of the ghastly scene again and again, details I can’t bring myself to write, and the particulars never vary. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that she is telling the truth.

  So. It’s over. I had expected to feel relief now, some measure of consolation after the burden of this dreadful knowledge was no longer mine to bear alone, but my sadness hasn’t lightened. I think I will go to my grave as weighted down from the horror as always. Pray for me, Reverend.

  Have I done wrong in waiting so long to tell the secret? I thought the worst was over, that nothing could bring back all the years Mrs. Wade spent in prison for a crime she didn’t commit. But now I’m filled with doubts and second thoughts.

  Even more, I worry for Lydia. And I beg you, Christy, don’t let them abuse her. She’ll have to be shut away someplace, I know that, but surely she deserves compassion, not punishment, because she is not in her right mind. Evil has been done here, but not by that poor girl. My brother is burning in hell for his sins, and I cannot pray for him! God forgive me, but I cannot!

  I’m weak and ill; I must stop. Dr. Hesselius is coming in a few minutes. I’ll give him this letter—that way it can’t fall into Lydia’s hands—and ask him to give it to you after I’m gone. Where I failed, I know that you will have the courage to do what’s right.

  God bless and keep you, Christy. And God help us all.

  Margaret Armstrong

  For a long time after she read the letter, Rachel sat quietly, staring out the window of the Morrells’ second-floor guest bedchamber at the quiet village green, soggy and deserted because of the rain. A light hand on her shoulder brought her out of her reverie. Anne asked, “Are you all right? How do you feel, Rachel?”

  Sebastian had asked her that, too, an hour ago when he’d brought her here. She hadn’t been able to answer with any certainty. She was glad, relieved, of course, because she had been exonerated, but it hadn’t really begun to sink in yet. It was too big, still too much like a dream; she couldn’t quite trust it.

  “I’m all right,’ she answered. But she felt a nagging melancholy, and next to it, an absurd hopefulness. Too much had happened; her emotions were too tattered to react sensibly and correctly to events that kept coming and would not stop. The last thing Sebastian had said to her before Anne took her upstairs for a bath and clean clothes was that he wanted an explanation for why she’d refused his marriage proposal. “You must know,” she’d whispered at the bottom of the staircase, and he’d all but snapped back, “No, I haven’t a clue, and you will tell me.”

  “Are you hungry? Let me tell Mrs. Ludd to bring you some soup. Tea, then. Rachel, you really should eat something.”

  She roused herself to smile. “Anne, I’m not hungry. They did feed me in gaol, you know.”

  She made a face. “How horrible that must’ve been. God, if we’d known, if we’d had any idea—”

  “You couldn’t have done anything. Anyway, it’s over now, and I’m fine.” Her friend looked dubious. “Truly I am. You’ve taken such good care of me, I feel as good as new.”

  “William will be relieved to know that. He’s downstairs, waiting t
o hear how you are.”

  “Is he?” She traced the pattern of the upholstered chair arm with one finger. “He’s been a good friend. He saved my life.”

  “He saved mine once,” Anne said unexpectedly. “Not quite so literally, but almost.”

  “I’ll go down and thank him.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll stay here by the fire and rest.”

  Rachel smiled, thinking how lovely it was to be spoiled. “You’re not a mother yet, you know.” Her smile faded when she remembered how Lydia had attacked Reverend Morrell first, then Anne when she’d tried to help him. “Thank God you weren’t hurt,” she whispered. “Or your baby!”

  Anne reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Thank God Christy wasn’t,” she returned with the same fervor.

  “What do you think will happen to Lydia?” Rachel wondered after a pause.

  “They’ll put her someplace where she can’t hurt herself. Do you feel sorry for her?” Anne asked curiously.

  “Yes.”

  “Even though she ruined your life?”

  “Yes.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Well, I suppose I must believe you, but I’m quite sure I wouldn’t be so forgiving if I were in your place. I leave all that sort of thing to Christy.”

  A knock at the door made them turn. It opened after the briefest second, and Sebastian strode in. His clothes weren’t wet any longer, only damp and extremely wrinkled. He looked exhausted. But his eyes lit up when they met Rachel’s, and in spite of herself she felt warmed clear through to her bones.

  Anne jumped to her feet; Rachel started to rise, then stayed where she was. “Well,” Anne said brightly. “I think I’ll go down and see how Christy’s doing.”

  “Don’t leave on my account.”

  Sebastian’s insincerity was so obvious, Rachel blushed. She stood up and said, “We’ll go down with you. I’m perfectly fine now, there’s no reason—”

  “No, we’ll stay put,” Sebastian said firmly, and she frowned at him. Already he sounded like an earl.