The Voyage of Promise (26 page)

T
he charge?” asked Magistrate Francis Warren.

Attired in a long black robe and with a white powdered wig on his head, the magistrate looked frighteningly official, even though he sat at his own desk in the parlor of his own home and rubbed his hands warm before the fire of his own hearth.

“What charge do you bring against this woman, Lord Reginald?”

Magistrate Warren peered over the wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose and squinted with filmy eyes at Lord Reginald Witherham, who sat stiffly on the opposite side of the fireplace. With great show, Lord Reginald set aside the teacup he so expertly balanced on his knee. Then he rose to his full, unimposing height and bowed low to the magistrate. Lord Reginald artfully posed himself to one side of the opulent marble mantel—head high, left hand behind his back for a touch of elegance, right hand left free for gesturing. For an entire year, he had bided his time. After so great a display of discipline, this moment was far too sweet to allow to it to pass without indulgence.

Slowly, deliberately, Lord Reginald turned his attention to Grace Winslow. Miserable, wet, and shivering, she stood some distance from the fire, flanked by the same two men who had brought her from the Foundling Hospital.

“Your Lordship,” Lord Reginald began with a most dramatic flair, “this African woman who stands before you—” here he paused to look at her with disgusted pity—“… is naught but a wanton thief!”

“I see.”

The magistrate heaved a wearied sigh.

Grace caught her breath.

An air of victory settled over Lord Reginald’s pale face. He lifted his narrow jaw and fixed Grace in as searing a glare as his soft features could manage.

“Sir,” Grace said, but not to Lord Reginald. She searched the magistrate’s craggy face for understanding. “Are you the wisest man of this town? Are you the one who hears disagreements and leads your people to a way of healing?”

“Your Lordship!” Lord Reginald interrupted with a great show of indignation. “I really must protest this display of insolence!”

Ignoring Lord Reginald’s incensed huffs, and allowing the trace of a smile to push at the corners of his mouth, Magistrate Warren answered Grace.

“I should be most pleased to think of myself in such lofty terms,” he said. “But, to my great misfortune, I fear that such a calling is not mine. You stand before me today for one purpose alone: to make it possible for me to determine the quality of the case brought against you. With that single intention in mind, I am required by my office to insist that you remain silent as I hear Lord Reginald Witherham state his charges against you. Afterwards, I shall determine whether or not you shall be bound over for trial.”

With a sigh of impatience, Lord Reginald abandoned his carefully orchestrated pose and stepped up to the magistrate.

“I took pity on the wretch,” he informed Lord Warren. “That was my downfall, Your Lordship. Out of naught but kindness, I allowed her to enter my house, and she repaid my benevolence with blatant thievery. She took my goodwill as an opportunity to remove from my estate as many items as she could secret under her skirts. Of that I have not the least doubt.”

Grace gasped in disbelief. She had been inside Lord Witherham’s house, that much was true. But she was only there one time, and then she had never been left alone. No, not for one minute.

“Sir, that is not true!” Grace protested. “I never—”

“Madam, you have no right to speak,” the magistrate cautioned. His voice was kind, yet firm. “This is an official hearing.”

“If you just ask Lady Charlotte, she could tell you—”

“Hold your peace, madame! If you do not, I shall have no choice but to have you removed forthwith straight to Newgate Prison!”

Lord Reginald allowed himself the indulgence of a satisfied smile. Yes, yes, all was proceeding precisely as he had planned. Justice wrought would surely be worth the year’s wait.

“Your Lordship,” Lord Reginald continued. “I ask permission to submit for your excellent consideration one particular piece of evidence.”

Here Lord Reginald reached into his pocket and pulled out a fine linen handkerchief, sewn with the daintiest of hands and most delicately trimmed in an elegant lace border.

Grace cried out in spite of herself.

“Surely you see the quality of this piece of finery,” Lord Reginald continued unabated. “Embroidered flowers throughout,
all done in the most perfect of stitches. This piece is easily worth six shillings. Perhaps as much as eight.”

“Missus Peete gave me that handkerchief!” Grace cried. “Where did you get it?”

“Silence!” Magistrate Warren ordered.

“It was in my room, sir! I kept it always under the pillow on my cot!” Grace insisted.

“I shall not repeat my injunction,” insisted Magistrate Warren. The kindly creases in his face hardened into angry resolve.

“The handkerchief was indeed retrieved from the cell where the accused has lived for the past year,” said Lord Reginald, “but not under the cot pillow where she lays her head at night. No, no. It was hidden away behind a loose stone in the wall.” Lord Reginald paused dramatically. “I ask Your Lordship, does that not provide ample proof that Grace Winslow is nothing but a common thief? That she is only using the Foundling Hospital as a convenient place to hide herself, cloaked in the guise of a nurse caring for homeless children?”

Magistrate Warren ran his hand over his face and heaved a weary sigh. “A six-shilling handkerchief, then. Have you evidence of further thievery, Lord Reginald?”

“Even such a one as she is not fool enough to keep stolen goods lying about,” Lord Reginald answered. “Undoubtedly she visits the rag fair regularly and offers for sale whatever she has pilfered. This particular piece, however, she evidently determined to keep for herself.” Here he held the handkerchief high, as though it were a great trophy. “Perhaps such a dainty allows her to believe that she truly is a lady… and not merely an escaped slave.”

“None of that is true!” Grace cried in exasperation.

“Silence!” ordered the magistrate.

“And I am not a slave!”

Merely an indictment to decide whether or not the evidence was sufficient to try the case before a trial jury; that was all Magistrate Francis Warren was called upon to render. It was not his place to pass judgment, and certainly not to set a penalty for the accused. A blessing, that.

“Have you any witnesses to call, Lord Reginald?”

“No, Your Lordship,” replied Lord Reginald with a deep bow. “Taking into consideration the obvious circumstances of this case, I did not deem it necessary to inconvenience such witnesses.”

Since Magistrate Warren would not permit Grace to speak in her defense, he most certainly did not extend her a like invitation to call witnesses.

“I am certain you will find that I have set before you a case most worthy of trial,” Lord Reginald continued.

Magistrate Warren knew perfectly well what he had before him: a black woman—a mere cleaning maid—one of a multitude of her kind in London. She faced a charge brought by an exceedingly wealthy lord, an aristocratic gentleman of great power and influence. A servant of foreign extraction could disappear into the depths of Newgate Prison—or worse—and never be missed. On the other hand, Lord Reginald Witherham had it in his power to do much to propel a cooperative magistrate forward politically, or he could wield equal influence to destroy an uncooperative one. Magistrate Francis Warren could ill afford to subject himself to such a risk. And, really, why should he? There was, after all, that expensive handkerchief to consider. What further evidence did he require?

Magistrate Warren pounded his gavel down on his desk and pronounced, “Grace Winslow, I commit you to Newgate Prison to await trial on the charge of thievery.”

Forgetting himself, Lord Reginald Witherham actually allowed a whoop to escape his thin lips. He looked triumphantly
at Grace and repeated his words of a year earlier: “Y
ou have not seen the last of me.
” Then he added, “Is it not as I told you, Grace Winslow? If you thought you could hide from me, you were indeed the greatest of fools!”

Magistrate Warren’s shoulders slumped. He swiped at the sweat that glistened in the crevices of his weary face.

Grace looked neither at the uneasy magistrate nor at the gloating Lord Reginald. She shut her eyes tight and desperately tried to trace Cabeto’s face in her mind. His mouth… his eyes… his brow… But this time she could not.

After all Grace had endured, after all she had survived, it had finally happened—Cabeto had slipped away from her.

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Kay Marshall Strom?

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and on www.GraceInAfrica.com

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“I’ve been a fan of Kay Marshall Strom’s work since reading
Once Blind
, her novelization of John Newton’s life from slave trader to abolitionist. Regardless of whether you read Strom’s works of fiction or nonfiction, her heart for freedom, justice, and the respect of persons from all nations shines through. In the Grace in Africa series, Strom transports us to Africa in the late 1700s. The blending of diverse African cultures lends authenticity and additional depth to this series, which is passionately written and keeps high interest from start to finish!”

—
Jennifer Bogart, blogger and fiction reviewer

“I always love it when a writer can step out of the norm and surprise and engage me, and Kay Strom did that. I’m looking forward to reading the next books in the series.”

—
Tredessa C. Rhoade, fiction reviewer

“Few books call so poignantly to that deep place within us as those in the Grace in Africa series by Kay Marshall Strom. Even as the Scriptures tell us that “deep calls to deep,” so do the convicting words of this epic tale call to the God-given conscience within us, that part of us that is stamped with the very image of God and that forbids us to love with anything less than our very lives. From the moment we first meet the lovely but naive Grace Winslow to the instant when we see the noble and selfless image of God rise up from deep within her, we find ourselves challenged to that same depth of commitment. This is more than an entertaining story, though it is that; it is also a call to arms, a challenge to “fight the good
fight” without compromise or lukewarm faith. Grace in Africa is a call to believers everywhere to remember that there is no greater love than to lay down our life for our friends and, if need be, our enemies as well.”

—
Kathi Macias, bestselling author

“Strom writes so graciously and passionately that one feels informed and edified by the message of redemption that weaves throughout the storyline as her characters show us hope in the midst of hopelessness—and virtue that can rise above evil.”

—
Jeannette Morris, blogger and fiction reviewer

“Strom perfectly renders the utter hopelessness of the slaves in Africa. There is no way out and no place to go if they could escape. There’s an unflinching depiction of slavery and the characters’ fight for hope. I can’t wait to read the next book in this series!”

—
Christy Lockstein, fiction reviewer