by Julie Daines
Of course he meant nothing by it. Her association with him was purely business. The business of seeing that Bartholomew Hayter pay for his sins. Still, had it actually been ten o’clock at night, who knows what she might have done. Fallen into his arms, most likely. She already felt herself leaning toward him.
Mr. Northam cleared his throat. When Marianne turned back, he had moved a few paces away. He was watching the children as the governess dried the tears of the fallen child. They turned and headed off down another path, and she and Mr. Northam were alone again.
“It’s getting late,” he said in a voice entirely different from the one he’d been using only moments ago. His barrister voice. His business voice. “I’d best get you back before Mrs. Strumpshaw begins to worry.”
“Yes.” Of course he had meant nothing by it. What a fool she’d been to even suppose for a moment he thought any more of her than what he’d proclaimed all along. She was here for the trial. To help Mr. Northam put another feather in his cap. Another victory. Another man swinging from the gallows.
The ride back to her rooms on Green Street was a quiet one. Mr. Northam helped her out of the carriage and bowed formally.
“Good day, Miss Wood.”
“Will you not come and take supper with us?”
“You are very kind, but I’m afraid I’m engaged elsewhere this evening.” He climbed back into the carriage without another word. A moment later, it rattled away.
Mrs. Strumpshaw waited for her just inside the door. She helped Marianne strip off her pelisse and bonnet.
“Did you have a nice outing with Mr. Northam?”
“Yes, I did. Bath is very lovely.”
“Supper’ll be ready in about half an hour, dear.” Mrs. Strumpshaw hung Marianne’s bonnet on a small rack near the back of the entry hall. “Will you be needin’ anythin’ before then?”
“No, thank you.”
Mrs. Strumpshaw ducked away to the back stairway leading to the kitchen.
Marianne stood in the entry hall. Now what? She had another long and lonely evening of solitude to look forward to. Dine with Mrs. Strumpshaw. Sit in the drawing room alone. She may as well be back at the Lashams’.
She climbed the stairs to her room, taking each step slowly. Each blink conjuring up images of flickering yellow eyes. It was easier to keep them at bay when Mr. Northam was around.
She would appear tomorrow before the magistrate, then her work here would be done. Back to Shropshire and life as a governess.
She’d be back in a few weeks for the assizes—assuming the magistrate ruled in Mr. Northam’s favor—and when Bartholomew Hayter died, then what? Her life would be no different, save for the looking over her shoulder. She might gain peace of mind knowing he was gone, that her family was justified, but she would still have to make her own way.
She opened The Romance of the Forest and placed the flower Mr. Northam had given her inside, closing the pages carefully so that it would press just right. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared out the small window overlooking the tiny garden and mews at the back of the house. Then she lay back onto her pillow, tucking her legs up, and closed her eyes.
For the first time in two years, the yellow eyes were not the first to appear. Rather, she saw Mr. Northam’s deep blue.
Twenty minutes later, she sat at the cozy table while Mrs. Strumpshaw brought out several serving dishes and a platter of sliced ham. She’d not seen the stewed eels again, thank heaven.
“Won’t you please join me again? I could use the company.”
Mrs. Strumpshaw always waited to be invited, but by now she seemed to expect it and did not hesitate. She grinned and scuttled off, returning a moment later with another place setting. She plopped herself down.
“I hope Mr. Northam doesn’t find out about this. I’m not certain he’d approve.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t care one way or the other how we take our meals.” Marianne took a sip from her goblet. “How long have you worked for Mr. Northam?”
“Not long, dear.” She paused to spread some preserves onto her bread. “Mr. Strumpshaw died last fall of the fever. My Jamie works when he can get it, but these are hard times. All the folks from the country comin’ to the towns lookin’ for work, but there’s not enough to go round.”
So Mr. Northam took pity on her. “How did he meet you?” He didn’t seem the type to be milling about with the widows of tradesmen.
Mrs. Strumpshaw settled into her meal and seemed to be dining at ease. Perhaps the knowledge that she only broke bread with a governess helped.
“It was an odd thing, to be sure,” Mrs. Strumpshaw continued, leaning closer and lowering her voice. “Mr. Northam caught my Jamie tryin’ to pinch his purse. ’Stead of lockin’ him up, he got him a job runnin’ errands and doin’ odds and ends and the like. But with the parish school in session, he says if my Jamie wants a job, he has to go to school too.”
Marianne stared at her, then down at her half-eaten plate. Mr. Northam had not come across as a crusader. He’d openly admitted that he got what he wanted by playing people right. Marianne would like to know what Mr. Northam got out of schooling a street boy. There must be more in it for him than a pot of stewed eels now and then.
Mrs. Strumpshaw painted a different picture of Mr. Northam than the gentleman and lady she’d met in the Pump Room had. Marianne quite liked this new idea forming in her mind of Mr. Northam, charging out with his sword drawn, defending those who could not defend themselves. It was a much better use of his skills than helping the wealthy get what they wanted.
“Does Mr. Northam frequently offer aid like that?”
Mrs. Strumpshaw’s shoulders rose and fell. “I can’t say. I did hear somethin’ about a woman whose husband got run over by a fancy carriage.”
“Mrs. Cricklade?”
“Yes, I believe so.” Mrs. Strumpshaw cut herself a slice of ham. “My friend, Mrs. Lovell, used to work for them. A real tyrant, that man was. Out drinkin’ all night, then comin’ home layin’ fists on his poor wife. She must have felt heaven blessed when the coach run him down—until she found out he left her with nothin’.”
So Mr. Northam secured her some funds from the driver. Marianne could hardly imagine the man she’d just spent the last few days with as a benefactor.
Or could she?
However shrewd he appeared to be, he had also come over in the middle of the night to wake her from her nightmares, then he’d stayed to make sure she was well. He’d taken an entire day to show her around Bath.
He’d been more than kind to her. How ungenerous of her to assume he was not capable of kindness to others—even the Mrs. Strumpshaws of the world. Underneath all his many masks, it seemed there lurked a noble heart.
Tomorrow, she must appear before the magistrate. More than likely it would be a busy day for Mr. Northam, but if she had time, she vowed she was going to try again to find out about his life.
“And how does your Jamie like school?” she asked, bringing her mind back to the dinner table.
“Oh, he loves it. He’s quite the clever one, readin’ and cipherin’ and comin’ home with all kinds of facts. Did you know,” she said, pointing her fork at Marianne, “that Henry III kept a pet polar bear?”
“I did not.”
“He did. As a gift from a king of one of them northern countries. Henry let it swim and hunt in the Thames.”
“That is fascinating.” Whoever was teaching the parish school might want to focus more on preparing the young boys to make their way in a world of labor and craftsmen rather than miscellaneous trivialities. Still, any education was better than none. “I’m glad he is able to increase his learning.”
“Yes, dear. I only hope he doesn’t turn into another King Bladud, poor man.”
“He was cured of leprosy and became king.” Hardly a cause for sympathy.
“Oh, that was all fine and good, but after he were made king, he took up studyin’ too much. Built himself a pair of wings and
tried to fly. Fell right down on Salisbury Church. Broke his neck.” She made a snapping sound while wringing her hands. “Killed him just like that.”
Happily ever after. Those were Mr. Northam’s words. Deceitful man. He did not tell her the final ending.
Marianne pushed away from the table, exhausted and ready for bed. With the inquest tomorrow, she wanted as much sleep as she could get—which would probably be very little.
“I’ll bring your tea up directly,” said Mrs. Strumpshaw.
Chapter Six
The Inquest
Mr. Northam knocked on her door at precisely nine in the morning. Marianne had worn her best dress, a dark blue linen that Mrs. Strumpshaw had pressed to perfect creaselessness.
“You are very governess this morning,” he said.
“Where is your wig?”
He laughed. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait till the Taunton assizes to see that.” He opened the carriage door and climbed in beside her, then gave a quick thump on the roof. “I have Mrs. Strumpshaw looking for something a little softer for Friday evening.”
“What’s Friday evening?”
“I’m bringing you to the ball at the assembly rooms. There’s no reason you need to hurry back without at least enjoying one of our famous dances.”
The crush of people. The hordes of faces. How would she know if he was there, stalking her? But he was locked up. He couldn’t be there. Still, it did not seem safe. Nothing was certain until he was well and truly dead.
“Miss Wood?”
She looked up at him. “I cannot go. Thank you for the invitation.”
He watched her as the carriage rocked along the busy street. “Because of Mr. Hayter?”
She glanced down at the strings of her reticule twisting in and out of her hands.
“We don’t need to worry about the ball today. Let us focus on the task at hand.”
A task that did not seem much better. “Will he be there? At the inquest?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s normal for the man accused to be there. He will be given a chance to defend himself.”
“What am I to say?” She’d never been before a magistrate—at least not for a formal inquest. She never even went to the occasional hangings. It seemed gruesome to her, to want to watch a person die like that.
“The magistrate will ask you questions, and you must answer them. Be straightforward about it. The truth is on your side, and you have nothing to hide.” He sounded confident.
Bartholomew Hayter had done horrible things. “What if I say the wrong thing and he is released? I will never be safe.” She looked up at Mr. Northam. “He will hunt me down and kill me. I know it.”
“Miss Wood.” He reached out as if to take her hand but then did not. His hand instead came down on his knee. “I don’t see how that could possibly happen. Mr. Cranmore is an intelligent and fair man. The jury will see that you are telling the truth.”
They arrived at the guild hall after only a few short blocks. It would have been almost as fast to walk, but Marianne was glad for the privacy the carriage offered.
They entered a grand building with a statue of Justice above the door. Mr. Northam led Marianne to a large room painted dull gray. At the front, a raised platform held a sturdy oak table behind which sat two men, one with long hair pulled back and tied behind his head. The magistrate, Mr. Cranmore. His hair perfectly matched the color of the walls, and upon first glance, Marianne had thought there was something missing from the top of his head. The other man had a stack of parchments in front of him and was working on a quill with a penknife.
The room opposite the platform was packed with onlookers seated in an assortment of benches and chairs. A fair number more stood around the edges, packed in to see the spectacle. They were talking and laughing and creating quite a din. A great hush came upon the crowd as Marianne entered, followed by a sea of whispers. Bartholomew Hayter was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he wouldn’t be coming after all.
Lined against the side wall sat the jury. Men of business and trade, some old, some young. One with a powdered wig. One with a patch covering one eye. Though she was not the person on trial, these men still held her fate in their hands.
“Sit here,” Mr. Northam said, motioning to the two nearest chairs.
The gray-haired man at the table rose. “Mr. Northam, this is your witness, I presume?”
“It is, sir.”
“Then let us begin.” He poured himself a flagon of ale and took a drink before sitting down.
A door at the far end of the room opened, and Hayter came through. The men sitting behind Marianne jeered and hissed. A few called him unsavory names. She liked them better for it.
Bartholomew Hayter shuffled slowly with both his hands and feet in iron shackles. A man with a rifle perched on his shoulders accompanied him. At least they were taking care to keep him contained.
He had cleaned up. His face was shaven, and he wore a suit of fine wool and a clean shirt and cravat. If it were not for his yellow eyes and wolfish grin, he might have passed as a regular gentleman.
Mr. Northam leaned close. “You are safe. He cannot hurt you again, I assure you.”
She hadn’t realized she’d been squeezing the life out of Mr. Northam’s arm. “Sorry.”
“There is no need to be sorry.” He leaned even closer, but still careful to remain at a proper distance. “You do not have to apologize to me for feeling scared. Not ever.”
Marianne could not decide if he meant only to be kind or if perhaps he, too, had suffered at the hands of an evil man.
She didn’t have a chance to ask him.
“Blast,” said Mr. Northam.
“What?” She followed his gaze to a man slipping in late and sliding into a seat just down the row from her. The man from the jail—Mr. Shadwell. He smirked at Mr. Northam.
Mr. Northam swung back around. “Ignore him,” he said.
Marianne immediately assumed the worst. “Will he ask me questions? Is he here to try to disclaim what happened?” Hayter must not be set free.
Mr. Northam’s jaw tightened. “The only thing I know for certain is that he is here to make trouble for me. I don’t want you speaking to him, do you understand?”
Mr. Cranmore stood and waited for silence. Then he spoke out in a loud voice. “We are here to uncover the facts of the events that occurred on the night of March the fourteenth.”
The clerk perched a pair of spectacles on the tip of his nose and leaned close over a ledger, dipping his pen rapidly in the ink as he took notes.
“Jury.” Mr. Cranmore turned to face the two rows of men. “It is your duty to decide whether the commission of said events involved the presentment, Mr. Bartholomew Hayter, and if this case should go to trial.”
Someone from the back of the room called, “Hang him,” and a roar of approval filled the chamber.
“Let us hear from the first witness,” said Mr. Cranmore once the commotion had died down. “Dr. Palmer, please come forward.”
Marianne hadn’t noticed him mixed in with the crowd. He leaned heavily on his crutch while he made his way to the wooden chair set out for the witnesses.
“Go on,” said Mr. Cranmore.
Dr. Palmer laid his crutch down on the floor beside him. “It was on a Tuesday evening. The moon was only quarter full, so the roads were quite dark that night. I was coming home late from attending a young wife who’d just delivered her first child. A healthy boy,” he said to the jury as if that might lend to his credibility. “I came to a felled tree blocking the road. I had barely drawn my horse to stop when the whole curricle was engulfed in flames.”
The room had gone silent again as it listened to Dr. Palmer relate his story. He told with gravity how he leaped from the carriage, breaking his leg in the fall, only to find Hayter there with a knife at his throat, demanding all of his money and possessions.
Marianne did not want to hear this. She didn’t need any more details to haunt her dreams every night. She wou
ld have covered her ears, but as she glanced up, she found Hayter glaring at her with his yellow eyes. She maintained as stoic a face as possible, though she did break the string of her reticule with her twisting.
Dr. Palmer went on. “He would have killed me, of that I’m certain, had it not been for the sudden appearance of a dog followed immediately by shots fired. A poacher, out on the hunt.”
Same story as hers. Saved by an interruption.
“Who was the poacher?” asked one of the jury, the man with the eye patch. “Why ain’t he here to speak for you?”
“He fled. He was breaking the law. He did not wish to be known, I imagine.”
Lucky for the good doctor that Hayter had not decided to return and finish the job. Perhaps the poacher hung around just long enough.
“How much did he make off with, then?” asked a young juror.
Here, Dr. Palmer glanced down. “Nothing. The poacher surprised him enough that he ran off without anything.”
“Some highwayman,” one of the spectators called out. “My dog could do it better.”
The whole crowd burst into laughter.
“Quiet, quiet,” Mr. Cranmore called. He turned toward Bartholomew Hayter. “What have you got to say in your defense?”
He stood up, his chains jangling. “It weren’t me. He can’t prove nothin’. The doctor said himself it were dark. I weren’t even there that night. I was down at Bridgewater in March, diggin’ lines for their new sewers.”
This only started a new round of vulgarities flung at him. It took the magistrate a full minute to put an end to it.
“I didn’t realize the crowd would be so hard on him,” she whispered to Mr. Northam.
“Don’t tell me you feel sorry for him.”
“No. Of course not.” How could she, when every time she closed her eyes he was there, sneering at her while cutting away her frock, all whilst her father’s sightless eyes looked on?
Mr. Cranmore asked him if Hayter had any proof of his whereabouts on the night in question. He did not.
