Frail Blood (22 page)

He patted her shoulder awkwardly. "You'll likely bear
the burden of this by association, m'dear. I only regret that you did not learn
of this from my own lips. I – I thought to spare you embarrassment – "

"Fiddle sticks! I don't care one whit about that."

"Good girl." He kissed her cheek and made his
leave with a short nod to Malachi.

His dapper form looked worn, but not defeated, as Emma
watched him exit through the front door of
The Placer Gazette.

Malachi slammed his fist against the door jamb. "Damn
Charlie Fulton's sneaky hide!"

Chapter 23

"Frailty, thy name is woman!" –
Hamlet

They had quarreled again, he and Emma.

After she'd formulated her outlandish theories from speaking
with the midwife, he'd dismissed them without hearing her out. How could he
not?

Incest? Family abuse? Neglect?
What nonsense had she
burrowed into now?

Emma Knight was a princess, a woman spoiled and indulged
from infancy. But he'd seen the real Emma, the girl fierce about her social
causes. The woman who'd braved the Sacramento docks and risked her life to see
where their client had sprung from.

This current quarrel between them was a variation on the old
one – how best to defend Alma Bentley. This late in the trial, with no new
evidence – no
provable
evidence – Malachi knew he must proceed with his
original defense strategy. He must garner sympathy for Alma from the twelve men
who sat in judgment over her.

Stubborn to a fault, Emma insisted the knowledge that Aaron
Machado was in the vicinity of Placer Hills the night of his brother's murder,
along with the strange relationships in the Machado family, was enough to gain
a postponement while they gathered more concrete evidence.

Malachi knew better. A delay in the proceedings would only
arouse suspicion in the jurors, all men who had businesses to run and farms to
tend to. While they were willing to perform their civic duty and sit on a jury
for a matter of weeks, these gentlemen would not appreciate further investment
of their valuable time.

This point was one that Emma could not – or would not –
understand.

Malachi had never doubted his stratagem. He was willing to
risk Alma's acquittal on his professional judgment, and he had hoped Emma would
respect his acumen in the matter of trial design. But it appeared he was wrong.

#

Emma slammed her fist into the pillow, hoping for a more
comfortable place to rest her head, but even as she did so, she knew that was
not the problem – nor was the weight of the blanket or the smoothness of the
sheets against her skin.

No, the issue was her anger towards Malachi. He'd barely let
her begin her recitation of the strange background of the Machado family before
he'd interrupted, saying the presumed facts were not relevant. He claimed the
information she'd gained from Mrs. Henderson was mere supposition, not evidence.
After all the work she'd done, he'd refused to listen.

But after she'd returned home and engaged in serious
reflection, she had to acknowledge his superior judgment in the matter. The
trial was fast closing. The jury would begin its deliberations by the end of
the week. Perhaps Malachi was wise not to change strategy this late in the
proceedings.

After all, she was a newspaper woman. What did she know of
trials and defense schemes? What did she know of news reporting, her conscience
whispered?

She groaned, gave up trying to get comfortable in bed, and
pattered down the staircase in her thin slippers and heavy cotton nightdress. Perhaps
a glass of warm milk would help her sleep.

She'd just placed the sauce pan on the stove when a light
scratching sounded from the kitchen through the mud room to her right. Sarah
and Ralston had long ago retired to their cottage. Who else could it be but
Malachi?

Still, the repeat of the eerie sound sent icy streams
through her blood. She was utterly alone, the nearest help many yards away at
the Ralston residence.

Since her visit to Elizabeth Henderson, Emma had pondered
the risk of the case. What might a person do to maintain a dark secret? Murder?
Had Joseph been killed to keep the hidden vices of a twisted family? Might not
that same person harm her for prying?

Malachi thought it didn't matter, but she was certain the
truth of Joseph Machado's death lay in those intrigues.

Another scratching at the door, followed by a loud knock and
then a voice wafted from the rear entry. "Emma! Open the door! Emma, it's
Malachi."

As if she would not recognize his voice among a thousand
similar ones. She abandoned the sauce pan of milk and tiptoed through the mud
room to the back door, listening quietly. Even through the barrier of the solid
wood, she could hear his heavy breathing and realized he'd walked or run the few
miles through the woods.

"What do you want?" she asked through the
threshold.

"We need to talk. I – I cut you off earlier when you
would've spoken of what you learned from Mrs. Henderson."

Even though he'd asked her to assist him, Malachi had been
drattedly territorial about the case, and she suspected this was as close to an
apology as she would get. As she swung open the door, the wind blasted through
her gown. He eyed her up and down before crossing through the doorway and
removing his boots and overcoat.

"Are you alone?" he asked, looking quietly around
the kitchen. "We should discuss this new theory of yours."

She remained silent, but glowered at him.

"You have every right to be angry with me, Emma. I
should've allowed you to finish your report." He peered into the pan of
milk beginning to steam on the stove top. "Trouble sleeping?"

She shrugged and pulled down the cocoa and two mugs from the
cabinet.

"Emma, I'm sorry. Let's drink hot chocolate and discuss
what you learned from the midwife. Please. I dislike you being angry with me."

The sound of a real apology made her feel better and she
released the tension in her shoulders.

"Now tell me everything," Malachi said as they sat
on the sofa in the parlor minutes later. "You suspect some kind of unusual
relationship among the Machado siblings."

Emma sat facing him, her feet tucked for warmth beneath the
voluminous folds of her gown. Suddenly the taboo subject she was about to
broach brought a tinge of warmth to her face. And what if she were completely
off the mark? Malachi would think her foolish indeed.

"What is the relationship?" Malachi's hand rested
on the back of the sofa, his fingers playing with the corded seams close to her
unbound hair.

She cleared her throat. "This is difficult to speak
about."

His laughter, rich and mellow, warmed her like a good brandy
going smoothly down the throat. "I shouldn't think there was anything
difficult for us to speak about. Not now."

He reached for a lock of her hair, splaying it through his
fingers, rubbing the strands between thumb and forefinger as if he were testing
the tensile strength of a precious metal. She couldn't shake the feeling that
he also was measuring her tensile. She ploughed on, determined to be undaunted
by his possible rejection of her wild theories.

She sat forward, placed her feet on the floor even though it
was quite chilly, and leaned her elbows on her thighs. "The night that
Joseph, Jr., was born there was no midwife or doctor in attendance."

"What does that signify? I should imagine many women
are unattended in childbirth."

She arched a brow at him and glanced over her left shoulder.
"Not high-born women."

He nodded. "And yet Mrs. Machado delivered her youngest
child without assistance. Is that even possible?"

She shook her head. "She must have had some help. When
Mrs. Henderson arrived to take care of the mother and babe, the necessary
cleaning process had been accomplished."

"By whom? Phoebe would have been ... what? Fifteen?"

"Fourteen. And she was nowhere to be found. Neither was
Mr.
Machado."

Malachi looked puzzled. "Who assisted her then?"

"Mrs. Henderson discovered Aaron holding the baby,
swaddled and clean, rocking him as though the child were his own."

Malachi rose from the sofa, stuffed his hands in his
pockets, and wandered to the wide front window. The draperies were drawn tight
and he could not possibly see the dark, eerie shadows of the woods beyond Emma's
property, but he stared at the shuttered window as if he could find some kind
of answer written in the lines of fabric.

"You are traversing a dark and dangerous road, Emma,"
he said at last, his broad back turned to her. "You must be careful of
being too fanciful with the facts. Often the truth of a situation is far less
complicated."

She snorted rather ungraciously and threw herself back against
the cushions. "I knew you would not believe me!"

He turned and squatted before her, his thighs bunching
beneath his trousers, his fingers dangling from his knees. "I believe that
a human being will do almost anything to another person."

Perhaps he did not understand her meaning. She gathered her
courage and spoke the words quickly before she could retract them. "Shocking
as it sounds, I think Phoebe and Aaron Machado are the parents of Joseph, Jr."

"It's far more than shocking. It's abhorrent and unspeakable.
And illegal." Malachi's jaw tightened and the muscle writhed beneath the
skin. "What else did you find out?"

"I don't think Mr. Machado knew. He may not know even
now. The three of them – Aaron, Phoebe, and Mrs. Machado conspired to cover up
the truth. I believe the argument between the parents and Aaron was a scheme of
Mrs. Machado to separate the siblings and prevent ... further involvement."

"What about Joseph, Jr.?"

"I have to assume he did not know his true parentage."
She ran a shaky hand over her eyes and closed them briefly. "But Phoebe's
erratic and wild behavior at the time indicates she was a very emotionally
disturbed young girl."

"Do you think Aaron forced himself upon her?"

"Does it matter now?"

Malachi rose and stretched his legs, raising his arms over
his head and twisting about at the waist. Then he sat down close to her and
took both her hands in his. "You've done very well, Emma. I'm terribly
sorry I did not listen to you this afternoon."

She heaved a sigh of relief, hardly realizing how much his
good opinion meant to her. "What will you do now?"

"Unfortunately, nothing yet."

At her cry of surprise, he hurried on, "The defense of
Alma remains the same. But this will be grounds for an appeal, should she be
convicted. If she's acquitted, as I hope, we can pursue a proper investigation
into the real murderer."

Emma began to protest, but realized she must accept his
decision. An immense weight lifted from her shoulders now that she'd unburdened
herself to Malachi. "Who could possibly have murdered Joseph?"

"Alma fired the wounding shot to the shoulder. She
probably dropped the weapon and fled in horror when she realized what she'd
done." He tilted Emma's chin upward and stared hard at her. "You
understand that she must stand in reckoning for that, regardless of the trial's
outcome."

Emma nodded.

"Someone entered the room after she'd run away,
assessed the situation – perhaps this person had even listened to the two
lovers quarrel – and took advantage of Joseph's weakness."

"And that person shot and killed Joseph Machado,"
she whispered, hardly believing a family member could do such a thing.

"Yes, someone in the Machado family – Phoebe or Aaron
or Mrs. Machado – committed parricide." At the moment, however, Malachi
thought not of parricide – the death of an individual by a close family member
– but of infanticide, and specifically of Constance and her heinous act of
betrayal against the very nature of motherhood.

The silence lumbered between them for long moments.

"When will you tell me about her?" Emma asked
suddenly.

He gaped at her. "What? Who?"

She stared at him silently for a long moment. "I don't
know, but when you think of her, you have a – a distant look on your
face." Her expression was compassionate, almost pitying. "I noticed
the night we – when we – afterward ... " Her voice trailed off.

His first instinct was to pretend he didn't understand, but she
was too intuitive to believe a prevarication.

He heaved a long sigh, wondering how she'd diverted him off
the original topic of discussion. "I was married," he began, not
daring to look at her, but feeling the shock of his admission unsettle her as
she sat beside him on the sofa. Her body went rigid with an emotional
withdrawing. "I was a young jack-a-nape then, callow beyond belief."

"Did you love her?"

He turned to face her, sweeping the strands of fire from her
forehead. "I thought I did, else I would not have taken her virginity."

He saw the shocked slit of her black pupils against the warm
brown irises, and something else quavered in their dark depths, something that
shook like the pain of betrayal. "Don't look at me like that, Emma."

"You can understand my confusion," she said gazing
steadily into his eyes. "Do you generally go about deflowering young virgins?"

The barb was meant to wound, but he would not rise to the
bait she threw him. "That was badly done, Emma."

She had the grace to lower her eyes, her cheeks tinged with
color.

He rose and crossed the room. "I meant to marry her
from the start or I would not have bedded her. We made a hasty marriage when we
discovered a child was on the way."

"But you are not married now ... are you?"

He whirled around. "Of course not! Whatever you may
think of me, know this, Emma. I would never cheat on a wife or a lover."

"What happened to her then? And the child?"

"He – he died. Or at least I prefer to tell myself
that." His face felt like marble, mirroring the hardness of his heart. Constance's
betrayal still ached after all these years even though he knew now he'd never
truly loved her.

"You cannot imagine she harmed your child!"

"I prefer not to imagine anything at all about
Constance's perfidy, but the child arrived early and was dead shortly after
birth." He smiled bitterly, feeling the acrid taste of remorse on his
tongue. "But that was not the only betrayal of my darling wife."