8
Mrs. Maria Reynolds Walks into His Life
Ruston’s Ale House and Inn
New York, New York
July 1785
Alex stared out the window of the carriage, barely seeing the buildings and pedestrians that passed by. His briefcase sat on his lap as he kneaded the leather so violently it was starting to crack beneath his fingers. His sweating palms had stained the leather with dark, ugly, accusatory smears.
Why did I lie to her? he berated himself. What possessed me?
It was such a bad lie, too. The Gunn case was still set for Monday. Should Eliza read the legal notices in the paper next week—which she unfailingly did, clipping out any mention of her husband’s name—and take the time to do the math, she would realize that the case had not, in fact, been moved up to the date of their party.
He turned and looked at the pale female face sitting on the carriage seat beside him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Why didn’t he just tell his wife he was helping a woman in distress? What would have been so wrong about that? Eliza would have been glad to hear he was helping someone in need of it, to be sure.
So why did he lie to his wife?
EARLIER THAT AFTERNOON, Maria Reynolds had walked into Alex’s office hesitantly. Alex was used to nervous clients, and by now he was good at categorizing them into types. There were those who were nervous because they didn’t have the money to pay him up front, and they were hoping they could work out a deal. Others hesitated because the idea of interacting with the legal system unnerved them, as if it would suddenly emerge that they had committed some grievous crime that they were heretofore unaware of. Still others had, in fact, done something wrong, and were wondering if Alex would help them anyway, and if they could get away with it.
But Maria Reynolds was different. She wasn’t nervous. She was afraid, but whether it was of him or someone else Alex didn’t know.
“I apologize for the mess,” he said when the silence had gone on too long. “I just took on a new client, and they saw fit to deliver every piece of paper that has ever crossed their threshold.”
A smile flickered over Maria’s lips at Alex’s joke, then quickly faded. Well, he had to admit, it wasn’t a particularly great joke.
“Please, have a seat.”
Maria sat in the one chair that wasn’t piled high with paper. She was silent for a moment, and then she pulled the chair closer to Alex’s desk—as close as it could come and still allow her to sit in it—and then she sat back again, and yet she still remained silent.
Alex offered his warmest smile. “How may I help you today, Mrs. Reynolds?”
A strange mixture of emotions flickered over Maria’s face. Fear, sadness, resolve, guilt. Her lips quivered. Her mouth opened, then closed again. And then, without a sound, she began to cry.
“My dear Mrs. Reynolds!” Alex said. He burst from his chair and hurried around the desk, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket. He fell to his knee in front of her and pressed the handkerchief into her hand. “Whatever is the matter?”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hamilton,” Maria blubbered as she dabbed at her eyes with Alex’s handkerchief. “I had not thought I would react so. I thought I had inured myself to it all. I—I’m so embarrassed.”
“There is nothing to be embarrassed about. In my line of work, I see clients cry all the time.”
“Yes, but I do not cry,” Maria said reproachfully, though Alex couldn’t tell if she was reproaching him or herself. “In my position, I cannot afford to cry, or I would never have survived what I did.”
Alex nodded sympathetically.
“Well, you are here now, and I give you my word as a gentleman as well as a lawyer that I will do everything in my power to make sure whatever is grieving you can never hurt you again.”
Maria nodded without speaking. After a moment, she turned and looked at the open door. Alex jumped up and waded through the boxes to pull it closed. When he returned, he pulled the stack of papers off the second chair and sat facing her.
“Please, Mrs. Reynolds. Unburden yourself.”
Maria sat without speaking for another long moment, though the occasional silent sob still wracked her body. Then she raised Alex’s handkerchief to her cheek. Alex thought she was going to dry her tears but instead she began wiping at the powder on her left cheek. At first Alex didn’t understand. But then the dark shadow of a bruise came into view.
Alex’s widening eyes served as Maria’s mirror, and she stopped wiping.
“You see now the nature of my problem,” she said in a voice that was at once defiant and ashamed, defeated and determined.
Once again Alex was on his knees before her, and this time he pressed her tiny hands between his. “Oh, you poor, poor creature!”
He had seen a woman in distress like this before.
His mother.
IN THE CARRIAGE, beneath his gaze, Maria gathered herself to speak. “I really did not mean to put you to such trouble,” she said in a contrite voice. “Only I do not know how I could possibly return to my—to my husband’s home.”
“Put it out of your mind,” Alex said soothingly. “I am only happy that I have the means with which to help you.”
“I am in your debt.”
“You owe me nothing.”
“Except your fee, of course,” Maria said with a small smile.
“There will be time enough to talk of legal matters later. Our first priority is to make sure that you are safe and out of reach of that brute.”
The carriage pulled up short, and Alex looked out the window. A cheerful sign proclaimed RUSTON’S ALES in crisp black letters on a bright yellow background. Below that, a smaller sign advertised ROOMS TO LET. They had arrived.
Maria looked at the inn dubiously. “You are sure this is a discreet establishment?”
“I know the proprietress,” Alex said as he handed the driver a couple of coins. “She can be trusted absolutely.”
“Proprietress?” Maria sounded defeated. Then, pulling her bonnet more firmly around her face, she allowed Alex to help her from the carriage.
Alex led her in by the side entrance, which opened on a narrow hallway instead of directly into the ale room. He directed Maria to wait for him and stepped into the main dining room, in which perhaps a dozen people were eating at tables or drinking at the bar. He should have told Eliza the truth of why he was late in coming home, and yet something had stopped him. Mostly, he did not feel like explaining the whole sordid tale, and Maria was in immediate danger, of course, but was there something else?
“Mr. Hamilton!” one of the barmaids said. “We have not seen you here in quite some time! May I fetch you a pint, or perhaps some of cook’s Yorkshire pudding? I know how much you love it.”
“Good evening, Sally. I may well be ordering some food in a bit, but for now I wonder if I could ask you to escort me to Mrs. Childress’s office.”
“But of course, sir. Right this way.” Sally turned toward the front stairs.
“If you don’t mind,” Alex said. “Perhaps we could take the back way.”
“Oh ho, top secret stuff!” Sally chuckled. “Of course, of course.” She walked into the back hall, pulling up short when she saw Maria. She seemed about to say something, then looked back at Alex. Her eyes went wide.
“This is Mrs.—”
“Smith,” Maria said quickly. “Mary Smith.” She kept her face down and mostly shadowed by her wide-brimmed bonnet. Alex could imagine how it might look like she was trying to conceal her identity—which, in a way, she was—but he knew she was more likely concerned about concealing the tell-tale bruise on her cheek.
“Mrs. Smith will be staying here for a while. I trust that I can rely on you to see to it that she’s comfortable.”
Sally looked confused, if not suspicious, but just nodded. “Of course, sir. Let me take you to Mrs. Childress.”
She led them up two flights of stairs and knocked on a door on the third-floor landing before easing it open.
“Mrs. Childress?” she called into the apartment beyond. “It’s Mr. Hamilton here to see you.”
“Oh, how nice!” a voice called from within. “Do please bring him in.”
“This way, sir, ma’am,” Sally said, and led them into the apartment.
Caroline sat at her desk in an office that was larger and more comfortable than Alex’s, being furnished with a marble-topped desk at one end and a deep couch flanked by a pair of equally cozy chairs on the other. Since the last time he had seen her, she had traded in her widow’s black for a sober but not quite so dreary midnight-blue dress. It was also a good bit smarter than her previous dresses, her finances having rebounded significantly since Alex won her case against the state of New York. Her face was clearer, too, free of the worry that had clouded her for so many years through the war, and made all the more radiant by the genuine smile of joy with which she greeted Alex.
“Mr. Hamilton, what a treat! I was just thinking to drop you a line to see—”
Caroline’s voice broke off as she saw Maria.
“This is Mrs. Mary Smith,” Alex said. “She is a client of mine. I was hoping that I might be able to rent one of your rooms for her use for the next few weeks.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Caroline said cautiously, clearly sensing that more was going on than just a simple room rental. “Just let me check my books. Sally, bring a pint for Mr. Hamilton and Mrs. Smith, and plates as well.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sally said, and hurried back down the hall. A moment later, the door could be heard latching behind her.
Caroline, meanwhile, had flipped open a large, leather-bound ledger and begun to scan its lined surface. She looked up a moment later.
“Room three is available. It has a lovely southern exposure and a small sitting area in addition to the bedstead. If you’re going to be staying with us for a while, Mrs. Smith, you’ll find it quite comfortable.”
Alex turned to Maria, whose eyes never left the floor. When she didn’t speak, he answered for her. “Thank you, Mrs. Childress. It sounds perfect.”
Caroline stared at Maria a moment longer, then shrugged. “All right, then. I’ll have Sally bring your bags up.”
Maria’s head snapped up, a distressed look on her face. “Oh, I haven’t any bags. I haven’t—” Her voice broke. “I haven’t anything at all.”
Caroline looked at Maria for a moment, then turned to Alex. He shrugged but didn’t say anything.
“Well then, in that case I’ll just see you to your room and have Sally bring your food there.”
She led them back outside and down one flight of stairs, to a large room that did indeed sport a lovely, sunny pair of windows facing Water Street and the harbor beyond. Though the water wasn’t visible because of the buildings across the street, it was still palpable in the quality of the air and the light, which shimmered and gave the room a liquid quality of its own, as if it were inside a fishbowl. The room was furnished with a wide wooden bedstead covered in a handsome multicolored quilt, a plain but sturdy dresser, a large stuffed chair, and a handsome if somewhat spindly wooden rocker. An oval rag rug, as brightly patterned as the quilt, covered the floorboards.
A small sound escaped Maria’s mouth, a sigh of release, surrender even, as if she had been holding something in since she walked into Alex’s office two hours before. Although the likelier truth, Alex thought, was that she had been holding her breath for far longer.
“This will do very well,” he said to Caroline. “Allow me to help Mrs. Smith to settle in, and then I will be return to you to arrange for payment.”
“Oh, there’s no need for that, Mr. Hamilton,” Caroline said. “I owe you far more than this room is worth.”
“And you already paid me in full.” When Caroline looked ready to protest again, he spoke firmly. “I insist on paying you the going rate for Mrs. Smith’s room; it is a matter of principle.”
Once again Caroline scrutinized Maria, as if looking for something unsavory about her. Once again she shrugged.
“As you wish, Mr. Hamilton. Sally will be back with your food shortly. I will be in my office upstairs.” And, handing him the key to the room, she turned and made her way back upstairs.
Alex closed the door behind her, then turned to Maria and presented the key to her. Maria took it as though it were a strange object she had heard about but never beheld, a magic wand, a religious relic.
“Consider this the first step toward your liberation,” he said in a gentle voice.
Maria looked up from the key and regarded the room as if it, too, were some kind of magician’s trick.
“I cannot quite believe it is possible. Am I really here? I feel as though at any minute I will hear his voice, summoning me, calling me to—” Her voice broke off as she pressed a hand to her mouth.
“There, there,” Alex said, taking her to the chair and easing her down. The only other chair being the rocker, which seemed somehow too feminine a seat from which to conduct business, he knelt down before her as he had in his office. “I know it is extraordinarily painful for you to think of it, let alone speak of it. Yet you must. In order for me to help you, I need to know the . . . the nature of your situation. And I am afraid that when it comes to trial, opposing counsel will ask you these same questions, but in a far less gentle manner.”
“Trial?” Fear filled Maria’s voice and eyes. “What do you mean, trial?”
Alex patted her knee. “The only way you will ever be free of your oppressor is if you and Mr. Reynolds divorce.”
“Divorce! But I—I couldn’t. Mr. Reynolds would never—”
“Mr. Reynolds’s wishes do not matter here. The court can sever the bonds of matrimony even if he doesn’t want to.”
“But I would be a divorced woman! My name would be ruined!”
“You would be a free woman. And names can be saved—or changed,” Alex added with a little smile. “Mrs. Smith.”
Maria sat silently for a long moment. At last she stirred herself. She looked at Alex, bewildered, as if she had forgotten he was there, or forgotten she was.
“It just doesn’t seem possible. I have been betrothed to Mr. Reynolds since I was sixteen. This misery—this affliction—has been a part of my life for so long. It is hard to imagine that one could just walk away. I feel as though I am the one who is breaking the law.”
“Neither the court nor the church wants you to persist in a union in which your protector is in fact your tormentor. We can take steps to do this as quietly as possible, but if Mr. Reynolds chooses to fight us, he will find that it is his reputation that will be destroyed, not yours. Society has no sympathy for brutes like him.”
Another long silence from Maria. “It has been so long,” she said, shaking her head. “Seven years. A third of my life.”
“And many, many good years still ahead.”
She turned and looked him the eye for the first time since they had entered the room. “You promise?”
Alex held her gaze, setting his face in a mask of determination. “I promise.”
He couldn’t save his mother, but he could save her, and he would.