Once outside the library in the common hallway, the girls fell into each other’s arms and hugged each other.
“Cook,” said Simple Tilly, as if reciting an article of the chatechism. “We must tell Cook.”
* * *
Cook heard the girls out. She had spent a lifetime encouraging from children and simpletons their very best efforts. She knew truth when they told it to her. She sprang into immediate action.
“Hie! Boy! Order me up that pony and trap. We are going to Gresham Town, and not a moment to spare, either. Tilly! Hannah! Look sharp, girls. Fetch fresh, clean aprons and caps, as fast as ever ye can. Ye’re coming with me.”
* * *
Sir Reginald was surprised to be handed a note in the middle of trial, indicating that the Cook of Gresham Manor was waiting upon him urgently in the anteroom. He was glad that he had made the time to see her, though, once he heard her story.
“Could the girls testify, do you think?” he asked the formidable old matron. “Would they tell the truth, and could they stand up to cross-examination?”
“Well, now,” said Cook. “Ye have to play the hand ye’re dealt, Sir Reginald. And these girls is what we got. Tilly’s a bit simple, but she’s as honest as the day is long. And she’s a woman, full grown, which they may like better. But she might dissolve into tears if she’s challenged. Our Hannah, now, will turn nine in a few weeks. She’s already reached the age of reason, the Church tells us. She knows right from wrong, and truth from a lie. And little as she is, they won’t break her, no more than they could break her mother. She’ll stick to her story. I’d wager me life on it.”
Sir Reginald returned to the courtroom and petitioned the magistrate for a few moments before the bench. “There’s new evidence, Sir William. Exonerating evidence, I believe.”
Sir William had trained the young lawyer who stood before him, but still he looked askance at Sir Reginald. “At this late hour?”
“My Lord Magistrate, I assure you, you will wish to hear this.”
“All right, then,” said Sir William, with a sharp look that suggested Sir Reginald would pay dearly if he was wasting the time of the Court. “I will allow it. Bring your witnesses.”
* * *
Joanna’s beauty had worked against her when she had testified, for it suggested to the courtroom the lure of the flesh. Her own womanliness condemned her to the Philistines.
Hannah’s childlike beauty had the opposite effect. Despite all she had been through, she radiated innocence, and righteousness, and trust in the ultimate goodness and fairness of life. People sat upright when she was called to the box, and the good ladies of Gresham Town pulled out their handkerchiefs.
Sir William himself—in spite of the child’s sinful begetting—was charmed. He had granddaughters of his own.
“Now, little girl—what is your name?”
“Hannah Bagley, My Lord.”
On the way to Court, Cook had coached the child on how to address the man in the white wig, sitting on the high bench.
“And how old are you, Hannah?”
“I’ll be nine, My Lord, come Whitsunday—next week.”
“And can you tell us who your mother is, Hannah?”
“She is that lady, right there. The really pretty one.”
This drew an appreciative chuckle from the crowd.
“Indeed,” said Sir William drily. “Now, Hannah, you are but a little girl, but I think you are old enough to know right from wrong. Do you say your prayers, Hannah?”
“Yes, My Lord. Cook kneels with me every night, and she listens while I ask the Baby Jesus to protect my mother, and my—and, um, everybody I know.”
“You know that God punishes liars, Hannah?”
Hannah looked thunderstruck. “Oh, yes, My Lord. I’d never try to lie to God. No more than I’d lie to my Mama.”
Apparently, this was the right thing to say, for Sir William nodded in pious agreement, and several of the jurors seemed moved by the child’s virtue.
“Very well, then, Hannah. I am going to ask you to put your hand on this holy Book, which is God’s own Bible. And I am going to ask you to tell the truth. And if you lie with your hand on this Book, then you are lying to God, and the fires of Hell will await you. Very well then,” he said again, when the child’s hand was upon the Bible. “Please tell me, very carefully and clearly, every single thing that happened to you this afternoon. And remember, God is listening.”
Hannah was nothing short of brilliant. There was not a person in the room who could have shaken her detailed, precise recollections of Mr. Coleman’s acts and words. She was asked questions, which were meant to be traps, but by sticking to the absolute truth, she evaded each of them.
And through it all, she stood brave and ramrod straight, her marvellous eyes sparkling and her voice vibrant with the righteousness of her testimony.
Joanna sat in the courtroom and watched her own little girl save her life, even as the child put the neck of Mr. Coleman, the true poisoner, right into a noose.
When the testimony had concluded, Sir Reginald stood. “Sir William, I put it to this Court that enough evidence has been provided to exonerate the accused, and to justify the Crown’s incarceration of Mr. Coleman as a more probable suspect in the attempted murder of the Duke of Gresham.”
“So be it,” said Sir William, banging his gavel. “Miss Joanna Bagley, you are at liberty to leave us, without stain upon your character. Bailiffs, seize Mr. Coleman.”
The Duchess’s shrieks could be heard from outside the building. She fell to the floor in a swoon, screaming in frustration at her thwarted plans.
Mr. Coleman, meanwhile, ran for the door. He was fast, for a portly old gentleman. But not fast enough. The guards caught him easily and clapped him in irons.
Thus ended the relationship between the Colemans and the noble house of Gresham.
Chapter 35
Loose Ends
Christopher was in complete darkness, his body floating in a viscous pool. He could not move. Nor did he want to—movement would require far too much effort. All he wanted was to rest.
He found himself sinking deeper and deeper. It would be so easy not to fight this overwhelming urge to sink and to sleep. He need do nothing at all.
Rest. Peace. Submersion, submission to a painless void. His mind sensed it was voluntarily cutting its last tie to life.
Then he felt something like a sharp tug on his psyche. He was still bound, somehow. Something, someone beyond himself was refusing to let him go. His mind struggled, and almost against his own will, with each renewed effort, he found himself rising back toward the surface.
His brain suddenly broke the surface and tasted air. It was sweet, and it gave him strength. With renewed effort, by the growing power of his own returning will, his brain struck out toward the shore.
Toward life. Toward Joanna.
* * *
“He’s coming around! His eyelids are fluttering!” Cook dragged the physician by his sleeve into the Duke’s bedchamber.
“Thank God,” said the good physician in relief. “That last dose he was given this morning was the strongest yet. The amount of the antidote I had to give him—Cook, I don’t mind telling you, I was afraid I would kill him, not cure him.”
Christopher heard their voices, as if from far away. That’s Cook. And the physician.
The room came into focus around him, and his eyes scanned it for the one face he wanted to see above all others.
“Joanna,” he said, and weakly lifted his open arms toward her. Sobbing openly, Joanna ran to his bedside and threw herself upon him.
“Christy. Oh, Christy, Christy….”
The other occupants of the room tiptoed out, closing the bedchamber door silently behind them.
“Christy,” Joanna said amid her tears, “I thought you were dying. I felt your spirit slipping away from me. I swear, I could actually feel it, like when you feel a window has opened and the warmth is passing out of the room.
I wanted to stop you—I couldn’t do anything to hold you back—”
“But you did, my darling,” Christopher said. “You did stop me.” He told her about his drowning in the void, his submitting to its greater force.
“I did not have the strength to fight anymore. I was willing to let go. But you would not let me go, you would not let me—”
“Because you’re mine,” Joanna said with certitude. “I will never let you go, nor you me.” She leaned over him and kissed him softly.
Sick and weak as he was from months of poison, exhausted and weak as she was from months of prison, still their bodies called to each other as strongly as ever.
The gentle kiss grew in intensity, and soon their mouths were hungrily tasting each other, sucking greedily on each other’s probing tongues.
Joanna climbed onto the feather bed beside Christopher. She folded back the quilts and counterpane, then lay beside him. “Rest, my darling,” she soothed him. “You’ve been very, very sick. Let’s just hold each other very close. There will be plenty of time for us to enjoy each other when you’re better.”
Christopher acknowledged to himself that he was indeed very tired. It was enough, for now, just to lie here beside her. How happy she makes me. I was ready to give up and leave this world behind me. But now, I want to live—for Joanna and for Hannah.
Night fell, and the room grew dark. The lovers slept. The servants did not interrupt them.
* * *
When Joanna’s trial concluded, and when Mr. Coleman had been led away by the guards, the Duchess made her way home to Gresham Manor. She was alone in her carriage, but for her personal maid, who kept wisely silent.
So it had been her father, not the gypsy slut, who had tried to poison the Duke. Well, it was not surprising. Her father had always had his hand in one nasty scheme or another. It was how he had amassed such a fortune.
If they found him guilty of this, he would no doubt be imprisoned for the rest of his life. Or even hanged—his victim was a Duke, with friends who were intimates of the Prince Regent.
The important thing for her, she mused, was to distance herself as much as possible from her father’s misdeeds. She should appear shocked, horrified. That her beloved husband, the Duke, should be so foully used! She was already rehearsing her role in her own head.
The important thing was that, as far as everyone knew, she was blameless. The Duke had no real grounds for divorcing her. As far as the world knew, he was the adulterer, should she wish to make an issue of that.
She had to keep her head and think this through. Of course, she and the Duke would no longer wish to live together. They could informally separate, with no blame assigned to either party.
But there need not be a divorce. Why would I want that? He’d only marry that lowdown hussy and put a Duchess’s coronet on her head.
She would continue to be Duchess of Gresham. But she would leave Gresham Manor—how she hated that moldy old place!—and set up her own household in London, or abroad. She would live well, and cut quite a figure. All her bills would be sent to the Duke.
All this the Duchess would have, so long as no one knew of her recent behavior. In all the world, she reasoned, only three people were aware of the sordid bargain she had been forced to strike with Brown.
Her father—but he would die rather than say a word to harm her.
Her personal maid—but she could be bought off. The Duchess could offer her world travel, a lifetime of employment on the most generous of terms, a nest egg for the future, and, of course, threats of the gravest harm to her, should she ever open her stupid little mouth.
Which left Brown. Brown would have to be silenced. Remembering his crass brutality on the nights he had visited her, the Duchess hardly expected him to be sensitive to her new situation.
She shuddered, remembering those visits. Whatever it cost her to have that horrible man out of her life, she would pay it.
When the carriage reached Gresham Manor, the Duchess sent her maid upstairs. Once she knew herself alone, she headed for the estate office.
* * *
Brown was there. He had not attended Joanna’s trial. Why should he? The Duke’s concubines were his own business, and good luck to him. He rapidly heard the news from a returning coachman, however. Mr. Coleman, who had ruled like a lord here, was finished.
Brown was troubled for a moment, but brushed it off. He had nothing to fear. Of the Coleman father and daughter, the father had held all the power. Without him, and with her own husband against her, the Duchess was nothing.
Even as he was thinking this, Her Grace swept in, head held high. Oh, so that’s how she’s going to play it. The fine lady of the manor, dismissing the incompetent stable boy. Well, I don’t think so.
He sat there silently, looking at her, one eyebrow raised quizzically. “Yes?” he said.
He deliberately did not rise to his feet, did not use any title in addressing her.
“Brown, I want you out of here by the end of the day tomorrow. Go quietly, and I’ll give you a quarter’s wages and a decent reference. Give me any trouble, and I’ll….”
“You’ll what? Tell your Papa? I don’t imagine they will be letting him have any unsupervised visitors, where they’ve got him now.”
“You brute!” The Duchess shrieked. “I’ll tell the whole world you raped me—”
Rape? That’s a good one. What man would want her, with those mad, bulging eyes and shrill voice?
“Really? Rape? When your own maid will testify that you met me at the bedroom door night after night for months, with your bedsheets turned down and your gown already sliding off your bony shoulders, in anticipation of a good, hard ride? No, I don’t think so. I kept my side of the bargain—and it was no picnic, believe me, with a sour, ugly woman like you. If you didn’t get pregnant, it’s not my fault. There are women from Gresham to London with my children—there’s nothing wrong with me, believe me.”
There, that blow seemed to reach the target. How satisfying to see the selfish little bitch squirm.
“No, I did my job, and I expect to be paid in full. Permit me to outline for you my financial expectations. A fully paid passage to New South Wales. Half the amount promised by your father, before I leave. The rest due in gold when my ship docks in Australia. On those terms, perhaps, I will leave Gresham Manor. Or perhaps not. I might want still more, for my trouble.”
* * *
Some days later, Sir Reginald visited his old friend the Duke. He was delighted to see him recovering so rapidly. There was a sparkle in the Duke’s eye that spoke of his happiness.
“I mean to marry her, Sir Reginald. As soon as possible. She is the most wonderful woman a man could have, and God knows I’ve waited long enough for her.”
Sir Reginald smiled at his friend’s impatience. “Slowly, slowly, Your Grace. All in good time. I promise Miss Bagley will be your Duchess, and little Hannah will be legitimized as your lawful child. But we have some loose ends to tie up first.”
“You lawyers!” the Duke grumbled. But Sir Reginald knew that in truth, he would have a lifelong best friend in the Duke, after all he had willingly done for the man.
“First,” said Sir Reginald, ticking their problems off, one by one, on his fingers, “we have Mr. Coleman. I’m very pleased with how that case is going. As you know, the magistrate was out here to look at the secret room behind the library. Cook was able to swear that the room has been closed off and guarded around the clock since Mr. Coleman last was in there, so there’s been no tampering with physical evidence. Hannah’s verbal testimony impressed Sir William, as I’ve told you. Your Grace, if you could have been there! You would have been proud that she’s your daughter!”
The Duke just smiled. “There’s a lot of her mother in her, I think.”
“Then there’s Tilly the junior parlormaid. She backs up Hannah in every particular.”
“That girl’s mind is a little slow, Sir Reginald. Cook keeps her here as a mercy.”
<
br /> “Well, I agree she wouldn’t be a strong principal witness. But she’s a good girl, and Sir William seems to believe that the simple of this world are more likely to tell the truth than the clever and devious. So we have Tilly. And I’m tracing the source of the poison. It’s rare, so we may have an easier time tracking Mr. Coleman’s purchase than if he used something ordinary. Speaking of which, can you believe Hannah held on to the Latin name of the poison she had heard Mr. Coleman speak, and then repeated it accurately in court? She’s barely nine. Most adults couldn’t have done that. Maybe we’ll have a lady physician on our hands, eh? If they allow such a thing by the time she’s grown.”
“Or a lady barrister,” said the Duke, teasing his old friend.
“I don’t know,” laughed Sir Reginald. “I wouldn’t want to face Hannah before a judge! Anyway, Your Grace, I think the case against Mr. Coleman is rock solid. Should we petition for mere life imprisonment, do you think, or should we let him hang?”
“I’ll leave that to you, Sir Reginald. I couldn’t care less.”
My, the Duke has changed. Hardened a bit, and who could blame him.
“Second, we come to the Duchess. If we can show fault, my position as your attorney will be that the transfer of her dowry and of her right to inherit Mr. Coleman’s entire estate already passed irrevocably to the Dukedom upon her marriage settlement. She would still have a life interest in Mr. Coleman’s own fortune, for so long as he lives. But if he hangs, Your Grace, or otherwise predeceases his daughter, that money will all pass to the Dukedom at that time. His daughter would be penniless. You could settle something on her, to provide for her upkeep post-divorce. If you wish to be generous, that is. Myself, I wouldn’t give her a shilling.”
Tamed By The Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 25
