The girl suddenly slumped, all her energy poured into her words and leaving her body a drained shell. “Say something to me, Grace Mae,” Elizabeth said, tears streaming down her face. “Let me hear your voice, and I swear I’ll see that man hang for you.”
Grace stepped forward on shaking legs, past the dumbfounded Thornhollow. “Hello, Lizzie,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to give you this.” The tiny blue bottle went from her hand to Lizzie’s, and it was the other girl’s turn to be surprised as she removed the stopper, the smell of rosewater and bergamot filling the doctor’s office as the two friends embraced.
THIRTY-FIVE
“It’s a circus in town,” Thornhollow said, hand brushing idly over the tips of the new spring grass. “Every newspaper in the state has a reporter here, and I heard someone say a fellow from the Times has taken permanent residence at the inn ever since the indictment.”
“It got worse after Mr. Pickering said he’d seek the death penalty,” Elizabeth said, picking over the sandwich she’d packed for their picnic by the lake. “I could hear the carriages rattling into town from my room.” She unwrapped another sandwich, holding it out to her friend. “Grace, put that down. It doesn’t say anything different since the last time you read it. You need to eat.”
“I know it,” Grace said, eyes still on Alice’s most recent letter. “It’s so very difficult to bear. She doesn’t understand why her father’s not come home, and Mother is so frantic trying to dispel the rumors that she has no time for her child.” Grace folded the worn letter and put it back in her pocket, turning her attention to food, though she had no appetite.
“Will your mother come for the trial?” Thornhollow asked.
“I can’t see that happening,” Grace said. “She won’t want to be anywhere near when they read the verdict. Deep down she knows it’s true.”
“Except, it’s not,” the doctor said.
“She’s lived with him. And some of the women on that list I supplied for the grand jury were friends of hers at one point.” Grace’s lips thinned as she remembered putting their names to paper, digging up memories of women who had left parties at her former home with tears on their faces and bruises forming on their arms. “Years of seeing women used and disposed of when no longer entertaining tells her it very well could be true. She’ll not want to stand in public when the rest of the world learns what she’s always known.”
“She deserves her own punishment for blocking her ears against you,” Elizabeth said, her feral side lurking closer to the surface in the days before the trial.
“And she’ll have it, Elizabeth,” Thornhollow said, tossing what remained of his food into their basket. “I’ve moved in society long enough to tell you that a stain of this magnitude will spread to Grace’s mother as well. She’ll not be received anywhere.”
“Which for her will be worse than any hangman’s rope,” Grace agreed. “Tongues will wag and her name will be on them. A punishment to fit her crime of stopping my own.”
“I do so love your voice,” Lizzie said, reaching out to touch Grace’s arm. “String said it was there, and hearing it these past months has been nearly worth the wait.”
Thornhollow cleared his throat. “You do know not to mention String when—”
“Yes, Doctor,” Lizzie snapped. “How could I forget with the constant reminders?”
“All right,” Grace said, patting her friend’s hand. “He’s only trying to ensure that everything follows the course we have planned.”
“And speaking of that,” Thornhollow said, “what are your plans for tomorrow, Grace? I hope it goes without saying that you’ll be nowhere near the courthouse.”
“It seems my plans are in direct opposition with your own, then.”
“Grace, be reasonable,” Thornhollow said. “I understand the importance of this for you, but having you anywhere near your father is out of the question. Not to mention the logistics are ridiculous. A mental patient can’t simply attend a court proceeding, first of all, and secondly if your father spotted your face in the crowd, the game would be up.”
“Of course a patient would attract attention,” Grace agreed. “But a widow in the press of the crowd wouldn’t. And under her veil could be any face at all.”
“And where do you propose to secure widow’s reeds?”
“Your sister had them sent to me. She’s also been in correspondence with Janey, and they’ve agreed that with my aversion to crowds it would be best to get me out of town, with your blessing—which, of course, she provided a signature that really was remarkably like your own. You’ve been so busy preparing for the trial Janey’s been far too intimidated to question you about it.
“Adelaide’s coming to get me tonight, supposedly whisking me off to happy seclusion. Really we’ll be at the inn, right alongside the Times fellow. Adelaide said he’s quite handsome and has promised good seats for herself and her widowed friend for the trial. I’ll undoubtedly have an excellent view of the witness stand.”
Thornhollow sighed and threw a stone in the lake. “Introducing the two of you was one of my larger mistakes. I should tell Janey I’ve changed my mind and have you thrown in isolation until this whole mess is through. You’d have plenty of privacy there.”
“Try it,” Elizabeth said, baring her teeth.
“You’re a rather stunning widow,” Adelaide said as she pinned Grace’s veil on the next morning. “We’ll keep that face covered for more reasons than one. I’ll be thumping fellows left and right just to clear a path for us otherwise.”
Grace smiled, though it felt weak even to her, as she tried to keep a calm face in front of her friend. “I don’t think you’d mind thumping them.”
“A few,” she agreed, fixing her own hat in the mirror. “Though if I were to go after my prime target I’m sure the bailiff would wrestle me down.”
“I’d very much like to see you toe-to-toe with my father,” Grace said. “He’s not much for women’s rights.”
“We’re all lucky the judge is, otherwise I don’t think this would have ever made it to trial. Although, Melancthon tells me as soon as whispers of trouble spread to Boston your father’s political enemies were here to make sure the right voices were heard. Guilty or not, they weren’t taking chances on it being hushed up.
“Regardless, as much as I’d like to take a swing at your father, I think dear little brother would be my first victim.”
Grace laughed, the sound tinged with desperation, her veil puffing out with her breath. “You love him dearly and him you. Why neither one of you acknowledges it I don’t know.”
“Because we’re Thornhollows,” Adelaide said. “Emotions are not in our blood.” She turned from the mirror, face suddenly serious. “I’ll have you know my intentions for helping you, Grace. I think it’ll do you good to see your father put away for all the demons he’s brought upon you. You’ve earned the right to that, and I’ll see you have it. But you also need to know that I share my brother’s opinion that you’ve removed yourself too thoroughly from your own feelings. It doesn’t come naturally to you as it does to myself and Melancthon. I fear you’re nearing a precipice, and I’d rather be next to you when you go over.”
“There is nothing wrong with me,” Grace said as they left their room, ignoring that her hands trembled inside each other. “But I appreciate everything you’ve done. You’ve gone to great trouble just to help me, and I have no way to repay you.”
Adelaide rolled her eyes. “Going against Melancthon’s wishes is its own reward.”
They had to walk to the courthouse. Mr. Turner, Adelaide’s gentleman friend from the Times, joined them. The streets were packed with carriages, most of them headed for the same destination. Newspaper boys yelled from street corners, and prostitutes called from alleyways, hoping to distract a few of the novelty seekers with something more pleasurable than rhetoric.
Mr. Turner cleared the way for them once inside the courthouse, his press badge bringing them closer to the
front than otherwise possible and his glib tongue explaining the need of seats for the two women as well. Grace settled in, her black skirts swishing around her as she crossed her ankles, grinding them together almost painfully to give herself something to focus on other than the fluttering of her stomach.
Even though it had bordered on cool outdoors, the inside of the courtroom was uncomfortably warm, the press of bodies adding heat. Words flew through the air, blurring together in a din that filled Grace’s ears and had her retreating inside herself despite the physical veil in front of her face. She sat still and stony while Adelaide made conversation with Mr. Turner.
The courtroom erupted when her father was brought in, everyone around her rising to their feet, some screaming about the ridiculousness of the charges, while others jeered him. Grace stayed in her seat with Adelaide’s hands on her own, only too glad to have her view blocked by a man’s back at that moment.
The judge banged his gavel repeatedly, only gaining order once he threatened to bar the public from the proceedings if they couldn’t control themselves. A dark murmur passed through the crowd but they found their seats, the man in front of her one of the last to rest. Grace felt her breaths coming shallow and quick as she saw Nathaniel Mae close up for the first time since being dragged screaming from her own home, her belly heavy with his child.
He seemed no worse for wear, his black mustache trim as ever, no hair on his head out of place. He rested easily at the defense table, calm as if he were taking in a ball game on a summer’s day. He turned to speak to Mr. Atkinson, his lawyer, and Grace felt even the smallest of inhalations catch in her chest as his eye passed over her.
She had wanted to be here, she reminded herself. She had wanted to see him squirm and quiver under the stern eye of the law, but she had forgotten his panache, his absolute certainty in his divine right to behave as he saw fit. Grace had stilled her tongue in part to forget language and the sound of speech, but the sight of him brought his voice into her head as if she were back in their home, watching him fix his hair in her bedroom mirror.
“Appearances are everything, Grace,” he had said. “As long as no one suspects something, it didn’t happen.”
“Appearances are everything,” she whispered to herself now, as he shared a laugh with his defense team. If he had a shred of doubt as to his own victory he would not show it. Grace’s breathing evened out. “That works both ways, Father,” she said quietly.
“What was that, Madeleine?” Adelaide asked.
“I asked what happens now?” Grace said.
“Ah, well, today are the opening statements and if we’re lucky, the prosecution presents their case. With Pickering aiming for the death penalty it could go into more than one day if there’s a lot of cross-examining. You may change your mind about wanting to be here. I guarantee you with the heat, half this room files out by lunchtime. It’s all fun when we’re speculating from the comfort of our homes about sex and murder, but when we’re smelling each other’s stenches while the coroner goes on about body temperatures and timetables it loses most of its shine.”
Adelaide was right in some respects. The facts of the case were presented from both sides, each with their own interpretation. That Jenny Cantor was dead could not be denied, and Atkinson—a small man with a full head of white hair—made much of the tragedy of that fact. But that his client was the one that murdered her, the very presumption of accusing an outstanding citizen of such a crime was an outrage in itself.
Beside Grace, Adelaide huffed into her fan. “Sorry, old boy,” she muttered. “But the grand jury charged him. They don’t do that on whims, you know.”
Grace leaned to speak to her friend, irritated by how easily their assertion of her father’s innocence had ruffled her. “I almost think he believes what he’s saying.”
“He believes what he’s paid to believe,” Adelaide said.
The prosecution kept their opening statement brief, saying only that the facts would speak for themselves, and that Nathaniel Mae’s public facade was very different from the real man, whose dark appetites were only now coming to light.
After that the prosecution called its first witness, the coroner.
“I knew it,” Adelaide said to Grace. “This will take us straight up to lunchtime and boring as bull piss.”
So it was. Adelaide was right in that the coroner shared his opinion about the effect of temperatures on the body, the behavior of viscous blood, and so on, until even Grace lost interest, allowing her gaze to be drawn instead to the faces in the crowd. People shifted, eyelids drooped, and someone even passed gas at one point, which brought a hearty laugh from those around him. It was the most interesting part of the morning, and Grace found herself dozing on Adelaide’s shoulder, sweat running down the inside of her stays as Adelaide shook her awake.
“Madeleine, they’re breaking for lunch. Mr. Turner has offered to bring us lemonade. Some enterprising youths have set up a stand on the courthouse steps. They’ll be millionaires by week’s end. Shall we contribute?”
Grace nodded eagerly and Turner returned with sandwiches as well, offering to hold their seats if they wanted to eat theirs in the fresh air.
“Mr. Turner must be rather taken with you,” Grace said as they sat on the grass, the breeze a blessing on her face now that she could have her veil up. “He’s going to a lot of trouble for our convenience.”
“I don’t dislike him,” was all Adelaide said.
“High praise from a Thornhollow,” Grace said, her attempt at a light tone failing miserably. “I’m sorry for falling asleep. What did I miss?”
“Nothing, as I suspected. Facts about bodies and blood that no one but another doctor could make head nor tail of. I’m sure the jury was quite flummoxed. Then Mr. Atkinson went after the coroner like a terrier at a croquet match, but even that was rather boring. In the end, the only thing we learned is that the poor girl lay dead in the snow for quite some time, and it could have been during the time when your father was in town.”
“Sounds rather anticlimactic,” Grace said.
“It was, but they pulled their hooks out of the coroner, and I guarantee you the entertainment bar is raised a bit higher after lunch with all these women on parade. Oh, and by the way, I’ve changed my mind.”
“On what?”
“I think I would very much prefer to thump your father before my brother. I’ll sit through eight days of old coroners to see that smug smile wiped off his face.”
“Let’s hope it happens,” Grace said, her stomach fluttering as she tossed the dregs of her lemonade into the grass.
She put her veil in place as they pushed their way back into the courtroom and to Mr. Turner’s side just as the judge was returning. The crowd settled with the banging of his gavel, eyes bright and attention reawakened after the break.
The women whose names and faces Grace had scavenged her memory for were called one at a time, although there were notable absences. Not all of them would take the stand against a powerful man, no matter what he had done to them. Society faces she recalled from brighter days stonily recounted unwanted advances, pressed too far. Mrs. Vivanti, a regal woman who had once been their neighbor, testified, her voice chilly as each word dropped like ice from her lips. Her eyes never left Mae, and though her tone was controlled, the rage that burned under them reached for Grace as well, threatening to ignite her own wrath.
The concise sentences of the society women melted into the wary voices of servants roughly mistreated, then dismissed. Through it all Grace remained calm beneath her veil, too aware that her own control must be complete for the last, most dear face.
“Call your next witness,” the judge ordered the prosecution.
Mr. Pickering stood, cleared his throat, and said, “The prosecution calls Elizabeth Martin to the stand.”
Elizabeth entered the courtroom on a storm of whispers. People stood on tiptoe, some pointing, and Grace swelled with pride as her friend walked to the stand with her he
ad held high.
“She looks rather nice in that dress,” Adelaide whispered to Grace. “I ordered that print special from New York City. Sets off her hair nicely. You’d never guess she’s crazy.”
“Maybe she’s not,” Grace said.
Adelaide tapped Grace’s arm with her fan. “She is to everyone else in this room.”
After Elizabeth was sworn in she stated her name and residence, murmurs going through the crowd at the mention of the insane asylum, which quieted immediately when the judge glanced up.
“All right, Miss Martin,” Pickering said, “I want you to tell the jury what you’ve told me.”
“The jury?” Elizabeth asked, her voice so quiet the court descended into a dead calm.
“Those people right over there,” Pickering said, pointing.
“Oh, all right,” Elizabeth said, a sweet smile breaking over her face. “Um, hello.”
More than a few of the jurors smiled back. One raised a hand in greeting.
“She’s golden,” Adelaide said, but Grace didn’t hear. Her hands were crushing each other in anxiety for her friend, whose childlike innocence was no playact.
Elizabeth looked back to Mr. Pickering. “Where should I start?”
“With the night of the reception, if you please.”
Elizabeth looked back at the jury. “All right, the reception.” She cleared her throat. “There was a reception up at the asylum for Mr.—I’m sorry—Senator Mae when he was here in town. We’ve got the loveliest ballroom, you see, and the food isn’t half-bad, either.”
A Madness So Discreet Page 24
