Page 33 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)
“ W e have one more witness, my lord,” Archie told the judge when he called the hearing back into session, “but he’s not here yet.”
Marigold startled and leaned close to whisper. “I thought—when d-do I sp-speak?” Despite the anxiety crawling along her bones, she had to trust him, had to believe he would get her through this. Get them through, because today could mark the beginning of their lives together.
Assuming the judge didn’t strangle her barrister. The man rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like waiting.”
“Perhaps we could present our case, my lord,” Mr. Stansbury offered as he stood, and Archie’s lips parted.
“By all means,” Archie ground out, any politeness of his words eviscerated by the ire in his tone.
Marigold’s blood cooled until she’d frozen, her bones brittle and lungs chilled. One by one, Stansbury presented his witnesses, friends of her husband from the highest echelons of society who spoke to the marquess’ high character, how they’d never seen or heard a cruelty from the man, particularly directed at his wife or children.
Funny, as she’d never met these men.
Mrs. Graney, the loathsome housekeeper for their London townhouse, was next. “He never said a harsh word to her, gave her everything she wanted.” She pierced Marigold with a scowl.
“And what about the children?” Archie asked, the same question he’d asked the previous two witnesses, and received a similar response.
Mrs. Graney paused. “I never saw much of the children.”
“Thank you,” Archie said, looking pleased with the brusque reply. “Your lordship, I’d like to request a private meeting,” he said, “and Mr. Stansbury,” he corrected.
Stansbury gaped at him while the judge sighed. “Granted.” He stood and Archie bent towards her.
“You wait here,” he said. “Rest, try to stay calm.”
Something about the way he said this grated across her nerves. “What are you d-doing? Is this about my t-t-testimony?”
He hesitated. “It is. We won’t be long.”
And he was gone, disappeared into some inner sanctum where the men would discuss her future. She glanced towards her husband’s table, where he was deep in conversation with the second barrister, and her lungs constricted, the bands around her ribs and throat tightening. Whatever control and confidence she’d felt had drained away, and being left with no one between her and her husband, she was overwhelmed.
A walk would serve her well, and she stood, smoothed her skirts as she slipped through the gathered spectators and reporters. Inquiring eyes tracked her every movement, and shame climbed over her, coated her like a slimy second skin. She hated the notoriety, hated the attention, but needed it all the same. These people wanted to hear from her, needed her story. And she needed to tell it.
If only she’d get the chance.
She sucked in a breath as soon as she escaped the courtroom into the corridor outside, but stilled as she saw a group of people walking her way. Nanny Emerson and—
“Matthew!” The boy collided with her midsection in a bruising hug. “Reggie, what are you doing here?”
Their nanny nodded towards a large gentleman at her side, a man Marigold recognized as the one Archie had spoken to earlier. “He came to the hotel with a note from Mr. Grant, milady. Asked us to come right away.”
The gentleman bowed. “Lady Croydon, a pleasure. I’m Mr. Nathan Landon, a former colleague of Mr. Grant, well, a future colleague as well, at Chapin and Baines.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why are my children here?”
Did he wince? If so, he masked it so quickly she questioned if she’d seen anything at all. “There’s nothing to worry about, my lady. Mr. Grant has everything in order.”
He gestured towards the courtroom door, and her boys led the way, Matthew at a run with Nanny Emerson in his wake, and Reggie more resigned, his chin lifted high as he walked. Marigold stilled, held out a hand to stop Mr. Landon’s advance. “I d-don’t want the children t-to see this. Their father—”
“As I said,” he interrupted, and Marigold bristled. “Mr. Grant knows what he’s doing, and everything will be fine.” His brow furrowed. “Has he told you what this case could mean to him?”
Her breath caught. “T-to him ? No.”
“If he wins this case, he’ll have a position at Chapin and Baines again. It would provide financial security for his mother and sisters.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “And if anyone were to learn of your personal involvement, he’d lose his reputation and face the wrath of London’s high society, the very clientele we serve. It’s in everyone’s best interest for him to succeed today.”
Bile climbed her throat, so swiftly she pressed her fingers to her lips. Suddenly her testimony seemed more significant, the weight of what was required of her too heavy to bear.
But Archie believed in her, and that would give her enough strength to persevere. As he’d said on that night months ago, she was a tamer of bees, a thief of caramels, and now a defender of her children, of herself. For him , she could do anything.
With one last look, Mr. Landon gestured again towards the courthouse door, more pointed this time, and Marigold’s shoulders tensed as she crossed the threshold, feeling adrift, a passenger on this rough voyage straining for the helm. Familiar unease clawed at her, heightened as she reached the petitioner’s table, her children and their nanny seated behind her, to see Archie and Mr. Stansbury emerge with the judge from their meeting .
The room fell silent as Judge Huntington took his seat. “Mr. Grant, your final witness?”
Marigold took a deep breath and lifted her chin. Now was her time, her opportunity to be heard, as difficult as it would be. She’d been silenced for too long, forced to step aside, hold her tongue too often. Surely the judge would understand her plight, understand her .
“My final witness,” Archie said, “is Lord Reginald Torcross.” He met her eyes for one horrifying second as her stomach plummeted. “Lady Croydon’s son.”
Archie Grant may be a halfway decent divorce barrister, but he was a terrible human being.
He’d done his best to ignore Marigold’s gasp, because the sound scraped across his chest like a rusty scythe, culling any hope he may have possessed with it. Instead, he leaned over, took advantage of the rumbling in the room as the boy approached the bench to whisper in her ear. “Do not say a word. They’re looking for you to show hysteria.”
She’d frozen when he’d called Reggie’s name, her cheeks blanching and shoulders curling inward, and he hated himself for snuffing out her light and stripping away everything that made her bold and powerful.
Because he knew she was lost to him now. In fact, he’d known moments before when they’d sat in the judge’s chambers .
The marquess and I share concerns about Lady Croydon’s mental stability, Stansbury had said when Archie pressed about his earlier line of questioning. I intend to present evidence that she is experiencing lunacy and would be best served with admission to an asylum. Upon hearing her testimony—
Archie had interrupted, his blood pumping hot as Dr. Brunner’s and Nathan’s advice rang in his ears. The cruelty is not to her alone, but to her children, peers of the realm, including a future marquess. She will not take the stand, as her testimony is inconsequential.
He’d made Marigold irrelevant in her own divorce, silenced by his actions. But how else could he protect her, protect her children?
“Lord Torcross.” Archie’s voice broke as he met the gaze of the young man in question. His hazel eyes, so like his mother’s, held Archie’s with grim determination. “Please explain what you have seen of your father’s treatment of your mother.”
The courtroom held a preternatural silence, punctuated by the occasional sniff or snort from the marquess, as Reggie spoke, describing in a monotone how his father had demeaned his mother at any opportunity, how he’d threatened her hives and disparaged her intelligence. How she’d done everything she could to hide her children from his cruelty, to shelter them, to take the verbal blows for herself.
And while she never spoke an ill word of their father, Reggie and Matthew knew precisely what kind of man had sired him .
“Did your mother ever seem unwell to you?” Archie prompted, unable to glance at Marigold. “Excessive crying, keeping to her room, or the like?”
“No,” Reggie said; he was brave enough to look at the woman who’d raised him, far braver than Archie was. “My mother made us happy and still does, every day.”
Archie glanced at her then, saw the single tear rolling down her cheek, one she discreetly wiped away. His throat knotted. How he’d miss her, the smile he had to coax from her, her quick wit and bravery. The way she made his heart feel whole.
Later, he wouldn’t be able to recall what he’d said aside from thanking Reggie for his testimony, how he’d summarized his case in a closing statement. Words that he’d practiced so many times altered to center on the cost of the cruelty on the children. Cutting Mari out of the argument entirely.
When he sat, his knees trembling, she shifted away from him, her hands clenched in her lap in those impeccable kidskin gloves.
He’d never hold her hand again, never hold her again.
Not after what he’d done. What he’d had to do to protect her.
His ears continued to ring, dulling whatever Stansbury said in his closing remarks, whatever insults and accusations he railed against the woman Archie loved, because he couldn’t feel any more, his grief too profound. He ached to hold her hand, to wrap himself around her, be her fortification while she was under attack, but she wanted none of it. Would accept nothing of him, he was certain .
When the judge called for a recess to consider the arguments, the air rushed from his lungs like he’d taken a punch to the abdomen, and he turned to her, reached for her—
But she’d already stood, walking around the table away from him to start towards her children.
“Mar—Lady Croydon,” he called, but his voice was a rasp, a desperate, futile plea.
She ignored him, taking Matthew’s hand and placing one hand on Reggie’s shoulder as their nanny led them out, away from him, away from the mess he’d created.