Katie Rose (30 page)

“Mr. Howe. I am surprised to see you,” Horace said.

“I thought you might be here. I wanted to let you know that I plan to call Mr. Albright to the stand tomorrow. Normally I would have given you more notice, but after the newspaper stories, we are being forced to move more quickly.”

Although he did not look at Winifred, she flinched.

“I have prepared a list of questions I will ask,” he continued smoothly. “I thought this might help.” He handed the document to Horace.

Horace glanced at it. “Thank you, Mr. Howe. I must say, I really appreciate the way you are conducting this case. You have given us a break in several areas, and I can only thank you again.”

“Please understand, Mr. Shane, I am only doing my job. I, too, do not wish to see an innocent person sent to jail, so if there is information that the jury needs to hear in order to reach a true verdict, I will not keep it out. Good day.”

Charles turned and walked out of the restaurant. Horace watched him leave, then said softly to Winifred, “That’s a good man you’ve got there. One in a million. Remember that. You would be a fool to let him go.”

Winifred’s mouth dropped in surprise, but Horace returned to reading Charles’s document.

E
arly the next morning, Charles entered the courthouse hoping for a few hours of quiet in order to prepare for the day’s testimony. He stood for a moment gazing at the polished fruitwood benches, the gilt ornamented desk, and the immense bronze chandelier overhead. In the center, like an altar, stood the judge’s bench, an immense structure of French walnut, gleaming in the dim morning light. To the right was the witness box and the table for the court stenographers, and farther on, the jury box. In the corner was the desk of the high sheriff. It all looked like a stage, where the players would enact their story and their fate.

This room had always been home to him, a place where justice was done, where right prevailed over wrong. Yet to his amazement, he was now beginning to see it differently: it was a place where privileged men decided what was right, and what was law. His previous notions of solidity and fairness seemed contrived. Power reigned here, but it was the power of a few, select men.

Shaking off his thoughts, Charles smiled to himself. Winifred had really crept under his skin. If he wasn’t careful, he would end up like Horace, donning the suffragette banner and marching in the streets. Still the notion was not as preposterous as it once might have seemed. Winifred might not be completely right, he thought, but he could see the truth in her position.

Taking up his papers, he retreated to an adjoining room where files and books were kept. Here he could get a few hours of work done without interference. Stepping into the room, he was surprised to find the gaslights already turned on—and the room occupied.

Winifred bent over the desk, yawning, her hair disheveled, books piled all around her. She wore the same dress as she had the previous day, and Charles guessed from her appearance and from the gutted candle at her sleeve that she had been up all night. Dark circles loomed under her eyes, and her shoulders sagged. Her notebook was open, and she scribbled furiously, glancing between it and an open book.

Charles observed her in silence. For all her inattention to her appearance, she looked adorable. A pencil was thrust behind one ear, her sleeves were stained with lead, and when she absently tossed back a stray lock from her forehead, she unwittingly smudged it. Yet her earnestness and sincerity shone in the elegant lines of her face, the intelligent sparkle of her hazel eyes, and the charming way she bit her lip in concentration.

In that moment, Charles knew how much he loved her. There was no other word for the overwhelming feeling that welled up inside of him as he studied her. It didn’t matter that she was not his social equal, that she could not advance his career, that she brought to him no money, no connections, nor any of the other
things more politically astute men sought in marriage. None of it mattered. All he knew was that Winifred intrigued him like no one else, challenged him, and brought out the very best and worst he had to offer. She would never leave his thoughts, nor could he ever extract her from his being. Somehow, with her ridiculous rhetoric, her Joan of Arc aspirations, and her utter defiance, she had wriggled her way into his heart.

With a start, she looked up, dropping her pen. “Charles! I did not hear you come in! How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” he answered, delighted to see the blush creep over her face. Self-consciously she tried to smooth her hair and grimaced in dismay at her shabby appearance. “What are you doing?”

Her eyes met his, and all thoughts of her looks disappeared. “I am trying to find something to help Mrs. Black.” The fire left her, and to his amazement, tears welled up in her eyes. “You know how weak our case is. I have researched every possible angle I can think of and have come up short. We still do not have the tea tin, and we have no real evidence to help Mrs. Black, or even to introduce a reasonable doubt. I know, you told me so, but I still have to try.”

His heart went out to her. Forcing his emotions under control, he came to her side and sat on the edge of the desk. As he lifted her downcast face to his, a teardrop rolled down her cheek. She brushed it away in embarrassment, but not before he felt a thick jolt of compassion.

“Winnie, you cannot honestly think I am happy about this, can you?” She shook her head, closing her eyes in mortification, and he continued softly. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest? There is nothing more you can do right now. Mr. Albright’s testimony will take up most of the day, and we both know what
he will say. I am certain Horace has already prepared his questions, based on what I will ask.”

“It was kind of you to help us.” Winifred looked much more like a little girl lost than a tough attorney. “And Charles, I am sorry about the press. I did not intend for things to go so far—”

“I know,” he cut her off smoothly. “I have thought about it and realized you used what you had at your disposal. I do not agree with your choice, but I understand it. Now go home. Get some rest.”

“I cannot go home. There has to be something, something I am missing, something that would help.…” She gestured futilely at the open book, almost willing it to produce an answer.

“Darling, I have tried, and I cannot think of anything either.” Charles knew he had to continue in his role but hated to see her pain. “Perhaps, I can go easier on some of the witnesses—”

“No!” Her eyes flew open in shock. “Charles, you cannot possibly think of such a thing! You have to do your job. Surely you are not implying that the only way the defense can win is if the prosecution backs down?”

“No, I didn’t mean that. I think you and Horace are putting on a fine defense. I take my hat off to you both. You have managed to take an utterly unsympathetic woman and present her in a different light. I have not always approved of your tactics, but if I ever got into trouble, I would be very reassured to have Winifred Appleton on my side.”

The tears came to her eyes again, and she selfconsciously looked downward, folding her hands on the desk. Her voice came haltingly, filled with emotion.

“Charles, I think that is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Well, I mean it.” He smoothed her hair back
from her face and was rewarded when she looked up at him a moment later, an ink-smudged madonna, her face alight with happiness. Then the light dimmed as the futility of her efforts came to her once more.

“Still, we are going to lose, and this woman will go to prison. I have failed. I cannot help Mrs. Black. Oh, Charles, I have tried and tried, and I just cannot come up with anything! Maybe I should just give up.”

She crumpled in exhaustion. Charles reached for her and took her into his arms. As she sobbed, he held her closely.

Once he would have been happy to hear such a confession. Once he would have encouraged her to quit. He’d anticipated that when Winifred saw how hard her ambition would be to achieve, she would give up and come to him. Yet now, feeling her breaking in his arms, he put his own selfish motivations aside.

“Winnie,” he said in his harsh voice, “don’t you dare quit now. You have to see this thing through to the end. A woman is depending on you. Horace is depending on you. He gave you a chance, and you owe it to him to perform. And you owe it to me.” When her pretty lips parted in protest, he continued sharply. “I did not train you to run away when the going got tough.”

“But”—Winifred stared at him in confusion—“I thought—”

“Well, think again,” Charles said. “You know, Winnie, I never would have thought you a coward. I guess women just cannot cut it the way men can after all.”

The fire blazed back into her eyes, all hazel fury. “What do you mean, women cannot do it? I am tired and upset, but that does not mean I am giving up!”

“It doesn’t?” Charles asked innocently, struggling to keep his face straight.

“No, it doesn’t! If you think just because things look, well, black right now, that I would just walk away from this, then you really do not know me after all!”

She was magnificent in her outrage, as always. Charles couldn’t resist a laugh, and to her amazement, he leaned forward and kissed her soundly.

It was a wonderful kiss, full of passion, emotion, and suppressed desire. Charles groaned as he felt Winifred gasp, then soften into a mutual response. She felt exquisite in his arms, all soft and warm and womanly, and when she pressed herself against him, wanting more, he could not help but respond. He deepened the kiss, taking her to a higher level, gratified when she buried her fingers into his collar, forcing the buttons to pop open.

“Oh, Charles,” she sighed helplessly, sliding her fingers beneath the stiff material of his white cotton shirt, tracing them over the bare muscled flesh beneath. Her innocent touch sent his senses roaring out of control, and he was filled with a fierce need to possess her. This was Winifred, his heroine, all fire and passion, and all woman.

“Winnie, I cannot believe what you do to me,” he whispered, turning her face even more fully into his, feathering hot kisses along her cheeks, nose, and throat. Her laughter changed quickly to a frantic gasp for breath as he cupped her breast, stroking her, taking her into the wonderful white-hot world of desire.

It was only an awkward clearing of someone’s throat that brought Charles back to reality. Struggling with his own reckless desires, he managed to look up and see the court stenographer standing awkwardly on the threshold of the room.

“I—ah, came to fetch my books.” He indicated the filing cabinet. “I can come back.”

“No, just give me a minute,” Charles managed, grateful that the man just nodded, then disappeared. Winifred’s eyes fluttered open, and she glanced toward the doorway as if in a dream state.

“What—who was that?”

“Just Edward, the stenographer. He wants his notes. I guess we have to get going. Court’s probably ready to start.”

A blush flooded Winifred’s cheeks, and she sat up quickly, adjusting her clothing. “Oh my God …”

“Don’t worry,” Charles assured her. “I have known him for years and he will not say anything. Now take my advice and go home for the day. Get some sleep. I will even get a transcript for you, if you think that will help.”

“No, I cannot do that. I will go home and freshen up a bit, however, before returning. Charles”—her swollen lips relaxed into a smile and her eyes glowed with warmth—“thank you.”

“You are very welcome.” He kissed the tip of her nose, then watched as she got to her feet and gathered up her belongings. She flashed him a smile, then turned and left, holding her books to her chest as if to shield it against the rest of the world.

Charles’s chest tightened miserably. He knew what he had done: he had just helped her reaffirm her commitment to the law. Winifred was back on the case.

“M
R
. A
LBRIGHT
, would you mind telling the court what your relationship was to the defendant?”

Charles asked the question briskly, then turned away from the witness box. The court stenographer caught his attention. The thin, bespectacled man
stopped transcribing and fixed his gaze on Charles’s throat. Covertly, he gestured to his collar.

Charles touched his collar and realized his tie was undone and that three of his buttons were unfastened. Giving Edward a swift nod of gratitude, Charles turned his back to the jury and quickly redid his buttons. Thankfully, Mr. Albright took a moment to respond.

“I am a friend of Mrs. Black’s.”

“I see.” Charles paused, adjusting his tie. When he was reassembled, he turned around and continued, ignoring the amused indulgence in the judge’s eye. “How long have you been … her friend?”

The jury murmured disapprovingly. Mr. Albright coughed, then spoke firmly.

“I’ve known Mrs. Black for about six months. We met at a department store, where she was trying to select a trinket for her husband’s birthday. I assisted her in that effort.”

“Did you see her socially after that?” Charles persisted.