Chapter 31
Juliet sat stiffly between Henry and Aunt Margaret, her gloved fingers entwined tightly in her lap.
This was it. The culmination of twenty-seven days of depositions, enquiries, and fending off gossip ever since Clara’s arrest. Though it had barely been a month, the ordeal seemed like a lifetime ago now.
Thankfully Charity and Parker had recovered well enough.
He’d suffered a rather nasty wound on his rib cage, but the shot miraculously missed anything critical.
Charity had regained her vitality, though her nightmares yet lingered.
Henry and his father spent alternate evenings calming her when they hit hardest.
Juliet had returned to Aunt Margaret’s cottage, which was so different from when she’d lived there before. A cozier little home could not be found in all of Bedford, with its picket fence, scalloped white soffits, and neat brick walkway … all thanks to Henry’s thoughtfulness.
And then there was Henry.
She peered at him, studying the unyielding set of his jaw as they waited for the judge’s sentence.
The betrayal of his childhood friend had taken a toll.
New creases lined his brow, and those shadows beneath his eyes might be permanent smudges.
Not that she minded. They were a testament to the compassionate soul that lived inside.
Sensing her perusal, he reached for her hand without so much as a glance. It was like that, now. Unspoken gestures. Endearments that need not be whispered for her to hear them. To feel them. Theirs was a love forged in trial, steady and certain, needing no words to make it known.
The gavel rapped, and she faced forwards.
Ahead, a white-wigged judge sat ensconced on his elevated platform, his faded blue eyes surveying the prisoners below him.
Woodley stood in the dock, wrists clapped in darbies.
Clara sat to the side of the wooden enclosure, eyes usually vacant but sometimes sparking with cognition—and it was for those moments that a strapping guard stood next to her.
At times she understood the gravity of the crime she’d committed, but more often than not, Clara Whitmore had retreated to some faraway land in her mind.
Not only had she lost Henry, she’d also lost herself.
“William Woodley,” the judge began, “after hearing the evidence brought before this court, I find you guilty of abduction and conspiracy to cause harm. You aided in the unlawful detainment of Miss Charity Russell. Furthermore, you concealed information in the act of poisoning, causing the unjust incarceration of Miss Juliet Finch. For committing such crimes, I hereby sentence you to transportation for seven years of hard labour at His Majesty’s penal colony in Van Diemen’s Land. ”
Murmurs rumbled through the courtroom. To his credit, Woodley stood straight-backed and impassive.
A pang of sympathy twinged in Juliet’s chest. He was a strong man, though.
There was every likelihood he’d endure. And at least he’d be out of reach of the vicious smuggling band that’d tried to drag him back to Cornwall.
“May God have mercy on your soul.” The judge banged his gavel once more, a signal for the two guards flanking Woodley to lead him away.
“Now, for the decision on Miss Whitmore.” He adjusted his wig as he leaned forwards. “Are you able to stand, miss?”
Clara rose with dignity, nose in the air, her bravado an indication she was lucid. Behind her in the gallery, Mrs. Whitmore held a handkerchief to her eyes, dabbing furiously. How hard this had to be for her.
“Very good.” The judge shuffled some papers on his desk, held one up to his eyes, and then methodically set it down. “Miss Clara Whitmore, you have been charged and found guilty of abduction, false imprisonment, and the attempted murder of Miss Charity Russell.”
“No!” she shrieked, her hands waving frantically. “I never tried to kill Charity. She is my dearest friend!”
The gavel cracked. “Order!”
The guard nearest Clara clamped her arm, holding her steady as her breath came in frantic gasps.
An uneasy silence settled over the courtroom.
The judge pulled off his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing.
“Normally, for committing such crimes, you, Miss Whitmore, would be sentenced to death or transportation. However, given your fragile mental state and upon the testimonies of Dr. Branch and Dr. Yeats, you are deemed unfit for traditional penalties. Therefore, you are henceforth committed to the Bedford Lunatic Asylum, where you will remain for the rest of your days.”
Mrs. Whitmore swooned in the bench behind her daughter, the gentleman beside her fanning her face in a frenzy.
Clara whirled towards Henry. “Stop this! Tell them I belong with you. You know I belong with you. I did this for you. For us. You love me. You owe me!” Her words choked into a garbled wail as she thrashed in the guard’s grip.
Henry remained motionless, his expression flint.
The gavel struck again, the report of it sharp as a shot. “Take her away,” the judge boomed. “Court is dismissed.”
The judge rose, his black robe billowing as he departed for his chamber. Others stood as well, chatter breaking out as the guard hauled Clara off, her wails a pitiful sound.
Juliet leaned towards Henry, who sat as if his spine were a rod of steel. “Are you all right?”
He gave a sharp nod; then finally, his body uncoiled as he faced her. “I am glad it is finally over.”
Next to him, Charity broke from her father’s embrace, tears in her eyes. What an ordeal this had been for her—for them all.
Juliet squeezed Henry’s arm gently. “My aunt and I shall meet you outside. Take a moment to be with your family.”
His jaw worked, emotion rippling below the surface in those grey-green eyes of his. With a quiet exhale, he covered her hand with his own. “Thank you, Juliet.”
She nodded, then turned to her aunt. “Shall we?”
“Yes, dear. It has been an eventful few days, and I am more than ready for a quiet evening by the hearth.” Her aunt pushed up, swayed a bit from sitting so long, and then edged her way along the bench to the aisle.
Save for some random aches and pains, and that she tired easily, Aunt Margaret was back to her normal self, going so far as mixing up a new batch of tonics from the last of her herbal reserves.
Out in the lobby, the horse-faced Mr. Scather waved and approached, blocking their exit. Out of habit, Juliet tensed.
“Ladies.” He dipped his head. “I will not detain you long as I know this has been very trying for you both. That being said, allow me to come directly to my point. Mrs. Brewster”—he peered at Aunt Margaret over the rims of his spectacles—“I should like to offer you employment.”
Juliet reared back her head. Of all the things she’d expected him to say, this did not even make the list.
Her aunt reset her hat, coaxing it to a jaunty angle. “Thank you for your offer, sir, but I am not in need of employment.”
“No, no. Of course not.” Mr. Scather tugged at his cravat, his overlarge Adam’s apple bobbing. “What I mean to say is I should like to offer you a partnership of sorts.”
“What sort?” Juliet narrowed her eyes.
The apothecary lifted his pointed chin while wrapping his fingers around his lapels. “I should like to take you on as a partner, Mrs. Brewster, if you will have me.”
Juliet’s jaw dropped. “Why would you even consider such a thing?”
His dark eyes shifted her way. “Because your aunt’s customers are as loyal as they come.
Actually”—he turned back to Aunt Margaret—“they trust you. They believe in your knowledge and your remedies. And after the laudanum incident … well, I’d be a fool not to admit that I have some things yet to learn. ”
Juliet blinked.
Aunt Margaret did not.
“So, you want my aunt to rescue your business?” Juliet shoved down a bitter laugh. “This from the man who once threatened to have me arrested—”
“Juliet,” her aunt said gently, patting her sleeve. “Let’s hear him out.” She leaned closer and whispered, “I’m not getting any younger, you know. This might be a wise move.”
Juliet pinched her lips tight, holding in a retort. She hated to admit it, but her aunt had a point. Her days of scrambling through underbrush with a basket and a spade were numbered. Maybe—just maybe—this arrangement had merit.
“Very well.” She adjusted her gloves with deliberate care. “I shall leave the two of you to discuss your business. But mind yourself, Mr. Scather.” She stepped nose to nose with him. “See that you treat my aunt with respect, or you and I shall have words. Words I promise you will not enjoy.”
He gave a small, sheepish nod. “Duly noted.”
She veered around the man, hardly knowing what to think about the whole conversation, and stepped outside to a brisk November breeze. Gunmetal clouds scudded overhead. Winter would call before anyone knew it. She pulled her coat tight at the collar.
Across the green, Miss Potter was about to enter a carriage, her latest millinery marvel a towering swirl of navy silk, cascading peacock feathers, and a delicate birdcage veil dotted with tiny sapphire beads.
It was part sculpture, part spectacle—utterly ridiculous and yet somehow …
surprisingly magnificent. Honestly, Juliet rather admired it, both the woman and the hat.
“Psst.”
She jerked her head aside, unsure if she’d really heard something. Could be just the wind.
“Psst, Miss Finch!”
Definitely not the wind.
She trotted down the few steps and approached a nearby grouping of boxwoods.
Branches rustled. Several leaves fell to the ground. A breath later, out stepped Mr. Dankworth.
Her brows rose to the sky. “Why are you in the shrubbery, sir?”
“Too many people.” Nonchalantly, he brushed cobwebs off his shoulder. “So, how did it all turn out?”
She clapped a hand to her hat before it flew off in the next gust. “Mr. Woodley is to be transported for seven years, and Miss Whitmore has been committed to the asylum.”