Chapter 35

"Mr. Wells," Anne said at breakfast, aware that her cheek was somewhat red, abraded by her lover's seldom-shaved beard, "you could help the boys dig postholes. The snow's melting fast, and I'm sure they will be here soon."

"They're ready to frame up the stable and toolshed?" he asked around a mouthful of pancake and berry jam.

"So they said as they left. The materials are all here now." She made a face at him. "And then I think, perhaps, you should return to your home and your own bed. There is the problem of scandal. We are, well, you understand, we are not exactly alone here, and it is a small town."

"Scandal. You shot a prominent land owner stone-cold dead on your doorstep, a relative of your own brother-in-law, and you worry about scandal?" He choked back a laugh and smacked his knee.

"Don't remind me, please. I awoke twice last night, knowing I killed a man." She shivered.

He put his hand atop hers and smiled at her.

"But my reputation does not depend of my ability to fire a weapon, dear Philip, as you well know." She dropped her voice an octave and squinted her eyes. "Howsomever, m'boy, that old blunderbuss is loaded. So have a care, sir." She grinned at him, well satisfied with her response. She found the word "riposte" but decided it was a bit much.

"One more night, I think," he said with a smile. "I'm here to protect your life, not your fragile, red-headed honor. And you haven't quite exhausted me, almost but not quite. I could probably crawl up the stairs."

"Ha!" she cried, completely delighted. "Take care, sirrah! There is nothing fragile about my iron-clad, brass-bound honor. Dueling is still a sport on this side of the Bay." She squinted at him again and tried to look angry.

He laughed and choked and stumbled out the back door, still chuckling and licking his purple-stained lips, drawing the attention of the Rileys who were already amused by the obvious antics of the two of them who did not seem able to keep their hands off each other.

They raised the basic timber framing of the outbuildings by suppertime, and Anne dined with the three men, wishing she had some beer to offer and not just Bess's home-made cider, squashed with a potato masher from the best of the deadfalls and aged in the cellar; it was cloudy and sour.

By dusk the outhouse had a hinged door with a trefoil cutout and the smokehouse roof had been framed and covered with some old canvas sails. Philip had lent a hand all day at various jobs, and the Rileys suggested they could put him on the payroll.

As the sun set, Mr. Maguire appeared on his bay mare and shared a light meal with them along with the fruit-flavored local wine he had brought with him. During the meal they discussed the upcoming hearing on the death of Mr. Sinclair.

"Feelings are high," the old lawyer said. "Many of the major slave owners seem to believe that you had no cause to shoot the poor, innocent man, that you goaded him into whatever happened. They want you punished. Some want you hanged. The Masons are absolutely furious. I'm sure it will go to a grand jury."

Anne nodded. "Should I be worried?"

"I don't think so," Philip said. "The sheriff has the facts."

"They are planning to call the blacksmith and the boy that fetched the body," said Mr. Maguire, refilling his glass.

"May we call witnesses?" Anne asked. "Moses saw what happened. I've asked him. And the other two men who came to my house, they heard Mr. Sinclair, saw how angry he was."

"You don't put on witnesses unless you know what they will say," Maguire told her, peering over his half-moon spectacles.

"I feel safe now," Anne said, looking at her lover. "Philip can go back to town with you."

"What, my word, hasn't he behaved himself?" the lawyer asked with a grin. "I certainly thought he was a gentleman."

"He is and was, at least most of the time," said Anne, repressing her own smile, "but, well, people do talk you know."

"Can you believe it," cried Philip. "She's killed a landed patrician on her doorstep, shot him right in the heart at very close range, left burn marks on his jacket, and she's worried about having a stranger sleeping in her house. There's no pleasing her, none."

"It's not the sleeping I'm worried about," Anne said and both men laughed as the young man blushed. But Philip did go home that evening and on Saturday, Anne donned her fancy shift with its lace edging, her tight corset and her gray polonaise dress and a modest stomacher to cover her freckled chest, managed to mount her horse despite her long and many-pleated skirt, and was at the lawyer's office by eight in the morning. He praised her appearance and said he was not sure she would be asked to testify.

"I can't believe that," she said, furrowing her forehead.

The hearing was moved from the judge's small chamber to the log-walled courtroom itself and the benches were packed with many people standing in the rear and others on the front steps. The local doctor was called to describe the dead man's wound, which he said was a scorched hole about a half-inch in diameter and fatal. "Big enough to stick your thumb in. Skin was burned so the weapon was close, very close, nearly touching I believe."

And then young Caleb told how his uncle's body was lying on the back porch, "decently covered." Under Mr. Maguire's questioning, he said he found the sword at some distance from the front of the Conroy home and identified it as his uncle's. The judge handed it back to him.

The sheriff described what he had been told, what he found at the residence and added what Moses had told him and then was asked his opinion. "Seems likely Mac brung it on hisself. He was a loud one and got real angry sometimes, loved to cuss. Most folks know that, very short fuse; profane at times too. Your honor, as justice of the peace, I saw no crime. Self defense I calls it."

There was an audible murmur in the crowd and someone at the back cried, "B'damn!"

"Silence," said the judge loudly, adjusting his antique wig. "Young lady, step up here and take a seat. Raise your hand and take the oath."