Without a Summer (31 page)
Jane could scarcely believe what she had heard. The Prince Regent was willing to let an innocent man die—several innocents die—rather than let it be seen that his government had made a mistake. “How are additional deaths going to make this right? You play into their hands by letting this go forward.”
“Do I?”
“Of course. They are already interfering with the information you are being given. What else will they do if they believe that they can so easily shape your decisions?”
“Who are
they
? If there is proof that there is someone to blame for this, then by all means tell me so that we can pursue them, but it cannot be a nameless
they
. There must be a villain for the populace to look to. The best I can do—which I will—is to change his sentence to transportation for life.”
Vincent whined at the back of his throat. A thin film of sweat was forming on his palm. He lowered his head and spoke to the floor. “And if I can give you a villain?”
The carriage rocked back and forth over the cobbles. Jane could swear that she could hear the beating of all of their hearts in the silence. She had never before wished someone dead, and even now, with everything that Lord Verbury had done to them, some part of her drew back from the idea of a son giving up his father in such a way. But Lord Verbury had given his son up twice over, and had wished him dead in the bargain.
“It is a charge of treason.” The tone of the Prince Regent’s voice made it clear that he, too, understood what Vincent was offering. “I cannot change that. Not even for a peer. Especially if that peer is proved to have interfered with my business.”
“I understand that.”
“If you fail to convince the jury, though … Vincent, think what he will do to you. There is only so much protection I can offer.” The Prince Regent brushed a piece of lint off his knee. “For all that I ostensibly rule England, I am good for very little besides throwing elaborate parties. It is why I put so much effort into them.”
“I understand.” Vincent’s head stayed bowed. “Can you send a messenger for me? I want to alert the Strattons’ attorney of our change in situation.”
“Yes. I can do that, at least.”
Melody said, “Is there anything I can do?”
The corner of Vincent’s jaw worked as he considered. “Yes, actually, there is one thing. Will you pay a call to my sister?”
The yard outside the Old Bailey was crowded with spectators when the Prince Regent’s carriage arrived, though the doors were well guarded to prevent those who had not paid to see the spectacle from entering. The Prince Regent stayed in the carriage as they were let out, but he sent a paper in to the defence attorney. Melody remained behind as well, with a promise to run Vincent’s errand with all possible speed.
Jane and Vincent were escorted through the throng and into the Old Bailey. The stench of the building made Jane’s stomach turn. A miasma of the unwashed rolled out of the tunnel connecting the Old Bailey to the prison next door. Jane could only be grateful that they had not been held there. She pressed her hand over her nose as they entered the courtroom itself. The heads of the assembled turned as they entered, some standing for a better look at them. Jane shrank from the attention, pressing as close to Vincent as allowed.
At the front of the court, she had her first glimpse of Mr. O’Brien since the troubles began. He stood at the bar with his hands resting on the smooth wooden plank. A mirror stood over him to focus the light from the windows on his face so that the jury could see it better. He had been given a clean suit of clothing, but, like Vincent, had not been allowed to shave for fear of what he might do with the razor. His stubble was so fair that it might have disappeared against his skin if the mirrored sun had not lit his face, making it look as though his cheeks had been brushed with sand. He had deep shadows under his eyes, but kept his chin up and stood in the box with a firm, erect posture.
Lord and Lady Stratton sat in attendance at the front of the spectators’ gallery. Lady Stratton clenched a handkerchief in one hand and held it beneath her nose against the reek of bodies. As Jane and Vincent walked down the stairs to the floor of the court, Lord Stratton looked as though he wished to address them, but checked himself. Lady Stratton had eyes only for her son. A woman across the aisle let out a lament, drawing Jane’s attention to where her mother was swooning against her father. As gratifying as her mother’s concern was, Jane wished she could show a trifle more restraint. By the strength of the reaction, Jane could assume that her parents had not been told of Melody’s visit to the Prince Regent. Jane tried to smile some encouragement to her father, but doubted that it helped, as his attention was occupied with her mother. The look he spared for Jane was grave and tormented.
To Jane’s surprise, their cousin Sir Prescott had come and was sitting in the row behind her parents. The kindness he showed in supporting her mother was quite unexpected. Jane would have guessed him the type to distance himself from a relative in disgrace.
The court’s usher led Jane and Vincent down the steps to the witness box in front of the gallery in the centre of the room. It seemed almost like a paddock with benches. He seated them facing the jury box and the gallery, which contained several young men who Jane recognised from the march. Mr. Lucas had a contusion over one eye, and sat with his head bowed, as though the weight of the whole affair rested on his shoulders. His gaze shifted to them and away. The row of witnesses included Major Curry, splendid in his regimentals. He had deep lines around his mouth, and, while he presented a smart appearance, looked as though he had barely slept. If she could, Jane would tell each man that he was not the agent of their present misfortune. That honour was reserved for Lord Verbury.
The jury seemed composed of a jumble of gentlemen and merchants with one navy captain thrown in for good measure. They did not look like an ignoble lot, which gave Jane some hope. Surely once they heard that Mr. O’Brien had tried to stop the march, they would not be able to continue to think him guilty. That they thought so currently, without hearing evidence, was obvious in the way they sneered at him.
“All rise.” The court clerk took his place in front of the judge’s bench to their left. The judge arrived then, looking very severe in his red robe and white wig and was introduced by the clerk as the Lord Chief Justice Abbot. Even when imagining this moment, Jane had not thought of all the murmurings that took place in the courtroom. She had thought it would become silent once they started, that a hush would fall over the courtroom as a sign of respect and acknowledgement of the gravity of the proceedings.
She was far wrong. People who had seemed to be dozing now awoke and turned to their neighbours, asking, “Didn’t he look guilty?” or “This is a hanging judge, ain’t he?” or “Did you ever see the like?” And one man said, “Easy to spot the Irishman, at any rate.” The judge nodded to the clerk that he was ready for the charges to be read.
The clerk read from a sheet of vellum. “Alastar O’Brien was indicted, for that he—being a subject of our Lord the King, not having the fear of God in his heart, nor weighing the duty of his allegiance, but being moved and seduced by the instigation of the Devil as a false traitor against our said Lord the King; on the eleventh day of June, in the fifty-sixth year of the reign of our said present Sovereign, Lord George the Third, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, Faerie, and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith, with force and arms, maliciously and traitorously did compass, imagine, invent, devise, and intend to depose our said Lord the King. That is to say: Conspiring to levy war, and subvert the Constitution;
“Preparing an address to the King’s subjects, containing therein that their tyrants were destroyed;
“Assembling with arms, with intent to murder the Prince Regent and divers of the Privy Council;
“To which indictment the prisoner pleaded Not Guilty.”
The severity of the charges which had been assembled whole cloth from innocuous events shocked Jane. She glanced to her right, where Mr. O’Brien stood facing the judge with admirable calm. She, too, had thought the man capable of a conspiracy to overthrow the Crown, and she had the benefit of having met him. In the remembrance of his conduct, she could now see how his gentleness of manner and concern with being correct would have caused him to leave them on that first day—not because he disdained an artisan’s sister as a connection, but because he did not want to be seen to press his attentions on one who might not be able to resist his advances due to her position in the household. Everything he had done, she had cast in the worst possible light. What could she expect from the jury already disposed to distrust him?
The Attorney General rose from his place at the great mahogany table at the front of the judges’ bench. “My Lords, with permission of your lordships, we will proceed to the trial of Alastar O’Brien.”
The judge responded in a musical voice, which would not have been out of place on the stage. “Be it so.”
The first witness took his place. Until he climbed the stairs to the stand, Jane did not recognise him as the footman she had seen previously. He was now in the clothing of a gentleman, with knee breeches and a dark blue jacket over a buff silk waistcoat. The spots were gone from his cheeks and his hair was fashionably tousled.
The Solicitor General, Sir Jeremiah, took over for the Attorney General, rising to question the witness. In his thin figure, Jane could imagine that a skeletal death had come to try the case.
Sir Jeremiah cleared his throat. “State your name, for the record, your residence, and your occupation.”
With a nod, the footman spoke. “My name is John Devenny.” Jane gaped. All trace of an Irish accent had gone from his voice, though the timbre was the same. A fold of glamour surrounded the witness box, attended by a glamourist at its side, which lifted his voice to the corners of the room. “Until recently, I was in the employ of Sir Waldo Essex as a footman. This was in my situation as agent to the Crown.”
The court gasped at that. The young men on Jane and Vincent’s bench displayed varying emotions, from obvious disbelief to a droop of hopelessness. Mr. O’Brien went white, but continued to stare straight ahead with his chin up.
“And what was your role for the Crown?”
“We had heard rumours of a revolt among the coldmongers. I was sent to discover and penetrate any conspiracy.”
“What did you discover?”
“That it was worse than initial reports had given us cause to believe. It had been thought that it was labour unrest, like the Luddites, but the reality was that the Irishman, Mr. Alastar O’Brien, was using the coldmongers as the first wave of a plot by a group of Irish to overthrow the government. Mr. O’Brien was dissatisfied due to the circumstances regarding his father’s seat in Parliament, and felt it unjust that he was prevented from taking the seat on account of being a Catholic. Rather than converting, he planned to use the coldmongers, and was successful in the first phase of his plan.”
His words caused the tension in the bench of the accused to shift. One boy shot a look of pure hate at Mr. O’Brien. The one nearest him shifted away, as if to distance himself. Mr. Lucas turned to regard him. Jane could not see his face, but when he turned back, he wore a deep frown.
Beside Jane, Vincent shifted anxiously. He bent his head as though to address her, then checked that motion, remembering where they were. She bit her lip, wondering what he had been about to say.
Vincent’s hands moved in his lap, fingers pinching the air and rolling nothing. His breath sped a little.
Jane shifted her vision to the ether.
On the stand, Devenny continued to speak of the deplorable plans of Mr. O’Brien, including a plot to kill certain members of Parliament as well as assassinate the Prince Regent. Even with her vision adjusted, Jane did not at first see what Vincent was doing. For a moment, she thought he might be fidgeting out of nervousness. Only when she looked very deep indeed, blotting all trace of the corporal world from her primary sight and using her second sight exclusively, could she see the gossamer weight of the glamour he wove. It had something to do with sound, but the fold was so thin she had trouble even seeing it, much less tracing the pattern.
Then she caught sight of the twist. It was a silence sphere, like the one that they had made for the gallery.
Vincent expanded it to surround them and the two men to either side of them. Understanding his purpose, Jane let her vision return to the corporal world.
After a moment, Vincent murmured, “They should not be able to hear us so long as we speak softly and do not allow our lips much movement. A loud tone will likely be audible, though muted.”
The young man to Jane’s left started visibly, but it appeared to look like a response to Devenny’s assertion that Mr. O’Brien planned to arm the coldmongers with explosives.
“My belief,” Vincent continued, “is that they plan to divide us. We know that this man is, in fact, a spy, and works for the Earl of Verbury. He is lying.”
Keeping her lips as still as possible, Jane asked, “How are we to prove that?”
“With honesty. We will be called to testify and it is important to stress that Mr. O’Brien said none of the things we are hearing attributed to him.”
“That’s because he was using us, wasn’t he?” the boy to Vincent’s right said.
“No.” Jane watched Devenny continue to answer questions. “They want you to think he betrayed you, so that we turn on each other. Recall that he warned you of this plot, though we did not yet know the details. Why else would he ask you not to march?”
“The lady has the right of it,” her neighbour said.
“Good. Now that you understand what they are trying, we need to let the others know.” Vincent slid his hand toward Jane. “I am going to pass Lady Vincent the weave. It is not the usual threads you handle, but I believe you should have no difficulty in passing it down the line. Alert the others.”
