Wishful Seeing (11 page)

“If I scream, my father will be here in thirty seconds,” she said. “Do you really want everyone to know what you just said to me?”

Then she had backed away from him slowly, until she was close to the door. Keeping her eyes on the man, she reached behind her and wrenched it open. Then she threw the bolster at him and ran down the stairs.

She hadn't told anyone about it. She figured it was all just a little pathetic. Like the boys at school who had sometimes followed her down the street in a pack, making comments and elbowing each other until the day she reached down and picked up one of the road apples some passing horse had dropped. She spun around and threw as hard as she could, and was rewarded when the nugget landed squarely in the middle of Harry Pitt's forehead. They hadn't been so bold after that, and she had ignored them from then on.

She hadn't ever had anyone actually
bow
to her before, like Ashby had done. It had been very slight, and extremely elegant. At first she was amused by it, then a little intimidated, a feeling that intensified during dinner as he and her grandfather discussed the Howells, and Ashby so slowly and deliberately ate his food, delicately dabbing his mouth with his napkin and laying his knife and fork down between bites. Towns Ashby was a cut far above the farmers and shopkeepers and blacksmiths she normally encountered. He was aptly named, she decided. He had town manners. A city shine. Not that she was a bush girl by any stretch of the imagination, but she had grown up in a village, not a city, and she hoped that she hadn't seemed like too much of a country mouse. She mustn't have, she finally concluded. Otherwise he would never have included her in the after-dinner discussion about the case. But she resolved that should he ever come to dinner again, she would try to copy his manners, and not wolf down her food quite so hastily.

When she finally confronted the dinner dishes the next morning, they were caked in a congealed mess from having sat all night. With a sigh, Martha set them to soak, then went into the dining room to clear away the table. She carefully folded the cloth so that she could carry it outside and shake it, but as she was shoving the chair back, her foot bumped against something solid. Puzzled, she reached down to discover a book:
Commentaries Volume I,
by Sir William Blackstone
.
It must have been in Ashby's valise. He'd taken it out, no doubt, when he removed his notes, and then forgotten that he'd set it on the floor. She leafed through it, stopped and read a paragraph here and there, and then, dishes forgotten, she moved a chair closer to the window where the strong morning light would make it easier to read.

Both the life and limbs of a man are of such high value, in the estimation of the law of England, that it pardons even homicide if committed
se defendendo
, or in order to preserve them. For whatever is done by a man to save either life or member, is looked upon as done upon the highest necessity and compulsion. Therefore, if a man through fear of death or mayhem is prevailed upon to execute a deed, or do any other legal act; these, though accompanied with all other the requisite solemnities, may be afterwards avoided, if forced upon him by a
well-grounded
apprehension of losing his life, or even his limbs, in case of his
non-compliance
. And the same is also a sufficient excuse for the commission of many misdemeanors, as will appear in the fourth book. The constraint a man is under in these circumstances is called in law duress, from the Latin
durities
, of which there are two sorts: duress of imprisonment, where a man actually loses his liberty, of which we shall presently speak; and duress
per minas
, where the hardship is only threatened and impending, which is that we are now discoursing of. Duress
per minas
is either for fear of loss of life, or else for fear of mayhem, or loss of limb. And this fear must be upon sufficient reason.

This was followed by a long phrase in a language that she couldn't read. Latin, she suspected, but she would have to ask Thaddeus when he returned. She thought it must reiterate the concept expressed in the paragraph: that killing someone in fear of one's life was an adequate defence under the law. She wondered if it could be argued that Mrs. Howell had been in fear of her life. Or even Mr. Howell, she supposed. If one of them had shot Paul Sherman because they were both being threatened, then surely the exoneration would extend to the other as well.

She discovered that it might not be nearly that simple a little further on in the book. “
But though our law in general considers man and wife as one person, yet there are some instances in which she is separately considered; as inferior to him, and acting by his compulsion. And in some felonies, and other inferior crimes, committed by her, through constraint of her husband, the law excuses her: but this extends not to treason or murder.”

Martha was a little taken aback by this passage. A woman could be excused, apparently, for obeying her husband in committing a crime unless it was one of the ones that could get her into the most trouble. Then she was on her own.

She hoped that she had misinterpreted the text; otherwise, it hardly seemed fair that a woman was deemed inferior and subject to obedience to her husband right up until the time he told her to kill somebody.

She read on, struggling through the unfamiliar terms and foreign phrases, trying to understand. Thaddeus knew a great deal about a great many things, but she judged that this was beyond even her grandfather's expertise. She would have to take her questions to Ashby, if she got the chance.

The sun was high in the sky by the time she put the book down, her eyes tired from reading, her mind whirling with questions. She was about to go to the kitchen to attend to the still-unwashed dishes when there was a knock on the front door.

And there, on the porch, stood Towns Ashby, as if she had conjured him.

He tipped his hat. “Miss Renwell, I'm sorry to disturb you, but in the process of packing my things I discovered that I have misplaced one of my books. I wondered if you, by any chance, had run across it.”

“The Blackstone? Yes, it was by your chair. Please come in. It will only take a moment for me to fetch it. I'm afraid I took the liberty of reading a little of it.”

He looked surprised. “Really? I would hardly call Blackstone a suitable book for a morning's light entertainment. I could barely get through it myself.” He stepped into the hall, leaving the door ajar behind him.

“I think you'll find that many ladies are interested in more than the latest trashy novels,” Martha said. “The trouble is, no one ever gives us anything meatier.”

He laughed. “Point taken. From now on I'll endeavour to leave behind only the driest and most uninteresting of my textbooks. Perhaps I can get you to read them and tell me what they say.”

She didn't give an inch. “I'd be delighted.” She went through to the dining room and retrieved the Blackstone. When she returned, a scowling James Small was standing on the porch.

“Is everything all right, Martha?” he asked.

“Of course. Why wouldn't it be?”

Small shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. “Well, you know, a strange man at the door, and then he goes inside. You never know. There are a lot of ruffians about. The railway crew and so forth.”

Ashby had an amused smile on his face, one eyebrow lifted in question. Just then Martha could have leaped at Small and strangled him by his bobbing Adam's apple.

“Mr. Ashby may be strange to you, Mr. Small, but he's not to me.”

“It's just that I know your grandfather isn't home right now. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I'm fine, thank you. Mr. Ashby has just come to retrieve the book he left behind last night.”

“And now that I have it,” Ashby said, taking it from Martha, “I'll be on my way. I have some information for your grand­father, incidentally, but perhaps it would be better if I wrote to him.” His eyes slid sideways toward Small. “My steamer leaves shortly, but I'll send a letter as soon as I get back to the city.” He tipped his hat again. “Miss Renwell. Mr. Small.” And then he exited the door and sauntered away down the path.

“Well, if you're all right, then I'll just go too,” Small said, although he didn't move from where he was standing.

“Thank you,” Martha said, and closed the door in his face. Then she let out an exasperated sigh. She couldn't believe how fast Small had come galloping across the yard, and how quickly he'd managed to chase Towns Ashby away. She'd wanted to talk to Ashby. She'd wanted to ask him questions about what she'd read. She'd wanted to hear what he had found out about the Howell case. But most of all, she'd just wanted him to stay a little longer.

After a few moments, she allowed herself a peek out the parlour window. Small had finally given up on any thought of being invited in and was loping back across the yard.

“I stopped at your farm the other day,” Thaddeus said to the figure sitting on the narrow bunk. “I was passing anyway, and I thought it was an opportunity to make sure that everything was all right. I hope you don't mind.”

The heavy wooden door to Ellen Howell's cell had been left open, but Thaddeus hesitated to walk right in, leaning instead against the solid oak jamb.

“And was it all right?” she asked.

“As far as I could tell. There seemed to be someone still living there. The neighbours seem to think it's your daughter.”

She looked puzzled. “Caroline is still there?”

“I don't know that for sure,” Thaddeus replied. “The stove was warm. There were dishes by the pump waiting to be washed. I called, but no one answered.”

She appeared to take a moment to digest this information. “How odd.”

“I agree,” Thaddeus said. “I would have thought that someone would take her in. One of your friends, perhaps, if you have no family here.”

“I have no family anywhere,” she said, “and my friends, unfortunately, are not well-placed to feed another mouth.”

“I must admit, I don't know if they tried to do something for the girl or not. Patience Gordon sent her some baking, but Leland says he can't get close to her. This was confirmed by a farmer I met on the road, and mirrors my own experience, as well. As I said, I called, but my only answers were from a cow and a dog.”

Her face cleared then. “Caroline will be fine as long as she has Digger. He won't let any harm come to her.”

Thaddeus was astounded by her lack of concern. She hadn't asked a single question about Caroline's welfare, or what arrangements could be made for her. Was she protecting her daughter in some way? If she was, he decided there was no point in asking her about it.

“At any rate, I milked your cow.”

She laughed and the warmth came back into her face. “I should like to have seen that,” she said. “The famous preacher with his face stuck in a cow's flank. I'm surprised you know how.”

“It took me a while to get the hang of it again,” he admitted. “It's been a long time.”

She stood. “I'm allowed to take my exercise in the hall,” she said. “Would you walk with me?”

Again, Thaddeus noted the small hesitation when she stepped through the door. Not a limp, exactly, just a stiffness. She noticed his concern.

“It's an old injury,” she said. “When I was a child we lived on an estate in Norfolk. We children had ponies, and used to dare each other to jump the fences. I mistimed things one day. The pony crashed into the fence, then crashed into me. The pony was fine. I broke my leg. It didn't heal properly and I've been left with a slight limp ever since.”

Thaddeus fell in beside her as she headed down the hall. It would have been natural for him to offer his arm, but he felt awkward about it as she had made no move to take it on her own.

“Father got rid of the ponies after that,” she went on. “For the longest time I thought it was because of my accident, but then he started selling other things as well. Eventually everything was gone. Anyhow, the damp of this place aggravates the stiffness. Under normal circumstances, it doesn't give me that much trouble.”

“Mr. Ashby is looking into the possibility of getting you out on bail,” Thaddeus said. “It may be that you won't have to stay here until the trial.” Although where the money was to come from, Thaddeus had no idea. How much would they want to ransom an accused murderer? Quite a lot, probably.

“I must thank you for finding Mr. Ashby,” she said. “I'm not sure how much help it will be, as I can shed no light on what happened, but I must admit that it's comforting to have him on my side. I had no idea how daunting court would be.”

So she hadn't told Ashby anything either.

“He told me that he's working pro bono, which is a great relief. I know he hopes to establish his name with this case. In all honesty, I don't see what good it will do him if he loses, but so long as he doesn't send a bill, I don't suppose it will do me or mine any harm.”

“It would be a completely unfair trial otherwise,” Thaddeus said.

“I suppose you're right. They'll hang me anyway, you know, but at least it will be
fair
.” She emphasized the last word, drawing it out and tingeing it with irony.

“Don't count him out yet. By all accounts he's a very enterprising young man.”

They had reached the end of the hall and turned to retrace their steps.

“Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?” Thaddeus asked. “Is there anything you need?”

“Yes.”

Thaddeus held his breath and hoped that her request would be within his means to deliver.

“Time hangs heavily on my hands. It is far too dark in here to read, even on the sunniest of days, but I am not allowed a lamp or a candle unattended. I believe they would allow you one. Do you think that you could, just occasionally, read to me for an hour or two? My friends are too far away to come, and I'm not entirely sure that the gaoler can read at all. I have no one else to ask, other than the local Church of England man, and I can tell, just by looking at him, that he'd take his selections from religious sources.” She stopped, and looked a little shamefaced. “No offence meant by that, but I'd prefer something lighter.”

“What would you like to hear?”

“Something that would remind me of home. Some Jane Austen, perhaps. Maybe one of the Brontes. Something entertaining and full of romance.”

“Count on it. I can come tomorrow. After that, I'll be off on my wanderings again, but only for a few days, and then I can come back.”

He was rewarded with a smile that seemed to light up the entire hall.

Thaddeus stopped at the bookseller's on his way back to the manse. Once inside the shop, he became mesmerized by the long shelves of books, in particular by the section that contained volumes of philosophy and theology. He wondered that there were enough people in Cobourg to sustain a large selection of such heavy material, but then he realized that many of them were introductory texts, aimed, no doubt, at the students of Victoria College. The more advanced books would appeal to the professors, he supposed.

There were several shelves set aside for fiction, and this seemed to be more in keeping with the general tenor of the town. He lingered for a moment over a collection of Edgar Allan Poe's stories. Once, long ago, he had read and enjoyed Poe's
Murders in the Rue Morgue.
Then he realized that macabre stories about death would hardly be a comfort to someone in a gaol cell awaiting trial for murder. Besides, they were to his taste, not hers. She had asked for something romantic.

He found several Jane Austen novels on the shelf. He finally picked out a volume called
Mansfield Park.
She said she'd like something that reminded her of home, and in leafing through the volume he found several passages that described the English countryside. He handed over a few coins he could ill-afford, tucked the book under his arm, and went home.

Martha's eyes lit up when she saw what he had in his hand.

“Is that for me?” she asked.

“Oh. No, I'm sorry, it isn't.” Thaddeus should have realized that Martha would want to dive into the book. He was about to tell her that she would have to wait and then he realized that there was no reason the book couldn't be shared. “But you can have it for all but the few hours that I'm reading it to Mrs. Howell.”

“Why can't she read it herself?”

“It's too dark in the cell, and she's allowed no light.”

Martha had an odd look on her face. “That's awfully nice of you.” Then she heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I can see now what will happen. I'll be right at a thrilling bit and you'll want to rip it out of my hands and take it away.”

Thaddeus laughed. “And I'm afraid if that happens you'll have to wait to see how it all turns out. But you won't have to wait long. I can spare only an hour or two here and there.”

“I'd like to start reading right now, but not necessarily the book in your hand. There's a letter arrived that I would have torn open and read long since except for the unfortunate fact that it's addressed to you.”

“From Ashby?” Thaddeus said.

“I expect so.” She pointed to where it was lying on the kitchen table. “He said he would write.”

Thaddeus pulled out a chair and sat down. Martha hovered behind him.

“I hope you're not going to read over my shoulder,” he said.

“Maybe you should read it out loud. Then I won't bother you.” She took a chair next to him.

Thaddeus unsealed the letter and spread it out. There was no salutation; none of the niceties of normal correspondence. Instead, Ashby jumped straight to the subject at hand: “I must say there are rather a jolly lot of drinkers in Cobourg and they do appreciate a fine brandy. One night in the saloon at the Globe Hotel and I'm quite sodden from drink.”

“I hope some of them had some useful information to impart,” Martha muttered. “Otherwise, it sounds like a foolish way to spend your time.”

“Do you want to hear what he has to say or not?”

“Sorry. I'll be quiet from now on.”

Major Howell, or rather I should say Mister Howell, as he doesn't appear to have been anywhere near the British army — is quite well known at the Globe. He appears to be on good terms with most of the leading citizens of the town and is particularly noted for his willingness to assist in delicate business matters. As is already general knowledge, Howell purchased the land at Sully at the instigation of Mr. D'Arcy Boulton, who in all probability also furnished the wherewithal to complete the purchase.

“Who is D'Arcy Boulton?”

“Shush.”

“Oh, all right.”

Although the recent land purchase itself appears to be perfectly
straight-forward
, there has in the past been a cloud over the title, as is the case with several other pieces of property in the area. The difficulty dates back many years, in fact to the very first settlement and the rather chaotic manner in which land was handed out. The Court of Heir and Devisee has allowed the titles to pass a number of times in the meantime, but I'm curious enough about the original problem to dig a little deeper. I will let you know when and if I discover anything of interest.

Other than being a
go-between
for the local movers and shakers, it appears that Mr. Howell dabbles in currency exchange and the sale of railway bonds, both
Canadian and American.

I met with Mrs. Howell, but she said absolutely nothing that will shed any light on the situation. As far as she is concerned, she was minding her own business when the constables came and arrested her. She seems quite resigned to being found guilty.

I will be returning to Cobourg the middle of next week, and am anxious to hear what, if anything you've discovered in the meantime. There is no need to meet the steamer — I can find my way to the Globe without assistance — but I would like to meet with you and your granddaughter again, at which point we'll decide where we go from here. I would, of course, be delighted if Miss Renwell could be persuaded to furnish another excellent dinner.

The letter was signed, but with such a scrawl that Thaddeus recognized only the initial
T
and a capital
A
in the middle.

“Oh dear,” Thaddeus said.

“What?” Martha had taken the letter from him and was rereading it avidly.

“Do you remember the first time we went to the market?”

“And you ended up with a pocketful of bad money?”

“Yes. That was right after the camp meeting. The first time I ever laid eyes on the Howells. I remember thinking they didn't fit in very well. They were all over the site doing some sort of business. I didn't pay much attention at the time. Now I wish I had.”

Martha looked up from the letter. “Do you think it's Major … sorry, Mister Howell, who's been passing counterfeit money?”

“I don't know what to think. I'm not even sure what ‘currency exchange' is. But remind me to tell Ashby about it.”

“I think we should keep a list of the things we need to tell Mr. Ashby,” Martha said. “I'll go find some paper and ink.” And she jumped up and went into the parlour, still clutching Ashby's letter.

The next morning Thaddeus tucked the copy of
Mansfield Park
into his pocket, careful not to disturb the hairpin Martha had left on page fifty-five as a bookmark.

When he arrived at the gaol he showed the keeper his book and asked for a light. After a moment's hesitation, the keeper allowed “as to how it would be all right” and fetched a small lamp for him, then let him through to the cell block. Ellen was at the end of the hall, and walked to meet him.

“Mr. Lewis. As promised!”

“And, as promised, with a book in hand.”

She smiled as he held it out for her to see.

“An Austen! Oh, well done!”

He felt a flush of pleasure in her approval, wondering at himself even as he did so.

There was nowhere to sit but in her cell. Thaddeus set the lamp on the small table by her cot and took a seat on the wooden stool that had been drawn up to it.

“Shall we begin?” he asked when he was settled, his feet tucked under the stool to give her more room.

She sat on the end of the cot and waited expectantly. He opened the book and began:

About thirty years ago, Miss Maria Ward of Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to thereby be raised to the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and consequences of an handsome house and large income. All Huntingdon exclaimed on the greatness of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her to be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to it.