The Cottage in the Woods (40 page)

“
The court
will determine who is fit or unfit, thank you very much, Mr. Armstrong! Must I remind you of your place? No? Good! Mr. Cheater, you will proceed with your client’s story.”

Mother Shoe was promptly escorted to the witness-box and sworn in, promising to tell the whole truth, so help her God. What followed was a long, lachrymose melodrama in which Mr. Cheater drew out the tale of the poor (but virtuous!) mother, a mother whose adored golden-haired daughter Mary (her favorite child!) mysteriously disappeared, the little girl so pretty and charming that her mother always suspected that the child had been snatched! Upon further questioning, it was revealed that this tenderhearted mother went immediately into a decline so crippling that she could do little more than weep. As a consequence, she was unable to so much as report the missing child to the constable. A great deal was made of this tragic disability until most of the spectators on the plaintiff’s side were crying crocodile tears and emitting theatrical wails. Having managed, without saying so, to imply that the Vaughns or their agents had kidnapped the child, Mr. Cheater left his client to be questioned by Mr. Armstrong.

“Mrs. Shoe,” Mr. Armstrong opened, “you say the child currently being cared for by the Vaughns is your natural daughter. When is her birthday?”

“Well … um … June! She was born in June. Must ’ave been the middle. The fifteenth.”

“Can you point out any record of her birth? A church registry, perhaps?”

Mother Shoe’s eyes flicked to Mr. Cheater, who made little
hand signals and nodded his encouragement. She grinned slyly and said, “We’ve moved around so much that I can’t even remember what parish we was in when the dear little mite was born.”

“Perhaps you could name some of those parishes for the court, as many as you can remember.”

Mother Shoe suddenly choked, and cast a desperate glance at Mr. Cheater.

“I object!” cried Mr. Cheater. “Counsel is badgering the witness! She has already stated that she does not remember.”

“Mr. Armstrong!” thundered the judge. “You will cease this line of questioning and move on!”

Mr. Armstrong’s mouth closed in a straight line, and his eyes narrowed as he rethought his approach. “Is there anyone outside of your immediate family who can attest to her being your daughter or, indeed, to her being under your care? A neighbor? A shopkeeper? A pastor, perhaps?”

She had the answer ready. “Oh my,
yes
, sir! Dozens of ’em!”

Mr. Cheater interrupted. “If it please the court, we have many witnesses ready to testify on my client’s behalf.”

The judge nodded. “All in good time, Mr. Cheater, all in good time.” I was left wondering how they had found even one witness to testify for Mother Shoe. Who could be so deaf, dumb, and blind as to think she belonged anywhere near children?

Mr. Armstrong proceeded to examine her concerning the morning in April, when she arrived at the manor and first saw Mary. When questioned about the child’s horrified reaction to her, Mother Shoe pulled out a lace handkerchief and became quite incoherent with sobbing, until Mr. Cheater once again accused Mr. Armstrong of badgering the witness. Changing his
line of questioning, the Vaughns’ barrister asked her whether she had, in fact, suggested at the conclusion of that meeting that the Vaughns might keep the girl for one thousand pounds.

“Oh, that was only a misunderstandin’!” she declared. “I was just tellin’ Mr. Vaughn that my daughter was worth a fortune to me, more than any amount of money. I don’t know how he could have got it so mucked up.” She smiled sweetly then, but all I could see was the snapping jaws of the great predator.

As the questioning wore on, it became lamentably clear that every challenge Mr. Armstrong offered would be fended off by the plaintiff or her team of lawyers with half-truths, damaging innuendos, and outright lies. And if none of that worked, the judge himself would step in and swat the issue aside. An endless stream of “witnesses” were called to testify on Mother Shoe’s behalf, sorry characters with little to commend them except their ability to answer by rote. Each remembered “dear little Mary” with perfect clarity; each proclaimed Mother Shoe’s mythical virtues, her unfailing motherly love, and her extreme suffering over the little lost daughter. Mr. Armstrong did his best to debunk their assertions, but they had obviously been very well coached. By the time their final witness had told his memorized story, a halo could almost be seen glowing over Mother Shoe’s head. All of their witnesses were whispering in a group behind the lawyers, looking quite friendly with one another, and with Mr. Babcock, and quite pleased with themselves. The only thing that kept me from despair was the knowledge that our side had yet to present its case.

The judge called a recess, it now being midday, and I was greatly relieved to be free from the hot, dusty room and the crush of bodies. With great difficulty the Vaughns and I made
our way through the noisy crowd to a nearby hotel, for some tea and refreshments, though we had little appetite. “Where did they come up with all those witnesses?” I asked. “And how could those people lie so?”

“It’s not hard to guess,” growled Mr. Vaughn. “You saw how neighborly, how
fraternal
they are with one another. They are all members of the same club: the Anthropological Society. They have no doubt convinced themselves that this is for the greater good.”

“But they lied! In a court of law! Under oath!”

“Yes, and we’re not the only ones who know it. That may give us grounds for an appeal, but it will not help us today.”

I looked down at my food, unable to touch it. Taking only a little tea, I gathered my courage for the ordeal still to come.

All too soon, we were back in the stuffy courtroom, the judge glaring sideways at us as he instructed Mr. Armstrong to proceed. Calling Mr. Vaughn to the witness-box, the barrister bade him tell the tale of when and how the child Goldilocks came into their lives. It was a compelling story. Mr. Vaughn held the rapt attention of the onlookers as he described that fateful day. He painted a pathetic portrait of the ragged, dirty little girl, asleep in Teddy’s bed, with her thumb in her mouth and a pillowcase full of stolen goods.

Mr. Vaughn went on to tell how they had cared for the wild child, setting her up in her own quarters with Mrs. Van Winkle for a nurse, and providing her with plenty of good food and gentle attention. He reported my own success with the girl in highly complimentary terms. I was touched by this, as I had waited a long time to hear him praise my work. Finally, he spoke eloquently of integrating Goldilocks into their family life. I believed
that Mr. Vaughn’s well-known and unassailable character must have carried some considerable weight. The audience, at least, attended to his every word.

Mr. Armstrong continued his questioning, asking Mr. Vaughn to describe the events on that April day when Mother Shoe came to the house, ostensibly to claim Goldilocks. He recounted Mother Shoe’s insinuation that she would give up the child if he made it worth her while, and her threatening to make his life insupportable when he turned her down.

The judge sat through this entire narrative with an inscrutable expression. Was I only imagining that he might betray some interest, some sympathy for this vulnerable child and her loving foster family? Was there yet a chance?

Now it was Mr. Cheater’s turn to question Mr. Vaughn, and he made the most of it. “Concerning this child you claim to have found, was it not true,” he asked, “that you, in fact, locked the girl up?”

A ripple of shock traveled the room. Stunned, I wondered who had supplied the opposition with this detail. Only a handful of trusted servants even knew of her presence in the house in those early days. Betsy. James. Cook. Mrs. Van Winkle. And Nurse.

Mr. Vaughn remained calm.

He attempted to explain the situation, but was cut short by Mr. Cheater again and again. In the end the barrister managed to give the impression that the girl had been held prisoner for many months. I felt sick with rage and frustration.

“Now,” said Mr. Cheater, “concerning your meeting with Mrs. Shoe, you say that she brought up the matter of money.”

“Yes. She stated that her husband sent no money.”

“And then
you
asked whether she would accept money in exchange for the child?”

“No! I asked whether
she
was suggesting it!”

“Is it not true, Mr. Vaughn, that it was you—who are so wealthy—who sought to silence this grieving mother with a bribe?”

“No!”

“That it was you who suggested money in exchange for the child?”

“No!”

“And that it was you who named the price?”

“No!”

“And that Mrs. Shoe then told you that her child was beyond price?”

“Certainly not!”

Mr. Cheater turned to the audience with a knowing look, as if
he
had the inside information, and had just caught Mr. Vaughn in a monstrous lie. “That is all,” he said with a smirk.

I knew that my turn could not be far off. Indeed, it took me a moment to realize that Mr. Armstrong was calling my name. I approached the witness-box with my head held high, and was duly sworn in. He examined me at some length, asking me to describe my first encounter with Goldilocks, and my evaluation of her condition at that time, then to provide a description of all the progress she had made thus far. When he asked how I would describe the child’s relationships with the various members of the Vaughn family, it gave me great satisfaction to be able to testify to the love and affection she received from each of the Vaughns.

And then we came to the day Teddy and Goldilocks and I had encountered Gabriel and the other Shoe children in the forest. At Mr. Armstrong’s bidding, I told of Gabriel’s ugly threats against the child, and of his drawing his knife and gesturing with it. Mr. Armstrong questioned me about the next day as well, when Mother Shoe had come to the manor house, supposedly to collect Goldilocks. All these incidents I had firsthand
knowledge of, and I felt with some pleasure that with my ready answers I was striking a blow for the helpless child and the Vaughn family.

Then it was Mr. Cheater’s turn to examine me. “Miss Brown, how much do the Vaughns pay you?”

“I object!” cried Mr. Armstrong. “That has nothing to do with this case!”

“I propose that it has everything to do with this case,” stated Mr. Cheater. “She can hardly be said to be an impartial witness when going against her employer could deprive her of her entire income.”

“Answer the question, young lady!” demanded the judge.

“Thirty pounds per year, sir.”

“Thirty pounds per year,” repeated Mr. Cheater. “And since your father’s death, you have no other means of support, is that not true?”

My mouth fell open in surprise. Who would have told them such a thing? Who would have known? I had spoken of this only to Mr. Vaughn, but who might have been listening in at the door, or repeating it in the kitchen—or eavesdropping at the laundry chute? Again, Nurse came to mind. Numbly, I answered, “Yes.”

“Come now, Miss Brown, isn’t that the motivation behind everything you’ve said here today?”

I took a deep breath, and said, “It is not! Not for any amount of money would I lie under oath, and neither would Mr. Vaughn ask it of me!”

Mr. Cheater smiled in that repulsive way he had, as if
he
, despite all evidence to the contrary, knew the
true
facts and motives, and would not shrink from the unpleasant task of digging
out the dirtiest secrets for all the world to see. I wanted to strike him. I wanted to run away from the courtroom and wash myself of his contemptible insinuations before the miasma of his cynicism could somehow infect me.

“No more questions,” Mr. Cheater declared, and my testimony was over. I was trembling as I took my seat. Though Mrs. Vaughn caught my eye and gave me a reassuring smile, I felt as if I must fly into a passion, or do something desperate. I knew that a great many villagers, both human and Enchanted, still remained to testify on the Vaughns’ behalf, concerning their sterling characters and their standing in the community, and I could not countenance hearing Mr. Cheater slander them as he had me, but, though I wanted to quit the place immediately, I could not leave. Not without hearing the judge’s verdict. I swallowed my wrath, and listened impatiently. The trial went on for hours, as many loyal and true individuals told of their experiences with the Vaughns: stories of Mr. Vaughn’s benevolence, his integrity in business; the many stories of Mrs. Vaughn visiting the poor and the sick. Even some of Mrs. Vaughn’s estranged friends had come to testify that Mrs. Vaughn was an excellent wife and mother, but Mr. Cheater shamelessly manipulated each witness, smearing them with intimations of payoffs, or other ulterior motives, until their testimonies served his own cause far better than ours.

I fastened my eyes upon the judge’s inscrutable visage, reading volumes into his every twitch and flicker of expression. Was there hope? Was it still possible that he would be open-minded and fair? The afternoon stretched on. Tempers flared as patience wore thin, and people began craving their suppers. The assembly could not be restrained from talking among themselves, or
even shouting out comments, despite numerous threats from the judge to clear the courtroom.