Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
On the cold December day of Charlotte’s trial, a thick gray mantle of cloud effectively blocked any hope of sunlight.
This left the courtroom both freezing and dark, forcing the sheriff, lawyers, and clerks to bundle themselves in extra layers beneath their black robes.
With their yellowing sausage-roll wigs perched precariously upon their heads and their wrinkled robes ballooning out around them, they looked like a flock of bored, fattened ducks ready to be plucked and roasted upon a spit, Genevieve thought.
“…and since that terrible day I’ve not been able to have an easy moment, either in my shop, or on the street, or even in my own bed at night,” Mr. Ingram mewled pitifully.
“Those young ruffians beat me so badly I suffer constant pain. The doctor has told me I will have to endure it for the rest of my life.” He rubbed his gray head and winced, as if he were afflicted at that very moment, then gave the sheriff a mournful look.
“Thank you, Mr. Ingram,” said Mr. Fenton. The prosecuting counsel was a pasty-faced man with a sharply pointed beak of a nose, beneath which he sported an enormous lobster-red mustache. “You may step down.”
Mr. Ingram made a great show of hobbling as slowly and stiffly as possible to his seat on the hard wooden benches where the audience sat.
Genevieve had an almost irrepressible urge to yell out “fire!” and then see how quickly Mr. Ingram was able to flee the confines of the building.
When she had paid him a visit but three days earlier he had flapped his arms with athletic vigor as he scrambled about pointing to the damages his shop had incurred.
His current physical impairment had mysteriously manifested itself since then.
She glanced at Charlotte, who sat with her back straight and her small hands tightly clenched upon her lap in the prisoner’s box.
Her long days in prison had leeched her of color, giving her skin an almost luminescent quality, as she silently listened to the witnesses bear testimony against her.
Genevieve had brought her a gown of dark-green wool to wear, which did not fit particularly well, but was clean and appropriately modest. Eunice and Doreen had enhanced it with a snowy ruff le of lace at the cuffs, which had been stripped from one of Genevieve’s old gowns, and helped to make Charlotte look less like the rough street urchin Mr. Ingram and Lord and Lady Struthers were claiming her to be.
Her auburn hair had been neatly brushed and pulled away from her face with the assistance of a satin strip of emerald ribbon, and Genevieve had taken care to ensure that her face and hands were well scrubbed with fragrant soap and then rubbed with Eunice’s special olive-oil cold cream until they glowed with ladylike softness.
Appearances were important when one was being judged, and Genevieve wanted Charlotte to look every inch the gentle young lady who had no place in either a prison or a reformatory school.
“If it please the court, Your Honor, the defense would like to call Mrs. Maxwell Blake,” said Mr. Pollock, the defense counsel.
The sheriff wearily leaned over his bench, planted his bulbous chin in his hand and nodded.
While his elevated position gave him an excellent view of everyone within his courtroom, it had the distinct disadvantage of putting him on perpetual exhibit, precluding the possibility of closing his eyes for a few moments.
He had already presided over five cases that day, and there were six more to follow after this one.
It didn’t help that he had been suffering from a most uncomfortable digestive upset since luncheon, which was making him feel decidedly impatient with both the solicitors’ and their witnesses’ theatrics.
All he wanted at that particular moment was a nice, restorative cup of tea, and perhaps a sweet bannock to help settle his stomach.
There was this case to finish and then one more concerning a drunken brawl in a tavern, he decided stoically, before he could order a recess and retire to his chamber for a brief respite.
He sighed and tapped his foot restlessly upon the floor, determined to make sure that things started to move along at a faster clip.
Haydon watched as Genevieve inhaled a steadying breath before rising to take her place on the witness stand.
She had not permitted anyone but him to accompany her to the courthouse, and even his presence had elicited considerable argument.
Ever since their passionate interlude a few nights earlier, she had done everything she could to avoid him, much to the bemusement of the rest of the household.
When she had occasionally found herself in the same room with him, she had quickly found some urgent reason to be elsewhere.
While Haydon sympathized with her discomfiture and had no wish to further aggravate it, he had been utterly resolute that they attend Charlotte’s trial together.
Regardless of the complexity of their relationship when they were in private, to the rest of the world they were Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell Blake, blissfully happy newlyweds.
He could well imagine how tongues would flap if they did not attend together something as momentous as their daughter’s trial.
The image of respectful domesticity they could present as a couple would only support their argument that Charlotte should be restored to them, he told Genevieve firmly, and ultimately she had accepted the wisdom of his argument.
Beyond what the rest of Inveraray thought, Haydon could not bear the thought of leaving poor little Charlotte to face her ordeal without him.
He supposed on some level this was a manifestation of the guilt he carried around with him every day of his life.
He had made a point of giving her encouraging smiles throughout the proceedings, and while she was clearly too distressed to smile back, he sensed that Charlotte was glad of his presence.
When that listless fool of a judge finally deemed her not guilty, Haydon was going to scoop her up into his arms and take both her and Genevieve home, where they bloody well belonged.
“I swear by Almighty God and as I shall answer to God at the Great Day of Judgment that I shall tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” Genevieve’s voice was tense but clear as she repeated the oath after the sheriff.
“Mrs. Blake, you are currently the guardian of the accused, are you not?” asked Mr. Fenton, the prosecutor.
“I am.”
“Would you kindly explain to the court how you came to have responsibility for her?”
“Unnecessary,” interjected the sheriff with an impatient wave of his hand.
“I am aware of Mrs. Blake’s arrangement with Governor Thomson and this court.
I believe that arrangement clearly stipulates that should the children in her care break the law again, her custody is nullified and the children are returned to the charge of the court—is that not so? ”
“It is, Your Honor.” Mr. Fenton’s mouth curved with satisfaction. “Therefore the prosecution moves that the accused be returned to the prison system immediately to serve the remainder of her sentence and any additional sentence Your Honor may elect to impose upon her at this time.”
“No!” cried Genevieve.
“If it please Your Honor,” interjected Mr. Pollock in a weary drone.
The defense counsel was a sleepy-looking man whose aged eyelids had sagged to the point where his eyes were mere slits against the folds of flaccid skin, making it difficult for Genevieve to assess whether or not he was actually awake.
“The defense respectfully suggests that the defendant has fared well in Mrs. Blake’s home, this unfortunate incident notwithstanding.
As the appropriated goods have been restored and Mrs. Blake has agreed to make full restitution to Mr. Ingram for any and all damages he may have suffered to his shop, I respectfully submit that there is no merit to sending the accused back to prison—not when she has a decent home to go to.
Mrs. Blake has pledged that she will take pains to ensure that the accused understands the grave error of her ways, and that nothing such as this unfortunate incident will ever happen again. ”
“Mrs. Blake is in no position to make such a sweeping assurance,” countered Mr. Fenton warningly. “At present she has six children to care for, all of whom have been implicated in this heinous assault, and have stood before this court previously for committing serious crimes—”
“That’s not true,” protested Genevieve. “My brother Jamie has never been charged with a crime.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Honor,” he apologized, his lobster-colored mustache twitching with irritation.
“Apparently Mrs. Blake does have custody of one child who thus far does not have a criminal record. We are still investigating his role in this barbaric attack upon Mr. Ingram and Lord and Lady Struthers, however, along with the actions of Mrs. Blake’s other wards. ” He glanced meaningfully at Genevieve.
Genevieve’s heart sank. It was clear he was inferring that he would dearly like to see the rest of the children charged.
“At any rate,” he continued in a briskly pleasant tone, “the fact that the defendant has returned to her unlawful ways makes it amply clear that the environment that Mrs. Blake has created in her home has not been advantageous for the accused, and therefore she should be returned to prison so that she may be appropriately punished—for her own sake, and for the sake of the society in which we all live.”