Fortunate Son (36 page)

“Sergeant Mackercher?”

Mackercher stood. “My lords, with yar permission, the plaintiff rests his case.”

“Very well. This court stands adjourned until one o'clock this afternoon, at which time we shall begin the defendant's case in prime.”

James grabbed Mackercher's shoulder, giving him a warm squeeze, then turned to Laura with a smile. As she returned it, James saw a glisten in her eyes, a tear nearly formed. Glancing at Seán, he was stopped by the accession he saw there—a repressed chin, an embarrassed grimace. James shrugged with a three finger salute. “Through ice” he mouthed softly. Seán nodded a silent “thank you.”

Frigid dampness descended on Dublin in great grey blankets of drizzly fog. The courtroom was dark and chilly, and James looked back at Laura hoping the green cape he bought her was keeping her warm. She gave a weary smile. They were both tired, tired of the long hours, day after day, the cold room, the hard seats not made for weeks of sitting. Mostly they were tired of the unrelenting spout of lies that gurgled from the witness box throughout Richard's defense. At first James had maintained mild annoyance when witness upon witness took the stand relaying blatant fabrications about Arthur and Mary. Some, in fact, were so ludicrous they were laughable, like the two men with thick Hibernian dialects, whom James had never seen before, yet claimed to have been his childhood friends. One woman blustered on about being Arthur's mistress, until Mackercher got her to admit under cross that they had done nothing more than dance together at a Parliament ball. But James found none of the tales amusing anymore. They were beyond ridiculous. Now Mackercher was putting down the latest: “So, ya really don't know what Mary said about her son?”

“Aye, I do.”

“Mr. O'Malley,” Mackercher shouted as he spun, leading with an accusing finger, “I believe ya said yar father told ya these things. Is that not correct?”

“Aye. He did.”

“So ya never heard these things yarself?”

“My da was no liar!” blurted the witness, his face reddening.

“Oh, I'm sure. But would you tell us things untrue?” Mackercher snapped. Malone jumped up, objecting. Bowes leaned forward slowly, resting his chin on his tented fingers, but didn't speak. Malone sat.

“All right, Mr. O'Malley,” Mackercher continued. “Did you, with yar own ears, ever hear Mary Sheffield say James was not her child?”

“I already said, my da—”

“Nay!” Mackercher thundered. “I asked what you heard from Mary!”

“Umm” the quailing man began. “Not that I recall, but—”

“Finally. I'm done with ya,” said Mackercher, huffing back to his table.

“Step down, Mr. O'Malley.” Bowes gave a dismissive wave. “Sergeant Malone?”

Malone was already up. “The defense calls Charity Heath to the witness box.”

“Very well,” Bowes mumbled.

James watched the aging woman slowly stride the aisle, past the bailiff at the gate, then on to the witness box.

“Raise yer right hand, placing the other firmly on the Holy Bible,” the court officer instructed. Charity did as she was told. “Do ye swear, ma'am, on this Holy Bible and before this court, and upon yer oath to King George the Second, that the testimony ye shall give unto this court this day shall be the truth and nothing other than the truth, so help ye God?”

“I do so swear,” she muttered, then added faintly, “I will.”

“Please be seated.”

As Charity sat, she glanced nervously at Richard before settling her gaze on the approaching Malone.

“Madam Heath, you were the attending servant to Lady Anglesea?” he asked, rubbing his forehead as he spoke.

“Aye, sir. I was.”

“During what years were you such?”

“Before she was married to Lord Anglesea, during that time, till she left Ireland.” Her words were woven tightly.

Malone paced before the jury. “Did you live with her during those years?”

“Always. I always did. Aye, sir. I was with her constantly, I do say.”

The steady click of Malone's shoes stopped, then he slowly turned to face Charity. “Then you should know. You should be able to settle this matter for us. Had Lady Anglesea a child at Dunmain House?”

Charity scooted a little sideways, glancing at Richard again, then down to Malone's feet. “Nay, sir. She never did. Nor was she ever with child.” A polite gasp from the spectators.

Malone continued, “And Madam Heath, you said, I do believe, that you were with Lady Anglesea always? The entirety of her time in Ireland?”

“Aye. I always dressed and undressed m'lady. And at Dunmain House, I always put her to bed, then attended at her rising in the morning, for she was such a person that wouldn't permit anyone else to do it. She couldn't possibly have been with child without my knowing it.”

“Thank you, Madam Heath. Now tell us, do you remember the day your lady left Dunmain House?”

“Aye. Arthur, Lord Anglesea turned her out, and I went with her to New Ross. And then we moved here, to Dublin.”

Malone advanced closer. “Just the two of you? Not James as well?”

She frowned, her lip quivering. “Aye. ‘Tis true.”

James eased forward in his chair, glowering at Charity, who had yet to look at him.

“Why didn't Lady Anglesea take James with her?” Malone pressed.

“I know not,” whispered Charity.

“You know not? Surely Lady Anglesea told you why she wouldn't—”

“Nay!” Charity squalled, tears welling in her eyes. “She didn't.”

“All right, Madam Heath. So…Mary Sheffield, the supposed mother of the plaintiff, left Dunmain House without taking him, her supposed son, with her. Is that correct?”

Charity dabbed her ashen cheeks, then sat straight, crossing her arms. “Aye.”

“After she left, you say she went to New Ross, then on to Dublin?”

“Aye, she did.”

“And during that time, did she ever receive James as a visitor?”

“Never.” Charity's gaze was now fixed on the venerable oak walls.

“Did she talk of seeing the child, as if he was her own?”

Again Charity cut a long glance at Richard. “Nay.” Tears dribbled again down her flushed cheeks. “She did not.”

James lurched forward angrily, wanting to stand, wanting to shout at her, to call her the liar she was. Mackercher put a hand on his arm. “Settle,” Mackercher whispered, “I'll have my turn with this witch.”

“Did she
ever
attempt to see James?”

Charity clenched her jaw, then took a deep breath and answered, “Not that I was aware.”

“Lying hag,” whispered James.

Bowes cut his eyes to James, but said nothing.

“Madam Heath, I can see this is emotional for you. No doubt it has been difficult, caring for your lady as you did, while seeing an imposter attempt—”

“Yar lordships!” Mackercher protested.

Bowes shook his head at Malone, who nodded, continuing calmly, “We thank you for your candor.” He looked at the bench. “I have no further questions for this good lady.” He veered back to his seat.

Mackercher stood and slowly advanced on Charity. “Madam Heath, ya certainly have a fanciful
story for us today, do ya not?”

“Nay, indeed, ‘tis true,” she murmured, not looking at him.

“When ya were sworn in, did ya not swear on the blessed Holy Bible that yar testimony would be the truth before this court and God?”

Again, her eyes flashed to Richard. “So I did.”

“Madam Heath, no doubt all in this court have observed the most curious of things, that ya keep looking at the defendant before answering. And yet ya seem unwilling to look me in the eyes, or the plaintiff. Do tell us, how long have ya known Richard Annesley?”

She looked down, her hands clasped together in her lap. “Many years,” she whispered.

“How many?” bellowed Mackercher.

“I don't know,” she growled back.

“All right,” snapped Mackercher, raising a hand. “Since when have ya known him?”

“‘Twas many years ago. I'm not—”

Mackercher thundered, “‘Twas since he assumed the title, Earl of Anglesea! Is that not correct?”

“I suppose, ‘tis.”

“Indeed ya met Richard on the very day Arthur was buried. Is that not correct?”

“I don't know. I had seen him at Dunmain, before, but….” She squirmed, as if physically entangled on Mackercher's hook.

“But in Dublin, that's where ya became Richard's bedmate, at that time, did ya not?”

“By honor, I must object!” Malone shouted.

Bowes flicked a hand haphazardly in the air. “Sit down, Sergeant Malone.”

Mackercher leaned on the witness box railing. “Madam Heath, did ya, or did ya not, become Richard's bedmate at that time?”

Charity looked away, tears welling in her eyes.

“Madam?” asked Mackercher.

“You will answer the question,” growled Bowes.

She began a slight nod, then whispered, “Aye.”

“And did ya not stay in Dublin, specifically to be with Richard when Lady Anglesea left for England?”

“Aye.” Her voice was barely audible now, her hands shaking.

“And are ya not currently employed by Richard in some capacity within his household?”

“Aye…I am.” She sobbed.

“No more questions, my lords. I won't ask her in what capacity she now serves.” He looked at the jurors. “I think that's clear enough.” Though Malone sprang to his feet, he remained silent. Justice Bowes peered at him blankly, as if willing the man back into his seat.

Eight more witnesses were questioned that day. Then, at half past five, the defense rested. In the course of the prior week Malone had called seventy-three witnesses, all of dubious integrity—James could only hope truth would speak for itself, and that the lies would be equally manifested and clear.

Closing arguments commenced the next morning, each side allowed two hours to spin what tales they may. Their droning speeches palled James. Seemed to pall everyone. Even Mackercher's went on forever. Each witness was discussed punctiliously, their evidence weighed and argued, measured and discussed. Why did the jury need anything but Giffard, James wondered silently. Hadn't he said enough? But four hours of wearying argument ensued. Occasionally, the judge on Bowes's right nodded off before awaking with a snort. And one juror appeared to sleep through it all. Finally, just before one o'clock, it was over. Justice Bowes instructed the jury before sending them out to deliberate.

James stood and gave Mackercher a nervous grin. “Surely they've seen the truth here.”

The man nodded but James could see he was worried. “I hope so,” Mackercher whispered, fingering his eyebrows.

James decided to wait with Laura, who was still on the front row of the gallery, softly talking with Seán and Ann. He stepped around Mackercher and saw Richard standing frozen, leaning forward on his table. James started to walk by, but as he opened the gate, he stopped.

Richard looked over, scowling.

“
Parlez-vous Francais
?” James asked, smirking before walking on.

As they waited together, James and Laura, Seán and Ann, the drafty courtroom grew colder. They talked about trivial things. When the conversation waned, Seán relayed a naval story, then told Ann about the fanged centipede, giving them a welcome laugh.

Minutes turned slowly into heavy hours. Time became sap. Finally, three hours and fifteen minutes later, just after the cathedral bell rang four o'clock, the jury filed in and James hurried back to his seat. There he stood, watching the judges enter, resuming their places on the bench. His heart drummed. His hands became slick. Justice Bowes sat resolute, then leaned to one side, whispering something to one of his peers. James wanted to sit. For as laborious as this had been, it all seemed terribly quick now, at this moment. Here. Now. It was time. It would be said. It would end. James studied the jury. Most were looking at the judges. One flicked a glance at Richard, then to James, then to the bench again. James could read nothing in it. Throats cleared behind him. Someone sneezed. Then more silence, save the judicial whispering. Then Bowes abruptly straightened. He nodded at Malone, then to Mackercher, then addressed the jury. “Gentlemen of the jury, your service here over these two weeks has been of the greatest importance and most notable honor to your country, to this court and to your King. None of us (he indicated himself and the other judges) remembers nor has heard of a trial that persisted for such length of days. Your patience and enduring service is duly noted and most gratefully appreciated. Now, I ask you sirs, how do you find? For the plaintiff or for the defendant?”

The foreman stood. “We find for the plaintiff, my lords.”

The courtroom exploded, cheers erupting, deafening, startling shouts. James dropped back into his chair, slumping forward, suddenly flushed and out of breath. His hands were trembling. He turned to Laura and grinned.

Mackercher spoke loud to be heard over the commotion, “My lords, I pray ya render a formal judgment on behalf of the plaintiff, and that it may be recorded, and that the effect of this judgment be announced.”

Laura was standing now, leaning across the barristers' bar to James. He stood, embracing her as she happily cried. Then Seán was there, patting James's back, gripping him by the shoulder. “Ye did it, Seámus!” he exclaimed. “Ye bloody-well did it!”

Malone was shouting, “My lords, the effect of the judgment should not be rendered—”

“Nay, Sergeant Malone,” Bowes said. “It should indeed. Silence! Order in this courtroom! Silence!” James and Mackercher returned to their seats as the room was rendered to a nervous hush. James glanced at Richard who was standing, staring at the floor, not blinking, not moving, just frozen and fixed, and yet in the same instance dissolving. A salt pillar in a torrential rain.

“Richard Annesley, in accordance with, and resulting from, the verdict of this jury, the title and property of the Baron of Altham and the Earl of Anglesea is hereby removed from you. You shall desist all occupancies and surrender all possessions of said property, resign your seat in the English and Irish Houses of Lords, and remove any and all such references from your title. Is that understood?”