Die I Will Not (3 page)

Buckler did not move. “You fear that Sandford is guilty of more than the folly of writing political letters? You fear he might be directly implicated in this woman's death? I am certain you are mistaken.” His hand came out to grip hers.

“We will resume this conversation later,” said Thorogood. “Buckler, I see Dallas beckoning.”

They went up the stairs into the court, and Buckler took his place next to his colleague below the bench, where the scarlet-robed judges in their enormous wigs had resumed their position. The jury, upright and substantial men all, waited in the box. As it turned out, Thorogood had hit the nub of the matter: the jurors bought the defense's insinuations, after all. They had the power to find for the plaintiff but reduce the damages to reflect that Mrs. Grouse was not criminally connected to the defendant alone. And that is precisely what they did. Buckler and Mr. Dallas lost the case, damages awarded of one shilling.

Chapter III

After the trial Penelope dined with Thorogood and Buckler at a coffeehouse, where they resumed their interrupted conversation. Listening to the affectionate raillery of the two men raised her spirits, especially since they were generous in their offer of assistance. She told them of an assembly she had promised to attend with Jeremy that evening at the home of Mr. Horatio Rex and his wife, the dowager Countess of Cloondara. “Mr. Rex was the editor and printer of the journal that published the original Collatinus letters. I hope to question him, which may prove difficult in the crush.”

“You can rub shoulders with the nobs, at any rate,” said Thorogood. “For our part, we will ask around in the Temple and Lincoln's Inn to see what gossip we can glean from our finest legal minds. Buckler, now that your sugar-broker has been brought off finely, you will have plenty of time for such inquiries.” Eyes twinkling, he added with spurious gravity, “Mrs. Wolfe, did I ever tell you about the time that Edward, coming home at twilight, spotted a large, white rectangle on his table, which he supposed, for a moment, to be a brief promising employment? His poor clerk had to tell him, ‘Alas, it is only a napkin.'”

“Hardly original, old man,” Buckler retorted. “I've heard that one before. You may add plagiarism to your other sins.”

Smiling, Penelope turned the conversation and agreed to dine with her friends at the Thorogood home in Camden Town some three days hence, though she wondered whether she acted wisely to involve them. But the insuperable relief of turning to people she trusted quickly drowned any qualms.

After they made their farewells, Thorogood insisted on putting her into a hackney and paying the driver in advance. And as the coach wound its way through streets showing lights at the windows, the chill in the air intensified. She sat in the dim interior, huddling in her too-thin pelisse, thinking of her father, who often remarked that after years of residence in Sicily, the damp of an English winter would strike his bones like the coldness of the grave. His recent letters had been filled with exultant details about the new Sicilian constitution the British envoy had forced on King Ferdinand. As was typical with her father, he offered hardly any personal information.

What had he meant about being responsible for a woman's destruction? Had she been his lover? Did he abandon her and break her heart, or involve her in unsavory business? His radical activities had brought danger and suspicion from the authorities, and he had confessed to having failed this woman in some essential way. That was bad enough—if only Penelope could be sure he had done no worse.

When she descended from the coach in Greek Street, the front door of the town-house she shared with Jeremy was ajar, a pool of light spilling onto the street. She was about to hurry inside when she heard her daughter call, “Mama!”

She stopped short. “Sarah?”

Heart pounding, Penelope peered into heavy London smoke and fog that had settled under the dome of the sky, giving her the curious sensation of being inside an enormous, dark cave. Through tendrils of mist—shifting, swirling, settling again—she glimpsed a form bent over her daughter, who stood on the pavement some distance away. Penelope ran, snatching Sarah up, no doubt looking like a crazy woman as she ran frantic hands over her small body. Sarah's arms clung, she gripped her mother's waist, hard, with her sturdy legs, and Penelope looked up into the face of the man, who had straightened to his considerable height, arms folded across his chest.

He touched his low-crowned hat. Penelope could not see his eyes or the rest of his features clearly, though she noted he was decently dressed, clad in a heavy greatcoat and stout boots. From behind, a voice, on a rising note of panic, shouted Sarah's name. It was Maggie, the nursemaid. Relieved, Penelope answered, “I've found her, Maggie. Where is Mr. Wolfe?”

“In the painting room. Shall I fetch him, mum?”

“We'll be there directly.”

Down the road in the direction of Soho Square, another hackney had stopped, and Penelope saw a passenger step out. She caught the sound of voices as the coachman on the box called a remark. Reassured by this evidence of ordinary life, she turned back to thank the man, but he spoke first.

“You must be more careful with the little 'un, ma'am. The city ain't safe for the pair of you.”

Sarah tried to raise her head, but Penelope pushed her down and took a step back. “I beg your pardon?”

“Best go inside, ma'am.” Before she could say anything more, the man touched his hand to his hat and walked away, melting into the fog.

Maggie met Penelope on the doorstep, carrying her son Jamie, a child less than two years old, in her arms. Her five-year-old son Frank hovered at her side with the hired housemaid and manservant waiting in the background, eager to take any gossip back to the servants' table.

“You'll be angry with me, mum,” said Maggie contritely. “But indeed I thought she was safe with her dad. He took her while I was getting Baby settled. How she got out of doors is what I can't tell you. That door was locked.”

Sarah adored her father, who liked to sweep in and bear her off to play, but his attention was apt to stray. While usually a biddable child, she had a streak of curiosity, occasionally causing her to act on impulse, especially when she thought no one was paying attention or when upset. Penelope remembered guiltily that she herself had been abstracted and short-tempered this morning when she sat down at her desk to try to determine if there were any bills she could conveniently settle. Examining the door now, Penelope saw what had happened. The child was just tall enough to reach the lower bolt.

She set Sarah down and knelt on the carpet to address her, holding her by the arms. “You must never wander into the street alone again. Do you understand me, Sarah?” She gave her daughter a slight shake. “It's not safe. You could be struck by a coach or worse. Mama doesn't know the person you were with—he could be a bad man.”

Sarah fixed earnest eyes on her mother's face. “He's a moon-man, Mama. He comes out at night to watch the moon.”

“Oh, Sarey. Why did you leave the house?”

Tears welled in her daughter's eyes, several fat drops trailing down her cheeks to drip off her chin. “I heard a carriage and thought it was you. So when you didn't come in, I went to look.”

Penelope's heart twisted, and she pulled Sarah into a hug. “Don't cry, darling. Mama was gone quite a time. But listen to me. You are not to worry if I go out. You must know I will always come back to you.” It was no wonder the child was afraid, she reflected. How much stability had she experienced? In her short life, they had moved from place to place, her father there one day, gone the next.

Jeremy's voice broke into her thoughts. “I see you're back, love.” He stepped closer to kiss her cheek and throw an affectionate arm around his daughter. Attired in silk stockings, knee breeches, long-tailed coat, and pristine cravat, he looked every inch the gentleman. His artfully arranged locks framed a countenance alive with light and energy, his blue eyes sparkling at her, daring her to see the world as he did.

“Make haste to dress for dinner, Penelope. It will soon be time to leave for the rout.” As she stared at Jeremy, speechless, he tweaked his daughter's nose. “Where did you get to, Sarey-bird? I thought we were playing a game.”

***

Buckler and Thorogood had retired to Buckler's chambers in the Inner Temple to enjoy a punchbowl. With the delicacy of a connoisseur, Thorogood pared his lemons and poured the rinds and juice together over loaf-sugar. He bathed the whole in boiling water and mixed well with a long spoon. When he was satisfied, he added exact quantities of brandy and rum, stirring the whole.

Face screwed up in anticipation, Bob waited at Thorogood's shoulder. Buckler's clerk was a friendly young man with intelligent eyes, hollow cheeks, and a thin nose quivering as it inhaled the fumes. Fiercely loyal to his employer, Bob spent his days consulting dusty law books or attending to Buckler's rather meager correspondence. When there was no employment, he sat at his desk for hours at a time, scratching away with his pen on mysterious projects of his own. Once in a while, he made a half-hearted attempt to restore order to the piles of papers, dirty dishes, and clothing that bestrew the chambers. And when Buckler took to his bed in one of his periodic bouts of melancholia, it was Bob who made sure he drank his tea and ate his bite of buttered toast.

The fourth member of the group, a mongrel called Ruff, lay on the hearthrug in front of the fire, his head on Buckler's slippered foot and his nose stuck in the folds of his master's dressing gown. Ruff had been a rather dubious present from Penelope Wolfe when she rescued the dog after it was nearly run down in the street. Though Ruff could hardly be called an
expressive
animal, Buckler had learned to read the small signs indicative of alarm or content or disdain, as the case may be. When, as now, Ruff felt happy and peaceful, he sank his ugly face in his paws, folded his ears, and emitted faint wheezing sounds. Similarly contented, Thorogood smiled to himself, humming an old song.

“You look like a hag gloating over her cauldron.”

“Quiet, Buckler.”

Finally satisfied with his efforts, Thorogood removed his spectacles to wipe them free of vapor. He poured the mixture into three glasses and included a portion for Ruff, who roused himself enough to lap at the saucer. Thorogood then took his own glass and set it on the low table next to his usual armchair. Packing and lighting his pipe, he was soon puffing away, smoke wreathing merrily around his head.

Only then did he open the conversation. “A near-run thing, Buckler. I was by no means certain you and Dallas would triumph today.
Quid enim sanctius, quid omni religione munitius, quam domus unusquisque civium?
What more sacred, what more strongly guarded by every holy feeling, than a man's own home? The jury might easily have decided to punish the adulterer.”

“For Taggart's sake, I am relieved they did not.” Buckler rattled the fire-tongs against the bars of the grate, making the flames leap higher. “And I'm glad to be quit of the business with some gold in my pocket.”

“Left a bad taste in your mouth, eh?”

“Servants testifying to hearing nasty ‘knocking noises' from adjoining rooms? I admit I find cases of this nature rather sordid.”

“You cannot afford to be so nice, my friend.”

“Too true.” Buckler stared into the fire. “At this rate, I'll never get a chance to stand for Parliament. It's hard to know what's worse: defending adulterers or criminals. Always to suffer the fools who condemn me as an Old Bailey barrister willing to sell my voice to any purchaser. And to be told that at least three-fourths of my work is calculated to bring off the marauders who prey upon society.”

“Console yourself that you are come up in the world to try a case at Westminster Hall,” said Thorogood a little sternly, for this was an old argument between them. “After all, today you saved your client from a gentleman marauder.” His tone too casual, he added, “Were you pleased to see Mrs. Wolfe?”

From his desk across the room, Bob's head popped up. “Mrs. Wolfe? Did you indeed see her today, sir? Is she well?”

Buckler chose to answer his clerk. “Not particularly. She seemed rather worn.”

Relaxing in his chair, Thorogood sipped his punch with appreciation. “What did you think of her story? She is a sensible woman. I suspect she has good cause for her anxiety.”

Bucker and Thorogood explained something of Penelope's situation to Bob, suggesting that the clerk might ask around about Collatinus among his own extensive acquaintance. Knowing Bob, who conversed freely with anyone he met, they thought he might happen upon a bit of gossip making its way through the taverns and coffeehouses.

“I should be delighted, sirs,” said Bob, gratified.

Thorogood tapped his pipe against the table, relighting it with a spill he took from a vase on the mantelpiece and thrust in the fire. “What we need is someone who remembers Sandford.”

“You mean an old rogue like you? I'm surprised you were able to keep out of Newgate without Mrs. Thorogood to curb your excesses.”

The lawyer chuckled. “Oh, I was a pretty tame fellow then, Buckler. Later I discovered that respectability is vastly overrated.”

“Speaking of respectability,” said Buckler, “I'll have a word with Latham Quiller. There was a reference in the second Collatinus letter to L. Q_____er of the Temple. You know Quiller was once a member here before he became a serjeant? The letter mentioned something about a lawyer failing a lady in distress and savaging her reputation to boot.”

At the mention of Quiller, whom he cordially disliked, Thorogood made a face, blowing out an indignant puff of smoke. “So shining a representative of the English bar would hardly do anything so shabby.”

Bob rose to dig through a pile of newspapers discarded in one corner. “The letters are published in
The Free Albion
, did you say? Here's one.” He scanned the columns. Lips thinning in disapproval, he quoted, “
To suffer the dignity of rank as a veil for depravity is to mock every sacred principle of our honor
.” He lowered the paper. “Ugh, why do you read such stuff, sir?”

“I don't know. It passes the time?” Buckler sent a whimsical glance across the room toward his ever-unreliable long-case clock. His relationship with time—in other words, his inability to master the productive use of it—was an old joke among them.

Bob ignored him. “Collatinus was a Roman, Mr. Thorogood? Why would Mrs. Wolfe's father choose this particular name?”

Thorogood leaned forward, a pedantic fervor kindling in his eyes. “Lucius Tarquinius Collatinus. Roman patriot who married Lucretia. When Collatinus was away, Sextus Tarquinius, the king's son, broke in one night to ravish her. He told her that if she didn't give herself to him, he would swear she'd committed adultery with a slave.”