Sabrina and Giles had sat very still as Clare haltingly told the story of her marriage. It was as though they, along with the other spectators, were holding their collective breath, not wanting a sound or movement to distract from any word of her testimony. By the end of it, however, tears were streaming down Sabrina’s face, and Giles, handing her his handkerchief, wished he could find similar release from his strong feeling.
At first, as Clare recalled the beginning of her marriage, he had felt the old pain and jealousy. Then fury at Rainsborough. And, he was ashamed to say, at Clare. How could she have married such a man? No, not a man, a chameleon. And even if he could bring himself to understand how she had fallen in love with his looks and his charm, how could she have stayed with him, especially after it became clear that he would never change? She could have gone home to her parents. Or, if she hadn’t wanted a scandal, she could have lived with him the way many a ton wife did: maintaining her independence and a separate bedroom. Instead, Clare obviously let him back into her bed again and again.
But Giles’s anger at Clare and rage at her husband disappeared, leaving a curious numbness when she continued her account of Justin’s attacks. How could a man treat any woman that way, especially a loving wife? Of course Giles knew of men who beat their wives. But surely it occurred mainly in the lower classes and usually involved only a black eye or a split lip. He had always ignored these signs on the shopkeeper’s or farmer’s wife, believing that it was a private matter. So, too, was violence between a man and his mistress. Everyone knew that Lord Carlton mistreated his bits of muslin, but that was the risk all women took when they sold their bodies.
But Justin Rainsborough, to all appearances, had been a besotted husband. Always hovering over Clare. Protecting her. Arriving late, leaving early. Why, in the first months of their marriage, men had wagered over their degrees of lateness. How could someone be so different in private? And how could any man have raised his hand to someone so small and helpless as Clare? Hold her down and punch her repeatedly? Kick her hard enough to lose a child? It was so horrible a picture, so far beyond his comprehension, that Giles couldn’t respond to it at all, not with sorrow or rage.
But he reached out to take Sabrina’s hand and comfort her.
“Giles, how could we not have seen what was happening? How could we have let her down so?”
“Hush, Sabrina,” he whispered, as Martha took the stand and the court stirred around them. “How could we have known? She never told anyone anything. And in public at least, they appeared the most devoted of couples.”
* * * *
Andrew led Martha quickly through her early years as Clare’s abigail.
“And so, when Lady Clare Dysart became Lady Rainsborough, she took you with her?”
“Yes, sir. We was very close by then.”
“You were fond of Lady Rainsborough?”
“Very, sir. She was always kind and generous to me. I would have done anything for her.”
“Including defending her from her husband?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When did you become aware of Lord Rainsborough’s behavior, Miss Barton?”
“Oh, from the very beginning. Me own ma were treated rough by me stepfather. I knew it wasn’t no door my lady had run into. And I know all too well how brandy chases the charm away.”
“Did you talk to Lord Rainsborough about it?”
“No, sir. It weren’t my place.”
“Did you talk to anyone else about it? Another servant?”
“Aye. To Mrs. Clarke, the housekeeper.”
“And what was her response?”
“That it was none of our business.”
“But you finally made it your business, Miss Barton?”
“I had to. He were kicking her and kicking her. It was not even her third month.”
“So what did you do?" Andrew asked quietly.
“I tried to pull him away. I screamed bloody blue murder, which is what finally stopped him,” said Martha with a grim smile. “He didn’t want no other servants to come running.”
“After he finally stopped, what did you do?”
“I locked him out and got my lady into her bed. She started cramping something terrible.” Martha’s voice became lower. “She lost the babe the next morning.”
“She had had no trouble with her pregnancy until then?”
“No, sir,” said Martha stoutly.
“So you would conclude that it was her husband’s beating that caused the miscarriage?”
Martha looked at Andrew as though he was mentally deficient. “Weren’t it obvious from my story, Mr. More?”
Andrew could not help smiling. He covered his mouth with his hand and cleared his throat before his next question. “What happened a few days after?”
“I got the sack. I was told to get my things and be gone by the afternoon. I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to my lady,” added Martha, “and I always felt bad about that. I didn’t want her to think I had deserted her.”
“And are you employed now, Miss Barton.”
Martha frowned. “Yes.”
“Where?”
“As a parlor maid in the Winston household.”
“That is a step down, is it not, from a lady’s maid?”
“Yes, sir, but I were turned out without a reference.”
“I see. Thank you very much for your testimony, Miss Barton.”
“I were very happy to speak for my lady, Mr. More. And I for one says he got what was coming to him, and I hope you men,” she continued, glaring at the jury, “be intelligent enough to think the same.” That had not been part of her planned testimony, and Andrew tried to hide his amused consternation. “I beg the court’s pardon,” he said, addressing the coroner. “I have only one more witness, my lord.”
“Go ahead, Mr. More,” said the coroner, waving him on.
“Dr. Simkin.”
Giles looked over with interest and curiosity as a plump, elderly man took the stand.
“You are Dr. Simkin?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You reside in Devon.”
The doctor nodded.
“Please speak up, sir.”
“Yes, my family has lived there for over a hundred years. I am the youngest son of the late Baronet Simkin.”
“Can you recall what you were doing on the night of January 25th?”
“I had just returned home from a call when I received a summons from Rainsborough Hall.”
“Which you answered immediately?”
“Of course. I have been the Rainsborough physician for years.”
“What did you find when you got to the house?”
“Lord Rainsborough was distraught. Lady Rainsborough was increasing, and he feared she was losing the child.”
“How did Lord Rainsborough look?”
“As I said, he was distraught, Mr. More.”
“Soberly distraught or drunkenly, Dr. Simkin,” asked Andrew with some irony.
“Uh, well, it did seem as though Lord Rainsborough had been drinking. Which was understandable, given the circumstances.”
“And what were the circumstances, Doctor?”
“Lady Rainsborough was indeed miscarrying.”
“Could you describe Lady Rainsborough’s appearance on that night?”
The doctor hesitated.
“You did examine her?”
“Of course. Er ... she ... that is, her face was bruised and swollen.”
“And her belly?”
“Also was very bruised. Of course,” he added eagerly, “this was understandable.”
“Understandable?” asked Andrew, raising his eyebrows.
“Lord Rainsborough told me, and Lady Rainsborough confirmed it, that she had fallen from her horse.”
“And did the injuries you witnessed seem consistent with that explanation?”
“Well, yes, they could have occurred that way. Certainly her face ...”
“And her belly?”
“Lady Rainsborough herself explained that she had first been thrown against the pommel of her saddle, and I saw no reason to doubt her.”
“No reason at all? Tell me, Dr. Simkin, did any other possible explanation cross your mind that night?”
“It did seem like extensive bruising, I admit. But Lord Rainsborough was so concerned. And, after all, it was really none of my business to ask further questions.”
“Of course not,” Andrew replied smoothly, and the doctor winced.
“Tell me, Dr. Simkin, you have heard Lady Rainsborough’s testimony and that of her former abigail? Were the injuries to Lady Rainsborough’s face such as could have been caused by the beating you have heard described?”
“Yes,” replied the doctor, taking out his handkerchief and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“And the miscarriage. Now that you have heard Lady Rainsborough’s story, would you say that it was Lord Rainsborough’s brutal behavior that led to the loss of their child?”
“If he kicked her like that, yes.”
“If? Do you still have doubts after two eyewitnesses, Dr. Simkin?”
“Well, no, I suppose not,” the doctor stammered nervously.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Andrew turned away, as though he were finished, but just before the doctor began to get up, turned back again.
“Surely, Dr. Simkin, you must have suspected Lord Rainsborough of beating his wife?”
“Yes, it did cross my mind,” the doctor admitted reluctantly.
“Why did you not report it?”
“I have known the family for years ...”
“Although not Lord Rainsborough.”
“That is true, but both their stories were consistent. He seemed such a devoted husband. I, uh, didn’t want to intrude on what, after all, was a private matter.”
“If you saw a man beating his horse on the high street, would you have protested? Taken action, Doctor?”
“I ... really don’t know. After all, a man has a right to deal with his private property as he will.”
“And a wife is a man’s property according to law. Well, you have made a point, Doctor,” Andrew said sarcastically. “Thank you, you may step down.”
The doctor opened his mouth to protest, but the coroner waved him down. “This is your last witness, Mr. More?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then we will attempt to bring this inquest to a conclusion today. The jury will please confer in order to offer a verdict.”
The twelve men who had been facing the court gathered their chairs around in a rather haphazard circle. There was no way to tell from their faces which way they were leaning, and as Giles watched them begin their consultation, he had no idea if they would take five minutes or three hours to come to a decision.
“Do you want to try for a breath of fresh air, Sabrina?” he asked his sister.
“No, I would be too afraid we might miss something, Giles.”
“I thought Andrew did an excellent job, didn’t you?”
Sabrina’s face lit up. “Oh, yes. If anyone could convince a jury of Clare’s innocence, it is Andrew.”
In fact, thought Sabrina, he could persuade me of anything. That pull toward Andrew More that had been present since she first met him, had grown stronger and stronger as she watched him expertly questioning his witnesses. He had been especially good with Clare. Something in his manner toward her subtly offered strength and support as he drew out the horrifying story of her marriage.
He was sitting next to Clare now, and from Clare’s occasional smile, Sabrina guessed that Andrew was trying to keep her amused and distracted. And he had made sure he was sitting in such a way as to block her view of the jury.
“What do you think they are saying, Giles,” Sabrina asked, after a glance over to the conferring men.
“I do not see how they can find her anything but innocent,” said Giles.
“But if they don’t?”
“It is certainly not over. She would go to trial. Andrew would have more time to prepare a case. But the coroner’s verdict would lend some weight, so it must end here,” said Giles vehemently.
“They can’t bring it to trial, Giles. The thought of her being convicted of murder ... of the sentence ...” Sabrina’s voice trailed off.
“That particular sentence hasn’t been handed down in this century, Brina,” said Giles reassuringly. “We are more civilized in this day and age.”
“Oh, yes, we are so civilized. We might very well only hang a woman for acting in her own defense.”
They were both suddenly silent, each one trying to push out of their minds the image of Clare, eyes covered, mounting a scaffold. Or even worse, Clare bound to a stake, flames licking at the edge of her dress.
The images were so unthinkable for Giles that he felt he had awakened into a nightmare, not fallen asleep into one. How could he be sitting here in this courtroom waiting to hear if Clare, his childhood friend, the small ten-year-old who had arrived at Whitton that summer long ago, the woman he had grown to love, would go to trial for murder. It was unthinkable and disorienting. Were she released—surely she must be released—then he was going to get them both out of this waking dream. He was going to offer her his name, his protection, and they would return to Whitton and live the life they should have had, would have had, if Justin Rainsborough had not come along. They would walk and ride and fish and pretend that the past few years had not happened. He would put his arms around Clare and never let her go. Never let her be hurt again. He would stand between her and all the world, if need be.
“Giles, they are pushing their chairs back,” whispered Sabrina.
The whole room suddenly became still, so that the only sound was the scraping of the last juror’s chair as he moved it into place.
The coroner surveyed the court as if to say: Not a breath, not one word, as we hear this verdict.
“Have you reached a verdict,” he asked the jury.
The spokesman, a middle-aged gentleman clad in black worsted, rose.
“We have, my lord.”
“And what is your verdict?”
Giles and Sabrina’s hands reached out and found each other.
“We find that Lady Rainsborough killed her husband in self-defense, my lord, and should not therefore, be charged.”
“Thank God, thank God,” said Giles.
The room, which had first been buzzing with whispers, now became noisier as spectators expressed their reactions to the verdict. When Giles was finally able to get Sabrina and himself downstairs and push their way toward Clare, it was only to find her gone, for as soon as Andrew heard the first syllables, he had grabbed Clare’s hand and gotten her out through the side door. Giles and Sabrina stood there as people pushed their way past, out of the court. They could hear the crowd in front letting go a great cheer, and Giles looked over at his sister and smiled.
“I’ll wager they would have been shouting as loud and joyfully had she been bound over for trial, but I am glad to hear it at all.” He offered Sabrina his arm. “Hold on, Brina. We may as well let the crowd sweep us out.”
* * * *
Clare had followed where Andrew led her for the past few days: back into the awful memories of her marriage, into the courtroom, telling her story, and now, out the side door and into a waiting hackney. She felt empty and weightless, and not quite sure what the verdict had meant. She thought she had heard “will not be charged,” but the spokesman hadn’t even finished when Andrew grabbed her arm to rush her out before the crowd reacted.
She supposed it must have been a favorable verdict for Andrew, who had sat down opposite her, was smiling at her and telling her what a wonderful job she had done. What was it he thought she had done so well? Told her story? Survived her marriage? Killed her husband? She felt hollow and disoriented, and she leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.
“Are you all right, Lady Rainsborough?” asked Andrew, anxiously grabbing her hands. His touch, solid and human and warm, brought her back into her body. She opened her eyes and gave him a weak smile.
“I am not sure, Mr. More. I feel ... nothing. Not even relief,” she said. “Surely I should be feeling something. I am not going to burn or hang, so it seems.”
“You have been through a terrible ordeal, Lady Rainsborough, and you are likely still in shock,” Andrew reassured her. “And this heat is enough to make anyone feel light-headed. Once you get home and have the time and privacy to take this all in, you will feel much more yourself.”
Home? Where was that, Clare wondered. When she was small, it had been her parents’ house. A place where she had never felt quite at home. Then it was Whitton. After the first year, Clare had felt that every summer she was coming home to Sabrina and especially to Giles. Why hadn’t she made her home with Giles two years ago? Was it because he had become almost too familiar, too much like family? Justin and Devon had then become her home. Now, although she supposed she would inherit both the hall and the town house, she felt homeless.
But she could hardly say any of this to Andrew More, so she just nodded.
When they reached St. James Street, he handed her down. “Come, let me make sure you are made comfortable.”
Peters, who had gotten home before them, opened the door, and Clare felt she was seeing him for the first time in two years. This man had been aware of her husband’s brutality and had done nothing. Ah, but what could he have done, she thought. What could anyone have done?
“Please summon Lady Rainsborough’s abigail, Peters,” said Andrew.
“Yes, sir.”
“No, Peters,” Clare interjected just as the butler turned to go.
Andrew looked over at her in surprise.
“Please give Liza two months wages and dismiss her.”
Peters was very proud of his ability to maintain his imperturbable expression, but this order caused him to raise his eyebrows.
“And, Peters, please send a footman over to the Winston household. If she wants to, I would like Martha Barton to return to my employ.”
The butler bowed. “Yes, my lady.”
“Good for you, Clare,” said Andrew when the butler left. “Pardon me, I mean Lady Rainsborough.”
“Please call me Clare. It seems foolish to be so formal after all we have been through today.”
“Then I am Andrew.”
“Will you join me in a glass of lemonade, Andrew?" she asked. “You must be as exhausted as I am.”
Andrew hesitated. Clare looked like she was ready to collapse, not hostess a social visit. But he was thirsty, and she probably needed refreshment as well as rest, so he nodded and said “Thank you, Lady— I mean, Clare.”
The drawing room was on the side of the house, which was shaded by a large plane tree. The heat of the day was finally beginning to dissipate, and Clare had the footman who delivered their tray open the French doors.
“Even that slight breeze feels like a taste of heaven after being in hell,” said Andrew, loosening his cravat without thinking. When he realized what he had done, and started to apologize, Clare said: “Please, Andrew. After what we have been through together, you may be a little informal without offending me! You are lucky that you are wearing something adjustable,” she added, fingering the heavy black silk.
Andrew lifted his glass. “To the most courageous lady of my acquaintance.”
Clare put up her hand as though to protest. “No, to a most persistent and articulate defender. Truly, I owe you my life, Andrew,” she added with quiet fervor. “I am not sure I really understood that until now. And although I have no sense of what I will do with the rest of it, I am forever indebted to you that I have any choice at all.”
“Will you stay here or go to your parents’, Clare?” Andrew asked after they had both taken long swallows of their lemonade.
“I don’t know, Andrew. I feel very empty of every feeling right now. And where does a woman go who has murdered her husband,” she added, trying to sound humorous, but obviously still tormented.
“Clare, you know that if you had not killed him, he would have killed you.”
“I felt that way then. When you brought me back to that night at the inquest, I felt it again. Now, however, it seems none of it happened. Or if any of it did, it was to a different person. I am outside it all, only an onlooker. It is as though there are two Clares, one who is standing over her husband with a poker and the other who is watching her. And neither feels anything. Indeed, I don’t know if I will feel anything again,” she said with a sad smile.
“I have seen this before, Clare,” said Andrew reassuringly. “In many cases involving violence, the victim seems to become removed. You are still in shock.’’
“But I am not the victim, Andrew. Justin was.”
“Oh, no, my dear. You are indeed the victim in this case. Now, I think it is time you rested,” said Andrew, putting his glass down and walking over to where Clare was sitting, her eyes staring out the French doors, but obviously seeing nothing.
He reached out, took her glass, and put it down on the table in front of her. She turned toward him then and really saw him for the first time that day. His hair was all elflocks and wet curls both from the heat and from running his hand through it. His cravat was pulled loose. He had dark circles under his eyes, no doubt from late-night briefings with his solicitor, preparing his defense strategies.
“Oh, Andrew, you look worse than I must,” she said, with such sympathy that he wasn’t insulted. “I will rest and hope that something of myself is restored. It was very painful to remember, Andrew, but thank you for making me.” She hesitated. “I feel that we have become more than counsel and client. I feel we are friends. May I consider you so?”
Andrew smiled. “Of course. And as such, I fully expect to have a waltz now and again when you return to society.”
Clare shook her head.
“No, you won’t waltz with me?”
“I doubt I will be receiving more invitations this Season, Andrew. And even if I did, I would turn them down.”
“I would wager a small fortune that you will be the most sought-after guest, my dear. At least for a few weeks, until another scandal captures the ton’s attention. And I would strongly recommend you accept at least a few of those invitations. Oh, not right away. Give yourself time to recuperate. But you must show your face, Clare, to convince everyone that the jury’s verdict was the right one and your counsel a most competent one,” he added with a grin.
Clare shook her head again, and then swayed against him.
“Damn me for being a fool. Let’s get you right to bed.”
Andrew led her slowly to the door and summoned the butler. “Has Liza left yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Then get her, please. She can do one last thing for her mistress before she leaves.”
Andrew hated to leave Clare in Liza’s hands, but there was no choice. He certainly couldn’t bring her up to her bedroom himself. And by the time she awoke, Martha would certainly have returned.
He watched them both up the stairs until he was satisfied that Clare would make it.
“Tell your mistress when she awakes that I will call on her tomorrow,” he said to the butler.
“Yes, sir,”
“And Peters.”
“Yes, Mr. More?"
“If Martha arrives, please send her up to Lady Rainsborough’s room and send Liza away.”