The Daring Ladies of Lowell (15 page)

Daisy eyed her discarded clothes dubiously. “I see I’m going to have to find something for you to wear,” she said, an edge of annoyance in her voice.

Alice sat up as straight as she could in the curved tub. “I can wear my own clothes, thank you,” she said.

“Mary Beth, bring her into the guest room when she’s finished.” Daisy was not ready to give up her annoyance quite yet. She was doing this for Samuel, not for the girl named Alice.

“H
ere, I think this should fit.”

Alice, wrapped in a towel, looked around the room first. She caught her breath. This was a far cry from the sparely furnished servant room she had slept in before. The wallpaper was dazzling—languorous boat scenes of women holding parasols of blue and gold rippled and flowed from wall to wall, and she felt as if she floated with them on a blue sea. She had to restrain herself from touching them. Over by a floor-to-ceiling window sat a writing desk on delicately bowed legs. Was this a French design? She saw an open velvet jewelry box on the desk, purple beads tossed carelessly next to it. Her gaze moved to the bed, a four-poster, covered in tufted white silk. She blinked, then focused on the dress. It was of plain homespun, green with a bit of lace at the collar.

“Thank you,” she said.

“It isn’t mine, obviously,” Daisy said. “It’s Mary Beth’s. It’s to be returned, of course. The laundress will wash your clothes and have them ready when you leave.”

Alice looked swiftly at the servant standing now with her arms folded and a satisfied smile on her face. No, a smirk. Does she really believe I care, Alice wondered. “I appreciate your kindness,” she said directly to Mary Beth. The smile on the girl’s face faded slightly, and she turned to leave.

“When you are ready, join us in the drawing room,” Daisy said. “You remember where it is, I presume? The room beyond the library?”

Alice paused before answering, seeing something in the other woman’s face. Something fragile. The way she held her chin thrust forward, the wary way she hugged herself. They were both about the same age, she guessed. But Daisy had, in this glorious home, a place of privacy and peace. And yet Alice suspected the tiny furrow carved into her forehead never quite went away.

It mattered little that Alice had never been in the drawing room. “Yes, I do,” she said.

A
lice walked slowly down the curved staircase, pausing midway on the landing to gaze at the muted elegance of her surroundings. A weak morning sun had begun to flow through the leaded-glass window, sending dancing shafts of red and gold light onto the huge crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Hundreds of tiny crystals shivered slightly as she moved beneath it, creating an even-more-beautiful display of color. She could hear the murmur of voices, but there was no one in the entry hall. She was, for the moment, in this alien space, alone.

An easy step, then, to float into her imagination. Yes, of course, let’s pretend. Ah, she came down these stairs every morning, thinking about breakfast, and then a stroll in the garden—she would plant flowers everywhere—and then perhaps visiting a millinery shop and buying a new bonnet, maybe two. It would be a sunny day; every day would be sunny; oh, this invitation to dream.

She drew a deep breath and pulled at the scratchy, slightly too-short cuffs of her borrowed dress. Her pace quickened as she descended, turning left at the foot of the stairs.

She was once again in the library. The books that surrounded her were as inviting and unreachable as ever, their charm shrouded this time in semidarkness by the heavy velvet curtains. She continued walking, following the sound of voices, and entered the drawing room.

It was immense, with Oriental carpets scattered throughout, anchoring sofas and chairs. Through open windows, a slight breeze puffed at the creamy white silk curtains, sending them softly billowing into the room.

“So, our pretty emissary has come back.” Hiram rose from a large tufted chair and greeted her with an expansive smile, taking her hand and brushing it with his lips.

“Thank you, my dear, for understanding the urgency and coming so quickly.”

She nodded, imagination fading, her mind back in charge. She had been given no choice. Nor was she his emissary.

“I want you to meet our trusted friend, Albert Greene. Mr. Greene is, of course, the attorney general of the state and will be in charge of the prosecution.”

The man who rose and gave her a quick, crisp bow had glistening black hair and a rock-solid body shaped like a milk jug. He wore pantaloons tucked into high riding boots and a cutaway jacket, and his dauntingly watchful eyes bore in, giving the impression he rarely blinked.

“So you’re the young lady who found the note written by the unfortunate Sarah Cornell,” he said.

“Yes.” She hurried to correct him. “Her name is Lovey.”

He lifted his shoulders in a slight movement that could have been a shrug.

“Surely it implicates this preacher?” she said.

“Not necessarily, Miss Barrow. The defense will try to get it thrown out as hearsay.”

“What about the other letters? The ones where he acknowledged they were to meet? That made it clear he knew why?”

“Who is this ‘he’?”

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Those letters aren’t signed,” he said almost gently.

A flush began moving up her neck into her face. “Are you saying none of those letters—or Lovey’s note—can convict him?”

“There are no guarantees. It’s the way of the law, Miss Barrow.”

He looked so smug, she could not stay still. “Then the way of the law is flawed, Mr. Greene.”

He seemed to like her answer. “We intend to mount a meticulous case built on witnesses at every step of this crime,” he said soothingly. “Put your mind at ease, Miss Barrow. This venal preacher will not escape.” His tone grew brisk. “Now, to the job at hand: I’m not putting you on our witness list, but I want you on the record. That’s why you are here.”

“I do hope you have talked with Dr. Stanhope. Lovey as much as told him Avery was—”

He waved his hand, a small movement, more a flick of the wrist. “Yes, the father of her child. The defense will try to have it dismissed as hearsay, too. But he will testify under subpoena, no question about that.”

“Dismiss
that
? How outrageous!”

Greene offered a small smile. “My dear, the law covers obscure terrain that often surprises; just leave it in our hands.”

“Make sure he tells you about the poison—”

“I said leave it in our hands.”

She swallowed the admonition. What choice did she have?

Then a familiar voice: “Don’t worry, Miss Barrow, this isn’t all on your shoulders. We want justice done as much as you do.”

It was Samuel speaking, standing behind his father’s chair. She hadn’t even noticed his presence. His face was tense, quite businesslike.

She started to reply but stopped at the sound of a loud knocking at the front door. A servant hurried to answer.

Greene turned to Hiram and said, “Well, they’re here. She doesn’t have an attorney, does she?”

“She doesn’t need one,” Hiram replied. He nodded at Samuel. “My son studied the law, and I’m quite knowledgeable, as you know.”

This time Greene addressed himself to Alice. “I hope your stamina level is high, Miss Barrow. The gentlemen just arrived are the attorneys for the Reverend Avery. We’ll begin momentarily.”

“She needs something to eat first,” Samuel interrupted quickly, annoyed. “Tell them to sit and wait.” There should have been time to prepare this young woman for the coming ordeal, but the defense lawyers had arrived too early. She looked dazed but also resolute. How could he help her? “Come with me.” He offered his arm.

“What do they want from me?” she whispered as they sat together over a basket of rolls and berry muffins and a silver pot of coffee. She was very hungry and grateful for his intervention and moved quickly to apply a generous slice of butter to one of the muffins.

“Just the truth, you will be under oath,” he said. He couldn’t help noticing the soft beads of sweat above her lips; he wished he could wipe them away and calm her fears. “Just what you know. But they’ll ask you maddening, repetitive questions that will sometimes seem absurd, and the defense lawyers will try to cast doubt on everything you say.”

“All I did was find Lovey’s note and the ones Avery sent,” she protested.

He put his hand over hers, not caring if the servant behind him noticed or not. “Alice—may I call you by your name?” he said, then paused.

She managed a smile and nodded.

“They will probe away to get any information they can about your friend’s character.”

“She’s not on trial,” Alice said, her eyes widening.

He cleared his throat. “In a certain way, she is. You must be prepared.”

“Will you be there?” The words had just spilled out.

“If you want me to be, of course.”

Yes. Yes, that was what she wanted. “I do,” she said. And for the first time, she let vulnerability show in her eyes as she smiled.

W
ithout that warning, she couldn’t have made it through the barely concealed contempt exhibited by the defense lawyers. Especially the one named Jeremiah Mason. Her first impression upon seeing him was that of a slightly stooped man with gray hair and fleshy pink lips, not unlike Avery’s. His smile was affable, but his eyes never quite focused as he asked question after tedious question. They looked oddly blank, turned in on themselves.

It was he, as the afternoon shadows grew long, who finally slammed down his folder on the table, and shot out, “You have an admirable desire to deny the true character of this Sarah Cornell, whom I understand you knew for less than a year. But of course we all know she was nothing but a prostitute. That is true, is it not, Miss Barrow?”

“No, it isn’t.” She wanted to scream. How many times and in how many ways this afternoon had he tried to get her to say that?

“Come, come, you are under oath. Don’t tell me she was a woman of virtue.” He laughed deep from the belly.

“That’s enough,” Samuel interjected impatiently. “You’ve got your answer, sir.”

Attorney General Greene stood up and cast a theatrically disgusted glance at Jeremiah Mason. “Yes, that is enough,” he said. “This girl needs no more bullying by the defense. Your client is in serious trouble, Mason, and we’ve got the evidence.”

“Not on the basis of the deposition she’s given.”

“My dear colleague, you are due for a few surprises.”

“You and I know what this trial is really about, Greene. We know the true adversaries.”

“There’s no question about that. Give your Methodist clients my best regards.”

The two lawyers stared at each other briefly. Mason broke eye contact first. “We’ll match you step for step,” he said softly, his pink lips parting in a smile as he gathered his files and stood to go.

I
t was too late in the day to send Alice back to Lowell, Hiram declared. Daisy was to take charge of making her comfortable for the night. No one questioned him, least of all Alice. She was caught up in something larger than she understood, and her energy had drained away. All she wanted to do was sleep.

There was dinner first. She didn’t care this time which fork or spoon was right; even what she was eating. She thought of the girls back at the boardinghouse, of how their muscles must ache right now, how the usual complaints would be mixed with gossip and singing and joking…well, the way it used to be. She picked at the peach ambrosia in front of her.

“Your dress is laundered and ready for you tomorrow,” Daisy said. “We’ll need the one you’re wearing tonight.”

“For what?” Samuel said, startled.

“Mary Beth wants her dress back,” his sister replied, lifting her eyebrows in mock exasperation. “That’s certainly not unreasonable, now, is it?”

Samuel put his fork carefully down on his plate, restraining himself from the desire to publicly reprove his sister. Was she not able to hear herself? He looked around the table, his eyes resting briefly on each member of his family. His father, the brilliant, awe-inspiring linchpin. His mother, hair arranged just so, always prim; never one for conversation beyond the weather and other banalities. Jonathan, slouching in his seat, looking bored.

But there was his grandmother at the far end of the table, rarely included in any conversation. She knew what he was thinking—those vivid blue eyes knew everything. He had always been able to count on intelligence and understanding from her. She had known more about him than he knew about himself since the time he was a small boy. When he told her with eighteen-year-old braggadocio that he had been admitted to Harvard, she had given him never-to-be-forgotten advice. “Samuel, that place has its share of windbags, and don’t ever forget it. And don’t believe everything you’re told, especially how important you are.” His lips twitched at the memory. She caught it and was smiling back.