Scotch Verdict*: The Real-Life Story That Inspired The Children’s Hour

In the Scottish legal system of 1810, a libel case went first to a hearing judge, called the Lord Ordinary, who sat in the Outer House of the Court of Session. The Court of Session judges each filled the position of Lord Ordinary on a brief and rotating basis. After some weeks he who had served as Lord Ordinary would return to the Inner House of the Court of Session, and one of his brethren would become Lord Ordinary for the next weeks.

The Court of Session was the highest civil court of Scotland. The only appeal from it was to the House of Lords in England, and the expense of such an appeal was usually prohibitive. Within the Inner House of the Court of Session there were two divisions, each consisting of seven judges (called Lords of Session) who sat together to deliberate on cases that had been sent to them by the Lord Ordinary of the Outer House. If the Lord Ordinary believed that the plaintiff had no legitimate case, or that the outcome was clear-cut, he was empowered to render a decision himself and the matter might go no further. It was upon his recommendation that cases were referred to one of the divisions of the Inner House. Jury trials were not instituted in Scotland until 1814, four years after the Woods and Pirie case was brought to the Court.

John Clerk drew up the suit for Miss Woods and Miss Pirie, which was then presented before Lord Meadowbank, who was serving during the second week of December 1810 as Lord Ordinary. The mistresses complained through their attorney that their school was broken up immediately after Jane Cumming was withdrawn, the other young ladies rapidly following. They laid the blame for their ruin on Lady Cumming Gordon by offering in evidence the card she had sent to Lady Cunynghame on November 15, 1810, urging her to remove her daughter immediately. They also complained that Lady Cumming Gordon had never informed them of the reasons that she destroyed, through her actions, both their school and their reputations, and only by dark and distant hints had they gotten a vague inkling about what she accused them of, but they were entirely without knowledge of any wrongdoing.

If their claim was truthful, they must have been overwhelmed with horror when John Clerk gave them, two weeks later, a copy of the statement submitted by George Cranstoun (the second most successful lawyer in Edinburgh), who had been hired to defend Lady Cumming Gordon:

4th, One night during the said period, Miss Cumming was awakened by Miss Pirie speaking to Miss Woods. Miss Pirie said, “Oh, do it, darling!” Miss Woods answered, “Not tonight, it would awaken Miss Cumming,” or they respectively used words to that effect. In a little Miss Woods came into bed; upon which Miss Pirie put down her hand and lifted up her shift. Miss Woods then lay above Miss Pirie, and when in that situation said, “I would like to have someone above me,” or words to that effect. Miss Woods then put down her hand, and they made a noise described to the defendant as a wet kind of noise, attended with motions of the body, quick and high breathing, and a shaking of the bed.

Miss Cumming being disgusted said twice, “Oh, Miss Pirie,” before the latter answered. At last Miss Pirie said, “What?” Miss Cumming said, “What shakes the bed?” Miss Pirie replied, “Nothing,” or words to that purpose passed. After that Miss Pirie covered herself with the bedclothes. Then Miss Woods went out of bed. When she had reached her own door, Miss Pirie coughed so that the opening of the door might not be heard by Miss Cumming. In a little Miss Woods was heard to cough. Then Miss Pirie said, “Oh, that is Miss Woods coughing. I must go to see her, poor soul,” or words to that effect. And she went accordingly.

8th, Another night during the foresaid period, Miss Woods said to Miss Pirie, when in the same situation as described in article 7, “Am I hurting you?” Miss Pirie said, “No,” upon which Miss Woods continued the motions. When about to go away she said, “Goodnight, darling; goodnight. I think I have put you in a fair way to sleep.” To this Miss Pirie replied, “No.” Then Miss Woods again continued.

9th, On other occasions during the foresaid period, Miss Woods was in Miss Pirie’s bed during the night, and they lay the one above the other, and kissed and embraced. One night in particular when this happened, Miss Woods said to Miss Pirie, “Now darling, will you promise me one thing?” Miss Pirie answered, “I do not know. What is it?” Miss Woods said, “Now darling, will you promise me that you will not take me in your arms nor come again into my bed until the holidays?” To this Miss Pirie replied, “I know I will not be able to keep it,” and she did not promise. But Miss Woods said, “I will not take you in my arms, or come to your bed, but you may kiss me, and I will kiss you,” or conversation to this effect passed between them while Miss Woods was in Miss Pirie’s bed.

10th, During the summer holidays, immediately preceding the period above mentioned, that is, the holidays in June and July 1810, Miss Pirie and Miss Woods slept together, and Miss Cumming slept in a bed at the foot of their bed. During that period Miss Cumming was frequently disturbed in the night by the shaking of their bed and the noise they made, which was similar to what she afterwards observed when they were in bed beside her, as mentioned above.

14th, One morning after Miss Munro was disturbed in the manner related above she rose earlier than usual and was the first in the school-room. A servant maid was doing up the room at the time: Miss Munro having said that she slept ill and had a dreadful night, the maid understood how she had been disturbed. The maid said laughing, “It is a pity they cannot get a man, but that they will never get,” or words to that effect. Some of the elder girls coming into the room joined in the conversation, and the maidservant related some of the improprieties she had seen.

Even Lord Meadowbank, the hearing judge, was overwhelmed. He had no wish to believe that two otherwise respectable women could behave in such a manner. It is apparent also from his notes that even if he did believe it, he would have preferred to suppress the case at once. If word of the accusation against the mistresses got out to the public, he asserted, the results would be disastrous: “Regardless of precautions, a discussion of this nature can produce a general contamination of that innocence of thought which is a distinguished feature of the manners of our country, a natural guardian of female virtue, and the best attraction of female youth.” Girls must be kept innocent of the existence of such things. He would have preferred the luxury of such innocence himself, but he had to grapple with the facts of the case.

He concluded, first of all, that the defendant was culpable of some wrongdoing because her actions, which resulted in the breakup of the school, were taken solely on the basis of information provided by her granddaughter. Lady Cumming Gordon did not trouble to confirm the story with Miss Munro, the other young lady who claimed to have witnessed the indecencies. Nor did she make an attempt to have any communication with the washerwomen around the Water of Leith who, George Cranstoun now said at the hearing, knew of the infamous conduct of the mistresses and hooted at them whenever they passed by.

Then, he deemed it “strangely improbable that, supposing the plaintiffs had conceived an unnatural passion for each other, persons of their sense and accomplishment should have arranged their dormitories so, that each slept with a young lady; and that in order to indulge their passion, they should visit each other in bed, when they supposed the young ladies were asleep.” The story, he decided, must have originated “from the malignity of some corrupt domestic.” He would gladly have ordered Dame Cumming Gordon to admit her error and have advised her to settle out of court by paying the mistresses some reasonable sum.

But there was George Cranstoun, insisting that the defense could prove the truth of the story if Lord Meadowbank would allow him to call witnesses. The prospect must have been both horrifying and fascinating to Lord Meadowbank. He decided he would not take on himself the entire responsibility for placing these young girls, who were to be called, in so mortifying a position. On February 9, 1811, he referred the case to the Second Division of the Inner House of the Court of Session, to which he was returning from his stint as Lord Ordinary. His memorandum accompanying his referral shows that he did not believe—or did not want to believe—that lesbian sexual activity was even possible among British women:

Miss Jane Pirie and Miss Marianne Woods, the owners and operators of a school for girls at Drumsheugh, are suing Dame Helen Cumming Gordon for libel. They charge that by publicly accusing them of improper and criminal conduct, Dame Cumming Gordon has injured their reputations and ruined their school. Miss Woods and Miss Pirie are asking for ten thousand pounds in damages. Dame Cumming Gordon pleads in defence that she had been credibly informed and that she therefore believed that the plaintiffs had been guilty of indecent practices. (See accompanying statement for Dame Cumming Gordon.) On that account she had taken her granddaughters from the school, and she had notified only those parents to whom she had recommended the school that she was dissatisfied with the conduct of the mistresses.

After acknowledging his natural tendency to doubt what is extraordinarily wicked and unnatural, and that his experiences and the philosophy he esteems strengthened this tendency, the Lord Ordinary said that he is disposed to believe that the crime in question, when imputed to women of the ordinary conformation of this country, for the purpose of gratification of the venereal appetite by means of copulation with each other, was equally imaginary with witchcraft, sorcery, or carnal copulation with the devil. Their private parts were not so formed as to penetrate each other, and without penetration the venereal orgasm could not possibly follow. The Ordinary was referred by the defendant’s counsel to Latin and Greek terms denoting the crime. But those terms confirmed his opinion. They import the crime of one woman giving another the clitoris, which in this country is not larger than the nipple of the breast and is, furthermore, immersed between the labia of the pudenda. Therefore, as expressed in language of the Greeks and Romans, it is a crime which, in the general case, is impossible in this country to commit.

If the Ordinary’s opinion is well-founded, then, according to the accusation, the plaintiffs must be endowed with an extraordinary conformation, for they are represented as alternately performing the function of the male in their visits. It is obvious, however, that so extraordinary a circumstance is utterly incredible. One woman of unusual formation does not exist among millions. That two women of such a structure should get together, after maintaining respectable female characters in genteel society, and then join in an undertaking where the greatest propriety is required, in order to practice reciprocally unnatural deeds, appears absurd.

Yet it must be admitted that there is a use that women of the ordinary conformation have made of one another for veneral purpose, viz. for excitements though not for gratification. These scandalous functions are often mentioned among the ancients. But such excitements are always described as merely calculated to excite the venereal appetite and prepare for the admission of the male sex. However, it is not alleged that the scenes described in this case were in any way preparatory to receiving the male sex. On the contrary, Miss Woods was supposed to have asked of Miss Pirie whether she fitted her to get a sound sleep, which implies that a full gratification of the venereal appetite was the understood object.

But beside the physical impossibilities, there appeared to the Ordinary very gross moral improbabilities. It is certainly strange that intelligent women, wishing to keep a disgraceful vice secret, should manage their intercourse by choosing a different bedfellow, and then visiting each other’s bed when the bedfellow was supposed to be asleep, and there engaging in copulation accompanied by much noise and agitation, and carrying on audible conversations concerning what they were doing, and not only risking waking a bedfellow during their violent indulgences, but also risking waking four or five other girls, who could then witness their copulations. And all this when, without suspicion of the smallest impropriety, Miss Woods and Miss Pirie might have slept together every night, completely sheltered from all risk of imputation, by the established habits and known innocence of female intercourse.

Only a few months before this case had come to court, seven men were arrested at a male “bawdy house,” the White Swan Public House, in Vere Street, London. They were accused of sodomy, tried, and all were found guilty. One, who claimed to be new to such debauched deeds, was sentenced only to one year in prison. The other six were sentenced to be pilloried and then imprisoned for three years. The public had no trouble believing they were guilty. According to newspaper accounts, on the day of the pillorying the streets around the Old Bailey were filled with thousands of spectators. The mob was so vast and rowdy that the shops from Ludgate Hill to the Haymarket were all shut up and the business of the Court came to a halt. Hucksters sold apples, turnips, and the remains of dogs and cats to be used as “ammunition” against the sodomites. The six of them were taken by cart from the Old Bailey yard through the streets to the pillory place. They were so pelted by offal and dung that, according to one newspaper account, the London Evening Standard’s, “they resembled bears dipped in a stagnant pool. It could not be discerned that they were human beings. If they had had further to go to the pillory, the cart would have been filled over their heads.” They were each required to stand in the pillory, where they were further abused by the populace, for an hour, and then to travel through the furious mob on the way back to prison. They bled profusely, half-dead. “It is impossible for language to convey an adequate idea of the universal expressions of execration which accompanied these monsters on their journey,” the London Evening Standard observed.

What would have happened if Miss Woods and Miss Pirie’s suit against Lady Cumming Gordon had reversed itself upon them, just as did Oscar Wilde’s suit against the Marquis of Queensberry at the end of the century? Wilde sued the Marquis, who was the father of Lord Alfred Douglas, Wilde’s lover, for slander. The Marquis had called Wilde a sodomite. However, in the course of the trial against him, the Marquis was able to furnish many credible witnesses who testified that Wilde was indeed a sodomite. Not only was the Marquis exonerated, but the Crown then tried Wilde for sodomy, found him guilty, sentenced him to prison and hard labor, and, of course, ruined his illustrious career as the foremost playwright of his day.

Did Miss Woods and Miss Pirie fear that in the course of their suit Lady Cumming Gordon’s statement against them might be proven true? Or were they certain that while society was willing to believe men capable of homosexuality, to have believed it of otherwise good women would have destroyed those sacred notions about female purity and passionlessness that had developed in the latter half of the preceding century and continued throughout the nineteenth century?

If they had been very well versed in legal history, they might have known of a few other cases that had come before the British courts in which women were found guilty of homosexual behavior, but, surprisingly, not even the judges or Lady Cumming Gordon’s counsel knew of them. The most famous case had been tried by the English novelist Henry Fielding, who was also a judge. In 1746 he wrote about it in a six-penny pamphlet called The Female Husband: or, the Surprising History of Mrs. Mary, Alias Mr. George Hamilton…. The young woman in the case was a transvestite, brought before the Court when it was discovered that she had married three women while passing as a man. Fielding, who found her guilty, referred in his pamphlet to “something of too vile, wicked, and scandalous a nature which was discovered in her trunk,” obviously a dildo. He claimed that it was specifically for possession of that instrument that she was indicted and convicted. She was then “sentenced to be publickly and severely whipt in four market towns within the country of Somerset, and to be imprisoned.” Fielding described with great relish “her lovely skin scarified with rods, in such a manner that her back was almost flead.”

But her case was quite different from that of the mistresses. She was a woman of the lower class—which meant to those who judged her that she was capable of behavior that would not be believed of women from more respectable classes. She was a transvestite—she did not look like a female, therefore the passionlessness associated with women did not apply to her: she might be considered as lecherous as any male. And she had been caught with the goods—a dildo: while men might not believe that women could satisfy each other sexually using only what nature bestowed, they could believe that if (as Montaigne said several centuries earlier in describing the prosecution of a transvestite lesbian in France) “she used an instrument to supplement the deficiencies of her sex,” she could simulate the heterosexual act effectively enough.

Could a case like Woods and Pirie’s occur today? Ollie believes it could. People are far more knowing with regard to sexual possibilities between women, she says, but that makes them less tolerant rather than more. They would be even quicker than Dame Cumming Gordon and the other parents to remove their daughters from a boarding school if they heard rumors of a lesbian relationship between the teachers.

I think in the 1930s, when Lillian Hellman brought a modified version of this story to the stage, such was probably the case. The sexologists’ role in spreading knowledge of deviant sexual behavior resulted in the most spurious sort of liberalism, pseudosophistication, and misinformation. Relationships between women that were viewed in earlier centuries as ennobling romantic friendships were in the 1920s and 1930s examined for hints of taint. And such hints could create a furor. Hellman’s play was so successful on Broadway in 1934 and 1935 because it was believable.

But times have changed. We have been through a sexual revolution and a feminist revolution. Even as early as 1962, the critics of the just-released film version of The Children’s Hour suggested that the movie was a failure because people no longer behaved that way when they discovered sexual nonconformity between consenting adults. This morning I got from the University of Edinburgh library the March 15, 1962, review of the film by Bosley Crowther, which appeared in The New York Times. Crowther thought the film simply incredible. He said:

The hint [of lesbianism] is intruded with such astonishment and it is made to seem such a shattering thing (even without evidence to support it) that it becomes socially absurd. It is incredible that educated people living in an urban American community today would react as violently and as cruelly to a questionable innuendo as they are made to do in this film. And that is not the only incredible thing in it. It asks us to believe that the parents of all twenty pupils in a private school for girls would yank them out in a matter of hours on the slanderously spread advice of the grandmother of one of the pupils that two young teachers in the school were “unnatural.”

I agree with Crowther. What could happen in early-nineteenth-century Scotland could not happen in America today. But Ollie thinks he and I have been misled by our respective insulated, liberal-intellectual New York communities. Similar things are probably happening right now in small towns all over America, she says—just as they happened twenty years ago when Crowther wrote and fifty years ago when Hellman wrote. She believes that such places as Burton, New Mexico, where she was raised, will never change, that sexual revolutions and feminism never affect the Burton, New Mexicos, of America, and that their pusillanimous citizens will always persecute what is not orthodox.

But, of course, the issue in this case is not simply unorthodox sexual preferences. The two women were accused of indulging themselves in the beds of young girls. Surely there could be no such parallels today because no modern woman would be naive enough to believe a sixteen-year-old so sexually innocent that she would not understand the import of the activity if she happened to wake up. It is conceivable, I suppose, that a nineteenth-century woman might have faith in such ignorance.

Because the accusation was so horrendous, and the rumor of it seemed to spread so quickly, I imagine the mistresses had no hope of finding employment again until they were cleared. I do not know if they looked for a job at this point, but I did find an advertisement that Mrs. Woods placed in the “situations wanted” section of the Edinburgh Advertiser for Christmas Day, 1810. She poses as a mother, of Marianne presumably, perhaps to raise more sympathy for the plight of a woman who has not only herself but her daughter to support. There is no evidence that her plea was effective.

A Lady, who has been reduced by the death of her husband to great pecuniary distress, is very desirous of a situation in any respectable family as Companion to a Lady; and, if agreeable, would have no objection to take charge of, or assist in, the management of the domestic concerns of the family. The most ample and satisfactory testimony can be procured of her religious principles, good temper, and uniform good conduct through life; and her terms will be found moderate.

Until she is so fortunate as to meet with a situation of this description, she will be most grateful to those who will be kind enough to give her any employment in plain work, washing muslins, or any articles of millinery, or golfrying muslin ruffs, etc., as her own and her daughter’s support depend almost entirely upon her industry and exertions. Any further particulars may be had by inquiring for Mrs. Ann Woods at her lodging at Mrs. Reed’s, no. 17, North James’s Street, 3rd door of the stair.

On February 16, 1811 the suit was placed on the Inner House roll of cases for the Second Division of the Court of Session. There were seven Lords of Session, red-robed and bewigged, who were to judge the case. According to the bits of information that have survived about each of them, they were almost all entirely unsuited to sit on such a case. Yet given the prejudices and customs of the era, was there a man in Britain who could have delivered impartial justice here? Nevertheless, what has come down to us through the judges’ various biographers depicts them as a sad lot—pompous, prideful, dipsomaniacal, and unbright. Either nineteenth-century biographers generally chose to look with a jaundiced eye on the class who became judges, or these men were a most unfortunate representation of what such a noble body should be—or they simply behaved as people do in undemocratic and rough times.

THE LORD JUSTICE-CLERK, CHARLES HOPE. As Lord Justice-Clerk, Hope presided over the Second Division of the Court of Session. His portrait is one of three that hang in the entry hall of the Signet Library, the law library that adjoins the Parliament Building, where cases are still tried in Edinburgh. In the portrait he appears to be extraordinarily handsome, with a face that is both intelligent and commanding. His speeches that have survived do not seem to confirm that appearance, but he must have somehow attained the respect of his peers and superiors. Before coming to the Court of Session he had been President of the Criminal Court, where he was said to have surpassed any judge of his day or any day that could be remembered in his fearsomeness in pronouncing sentence. In 1811 he became President of the entire Court of Session. He left the Court of Session in 1836 to take the highest official position in Scotland, Lord Justice General. His biographer suggests that his personality was well revealed in his decision to continue as Lieutenant Colonel of the Gentlemen Regiment of Volunteers all during the years he was Lord Justice-Clerk, although many thought it unconstitutional.

ALLAN MACONOCHIE, LORD MEADOWBANK. Maconochie heard the case in the Outer House and again when it was placed on the rolls of the Second Division of the Inner House. He was an extremely conscientious man, but he seems to have been blinded both by pride and prejudice. He claimed to have a vast amount of esoteric knowledge—of literature, science, philosophy, linguistics, religion, agriculture—though his biographer says his knowledge was more varied than accurate. When he was a young man Maconochie resided for a number of years in Paris and thus, according to British views, should have been well versed in the existence of vices, but he preferred not to believe in them. He was appointed to the bench in 1796.

LORD WILLIAM ROBERTSON. Robertson was a Tory and owed his appointment to the Court at least partly to Tory favoritism at this time. His father had been the head of the University of Edinburgh. Since the publication of the elder Robertson’s History of Scotland when he was a very young man, he had been considered the greatest Scottish historian of his day. His son, Lord William, also dabbled in prose but his literary talents went unrecognized. Lord William happened to be Lady Cumming Gordon’s neighbor in fashionable Charlotte Square during the time of this trial. He retired from the bench because of deafness in 1826.

WILLIAM MILLER, LORD GLENLEE. Glenlee was also a Tory, and he was even closer to Lady Cumming Gordon than was Lord William Robertson: his son was married to one of Lady Cumming Gordon’s daughters. Apparently such propinquity did not disqualify a judge at that time. His Toryism was so enthusiastic that he informed Francis Jeffrey, the founder of the Whiggish Edinburgh Review, that in consequence of Jeffrey’s liberal politics, he would befriend him no more, even though the close bond between their families had spanned generations. When Jeffrey secured a Court appointment the two met frequently, though they never exchanged a word in twenty-five years. Glenlee must have appeared a frightening curmudgeon to the timid. He continued on the bench until the 1840s, when he was well into his eighties and had himself carried to Parliament Square every morning in his sedan chair.

WILLIAM BAILLIE, LORD POLKEMMET. Polkemmet was another staunch Tory. His family was reputed to have been among the wealthiest in Britain. He was described by one of his contemporaries, Lord Cockburn, as “a good man, but huge and brainless; in voice, stare, manner and intellect, not much above an idiot.” How could such a man have procured a seat on the bench? Cockburn, who may have been antagonistic to him because of political differences, said that Polkemmet owed his appointment to Lord Braxfield, who felt indebted to his friend because he had once given Polkemmet some bad advice that caused him to lose considerable property. When another judge objected to Polkemmet’s appointment to the bench on the ground that he had no rhetorical ability, Braxfield is said to have replied, “Nonsense, man. I’ve bargained that he’s never to speak.” Considering Polkemmet’s performance in this case, Braxfield appears to have been serious. Polkemmet was never present during the testimony. He based his vote on the transcripts and gave no speeches whatsoever. He might have avoided embarrassing exposure this way throughout much of his career. The law required the presence of only a simple majority of the judges on a case, and it was not necessary that a judge be present during the testimony in order to participate in a vote, or that he state the reasons for his decision.

CHARLES HAY, LORD NEWTON. Newton was seventy-one in 1811. He died soon after rendering his decision in favor of the defendant. His deportment during his tenure would probably call for impeachment today, although it obviously did not in his time: those who served with him claimed he never heard a case without first imbibing six pints of claret, as had been usual among judges (who even drank on the bench) when he first came to the Court in the preceding century. Lord Cockburn, who became a judge in the Court of Session in 1834, made this observation of Newton and his contemporaries in a memoir of the late-eighteenth- and early-nineteenth-century Court, when Cockburn was a very young lawyer:

Black bottles of strong port were set down beside the judges on the Bench, with glasses, caraffes of water, tumblers, and biscuits; and this without the slightest attempt at concealment. The refreshment was generally allowed to stand untouched for a short time, as if despised, during which their Lordships seemed intent only on their notes. But in a little, some water was poured into the tumbler, and sipped quietly, as if merely to sustain nature. Then a few drops of wine were ventured upon, but only with the water. But at last patience could not endure longer, and a full bumper of the pure black element was tossed over; after which the thing went on regularly, and there was a comfortable munching and quaffing to the great envy of the parched throats in the gallery. The strong-headed stood it tolerably well, but it told, plainly enough, upon the feeble. Not that the ermine was absolutely intoxicated, but it was certainly sometimes affected. This however was so ordinary with these sages, that it really made little apparent change upon them. It was not very perceptible at a distance; and they all acquired the habit of sitting and looking judicial enough, even when their bottles had reached the lowest ebb.

Many of them may have been dipsomaniacs, but as long as they could appear to handle strong drink, it was not held against them. Of Newton it was remarked that when he was a young man he often drank until seven in the morning, slept a couple of hours, and then appeared in court, where his behavior was impeccable. Even in his old age his defenders were quick to point out that whatever he drank, he kept as clear a head as one who never touched a drop, and that he might often seem asleep during court proceedings, but his questions and comments indicated that he missed absolutely nothing. Lord Newton was understood not to have relished female society. He never married.

The Court of Session was conducted in what had been the Scottish Parliament House before the Union of Scotland and England in 1707. In 1810 or 1811, to get to the rooms where the cases are heard, you would pass first through two dark and dungeonlike antechambers. Then you enter by a low door into a huge hall of antique grandeur, with a multi-arched, black oak ceiling. The hall is completely filled. Advocates, the first class of legal men, who are privileged to plead orally before the Court, and solicitors, Men of Business as they are called, without the right to plead in open court, move in two different streams along the respective places that custom has allotted them on the floor.

The advocates’ side of the house is by the wall. The elder and more frequently employed advocates occupy the benches that extend along the walls. Most of them wear powdered wigs. Often they are pouring over briefs or notes for speeches they will soon make, or they are complaining to each other about some decision. The younger ones, some in wigs and some without, collect in small groups near one of the two large iron stoves, often around an acknowledged wit who is holding forth.

The crowd nearest the door is made up of the solicitors. They are usually mature figures, meditating pale-faced counselors, and most of them are dressed in somber colors. Their dandyish clerks, in contrast to them, are often in the snow-white breeches that were in fashion all that winter and spring, and in smart green riding jackets, glossy velvet collars, waistcoats in a diversified dazzle of stripes and spots. They walk with a military swagger.

This is a gentlemen’s club. Scottish historians say that throughout the eighteenth century the national system of education was such that even a poor man’s son (although obviously not his daughter—or even a rich man’s daughter, since women were excluded from university education) could go on to one of the universities as well prepared as his wealthy classmates. That was the conception—but I suspect that, as in twentieth-century America and elsewhere, the actuality was seldom as ideal as the conception. In any case, the lawyers were a closed corporation of noblemen and gentlemen, with high entrance fees and exclusive regulations. During the period 1752 to 1811, 88 percent of them came from landed families, and very few of the rest were born to tradesmen or craftsmen or tenant farmers. The Lords of Session almost always had wealth and title behind them. They were often at this time the most conservative Tories. To be examined, defended, judged by such lofty superiors in those pre-jury days must have been awesome to the average Scotsman who found himself in an early-nineteenth-century law court.

Here and there, in the great hall of the Parliament House, is a client, often dressed in black broadcloth. Some of them are farmers who have traveled far to be litigious. Many of them are squabbling Edinburgh businessmen. There is seldom a woman in sight.

Outside, however, is a statue of a woman—Justice—holding in her hand not the usual scale, but something that resembles a steel yardstick. The statue is precariously perched on an inverted pyramid. So perilous is its balance that had the artist not been a Scotsman, it might have been suspected that he intended to insinuate that the goddess had no safe footing in this court.

But no doubt all the judges in this case wished to judge wisely, and they must have believed themselves capable of transcending whatever differences of class and gender they might encounter in those who came before them. Yet, I wonder: even if they had all seven been the wisest, soberest, most objective men in Britain; even if they had been able to listen and analyze divested of all predilections; even if they had been more than human—human only in that they looked like men—would they have been able to uncover the truth then? Not only did they have their own class prejudices to contend with in this case: their difficulties were compounded by the fact that all of the principals and all of the witnesses were female. The business of the Court, in all its aspects, was entirely masculine. How overwhelmed the few females who entered this Parliament House must have been, whether they came as plaintiff, defendant, or mere witness. Even supposing the women’s best intentions to tell the truth, could it have been gotten out whole in this all-masculine preserve?

Females of their day learned as a matter of course never to tell the truth to males. Miss Young said in her famous Letters of Advice to Ladies that a woman “must listen patiently to all a man says even though it be dull and tedious, and never must she contradict him, however mistaken he may be, for that is something a man never forgives.” Most women must have had little practice in proclaiming a truth whole and for an extended period of time in the presence of men. They were trained to hold back, if not to lie.

It must have been intimidating enough to be a woman examined and cross-examined by a room full of men—but to be examined and cross-examined on the subject of sex, and moreover a variety of sex that was not supposed to have existed, must have been terrifying. If there were women who were not terrified, did they feel a cool disdain for the infernal ignorance of the male?

Females occupied one sphere and males another. But to obtain redress or to prove her innocence, a female had to plead in the males’ court. She had a double burden: she had to try to reconstruct truth (or lies), and she had to do it before strangers of a different sphere. In her nervousness or her fury, what she said must often have come out skewed. Although I found only one admission that a witness could neither think clearly nor speak effectively in such imposing company, I believe that this somewhat hysterical response of Mrs. Campbell (Jane Pirie’s last employer before she opened the school) was typical of what most females must have felt in this Court:

At the time I was called on to give evidence regarding Miss Pirie’s character I was in very great distress because a young person who had lived with me from infancy was at the height of a dangerous fever. That circumstance alone would at any time unfit me for anything. But when you also take into consideration that though I am now an old woman I never before appeared in court, that I am deaf, and that throughout my life I have always had a degree of timidity that I could not shake off, you will understand any embarrassment or stupidity that may have appeared when I was taken before your (to me) formidable Court. I believe I did not do Miss Pirie the justice she deserves. I shall now state to you, Sir, my candid opinion of her, which I am willing to swear to again, if you consider it necessary, but beg you will not take me before such a number of people again. I also beg leave to add that I have had the charge of young people for twenty years, and during that time I have had several governesses in my family. I never had anyone that I would prefer to Miss Pirie. I hope, Sir, you will forgive my giving you this trouble, but in a very short time I shall leave town, and I feel very anxious before I go home to be of all the use I can to Miss Pirie.

According to early nineteenth-century court procedure, neither the plaintiffs nor the defendant were permitted to take the stand on their own behalf. Their counsel submitted a list of witnesses to be called. The Court declared that testimony was to begin with witnesses for the defendant on March 15, 1811. Lord Meadowbank urged his brethren to find means to conceal the nature of this case, for the public good, and all concurred. It was decided that evidence would be heard behind shut doors: no one not directly involved in the proceedings would be allowed in the courtroom.

Elaborate plans were made for maintaining secrecy. The Clerk of the Court was directed to keep the record of the case under sealed cover, and was not to exhibit it to any persons except counsel for the parties. When counsel needed it, the Court ordered, “it shall be lent only to the attorneys in person, and not to their clerks, and shall be put again under sealed cover when returned.” What terrible debaucheries they must have feared would follow if it became common knowledge that women might be sexually intimate with one another.

Miss Janet Munro is the first witness called by the defendant. Present are Lord Justice-Clerk Hope, Lords Meadowbank, Glenlee, Robertson, and Boyle, counsel for both parties, Marianne Woods, Jane Pirie, and Lady Cumming Gordon. George Cranstoun, the advocate for Lady Cumming Gordon, informs the Lords that Miss Munro is sixteen years of age, born of the most respectable parents, motherless from the age of nine, educated in the bosom of her family until the month of September preceding the unhappy event, intimate only with persons of the first character in Edinburgh, and esteemed and beloved by all her acquaintances. She became Miss Woods’ bedfellow when she entered the Drumsheugh school, in September 1810. She is a little deaf. Solemnly sworn and purged of malice and partial counsel, she is questioned by Cranstoun:

“You were a boarder at the school of the plaintiffs since September last?” he asks.

“And you slept with Miss Woods?”

“Yes, sir, from the beginning until I came away.”

“During the time you slept with Miss Woods, did Miss Pirie ever come into your bed?”

“Oftener than once.”

“And when she came into your bed, was she fully dressed?”

“No, sir, I believe her clothes were off, and one lay above the other. Miss Pirie was uppermost.”

“Was there a candle in the room, Miss Munro?” Lord Meadowbank wishes to know.

“No, sir, no candle. But the first time she came into the bed there was shaking of the bed, and the bed clothes tossed about, and they seemed to be breathing high. I felt their bodies moving.”

“And did you speak to them?” Cranstoun continues.

“Oh, yes. I said, ‘Miss Pirie, I wish you would go away for I can’t get sleep.’ Then Miss Woods said to Miss Pirie, ‘You had better go away, Jane, for I’m afraid you’ll catch cold standing there.’ But I knew she wasn’t standing. She was in bed. Even though Miss Pirie said, ‘I am not in the bed, I am only standing beside it.’ But when she said that she was not beside it. Then she got up and went away.”

“Did you tell anyone what you had observed?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Cumming.”

“And did you not tell someone else?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Mary Brown, the nursery maid at home.”

“How long have you known Mary Brown?”

“She has been in our family as long as I know.”

“Miss Munro, tell the court what Mary Brown said to your story.”

“She said, ‘If it is true, it is dreadful.’ And then she told me that if it happened again I must speak out and let it be known. And I must tell her too. And she said they should be burnt.”

“Did it happen again?”

“Yes, sir. Some days after this. But I don’t exactly recollect how long.”

“Tell the court what happened, please, Miss Munro.”

“Miss Pirie came again to our bed, and she lay in the same way, Miss Pirie above Miss Woods, and there was the same shaking of the bed and motions and breathing as before.”

“Was there a candle in the room this time, Miss Munro?” Lord Meadowbank wishes to know.

“No, sir. But some daylight came in. The first time there was no daylight.”

“Have you any idea what time it might have been?” Cranstoun asks her.

“I’m not sure, but from the light I think it was five in the morning because I could see any person in the room.”

“Did you make them aware you observed them?” Cranstoun continues.

“Yes, sir. I coughed and turned myself. And then Miss Woods turned to Miss Pirie and whispered, ‘I suspect she is awake.’ Then Miss Woods began coughing herself and said she heard me coughing and asked if I had been long awake. When I said I had, she said, ‘I’m afraid you’ve got a cold. If you’ll get up and go to such a drawer in the room, you’ll get some barley sugar.’ But I told her I didn’t want any. So then she asked me to get up and go to the dressing room and get her some water.”

“Yes, sir. But before I did I could see Miss Pirie in bed. Then when I came back with the water, Miss Pirie was gone.”

“Did you discuss this incident with anyone?”

“Well, the next morning I told the maid Charlotte that I was very tired and I’d been disturbed and gotten very little sleep. I didn’t have to say any more because Charlotte seemed to understand me. She said, ‘It’s a pity they could not get a man.’ And she said that one day she had to get something that was in the drawing room, but when she tried to get it she found both the doors bolted. So, she looked through the keyhole and she found them the same way on the sofa.”

“Miss Munro,” Cranstoun asks, “Did Charlotte describe anything more of what she saw through the keyhole?”

“No, sir. She said she called through the door that she wanted something, and they answered that she must wait a while as they were busy.”

“Did you tell Charlotte what you had witnessed the second time?”

“I don’t remember, but a day or so later, before breakfast, Charlotte came down to the schoolroom and told me and Miss Cumming and Miss Stirling that she had caught them again in the dressing room on one of the beds. She said that when she went into the room Miss Pirie leapt out of bed and her face was very red, and Miss Woods hid under the bed-clothes.”

“Did anyone else hear Charlotte’s story?”

“Well, there were others in the room at the time, but I don’t think they heard it.”

“Miss Munro,” Lord Boyle asks, “was the door to the dressing room not bolted as the drawing room door had been?”

“Charlotte did not say, sir. She only said she got into the dressing room.”

“Did Charlotte say anything else?” Cranstoun asks.

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Nothing else, Miss Munro?” Cranstoun asks again.

“Oh, yes, she said that we should notice their faces and see what they looked like when she came in with the kettle at breakfast.”

“Did Miss Woods and Miss Pirie look odd?”

“I thought they seemed to avoid looking at Charlotte, and they even looked away from her. Then Charlotte looked at them and made faces at them. And when they left she said, ‘Who would serve such mistresses?’”

“Were there other occasions when you saw Miss Woods and Miss Pirie behave indecently?”

“I think those were the only times.”

“Have you never seen them kissing, caressing, and fondling more than could have resulted from ordinary female friendship?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I have.”

“Was this before or after the first time?”

“So their behaviour struck you as extraordinary even before you saw them in bed together?”

“Miss Munro,” Lord Meadowbank asks, “had you discussed that with Miss Cumming?”

“What had you discussed?”

“Well, we had conversations about what had happened, and in particular I mentioned how I was disturbed in bed, and Miss Cumming said she was used to being disturbed like that.”

“Did the two of you decide to take any action, Miss Munro?”

“Well, we agreed that Miss Cumming should tell her grandmother. But I think we decided that first we would give them a hint that we knew what was going on.”

“And did you?” Lord Meadowbank asks.

“Yes. One day we were out walking, and Miss Cumming told me that she was so tired with being disturbed in the night that she was hardly able to go on with her lessons. So she decided that when we returned from the walk she would complain. Then when we returned Miss Cumming said to Miss Pirie that she was terribly tired with being disturbed in the night time. So then Miss Pirie’s face grew very red, and she turned her back and she soon afterwards went out of the room.”

“Did you discuss Miss Pirie’s response with Miss Cumming?” Lord Meadowbank asks.

“Well, Miss Cumming said to me, ‘Do you see how guilt is on her face?’”

“Miss Munro,” Lord Justice-Clerk Hope asks, “since it was agreed that Miss Cumming should tell her grandmother what had happened, why didn’t you tell your own father?”

She pauses. “I didn’t like to do it,” she says at last.

“Miss Munro,” the advocate now continues, “do you go to church regularly?”

“Yes. Miss Stevenson took me to receive the sacrament not long ago.”

“Who is Miss Stevenson, Miss Munro?”

“She’s the daughter of Dr. Stevenson of Glasgow, who died last year. She’s had particular charge of me since I was nine. She was my governess and now she is my little sister’s governess.”

“Miss Munro, were you happy at the school?”

“Yes, sir. Except for being disturbed at night.”

“Instruction good? Good treatment?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I had no other complaints.”

“And one final question, Miss Munro. Have you discussed your testimony with Miss Cumming?”

“When did you last see her?”

“Not since the school broke up, sir.”

Mr. Cranstoun declares that he has finished questioning the witness.

The Lord Justice-Clerk indicates that John Clerk, advocate for the plaintiffs, may proceed.

“Miss Munro,” Clerk asks, “can you tell the court exactly when you observed Miss Woods and Miss Pirie in bed together.”

“I think about three weeks after I first came to the school.”

“Can you set an exact date?”

“No, sir. About the end of September. So I think the second time would be early in October.”

“So you never observed them in bed together upon any other occasion?”

She pauses. “Well, I don’t know. Once before the end of September, I waked in a fright and I thought there was somebody in bed with Miss Woods, but I couldn’t be sure of it or who it was.”

“Did you ask Miss Woods what it might have been?”

“No, but I think I mentioned it to Miss Cumming. I think that was when she said that Miss Woods often visited Miss Pirie in bed, so it must have been Miss Pirie visiting Miss Woods.”

“She may have said at that time that Charlotte told her they behaved indecently—but I’m not sure it was that time.”

“Miss Munro,” Clerk says, “please describe for the court your morning schedule.”

“You mean what we did at the school every morning—from when we got up?”

“Well, we—the scholars, that is—we usually rose between six and seven, and Miss Woods and Miss Pirie rose when we got downstairs.”

“And what was the first thing that happened when they came downstairs?”

“After they came down there was prayers, and then we had to repeat our lessons to them, and then we had breakfast.”

“Did you spend much time over breakfast?”

“No, sir. Less than half an hour I think.”

“And then after breakfast you were taught your lessons. And several times a week the mistresses took you all for a walk for an hour or so, then you all ate together, then they sat with you while you worked, and they sat with you when you had tea at five, and then they gave you your lessons for the next day, and they sat with you while you prepared. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, I think it is.”

“And what after that?” Clerk asks.

“We had prayer session.”

“Please describe that, Miss Munro.”

“Miss Woods and Miss Pirie took turns reading prayers, and before prayers one of us—one of the scholars—read a chapter from Miss Trimmer’s History of the Bible.”

“We went upstairs.”

“Did Miss Woods and Miss Pirie go with you?”

“Yes, sir. To help us undress.”

“They didn’t undress themselves.”

“Weren’t there prayers again, Miss Munro?”

“Oh, yes—Miss Woods heard three of the younger girls say their prayers aloud in our room, and I believe Miss Pirie did the same in the other room.”

“And then it was about nine o’clock, and they corrected your written work, and prepared the lessons for the next day, and supped?”

“I don’t know when they did that.”

“Miss Munro, what time did Miss Woods usually come to bed?”

“About eleven I think, but I can’t be sure because I was usually sleeping.”

“Then on the first occasion, when you saw them in bed together, you waited up for Miss Woods?”

“No, sir. I had fallen asleep before Miss Woods came to bed, and I didn’t know when she came, nor when Miss Pirie came into the bed.”

“How long had you been awake before you spoke to them?”

“About half an hour I think.”

“And that was when you told Miss Pirie to go away? You said nothing more?”

“No, sir. But before that I heard a great deal of conversation going on in whispers, but I couldn’t make any kind of sense of what they said, though perhaps I might pick up a word here and there. I don’t now remember.”

“And what about the second occasion, Miss Munro, what did you say?”

“Then I also heard conversation going on between them in whispers but I couldn’t understand it, unless it was, as I said before, when Miss Woods said to Miss Pirie that she thought I was awake. I coughed several times so they would know I was awake, but I didn’t say anything.”

“Miss Munro, have you at any other time heard Miss Woods and Miss Pirie talking in your bed?”

“Once I think I heard them conversing something about Miss Stirling, but at that time Miss Pirie wasn’t in bed. I think she was standing by the bedside, and she was talking of her brother-in-law also as well as of Miss Stirling.”

“Was this before or after the two occasions?”

“I don’t recollect, sir. But I know I was awakened by Miss Pirie speaking. I remember that I told her a day or two after that I had heard her speaking about her brother-in-law and about some colliers and dogs, and that her brother-in-law had nearly been killed at that time.”

“Miss Munro, weren’t there actually many occasions when Miss Pirie came to talk to Miss Woods in the night?”

“Oh, yes. I remember one other time when Miss Pirie came to Miss Woods and sat down upon the bedside, just after Miss Woods had gone to bed. I think Miss Woods was ill then. Miss Pirie rubbed her back for a little, and they didn’t have much conversation. Those are the only times I remember.”

“Miss Munro, upon the first occasion, when you say you believe Miss Pirie’s clothes were off, what led you to that belief?”

“Because it was the dead of night, sir.”

“You had no other reason for believing that?”

“Well I’m sure they were, sir.”

“How do you know?”

“It was the dead of night.”

“And are you positive that Miss Pirie’s legs were in bed on the first occasion?”

“Not quite positive, but I think so. I felt the legs of one of them.”

“On the second occasion, are you positive Miss Pirie’s legs were in the bed?”

“Yes, sir. At least she was lying in such a manner as to make me think they were, since she was below the bed-clothes. And on the first time also I think her body was below the bed-clothes.”

“One last question before we adjourn,” Lord Justice-Clerk Hope tells the advocate.

“We will continue along another line of questioning on the morrow, your Lordship,” Clerk says.

The court adjourns until tomorrow at ten o’clock in the morning.

If Miss Munro’s evidence is true, it is enough to exonerate Lady Cumming Gordon. The Lord Ordinary has said that what she describes is physically impossible, that women cannot so give each other the venereal orgasm. But whatever the gratification obtained, whether it was complete gratification, a partial gratification, or no gratification at all, is irrelevant. I have no doubt that there is great enjoyment even in the gratification afforded by the imagination, in postures and other circumstances calculated to excite the passions. The women may be seeking something that is unattainable to them, but even in this there is enjoyment. It is feasting the imagination. And I have very little doubt that in all ages and countries, women have enjoyed this mode of seeking pleasure … a very improper and irregular sensual gratification, to be sure; but it may perhaps even bring on the venereal orgasm.

The first hint Miss Munro seems to have had of anything improper in the mistresses’ conduct was derived from Miss Cumming. After relating her opinions respecting the two meetings of the mistresses, Miss Munro admits on cross-examination that at an earlier time she awoke with a fright and thought there might be someone in bed, but could not be sure of it. Having mentioned this to Miss Cumming, she was furnished with an hypothesis to account for whatever she might afterwards observe. Thus, whatever she saw acquired in her eyes an extraordinary character, and she was blind to simple explanations that might account for events. For example, the mistresses may simply have been talking in bed, since their workday appears to have been so crowded as not to allow them any other time to talk together. Miss Pirie might conceivably have gotten under the covers to keep warm.

I am particularly struck by Miss Munro’s assertion that she frequently observed the mistresses kissing, caressing, and fondling each other more than could have resulted from ordinary female friendship, and that their behaviour seemed to her extraordinary even before she saw them in bed together. I think this statement demonstrates perfectly what the defendant’s counsel pleaded at the hearing of the case and what I feared would occur in the calling of witnesses: that the young ladies needed an opportunity to exonerate themselves by “proving” the truth of their imputations. Miss Munro is a prejudiced witness. She is prejudiced not only by an hypothesis that she rashly adopted, but also by her interest in maintaining her accusations against the mistresses. Why else would she prefer to ascribe their public caresses to the unknown cause of an unnatural venereal appetite, rather than to the simple, true, and natural one of warm feelings that are common among those of great sensibility?

A prissy little bit of feline flesh. Very proper seeming. Quite heartless, I would guess. I do not imagine she is too clever. Her close-set eyes, which detract from her rather commonplace prettiness, do not suggest great intelligence, nor great imagination, for that matter. And lacking these she could not have concocted such a tale. She will grow into a fat, bland matron in no more than fifteen years. Now one wants to pinch her from behind or shake her ferociously or nip her on the cheek—if only to raise a response. What might the silly little puss say? I detest such vapidity. “Naked because it was the middle of the night” indeed.

Today she brought home a mid-nineteenth-century reprint of Mary Wollstonecraft’s Thoughts on the Education of Daughters, which was written in 1787. I would guess that Jane Pirie and Marianne Woods were familiar with Wollstonecraft’s more famous feminist book, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, and they may have known this book too. Possibly they were influenced by it.

I suspect Mary Wollstonecraft was very much like Jane Pirie. Perhaps I say that because I see myself so much in both of them. In the mid-1770s, the decade before Jane Pirie was born, Mary Wollstonecraft, then a girl of sixteen, met Fanny Blood, “the friend whom I love better than all the world beside,” as Mary called her. They became and remained romantic friends until Fanny’s death, about ten years later. Soon after their meeting, Mary was writing to a correspondent, “The prospect of living with my Fanny gladdens my heart:—You know not how I love her,” and reiterating that since she was averse to matrimonial ties on many accounts, it was her intention never to marry, but to stay with Fanny forever. In Mary Wollstonecraft’s autobiographical novel, Mary: A Fiction, which was written soon after Fanny’s death, the narrator observes of the title character, who becomes involved with a man after “Ann” (Fanny) dies, “Had Ann lived, it is probable [Mary] would never have loved [the man].”

Mary Wollstonecraft, coming from a class of genteel poverty probably like Jane Pirie and Marianne Woods, was a governess for a while. Then, together with Fanny, she opened a school for young ladies in 1783, in Islington, and when it failed, tried again with another school in Newington Green, which was somewhat more successful. The conception, the plans, the preparations were all Mary’s. She had to convince Fanny, who was reluctant and fearful of failure, to join her in this venture, much as I suspect Jane had to convince Marianne. The Newington Green school was short-lived, despite its initial success, because Mary finally recognized in her friend a “morbid softness of temper,” together with a worsening tubercular condition. Mary realized now that Fanny was unsuited for the fray of such a strenuous life. She advised her to accept the proposal of Hugh Skeys, an old suitor who was living in Portugal where, Mary hoped, Fanny’s physical condition might be improved. Yet when Fanny became pregnant, about a year after the marriage, Mary went to Lisbon to be with her. Fanny died in Mary’s arms on November 29, 1785, after bearing a child who also died. But the relationship was not over in Mary’s mind. More than ten years later she recollected, in Letters From Norway, “looks I have felt in every nerve, which I shall never more meet. The grave has closed over a dear friend, the friend of my youth; still she is present with me, and I hear her soft voice warbling as I stray over the heath.” Theirs was one of the saddest stories of romantic friendship. The Woods and Pirie story is another.

But Mary Wollstonecraft’s Thoughts on the Education of Daughters must have been a staple for serious-minded early-nineteenth-century governesses and proprietors of schools for young ladies. I believe, because of her own thoroughness and commitment to learning, that Jane Pirie was as outraged as her predecessor about the trifling sorts of educations given to young ladies. Wollstonecraft observed indignantly: “Girls learn something of music, drawing, and geography; but they do not know enough to engage their attention and render it an employment of the mind. If they can play over a few tunes to their acquaintances, and have a drawing or two (half done by the master) to hang up in their rooms, they imagine themselves artists for the rest of their lives. It is not being able to execute a trifling landscape, or anything of the kind, that is of consequence—these are at best but trifles, and the foolish, indiscriminate praises which are bestowed on them only produce vanity.”

Perhaps Jane Pirie raised such great resentment in Janet Munro and Jane Cumming at least partly because her system of education was so stringent, and she demanded that the young ladies—who would have been quite content with learning to play a few tunes and executing a drawing or two that they might display at home—really study history and mathematics and moral philosophy. Possibly Jane Pirie also learned from Wollstonecraft’s humorless book that girls must be discouraged from vanity and an immoderate fondness for display in dress. Wollstonecraft complained about any such ornamentation, “I hate to see the frame of a picture so glaring as to catch the eye and divide the attention.” That philosophy too must have been repellent to these purse-proud young ladies. What was the good of being wellborn and wealthy if you could not show it off? I would imagine that there was a good deal of tension over such issues in a school like Jane Pirie’s.

“Miss Munro,” John Clerk begins, “when did you first mention to Miss Cumming what you had observed?”

“I think it was the next morning, after the first time when Miss Pirie came into our bed. Miss Cumming and I were dressing together in the dressing room.”

“Was it then that Miss Cumming told you she had observed the same kind of incident?”

“I don’t remember if it was then or some other time, but she did tell me so.”

“And did you tell anyone else what you told Miss Cumming?”

“At the school?”

“No. Miss Stirling was there when I told Miss Cumming. But I didn’t tell Miss Stirling particularly by herself at any time.”

“When did you tell Mary Brown?”

“When she came to town, about the beginning of October. I’ve already been asked about all of this, sir.” She is close to tears.

“I’m sorry, Miss Munro. I’ll try not to repeat questions except for clarification. Was Mary Brown alone when she came to town?”

“No, she came with my older sister. But I didn’t mention anything to her.”

“Did you mention anything about it to your sister at any time?”

“Did you see your sister much in October?”

“I saw her a few times, sir.”

“Why did you not tell her what had happened in your bed?”

“I did not like to do so.”

“Did you tell Miss Stevenson?”

“I told Mary Brown to tell her.”

“Because she was my particular friend and I had no other person to tell it to. Oh—no, I’m sorry. I recollect now. Miss Stevenson wasn’t in town at the time. I told Mary to tell my aunt, Miss Isabella Murdock.”

“Miss Munro, did your behaviour towards Miss Pirie or Miss Woods alter in any degree after these occasions you described?”

“When did you first suspect that they were engaged in improper conduct with each other, Miss Munro?”

“I think it was when Charlotte the maid mentioned that she had seen them through the keyhole, when she described the way they were lying, so that made me consider it improper conduct.”

“What particulars did she give you?”

“I don’t remember. None.”

“Was Miss Stirling present when Charlotte told you of the incident?”

“Did Miss Stirling say anything to acknowledge that she understood?”

“No, sir. But one day when we were out walking, Miss Cumming, Miss Stirling, and I were together, and Miss Cumming began to talk on the subject. Then Miss Stirling joined in, but I don’t remember what she said.”

“Had she ever expressed shock at what Charlotte had said?”

“Yes, she seemed to be shocked at what Charlotte told us, and she seemed to think it very wicked.”

“When did she say this?”

“I can’t remember now, but I’m sure she said it.”

“Miss Munro, what other young ladies were in the room when Miss Pirie came to Miss Woods?”

“All who slept there. Miss Cunynghame, Miss Hunter, and the two Miss Edgars.”

“Did they see what you have described?”

“I don’t know whether they were awake or not.”

“Miss Munro,” Lord Boyle asks, “do you mean to say that with all the noise and movement in the room none of the other four girls saw or heard aught?”

“I don’t know, sir. Perhaps they did. The second time it happened, when Miss Woods told me to go to the dressing room for water, I went out by the foot of the bed to get my wrapper. And then when I saw Miss Pirie in the bed, I purposely gave her a knock with my elbow when I stooped down to put my slippers on, so that Miss Pirie would know that I knew. I don’t know if Miss Edgar—the elder Miss Edgar—saw, but when I returned with the water she laughed.”

“And did you say anything to her?” Lord Boyle asks.

“Yes, in the morning, after Miss Woods was gone.”

“What did you say?” he asks.

“I only asked if she’d seen Miss Pirie go out of the room.”

“You said nothing more to her, nor told her what you had observed?”

“Did she tell you what she had laughed at?”

“Didn’t the other pupils think anything odd was going on?” Lord Boyle asks.

“Yes, a lot of people thought they caressed and fondled each other more than you would in ordinary female friendship,” Miss Munro says.

“Thank you, Mr. Clerk,” Lord Boyle says. John Clerk continues, “Miss Munro, who specifically said that your teachers’ behaviour was beyond ordinary female friendship?”

“Miss Cumming and Miss Stirling, and I rather think the Miss Dunbars, but I’m not quite sure.”

“Anyone else?” John Clerk asks.

“I don’t now recollect any others that did so.”

“Miss Munro, did anything else happen to make you think that theirs was a relationship beyond ordinary friendship?”

“They quarrelled.”

“You mean you thought they behaved indecently in bed together because they quarrelled?”

“No. But it was stronger than the way ordinary female friends might quarrel. Once when they quarrelled in the dressing room it was so loud that all the scholars in our room woke up. And then the next morning Charlotte the maid told me—and I think everyone heard it—that she had heard them quarrelling also, so she went up to see what was the matter, and she found Miss Woods crying and Miss Pirie standing beside her, bidding her not to cry.”

“Did they quarrel often in front of the students?”

“Yes, sir. Maybe they wished to conceal those quarrels from us, but they took no pains to do so. And after a quarrel began they never left the room.”

“Miss Munro, did you ever witness a reconciliation between them?”

“Yes, sir. Sometimes a quarrel would last for a week or ten days, and then they would have a reconciliation.”

“How did they become reconciled?”

“Well, it was then that they particularly caressed each other.”

“Now, Miss Munro, on any of the occasions when Miss Pirie came to Miss Woods’ bed, did you not observe that it was for the purpose of reconciliation?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t think there was any coolness between them before either of the times that Miss Pirie came.”

Lord Justice-Clerk Hope wishes to know if there might have been any private quarrel between them without her knowing it.

“Perhaps there might,” she answers, “but I don’t think that there was.”

“You do not think that there was,” John Clerk says, “but you do not know, do you?”

“No,” she responds.

“Miss Munro,” John Clerk continues, “when did you last receive the sacrament?”

“Last November.”

“According to the forms of the Church of Scotland?”

“And when had you last received it before that?”

“November 1808.”

“Did you speak with any clergyman before taking the sacrament the last time?”

“Did Miss Pirie advise you to have such a conversation in order to prepare yourself for receiving the sacrament? And did she not blame you for not having done so?”

“I don’t recollect.”

“Did you not have several conversations with Miss Pirie respecting religion?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“And did Miss Pirie not give you several instructions with regard to reading the Bible, and offer to go over with you what you read and explain it to you?”

“Did you complain to Miss Pirie that your time was so taken up with the lessons you had to learn that you did not have time to read the Bible?”

“Did you, Miss Munro?”

“I’m not sure I said that.”

“Did Miss Pirie not complain to you that she thought you had made little proficiency in religious knowledge?”

“No, she did not.”

“Before you took the sacrament, did Miss Pirie not tell you that Mr. Dickson, the minister, would converse with you?”

“Yes, but Miss Stevenson said she thought it unnecessary, so I didn’t talk with him.”

John Clerk goes to his table and brings two books to the witness. “Do you know these books?” he asks. One is Miss Pirie’s Bible; the other is a book on the sacrament, A Short and Plain Instruction for the Better Understanding of the Lord’s Supper for the Benefit of Young Communicants.

“Yes,” Miss Munro answers.

“Did Miss Pirie recommend to you serious perusal of several passages in the Bible, which she marked for you?”

“And in the sacrament book? Kindly read this marked passage,” he says and places the book in front of her.

“‘We are by nature sinners,’” she reads aloud, “‘and as such God cannot take pleasure in us. And if we die before we are restored to His favour, we shall be separated from Him and miserable forever.’”

He takes the book back and turns to another page. “Now read this marked passage,” he commands.

“‘How a Christian ought to prepare himself for the Sacrament: They must examine themselves thus, Whether they repent them truly of their former sins? Whether they steadfastly propose to lead a new life? Whether they have a lively faith in God’s mercy through Christ? Whether they have a thankful remembrance of His death? and whether they be in charity with all men?’”

“And here is another,” he says, turning the pages as she holds the book in her hand.

“‘If, therefore, you stand in any fear of the judgment of God, set yourself seriously to consider your past life: see whether you have not lived, or do not now live, in any known sin or evil habit …’”

“I believe that is sufficient, Miss Munro,” Lord Robertson says. “I would imagine we are all here familiar with the book.”

“Were these not the pages marked by Miss Pirie in order that you might pay particular attention to the passages therein?” John Clerk reiterates.

“Yes,” she answers.

“And, Miss Munro, was it not recently, before you took the sacrament, that Miss Pirie put this book into your hands? Were you not then on the same good terms of friendship with her as you had been from the beginning?”

“Do you remember that after taking the sacrament you came round to the table to Miss Pirie and shook hands with her and asked her how she did?”

“You do not remember that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Miss Munro, on the day when you finally left the school, do you remember coming into the small room next to the school room where Miss Pirie was sitting with the dance mistress?”

“Yes, I went into that room to ask Miss Pirie to excuse Miss Edgar some lines she was to recite.”

“Did you not say to her that your papa had come for you and you wondered what he wanted?”

“I don’t remember saying that. I think I supposed she knew my father had come for me.”

“Did you tell Miss Pirie you were going away never to return?”

“No, I didn’t know that myself at the time.”

Lord Justice-Clerk Hope interrupts. It is 11:30 A.M. and the Court is scheduled to meet with the lawyers on Crow against Mathieson before the morning is over. They will resume listening to the testimony of Janet Munro at 2:00 P.M. on this day.

The religious differences between Jane Pirie and Marianne Woods may have caused considerable difficulties once they lived together and tried to “raise children,” just as it might in a marriage if one partner or the other was fanatically religious. While Marianne seems to have modified Jane’s views when the relationship was new, perhaps by 1810, at a time when a wave of Evangelicalism was pouring over Scotland, bringing a revival of religious sternness, Marianne’s modifications had worn off.

It appears that the women agreed that those girls whose families belonged to the Church of England would be supervised in their religious training by Marianne, and Jane would look after those of the Church of Scotland. The plan was sensible, but its execution may not have been without conflict. From the time of the Presbyterian insurrection in 1688 to the mid-eighteenth century, Episcopalians had been severely persecuted in Scotland. In the streets of Edinburgh, Episcopalian clergymen were taunted by the school boys with rhymes such as:

Even if there was no outright hostility between Marianne Woods and Jane Pirie concerning Evangelicalism or Episcopalian persecution, Marianne would have found it hard to understand Jane’s extreme upset over Janet Munro’s taking the sacrament without preparation. According to Jane Pirie’s early religious training, to receive communion when one was unfit to take part in the “sealing ordinance”—having broken the Sabbath or sworn profanely or put on gaudy attire or spoken lies or evil of others—was to eat and drink damnation to oneself. She must have remembered how the ministers of her childhood admonished their congregations in this regard: “Will ye seal damnation to yourselves and, as it were, make it sure ye shall be damned, and so drive the last nail in your damnation? Rather put a knife to your throat than approach. What! Will ye be guilty of His body and blood? The worst morsel that ever ye tasted is to eat and drink eternal vengeance.”

Janet Munro, who appears to have been a spoiled young lady with very little religious training at home, was probably horrified by Jane Pirie’s passion over what Janet was used to treating lightly. Now she was told she was not fit to take the sacrament. She would have been resentful at this stringency of the school together with all its other stringencies. If she saw what she claimed she did, the mistresses’ hypocrisy must have overwhelmed her. But if the sex scenes were nothing more than her fabrication, it must have been a jolly good joke to say that those pious-acting women were more abandoned than common whores. She may not have been in a position to realize that Jane Pirie’s religious fervor was not shared by Marianne Woods, and that Marianne was probably wary of the disruption and bitterness Jane Pirie’s unyielding attitudes might cause the school. Marianne too must have had some contentions with Jane over her enthusiasm.

“Miss Munro, did you not, both before and after the time Miss Pirie came to your bed, always, whenever you happened to be near her, put your arm round her waist as expressive of kindness and affection for her?”

“No, I never did. At least I don’t remember doing that.”

“Were you not always anxious to sit next to Miss Pirie during the working hours?”

“Sometimes I sat next to her, but not generally.”

“Were you not always anxious to take her arm while you were all out walking?”

“Sometimes I used to take her arm, and so did several of the other girls. But that was because we learned our geography with Miss Pirie, and we often used to get part of our lesson while walking with her in that way.”

“However, Miss Munro, is it not true that when you found that Miss Pirie had given her arms to other young ladies for the walk of that day, you said—you often said—‘Well, remember I bespeak an arm for tomorrow’?”

“Perhaps I did. I have no recollection of it.”

“Miss Munro, did you not complain often of the difficulty of getting double tasks imposed by way of punishment?”

“Not more than the other scholars.”

“Do you remember that Miss Pirie talked to you several times about the need of sending you to what was called ‘the disgrace table,’ and you responded that you dared say it was all for your own good and you would bless the day you came to Drumsheugh?”

“I think I may have said that once, but I don’t remember when. And I don’t remember Miss Pirie talking to me about why I had to sit there. I would just be sent there if I didn’t do a lesson or something.”

“During the last three weeks you were at the school, had you not been at the disgrace table more frequently than before? Several times in those weeks?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t recollect.”

“Do you know this book?” he asks, placing before her A New History of England by the Reverend Mr. Cooper. “Is this not your discipline book?”

“It was the book from which we studied history.”

“But when you misbehaved you were given extra work from this book.”

“Yes. I had to memorize extra passages.”

He turns the pages, holding the book up for the judges to see. “Here it says, ‘October 11, 50 lines on Richard I for being forgetful,’ and here is ‘50 lines on Henry III for noise on October 20,’ and here is ‘100 lines for neglect of practising for the writing master, Mr. Mather, November 1st.’ Were these your disciplines?”

“Yes, and I had to do more work than that also.”

“And you resented all the work you had to do?”

“No, sir. I don’t think I did. It was more than I was used to, but I don’t think I resented it.”

“So you liked the school and your mistresses?”

“Until I found out what they were doing.”

“Did you not often confide in Miss Woods and Miss Pirie?”

“I’m not sure what you mean. I told them things you would tell a mistress.”

“Didn’t Miss Cumming propose that you and she become bedfellows, and didn’t you tell Miss Pirie that you did not know what to say to Miss Cumming, but you did not want to sleep with her?”

“When Miss Pirie told you that it was anyway out of the question to change rooms at that time, did you not tell her you were happy she prevented it?”

“I don’t remember saying I was happy she prevented it. I think I remember telling her that Miss Cumming proposed we be bedfellows.”

“Miss Munro, do you remember on one occasion when out on your walk that you and Miss Cumming got some apples between you, and each of you brought one to Miss Woods?”

“Yes, she was walking with us.”

“And you said you picked one on purpose for Miss Woods?”

“I don’t remember that.”

“How long was that before you left the school?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Mr. Clerk, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I must ask a question regarding some former testimony,” Lord Boyle says. “Miss Munro, you said you told Charlotte the maid after the second occasion that you were very tired because you were disturbed and got little sleep in the night. Is that correct?”

“But since day was breaking in the morning before you were disturbed, you must have had at least seven or eight hours’ sleep. You could not have been very tired for want of sleep, unless I suppose you had been restless before. Why did you say that to the maid?”

“Well, I think it was because Miss Cumming told me before that the maid knew how they behaved, so I said that to start the conversation.”

“May I ask something else please,” Lord Boyle says. “Miss Munro, as it was quite dark the first time Miss Pirie came into Miss Woods’ bed, how did you know that Miss Pirie lay above Miss Woods, rather than Miss Woods above Miss Pirie?”

“I don’t think I knew which one of them was uppermost the first time, sir.”

“Well, then,” he asks, “how in the dark did you know that one of them was lying above the other rather than by the side of the other?”

“My reason was that I couldn’t get the bed-clothes kept on me.”

“Then do you wish it understood,” Lord Boyle asks, “that you had not formed your opinion of one being above the other from having felt them in that situation?”

“Oh, no sir, on the contrary. I partly formed my opinion from having felt them, since they were lying so close to me. And I thought at that time, and still think, that I felt both their bodies at the same time.”

“Do any other of your Lordships wish to ask further questions?” John Clerk inquires. None do. “One further question from me, Miss Munro,” he says. “On the first occasion, when you think you felt the mistresses’ bodies one above the other, what were they wearing?”

“I think they had on nothing but their shifts.”

“Was it their naked bodies or their shifts that touched you?”

“Miss Munro, I understand that you are hard of hearing. How is it that you heard so much of their conversation?”

“There was much that I couldn’t hear, sir. But I’m only sometimes a little deaf in one ear. But that’s why I had to turn to hear what they were saying. I had been lying with my back to them, with my best ear on the pillow.”

John Clerk indicates he has no further questions. They are adjourned until Tuesday next at ten o’clock forenoon.

There are contradictions and inconsistencies in the witness’ testimony. First she says she believes Miss Pirie’s clothes were off. When asked why, the only reason she gives is that it was the dead of night. Later she says that when she felt the mistresses’ bodies one above the other they had on their shifts. When asked if it was their naked bodies or only their shifts that touched her, she says both. She contradicts herself also with regard to how and when her suspicions were first aroused, but it is in any case clear that Miss Cumming had a hand in arousing them. At a time when Miss Munro had seen nothing whatever of impropriety in the conduct of the mistresses, Miss Cumming had communicated to her that she and Charlotte had seen them behave in a way that was indecent. It is easy to conceive that Miss Munro’s imagination became greatly alive to the extraordinary details which Miss Cumming must have related to her in their conversations. Miss Munro said at one point that she became sensible of the mistresses’ wickedness only after Mary Brown, the nursery maid, informed her that their behaviour was indecent, but it appears to me from her testimony, contradictory as it is, that she had previously received a full communication from Miss Cumming and perhaps from Charlotte Whiffin. Her report to Brown must have been extremely strong, otherwise Brown could never have arrived so soon at her conclusion that the offenders merited burning.

It is impossible to listen to Miss Munro without observing that she has some strong grudges against the mistresses, although she seemed to have admired them as well. I would venture to guess that the harsh discipline at the school prompted her ambivalence and led directly to her finding grave fault with the two ladies.

I think it is perfectly clear that nothing could have made Miss Munro believe that one of those women was lying above the other unless it had been the fact. Counsel for the plaintiffs is apparently attempting to point out that she was influenced in her conclusion by others—Miss Cumming, Mary Brown, Charlotte Whiffin. But will any degree of influence account for such a complete fabrication as this? I must either conclude just as Miss Munro did about the mistresses’ behaviour, or I must believe that there was downright perjury, and I have seen no reason why she should so perjure herself. On the contrary, she seems to have had an amicable relationship with the mistresses and to have liked the school apart from her shocking discovery.

Who was Janet Munro? Dame Cumming Gordon’s attorney tried to present her as a carefully brought-up child. But would an innocent conceive of such indirection as to knock Jane Pirie with her elbow “accidentally” to let her know she saw her, or to open so deliberately a discussion with the maid about the mistresses’ indiscretions by saying she could not sleep because she was bothered in her bed? She was subtle in a way that the naive are not. What did such subtlety signify? It might have been a sign of a malicious temperament rather than any sort of sophistication.

It is not difficult to see what would have made her malicious. There was, to begin with, a good deal of sadness in her life. Her mother died when she was nine. Her father seems to have been distant, though maybe not unusually so for a nineteenth-century patriarch. She had neither the independence granted to the oldest daughter nor the attention given to the youngest children. There was no one in her immediate family with whom she believed herself to be on intimate terms. She could speak more freely to the nursery maid, who had never even been her own nurse, than she could to her sister. Was it because she knew the nurse would be more gullible than her sister, who would perhaps have accused her of inventing such a story? The nurse’s response must have been what Janet wanted, whether the tale was true or not: she expressed horror at the mistresses, she sympathized with Janet, and she passed the information on. Maybe Janet believed that filtered through the nurse, an adult, it would be treated with more credulity than it would have been coming directly from a sixteen-year-old.

She resented the discipline of the school: the work seemed to her excessive and she had never learned how to get by with going through the motions that would satisfy a teacher. Nor had she ever before been punished with the severity that was common at the school. Such punishment must have been a shock. It would have been enough to make her malicious toward the mistresses.

And how unpleasant the mistresses’ piety must have been to her. They made their students pray four times a day. Both Miss Pirie and Miss Woods must have seemed to her zealous in their religious instruction. Is it possible that they only wanted to impress upon the parents that theirs was a moral establishment? They could have thought that piety was a good blind if they wished to carry on outrageously. Or might they have been genuinely orthodox in all other areas, Miss Pirie in particular, and still carried on outrageously? Maybe their wild sexual activity, if it really happened, occupied only one small dark corner of their minds. Maybe they saw it as having nothing to do with their daytime piety. Maybe they believed that Christ would forgive them their weakness, and they would try to control themselves soon. Or maybe they could find nothing sacrilegious in their physical exchanges; but if they saw them as perfectly pious expressions of their love, would they not have tried to secure the privacy that such serious acts need?

Suppose that Janet fabricated the whole thing—or helped Jane Cumming fabricate it. She would not have needed a motive so melodramatic as fearing blackmail because Jane knew she had stolen a bracelet, which is what Hellman attributes to her counterpart in The Children’s Hour. She had never been away from home. It must have been terrifying for a young girl to find herself suddenly among total strangers. She would have wanted to ingratiate herself, especially among her peers. The oldest girls would have been the most powerful, the most important to please. Jane Cumming was one of the oldest—and then there was her connection with Dame Cumming Gordon. Janet’s family was wealthy but not titled. In that class-obsessed society what influence a girl like Jane Cumming would have had among the others, despite her “tinge of colour.” If she was manipulative, and perhaps hardened by frequent punishments as well as the facts of her life, what might she not have done with a pawn like Janet Munro?

The women’s attorney wanted to show that Janet was enamored of them, but perhaps her seeming affection was nothing more than civility or the sentimental conventions that were considered appropriate for a school girl toward her mistresses. It is clear, anyway, that there was some duplicity on her part, although that is probably not unusual for a sixteen-year-old who must find a way to survive in an alien place. Or did she develop a love-hate toward one or maybe both of the mistresses? She would want to see them suffer because they did not treat her with enough gentleness or the attention she would have liked to have had. I wonder if it is possible to become so strongly ambivalent in the space of a few weeks.

She chose the maid Charlotte Whiffin as a confidante at the school, but would she have confided in a maid she had known for so brief a time if she really wished to unburden a heavy heart? The studied casualness with which Janet opened the conversation—admittedly to get Charlotte to talk on the subject—suggests to me that she was not in great anguish when she related her shocking discoveries. Perhaps she thought the maid as easily scandalized as she guessed the nurse at home would be; and as the only accessible adult in the house she might help Janet take action—or she might provide good entertainment. I wonder if Janet was not looking for such titillation as the judges, and most of nineteenth-century Britain, believed that sixteen-year-old virgins never sought. Jane Cumming seems to have told her that Charlotte would respond with stories of her own, so she already knew what she might expect.

But what is to be made of Janet’s report of what Charlotte said? It reads like a description in a pornographic novel: two women lewd in dressing rooms and drawing rooms and broom closets. What, if anything, did Charlotte actually see to make her say, “They’re at it again”? It is conceivable that she was referring to their arguments and their reconciliations, while Janet chose to interpret such remarks to mean something else. Or maybe Charlotte saw the mistresses embracing passionately, as Eleanor Butler and Sarah Ponsonby, Mary Wollstonecraft and Fanny Blood, Mme. Récamier and Mme. de Staël must have embraced in their day—but coming from a less sentimental class and (at nineteen) having had little exposure to such ladies, Charlotte might have viewed their embrace as it would never have occurred to them to view it. But who can be sure of what Charlotte really said to Janet: did she describe the women “lying” together, as Janet reports; or did she not give any “particulars,” as Janet says at another point?

I can’t imagine what the mistresses might have done out of bed that would have aroused genuine suspicion in their day. Novels and poems and diaries and letters show that romantic friends hung on each other and kissed and caressed. So how might Woods and Pirie’s public kisses and embraces have been different from those of other romantic friends? Perhaps once knowing of the mistresses’ bed behavior, once understanding that there are no limits to erotic possibilities between women, Janet saw in a new light what would usually have been considered normal in their daytime caresses. Not having been privy to such night scenes, most people would never have put that construction on the mistresses’ embraces.

I’m fascinated by Janet’s assertion that she suspected the mistresses were sexually intimate because they quarreled. Lovers quarrel in her universe. Had she observed a good deal of quarreling between her mother and father, as a young child? Where else would she have learned to connect intimacy with turbulent anger? I think I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Ollie and I have seriously quarreled in eleven years. I doubt that Eleanor and Sarah quarreled much.

I think Janet may have reported what she saw truly, but with skewed vision, distorted by the promptings of Jane Cumming. Maybe she saw the mistresses together in bed all right, but they were—in combat? Shaking each other, out of fury? Maybe Miss Woods had just told Miss Pirie that she couldn’t send her aunt to a flat after all because of the cataracts, and maybe Miss Pirie grabbed her and cried, “Marianne, after your promises? I believed you. Have you no regard for me? Do I mean nothing to you?” And maybe Miss Woods cried back, “Get hold of yourself, Jane. You’ll wake everyone. Please, please stop. You’ll ruin us.” Then Miss Pirie might have controlled herself, and they might have held each other for some tearful moments. If Janet had said something to them just then, they would have been startled, and then ashamed of themselves. They would have tried to disguise their actions. Miss Pirie might have explained that she was only standing there, that they were doing nothing untoward. If they were embarrassed by their violent quarrels, that would explain why the maid had seen them red-faced. Or maybe not. Maybe the women were insane enough, distracted enough, desperate enough, actually to have sex in a bed that their sixteen-year-old student shared, or where they might be observed by anyone. Is that consistent with anything that is known of them? I think I would have been a Jane Pirie had I lived 170 years ago. I cannot believe she was less prudent than I am.

I am like Lord Meadowbank. My tendency is to doubt what is extraordinarily wicked and unnatural. Their alleged sexual play would have been neither one (not in Lord Meadowbank’s world, but from my modern perspective), except that it was supposed to have been carried on in the presence of children. Either they were monsters, as Dame Cumming Gordon believed, or they were innocent.

Ollie has decided she needs some distance from her own manuscript, and she wants to let it alone for a month or so, perhaps for as long as we stay in Edinburgh. It sits on top of the little refrigerator in our flat, all six hundred pages, menacing her. I wish I could do more than give her my sympathy over it, but I can see that at this stage she needs to work it out for herself. She says she wants to “get involved” with my project for a while. I’m truly grateful. I feel overwhelmed by the mass of material I must wade through in the next two months.

“When were you first made aware of Miss Munro’s complaint regarding her mistresses?” he asks.

“Well, your honour,” she says, “the family of Mr. Munro came to town on the 1st of October last, and then I came on the Wednesday with the children.”

“And that is when Miss Munro told you of what she had witnessed at the school?”

“No, your honor. When I came Miss Janet Munro was herself at the school. She came to visit her father at the lodgings in Edinburgh on the Saturday next, and she stayed all night.”

“And it was at that time that Miss Munro confided to you what she had observed?”

“Yes, your honour. It was while I was attending the children. Miss Janet called me two times into her room and seemed anxious that she should get me alone.”

“Did she get you alone?”

“Not the first time, but the second time I had just finished putting the children to bed.”

“And what happened?”

“I believe that I asked her how she liked her new school. And she told me she liked it very well but there was one thing very disagreeable to her.”

“Did she tell you what that was?” Cranstoun asks.

“Not right away. But I told Miss Janet she must tell me. Then she said nothing, and after a minute, being like to cry, she said that one mistress came to the bed that Miss Janet shared with the other one. She came in the middle of the night.”

“Did Miss Janet tell you anything further?”

“She said she was awakened with a noise and disturbed with the bed shaking, and she could not get the bed-clothes kept on. She said she spoke to the mistress—not the one she slept with but the other …”

“I think that was it. And she desired this Miss Pirie to go away as she could not get sleep, but Miss Pirie said that she was standing by the bedside. Then the one Miss Janet slept with …”

“I think that was her name, your honour. This Miss Woods told her friend she had better go away.”

“Are those the very words Miss Janet used when she told you this during the first week in October?”

“Yes, your honour.”

“Did she tell you anything else?”

“Oh, yes. She said that the one who came to visit was lying above the other.”

“Did she say they were kissing one another?”

“Mary,” Lord Justice-Clerk Hope asks, “did Miss Janet tell you that the mistresses lay still, or that there was any motion between them?”

“I can’t remember that, your honours,” she says, “but she said the bed shook.”

“Was that the end of your conversation with Miss Janet that evening?” Cranstoun asks.

“No, your honour. She asked me what I thought it was, and I said that it was a wicked thing and that they were worse than beasts and deserved to be burned if it was true. And then Miss Janet answered, ‘Oh, yes, Mary. It is perfectly true.’ So I told her that if she ever saw the same thing again to let me know.”

“And did she ever mention it again?”

“Yes, your honour. I saw her on the next Saturday when she came home and stayed all night.”

“What conversation did you have with her on that occasion?”

“Well, when she came into the nursery that afternoon to inquire after the children, I then asked her if anything bad was still going on at the school and she answered, yes, it was as bad as ever, and that the mistresses had again carried on in the same manner as before.”

“Can you tell the court exactly what Miss Janet said, Mary?”

“Miss Janet said that she had lain long awake and coughed and turned herself to make them understand she was awake, and that she saw the mistress who didn’t belong there in bed with herself and the other lady. Then the one Miss Janet slept with desired her to get up and get a glass of water and she did so, but when she came back with it the other one had slipt out of the room.”

“Did Miss Janet tell you what conversation passed then between her and her bedfellow?”

“I don’t remember. I think Miss Janet fell asleep.”

“After Miss Janet told you this, what did you say?”

“Why, I said it was a very dreadful thing, and one of them is certainly a man.”

“Did you ask Miss Janet if anyone else had seen the same things?”

“Yes, your honour. Miss Cumming, the granddaughter of Lady Gordon, told her the same thing had happened to her, because she shared a bed with the other teacher—and the one who slept with Miss Janet often came to visit them in the middle of the night. So then I said to Miss Janet that she must not sleep with the teacher. She must get another bed for herself.”

“Mary, how long have you been in Mr. Munro’s family?”

“Seven years, your honour.”

“Mary, what sort of a girl do you consider Miss Janet as to veracity?”

“I mean as to telling truth or lies?”

John Clerk objects to the question. His objection is sustained by the judges. “Then I have no other questions,” Cranstoun says.

John Clerk rises to interrogate the servant, Mary Brown, for the plaintiffs.

“Miss Brown,” he asks, “did any more conversation take place between you and Miss Munro that second Saturday?”

“I don’t think so, your honour,” she says.

“You may call me ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Clerk’” he says. “Now, Miss Brown, please take time to recollect. Something may come to you.”

She pauses a minute. “No, sir. I don’t remember any other conversation except that I said to Miss Janet that she ought to let it all be known to the other young ladies at the school, so that it might be found out and stopped.”

“What did Miss Munro say to that?”

“I don’t remember exactly what she said, but it was something about the other young ladies being all little.”

“Mary,” Lord Boyle asks, “did Miss Munro desire you to tell her father or elder sister?”

“Did she desire you to tell anyone?”

“On the first Saturday she said that I might tell Miss Isabella Murdoch, her aunt who stayed with us, I think I asked her if I might, and first she said no, then she said yes. So that same night, when Miss Murdoch came to the nursery to see the children, I began to tell her, but she would not listen to it and went out of the nursery. I remember I was just beginning to tell her about it and she said something—I can’t remember what—but she didn’t seem to be listening to me. Then she left the room. And a day or two after she went to Glasgow, and she still remains there, so I never told her anything more of it.”

“Did you tell any other person?” Lord Boyle asks.

John Clerk resumes. “What was your reason for concealing it?” he asks.

“Because it was so strange and dreadful a story, and the other servants were all new, and I had no one to tell it to.”

“What was your reason for concealing it from Mr. Munro?”

“I did not like to tell it to him, and I had no other female in the house to tell it to.”

“What was your reason for concealing it from Miss Stevenson and the elder Miss Munro?”

“I could tell it to none of them. It was such a horrible thing that I could not speak of it.”

“What did you think would become of Miss Janet Munro from such horrible proceedings in the meantime, and before they were discovered?”

“Why, I always hoped Miss Janet would make it public among the other young ladies, and that it would be discovered by some other way. I could tell it to nobody.”

“Miss Brown, was it your real opinion that one of the mistresses was a man?”

“I don’t recall whether it was. But I was very angry about it, and I thought it so peculiar, so I just said surely one of them must be a man.”

“But if you did not really believe that one of the mistresses was a man, what sort of wickedness did you suppose had taken place?”

“Why, I can give no account of it, sir. I think I read something about it in the Bible—but I don’t remember what it is.”

“Is it in the Old Testament or the New Testament?” John Clerk asks.

“I’m not sure, but certainly I think it’s in the New Testament.”

“Did you ever hear of such wickedness being actually practised, or how it was practised?”

“I never did by any other women. I never heard anything about how it was done.”

“Did you tell Miss Munro it was a wickedness mentioned in the Bible?”

“Now, Mary,” the Lord Justice-Clerk says, “you have said the mistresses were not kissing one another. And you have said that Miss Munro did not tell you any other circumstance from which you inferred that they were lewd or indecent or criminal, except that Miss Pirie was lying above Miss Woods and that the bed was shaking. Without any explanation of those circumstances, how came you to think and say to Miss Munro that their conduct was so dreadful that they should be burned?”

“Sir, I can’t say. But it is God’s truth that I did think that and that I still think it was very bad indeed.”

John Clerk resumes. “Miss Brown, how far had you proceeded in your story to Miss Murdoch?”

“I think I had told her there was something very wicked at the school, and that one mistress came to the other’s bed. But she interrupted me, saying something like, ‘Oh, Mary, is that true?’ And then she left the room right away and I never had a chance to tell her the rest.”

“Did you tell Miss Munro that Miss Murdoch would not listen to you?”

“I had no chance that first Saturday, but I did the next one. And by that time Miss Murdoch was already gone to Glasgow, sir.”

He has no further questions.

Cranstoun is asked if he has further questions of the witness. He does not.

Charlotte Whiffin is called as a witness for the defendant and is sworn in. She is nineteen, from the county of Kent, unmarried, former servant at the plaintiffs’ school. Five judges are present, Hope, Meadowbank, Robertson, Boyle, and Newton, as well as George Cranstoun and his junior advocate, John Erskine, for the defendant and John Clerk for the plaintiffs. Marianne Woods, Jane Pirie, and Lady Cumming Gordon are also present.

In response to Erskine’s questions, Charlotte Whiffin tells the Court that she has been in the service of the mistresses since the 16th of May last, and that she knows Miss Munro and Miss Cumming who were boarders at the Drumsheugh school.

“Charlotte,” Erskine asks, “did you ever hear those young ladies say anything about the conduct of the mistresses in the beds they shared with Miss Cumming and Miss Munro, and did you take part in the conversation, or did you relate anything to the young ladies which you had seen or known?”

John Clerk rises to his feet and objects. The Lord Justice-Clerk sustains his objection and instructs Erskine first to examine the witness as to what she saw and not what she said.

“Charlotte,” Erskine begins again, “did you at any time observe anything in the conduct of the mistresses towards each other that appeared to be extraordinary or indecent, or that led you to be surprised at what you saw?”

“No, sir,” she answers.

He stares at her and then looks at Cranstoun, who also stares at the girl. “Perhaps she did not understand the question, your Lordships,” Cranstoun rises to say. “May counsel for the defence repeat it?” Hope nods yes.

“I understand the question,” Charlotte says tonelessly. “I never saw them doing anything they should not be doing.”

“Now, Charlotte,” Erskine asks, “did you not see Miss Woods and Miss Pirie kiss each other, or show any uncommon marks of affection for each other?”

“I never saw any such thing,” she states.

“Charlotte, did you ever see the mistresses lying together in the drawing room or the dressing room?”

“Charlotte, I want you to think more carefully,” Erskine admonishes her. “Did you ever …”

John Clerk objects to the manner in which the question is stated. He is sustained.

“Charlotte,” Erskine says, “did you not on any occasion go into the drawing room in order to speak to Miss Pirie and Miss Woods, and find the drawing room door locked or bolted when the mistresses were in there together?”

“I never went to the room and found the doors bolted.”

“Charlotte,” Erskine asks, “did you never observe any dispute or high words between the mistresses?”

“Oh, come now, Charlotte,” he says, “you never heard them quarrelling?”

“Well—maybe I heard them quarrelling sometimes, between themselves.”

Erskine turns to the judges, exasperated. “Your Lordships, since the witness denies having seen the plaintiffs together, may I now ask the questions with which I began?” He is given permission.

“Did you at any time hear the young ladies discuss the conduct of the mistresses in their beds, and how they were disturbed by that conduct? Did you not take part in the conversation?” Erskine asks the maid.

“No.” She is exasperated too.

“No, what?” Erskine asks.

“Well, I had seen these young ladies together, and talking together, but I don’t know what it was about, and I never told them that I had seen anything wrong in what my mistresses did.”

“Charlotte,” he asks calmly, “do you remember Miss Woods’ birthday in October last?”

“Yes,” she says tentatively.

“Do you remember anything in the way of festivities, disguising or masquerading in the house?”

“Nothing very big. The other servant put on some clothes, and she and I went upstairs together to amuse the young ladies, but we did not stay long.”

“Was there a girl serving in the house by the name of Nancy?”

“Yes, that was the one I just mentioned.”

Erskine stares at her. “What was Nancy wearing that night?” he asks.

“She had men’s clothes on over her own clothes.”

“Was there anything particular in Nancy’s situation at that time?” he asks.

“She was with child, but it could not be noticed.”

“Do you mean that it could not be noticed when she had on men’s clothes, or it could not be noticed when she was in her ordinary dress?”

“Well, some people might and some people might not notice it in her ordinary dress. It was harder to notice when she had on men’s clothes.”

Erskine has no further questions. John Clerk is permitted to question the witness.

“When you entered the service of Miss Woods and Miss Pirie, did you not engage for six months?”

“Yes,” she says. “And about a week before the first six months was up I engaged to serve them another six months.”

“Do you know a girl called Bell Campbell?” Clerk asks.

“Yes, she come in the place of Nancy, Martinmas last.”

“Did she ask you at the time she was hired if it was a good place or not?”

“And what was your response?” Clerk asks.

“I said it was a very good place and I had been very comfortable ever since I was in it.”

“What were your duties in your job, Miss Whiffin?”

“Now they are changed,” she answers, “but when the school was still going I was to wake the young ladies in the morning, and then do up the school room. Then to help with the serving of the breakfast. Then to make the beds, and then to do washing or other cleaning.”

“Miss Whiffin, after the scholars assembled in the school room, what did they do?”

“Prayers was the first thing.”

“Did you attend?”

“Either I or Nancy or Bell would attend, excepting on washing days.”

“Would you say that your mistresses were very attentive to the behaviour and conduct of those under their charge?”

Erskine objects. The Lord Justice-Clerk overrules.

“They were very careful,” Charlotte affirms. “They were always with the young ladies and they had prayers four times a day.”

“Miss Whiffin, when Miss Cumming left the school for good, did you know why she was leaving?”

“Oh, no. I thought she had been coming back the same as usual. At least she said nothing different.”

“When were the other scholars taken away?” Clerk asks.

“Right after Miss Cumming.”

“Did you know what the cause was?”

“No, and I heard no surmise of it. I thought on the Wednesday night when they were taken away so many of them together that they were going to some ball or entertainment.”

“Did you at that time hear it speculated that the school had gone bankrupt?”

“That was the first reason I heard for the young ladies being taken away.”

“Miss Whiffin,” John Clerk asks, “do you recollect, shortly after this, meeting Miss Cumming in Charlotte Square?”

“Yes. I saw her as I was accidentally passing through Charlotte Square on that Friday. And Miss Margaret Dunbar, her cousin, who had also been a scholar, was with her.”

“Can you say what occurred on that occasion, please?”

“They came up to me and asked me if all the scholars had left the school, and I said all but two, and they seemed very glad of it. Miss Cumming turned to Miss Dunbar and clapped her hands and said, ‘Do you hear, Margaret, they are almost all gone.’ Then I asked Miss Cumming if she knew what was the reason, and she said she did not.”

“Miss Whiffin, did you know that Miss Pirie often had back pains?”

“Yes, I know she does because I was sometimes asked to rub her back.”

“Did Miss Pirie sleep with her bed gown and petticoat?”

“I know she sleeps with a bed gown. I don’t know about a petticoat.”

“Miss Whiffin, who made the beds in the morning?”

“I did, with Nancy and then with Bell.”

“Was there anything particular in the bed in which Miss Pirie and Miss Cumming slept?”

“I don’t remember anything particular, only that we used to make it last.”

“Why?” Clerk asks.

“We used to throw the bed clothes open and let it get air, because we thought that bed had a smell. Also, I remember that it was a feather bed, and we always saw a big swell in the middle of it.”

“What does that mean?” Clerk asks.

“Why, that the two persons who had slept in it slept at a big distance from each other.”

“Miss Whiffin, did you ever hear Nancy talk of having looked through the keyholes of any of the drawing room doors, or did you ever try to look through them yourself?”

“Never. Neither one.”

“Do the doors have keyholes?”

“I don’t remember. I think they do.”

“Did you ever hear Miss Munro accuse the mistresses of improper conduct?”

“Not any such thing.”

“Did you ever hear Miss Cumming accuse them of improper conduct?”

“In your hearing?”

“Do you remember what was called the disgrace table, Miss Whiffin?”

“Were any of the scholars sent often to the disgrace table?”

“Miss Munro was often at it just before she left the school.”

“Miss Whiffin, did the mistresses know of Nancy disguising herself as a man on Miss Woods’ birthnight?”

“They found out about it only when they came upstairs.”

“Did you ever express to any of the young ladies any dissatisfaction with your mistresses, or use any expressions such as that you were a better lady than them?”

“Oh, not at all.”

“One final question, Miss Whiffin. You said earlier that the young ladies never complained to you about being disturbed in the night, and the counsel for the defence appeared to be rather surprised at your statement. Now that you have had time to collect yourself, and you seem to be a bit more calm, will you think on the question again. Did you ever hear such a complaint from the young ladies?”

“Well, I do remember one morning Miss Munro complaining to me that she had been disturbed by Miss Woods making her get out of bed to bring some water.”

“And what did you say to Miss Munro?”

“Nothing except that I wondered that Miss Woods had not rung the bell.”

“And that is absolutely all you know of complaints about night time disturbances?”

Mr. Clerk has no further questions, nor does counsel for the defendant wish to cross-examine. The Court is adjourned until March 21, 1811, at 10 A.M.

Miss Munro received instruction as to the horrid nature of the vice imputed to the mistresses from the nurse maid, Mary Brown. It is apparent that by her questions she encouraged Miss Munro to talk. Perhaps the questions helped to fabricate the answers. I have ever in my own family abstained from such examination of children, as I am confident from my long observation that it affords the strongest temptation to invention and falsehood. It appears to me that Mary Brown’s testimony serves only to verify the suspicion that Miss Munro’s perception was distorted by those with whom she spoke.

On the other hand, Charlotte Whiffin’s denial of all knowledge that the mistresses were suspected of improper conduct by the scholars, and her further denial that she herself shared those suspicions, is unfavourable to the plaintiffs. Must she not have been coerced by the mistresses into falsehood? And what else but their conscious guilt could have prompted such a measure?

Or might it be that the maid is lying because she is trying to conceal having spoken in disrespectful and contemptuous language of her mistresses?

Yet there is another possibility to account for her denials. Maybe she is simply a domestic of little conscience. Falsehood is the ordinary vice of persons in her line of life. She may have invented tales in order to flatter any fancy that she saw was a favourite with the older scholars—tales which she knew were lies and could not stand an investigation under oath. She would be ashamed to admit that she had lied. She would wish to escape that shame, as well as the risk of detection if she attempted to insist her tales were true. She would thus conclude that it was safest and easiest to deny everything about the matter. I believe it is significant that, according to Miss Munro, Charlotte never said anything to her about the indecent behavior of Woods and Pirie until Miss Munro told Charlotte she had been disturbed. It is probable that Charlotte, once having heard such a remark, chose to encourage it further by detailing and exaggerating circumstances which may have been quite innocent.

However, the true history of Charlotte Whiffin’s conduct seems to me of little importance. The defendant may think otherwise, but she herself is to blame that it cannot now be dived into. Instead of swallowing at once a story so extraordinary and improbable in all its circumstances, she should have proceeded with due caution and made immediate inquiry of the maid and everyone else referred to in the story. Had she done that she would have been able to fasten down the truth so that it could not be controverted or disguised, as it may now be by Charlotte Whiffin or any other person.

Whiffin is lying and very frightened, this great slatternly gawk of a girl. But what a position in which to find herself: what can she know of courts and testimony and the workings of justice and the squabbles of her betters? She wishes only to get back to her penny ghost tales and mops and dusters. Yet I do believe she told the girls that her mistresses behaved indecently. Miss Munro’s account of Whiffin’s stories is too clear to be manufactured. She told the tale all right. Of course, one cannot assume that what she told the young ladies was truth.

Now Brown is as like Whiffin as fin is like firmament. She is a starched, proper little person, plain looking but not unpleasantly so. I would venture to guess that her scrupulousness of appearance bespeaks a scrupulousness of behaviour: I doubt that there is a particle of prevarication in her entire being. But what has she sworn to, after all? That Janet Munro told her a particular story and that she responded to the story in a particular way. Her testimony neither proves nor disproves the veracity of the story. What does prove its veracity is its very outrageousness. Fiction lags after truth.

Whiffin: Whiffin continued in the employ of Miss Pirie for a month after the school was broken up and, it is my understanding, still does occasional work for her. Counsel for the defense ought to have realized that she would be a useless witness. What can they have been thinking? The girl has clearly perjured herself in denying everything. Ought she not be sentenced to jail for perjury? Discuss in Hope’s chambers next P.M. if time permits!

Most young servants of the early nineteenth century must have led lives of unimaginable tedium. It was usual for a girl to go into service at the age of twelve or thirteen and, as often as not, to be forced to make her bed on the stone flags under the kitchen table or in another spot that was equally well designed to mortify flesh and bone. Servant girls were often lured from the country to the big city by the stories of other girls who returned from London or Edinburgh or Glasgow to visit an ailing mother or to attend the funeral of some close relative. They might be dressed in their mistresses’ cast-off silks and satins and laces and have tales to tell of the splendor of the Lord Mayor’s show and the castle guards and all the fair and incredible creatures they saw daily. But the lot of the servant girl was often harsh. In a large household, a maid of all work, as Charlotte was, would have had to rise at 5 A.M., and lift and carry and stoop and scrub, and be at the beck and call of master and mistress and their many sons and daughters until 11 P.M. or later, all for the princely sum of five or six pounds per annum with board and a place to lay her head.

Charlotte, who was nineteen at the time of the trial, may well have had a few years of such a regimen before she came to work at the school. She would have known a good place—one where the mistresses were not on her all day, since they had work of their own to do, and where there was no master and sons and daughters to obey—and she would have been determined to keep such a job. She would not have been happy with Janet Munro and Jane Cumming for ruining this comparative sinecure for her, and of course she would have lied in court had she thought her lies could help restore the old order.

But I would guess that she was ambivalent: she really may have told the tales that Janet attributed to her; she may have said of her mistresses, “It’s a pity they could not get a man,” and “Who would serve such mistresses?” Having no status of their own, servants often claimed a share of their employer’s status, so that the servant of a Duchess was worth more, both in her own eyes and in those of other menials, than the servant of a Baroness. The servant of two middle-class women who had no prestige above being proprietors of a girls’ school must have felt tiny in this scale of things. Charlotte’s hostility toward her mistresses—which was probably common enough between maid and mistress in the nineteenth century—was compounded because, as Charlotte saw them, they were barely above her in the pecking order: they too were at the mercy of wealthier employers who could tell them what to do and fire them if they did not do it. And if they dared to give themselves airs (as I suspect Mrs. Woods and Jane Pirie must have done from time to time), she would have disdained them.

There was generally a rigid hierarchy among servants, even in one household. The closer to the persons of the master and his family were the duties performed, the higher the prestige of the servant. In a large house, the higher servants dined in the servants’ hall. In small households, the entire staff dined together, but the servants who held the highest posts occupied seats at the head of the table, and the others sat according to rank in descending order. In a mansion such as Janet Munro’s family owned outside of Edinburgh, the nurse was usually quartered on the floor near her charges, while the common servants slept in the attic story or, if there was no room there, in nooks and crannies or in the kitchen.

Mary Brown’s position would have been quite different from Charlotte’s since, as a nurse hired to care for the children of a wealthy gentleman, she would have been fairly high in the servant social order; she would have sat near the head of the servants’ table and had a bedroom near her charges, in a comfortable part of the house; and she would likely have been awed by those whose status raised hers and who were at the same time so far above her. She might have really believed that Janet never lied because gentlemen’s daughters had no need to lie. Yet, Miss Murdoch, the aunt, thought that Janet lied, or she would not have said to the story, “Oh, Mary, is that true?”

Why did Mary persist in her total credulity after Miss Murdoch’s response? Or was she so credulous? Perhaps she testified that Janet Munro never lied because, like Charlotte, she knew a good position and wished to keep it. She appeared to be quite without craft, but given class relations at that time, surely all servants needed to learn some cunning if they were to survive.

Charlotte was crafty—rather, she would have liked to be crafty, but she was often merely transparent. Or did she deny everything not out of what she thought was cunning design but out of terror? If she says, “No,” “I don’t know,” “I never did,” then she cuts the interrogation short: much, much easier to perjure herself than to have to explain what she meant by saying she was a better lady than her mistresses, or why she thought the drawing room doors were bolted. Even if Charlotte saw what Janet Munro said she claimed to have seen, would Charlotte have admitted it? Having made such an admission, she would have been forced to describe in graphic detail, in a courtroom full of men, two women flailing together. Janet Munro described it, but she had no choice. I think Charlotte must have figured she would brazen it out with denials. She put a bold face on it—she stared Erskine down and would not bend to his bullying. I am sure she was quaking within all the while.

What puzzle me completely, however, are Erskine’s motives when he so persistently drew out of Charlotte the story about Nancy. He seems to have wanted to show that the mistresses were immoral enough to keep a pregnant woman in their hire (she must have been unmarried), but why did he want to establish that Nancy had dressed as a man one night? Was he trying to associate in the judges’ minds cross-dressing and lesbianism? In the eighteenth century there were cases that came before the British courts of women who dressed as men and made love to other women, such as that of Mary Hamilton, on which Henry Fielding deliberated in 1746. In 1777 there was another such case in London: a female adventurer who disguised herself in male attire and, in the course of her career, married three women. She was sentenced to be exposed in the pillory (so that other women might recognize her in the future) and then imprisoned. But if Erskine had been familiar with those cases he surely would have mentioned them.

However, even though he did not know of those specific incidents, he seems to have been hinting that because the mistresses permitted Nancy to dress as a man they were tolerant of transvestism, which suggested they themselves were not above it, which proved they were indeed lesbians. But Nancy got herself pregnant heterosexually. Immorality must have been immorality to Erskine: if you permitted one kind to go on under your nose, you were yourself capable of any variety of sin. Nancy’s brief transvestism must only have tickled his imagination further.

But apparently most people thought it inconceivable that two mere women could make love together: Mary said, when she first heard the tale, that one of the mistresses was surely a man. Later she claimed to know that according to the New Testament, two women could commit sexual sins together, although she had never heard of its being practiced and had no idea how it was done.

Ollie asks, “What else could she have said? Like Charlotte, she knew that if she admitted to knowledge, she would have had to explain—in a roomful of men.”

I suppose Ollie is right. Such a starched personage as Mary Brown would have been even more reluctant than Charlotte to discuss sex, especially unorthodox sex, in front of so imposing a masculine congregation. But I can believe that her innocence was genuine, that she knew nothing about what women could do together.

Ollie thinks that women always knew, about all of it, no matter what their societies tried to teach them: when they were alone with themselves or each other, their bodies taught them. I think they certainly knew about masturbation. According to the eighteenth-century Swiss doctor Samuel Tissot, women spent a great deal of time indulging themselves. But masturbation is different from sex with another person, male or female. An act done alone, without witnesses, can be denied even to yourself. If another person shares in the act, you have her consciousness to contend with as well as your own. And if you have been convinced that no one else indulges in such corruption and you should not want to, could you bear both your knowing and her knowing?

Ollie thinks I am as naïve as nineteenth-century men when I confuse what “ought” to have been with what was. But I think that for many women, what ought to be, in fact was. I have no trouble believing John Fowles’ picture of Ernestina in The French Lieutenant’s Woman, the pure Victorian girl who, whenever thoughts of coupling invaded her mind, would quickly blast them out by chanting, “I must not.” Ollie says that is only what nineteenth-century men would have liked to think, and that it is as possible to blast such thoughts out of your mind as it is not to think of tigers if someone says, “Don’t think of tigers.”

But I do not think I am so unusual. I can stop myself from thinking of tigers.

“You are indeed unusual,” Ollie says. “Most people can’t.”

Perhaps they can’t, but they can stop themselves from acting on their thoughts—and they generally have: in the 1950s only 20 percent of the unmarried female population in America had had intercourse by the age of nineteen. In 1970 about 50 percent had. Just a couple of decades earlier, 30 percent fewer acted on their thoughts because society said they weren’t supposed to. If that is true of heterosexual behavior, it must have been at least as true of lesbian behavior.

But then, there have always been that 20 percent, or 10 or 5, who did what they weren’t supposed to be doing. The question is, did Marianne Woods and Jane Pirie think of tigers? And did they ride them?

Ollie says she will go with me to the Scottish Record Office tomorrow. I want to find out if Marianne Woods or Jane Pirie ever married. I cannot imagine Jane Pirie as the wife of some Scottish patriarch with a brood of half a dozen. But Marianne Woods might have sought what would have appeared to be a safe harbor after the grueling punishment of the trial. I think she was less driving, less ambitious than her friend. I think she admired Jane Pirie at the start because Jane possessed those fierce qualities that Marianne herself lacked, though living with so foreign a temperament from day to day made her miserable. After the unhappiness of their brief union, she might have considered that marriage was not so inimical to her.

I would imagine that Lady Cumming Gordon was extremely annoyed with Cranstoun for having permitted the junior attorney to examine the maid. Cranstoun must have explained that Mr. Erskine was one of the most brilliant young lawyers in Edinburgh, and they had anyway been positive that Charlotte would simply corroborate all that Lady Cumming Gordon’s granddaughter had said. But who might they call now to corroborate Jane Cumming’s story?

Lady Cumming Gordon offered another granddaughter, Margaret Dunbar, to whom Jane Cumming said she had related the events as they occurred. Cranstoun guessed that the plaintiffs would successfully challenge the calling of Miss Dunbar because of her propinquity to the defendant—although Jane Cumming’s calling could not be challenged because she was an eyewitness and not a relative under the law of the country.

Perhaps Cranstoun suggested to Lady Cumming Gordon that they might locate the washerwomen at the Water of Leith who were supposed to have hooted at the mistresses because of their infamy; however Lady Cumming Gordon would not stoop to trafficking with such creatures.

Cranstoun then requested that he be permitted to contact Mrs. Edgar, the mother of the student who was said by Janet Munro to have laughed when she witnessed the mistresses’ indiscretions. But Mrs. Edgar would not see the attorney and informed him by letter that her daughter knew nothing of the situation and had nothing to say in court.

Cranstoun had gotten a delay of testimony for only a few days, and he needed to find additional witnesses immediately. He pleaded with Lady Cumming Gordon to take an active part in helping him. If they did not succeed in producing additional witnesses, he said, he felt sure the case would be lost. I can imagine that Lady Cumming Gordon announced to her family that she would fire Cranstoun and find a more competent attorney, but her son-in-law, John Forbes, who was a Lord of Session of the First Division, would have advised her that it would be very unwise to change counsel right in the midst of the trial.

Lady Cumming Gordon agreed then to appeal to Mrs. Stirling, the mother of Eliza Stirling, who, according to Jane Cumming, had often spoken with her and Janet Munro about the mistresses’ conduct. Lady Cumming Gordon wrote to Mrs. Stirling:

Seeing that the request I am about to make to you is necessary, I am inclined to make it a personal one since I think that will be less disagreeable to you than any communication from my counsel. You cannot be ignorant of the very wretched affair in which I am now involved because I acted as I feel any Christian mother would have acted in the same situation. If your daughter had told you what my poor girl told me, you probably would have been called upon to act the part that I did; you would have been the one to inform the mothers of the other children to remove their girls from a situation which would have been their ruin had they remained. Since that job fell to me, I hope you will feel now that we have a common cause. These women are suing me for damages with a view to clear their characters and to enable them to set up school again. They have many friends and the story is so horrible that although my granddaughter and Miss Munro are perfectly clear, and there are many other proofs, yet my counsel thinks it necessary to ask your daughter to say what she knows either from her own observation or from what she heard the maid say. I trust that no overscrupulous delicacy will prevent you from doing what I hope you will feel to be justice to me. It is already known that Miss Stirling has corroborated the other girls’ testimony, and if we fail to establish a complete proof all who are concerned will be held responsible for inventing this horrible story. As I said before, I hope you will look on this business as a common cause in which, God knows, I have had the worst share. Let me beg your forgiveness for the trouble I have given, and I remain,

No doubt Mrs. Stirling would have preferred to be as protective of her child as was Mrs. Edgar, and a plea from George Cranstoun she might well have ignored, but not a personal plea from Lady Cumming Gordon of Altyre and Gordonstoun. However, she was anxious that her daughter not be called as a witness and probably hoped that her insistence on the girl’s innocence of the matter would discourage Lady Cumming Gordon from pursuing that line any further:

I received your letter of the 22nd this morning, which distresses me extremely since I hoped all your anxiety about Misses Woods and Pirie was at an end. I know the part you have taken in this disagreeable business proceeded from the very best motive, and I am sure you will not lose your reward, however it may terminate. I would give you every support in my power most willingly, but I am quite at a loss how to make out any clear statement from my daughter. When she came home I asked her never to mention the subject and to discharge it from her mind. She never witnessed anything improper in the behaviour of Misses W. and P. Therefore anything she could say would be of no more avail than hearsay evidence. That being the case I cannot suppose anyone so cruel as to call upon her when she can be of no use. With deep regret, I have now given her your letter. She proposed answering it in a letter to Miss Cumming, which is enclosed. I have left it open for your inspection. Please return it if useless or when this unfortunate affair is settled.

My mother received Lady Cumming’s letter this morning. I do not think that my testimony can be of the least consequence since I myself never witnessed anything improper in the behaviour of Misses Woods and Pirie. All that I know of the affair you, Miss Munro, and Charlotte the maid told me. I said that I could not understand what it was that they did, nor do I at this moment; and you said that you could not tell me, but that when your grandmother came home you would tell her. The maid, you may recollect, told us that she had caught them one morning in bed together in the dressing-room, and that Miss Pirie jumped out of bed with her face as red as scarlet. She also said that they might as well take a man at once. I was one night awakened by a violent knocking. I afterwards asked Miss Woods what it was. She said that she had locked the door and that Miss Pirie wanted to get into the room. You know what Miss Munro said, since you were present at the time, and I daresay that you will remember that she told us that she was disturbed in the night, and that both Miss Woods and Miss Pirie were in bed with her. As for what I said to Miss Macdowell, my cousin, I merely told her that what I had been told of the mistresses’ behaviour was extremely indecent.

Miss Eliza Christian Stirling, seventeen years old, is called as a witness for the defendant. She is accompanied into the room by her father, John Stirling, Esquire, of Kippenross. Present are Lord Justice-Clerk Hope, Lords Meadowbank, Robertson, and Newton, counsel for both parties, and Jane Pirie. Cranstoun says Miss Stirling was a boarder at the plaintiffs’ school from August till November last. She is solemnly sworn and purged of malice and partial counsel.

“Miss Stirling,” Cranstoun asks, “while a boarder at the school of Miss Woods and Miss Pirie, did you know a servant called Charlotte Whiffin?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Do you remember being with Miss Cumming and Miss Munro, or either of them, at any time when a conversation about the conduct of the plaintiffs took place, and was the maid Charlotte in the room?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Miss Stirling, you will have to speak up so that a deaf old man can hear you,” Lord Newton requests.

“Yes,” she says.

“I’m sorry, Miss Stirling. ‘Yes’ to what?” Cranstoun asks.

“Yes, Charlotte the maid talked about them often, but I can’t remember who was present.”

“That’s better, Miss Stirling,” Cranstoun assures her. “Now, do you remember anything Charlotte the maid said about them?”

“Once she said to herself, ‘They might as well take a man at once.’ I think I was in the room alone with Charlotte when she said it.”

“Do you remember at any time hearing Charlotte say anything about what she had observed on a particular occasion in the dressing room?”

“I remember hearing something about the dressing room, but I can’t remember whether it was Charlotte or Miss Cumming who told me it. Also, I think I remember that Charlotte said she saw Miss Woods and Miss Pirie through the keyhole of the drawing room door—but I’m not certain whether it was Charlotte or Miss Cumming who told me that either. I think it was Charlotte.”

“Miss Stirling,” Lord Meadowbank asks, “do you remember anything else that definitely came to you directly from Charlotte regarding your mistresses’ improper behaviour?”

“Well—I’m not positive. I remember that when the kettle was brought in at breakfast one morning, someone said to look at our mistresses’ faces. I think it was said by Charlotte, but I can’t say for sure.”

“Miss Stirling,” Cranstoun continues, “in your letters home to your mother, did you not complain often of the conduct of the mistresses and express great dissatisfaction with the school?”

“I only remember writing two letters to my mamma. I think I did complain that one of the mistresses was not very good tempered.”

“When you saw your mother in Edinburgh, Miss Stirling, did you not complain of their behaviour?”

“What did you complain of?”

“I complained that they were extremely nasty. I think I told my mamma that if she knew how they behaved I would never have been sent there.”

“To what part of their behaviour did you allude?”

“To their improper behaviour.”

“How did you explain to Mrs. Stirling of what their improper behaviour consisted?”

“I could not explain it. My mamma asked me if there was a man, and I said no. And then my mamma said she couldn’t understand it either. And she said I was to stay at the school until summer since we had paid for the year.”

“Miss Stirling,” Lord Justice-Clerk Hope interrupts, “did you make your complaint from anything that you had yourself observed in the conduct of the mistresses, or only from the information of others?”

“Only the information of others.”

Cranstoun thanks her.

“Have you no further questions, Mr. Cranstoun?” the Lord Justice-Clerk asks.

“Not at this time, your Lordship,” Cranstoun answers.

“Very well, then. Does the counsel for the plaintiffs have any questions of this witness?”

John Clerk approaches the witness, who is trembling visibly. “Your Lordship,” he tells Hope, “perhaps the witness and her father would like to stroll about for a few minutes.”

“Most certainly,” Hope says. They adjourn for fifteen minutes.

“I think by Miss Cumming, one morning in our bedroom. But I’m not certain about the time.”

“Did Miss Cumming often talk to you on that subject?”

“Did Miss Munro also talk to you on that subject often?”

“Not as much as Miss Cumming.”

“Was Miss Cumming generally present when Miss Munro talked to you on the subject?”

“I think so, but I’m not sure.”

“Miss Stirling,” Lord Justice-Clerk Hope says, “earlier you stated that what you communicated to your mother was solely from the information of others. Whom do you mean by the word ‘others’?”

“Miss Cumming, Miss Munro, and Charlotte the maid.”

“All right,” he continues. “Now you also told us earlier that Charlotte said to you, ‘They might as well take a man at once.’ Can you remember what had previously passed between Charlotte and you that led her to make that observation?”

“I think it was the morning that I had heard, either from Charlotte or Miss Cumming, that Charlotte had seen the mistresses in the dressing room. I think that was when Charlotte said it.”

John Clerk continues. “Miss Stirling, you also said before that Charlotte used to speak often about your mistresses. What did she say about them? Was it about their improper and indecent behavior with each other?”

She appears to be thinking.

“Miss Stirling?”

“The scholars were forbidden to speak to Charlotte, except on necessary occasions. So I did not speak to her often.”

Lord Meadowbank wishes to know if she was aware that the plaintiffs had frequent quarrels. She was. “Were you ever present at any reconciliation after a quarrel?” he asks.

“Yes. I think I was.”

“Can you describe what you witnessed?”

She sighs. “I once went into the small parlour on the first floor, just at a time they seemed to be making up after one of their quarrels. I didn’t hear what they said. But they seemed to feel warmly towards each other.”

“Now, Miss Stirling,” Lord Meadowbank says, “please think. At that time or since, upon reflection, after all you have heard, does it strike you that there was anything more warm or improper in their manner than became any other two friends under such circumstances?”

“Miss Stirling,” John Clerk now asks, “you slept in the same room with Miss Cumming and Miss Pirie. Did you never observe anything improper take place in the bed of Miss Cumming and Miss Pirie?”

“Were you ever awakened in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, I think I was. Once by someone knocking and once by someone praying.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Yes. The person who was praying spoke very loud and was crying at the same time. I know from her voice it was Miss Pirie. And then about the knocking—I asked Miss Woods what it was, and she said that she had locked her door, and that Miss Pirie wanted to get into the room.”

“Miss Woods told you this?” Mr. Clerk asks.

“Are you certain of that, Miss Stirling?”

“Yes. I remember because she hesitated a little before she said it. I remember that I asked her the next day. It must have been about three o’clock.”

“What was the person who prayed saying, Miss Stirling?” Lord Robertson asks.

“She said, ‘Oh Lord Jesus Christ,’ over and over. And when I asked her if anything was wrong, she stopped. And then she started again. She was crying at the same time.”

“One more question, please, Miss Stirling,” Lord Meadowbank says. “When Miss Cumming first told you about observing unusual behaviour between your mistresses, did she tell you that she understood that it meant something in particular?”

“Well, first she asked me if I’d been awakened—and then she told me some things. I said I didn’t understand, but she seemed to understand what the mistresses had been doing. Then I think she told me some of the conversations between Miss Woods and Miss Pirie that she overheard, but I can’t remember them exactly. And about others she said she would not tell me. I think she said they always began with Miss Woods asking Miss Pirie, ‘Have you on your stockings?’ I don’t remember anything else exactly, so I would not like to say.”

“Did any other young lady at the school beside Miss Cumming and Miss Munro ever tell you that they had observed anything indecent in the conduct of your mistresses to each other? Or did any of the others appear to understand that anything improper was practised between your mistresses?”

“The Miss Dunbars were the only other ladies I talked to about it. But I think the elder Miss Edgar had some suspicion.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m not sure. I believe Miss Munro or Miss Cumming said she knew about it.”

“I have no more questions,” John Clerk tells the Lords.

Mr. Cranstoun is asked if he wishes to examine the witness further.

“Yes. I have one more question. Miss Stirling, is it not true that on the Wednesday when Miss Cumming was taken away from school she told you that her grandmother would write to your mother about taking you away, and you begged her to tell her grandmother right away? You said you were very anxious about it, and you urged her to it repeatedly?”

“Yes,” Miss Stirling says.

“Because I wanted to leave as soon as possible.”

“Because of their indecent behaviour.”

Cranstoun has no further questions. The Court is adjourned until March 27 at 10 A.M.

Miss Stirling’s testimony now places even further doubt on Charlotte Whiffin’s role. I am very skeptical about the real history of the maid’s communications. But let me believe for a moment that Charlotte Whiffin did tell Miss Stirling certain things. What might she have said? Miss Stirling has testified that the scholars were forbidden by the mistresses to speak with the maid. When they did so, it must have been with some sense of discomfort and hurry. And considering how general the hints must have been which could be uttered by young ladies in asking or answering inquiries about such a delicate subject, there must have been much room for misunderstanding. The young ladies may well have ascribed to venereal improprieties what the maid meant to apply truly to the impropriety of quarrelling.

Miss Stirling remembers hearing “something about the dressing room,” but she cannot remember whether it was Charlotte Whiffin or Miss Cumming who told it to her. Nor can she remember who told her the story of the drawing room keyhole. She also admits that her complaints against the mistresses are based solely on the information of others. I am convinced that a darker hand than hers has been guiding all this. But what are the motives?

Of the females I have seen thus far, Miss Eliza Stirling strikes me as being the most ingenuous. She also elicits my sympathy where the petulant and more knowing Miss Munro did not. Miss Stirling is a pale, timid little kitten. I have seldom seen a father as solicitous and gentle as hers appears to be, but he sees the mournful position in which she is placed and perhaps feels that his care can help her endure it. What a wretched chore she must perform in being forced to testify concerning this degradation, and what a heavy burden for us to hear it. I am greatly disturbed by the horror of our situation. We, whose task it is or should be to protect such innocence, must force it to mouth indecencies it cannot, thank God, understand.

It is clear that Miss Stirling has no knowledge to interpret what occurred between her mistresses, neither their violent exchanges nor their shameful alliance. She can simply report what she has observed. But I would count it as being of high significance that she has corroborated that the young ladies had frequent communication on the subject with the maid Charlotte, who did indeed appear to understand what passed. I can much more easily believe Miss Stirling than I can the maid’s perjured testimony.

Meadowbank was guided to the truth by his prejudices, but I think he was nevertheless right. Jane Cumming’s hand does seem to have directed what passed: it is probable that it was she who told Eliza Stirling about the dressing room and drawing room. Eliza can remember almost nothing that Charlotte told her directly (notwithstanding what Lord Robertson apparently thought he heard). It may have all come through the Indian girl.

Ollie thinks that Meadowbank and I are deceived. She says it is inconceivable that Eliza really did not know what the mistresses were doing. But I am more and more convinced that they were not doing anything—at least not in the sense Ollie means it. Their relationship was certainly stormy and intense, and beset with violent recriminations and just as violent reconciliations. But Jane Pirie was a stormy and intense person, and within the framework of her personality, she behaved just the way romantic friends behaved. Romantic friends held each other and kissed when they reconciled, and they did the same when they were happy with each other, without the excuse of a reconciliation. Such behavior would not have been unusual since women often acted that way with each other—although they did not often shake the bed, one atop the other.

Ollie insists that many females did shake the bed together, even in Scotland in the early nineteenth century. “Why else would the mistresses have wanted both the dormitory rooms to be supervised at night?” she asks. I would guess that if they feared anything other than all-night talk sessions or bullying of the younger students by the older, it was masturbation, which was supposed to have promoted insanity, epilepsy, and infertility.

I think that Eliza Stirling was probably confused by Jane Cumming’s hints. She was told that the mistresses were extremely nasty, that their behavior was improper, but what sense could she make out of that? Her mother asked if a man was involved, and since none was, neither mother nor daughter understood it. And if no man was involved, her mother could see no harm in her staying until the end of the school year, when the paid tuition would run out. Of course had a man been involved, Mrs. Stirling would have known how to interpret the events, but what could be made of two women who happened to be in bed together?

Eliza persisted in describing the women’s behavior as “improper,” even after reiterating that she was not able to explain of what it consisted. But that was the word she had been taught by Jane Cumming, and she now had a vested interest in the word. She held on to it like a talisman. If their behavior was not “improper,” why did she have her mother remove her from the school, and why did she contribute to its ruin? All was explained and justified in that one word….

Ollie has just created what she calls an irreverent scenario with these young innocents at the center. Never mind for now what the mistresses did, she says; look at the girls. Most of them were born into dullness and led totally uneventful lives at home. They were educated to passionlessness, all right—told from the very beginning that good girls had no genitals, except as vessels in which the marriage act would be performed, and out of which would pop one little Britisher after another. But regardless of what the nanny or anyone else told them, they knew the truth, since no child, no matter how well schooled, could be oblivious to the variety of sensations from the lower depths that accompanies childhood and adolescence. Furthermore, their curiosity about those sensations would have been boundless—much greater than that of their counterparts today, because they were told that they were not supposed to have sensations. Then suddenly they were sent away to boarding schools—the distance from their families must have been liberating in itself. And then there were all those other limpid-eyed creatures who had been experiencing the same sensations. It is unimaginable to Ollie that they did not share them with each other, first through talk (and she depicts the surreptitious little circles in which they gathered, titillating each other with fantasies and rumors, giggling and sniggering behind hands, relishing their release from the strictures that made them believe themselves peculiar). Then the group talk was replaced by paired play, little acts that brought nameless little pleasures, furtive at first and then bolder. And having done those things themselves—probably from nine o’clock at night until eleven, when the mistresses came to bed—they could not have failed to recognize the import of those same gestures when the mistresses made them. She thinks that Eliza must have seen because her bed was only a few feet away. She thinks they may have all seen.

But I think we have been convinced in our century that sex is everywhere and behind everything, and that even little children have vast sexual knowledge. I believe it was not always so. I maintain that when Eliza Stirling claimed she had no idea what the women were supposedly doing, she was telling the truth. I doubt there were many sexual experiments between the young ladies. Instead there was panic about suddenly being at a distance from the family, on which they had been much more dependent than we are with our preschools and kindergartens and elementary schools, which force a child to stand on her own feet from the age of three. There was great trepidation about making friends—and in that class-ridden society there was probably family pressure to make friends with those a cut above one’s usual social circle. And there was a great desire to please. If the granddaughter of Lady Cumming Gordon told the daughter of John Stirling, Esq.—who had only recently arrived at the school—that she had observed improper behavior, who was Miss Stirling to argue?

Ollie and I pored over 1811 newspapers in the National Library all this past week. I feel guilty about using up her vacation time this way, especially because I know she needs to get back to revising her own manuscript. But she says that at this point she finds working on my case much more compelling than wading through her “British Jurisprudence as a Shaper of Western Thought” yet again. She assures me that the time away from her manuscript is giving her a fresh perspective on it. She says she is sure it will help.

They first inspect the drawing room, which seems to be nearly square (Fig. 1). That room is separated from the school room by a wall, about two feet thick, which contains the fireplaces of both rooms. There is an entry from the school room to the drawing room in which there are two doors. One door opens into the school room, the other into the drawing room.

The door of the school room has a lock in which there is a keyhole that goes through the door. But in the door of the drawing room there is a lock that has no keyhole. If the drawing room door was standing open and the door of the school was shut, a person looking through the school-room-door keyhole could see into the drawing room—but, because the walls are so thick, she could see nothing laterally, only straightforward. Only the opposite door of the drawing room would be in her line of vision.

This door, on the other side of the drawing room, has an old-fashioned brass lock: there is a keyhole only on one side, so that no one can see into the room through it. The judges do not perceive any other chinks or holes in the door through which a person could peep.

They see the couch standing against a wall, opposite the fireplace. In this position it is invisible from the keyhole of the school room door. The couch has rubbed against the wall paint, plainly over some period of time. The judges are satisfied that the couch has usually stood in this place.

The judges then examine Miss Pirie’s bedroom and the situation of the beds (Fig. 2). Miss Pirie’s bed, in which she slept with Miss Cumming, stands with its side to the wall. The bed in which Miss Stirling slept stands approximately two feet from the Pirie and Cumming bed. There is also a third bed in the room, about six feet away from the other two.

Adjoining Miss Pirie’s room is a small room in which Mrs. Woods, the aunt, slept. There is no passage from this small room to Miss Woods’ bedroom except through Miss Pirie’s room.

In Miss Woods’ room there are also three beds (Fig. 3). The bed standing across the foot of Miss Woods’ bed (where she slept with Miss Munro) is less than one foot away from it. The other bed, alongside the Woods bed, is about three feet away. Next to this room is the small one in which Charlotte allegedly saw the mistresses’ improper behavior one morning; it was referred to as the dressing room.

The supposed confirmation of the story by what was attributed to the maid has fallen to the ground. If Charlotte had corroborated what Miss Munro had said, and if what Charlotte was supposed to have told her would have been possible, I would have considered it quite probable that the mistresses’ conduct had been improper and criminal. But the maid did not corroborate the young lady’s statement, and her supposed observation was impossible. We saw this with our own eyes. We who visited and inspected the house saw that the story of the keyhole was an outright lie.

Suppose the maid had sworn that she saw the mistresses through the keyhole. We would have had to send her to jail immediately for perjury. But she has sworn the reverse. And since the expected corroboration is totally done away, the failure of it must affect the rest of the evidence.

In the carriage to Drumsheugh Newton suggested that we must consider sentencing Whiffin for perjury, and Robertson agreed. I am happy we waited to inspect the house before expending any effort on such a deliberation. I can believe that the maid’s testimony is truthful to the letter, although I shudder to think that young ladies of respectable families might have concocted such a horrifying story on their own.

Counsel for the defendant claims as precedent Gumin against Gumin, in which a wife suing a husband for separation on account of maltreatment was permitted to offer their common children as witnesses; Cameron against Malcolm, where the crime of abduction was alleged and the plaintiff’s mother and sister were accepted as witnesses; and Boyd against Gibb, a suit regarding propinquity to a remote ancestor, in which the plaintiff’s aunt was accepted as a witness because there was a paucity of other testimony available.

The judges repel the objection of the mistresses’ counsel to Jane Cumming as a witness, pointing out that she is not related to Dame Cumming Gordon by law, but is a natural granddaughter. However, they order that she be received cum nota, reserving objections to her credibility. She is sworn in. Present are the Lord Justice-Clerk, Lords Meadowbank, Boyle, Robertson, Newton, and Glenlee, counsel for both parties, Marianne Woods, Jane Pirie, and Lady Cumming Gordon. Cranstoun examines her for the defence.

“Miss Cumming,” he asks, “what was the first time you were disturbed in the middle of the night by your school mistresses?”

“During the summer holidays, when I went to Portobello with them in July and then when we came back, I was disturbed by them a good deal.”

“Did you sleep with Miss Pirie at that time?” Cranstoun asks.

“No. I slept with Miss Pirie before. But when all the young ladies left the school for the summer, and I alone remained, Miss Pirie and Miss Woods slept together. I was made to sleep in a bed at the foot of theirs both when we went to the beach at Portobello and at the school until the others returned from their holiday. I was disturbed very often then, especially early in the morning.”

“What kind of disturbance was it, Miss Cumming?”

“They were speaking and kissing and shaking the bed,” she says.

“When you returned from Portobello did your mistresses continue to sleep together?”

“Yes, until most of the other scholars returned, about the middle of August. Then I had to sleep with Miss Pirie again. And Miss Woods went into the other room.”

“Miss Cumming, during the time you slept with Miss Pirie, did Miss Woods come to your bed?”

“Yes, she certainly did. She came many times.”

“On any of these occasions, were you awakened from your sleep?”

“Yes, I was. Many times.”

“What was it that awakened you and what did you observe on being so awakened?”

“The first time I only heard them whispering and kissing one another. And that’s what I saw when I was awakened.”

“When Miss Woods came the next time to your bed, what did you see?”

“She had come different times when I only heard whispering and kissing.”

“Now, Miss Cumming, at any time when Miss Woods came to your bed, did you hear anything more than whispering and kissing?”

“Please tell the court what you heard, Miss Cumming.”

She is silent for minutes.

“You must tell, Miss Cumming,” Mr. Cranstoun says gently.

“I heard Miss Pirie say one night, ‘You are hurting me.’”

“Did you hear anything more?”

“I know this is very difficult for you, Miss Cumming,” Mr. Cranstoun says, “but you must tell.”

“Yes,” Miss Cumming says, still sobbing, wiping her tears. “I heard Miss Woods one night ask Miss Pirie if she was hurting her. And Miss Pirie said, ‘No.’ And another night I heard Miss Pirie say, ‘You are in the wrong place.’ Then Miss Woods said, ‘I know,’ and Miss Pirie said, ‘Why are you doing it then?’ and Miss Woods said, ‘For fun.’ Then another night I was awakened with a whispering, and I heard Miss Pirie say, ‘Oh, do it, darling,’ and Miss Woods said, ‘Not tonight.’ Miss Pirie asked her two or three times, and then Miss Woods said, ‘Oh, not tonight for it may waken Miss Cumming and perhaps Miss Stirling.’ But Miss Pirie still kept pressing her to come in. So then at last she came in and she lay above Miss Pirie. And then Miss Woods began to move, and she shook the bed, and I heard the same noise I heard on the holidays.”

“Miss Cumming,” Lord Justice-Clerk Hope says softly, “I must ask you to describe for the Court, as near as possible, the kind of noise you heard.”

She stares straight ahead. Then she weeps again into a handkerchief. Then she is silent.

“Miss Cumming,” Cranstoun says, “do you think you can try to describe the noise?”

“It was like putting one’s finger into the neck of a wet bottle,” she whispers. “That’s the likest description I can give of it. But there’s more to tell. Do you want me to go on?” she asks.

“Well, I asked Miss Pirie what was shaking the bed so, and she answered, ‘Nothing.’ But when I asked her that, I felt Miss Woods move over to the other side of the bed. I think that was the same night I heard Miss Woods say, ‘I would like better to have somebody above me.’ And then I remember another night when I awakened and I heard Miss Woods say, ‘Now Jane, will you promise me one thing?’ and Miss Pirie answered, ‘I don’t know, what is it?’ So Miss Woods said, ‘Now Jane, will you promise not to come to my bed, or take me in your arms until the holidays?’ And Miss Pirie said to that, ‘Oh, Marianne, don’t ask me, for you know I could not keep it if I were to promise.’ And then Miss Woods said, ‘Oh, do promise, and I’ll take care you shall keep it.’ But Miss Pirie still would not promise. So then Miss Woods said, just as if Miss Pirie had promised, ‘Nor will I take you in my arms, or come to your bed until the holidays, but you may kiss me and I will kiss you.’ And then Miss Woods went away.” She pauses.

“Do you recollect anything else that happened on this occasion?” Cranstoun asks.

“No, not at that time. But on the other night, when I spoke, I remember that I lay awake a long while, and when I complained that I could not sleep, Miss Pirie told me to turn my face to the wall and try to sleep. But I didn’t turn. Instead I just said again that I could not sleep. Then Miss Pirie turned, and she said, ‘Now you must turn as I have turned.’ Then I heard Miss Woods go out of the room, and when she came to the door Miss Pirie coughed so that I wouldn’t hear Miss Woods opening the door. And a little while after Miss Woods was gone, Miss Pirie said to me, ‘Have you heard Miss Woods cough tonight?’ And I said, ‘No.’ Then in a little while Miss Woods coughed and Miss Pirie said, ‘Oh, there she’s coughing, poor soul. I must go and see her.’ And she went.”

“Miss Cumming,” Cranstoun says, “can you tell the Court exactly what happened on that same night when Miss Woods was in your bed, before the mistresses discovered you were awake.”

“I felt them both lift up their shifts. And the next morning before breakfast, in the little garden in front of the house, I told it to Miss Munro, and Miss Munro said that the night before Miss Pirie had been in Miss Woods’ bed, and she also heard a curious noise. She said she wondered what it was but didn’t know. Then after I told her what happened she said she would watch the next night, and she did, and afterwards she told me it was all I had said. Oh … and something else happened—when we came in from our walk on the same day, Miss Munro and I were talking in the school room, and the maid Charlotte came in, so I told Miss Munro to hold her tongue. But Charlotte said, ‘Oh, you need not. It is long since I have known it.’ She said she had seen them lying on the sofa as she passed the drawing room. And another day she went to the drawing room, but the doors were locked. Miss Pirie said, ‘Who’s there?’ and Charlotte said, ‘It’s me,’ and Miss Pirie said, ‘What do you want?’ Charlotte answered, ‘I want to get in.’ Miss Pirie said, ‘You must come back later, we are busy just now.’ But Charlotte said she saw them quite well and what they were doing. Oh … and another thing—on another day Charlotte came to the school room door and called me out and said, ‘They are at it just now.’ She had been up in the dressing room, where the bed was shaking, and they were making such a noise that they didn’t hear her. So Charlotte went to the bed and said, ‘It’s near nine o’clock, Ma’am.’ Then Miss Pirie came out of the bed in a great hurry, with her face quite red, and she said, ‘What do you say, Charlotte?’ and she went away to dress herself, and Miss Woods hid herself in the bed clothes.”

“Miss Cumming,” the Lord Justice-Clerk asks, “did the mistresses give any indication that they suspected they had been found out?”

“Do you think Miss Woods and Miss Pirie knew that you were aware of what they were doing?”

“Oh, yes … I forgot to say something else that happened. When I asked Miss Pirie what made the bed shake so, on the next day I bid the girls to look at Miss Woods, for I thought she would not speak to me. And then Miss Woods came into the room and went out again, and none of the girls had looked at her. So I told them again to look at her when she came back. Then when she came back all the girls went up and shook hands with her, but when I went up she turned away, with her face quite red, and she didn’t speak with me the whole day, until after dinner, when I went up and spoke with her. Then the next day, Miss Munro and I wished to let them know for certain that we knew it, and we said we would speak of it at breakfast time, but we lost courage. But then on that same day when we were out walking, I told Miss Munro that I would wait no more. I would complain of it that afternoon, and I would say that I was tired and could not get sleep. So I told her to put the question to me, ‘Did you not sleep well?’ so that I could answer, ‘No, I couldn’t sleep because the bed was shaking so.’ Then when we came in from our walk Miss Pirie was in the room, and Miss Munro and I talked just as we decided we would.”

“Did Miss Pirie hear you?” the Lord Justice-Clerk asks.

“Well, of course. She stayed in the room for some time, but when she saw we weren’t going to stop talking about it, she left the room with her face quite red. I said to Miss Munro, ‘Oh, do you see guilt on her face?’ Oh … and I remember some other things now. May I say them?”

“About Miss Woods and Miss Pirie?” Cranstoun asks.

“Yes. Several times after Miss Woods had been in our room I heard her say to Miss Pirie, ‘Good night, darling, I think I have put you in the way to get a good sleep tonight.’ Sometimes Miss Pirie would say, no. And then Miss Woods would do it some more. Other nights Miss Pirie would not say anything, and then Miss Woods went away. And also I’ve heard the maid Charlotte call them brutes and beasts, and worse than beasts. And I’ve seen Charlotte put out her tongue at them … I think that’s all I can remember now.”

Mr. Cranstoun says he has concluded his examination.

“Miss Cumming, what did the mistresses do when Charlotte stuck out her tongue?” Lord Robertson asks.

“They weren’t present. Charlotte also said, ‘They are pretty ladies. I am a better lady myself.’ Oh … and I also remember something else Miss Munro told me.”

“Objection, your honours,” John Clerk says. “We have already heard Miss Munro’s testimony first hand, as well as the maid’s testimony.”

“Overruled. Please continue,” the Lord Justice-Clerk says.

“Miss Munro said that one night when they were in her bed she awakened with the noise they were making, and Miss Woods had turned, and seeing Miss Munro awake, she said to Miss Pirie in a whisper, ‘Good gracious, what should we do, she’s awake?’ Then Miss Pirie covered herself up with the bed clothes. Then Miss Woods said to Miss Munro, ‘How long have you been awake?’ and Miss Munro answered, ‘A long time.’ And then Miss Woods sent her to the dressing room for a glass of water.”

“Miss Cumming, will you think a minute,” the Lord Justice-Clerk asks. “Can you remember any indications that the other girls, besides Miss Munro, were aware of the mistresses’ behaviour?”

“Yes. I remember that Miss Stirling heard Miss Munro and me talking about it, and she said she knew about it too, and she advised us to tell the mistresses that we knew. Then one night when Miss Pirie was out of bed, Miss Stirling and I were talking about it, our beds being so close. Meanwhile, Miss Pirie came in, and when she came to bed she said, ‘Oh, if I were rich I would have two beds in summer.’ Also, one night before I had seen anything at all between them, I saw Miss Woods and Miss Pirie come into the bedroom, and both of them had nothing on but their night shifts. I sat up in bed, and was quite surprised to see them. Then Miss Woods went to the foot of my bed, as if to hide herself, but I saw her quite plainly since the window was opposite to the foot of the bed. After that Miss Pirie went out of the room, but I don’t know what became of Miss Woods because I fell asleep.”

“Is there anything else you can think of regarding the other scholars having known about the mistresses?” the Lord Justice-Clerk asks.

“Oh, yes, two more things. Once I had been out at Mr. Forbes’, my uncle’s, at dinner, and when I came to bed I saw the bed clothes all turned down. Miss Cunynghame was with me, so I said, ‘Who can have destroyed all my bed?’ And she answered, ‘Oh, it will be Miss Woods and Miss Pirie, for they were upstairs together a long time.’ Also, I’m certain that all the girls must have seen Miss Pirie sometimes take Miss Woods out of the school room, as if against her consent, into the drawing room when it was dark, and stay there a long time. And then one morning when I went into the dressing room, all the girls were laughing at Miss Pirie coming out of Miss Woods’ bed with her stockings on and a red garter. And Miss Edgar has told me many times that she was disturbed with the noise that Miss Woods and Miss Pirie were making in the room. I don’t remember anything more.”

“In view of the time,” Lord Justice-Clerk Hope announces, “let us adjourn until the morrow at ten o’clock rather than calling the counsel for the plaintiffs up for only a few minutes.”

The story has now been clearly sworn to by two young ladies. Since these two girls had no passion to gratify by inventing such an abominable tale, I cannot doubt that, however improbable it may appear, it really was so. It is true that Cumming is the grandchild of the defendant, and she has interest in supporting the accusation, since she originally made it, but what possible interest did she have to trump up a story like this in the first place? What could make her say that she had seen certain facts, unless they really had been so? Nothing short of the spirit of the devil could have induced Munro and Cumming to invent this tale and swear to it as they have done, and I do not conceive that they have that spirit.

Miss Cumming is the young person from whom the information of the fatal imputation proceeded. Because of her connection with Lady Cumming Gordon, she has been received cum nota. She is wanting in the advantages of legitimacy and a European complexion, and in consequence she is entirely dependent on the favour of her connections. But her testimony is suspect to me for other reasons as well. After we adjourned, Glenlee and Robertson remarked, where could she have gotten such information if she were not telling the truth? That answer is extremely clear to me. It is an historical fact and matter of notoriety that the language of the Hindoo female domestics turns chiefly on the commerce of the sexes. The instructions of Hindoo nurses to their female infants are also frequently on the same subject and are calculated to excite anticipation of its nature, even before the venereal instincts have begun to exist in a girlchild. The seclusion of women in the Zenanas of the more wealthy gives birth to contrivances to supply the absence or neglect of males. In fine, it is impossible to live in Indostan without learning through observation and instruction, by the age of eight or nine, something about venereal intercourse. If my recollection is correct, Miss Cumming had fully attained that time of life before she left Indostan and escaped from the tuition of Hindoo domestics. Certainly her information may have already been adequate to this purpose.

But what were her motives in inventing such a story about her mistresses? After she arrived in Britain, she remained five years at a boarding school of inferior rank in Elgin. She was then taken out of the school and told she would be given the education of a young lady, she would be recognized as belonging to the Cumming Gordon family, and she would be introduced into society. In these circumstances she was placed at the Drumsheugh school. It may reasonably be presumed that she was anxious to hasten the time when she was to become a member of so very respectable a family and perform the part of a young lady of condition. The discipline at the Drumsheugh school is said to have been strict and actively exercised. Miss Munro has testified that she had to endure considerable punishment. Perhaps Miss Cumming was also punished often. It is possible that she felt if she were not successful at the school—and frequent punishment might have suggested to her that she was not—all that had been promised to her would be retracted. Perhaps she did not understand what horror such an imputation as she made against the mistresses would raise in Britain. Possibly she thought the only result of her accusations would be her removal from a school that she felt was too rigorous, and her placement in one more to her liking.

During the summer, at Drumsheugh and Portobello Miss Woods and Miss Pirie slept together, and Jane Cumming was made to sleep in a bed at the foot of theirs. But why? Ollie thinks that since they had at least six empty beds in the house when they were at the school, their choice to sleep in one bed together proves they were lovers. I agree. They were lovers. I never said they were not. I only said they did not have genital sex. Of course they kissed and caressed as romantic friends did. Romantic friends always shared a bed when they had the opportunity. What puzzles me, however, is why they had Cumming sleep at the foot of their bed. If Ollie is right, if they really had sex together, then they must have been depraved to want a witness to their deeds. Ollie thinks it is conceivable they “got their jollies that way,” as she puts it. But I cannot believe that—not along with everything else that is known of them. I think it is more likely that they worried about what exotic, erotic pleasures Jane Cumming could bring to herself in the middle of the night, and so they wanted to keep an eye on her. But surely they would have understood that if they could keep an eye on her, she could keep an eye on them. If they had had sexual intentions, they would have packed her off to another room.

“Perhaps they didn’t have such intentions to begin with,” Ollie says. “But those things happen, you know.” We both know.

“What about the wet bottle description?” I ask Ollie. That struck me as being ludicrous. Ollie thinks it accurate and goes into the kitchen to find a bottle, but we have none that is empty and I will not let her empty the vinegar bottle for the experiment, with Edinburgh prices as exorbitant as they are this summer. She wants to know what kind of legal historian I am if I will not make a few sacrifices to learn the truth, but she works her finger in and out of the full vinegar bottle. We agree that the sound might be right.

But there are other parts of Jane Cumming’s description that are absurd: if one woman is on top of the other, moving back and forth or up and down over her genitals, what would make that noise? There would be no room for a hand to be squeezed in between. Somewhere the Indian girl must have seen a man and a woman coupling, and she must have heard that two females could couple too—and, in her utter ignorance, she assumed (perhaps not understanding about penetration, perhaps having fantastic notions about female tumescence in passion) that it was done in the same way.

What I can believe is that there were many times when Miss Pirie would take Miss Woods out of the school room “as if against her consent.” I think Pirie had no control over her temper, and she must have made awful, hysterical scenes. She would rein in her anger for a while, and it would tug and tug, and finally it would go wild. There are types who exacerbate such fury in an explosive person, and Marianne Woods appears to me to have been such a type. For the last three of the four years I lived with her, Pearl had that effect on me. As much as I thought I loved her, I could not check my rage. It would happen over the silliest things—when she forgot to pay the electricity bill, when I thought she didn’t take my part enough in a mild political debate with a friend over dinner, when she came home a half hour later than I expected her. I realize now my rage was always just beneath the surface. A minor incident might raise it up, but it was never really about that incident. It was about my abiding discontent with our lives together. I could never believe she loved me enough. Sometimes it seemed to me that one of us would not get away from the other alive, that I would either kill her or kill myself.

I cannot imagine feeling such violence with Ollie. She has turned away my wrath, so that now it is hard to remember that I have such anger in me. Woods never knew how to turn away Pirie’s wrath. So they would fight, Pirie screaming, Woods hardly answering—and somehow, no matter what the issue was or who was at fault, Pirie would be convinced or would convince herself that maybe it was her own fault after all. She would end by apologizing and promising to do better. Then they would be very loving again for a while and pretend the anger had never erupted. But, of course, all the fury, instead of resolving itself through rational talk, would be bottled up again, and would build and build until the next explosion—when again Pirie would drag Woods out of the school room to say the matter must be settled, once and for all. The cycle must have repeated itself an endless number of times. Just as it did with me, until finally I left Pearl. Pirie never had the chance to leave.

The Lord Justice-Clerk calls the court to order and announces he must examine the witness. Jane Cumming looks at him solemnly. “Do not be afraid of me,” he tells her jovially. “I never yet ate a witness, especially not a fine young lady.” She does not smile. “Now, then, Miss Cumming,” he begins, “when Charlotte said she saw the mistresses quite well and what they were doing, did she mention to you how she saw them?”

“Through the keyhole.”

“Now, you did not mention a keyhole the last time, did you?”

“I forgot, and then I thought I would be asked again.”

“Were you ever told that there was no keyhole to the drawing rooms doors?”

“No, I don’t think I ever was.”

“Do you know if there were keyholes to the drawing room doors?”

“Well, Miss Cumming, will you explain more particularly what Charlotte said with respect to looking through the keyhole of the drawing room door.”

“She said nothing more particular than that she had seen them quite well through the keyhole.”

“Did she tell you they were lying on the sofa perhaps?”

The Lord Justice-Clerk asks if the other Lords have questions at this time. They do not. “Does the counsel for the plaintiffs now wish to examine the witness?” he asks. John Clerk rises.

“Miss Cumming,” Clerk asks, “did Charlotte tell you that story about the keyhole more than once?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Are you perfectly certain that Charlotte told you that story even once?”

She stares at him. She looks to Lord Justice-Clerk Hope who says nothing. “I am quite certain,” she says.

“When did she tell you that story?” John Clerk asks.

She says nothing. Minutes pass.

“Miss Cumming, did you hear my question?”

Her eyes are tearful. “Yes,” she says.

“You must answer, Miss Cumming,” the Lord Justice-Clerk tells her.

“I don’t remember, but it was after Miss Munro came to the school. And it was after Miss Munro and I talked about it.”

“Do you remember the day of the week when Charlotte told you the story?”

“At what time of day was it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was it before or after dinner?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Who was present when Charlotte told the story?”

“I don’t remember if there was any person present.”

“Miss Cumming, you remembered so much yesterday. How is it that you remember so little today?”

“Objection,” Erskine says. “Counsel is intimidating the witness.” He is sustained.

Clerk resumes in a softer tone. “Was Miss Munro present?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did you ask Charlotte any questions about the story?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, perhaps you will remember more of this incident later, Miss Cumming. Let’s pursue another line of inquiry now. Did you have a nanny while you were in India?”

“I don’t remember anything that happened while I was there.”

“Come now, Miss Cumming, you were almost eight when you left. You must remember. Did you attend school?”

“Yes. I remember I was at school.”

“Can you mention anything else?”

“I was at two schools, but I don’t know how long.”

“Were you acquainted with girls of your own age in India?”

“Yes, with many.”

“Who took charge of you?”

“It was a Mr. Palmer, I think, but I boarded at the schools.”

“Who were the women who took charge of you?”

“I don’t remember any, except the school mistresses.”

“Were they natives or European?”

“The first were Europeans,” she says. “I don’t know whether the second were or not.”

“Were the women servants at the school natives or Europeans?”

“I think they must have been natives.”

“When you sailed for Britain, who attended you?”

“A maid-servant.”

“A native?” Clerk asks.

“Yes, then she went back to India.”

“How long did she continue in this country before she went back?”

“I’m not sure. I think about half a year.”

Lord Meadowbank wishes to know whether, while she was in India, she ever observed among the children or anyone, the servants perhaps, any such practices as those she described between the plaintiffs.

“Did you ever hear conversations about such things?”

“Did you ever hear any language in India that, upon recollection, you now think was improper?”

“When you arrived in Britain,” John Clerk now asks, “who attended you?”

“I think I landed at Greenwich and was taken to London, to the house of Mr. George Cumming, my great uncle. I remained there a week or fortnight. And I and the maid were then brought down to Scotland, by a Mr. Tullock, I think. I remained some time with my grandmama, but I don’t remember how long. Then I was sent to the boarding school at Elgin kept by Miss Charles. I think I was there about five years. And then I was sent for, to come here.”

“At Miss Charles’ boarding school, had you any time allowed you for play?”

“How much time?”

“In the winter we had free time between two and three, and then between five and six. And in the summer, after the writing master went away at seven o’clock, we could walk by ourselves. But we always had to be in before nine o’clock at night.”

“Were you ever allowed to walk by yourself, or was the mistress always with you?”

“As I already said, we could walk by ourselves.”

“Miss Cumming, did you find the discipline more or less strict at Drumsheugh than at the school at Elgin? Had you more or less time for amusement?”

“It was more strict. We had less time for amusement.”

Lord Meadowbank wishes to know if they had no person to take charge of them when they went out to play at Elgin.

“We went out but a very little way, sir,” she says. “There was a hill at the back of the house, and we always went there. Sometimes Miss Charles went with us.”

“Miss Cumming,” John Clerk continues, “did you feel the discipline at the Drumsheugh school harassing or disagreeable compared with that of the Elgin school?”

“I thought it was much more strict. I wouldn’t say it was disagreeable.”

“Were you frequently exposed to the punishments of the school?”

“Yes, pretty often.”

“Didn’t you seldom escape a single day without being punished for something or another?”

“No, I was not in punishment every day.”

“Do you know what a disgrace book is?”

“No. I remember a disgrace table, but I don’t remember a disgrace book.”

“Miss Cumming, did you not keep a book in which you wrote down from time to time the punishments you were exposed to?”

“Oh, yes. I think I remember—I did for a short time before I came away.”

“Did you keep that book of your own accord?”

“Have you that book still?”

“I think I have.”

Lord Justice-Clerk Hope instructs her to find the book and give it to the Clerk of the Court as soon as possible. He asks if she has altered it since leaving Drumsheugh. She has not.

“Miss Cumming,” John Clerk resumes, “during the holidays, did you observe anything in the conduct of Miss Woods and Miss Pirie other than what you have already described?”

“Did you hear that kind of noise like putting one’s finger into the neck of a wet bottle oftener than once?”

“How often did you hear it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did you hear it only on one occasion or on different occasions during the holidays?”

“On different occasions.”

“Did you always hear that kind of noise when you heard them speaking and kissing?”

“How often did you hear them speaking and kissing during the holidays?”

“I don’t remember. It was often.”

“Did you hear it every morning during the holidays?”

“At what time in the morning did you hear it?”

She sits in silence.

“I don’t know what time. It was early.”

“Miss Cumming, you said the noise was a wet noise, is that right?”

“Can you give a better or more particular description of the kind of noise it was?”

“I can’t. It was like I said before.”

“When you heard the mistresses speaking and kissing and shaking the bed in the mornings during the holidays, did it occur to you that they were doing any improper act?”

“At this time, did you feel that degree of respect for them as your school mistresses that you think ought to be felt towards people in that situation?”

“Had they always behaved properly, according to the best of your judgements, in other respects?”

“I don’t remember if I took any notice of their conduct.”

“When did it occur to you that their conduct with each other was wrong?”

“I don’t remember. After the holidays they used to quarrel very often.”

“Did you think that their quarrelling was wrong?”

“I didn’t think it was right. But I don’t remember that I thought it was wrong. I only wondered at it because at other times they seemed to be so fond of each other.”

“Did you conceive that anything improper, indecent, or criminal was done by the mistresses when in bed in the mornings during the holidays?”

“I think I already said no to that.”

“Do you now conceive or believe that anything improper, indecent, or criminal was done between them on those occasions?”

“I think it was very improper and very indecent, but I don’t know whether it was criminal.”

“Since it did not occur to you at that time that it was improper or indecent, Miss Cumming, when did that first occur to you?”

“When they came into my bed.”

“Please recollect as nearly as possible when it was, how long after the holidays, that Miss Woods came into the bed which you shared with Miss Pirie and behaved in such a way as to make you think their conduct improper or indecent.”

“I daresay it was about two months after the holidays before I thought there was anything indecent in what they did.”

“Do you mean to say that until near the end of September it did not occur to you that their conduct was indecent—that is, until about three weeks after Miss Munro came to school?”

“Yes, I’m certain it was after Miss Munro came to school, but I don’t remember exactly when.”

“Did the suspicion arise in your mind in consequence of your own reflections, or in consequence of something you heard from another person?”

“I thought of it before I talked to anyone about it.”

“When did you become certain of it?”

“That night when Miss Woods came to our bed, and when Miss Pirie asked her to come in and Miss Woods said, ‘Not tonight, it would awaken Miss Cumming and perhaps Miss Stirling.’”

“Miss Cumming, do you mean to say that you became certain merely from that conversation?”

“No, but from what happened in bed afterwards. It was the conversation that made me curious to observe what should pass.”

“Describe exactly what happened at that meeting that made you certain they were indecent together.”

“I think I have described it.”

“You are desired to describe it again, Miss Cumming,” Lord Justice-Clerk Hope says.

“When Miss Woods came into bed, I felt them both take up their shifts, and I felt Miss Woods move and shake the bed, and Miss Woods was breathing so high and quick. Miss Woods was lying above Miss Pirie at this time. And I heard the same noise I already described. I think it was the same night I heard Miss Woods say she would rather have somebody above her. That’s all I recollect at present.”