by Diana Davis
And poor was right: Owen couldn’t help but wonder, not for the first time, if he’d ever see a brass farthing from the man.
He’d hardly begun when Lord David descended the stairs, impeccably dressed as ever. “Good morning, Randolph. Is Josiah in?” He pointed at the door to Hayes’s private study.
Hayes did sometimes come in early to try not to fall behind in his practice during the Congress. “Sorry, I don’t know. Haven’t seen him?”
Lord David strode for the study door.
Temperance had asked about Lord David yesterday before she’d asked for that favor. Could it have anything to do with him? Owen scrambled to his feet to follow him.
“Good morning, Josiah,” Lord David was greeting him as Owen slipped in behind. “Ready for the vote today?”
“I suppose,” Hayes grumbled uncharacteristically.
Lord David turned and startled to find Owen behind him. He recovered quickly. “What would you say, Randolph? Have we rights and grievances to assert?”
“To Parliament?”
A smile teased behind Lord David’s eyes. “Yes, of course.”
“Ah, I’m certain Boston does.”
“And all Britons don’t have those same rights?” Lord David challenged.
“Of course all Britons have rights.”
Lord David turned to Hayes, who was pushing himself out of his chair. “And if it becomes undoubted a resolution is formed to annihilate the liberties of the governed?”
Hayes snorted. “Dickinson, now? Shall I tell him you were quoting him this morning?”
Owen was familiar enough with John Dickinson’s Letters from a Farmer to catch Lord David’s allusion: they had a duty to correct a government in error by legal means and, if that failed, by force. Surely Lord David was also well aware Dickinson was as much in favor of reconciliation as the rest of the Pennsylvania delegation to Congress.
“Oh, Dickinson would appreciate that, I’m sure,” Lord David muttered.
“‘The constitutional modes of obtaining relief,’ yes?” Hayes quoted back “‘By petitions of our assemblies’?”
“Yes, what of the English constitution?” The nobleman was undeterred.
“David, surely you don’t mean to preach to me about the English constitution,” Hayes quipped. “I’ve been practicing law since before you were born.”
“Of course, Josiah. You are the expert.” Lord David fetched Hayes’s cloak from the rack and draped it across the older man’s shoulders. “And I’m sure you could hold forth for hours on how dreadfully the constitution has been trampled.”
“David,” Hayes said. Owen guessed there was supposed to be a warning in his tone, but he mostly sounded weary. His employer addressed Owen. “Please tell my nephew-in-law what we need to accomplish as a Congress.”
Owen looked from Hayes to Lord David. He hadn’t discussed his own opinions with anyone in the office in any detail, and he couldn’t be certain how Hayes meant to vote today — or even what he was meant to vote upon.
Still, if they wanted his opinion, he’d give it. “We need to reunite with our government. Our king.”
“Thank you, very sensible.”
That was precisely why Owen believed as he did. It was the only route that was sensible. Certain. Safe. Secure.
Hayes cast a sidelong glance at his nephew-in-law and added one more Dickinson quotation. “‘We have an excellent prince, in whom we may confide.’”
“Let us hope he sees reason.”
Lord David opened his mouth to continue, but Hayes cut him off, speaking to Owen. “See if you can’t get the clerks to do something productive today. What are you to be about?”
He doubted Hayes would appreciate the answer of helping your daughter. “The Cooper case.”
“Ah, terrible thing. Good experience for you, though.” Hayes clapped him on the shoulder. “Good of you to take on another charity case.”
Lord David took notice of that and gave Owen a little bow from the neck as they headed off to Carpenter’s Hall.
Why did her cousin’s husband’s legal troubles affect Temperance so? She really seemed to dislike him. Certainly he preached a bit much about whiggish politics, but he seemed nice enough.
Owen settled at the table again and started back at his notes. The case was trickier than it appeared, with a witness he’d have to disprove somehow, and as Hayes himself had said, this appeared to be a charity case.
He simply couldn’t dismiss someone in need. A foolish weakness, to be sure, but too many people had helped him and his mother and sisters over the years.
The clerks filed in, loudly laughing over some joke they shared. Owen was practically a journeyman lawyer by now and the de facto head of the office in Hayes’s absence. He did what he could to direct the younger men. One would think the men employed in copying the case records by hand would take more care with the volumes they created, but they were a hard lot.
His control over the office got no better when the door opened next. Temperance swept in, wearing a green gown. Even from where he stood, Owen could tell the fabric matched her eyes. “Good morning, Miss Hayes,” he called to her, for propriety’s sake.
She scrutinized the clerks.
“Is Patience with you?” one of them asked. So much for propriety.
“No.” She sent him a scowl far more effective than any look or word Owen had tried with them. The clerks drew back as a body. Little wonder they’d focused their collective affections on her next sister. Owen happened to like Temperance’s fire — as long as he wasn’t its focus.
Her expression and her tone softened when she turned to Owen. “The matter you said you’d help with?”
“Of course.” He checked on the clerks, two of whom were already casting him meaningful simpers.
“We had better discuss it in your father’s study,” Owen said, gesturing for her to lead the way. The clerks all cast him a significant eyeball, which he hoped to silence with a hard stare, though he knew he had nothing on Temperance’s fiery glare. “Get those New Jersey cases copied. And careful with the books’ spines, if you please.”
The clerks grumbled but set about their work copying out the most recent decisions from across the Delaware, and Owen followed Temperance into the study to find out what her business was.
Business. This was certainly business. He had to treat this like business.
Temperance settled into one of the brown leather chairs, her arms resting on the turned arms as if she had always sat there. When she was younger, she had — that was the very chair they’d sat in together when she’d taught him to read, if memory served. For the last three years, however, she hadn’t visited often, if ever. Owen took the other chair, her father’s spot, pulling it out from behind the desk. “Now, what can I help you with?”
Temperance reached into her pocket and produced a packet of folded papers. Owen spied a wax seal, but beyond that, he couldn’t tell what the letters were.
“Is this a legal matter?” he asked.
“Yes, of the utmost importance.”
Owen sat forward in his chair. What sort of legal trouble did a single, twenty-four-year-old woman find herself in?
Temperance took a deep breath and unfolded the top letter. “One year ago, Winthrop Morley proposed marriage to me.”
Owen startled, though he couldn’t say whether he was more surprised by the proposal or the fact that it had come from a man who was now dead. “I see,” he said. “And did you accept him?”
“I was about to.” She stared at the letter in her hands, then raised her gaze to Owen’s. After a moment she focused on the paper again. “In his letter, he asked me to confer with him in the garden the night of his father’s ball about a most pressing matter of great significance.”
Owen craned his neck to try to catch a glimpse of the wording. That didn’t sound like a proposal. In fact, it sounded worrisome, especially given the whispers he’d heard of Winth
rop’s reputation. “Are those his exact words?”
She offered a small, embarrassed expression. “He does go into a bit more detail, but you’ll understand if a lady doesn’t wish to disclose the intimate details of her correspondence.”
“Yes, but it might be helpful to know the general nature of those details.”
“Oh.” She glanced at the letter but couldn’t seem to look away. “Just how desperately he needs me, how much he wants to see me in the moonlight, that sort of talk.” She finally met Owen’s eyes. “I’m sure you understand.”
Owen gave an uncertain little laugh. He might understand the sentiment of loving Miss Temperance Hayes, but he was not reassured that was what Winthrop Morley meant, or at least not in the same way Owen meant it. What was the nature of this case? “And did you meet him in the garden?”
“No. That was the night he died.”
“I see,” Owen said at last. “And how am I to help you?”
“I’m sure you remember Lord David’s case last year.”
“Mostly. He was accused of murdering Winthrop Morley, correct?”
“He claims it was a mutual skirmish that evening. But as you told me a few days ago, that record is to be expunged.” She added a sweet smile after that word, as if to give silent thanks for helping her understand the term.
“Yes, I believe it already has been.”
“And to your knowledge, has anyone else ever been brought up on charges for Winthrop’s murder?”
Owen shook his head.
“Then there has been no justice for Winthrop. No punishment for his killer.”
Owen frowned. As much as he might have disliked what he knew of Winthrop, he did believe in justice. If a murderer were truly walking free, as an officer of the court, he couldn’t stand idly by. “Are you saying you believe Lord David should . . . be brought to justice?”
“Yes. But I understand that will be almost entirely impossible as the case stands now.”
Owen acknowledged the fact. “If Lord David murdered him, why has he not already been brought to justice?”
“The magistrate wished to ingratiate himself with nobility.”
Ah. That was an argument he understood too well. It always seemed the rich were looking out for one another, and the nobility and the better sort faced few, if any, consequences for their malfeasance. Bringing a baby to a diplomatic reception was probably the mildest abuse of power Owen had seen, although he had to admit it was the only one he’d observed from Lord David.
However, that left the larger question looming over them: if this was simply a case of corruption, riches, and power, why was Josiah Hayes involved? Hayes had known Owen since he was a child, and in twenty years, he’d never seen the man do anything less than honest and upstanding. How could the man with the most integrity in the city defend a guilty murderer? How could he push to have the record expunged?
Finally, the question weighed too heavily on Owen. “And why have you not asked your father for help?”
“My father treats my cousin like a daughter. He doesn’t wish to think ill of the closest thing he has to a son-in-law.” Her gaze fell to the letters in her hands again. “And I don’t think Papa cared much for Winthrop.”
Winthrop aside, that didn’t quite square with what Owen knew of Hayes, but perhaps when it came to his beloved family, the man’s judgment might be clouded just once? Still, Hayes was his employer. “I don’t think your father would like me to bring a suit against a client he has successfully defended.”
“Oh, no, I know. I know that would risk your position, and I’ve no wish to compromise you.”
“Thank you.”
“But —” Temperance let the word hang there for a moment, and Owen found himself leaning toward her automatically. “ — if there were to be new evidence brought forward in the case, compelling evidence, I can’t see how an honest man like my father could prevent reopening the case.”
“Ah.” What kind of evidence did she think they would find nearly a year after a man had died? New witnesses to a struggle in the dark?
“I believe now the only way to find this information would be from the killer himself.” Temperance cut right to the heart of it.
And she believed that was Lord David. “You want new information from Lord David,” Owen said for verification.
“He is the only one who can give evidence against himself now, wouldn’t you say?”
She was indeed the daughter of the best lawyer in this hemisphere. “Absolutely.”
“Then you must get him to confess.”
Owen hesitated for a long moment. He wasn’t certain he should agree to this — and even less certain he was capable of such a feat. “And how am I to do that?”
“Oh, you’re very clever, Owen, I’m sure you’ll manage.”
Heat rose to his face, and he hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Thank you for your confidence,” he managed. Was that his imagination, or were his words too high pitched?
He checked her reaction. Temperance lifted her gaze to meet his, and Owen froze. He had seen that pleading in her eyes before, and it had cost him dearly.
And he was going to do whatever she asked.
“Will you help me?” Her voice was soft, almost tentative.
It took everything in his power not to reach out to reassure her, but that was not his place. “Of course.”
She instantly relaxed. “Thank you so much. I know I can depend on you.”
“Always.” Far more than his better judgment wanted to allow.
“I know you’re busy, all your important clients.” Temperance rose. “I shan’t take any more of your time.”
Owen walked her out of the study to the front door.
“Tell my father I was in, won’t you, men?” she called to the clerks.
Two of the clerks waved without looking up from their books. Owen found it hard to believe that they’d been working that whole time. More likely, they’d been listening at the door.
On the doorstep, Temperance turned back to him. “Thank you again. I really have no one else I can go to.”
That did not mean what he wanted it to, he reminded himself once again. “Certainly. I appreciate your trust.”
“Of course, Owen. How could I not trust my oldest friend?”
And there it was: the dart he’d been expecting, and still the poison arrow sank right into his heart. “Good day.” He hoped his voice betrayed none of his hurt.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Owen was assaulted by a barrage of balled up paper. “How was your meeting?” Joyce asked.
Owen drew himself up to his full height, the best advantage he had over the clerks. “Back to work, the lot of you.”
The clerks took absolutely no notice, and Owen grabbed his case notes and retreated into Hayes’s study to ponder what Temperance had told him.
Temperance kept hold of the letters inside her pocket for the whole walk home. Fall in Philadelphia was always beautiful, but this year the dying leaves held an extra weight for her.
The last time the leaves had turned, she had been in love. Spoken for. Winthrop’s.
Now the only comfort she had was in Owen. He was a true friend to help her pursue justice for Winthrop.
When she reached her house, it was eerily still. With her parents, four younger sisters and two servants about, that almost never happened.
This was the perfect opportunity. She stole up to the bedroom, double-checking none of her sisters were around. Once she was sure she was alone, Temperance sank onto her bed and gingerly withdrew the letters.
She hadn’t read them in so long.
The folds in the paper were beginning to fray, the edges smudged from her fingerprints and tears. But just glancing at his words today hadn’t been enough. She needed more.
Temperance unfolded the most well-loved letter, the last, sent the day of his death. Her eyes lit on her favorite phrases, though she hardly needed to r
ead the fading ink. I can’t wait for our dance tonight. It will be exquizit.
Yes, his spelling was irregular, but, then, whose wasn’t?
You must walk with me in the garden tonight. I must behold your beauty in my arms in the moonlite.
I need you more than any man has ever needed a woman. Tell me you’ll be myne tonite.
Temperance refolded the letter. She could read no more.
She’d had nearly a year to let this dream follow Winthrop to his grave. Every day, it grew dimmer, but today, she could let herself remember for a moment. Remember what it would have been like to live in the governor’s household. The balls, the dinners, the finery, yes, but that wasn’t what Temperance truly wanted.
As a Morley, she would always have a place. She would always have a home. She would always have anything she wanted. Her children would have been safe and secure and taken care of. She would have been taken care of. Provided for. She could have extended that mercy to others.
And now that was all gone, dashed with a careless lantern swing, if Lord David were to be believed. No one in this colony — this continent — could care for her that way anymore.
Temperance tucked the letters under the false bottom of her drawer and tucked her dream away in her heart where they would keep safe.
Owen would help her. He would find justice for Winthrop. It was the smallest thing she could do for him now.
Owen let the clerks go home early before supper. He couldn’t focus with their chatter, he’d reasoned, only to find he couldn’t focus without it either. Instead, he paced the length of the bookcases that lined two walls of the office.
Where were Hayes and Lord David? They always returned after dinner. Had the Congress debated longer today? Lord David had mentioned some momentous vote. It could have grown acrimonious.
Owen might envy Lord David his fortune and Hayes his prestige, but not if it came with this sort of responsibility. The lives of millions would hang on the decisions those men made behind closed doors. What if they wanted a war?
