To Have and to Hold (43 page)

"My lord," Mayor Vanstone said loudly, coming to his feet. "We were not aware that you had returned. We're—"

"Obviously." He snarled the word; the fire in his eyes became enmity, and he turned it on Vanstone eagerly, as if glad to locate a legitimate target for his anger.

"Perhaps you'll join us," the mayor said stiffly, "now that you've honored us with your presence." He touched his hand to the back of the empty chair next to his.

Sebastian ignored that. "Why was Mrs. Wade in chains?"

"My lord, she was apprehended while inquiring about vessels leaving the country for foreign ports. Since then, she's been treated, not unreasonably, I think, as a potential fugitive."

"What rot," Sebastian enunciated, with so much scathing disdain that Vanstone colored. "Why shouldn't she be in Plymouth—or Brighton, or Dover—inquiring about anything she damn well pleases?"

"Because," Captain Carnock interjected mildly, "she was left in your custody, with the understanding that she would remain at Lynton until your return, my lord. At least, that was the understanding you and I reached on the evening of your departure.''

Somebody chuckled with satisfaction. Sebastian whirled at the sound, and saw Sully in the second row of spectators. "You," he said slowly, moving toward him. "What are you doing here?"

Sully clasped one knee and leaned back on the bench; he was pretending to be at ease, but the glitter in his eyes gave away his excitement. "It's a public hearing, isn't it? Sebastian, my old friend, I wouldn't miss this for the world." Beside him, Violet Cocker snickered into her hand.

Sebastian looked coldly, murderously angry. If Van-stone hadn't distracted him at that moment, Rachel believed he would have attacked Sully.

"My lord, Mrs. Wade's defense rests on an apparently nonexistent letter from the Home Secretary voiding her conditional release. If there were such a document, the prison authorities, the lord lieutenant, and we, the jurisdictional magistrates, would have been informed of it. But we were not, and—forgive me, my lord—I'm quite certain Her Majesty does not make a practice of corresponding with convicted felons in secret. In the absence of any proof whatsoever—"

"The letter existed," Sebastian cut in.

"With respect, have you seen it?"

"No. I believe it was stolen."

"Stolen? How extraordinary. Do you have any proof of—"

'Who put you up to this? Sully? How much did he pay you to make sure she goes back to prison?"

The mayor's face turned bright pink; he drew himself up. "How dare you! By God, sir, that's a base lie! I demand an apology for it."

Sebastian turned on Sully, who smirked at him with undisguised delight—and, possibly, surprise. "Can't prove it, D'Aubrey. Wait, it's Moreton now, isn't it?

The bloody
earl
of Moreton. But you still can't prove a thing."

Sebastian saw red. Over the muttering of the crowd, over the pounding of Vanstone's fist on the table for order, he heard a soft, insistent voice calling his name. He looked at Rachel. She had one hand on the wooden bar, the other stretched out to him, straining toward him, and the distress in her face brought him to his senses.

He couldn't help her like this. All he wanted was to get her out of here, by force if necessary—no,
preferably
by force; he was dying to smash something, anything—but if he lost control, he would be playing into Sully's hands. He mustn't let Rachel's fear, so heartbreakingly obvious, spread to him and cripple hisjudgment.

Deliberately turning his back on Sully, he demanded of the mayor, who was still sputtering from wounded dignity, "What are the charges against Mrs. Wade? Let me hear them again."

"She—"

"She missed a few meetings with Burdy, is that it?"

"And the county constable as well. And she—"

"Why wasn't she notified? If she wasn't showing up for her appointments, why didn't somebody complain about it?"

Constable Burdy spoke up. "She were sent a letter once, m'lord, by me, telling 'er she were remiss in her meetings."

"And?"

"She wrote back sayin' she was 'relieved of the obligation.' "

"And you didn't follow up after that? Except to arrest her?"

Burdy shrugged.

Sebastian muttered a disgusted curse. "What else?"

" 'Er fine, m'lord," he mumbled. "She quit paying on'er fine."

' 'How much does she owe? Well?"

Burdy cleared his throat and pulled on his ear. "She 'ad to pay ten shillings a week. She missed four times running."

"She owes
two poundsT"
It was an effort not to roar it. He drew out his purse and snatched a handful of bills from it, and then it was an effort not to stuff the money down Burdy's throat. "Here," he gritted. "Now her fine is paid."

Vanstone had resumed his seat. Whether or not he was in league with Sully, Sebastian's accusation had turned him into a dangerous enemy. "Lord Moreton," he said with icy formality, "the most serious charge against Mrs. Wade remains—her attempt to flee. That cannot be dismissed lightly. It speaks for itself and it is grounds alone, in our opinion, for remanding her case to the assize.''

Sebastian stared back at him thoughtfully. Gradually, not all at once, the solution came to him. He smiled at the simplicity of it. "But she wasn't fleeing, you see. She went to Plymouth at my suggestion, as it happens. To begin shopping for her trousseau. She inquired about passenger ship schedules because I asked her to—for our honeymoon. Mrs. Wade and I plan to marry at the end of the month."

Amid the gasps and exclamations, he turned his smile on Rachel. The shock he'd expected was there in her face, but not the gladness. He held her gaze, willing her to believe it. It was what she wanted, wasn't it? But there was nothing in her searching eyes but sadness. She gave a little shake of her head and looked away.

Vanstone must have noticed the byplay. When the noise died down, he leaned forward and asked pointedly "Is that true?"

Disoriented, sensing disaster, Sebastian said quickly, "Are you calling me—"

"No, it's not true," Rachel interrupted in clear, carrying tones. "His lordship is mistaken."

"Do you mean to say he's not telling the truth?"

"He's
mistaken,"
she repeated. "There is no engagement. He's . . . mistaken." Finally her voice broke.

But when Sebastian took a step toward her she shrank back, letting go of the bar. He halted, shocked. "Rachel," he whispered. "Rachel, for God's sake." She wouldn't look at him; her frozen profile shut him out.

Vanstone was saying something. A woman laughed; he thought it was the maid, Sully's confederate, but when he looked up he saw it was Lydia Wade. She was clutching her knitting to her chest and muttering to herself. Had she gone mad?

He needed to sit down. He couldn't think. Rachel wouldn't look at him and he couldn't think what to do or say next. He slicked his dripping hair back with his fingers and used his sleeve to wipe the water from his face. Now Vanstone was winding up; whatever he'd said, it ended with "when the assize judges meet in September," and Carnock nodded heavily in agreement, muttering something about "unfortunate" and "no other choice." Two against one.

Was this the end, then? Was he going to just stand here while they took her away? Five months ago he'd gotten his way, in this same circumstance, through bluster and intimidation. They weren't working today—but the blow that completely defeated him was Rachel's repudiation. Her situation couldn't be more desperate, but she wouldn't let him save her. Wouldn't let him come near her.

Christy Morrell had come into the hall. Sebastian didn't notice him until he walked to the front of the room, drenched and dripping, leaving a trail of water from a closed black umbrella. He was out of breath.

"Forgive me for interrupting. I'd have been here sooner, but I was delayed. May I speak to—"

"Excuse me, Reverend," the mayor broke in, "we aren't taking testimony in this matter anymore. Your wife spoke eloquently in Mrs. Wade's behalf, and we don't require any further evidence. Thank you."

"Let him speak," Sebastian burst out. "Whatever he's got to say, I'd like to hear it."

Vanstone threw up his hands. "Speak, then." He folded his arms and scowled.

Christy moved closer to the magistrates' table. "A matter has just come to my attention, gentlemen, something extremely important. I have to speak to you in private." He gestured to include all three justices.

"Does it bear on Mrs. Wade's case?"

"It does."

"Then take the stand and say it for the record," the mayor decreed, and for once, Sebastian agreed with him.

But Christy didn't move. "With respect, Mayor, this isn't something I can say in open court. I'd ask that you adjourn this hearing indefinitely."

"That's out of the question. If you have evidence that relates to the case, you can say it under oath, here and now. Otherwise, we're prepared to rule."

Christy shook his head. "That would be a mistake. I've misled you—what I want to say doesn't relate to this hearing."

"Then—"

"It relates to Mrs. Wade's original case. I've come into possession of evidence that she was wrongly convicted of murdering her husband."

Chaos erupted. Vanstone called for order, but no one could hear him. The spectators were on their feet, talking at once. In the confusion, Sebastian saw Sully edging toward the side of the room. On impulse, he made a dash for the door and cut him off.

"Going somewhere?"

Sully smiled his turned-down smile. "Looks as if the fun's over for now, and I've got better things to do. Stand aside, there's a good lad."

"Oh, not likely." Alert, spoiling for a fight, he moved in closer. "Where's your knife today, Claude? In your boot? Pocket?"

"Don't be an ass. Get out of the way or I'll—"

A woman's scream from behind Sully made him twist around. Over his shoulder, Sebastian saw Lydia Wade lift her arm in the air and slash it down. Christy Morrell jerked back in the nick of time, out of range, but his coat sleeve was torn and dangling. His wife screamed again.

But the minister wasn't Lydia's target. Sebastian watched in frozen, disbelieving horror while she scuttled around Christy, sharp, silver scissors high again in her fisted hand, and darted across the empty aisle to the prisoner's bar.

Nightmare. Sully wouldn't move—he was frozen, too. Sebastian half shoved, half tackled him, pushed him violently aside, and finally the way was clear. But only for a second; immediately bodies came between him and Rachel again. He saw her face change from confusion to terror just before the way was blocked again. He flung himself against a man's back, pushed someone sideways, stiff-armed somebody else. Over the bobbing heads and shoulders of more people, he saw the scissors rise and fall, rise and fall. Shouting, "No! No!" he lurched and twisted, throwing his body against the stubborn press, cursing flesh that wouldn't move, wouldn't move—

A break opened, big enough to punch through. He saw Lydia from the back, bent over Rachel across the magistrates' table, grappling, struggling to bring the scissors down in her face. Rachel's frantic grip on Lydia's wrist faltered, slipped. Sebastian's heart stopped beating. He couldn't get to her in time.

Behind the table,
 
Vanstone and Carnock were shouting, feinting, a blur of panicked, ineffectual fumbling. From nowhere, a huge body hurtled, heavy as a cannonball, through scarce empty space and smacked into Lydia's shoulder. The scissors soared in the air and stuck in the ceiling. With a grunt, she flew sideways and crashed against the wall. William Holyoake landed on top of her.

Rachel struggled up and tried to stand. Her knees buckled; Sebastian caught her as she was sliding to the floor.

They sat beside each other, halfway under the table, oblivious to the turmoil all around. "Are you hurt?" He couldn't see any blood; her eyes were still glazed and staring, but her hands clenching at his shoulders were strong. "Rachel, answer me, are you hurt?"

The question finally registered. She shook her head. "Are you?"

He gathered her up and held tight. His heart slowed its staccato pounding as the truth slowly sank in that she was all right. "No, I'm fine," he answered automatically, even though it wasn't true. Setting her away from him, he fixed her with a baleful stare. "Why the hell won't you marry me?"

21

Dear Reverend Morrell,

By the time you read this, I'll be gone. I pray that God will forgive me for not having the courage to tell you this story while I'm alive, but it's too painful
—
I
can hardly bear to write it. And I console myself that a few days or weeks longer won't make any difference. The terrible damage has already been done.

I'm not strong, and I must write quickly
—
but where shall I begin? The truth came to me so gradually, I didn't understand the full horror until a few months ago. My awakening coincided with Mrs. Wade's prison release, because that was when my niece's shaky hold on reality began to slip away completely, with no more brief but blessed periods of normalcy to disguise what was happening. At first I refused to believe it; she was raving, I told myself, the horrible things she said must be the work of a hysterical imagination. But the disjointed rumblings would not stop, and they were chillingly consistent. Then I read her journal
—
I
admit it; I couldn't help myself, I had to know the worst
—
and finally I believed it.