Chapter Eighteen

The verdict came quickly. Nancy only heard snatches, but they were enough.

". . . it is the opinion of the Court that the said Richard is not guilty of the felony wherewith he stands charged and that he is discharged out of custody . . ."

She wanted to throw her arms in the air. Her body was her enemy, swollen with a sudden energy and a sense of relief. Years fell from Dick's face. Lines flew from his brow, and he smiled broadly. He was young again, more a boy than a man, rising from his seat, grasping Marshall and Henry's hands in both of his, smiling and nodding at the Cumberland justices, once again, his equal as a Virginia gentleman. The great fear that had swept through her with all the talk of gum guaiacum receded, at least for now. In a moment, he was with them, crushing Judy against his woolen coat for a second before releasing her and embracing his brother. Nancy stepped away. Tucker's hand was on his shoulder, and Dick moved on in the direction of her family. She watched — hopeful, expectant — but Father wasn't smiling.

Instead, his lips were pursed. Two lines curved down to his jaw. He lifted one eyebrow at Dick and turned away. William and Lucy did the same. Somehow, Tom and Patsy had already managed to disappear. As they funneled out of the courtroom door, Dick turned to her.

"It doesn't matter what they think of us," he whispered.

Nancy wished that was true, but there was no time to dwell on the matter. The crowd that had heckled Dick on his way in, applauded him as he left. A few steps behind them, Aunt Page was not so well received. Nancy heard cracks of laughter and a man's voice shouting that he'd "let her examine me any time she liked!" Nancy had no sympathy.

The press of people on both sides was alarming, but Jack and Dick moved quickly, following Tucker, guiding her and Judy to the line of carriages. She scanned anxiously for their horses, keen to escape the commentary of the locals, who pointed and called out as they passed by.

"There's the wife!" A woman's voice rose out of the melee. "Not much of a looker. The sister's a better eyeful. The older one's face'd turn milk soon as look at it."

Judy heard it too. Her face shut like a fan. Nancy locked eyes with Dick. When he turned his gaze to Judy, his expression was empty. Nancy climbed into the carriage and closed her eyes. She didn't want to imagine what Judy was thinking.

If Tucker or Jack heard the insult, they ignored it. The carriage jolted as Dick slammed the door, and the men left them to mount their horses. The sisters were alone.

And silent.

* * *

Judy waited. The carriage rolled away from the courthouse. Houses disappeared. Trees lined the road, cutting out light. And Judy waited.

She was certain her sister could not sit in silence for all the long miles back to Bizarre. Nancy? Keep her thoughts to herself? She never showed restraint. Never thought before acting. Judy's lips curled in dark, silent laughter. Certainly, she did not intend to speak first. After all, what was there to say between them? An ugly laugh pressed up in her throat. Her mind raced. The verdict pleased her, but only because it meant their public exposure was over. Dick could come home, yes, but how could they continue together, after all that had been said and heard in the courthouse? Let's celebrate, Sister, she might say. Those respectable men chose not to see Dick as a murderer or you as his whore or the murderer of your own child, as a very devil on earth, in fact, if you thought about it. They decided you are not the lover of your own sister's husband, not a woman who carried a child in secret, who tried to get rid of it by drinking rotten tea, not someone who might let her child be taken out into the night and left exposed, whether already dead or still alive—

"Sister?"

And there it was. Nancy's voice. Judy covered her face. "Please," she said. "I can't."

"But, Sister, are you unwell?"

"I'm perfectly well." The coach lurched, its wheels jarring on a rut in the road. Judy lurched forward but was caught by Nancy's outstretched arms. She looked at her sister's hands. "Don't touch me," she said.

She turned her face and stared at the dark trees beyond the carriage. Rain was falling. Grim weather and evening gloom. The coachman would need a light. Dick and Jack were following, but she couldn't hear their horses over the creak of the wheels beneath her seat.

"I can't understand you. We should be giving thanks," said Nancy. "Aren't you pleased? Relieved? Something?"

Tiredness washed over Judy. It hugged at the bones in her face and the muscles in her arms. She longed to weep, but not with Nancy there. "Must you always expect me to act as you would?"

"Not just as I would. As anyone would! Poor dear Dick, did you see his expression—"

"Stop it!"

"Stop what? I'm being perfectly normal, while you—"

"While I what? While I sit quietly. While I'm tired. Distressed. After we've been snubbed by our own father. By our own brothers and sisters? When we have spent the day in a courtroom listening to people we have thought of as friends, people in our own family, talking about us, about you and Dick, about my life, my house, my marriage, as if, as if—"

Judy paused. And then she let out a scream. She slammed her fists on the seat beside her and glared at Nancy, who at least now was cowed and silent. She screamed again, so hard it scraped her throat.

"There!" she shouted. "There. Are you happy now? Are you?"

Nancy said nothing. Judy stared at her.

She was jolted by a sound at the carriage window. A hand banging on the panel. Jack's face in the glass.

"What's going on?" His voice was tossed on the wind. "Shall I ask the driver to halt?"

"No!" Judy waved him away and was glad to see him shrug and pull on his reins.

"Now look what you have caused," she muttered, before throwing back her head and closing her eyes. Her throat stung. She wanted to sleep. Nancy said nothing. But she made a racket, pulling blankets, patting her knees, a sniff or two, the scrape of her shoes, the creak of her seat as she shifted.

Then silence again.

* * *

Judy's scream had ripped through Nancy's chest. It echoed in her ears; her heart still pounded. Judy had screeched like a banshee, and now she was pretending to be asleep. Look what you have caused, she'd said. What? Did Judy think she was to blame for today? Did Judy doubt her? Now? Heat rushed to her cheeks. She bit down on her lip and used the pain to redirect her thoughts. What had been between herself and Dick was not to be thought of. She had placed all that in the dark. This was how it must be. Judy must be convinced. Nothing had happened at Glentivar. She had to believe there was nothing between Nancy and Dick. Otherwise, how could they live?

Memories threatened her. The months of concealment. The fear of discovery. The pain. The bleeding. The gum guaiacum. How much had she taken? This could only be borne so long as Judy believed them innocent. Damn Aunt Page.

Nancy passed several minutes ruminating on their aunt's many insults. Tears stung her eyes. She refused to submit to a wave of emotion, choosing to grit her teeth and picture her aunt at Bizarre, creeping along the hallway, sneaking, spying. She remembered the day her aunt offered to examine her. It was like touching a burning ember.

"I can help," she had said, standing in Nancy's bedroom doorway, her hands clasped in front of her. Phebe had been there, folding clothes, while Nancy flitted between reading a book and staring out her window. It was cold. Snow on the ground for days. The sky as white as the ground with only bare brown trees splitting them. Had Aunt Page even knocked? No.

"I mean with this trouble," she continued, crossing to the window. Nancy, curled on the window ledge, had met her aunt's gaze. Their eyes were level.

"What trouble?" She was aware of Phebe, no longer folding, but standing still, watching, listening.

"This Glentivar nonsense. At least, I call it nonsense, but if it is not put to rest, then your prospects are most certainly blasted."

"In your opinion."

"In everyone's opinion, young lady. Everyone's. No. The only answer is to deny it. Powerfully."

"I do deny it. I have denied it. I will always deny it. It's not true."

"Yes, yes, but you are only a girl. What use is your word? No. Here is my idea. I will examine you."

"You will what?"

"The briefest of things. We could do it this moment." She waved a hand toward the bed. Nancy struggled to comprehend her meaning. When she did, color flooded her face.

"No!" Book and blanket hit the floor. She stood inches away from her aunt, her whole body shaking. It was imperative that she refuse. "You will do nothing of the sort. To even suggest it!" Her voice rose. "Get out! Get out of my room. Now!"

Surprise, concern, a little fear, and then finally scorn settled on Aunt Page's face. "Ungrateful girl." Her lips curled, and she shook her head in a mixture of disappointment and disgust that had Nancy ready to strike her.

"Get out, Aunt Page," she said, each word a small, angry bite. "And do not speak to me of this again. Ever."

"Why didn't you let her examine you?"

Her sister spoke quietly, but Nancy was startled. It was as if Judy had read her thoughts.

"I don't want to talk about that woman."

"But I do."

"I thought you wanted to be silent." She felt Judy's eyes burning her and threw up her arms. "Talk away then. If you must."

"You could have proved the whole thing a lie? Why not?"

Nancy looked pointedly out of the carriage window.

"Of course, Patrick Henry argued the point well," continued Judy. There was an edge in her voice now. She sounded detached. Nancy stole a glance and saw Judy was staring off into space, head tilted, as if in a daydream. "You're a young lady, properly brought up. Private. Innocent. Insulted. But what if you were not innocent?"

They sat in silence. Nancy thought of the words she had written in the letter Dick had destroyed. Theo's child. Stillborn. Almost the truth. But no, he'd said. We deny it all. Always. Promise me. She hoped against hope that Judy was finished. She was not.

"You don't like our aunt, so I suppose there's that in your favor. I can imagine no one more likely to get your back up. I wonder if your answer would have been different if I or Patsy had proposed the examination?"

"It would not."

Judy ignored her. "Patsy saying she thought you might be expecting was a surprise, was it not?"

Nancy bit her lip. The rage had left Judy's voice, and this cold, quiet tone was more characteristic but no less disquieting.

"I could believe almost anything of Aunt Page," Judy said. "She likes nothing more than attention. I imagine she saw a choice between supporting us or ingratiating herself with our brothers and sisters. But Patsy?" Judy pressed her palms against the sides of her head.

"Sister." Nancy leaned forward, even though she knew Judy's fingers twitched, ready to slap her if she said the wrong thing. "Sister, after Theo died, I was terribly unhappy. I found comfort in sweet things. Ask Sarah. I spent the summer haunting the kitchen house or sending Phebe to bring me desserts and fruits to my room. Some days, I ate until my stomach was fit to burst. Ask her."

"I would have noticed."

"No, you wouldn't." She raised her hands defensively. "You had Saint. Your beautiful boy. You were busy. Patsy noticed the change in my figure. You know how I suffered all last year with colic and cramps. I didn't even see what I was doing to myself. Until Glentivar."

"You should not have gone."

Was there a softening in her voice? "No," said Nancy. "And I wish to God I had not! To have put you and Dick, the two people I love most in the world, apart from Saint, in this terrible situation? I brought this calamity upon you, upon us, through illness and my distress. All I want to do is make it up to you. Please, Judy, tell me how I can." She reached across the carriage and took her sister's hand. It was cold and limp, but Judy did not pull away. "Let me remain at Bizarre and help you with your children, Judy. Let me help you with Saint and the new child. Please! Let us be friends again like we were back at Tuckahoe. Before any of this. Before Mother died." She rubbed her fingers against Judy's, praying for a response. "You know I'll never marry now, don't you?"

Judy removed her hand.

"You don't know that."

"I do, Judy. And so do you. Mr. Tucker has invited me to Williamsburg to stay with him and Lelia. I will go if you want me to. But I'd rather stay at Bizarre. I love Bizarre. You have a new child coming. I can help you. If you'll let me."

It was dark now. She could see nothing of her sister's expression in the shadows. Perhaps that was a good thing. That meant Judy would not see her face either. She waited, hoping.

"I will think on it," Judy said at last. "But for the love of God, do not speak to me again until we are home."