Chapter 38
The lord chancellor calls witnesses to testify concerning my condition including Sabine St. Laurent’s barrister, Dr. Cartel, who came to haul me away after my wedding, and finally Dr. Bartlett, who seems uncomfortable in his somber gray frock coat and starched collar.
“Doctor, what is your professional assessment of Miss Forsythe’s condition?”
“Physically she’s quite healthy, of course.”
“And her mental state?”
He sighs. “She’s cognitively capable, but her memory is impaired to great degree. A form of hysteria I’ve seldom witnessed.”
Whispers ripple through the gallery, the s of hysteria sounding clearly.
“Do you believe her fit to manage a sizable estate in her current condition?”
He wipes sweat from his brow. “I cannot speak to the veracity of her fiscal acumen, sir.”
The lord chancellor sighs, pressing his fingers into the buttoned wig. “Is her mind fully functional, Doctor? Yes or no?”
Dr. Bartlett stares down at his hands as he wrings them. “No, my lord. Not completely.”
“And has her condition, in your opinion, improved in the time you’ve attended her?”
Another pause. “No.”
I rise from my seat. I stare down from the gallery, burning the top of Henry Gould’s head with my stare.
“Which is how long?”
“Three years, my lord.”
I wave my gloved hand. Gould catches sight of me and his face goes white. He frowns and whispers to the barrister beside him.
“Very good, sir. You may step down. If there are no further witnesses, and seeing as how the proposed trustee is absent from these proceedings, I’m afraid I shall have to nullify the final will and testament of Lady Elvira St. Laurent and grant oversight of her heir and estate to—”
“If it pleases your lordship, there’s one more witness.” The barrister’s voice echoes over the courtroom, and murmurs sound.
Me? Do they mean me?
Henry Gould is waving. Come here, he mouths.
My heels click down the steps and I enter the large assembly hall. “Please, my lord. Might I speak on my own behalf?”
The chancellor blinks at me over his pince-nez. “And you are?”
The barrister steps in front of me. “Merryn Winthrop, your lordship. The potential trustee in question.”
The judge scowls but jerks his head, indicating I should approach and be sworn in.
Once that is completed, he looks me up and down, scowl deepening.
It isn’t merely the amnesia working against me.
A female inheriting anything, placed as trustee over even a small amount, isn’t seemly—especially a female bold enough to speak in his courtroom.
“It would have been convenient if you had made your presence known to your barrister earlier. And where have you been during the previous proceedings?”
“On my wedding trip. I was recently married, my lord.” In a manner of speaking.
One eyebrow pops up. “How recently?”
“Earlier this month.”
He blinks. “Very recently. And a judge signed off on your banns? Your license? Deemed you fit to make such a decision?”
My chin tips up. “I am of sound mind and disposition, my lord.”
He pivots in his seat. “Miss St. Laurent, you have failed to disclose to this court that the trustee in question has married.”
Sabine and her solicitor and barrister confer. The barrister speaks. “We did not find it relevant, my lord. We rather expected it to be annulled. She wed a man she happened upon in the park some two weeks before.”
I grip the rail. “Three weeks.”
The crowds buzz.
He works his jaw. “I don’t wish to confine you to the asylums, Mrs. Winthrop, but your feckless actions, disappearing and reappearing at will, marrying in haste, have shown a concerning disregard for order and obligation. I cannot ignore that.”
“If you please, my lord, Sabine—Miss St. Laurent—attempted to have me forcibly committed. I had no choice but to disappear. As for my marriage, I was attempting to create stability for my new ward. Until probate is settled, I have no position or home.”
He considers this with a frown, working his jaw again. Which seems to mean…he sees merit in my “feckless” behavior and the decision is no longer an easy one. Hopefully.
That, or he agrees I’m mad.
“Personal matters aside, Mrs. Winthrop, your mental condition is still under scrutiny here. Is it true you sustained an injury to the head and suffered a complete loss of memory?”
“That’s correct.”
“So in three years, and with the substantial help of a professional and the generous support of your employer, you still were unable to make a full recovery—or even a partial one. Have you, in that time, recovered any of your memory? Any at all?”
I twist my handkerchief between my fingers. He doesn’t wish to commit me. He’s waiting for me to give him a reason not to. “Partially, my lord. Mostly in dreams and…and images.”
His eyes widen. “You have visions?”
“Not…not…pricely…price…Precise. Ly.” What’s the word? Drat! I can see it upon the paper in my jar. “Precisely. Not precisely. Memories return to me in brief flashes. Mostly my mother, my childhood—”
“Can you substantiate any of these…dreams and visions as actual memories?”
“My mother. She’s Isabella de Montfort.”
Muffled giggling echoes in the courtroom.
“I’ve seen her face…in my mind…” I sound mad. “Please, sir.” I whisper, shaking. “Please. Just grant me Cecil. She can keep the rest.” I look into the eyes of a man who I dearly hope is a father, and plead with him to see the truth. “Please. He needs me.”
“Your lordship,” says the opposing barrister, stifling a grin of amusement, “you might consider that the injury has left an otherwise sane individual with a severe nervous disorder including hallucinations. It is our recommendation that she be contained in an asylum and the estate granted to my client.”
Sabine. My vision blurs with a powerful headache coming on. Sweat cools my skin. The onlookers gasp and murmur, exclaiming over me. Do I look a sight?
No…not exclaiming over me.
But over someone who’s come through the rear door.
It’s a woman in a large red hat and matching gloves, but not just any woman.
She is a force of beauty and poise.
Long, dark hair.
Lovely, slanted eyes.
A birthmark—beauty mark, as she always called it—placed just so beside her lip and a deep, deep twinkle of humor in her violet eyes.
My hand drops from the railing. “Mama.”
She is lovely. Polished and draped in lace and jewelry, she resembles a lost princess.
Now I’ve truly lost my sanity and have dreamed her up during the day.
I’m hallucinating. But when I blink, she’s still here.
Not vanishing on the edge of a dream, waving goodbye, slipping out the door, blowing kisses and promises that never fully land.
Instead she’s rooted, gloved hands covering her mouth, eyes silently begging me to forgive and welcome her near.
With the fractured, unknown past still between us she is cautious… but she is here.
I grip the rail and sing in a faint whisper,
Oh, to see once more,
The girl I left behind me…
Then, like a blessed miracle, her voice of polished mahogany fills the emptiness.
The one I loved so dearly,
Who I let slip away,
but who I’ll see again.
Like sea-smoothed bottle glass fitting into its position, making clear the picture of fractured pieces, my mother enters that tomb-silent courtroom and strides right up to the front, unaware of the enthralled audience.
She pulls me close, folding me into the embrace that fits like a glove, and weeps onto my shoulder.
She smells of cloves and lavender and somehow music.
Sweet-scented music that once formed the backdrop to my life.