The Runaway Countess (22 page)

Taking in a deep inhale scented with the gardenia flowers she had cut that morning, Mazie tried to ignore the gaping hole of worry in her chest. She would not think of Roane’s punishment, of his hanging.

No, she wouldn’t run. She wouldn’t react out of fear. She did not even know how to find Roane in order to warn him. It was best she stay here, continue to monitor Trent and the investigation. She would try harder to thwart him, offer him more misleading information, complicate matters the best she could. She seemed to be good at that.

“Ducks swim. Geese swim. Chickens do not swim.” Alice sat back with laugh. “Silly book.” But she wore a satisfied smile on her face.

“Very well done.” Mazie nodded, forcing a tight smile.

“Thank you again for helping me with my reading.”

“Thank Lady Catherine, for she talked with Mrs. Mattel on your behalf. Besides, reading is a skill everyone should have.”

Alice stood and curtsied. “Shall I help you dress for the day?”

“No, I think I will… Actually, yes. I cannot put on my dress myself, can I?” Mazie blinked, flustered.

“I would think not, unless you were in the circus.”

Mazie smiled, grateful for the relief of her maid’s humor. She walked to her wardrobe and opened the mahogany door. What did one wear to a session of court where one
should
be tried as a criminal, but was attending as an honored guest instead?

“The red gown, I think.”

The sun stretched her long fingers through the high windows of the Giltbrook courtroom. Commissioned by Trent’s great-great-great-grandfather, the first owner of the hulking desk in the study and the first Earl of Radford to be given the title lord lieutenant, the courtroom was built on a grand scale of space. The décor, however, was plain and austere—rock and timber, white walls, glittering windows and an overarching ceiling. To Trent, it was an inspiring display of the order and security brought by the law.

It was a welcome refuge for him, a comfortable setting where he felt braided into his lineage, and confident in England’s elegant legal system.

“With the ageless rocks of this land and the sweat of their brow, our ancestors erected the very strength of these walls. Unified in solemnity and peace, they established the proceedings here at Giltbrook Hall. A place where all may come and seek justice.” Trent spoke in clear and deliberate syllables, his words filling the vast space. Some in the crowded audience listened intently, tilting forward like excited ships at the breast of a storm. Others slumped, drowning in themselves, unreachable.

It was often this way. There were always the supporters and dissenters. Trent’s job was to inspire the former and immobilize the latter.

“In times of confusion, many view the law as a weapon of oppression and false judgment. I am here today to ensure that the law serves its intended purpose, which is to make one free. Free from fear, from offense and from injury.” A moment of stillness held the room as he gathered his breath like a great swell in the ocean, filling and filling until the last of his speech spilled forth in cresting punctuation. “It is a great society where its citizens are united in vision, prosperous in industry and orderly under the principles of honor. In this spirit, I formally announce this court open for midsummer sessions.”

The audience was captivated, the intended result of a flourished speech worthy of the House of Lords. Trent held back his smile. He would remind the villagers about the beauty of justice and the need for laws. He scanned the crowd and easily found Mazie seated in the back, dressed in red. Good. He would turn her head with his brilliance and fairness. He was sure of it.

He read the names of his first case and a short, round man of middling age stepped forward. The defendant was also escorted to the front of the room, the shackles binding his hands clanking and glinting in the sun. The man’s fierce scowl underscored the drama of the scene.

The desks the defendant and plaintiff stood behind were wide, imposing structures built to demonstrate the strength and elegance of the legal system before them.

“Mr. Martell, you charge Mr. Price with breaching the peace?” Sitting upon a raised dais, Trent surveyed the proceedings like a king.

“Aye, your honor, er, milord, er, your lordship’s honor.” Mr. Martell wiped a handkerchief over his sweating brow, his pudgy face florid with color.

“My lord or my Lord Lieutenant,” Trent corrected for him.

“My Lord Lieutenant.” Mr. Martell nodded and plunged on with his complaint. “It were last Tuesday. I was in the back of my house when I heard a banging on the door, an’ it crashed open. The wood was splintered an’ ruined. I came forward an’ yelled at the man, but he only turned an’ ran deeper into the house, by the kitchen. My neighbors, hearing me call out, came an’ helped me capture him.” Mr. Martell nodded and dabbed at his forehead, pleased with his speech.

“What say you to these charges, Mr. Price?”

“I was lookin’ for lodging, milord. I was wanting a bed to lay down in.” Pale, gaunt and with a bulbous red nose, Mr. Price looked excessively ragged and in bad need of a shave. Or, more likely, a drink.

“Mr. Price, you thought Mr. Martell was running a rooming house?” Trent clarified.

“Er, I was deep in me cups, milord. I don’t know what was rumbling about me head.” He shrugged, having nothing more to offer.

The room twittered with laughter.

Trent talked loudly, demanding attention. “If I understand, Mr. Martell, you apprehended Mr. Price with the help of your neighbors and turned him over to the magistrate that night.”

“Aye, milord. My Lord Lieutenant. Sir.”

“Was there an altercation? Physical damages?”

“Only to me head. My wife, thinking it was some jealous husband I ’ad cuckolded, hit me o’er the head with her tea kettle.”

“Ah.” Trent scowled at the continuing laughter in the courtroom. His muscles tightened with irritation. This was a place of serious deliberation, not the local pub. “So the physical damages are the price of the door and doorframe.”

“Aye. ’Tis correct.”

“I already offered to fix it,” Mr. Price mumbled.

“Fix it my eye. Yer got the barrel fever, man. Any door yer fix is gonna be crooked an’ missin’ a few screws.”

There was more shifting and laughter from the audience. In the front row, Harrington leaned over and said something to Lord Dixon.

Trent felt hot with agitation. This was not a game to him, or a play of power. It was a love for the laws that made England a shining example for the rest of the world. It was a sense of responsibility to his ancestry, his country, his tenants. Himself.

He pounded his gavel and the room settled back into taut silence. “Very well. Mr. Price, you are found guilty of breaching the peace and shall be fined two shillings in addition to the price of a new door.”

“Thank you, milord.”

The bailiff led the two men away and Trent sat back.

Without thinking, he looked up at Mazie. She needed to see that justice was an organized and civilized affair, not something to be taken on by just anyone. Her eyes widened when she caught him staring and she smiled, tentative and kind.

Of course, his mind, traitorous devil, flashed to that night when he had gone to her room and attraction had bound them together. Visions of her body, of her nipple peaking through the lace of her gown, ready for a man’s—

Good God. He forced his gaze away, forced his
mind
away, and nodded for the next two villagers to come forward.

Mazie felt proud of Trent as he sat on his raised dais and supervised the court proceedings. He commanded the room with great certainty and a palpable belief in the integrity of the law. Another man might have looked silly dressed in the traditional powdered wig and robes, but Trent looked lordly, powerful and even a bit beautiful.

She did not want to notice these things about him, did not want to have any pleasure in seeing him this way, or any way really. But so it was.

The morning had flown by as Trent tried one case after another. Thus far, she found him to be fair in his rulings. There was nothing unusual or surprising in his decisions. She had to admit that he was correct, there was something to be trusted in this orderly system.

“Will our last plaintiff please step forward. A Mr. W. Clive,” he called out.

“I am William Joseph Clive, son of William Clive.” A tall, thin man stepped to the front of the cavernous room.

“What is your complaint?”

“On the thirteenth of last month, this woman here—” Mr. Clive motioned toward a woman being brought forward by the bailiff, “—came into our shop on Main Street and asked to please look at some handkerchiefs. I showed her any number, and she couldn’t decide on colors and was trying this one and that one. In that time, another customer came in and I went to assist them. When they left I turned back toward this woman, hoping she was ready to buy something for I was wanting to take my lunch. But what I saw was the handkerchiefs were no longer on the counter. Or some of them were, but not as many.”

The man paused for a breath and Mazie let her eyes skip over to the defendant now standing at the front of the courtroom. She wore widow’s weeds, very tattered.

“I grew suspicious,” the plaintiff continued, “and called for my father. She started to fuss when my father questioned her and tried to go out the door. My father stopped her and ordered her to empty her pockets. Then she started fussing more, asking for mercy, and she pulled out four handkerchiefs, value five shillings each. These be the ones, my lord.” He held up four handkerchiefs then placed them on the table before him. “She shoved some coins in my hands, asking that I let her go, saying she had five children. My father and I said no and sent for an officer.”

Mazie pressed her hands against the hollowness in her belly. Seated a few rows in front of her and Cat were five children with long faces, the littlest one crying.

“How do you plead?” Trent asked the defendant.

She sniffed. “I have five children, my lord, and only the oldest one has work. It was just hunger. I was gonna sell them silk handkerchiefs an’ get food. A mistake. I’m sorry, so sorry.”

He sighed. “You plead guilty, Mrs. Warner?”

“Yes.” Her voice was as thin as the threads she wore. “Please, have mercy on me.”

Again, Mazie glanced at the children, her heart heavy. The punishment for shoplifting goods over five shillings was death. But surely Trent wouldn’t command this woman be hanged or even deported. He had been fair in his decisions thus far that afternoon.

Mrs. Coulton, a farmer’s wife Mazie knew from the village, leaned toward her and Cat. “Mary Warner there worked in the lace factory before it went to the machines. She’s lost most of her eyes. Her husband worked in the mine an’ died of the collier’s disease. ’Tis a pity.”

Mazie glanced toward the front of the courtroom and caught Trent looking in her direction, his brows lowered in concentration.

She shifted in her seat. He wouldn’t hang the woman, would he? Her children were hungry, like so many were these days. Too many for the churches and other charitable organizations to feed.

The courtroom was silent as he considered what to do. He looked down at his desk again, as if the answers were written there.

Her palms began to sweat. Just a little, just enough that she noticed. There were laws, yes, they were specific. But there was also room for interpretation. Only the cold-blooded thought this woman should be severely punished.

Mazie stood before she even knew what she was doing. Cat tugged on her sleeve, telling her to sit. Mazie ignored her. “My lord?”

His head shot up, an incredulous expression on his face.

She swallowed and dared to continue despite the beginnings of his murderous glare. “My lord, surely you can have mercy on this mother. Surely you can—”

“Are you acquainted with the defendant?” He cut her off, his face red with anger. “A clergy member prepared to offer a character reference?”

“No.”

He glanced over at Harrington and Lord Dixon. She couldn’t see the expression on their faces, but assumed they weren’t happy. They would be more than willing to let the mother hang. Lord Dixon’s nephew by marriage owned the lace factory that had fired Mrs. Warner, among many others, without reservation.

The children turned to look back at her, white in their fear, dark hollows betraying their hunger. She tried again. “But, my lord—”

He pounded his gavel, commanding the entire room. “You may sit down, Lady Margaret. This case does not concern you.” He looked daggers at her, calling out her title for all to hear, daring her to disobey him in this. With a firm voice, he declared, “I find the defendant, Mary Warner, guilty of felonious stealing, the penalty for which is two hundred days confinement in the county gaol and ten shillings.”

Mrs. Warner did not move for a moment, did not dare look back at her children. The bailiff walked toward her and she slowly stood, nodded toward Trent, then waved for her brood of five to follow. They would all be imprisoned with her.

The courtroom was quiet as a tomb as the family filed out. The scent of close bodies excited in the midsummer heat cast a sour note through the room.