Betina Krahn (42 page)

“My greedy landowner was angry and he threatened, in my hearing, to burn the place to the ground.” His eyes filled with tears. “I laughed. Said it might be the best solution. God help me … I saw the look in his eyes. I knew what kind of man he was. And I let him walk out of my office.
I did nothing.
” His voice cracked. “Two children died in that fire.”

“Oh, Cole …” She shifted, gathered his shoulders in her arms, and pulled his head against her breast. She held him that way for a time, then looked down at him. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t set that blaze.”

“But I did and still do bear some of the blame. I suspected he might do it and I did nothing to stop it.” He set her back and sat up. “Don’t you see? It was history repeating itself. It was the Macmillans all over again. The same damned situation … a landlord dispossessing tenants. Only this time I was on
the wrong side. I had gone into the law to fight bloated, unfeeling wretches, and I ended up becoming one of them.

“That’s why I left the law, Madeline. I lost my morals, my ethics, damn near lost my soul.” He set her from him; he had to get up, to move. He paced back and forth, his voice and face were bleak.

“I probably should have told you before last night.” He glanced away. “I won’t hold it against you if you decide to … now that you know what sort of man I am.”

Her heart ached for him. She slid from the couch and invaded his vision, causing him to step back, then back again. She followed him, her eyes rimmed with tears.

“Oh, I know exactly what sort of man you are. You’re a silver-tongued devil, a backslidden cynic, and a meddlesome but adorable nanny. You’re also the rescuer of my heart, the rock in my shoe that annoys me enough to make me do what’s right—you’re my mate and my friend. You tell me the truth even when it isn’t an easy or pleasant thing to do. You care about me. You are willing to admit when you’re wrong.…

“Cole, there isn’t a person alive who doesn’t have things to regret or be ashamed of Aunt Olivia used to say that pain is nature’s way of making us pay attention to something that needs attention. Perhaps regrets do something similar. Perhaps they’re supposed to spur us on, to drive us to be better, to do better. You won’t let me give in to my regrets, you’re making me put them to work. Well, perhaps it’s time you started listening to your own advice.”

She backed him into the desk and wrapped both arms around him. He was trembling, scarcely breathing for the conflict crowding his lungs. He was terrified to look into those warm, engulfing pools of blue, afraid that they might contain pity or obligation or just the altruistic urge to save.

“Look at me,” she said authoritatively, punctuating her demand with a shake of his shirt. He did look at her. And he looked into her. “Tell me how you feel about me.”

“You know how I feel about you.”

“Say it anyway.”

“I love you. With all my heart.” He wrapped his arms around her, feeling some of his grief lifting, as if it were being shifted onto her shoulders. It wasn’t his solitary burden anymore; he had her to share it. And that did indeed make a difference.

“But you heard what they said,” he began, returning to their present predicament. “They believe I’ve used my position as your overseer to have my nefarious way with you. They could go to the law society … to the courts themselves. And, of course, there’s still the little matter of your Ideal Garment Company. After the explosion and the delays, they’ll have more ammunition to use against you.”

He had good points, she realized. As of now she had no factory, no workforce, no profit to show. And what if they decided to bring charges against Cole for misusing his influence?

“All right, there are problems. But we’ll find solutions. We have a product that people seem to want. We can show them the demand for our children’s clothes at Liberty. We still have nearly two months. By then we can have the factory up and running again.…”

He looked at the hope in her face and prayed that he hadn’t helped to restore it to her only to have it wrenched away again. Life in the law had taught him that more often than not, one should prepare for the worst in a situation—not the best.

The day after Madeline’s trustees discovered her in Cole’s house, Sir William stormed into his chambers like a typhoon run aground; blowing papers off Foglethorpe’s desk as he passed, waving his cane and piercing the air with verbal lightning bolts.

“Bugger Gerald Penobscott-Holmes—bugger the Judiciary Review Commission—bugger the whole damned Court of Appeals!” he roared. Swinging his cane wildly, he knocked a stack of books off a nearby table. “Not once in thirty-five years on the queen’s bench have I ever been accused of ‘harboring personal interest.’ ” He wheeled on Foglethorpe and reiterated: “Not once!”

Foglethorpe, a man of imminent good sense, said nothing and waited for details.

“Holmes required me to recuse myself from Madeline Duncan’s case. Said I was personally involved, can you imagine? Why, I was hearing cases before he cut his first tooth! I should certainly know whether the hell my judgment is impaired
by personal feelings or connections. And it damned well isn’t in Madeline Duncan’s case. That was a piece of judiciary brilliance, that was. Solomon-like. Inspired. I’d like to see jelly-livered Gerald come up with something that rescues a dream, two hearts, a number of London’s poor, and an entire village in—”

He halted and turned to stare at Foglethorpe. Straightening slowly, he squared his portly shoulders. The gleam that entered his eye made Foglethorpe groan silently, pluck the pencil from behind his ear, and grope for his pad on Sir William’s desk.

“Clear my calendar for the next two weeks, Fogles! Shunt all new cases off to the juniors. Send word to the parties in my current cases that they have just been granted magnanimous extensions to revise and resubmit their briefs.” Sir William thudded back and forth over the worn rug, his eyes darting over some tableaux in his mind. “With a new justice they’ll be hearing all the evidence … and Holmes dropped word of a countersuit. She’ll need someone a damn sight better than old Dickie Pendergast this time. Send a messenger to Benjamin Calvert telling him I need his services desperately—a family emergency. Then send for my carriage and find out where the hell my nephew is. We’ve got a case to prepare and only three or four days to do it!”

The halls and lobby of Chancery, in the Strand, were clogged with people when Madeline arrived on the first day of her case’s hearing. A number of people were milling around the doors of the courtroom when she and Davenport approached, and one spotted her distinctive clothing. “There she is! That’s her—with the trousers!” Instantly, she was besieged by news writers asking questions.

“Is it true that you’re bankrupt, Miss Duncan?”

“Did you really make your workers wear nothing but women’s undergarments?”

“How about givin’ us a peek at them knickers too!”

Madeline and Davenport fought their way through the jostling group and the bailiff shoved them safely through the glass-paneled doors and the darkened vestibule. By the time she emerged into the court, she could barely breathe. She stood at the side of the chamber, staring up at the filled pews of the gallery, stunned by the contrast it presented to its emptiness on her first day in court. There were news writers, Chancery case followers, law students—not to mention potential witnesses, legal scholars, and the odd friend or associate of the barristers on the floor below. Word was spreading of a rarity in progress, an interesting case in Chancery.

Suddenly news writers were prowling the halls of Chancery, searching for tidbits of information to sensationalize. Unfortunately, tidbits were plentiful. The facts of the case alone made for juicy reading: an unmarried heiress, recipient of a large fortune, flouting society’s expectations for women by wearing trousers, advocating the abandonment of corsets, and attempting to set up a business and a bit of a social experiment in the same enterprise.

A murmur swept the court as people caught sight of her, and Davenport gave her hand a squeeze before heading for the steps to the gallery. Davenport had arrived in London the day of Lord Reardon’s party, having stayed in St. Crispin just long enough to pack Madeline’s things and close up the house. Her report of having seen loaded carts leaving the village had sent Madeline’s spirits tumbling. But her presence in Aunt Olivia’s house also had made living there bearable again.

Madeline located Cole, who had saved a seat in the front row of the gallery for Davenport. Exchanging a smile with him, Madeline made her way past the packed opposition tables to the plaintiff side. There sat her two overage barristers, one already nodding sleepily and the other trying to adjust his spectacles.

Sir William had done his best to secure top representation for her, but his first and second choices were already hotly
engaged in trials, and by the time he got to his third choice, a chill wind had blown through the Inns of Court. Sir William had to turn again to old Dickie Pendergast and to a retired barrister who was his personal friend, Mr. James Crofton. But even more worrisome than her counsel was the selection of Sir Henry Samuels as presiding justice.

“It that bad?” she asked Cole when Sir William brought the news of his appointment.

“It’s worse than bad,” Cole said. “Henry Samuels and I have crossed words and locked horns so many times, I’ve lost count. To put it bluntly: He hates my very liver. And my testimony, as the court’s appointed agent, is the bulk of our case.”

When the bailiff called the court to order and the honorable Sir Henry entered, Madeline’s heart sank. He was a gaunt, pallorous man, a contemporary of Cole’s who appeared well beyond his years. He didn’t look the sort to indulge impassioned arguments about creativity and idealism and doing good in the world. And he would probably have even less sympathy for ladies’ reformed undergarments. His first words to the court confirmed her fears.

“A caution to you all,” Sir Henry began, glowering first at one side, then at the other. “This is the second hearing of this case, required by circumstances that are most regrettable. Fortunately, since a final disposition ruling had not been given, the shameful deficiencies in the previous proceeding may be remedied without recourse to lengthy and absorbing appeals.” He turned then to the plaintiff’s table and fixed Madeline with a steely gaze.

“You will find my courtroom an orderly place, where the issues of law are given grave and respectful consideration. Unlike my predecessor in the hearing of this case, I shall not tolerate caprices, eccentricities, or demonstrations of any sort.” He looked up at the rear of the court, and Madeline wondered if the dark look on his face was for Cole. “The gallery be warned as well. We shall have dignity and decorum
in this proceeding, and anyone breaching either will find himself—or herself—quickly expelled.”

“
Humph,
” came a muffled response from the gallery, loud enough to carry to the floor but not quite loud enough for Sir Henry to differentiate from a cough. Madeline turned just enough to see Sir William thumping and swaying down the steps. When she turned back, Sir Henry’s pallor had changed to an unflattering pink. It was considered a discourtesy for one justice to invade another’s courtroom without first asking permission, but to have a removed justice invade his successor’s proceeding … Watching Sir Henry’s reaction, Madeline wished Sir William had used more discretion.

“Proceed, Mr. Crofton, with your opening statement!” Sir Henry snapped.

It was easy to see, a half hour later, that the venerable Crofton had been saving up words during his retirement and intended to spend them all that morning. He read, elaborated on, and interpreted his opening statement for what seemed an eternity, but without so much as a hint of impatience from Sir Henry. Indeed, the justice might have been a statue borrowed from the court lobby, for all the reaction he displayed. Then barrister Farnsworth was called upon for an opening statement, and every drowsing head in the gallery popped up. Not only was his bombastic style of delivery quite a change, but the content of his orations was compelling.

“Miss Duncan is a well-meaning but utterly misguided soul whose eccentric and sadly impractical ideas have placed her in a most vulnerable position, a vulnerability that has been exploited by a number of unscrupulous persons. We intend to show, Your Honor, that Miss Duncan’s affairs have deteriorated to the point where her judgment, morality, and even competence are in question.”

Judgment, perhaps. Morality—how dare they! But mental
competence
? She grabbed Mr. Crofton’s arm. Cole and Sir William had tried to prepare her for the sort of allegations that might be leveled against her, but, seated in her own comfortable
parlor, she had thought they were overstating the case a bit. It was a jolt, hearing her actions misconstrued and listening to callous assaults upon her character, ideals, and efforts.

By the time dinner recess was called, she was genuinely shaken by the accusations and by the realization that those comments were just the beginning. Cole tried to allay her worries by reminding her that he soon would be taking the stand to give a positive account of her efforts. “And Sir Henry, of all people, will know that I may be counted on not to put too high a gloss on things,” Cole ruefully assured her.