A Madness So Discreet (25 page)

“On what?”

“I think I would very much prefer to thump your father before my brother. I'll sit through eight days of old coroners to see that smug smile wiped off his face.”

“Let's hope it happens,” Grace said, her stomach fluttering as she tossed the dregs of her lemonade into the grass.

She put her veil in place as they pushed their way back into the courtroom and to Mr. Turner's side just as the judge was returning. The crowd settled with the banging of his gavel, eyes bright and attention reawakened after the break.

The women whose names and faces Grace had scavenged her memory for were called one at a time, although there were notable absences. Not all of them would take the stand against a powerful man, no matter what he had done to them. Society faces she recalled from brighter days stonily recounted unwanted advances, pressed too far. Mrs. Vivanti, a regal woman who had once been their neighbor, testified, her voice chilly as each word dropped like ice from her lips. Her eyes never left Mae, and though her tone was controlled, the rage that burned under them reached for Grace as
well, threatening to ignite her own wrath.

The concise sentences of the society women melted into the wary voices of servants roughly mistreated, then dismissed. Through it all Grace remained calm beneath her veil, too aware that her own control must be complete for the last, most dear face.

“Call your next witness,” the judge ordered the prosecution.

Mr. Pickering stood, cleared his throat, and said, “The prosecution calls Elizabeth Martin to the stand.”

Elizabeth entered the courtroom on a storm of whispers. People stood on tiptoe, some pointing, and Grace swelled with pride as her friend walked to the stand with her head held high.

“She looks rather nice in that dress,” Adelaide whispered to Grace. “I ordered that print special from New York City. Sets off her hair nicely. You'd never guess she's crazy.”

“Maybe she's not,” Grace said.

Adelaide tapped Grace's arm with her fan. “She is to everyone else in this room.”

After Elizabeth was sworn in she stated her name and residence, murmurs going through the crowd at the mention of the insane asylum, which quieted immediately when the judge glanced up.

“All right, Miss Martin,” Pickering said, “I want you to tell the jury what you've told me.”

“The jury?” Elizabeth asked, her voice so quiet the court descended into a dead calm.

“Those people right over there,” Pickering said, pointing.

“Oh, all right,” Elizabeth said, a sweet smile breaking over her face. “Um, hello.”

More than a few of the jurors smiled back. One raised a hand in greeting.

“She's golden,” Adelaide said, but Grace didn't hear. Her hands were crushing each other in anxiety for her friend, whose childlike innocence was no playact.

Elizabeth looked back to Mr. Pickering. “Where should I start?”

“With the night of the reception, if you please.”

Elizabeth looked back at the jury. “All right, the reception.” She cleared her throat. “There was a reception up at the asylum for Mr.—I'm sorry—Senator Mae when he was here in town. We've got the loveliest ballroom, you see, and the food isn't half-bad, either.”

A chuckle rippled through the crowd, and Elizabeth looked mystified at what the joke could be. Her breath hitched in her chest before she continued, this time with wide eyes taking in the whole courtroom. “I've always been so proud of the asylum. It's a beautiful place, and I knew that we'd do right by Senator Mae when he was there. They didn't want any of the patients near him, but I thought maybe a peek wouldn't hurt anybody.

“I watched the carriages come from my window, all the fine people walking up the steps that I use too, and I picked out Senator Mae right away. You can't mistake someone who walks with that kind of pride.”

Another titter swept the room, this one more restrained.

“I sat in my room and I listened,” Elizabeth went on. “I'm close to the stairs on the women's wing so all their voices sort of float up to me. I couldn't make out words of course, but people got louder as the night went on. I help in the kitchens, so I knew there had been ever so much alcohol ordered in. I thought this was my chance. If I wanted to sneak down and take a look at all the fine people, I should go when they were distracted by drink.”

Elizabeth fell quiet for a moment, the hush of the courtroom so still everyone could hear her draw her next breath. “I went down a flight of stairs, thinking I'd come to the ballroom through a side door, when Mr.—I'm sorry—Senator Mae himself turned the corner. I felt all nervous straightaway, knowing that they didn't want him bothered with having to see mental patients. So I tried to excuse myself, but he said he was looking for . . . he needed—” Elizabeth broke off, her face scarlet.

“He needed what, Elizabeth?” Pickering prompted.

“He was looking for the privy, sir,” Elizabeth blurted out, her embarrassment sending the court into peals of laughter. Her flush faded after she took a drink of water, then continued. “He asked whether we had indoor plumbing—and we do, sir, the asylum added it new just a few years ago. It's ever so very nice.”

Mr. Pickering leaned against the witness box, a patient smile on his face. “And what happened next, Elizabeth?”

“I told Senator Mae that I didn't dare take him over to the men's
wing to their privy, but he said he'd use the women's so long as I didn't tell anyone, and he wouldn't tell anyone I was out of my room. Then he kind of winked at me, and I thought maybe it would be okay to help a senator, even if I was out of bed and taking him into the women's side. He's . . .” Elizabeth paused, her eyes dropping. “He's got that way about him, sir. The senator, he can talk you into doing things you wouldn't consider otherwise.”

“Objection,” Mr. Atkinson called lazily from the defense.

“Sustained,” the judge said, and Elizabeth glanced up at him, alarmed.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

“You can't say things that aren't facts, Miss Martin,” he answered, his voice low and kind. “You're here to tell us what happened that night, not to make conjectures about Mr. Mae's personality.”

“Senator Mae,” Elizabeth corrected him.

“Yes, of course, Senator Mae,” the judge said. “Please go on.”

“All right.” Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Well, I took him to the ladies' room. All the while we were walking he was ever so nice, asking me about my life at the asylum, what my name is, how old I was. And then we get to the . . . to the privy and I wished him a good night and—” She stopped, her lips quivering. “Do I have to, Mr. Pickering?” she asked, eyes pleading.

“I'm sorry, Lizzie. Yes, it's very important that you tell the court what happened after you wished him a good night.”

“He . . . he grabbed my wrist, sir.” Elizabeth's face contorted, her eyes shiny with tears and focused on nothing. “He grabbed and twisted it and dragged me through the door after him. He'd been so nice, so kind and polite, that I thought I had to be confused, that this fine, important man would never touch me like that and I couldn't imagine a reason for him doing it. And then . . . then he shoved me down to the privy floor and pushed my nightgown up and I guess I knew pretty well what his reason was then.

“I started fighting, sir. Yelling and crying too. But the fighting only seemed to make him like it more, and yelling and crying isn't anything new in an asylum. Nobody came to help, and he had his way with me, right there on the floor.”

Elizabeth was crying freely. Mr. Pickering reached for his handkerchief and she took it but left it unused, her tears as much a part of her testimony as her words.

“And the next part, Lizzie?” Pickering said quietly, his voice carrying in the dead silence of the courtroom.

Lizzie bit down on her bottom lip, hands twisting Pickering's kerchief. “Near the end the senator, he put his hand over my mouth and my nose and pushed down real hard. The dark was coming in around the sides of my eyes and all I could think was ‘Let me die, so this is over.' But I didn't die, and he was through with his pleasure. And he pulled his hand back and put his face down close to mine and he said . . . he said, ‘You're lucky you'll be looked for, or I'd see
you turn blue like that bitch out on the Pomeroy road.'”

A gasp rolled over the courtroom, followed by a swell of whispers and Elizabeth's rolling sobs as she wiped away her tears, while Grace's flowed unseen beneath her veil.

“
W
here are they taking her?” Grace asked Adelaide moments later as Lizzie was escorted from the courtroom by the bailiff.

“I imagine they're giving her a bit of a breather before she's cross-examined,” Adelaide said, her face pale and pinched.

Grace only nodded slightly, retreating back into herself before Elizabeth was ushered to the stand. The crowd was buzzing, and still her father sat unperturbed at the defense table, his smile flashing out at whoever looked at him. She averted her eyes, focusing instead on the moons of her fingernails and the drying teardrops that had landed on her hands.

When Lizzie returned the hush came with her, the courtroom falling silent in respect as if the corpse had arrived at the wake.
Mr. Atkinson glanced at his notes while Elizabeth situated herself on the stand again, leaving them behind on the table as he approached to question her.

“Hello, Miss Martin.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Hello, Mr. . . . Lawyer.” Grace noticed a few jury members covering their smiles.

“That was a terrible tale you just shared.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any man who did that to a girl as sweet as you ought to be hanged, whether another's murder came into it or not.”

Lizzie watched him warily. “That's not for me to say, sir. I'm supposed to just tell what happened. That's it and that's all.”

“Right, right,” he said, his smile taking on an edge. “But the thing is, I'm not so sure it happened.”

Lizzie's brow came together in confusion. “It did, though, sir.”

“That's the thing, Miss Martin. It's your word against my client's, just as it has been with all the other women who walked through here today. They're easily dismissed, with scores to settle or imaginary slights to return. But you're playing a dangerous game, little girl. You've added the detail that makes this a federal case, and one with the death penalty attached. I hardly need to remind you—or the jury—that if what you say
isn't
true, then there's no reason to believe Senator Mae had anything whatsoever to do with Jenny Cantor's death. The only reason we're even here today is because of
you
,
little Elizabeth Martin. You
claim
that Senator Mae raped you and during the course of raping you confided that he'd done the same to Jenny Cantor, asphyxiating her in the process. A man's life hangs on the question of whether or not you are lying.”

“I know that, sir,” Elizabeth said. “And I'm not.”

“Where is it that you live again?” Atkinson asked, brow knit in mock confusion.

“I live up at the insane asylum, sir.”

“Ah, up at the insane asylum. Thank you for repeating that. Now, why, may I ask, do you live there?”

Elizabeth's lips thinned. “I suppose I live there because I am insane.”

“A simple enough assumption,” Atkinson agreed. “Yet somehow we're still here today, listening to you slander a well-respected man. I can't help but wonder if you're saying these things not because they happened but because you were told to say them.”

“Objection. Unless the defense would like to actually ask a question to the witness?” Pickering said from his seat.

“Sustained,” the judge said.

“Very well,” Atkinson said. “Miss Martin, did Senator Mae rape you?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, nodding her head along with the word.

“Did Senator Mae imply to you that he had raped and killed Jenny Cantor?”

“Yes,” she said again, seeming almost pleased that the questions were so easy.

“And why should the jury believe the word of an insane girl?”

“Because String would never let me tell a lie, sir,” Elizabeth said quickly, invoking the most powerful reference she knew.

A bewildered hum swept through the courtroom, and Grace's heart fell as a blackness that was not her veil seeped into the edges of her vision.

“String?” Atkinson asked. “Who might that be?”

“Objection,” Pickering said, rising to his feet.

“Surely he can't object to my questioning the sanity of an insane asylum inmate?” Atkinson said, eyes never leaving Elizabeth's bewildered ones.

“Sustained,” the judge said. “You'll have to answer the question, Miss Martin.”

Grace leaned against Adelaide, the hollowness that she'd invited willingly inside of her being burned away by the rage Falsteed had smelled out long ago, the familiar crush of helplessness and defeat following close behind.

“Grace,” Adelaide whispered to her. “Do you need to leave?”

“Yes, tell us, Miss Martin,” Atkinson pushed on. “Tell us about this String? Who is he?”

Elizabeth was on her feet in a second, small hands curled into fists. “String is
not
male! String resents the assumption.”

An expectant quiet fell over the court. “Your Honor,” Pickering said in a tired voice, “I request a recess until tomorrow morning.”

“I'm so sorry, Grace,” Elizabeth said, her face still streaked with tears, though they were in the safety of Thornhollow's office. “That man, he came after me so, I didn't know what to do.”

“It's all right, Lizzie,” Grace said, handing her friend a glass of water. “You did wonderfully.”

“Yes, Adelaide said you were really something,” Thornhollow said, though his eyes lacked enthusiasm. “I can't be in court myself as a fellow witness, but she said you may have turned the jury.”

“And then turned them back,” Lizzie said, shaking her head. “You're all very nice, but I know I made a mistake by mentioning String.” Her hand went up to her ear protectively. “I'm not ashamed, but I do wish String needn't have come into it.”

“You need sleep, Lizzie,” Thornhollow said. “They'll finish your cross-examination tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Grace said. “I told Adelaide I'm sleeping here tonight, if I can be some comfort to you.”

Elizabeth sniffed. “The whole idea was for me to help you, Grace.” She went meekly to her room, hand curled in a fist near her ear.

“Tell me honestly,” Grace said after the door shut behind Lizzie. “How badly did that hurt us?”

“Badly,” he admitted. “The whole case hinged on Lizzie's
testimony being convincing. Which it was.”

“Unfortunately, she's also convincingly insane,” Grace added.

“Yes.” Thornhollow looked at his drink, nearly finished. “I can testify as an expert as to what I believe your father is capable of, but Elizabeth is the only one who can testify that he specifically did something.”

“He did,” Grace said, her voice thick. “Only not to her.”

Grace went to bed with the same dread that she'd felt long ago, her footsteps dogged now not by a man but a memory. She lay in bed, eyes on the ceiling. Then took a deep breath and remembered. She let them come up from her center, the pictures she'd stowed away for so long in the darkness so that their details would never plague her again. They'd been jammed beside her emotions, each losing importance as they rotted away inside her. And now she needed them both to deliver herself. She let them come.

Hands and sounds. Pressure and pain. Flash of flesh and her throat closing against the words as his eyes stared down at her, blank as the ones she saw in the mirror. She covered her eyes, even though Grace knew it would bring no relief. The scenes played out, each one to the end until she had known every terror again, each fresh memory of a new night revisited upon her as she caressed her scars for comfort.

Air rushed into her lungs as she let all the feelings flow, face twisted in agony. Rage came first, an impotent cry against the
unfairness of the world, followed by a broken sadness and the black guilt of Beaton, staining her soul forever.

She knocked on Lizzie's door and was met with likewise tearstained eyes. “Lizzie, I need to tell you something.”

“You're sure you want to do this again?” Adelaide asked as they took their seats the next day. “I thought for sure you would faint.”

“I'm fine, thank you,” Grace said, squeezing her friend's hand.

Adelaide's eyes narrowed. “You almost sound it,” she said.

The defense and prosecution entered, Grace's father looking well rested and perfectly groomed, assured in his acquittal. Grace bit on her lip at the thought of him spending the previous night in premature celebration while she had writhed through her memories. The judge entered and banged his gavel, bringing the second day to its beginning. Lizzie took the stand again and Atkinson approached her like a hawk spotting a timid mouse.

“Now then, Miss Martin,” he said. “Your testimony as to being raped by Senator Mae was rather memorable, but I'd also remind the jury that you're a ward of the state who lives in an asylum.”

“Just because I'm insane doesn't mean it didn't happen,” Elizabeth said.

“I didn't ask you a question,” Atkinson snapped at her, and Elizabeth pulled back as if bitten.

“Objection.” Pickering jumped to his feet. “Defense is intimidating
my witness, who is in a delicate state as it is.”

“Sustained,” the judge barely had time to say before Atkinson rolled on.

“Delicate state? I can't blame her. She's brought people from all over the country here to listen to lies and vulgarity, to tell an alluring story that took place only in her perverted little mind. She has no proof!”

“But I do,” Elizabeth said, her voice unsteady after being attacked.

“What was that?” The judge leaned in as Atkinson pulled in another breath to continue.

“I said she has no proof!” he repeated.

“
I do!
” Elizabeth cried, pounding her tiny fist on the rail. “I do have proof, Mr. Judge, sir. Senator Mae, he's got a birthmark right above his—” She broke off, her face a picture of perfect misery.

“Where, child?” the judge asked gently while Atkinson struggled for words.

“It's right above his privates. A port wine stain, in the shape of a heart.”

“Bailiff,” the judge said, rising to his feet, “if you would please escort Mr. Mae to his holding cell, where I will determine whether he does or does not have this mark.”

“I . . . I object,” Atkinson said.

“To what?” the judge asked. “You can take his pants down yourself if you like, but I
will
know.”

Grace watched as her father was escorted through a door, his head held high, but tension keeping it unnaturally still as his defense team and the judge exited with him. Adelaide reached over and wordlessly squeezed her hands. Alone on the stand, Elizabeth wiped her face, head inclined ever so slightly to the right.

The courtroom was silent when the men reentered, everyone filing back to their places. The judge placed a hand on Elizabeth's shoulder as he passed behind her. He settled himself in his chair, and Pickering took the floor before him.

“Prosecution would like to enter into evidence that the defendant does indeed have a port wine stain in the shape of a heart above his privates.”

The courtroom erupted and Grace's heart flew into her throat as the rage that had belonged to only her poured from their mouths. She caught the barest glimpse of her father's face, pale and peaked, before the man in front of her rose to his feet shouting that he should hang.

“How is Lizzie?” Thornhollow asked that evening in Adelaide and Grace's shared room at the inn.

“Janey sent a note, said she's resting,” Grace said, accepting the cup of tea that Adelaide handed her.

“As should you,” Adelaide said. “This trial must be taxing for you.”

“Which is why I didn't want her there,” Thornhollow reminded them both.

“She wants to be there, and that's what matters,” his sister said. “I feel as if the two of you could jaw over the whole thing all night, each of your morbid brains imagining each pitfall through to the end rather than just seeing it out. I'll take myself to bed, thank you very much.”

Grace and the doctor sat together quietly for a moment after the door shut behind her. “Do you still want to be there?” he finally asked.

“It's not been easy,” Grace admitted. “But yes, I want to come tomorrow. You're testifying for my sake. Not being there would be an abandonment of sorts.”

Thornhollow sighed. “It's clear I can't stop you, but the courtroom was a circus for the notoriety of the thing. Now that there's a true scandal involved, it will only escalate.”

“Doctor, I—” Grace broke off, searching for words that wouldn't come.

“I know that face,” Thornhollow said. “It usually comes before you admit you were wrong about something.”

“Then you can't know it very well,” Grace shot back, and the doctor threw back his head, laughing.

“It's good to see you riled,” he said. “I much prefer it to this cold, thoughtful thing that used to be Grace.”

“I know,” she said, eyes on the floor. “I had to remove myself when we went through Nell's room with the policemen, and there was a comfort to the emptiness. I held on to it too long. It was all I had when I killed Beaton and I didn't feel it, Doctor, I swear. I didn't feel a thing when I cut his throat.”

“I believe you,” Thornhollow said.

“And that was so frightening,” she gasped, her voice cracking. “But it gave me power, to feel nothing. Me, who was so powerless. And I reveled in it for a time, but last night I knew I had to give Elizabeth something for the jury in the way of proof. So I let myself see. I saw my father, and I saw it all, right into the depths of his eyes, where there was that same nothing. I won't do that. I won't become him.”

Thornhollow leaned forward. “Good. I would have you be Grace, whichever side of her you're using in the moment. But, Grace.”

Grace's tea sat in her hands, untouched and cold. “I know you have reservations, Doctor,” she said quietly. “I know you don't want to dirty your theories by using them to falsely accuse my father. Everything you've done for me culminates in this. It's the right thing to do, and I thank you for it.”