Coming Up Roses (37 page)
At dawn, Kate opened the packages Zachariah had left with her. Two changes of clothing, from the skin out. She could only smile at the colors of the gowns, one a vivid blue, the other a brilliant russet, both embellished with lace and ruffles. The petticoats even had flounces of lace. And bright red garters? Kate blushed when she saw those. When she opened the next box, her expression turned almost reverent. New shoes. Not high-top boots like she'd always worn, but shoes—beautiful patent leather, low-cut opera pumps. In the next box, she found a vial of rose cologne, a bar of scented soap, a hand mirror and brush, a toothbrush, a tin of saleratus, and a packet of hairpins. As far as the necessities went, he had thought of everything.
When Kate turned her attention to the luxury items, tears of happiness filled her eyes. Books, he'd said? He'd bought her a blooming library. Three volumes of poetry, two recipe books. Her hand froze over the next.
The
Scandalous Mistress Novak
.
Fascinated, she flipped it open and began to leaf through. It wasn't long before she came to a section that lived up to the book's title. Her eyes widened, and she snapped the cover closed. Heat flared to her cheeks. Zachariah McGovern was a caution, and that was a fact. She inched the book open again and read a few more lines. Then a few more. Absorbed, she scooted back to brace her shoulders against the wall. Mistress Novak had indeed been scandalous!
Kate's eyes widened even more as she read on. With tense fingers, she turned the page only to be distracted from the story by a neatly folded slip of parchment that had been placed between the pages. She dislodged it from the crease, unfolded it and stared at the distinctly masculine scrawl.
Boo!
it said. Nothing more. Just boo? Her mouth tugged at the corners. Then she smothered a laugh. It was no use. Hysterical giggles erupted. She had only seen Zachariah's handwriting once, and that had been on their wedding day, but she knew as surely as she breathed that he had written the note, such as it was. The one word was eloquence in itself. She could almost hear him saying, "I caught you, Katie girl! Shame on you!"
Convinced that this was the inscription he had mentioned, Kate tucked it away inside her bodice, treasuring it far more than she might have a laboriously composed love poem.
Boo!
He had known very well which part of the book she'd leaf to first, and even away from her, he was teasing her. Kate wanted to draw up her knees and continue to read, but other packages beckoned.
She set herself to the task of opening them. More books. Embroidery cloth, hoops, and threads in a rainbow of colors. The last and smallest package bore the local jeweler's logo on the wrapping. With trembling fingers, Kate tore away the paper and opened the hinged box to gaze with aching eyes at a beautiful gold locket etched with roses. As she lifted it from the silk lining, her fingertips felt engraving on its back, and she turned it over to read,
"Forever, my love, Zachariah." Below it, the year 1890 had been inscribed. Kate closed her hand around it and pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She sat like that for a long while before she returned the locket to its case.
* * *
Time passed in an endless, uneventful blur for Kate. Sometimes she feared she might go insane, and at other times she became convinced she already had. Day into night, night into day. For longer than she could remember, she had spent every waking minute of her days working. Now she sat. Or she paced. When she lay down at night, sleep refused to come.
Those black, lonely hours of darkness that came right before dawn were the worst. It was then that her fears came calling, some irrational, some all too real. It was then that she faced the chilling possibility that she might remain locked in a cell for the rest of her life.
Monday came, at last. And Kate's most chilling fears became a reality that had to be faced when she was indicted for murder. In a daze, she moved through that day, speaking, listening, but feeling as though she had been dropped into a foreign country where everyone was babbling, including her. Too many questions in the minds of the jurors were unanswered, her attorney explained.
The trial was finally set for Tuesday, August 26th, nearly a month away. Kate's attorney, Charles Defler, immediately petitioned for bail, but the request was denied. When Zachariah brought Kate that news, she listened in bewildered silence.
When he finished speaking, she whispered, "But why? It's not as if I'm a danger to anyone or anything."
She noticed that he avoided looking directly into her eyes, that he couldn't seem to keep his hands still. When he gave a low curse and pushed up from the chair, Kate's heart constricted with fear.
"Zachariah?" she said shakily. "You're frightening me."
He took a steadying breath, paced to the wall, then turned to look at her. Gazing up at him, she saw that the flesh and muscles in his face were drawn taut over bone, that his mouth had thinned to a hard, bitter line.
"I don't mean to scare you, honey. I'm just upset, that's all." Making a fist, he slugged his palm. The sound made her jump. "It's Joseph again, damn him to eternal hell."
Kate pressed a hand to her throat. "Joseph? I—I don't understand."
"The stories he told about you," he came back harshly. "About your being unbalanced? While you've been in here, old gossip has been rekindled, with Ryan Blakely stoking the blaze." He threw up his hands. "If you tried to harm your daughter in the past and ended up killing your husband, you might be a danger to someone else. 'Bail denied.'"
Kate closed her eyes and strove to keep a grip on her self-control. Zachariah was already upset; if she went to pieces, it would only make this more difficult for him.
In a hoarse voice that shook with anger, he said, "I swear to God, Katie, if they convict you, I'll break you out of here. We'll leave the country."
Kate stiffened her spine. "Don't talk that way, Zachariah. You can't do something so foolish."
"Foolish?" he rasped. "My God, you're my wife. I won't let them do this to you. I'll be damned if I will."
Kate struggled to swallow. When she felt certain her voice wouldn't quiver, she said, "I entrusted my child into your care. I'm counting on you to raise her. You can't do that if you're arrested and thrown into prison."
The silence that followed told Kate she had struck a chord. When she looked up into his eyes, the pain she read there nearly undid her.
"We must pray, Zachariah. For a fair and just decision. Somehow, we'll get through this, and laugh about it one day."
Somehow, we'll get through this
. Brave words. Sometimes Kate doubted her ability to carry through on them.
But just when she thought she couldn't bear another day of endless nothingness, she dug down within herself and found enough strength to face another. And another.
And the time passed, slowly, with relentless sameness, carrying her inexorably toward the day of her trial.
T
he morning of the trial was uncomfortably warm, and the courtroom felt stuffy, whether from the insufferable heat or from so many bodies being packed into inadequate space, Kate couldn't be sure. She only knew she felt as if she might suffocate while she waited for the procedure to get underway.
It seemed that everyone in town had turned out for the event, which made her feel like a bug on display. She tried her best to be charitable. After all, it wasn't every day a woman was charged with murdering her husband, especially not in a small town like Roseburg .
Zachariah was seated with Marcus several rows behind her. She wished she could turn and look at him, just once, but with so many eyes riveted on her, searching to find fault, judging her, she felt the less attention she called to herself and her new husband, the better.
She drew comfort from touching the locket at her throat, remembering the warmth of Zachariah's hands as he had draped the delicate chain around her neck and fumbled with the tiny catch at her nape. Zachariah. She soothed herself with memories of him, so few, but all the sweeter now because it seemed like a lifetime since she had been home. Flipping peas. Giggling softly in the dead of night. Making love in a moonbeam.
When the judge finally took the bench and convened the courtroom with three raps of his gavel, Kate flinched with every sharp report. Nervous sweat filmed her brow. The lawyer Zachariah hired had spent all last evening with her explaining what to expect, but she had little recollection of what he said. All of this seemed so foreign to her, so ridiculously formal. She wanted to scream that this was her life on the line. But she remained silent, her spine rigidly straight, her hands knotted in her skirt.
When the prosecuting attorney gave his presentation, Kate couldn't separate the words, couldn't make sense of what he said. Then Charles Defler gave his opening statement.
Family way … pain and suffering … a four-year-old child to consider … innocent victims
. Kate heard, but didn't hear. Because none of this was real. When Defler returned to the defendant's table, he gave her arm a comforting squeeze.
"Most of the jurors have children. I fought like hell for that, and it will definitely go in your favor," he whispered with unmistakable satisfaction. "We have a sympathetic ear."
The fathers of children usually had wives, which meant they were husbands. Kate wasn't so sure that weighed in her favor.
A right to trial by a jury of one's peers?
She couldn't readily recall where she had heard that, but realistically speaking that inalienable right clearly applied only to white males, not to those of other races, nor to women. She wanted to see housewives in the jury box—women who might understand what Joseph had put her and her daughter through.
"You're doing wonderfully. Just keep it up," Defler whispered.
Kate clenched her hands. She wasn't doing anything but sitting here, feeling scared to death. She fixed her gaze on the judge. Prayers whispered in her mind, bits and pieces, all disjointed. She gulped for breath, feeling faint.
The coroner was called as a witness. There was a roaring sound in Kate's ears that drowned out everything he said. How could anything be worse than this? Kate wondered wildly. Her head felt fuzzy, and beneath the fuzziness was a horrible swimming sensation. Her ears echoed. Nausea grabbed her middle and wouldn't let go.
She slid her hands to grasp the seat of her chair.
"You're supposed to go up!" Defler whispered. "Mrs. McGovern? Mrs. McGovern, you have to take the stand."
Kate blinked and tried to focus on the swirl of polished oak before her. The stand? It looked a hundred miles away. A blurred figure came toward her from the county clerk's table. A gentle hand closed on her arm and helped her to rise. Kate stuck out one foot, managed to place her other in front of it. Walking, one step at a time, through a cloud of cotton. Placing her hand on a Bible. Swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Walking up some steps.
Was this what it would be like to climb a scaffold? Kate's toe caught and she pitched forward, only to be saved from falling by a steadying hand. She sank weakly onto hardness, felt the arms of the chair bump against her elbows. Faces, everywhere faces. Accusing eyes. Murderess! they seemed to scream at her.
She looked from one relentless and grim countenance to another, panic welling within her. The men in the jury looked the most judgmental, and her worst fears were realized. Many of them might believe her to be exactly what Joseph had always claimed, an unbalanced and uncontrollable wife given to violent behavior. In their minds, if she were allowed to go unpunished, her case might set a precedent and encourage other wives to engage in outrageous conduct.
Kate wanted to bolt from the courtroom. She should never have come forward. Never! She should have left Joseph buried in the rose garden and taken her chances. At least then she might have had a chance.
In her frantic search for just one kindly face, Kate's gaze collided with hazel eyes. She looked into them, became lost in them, embraced by them. Aching hazel eyes. Windswept dark hair. A face that had been chiseled on her heart. She took a deep breath. The upsidedown courtroom righted itself. She gripped the arms of the chair. Hazel eyes. She riveted all her concentration on them.
Jesus H. Christ, don't faint!
they seemed to say.
It'll be all right,
Katie girl.
Suddenly Kate believed it really would.
You're right up there with heroes and fairies and mystical unicorns. Can you live up to that, Mr. McGovern?
Kate now knew that the answer to that question was and had always been yes. As long as she could look into his tender gaze, she'd be all right.
She lifted her chin. A glow came into his eyes, and she realized he was proud of her. Actually proud of her. For the life of her, she couldn't think why. She was shaking like a leaf, on the verge of collapse, about to keel over in a dead faint. And he was proud of her? She was the world's biggest coward. Couldn't he see that?
His lips tipped in a lopsided grin. Then he mouthed the words, "Give them hell, Katie girl."
Kate read the message and nearly giggled, albeit hysterically. Only Zachariah would dare to be so irreverent in a courtroom. She glanced nervously at the judge, afraid he might have seen, but his concerned attention was fixed only on her.
