An Inconvenient Wife (42 page)

“Ah yes.” He played with his watch chain again. “What did your father tell you about your husband’s funeral?”

“That it was a short service.”

“Did he tell you who attended?”

“Not many of our friends, I take it. Mostly the men who worked with William.”

“Yes, well, there were others. One woman in particular who interested me very much.”

He was happy about this news, I knew, yet I could not help feeling a twinge of dread. “Who was that?”

“William’s mother.”

I went numb and still. William’s mother. I remembered telling Victor that I’d never met William’s parents, that I wasn’t interested
in them. I could not imagine how his mother’s coming could help me, why it shouldn’t hurt me unbearably. How could I look
her in the face after I’d killed her son?

“His mother?” I asked carefully. “Not . . . his father?”

“Apparently the man died two years ago,” Howe went on. “His mother said she’d never met you. Now, I found that curious. She’d
never met her own son’s wife, and it’s not due to distance. Why, she only lives in Newport. Where you and William spent every
summer.”

I remembered the bail hearing.
William Stephen Carelton, lately of New York, originally of Newport, Rhode Island.

“Newport,” I repeated.

“You didn’t know?” Howe asked.

I shook my head.

“Why is that, Mrs. Carelton? How could you not know your husband’s own parents?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I sank onto the edge of the settee. “He never spoke of them. I assumed, I don’t know, that he was
estranged from them. Or that they were dead. I had no idea they lived so close. I would have insisted on meeting them.”

Howe leaned forward. “Do you know anything about them? Or about William’s relationship with them?”

I shook my head, and he leaned back again. The many- colored floral pattern clashed with his garish vest—also floral, in greens
and oranges and an odd shade of red. I had to turn my gaze away.

“Mrs. Carelton, listen to me closely. I must ask you to tell me whatever it is you know about your husband’s parents. Anything
at all.”

“I don’t know anything,” I said. “I already told you, William never spoke of them. Why? Is something wrong?”

Howe shook his head. “Wrong? I should say not.”

I watched him carefully. “Then why all the questions? Is there something I should know?”

“Mrs. Carelton, I would prefer it very much if you didn’t know,” he said, wheezing as he rose. “And that is why I won’t tell
you. You must trust me about this.”

“But if there’s something that could have a negative effect on my trial—”

He laughed, a short burst of sound that silenced me. “Don’t worry about your trial, Mrs. Carelton,” he said.

But that was exactly what I did. As the weeks passed and the date came closer and closer, Howe’s words became even less reassuring.
That there was something I didn’t know, some plan I wasn’t privy to—I began to worry as I hadn’t before. The idea of a future
in a prison cell was no longer so unreal.

Howe’s visits came less and less often. Little Mr. Blake told me he was busy preparing. I was not to worry. But I had nothing
else to do. I’d lost the desire to go out. Invitations became less and less frequent; too much time had passed, and I was
no longer the topic of conversation. It was easy to forget me in the bleak snows of winter, when the wind was so bitterly
cold.

But the day of the trial came too soon.

William Howe sent Blake to my door nearly with first light. I was awake; I’d been unable to sleep. Howe’s assistant gave me
terse instructions.

“He insists you wear black, Mrs. Carelton. You are in mourning for your husband. Dress as somberly as you can but not severely.
He wants the jury to notice how”—he swallowed uncomfortably—“how attractive you are.” He reached into the pocket of his coat
and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. He handed it to me. “You’re to wear this.”

I unwrapped it to find a mourning brooch—a wreath made of braided dark hair. I looked up at him in surprise. “William’s hair?”

He shook his head. “No, but the jury’ll never know the difference.”

I smiled. “Of course not.”

“Are you ready for this, ma’am?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. I took a deep breath. “I’m quite ready.”

He left, and I did as he bade. Gillian helped me into the black wool gown I’d ordered for just this event. It was beautifully
cut, appliquéd with satin, jet-buttoned. The fabric fell over the bustle in sedate ruffles and folds. It made my skin look
very pale and enhanced my slenderness. I looked as if I might not have the strength to carry the bustle. I added a hat—very
simple, very tasteful, decorated with black feathers and tulle that did not cover my eyes. I carefully fastened the brooch
Blake had given me over my breast. I wondered whose it had been, whose hair had been woven for this adornment.

I was ready when the carriage was brought, and Papa and I made our way to the Halls of Justice—the Tombs, as it was called,
quite appropriately, grim as it looked with its Grecian architecture. William Howe was waiting for me in the courtroom, along
with Mr. Blake, who murmured a greeting.

Howe smiled when he saw me. “You look perfect,” he said, and then he held out a chair for me between himself and his assistant.
Papa sat in the row behind. Howe leaned down to whisper in my ear, “We’re before Judge Wilfred Hammond. He’s a decent judge—we
could have done far worse. He’ll make sure Scott doesn’t try any tricks, but he’s not disposed to like you. The man doesn’t
trust women.”

I shrank at his words. I hazarded a glance at Judge Hammond, who was busy with his papers and didn’t look at me. He was an
older man, in his midsixties, I guessed, with thinning silver hair and a rather bulbous nose. He grumbled and muttered to
himself as he worked, and when the district attorney came into the room, he glanced up with a smile and small wave. Obviously
the two knew each other. I gave Howe a worried glance.

“Don’t worry,” he assured me. “Randolph Scott is the nephew of the captain of the Harbor Police. Hammond knows him, but I
don’t think they’re particular friends.” Howe smiled wickedly and whispered, “Scott has a penchant for tenderloin brothels,
and Hammond knows it. They once pulled him from a raid. Kept it all very quiet, and Scott’s cleaned his nose a bit since then,
but there’s no love lost there. Hammond’s not a fool.”

I wasn’t reassured.

Judge Hammond cleared his throat. “We’re here to seat a jury in
People v. Carelton.
Are you gentlemen ready?”

Howe straightened and nodded. The lights caught on the silver threads in his brightly checkered vest and glinted on the ornate
buttons. “The defense is ready, Your Honor.”

“As is the state,” Mr. Scott said.

The judge turned to the bailiff. “Bring them in.”

The door opened, and in filed men of all ages, dressed in all manners. As they took their seats, they stared at me so intently
I felt myself go hot. Howe had told me to look at them as they came in, but I could not.

Beside me, Blake put a reassuring hand on my arm. “They’re curious, Mrs. Carelton,” he said. “They’ll look for a while, and
then they’ll lose interest.” But even after Howe stood and introduced me, their scrutiny was so hard that I didn’t have to
feign the tears filling my eyes.

“Is she the one?” one of the men asked, and the hatred in his gaze alarmed me. “Is that the she-devil who killed her husband?”

After that everything passed in a blur. I heard Howe’s questions of the men, and Scott’s questions, the virulence of some
who were summarily dismissed. Howe had not warned me about this. Who I was and what I’d done were a threat to these men. I
sat in shocked silence, letting their abhorrence whittle away at my calm until, at the end of the day, I was a trembling mass
of nerves.

We had twelve jurors, most of them businessmen and merchants.

Howe turned to me with a wry look. “Well, we’ve got it, Mrs. Carelton. A jury of your peers.”

I looked up at Howe uncertainly, and it was as if he sensed my distress. He sat beside me. “This is not as bad as it seems,”
he said. “You must trust me.”

The echo of other words, another time. As then, I had no other choice. I nodded my assent. “And tomorrow?” I asked.

He sighed. “Tomorrow we begin the trial. I should warn you, there will be reporters everywhere—but that’s not my worry. We
own enough of them. The seats will be full, some with your friends, many who are simply curious. You must ignore them all.
Today you were quite effective. If you can manage to look as distraught tomorrow—”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” I said quietly.

He gave me an admiring look. “Yes, that’s just the expression we want. And Mrs. Carelton”—he hesitated—“I must warn you that
there will be things said tomorrow. . . .”

“There could not be anything worse than today,” I told him.

I was wrong.

The next morning, after a breakfast that I couldn’t eat, I went again to the courtroom. Papa was not allowed inside. He was
to testify in my defense, so he left me in the hall. As I turned to go in, he touched my arm. “I’m here for you, my girl.
Don’t you think I’m not.” Though I had never before thought that we looked alike, now I saw myself in the slope of his jaw,
the set of his eyes, and I had the not entirely unwelcome idea that I was truly my father’s daughter.

“Thank you, Papa,” I said, and then I went into the courtroom.

Howe had said the seats would be full, but I had not imagined the crush. Every space was taken, even against the walls. There
were not just men but women too, many of whom had brought huge picnic baskets for the lunch break, no doubt so they would
not lose their place. Some I recognized. Daisy Hadden was there, as were Alma Fister and Leonard Ames. Millie wasn’t; she
was also a witness. Nor, of course, was Victor, though there was a moment when I searched for him, when the noise and motion
seemed suspended.

I sat down at the defense table beside Blake. William Howe came into the courtroom then, like a triumphant gladiator. He was
all smiles, flashy and diamond-laid, with his stickpins and rings. Today he wore a fawn suit with a vest of scarlet poppies
on a black ground. It seemed he knew nearly everyone in the courtroom. He shook hands, he grinned, he laughed, he won the
crowd with his flamboyance and his ease. I only hoped the jury would be as easily influenced.

The district attorney entered as long-faced and boyishly earnest as ever. It was hard for me to imagine that he had a penchant
for the tenderloin brothels, as Howe had said, though I had spent my life in a world where facades were all-important. I knew
vices lay beneath.

Mr. Scott was followed by his secretary. They sat at the prosecution table. Then the judge nodded to the bailiff, and the
jury was led in. The crowd silenced, watching as, one by one, the men took their seats.

“Gentlemen,” Judge Hammond said, looking at Howe and Scott, and then, “Gentlemen of the jury. We’re here today to decide the
fate of Mrs. William Carelton, who sits before you charged with the murder of her husband. We’ll start with opening statements.
Mr. Scott, are you ready?”

“I am, Your Honor,” Scott said.

Howe laid his hand on my arm and leaned close to whisper, “Prepare yourself, Mrs. Carelton.”

I took a deep breath, and it felt as if I did not release it during the whole of Scott’s statement.

It was horrible. Randolph Scott laid the scene well: October sixth, ten
P.M.
, just before dinner was to be served. He was as much a storyteller as anyone I’d ever heard. I saw myself come down the stairs
smiling, talking with my friends. I saw my eyes lit with chilling fury as I pulled the trigger. The pictures he painted were
extraordinary. Had I not been there, I would have thought his detail incredible. As it was, I felt myself pulled into the
scene he imagined.

At the end he went to the jury box and leaned on the rail, his voice vibrant and deep. “Gentlemen, the defense will attempt
to prove that Mrs. Carelton is insane, but we will show that she is not, and that the shooting of her husband was a cold-blooded,
premeditated act. She meant to free herself of his loving control and take command of the fortune he administered so admirably
for her benefit. And why is this? Why would she do such a thing? Because Mrs. Carelton knew that as long as her husband was
alive, she would not be free to carry on with her lover.”

There was a gasp—it was my own. Howe tightened his grip on my arm in warning.

“Insanity has nothing to do with this case, gentlemen. In the end you will have no choice but to find Mrs. Carelton
guilty
of first-degree murder.”

Scott turned. His gaze lit on me for an instant, then flickered to Howe in triumph before he took his seat. The courtroom
was quiet. I felt eyes on me, and I did as Howe had instructed me. I lowered my gaze, I bit my lip. I felt frail, undone.

Howe rose. Under his bulk, his footsteps had resonance. He walked to the jury box, his hands in his pockets, and then he sighed.

“This is a sad case,” he said, shaking his head. There were actually unshed tears in his eyes. “A very sad case. Mrs. William
Carelton is a fine, upstanding citizen of this community. Her family is descended from our first settlers, from the original
Dutch ambassador to New York. She grew up coddled by her parents, admired by her friends. In short, there was no reason to
think that Mrs. Carelton might not have the kind of life most of us envy. But for one thing.

“She married badly. On the outside William Carelton seemed a fine man. He was certainly intelligent. He was a successful stockbroker
who made a great deal of money for many people. On the surface their marriage seemed to be a love match. It was anything but.

“In the four years of their marriage, William Carelton abused his wife to the point of illness. Mr. Scott is correct when
he says that William Carelton controlled his wife and his wife’s money, but it was not a loving arrangement. Over the years
she saw countless doctors for the relief of hysteria and neurasthenia. And when she finally found one who could help her,
Mr. Carelton panicked. He forced his wife into a lunatic asylum, lied to their friends, and found himself in full control
of her estate—without her interference.